There were so many questions, some of them intensely personal. Valentyn recoiled at the idea they might be asked when they’d last been intimate. “Why do they need to know this? What do they mean, intimate? Will they expect us to describe our sex life?” A follow-up with Kevin helped them understand this was one of the questions to ask for clarification on. Did they mean sex? Then name the last time they had sex.
“These are heteronormative questions too,” Kevin said, “so if the two of you define sex as nonpenetrative, simply agree on that and name that time. Remember, their goal is to root out fraud. They’re not trying to trip you up on a technicality.”
The biggest problem was, of course, that their marriage had begun nearly as fraud, meaning one of their most important jobs was ironing out a better version of their meeting and courtship. At Dennis’s suggestion, they leaned on personal stories that were true, just later in the dating process.
“Being in a relationship with Valentyn has brought back a lot of my confidence,” Peter told Amy one day as she stood in as their practice interviewer. “The goal of connecting with him helped me do the work I needed to do in order to move forward in my struggles with my selective mutism relapse.”
Valentyn had his own story about what their relationship meant to him. “Peter taught me what a real relationship was, that I didn’t have to be afraid of opening up to someone. Until I dated him, I kept physical and emotional relationships separate, but I always felt hollowed out and lonely no matter who I was with. Being with Peter has helped me accept that I’m worthy to be loved by someone, and has helped me find the way to love myself as well.”
They agreed upon their first date, which took a bit of negotiation—they decided to mention both their meeting after Peter’s shift at work (referring to it of course as a simple get-to-know-you chat instead of a discussion about their green card marriage) and their mountain hike day in Rocky Mountain National Park. Peter learned the places where Valentyn went to school and memorized them, and Valentyn did the same. They learned family names, past employment sites, and who did what chores.
The most difficult questions were the ones about their courtship and wedding, and everyone in their tight family-and-friend circle grilled them mercilessly on the finer details of their invented timeline. The story they settled on was that they’d both been interested in each other once Peter began working at the shop, but their flirting overtures were awkward for months. They kept the truth that Peter’s first overture was a proposal, which led to a fiery first date and hasty courtship as they realized that yes, they did want to be together.
The questions stirred a lot in Valentyn, sending him out into the crisp backyard air late at night to smoke and marvel at what his life had become. It startled him how little they had to lie to answer the questions, how real his “false” relationship had been almost from the start. He hadn’t known he could be like this, and sometimes it unsettled him. He still refused Peter’s annoyingly constant suggestions he go to therapy to talk through things, but he was reluctantly beginning to see the appeal. It made him feel weak, but then so many things that were normal and good to him now were once things he’d stayed away from for the same reason.
That was for later, whatever he decided. Right now his focus was on getting through this.
The night before they were to go to Denver for the interview, Valentyn wasn’t alone while he had his cigarettes. Peter came too, bringing vodka with him.
“I’m so nervous.” Peter sipped directly from the bottle before passing it to Valentyn and leaning on his shoulder. “I didn’t know I could be this nervous.”
Valentyn drew Peter closer and kissed his hair. “I know. But we’ll face it together.”
“That’s just it. If we mess this up, we won’t be able to do that anymore.”
“We won’t mess it up. We don’t have a fraudulent marriage.”
“What I can’t get over is how little that matters. One person will get to decide whether or not we stay married. It’s so unfair, so terrifying.”
It was. And Valentyn couldn’t fix it, could only hold him close and hope.
They managed to sleep, however fitfully, and neither of them could do more than swallow coffee in the morning. They drove in silence to Denver, holding hands the entire way.
“Thank you,” Peter said as they closed in on the edge of the city.
Valentyn glanced at him. “What are you thanking me for?”
Peter gripped his palm tighter. “For saying yes.”
Valentyn couldn’t help a wry smile. “The funny thing is, I don’t know that I ever did. Not when you proposed. Not with that word.”
