Page 50 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Looking around the kitchen, taking in the dark woods and tile and appliances fancier than anything I’d ever hoped to have in my own kitchen, I shouldn’t have felt at home. I should have felt like a stranger in someone else’s house. Like an intruder. With Peter in my arms and the pot of stew simmering on the stove behind me, clad only in underwear…I felt like I was at home.

“I’ve never been happier,” I said.

“You mean it?” He smiled.

“Yes.”