Peter smiled too. “Valentyn Savvich Shevchenko, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” Valentyn replied. “As many times as you ask me.”
IT took everything Peter had to keep himself from shutting down as they entered the immigration building. They’d struggled to find parking, then had run hand in hand to meet Kevin in the building foyer. Kevin smiled and patted their shoulders, trying to ease their nerves. Peter didn’t waste words telling him it wasn’t going to work. His entire focus was on keeping himself as functional as possible—calm wasn’t an option.
Peter refused to be the reason this fell apart. His elementary teacher was on permanent standby in his head, holding a glowing golden envelope representing the greatest prize he would ever know: being able to stay married to Valentyn.
It was a struggle to keep himself from freezing up. On the drive down he’d practiced what his therapist had suggested, visualizing himself being interviewed successfully, doing well—doing moderately well, because that would be enough. He had his folder full of medical letters, pressed into the photo album he and Valentyn had so lovingly created. He had a whole bottle of antianxiety medication, the maximum dose of which he’d already taken.
I can do this. I know I can do this.
But what if he couldn’t?
The building was cold and impersonal in the way all federal buildings seemed to be, and when they arrived in the waiting area, Peter saw several couples. All the others were heterosexual, but every last one of them huddled together, steeped in different types of nerves. One woman rocked back and forth with her eyes closed in a manner that made Peter think she was praying. The only people who seemed relaxed were the lawyers, and they weren’t chill so much as professionally detached, reviewing papers and working on their phones. Not all the couples had lawyers either, Peter noticed. Understandable, as the process itself was pricey, and a lawyer only made it worse. He’d almost thrown up when he’d seen Kevin’s latest bill for all the hours he’d put in coaching Peter and getting him acclimated. Valentyn’s carefully hoarded savings were dwindling far too fast.
What if they went through all of this and Peter undid it because he went mute at the worst possible time? What if everything went upside down and it was all his fault?
Valentyn, who in an unusual move hadn’t let go of Peter’s hand since their dash to the lobby, drew Peter’s knuckles to his lips and kissed them. “Calm down, koshenya. You’ll be okay.”
Valya had said this a lot to him lately, though sometimes, like now, Peter suspected he said it to ease his own terrified mind as well. Peter clung to his husband’s arm, drawing the photo album tight to his chest. He couldn’t speak with so many people in the waiting area, and he had to work incredibly hard not to take this as a sign he would fail in the questioning session.
Kevin, a rock as always, kept talking them through. “They’ll call us back, and either we’ll all go into the room together, or they’ll separate you to go one at a time. Don’t panic if you get a Stokes. If that happens, I’ll go with each of you as your turn comes. If you struggle, Peter, we have your documentation, and I’ll make sure they take it into consideration. I already sent a lot of it to them, though frankly they’re going to have discovered it on their own when they did their investigation into you. But you two are going to be fine. Your marriage is stronger than mine. We’
ve got this. Not even a hint of a question. Just have to dance the dance.”
Peter hadn’t ever been much of a religious person, but he prayed as best he could while they waited for them to somehow escape a Stokes interview. Either he sucked at the practice or the gods didn’t like convenient conversions, because when they were called up, the first thing that happened was they were separated.
Except it wasn’t like Kevin had told them at all. They were going separately, but not one after the other. At the same time.
Panic flooded Peter, and he shut down completely.
While Kevin shouted and demanded an explanation, Valentyn drew Peter to the side and did his best to soothe him. “It’s going to be fine, mylyy. Kevin will straighten it out, and if he can’t, I’ll insist he go with you to your interview and I’ll go alone.”
No! Peter gripped Valentyn’s biceps tightly with both hands and did his best to convey his dissent through a frozen expression.
“Tak, Petrush. He’s the lawyer for the both of us, and right now you need his counsel more. I can answer questions without him. You can’t.”
At this second, Peter wasn’t sure he could answer them even with Valentyn, alone in their own living room. He’d lost his tentative hold on this, and he wouldn’t be able to do it. The worst had happened, he’d messed everything up—
A soft kiss on his lips interrupted his spiral into darkness. “Ti moê žittâ, miy cholovik. You are my life, my husband. You can do this. We both can.”
Peter shut his eyes and did his best to believe in those words. He shut out the world and focused on the man who was his life, on the faith he had in Peter, on the faith both of them had in one another.
Couldn’t that determination, just this once, be enough?
It was, almost. It carried him until Kevin returned to them, tight-lipped, apologizing for the deviation in plan. It lingered, wavering, while Valentyn insisted Kevin go with Peter.
As Valentyn’s broad back disappeared down the hall, away from him, as the surly immigration officer curled his lip and looked Peter up and down, Peter’s chance at making it through the interview disappeared like smoke in his hands. He knew his SM. There was no grand crash, just that quiet shuttering that sometimes came for reasons unexplained. He was frozen. There was absolutely no chance he would be able to say a word.
It was already over, but he was the only one who knew. Kevin touched his elbow and spoke encouragingly beside him as he led them into the room, but Peter couldn’t hear a word he said. His pulse beat too hard in his ears. His chest was tight, his breath coming as if he had to draw it through a tiny tube.
Calm down, calm down, he urged himself desperately. He imagined Valentyn beside him, whispering the words into his ear in Ukrainian.
I can do this. I can turn this around. I can do it.
The interviewer flipped open a black leather folder as he sank into his seat. He looked annoyed and indifferent. “So, Mr. Grunberg. Tell me how you and Mr. Shevchenko met.”
Frozen in place, Peter couldn’t even meet the interviewer’s gaze when he glanced up to see why the reply was taking so long.
I met him at my uncle’s coffee shop. I was in love with him, I think, the first time I saw him. I made him the best breve lattes I knew how to make. In fact, I’ve yet to tell him that I studied them online so I could make them even better just for him.
Kevin leapt into the uncomfortable pause, gently taking the photo album from Peter’s hands. “As you’ll see in your file, Mr. Grunberg has a medical condition called selective mutism which makes speaking to strangers difficult.”
The interviewer smirked at Peter. “Yes, I saw. What a convenient disability.”
Each breath Peter took caused him physical pain. He still couldn’t so much as move.
It isn’t convenient at all. I’ve spent my whole life learning not to hate myself and this part of myself, and right now every second of this interview is setting back years of improvement.
Kevin went into full lawyer mode. “There are six letters from different medical professionals in his file, as well as sworn statements from five of his family members.”
The interviewer turned his annoyance on Kevin. “That’s all well and good, but how am I supposed to interview someone who won’t talk?”
“It’s an anxiety-based disorder, so you could start by giving him a slightly less stressful environment.”
“You think I have the time to coddle everybody who comes in here?” He shook his head in disgust as he sat back in his chair. “It’s a waste of time anyway. This is the most open-and-shut case of fraud I’ve ever seen.”
No. No, it’s not a fraud. It isn’t a fraud at all.
Peter’s chest hurt. It wasn’t just the panicked pounding now. It absolutely, truly hurt. He would have clutched at his chest if he could have moved.
Something’s wrong. Something’s really wrong with me. Help—someone help!
Kevin had stood and was shouting at the interviewer, gesturing and pointing and all but breathing fire. The interviewer sneered and shouted back.
Help me—please, something is really wrong—someone help me—
Valechko—
The darkness closed in around Peter as his body collapsed and he slid quietly out of his chair and onto the floor.
Chapter Twenty
VALENTYN had his fists clutched against his thighs and was working through the answer to a question when the door to the room burst open. As he turned to see what was going on, a concerned-looking woman stuck her head into the room and motioned to Valentyn.
“Mr. Shevchenko, come quickly. They’re taking your husband to the hospital.”
The air left the room, the floor and walls spinning wildly around him. He rose automatically, then turned to check with his interviewer for permission. He had to hold on to the back of the chair to keep from falling over.
The interviewer didn’t seem to know how to react, though she waved Valentyn on. “Go. We’ll sort this out later.”
Valentyn stumbled out of the room, every sound amplified, every step like knives. What did they mean, hospital? Petrush wasn’t sick. Why? What had happened? Who had hurt him?
What do I do if I lose him?
Kevin ran down the hall, double-timing it as he spied Valentyn. “Christ. There you are. Come on. We’ve got to hurry. He’s already in the ambulance. I want to send you with him, but I’ll meet you at the hospital. Do you have your insurance card on you?”
The world was water and Valentyn couldn’t swim. “Why—ambulance?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t able to speak, and while I was trying to get the interviewer to chill out so Peter could relax, all of a sudden he passed out. He came to a little when the paramedics arrived, but he’s in complete shutdown mode. I told them he might get better once he sees you, but honestly I have no idea if that’s true or not. Mostly I wanted to get you on that ambulance.”
Agony like Valentyn had never known before coursed through him. He tried to run faster, but his feet didn’t want to work.
I can’t lose you, Petrush. I can’t lose you.
It was strange, because part of him had been prepared to fail the interview. Part of him had been convinced he absolutely would. It hadn’t upset him like this, though, because he was certain he could find a way to make sure Peter was safe. He’d say or do anything to protect him. He’d never doubted for a second he could manage it. American officials weren’t as corrupt as Ukrainians, but everyone had a lever. He’d find it if he had to.
Never, not for one moment, had he considered the possibility that Peter would be taken from him this way. That wasn’t in the rules. Anything could happen to Valentyn, but Peter was sacrosanct. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen, Peter rushing off to a hospital.
The wind in Valentyn’s ears became a shrill scream as he pushed through the doors of the building and tried his best to fly through the air to the waiting ambulance.
Strangers beckoned him to move faster, then helped
Valentyn inside. Kevin said something behind him, but Valentyn could hear nothing but his heartbeat, clanging in his head as he stared down at his beloved, still and silent on the narrow stretcher.
No. No, this isn’t how it was supposed to be at all.
Someone sat him down, put Peter’s hand in his. It was cold and limp. There were cardiac monitors on his naked chest, wires streaming out to attach to a machine. While Valentyn stared down, a paramedic attached oxygen to Peter’s nose.
A hand on his shoulder startled Valentyn out of his shock. “Talk to him,” the woman said. “That’s why we invited you along, because the lawyer insisted he was nonverbal but would do better with you present. We don’t normally do this.” Her tone hinted she could undo the arrangement at any time.
Fear of losing contact broke the spell. Valentyn laced his fingers through his husband’s and fought for words. “Mylyy,” he began, voice rough and cracking. “I’m here. It’s all—” He shut his eyes and drew a tremulous breath, tightened his grip. “Vibačte menì. I should have been there with you. I shouldn’t have let them leave you alone. I should have protected you better. I—”
His breath caught as he felt Peter’s fingers tighten in his. Laugh-sobbing, he kissed Peter’s hand.
“Did he react to you?” the other paramedic asked.
Nodding, Valentyn cradled his husband’s hand to his chest. “Petrush, it’s all right. You’re going to be all right.”
Slowly, ever so slightly, Peter turned his head toward Valentyn. His expression remained blank, but a tear ran out of each eye, streaming down his cheeks.
Valentyn shook his head and wiped the tears away. “Ni. It isn’t your fault. Don’t think like that. It isn’t your fault.”
More tears, and this time Peter’s eyes fluttered closed.
Valentyn took a tissue from the female paramedic and patted them away as fast as they came. “No. Kevin will fix it. We’ll find a way. But it isn’t your fault. Don’t even think like that. Right now I want you to relax and focus on getting better, koshenya.” His voice broke and grew rough as he added, “Just don’t leave me, mylyy.”
The Professor's Green Card Marriage Page 17
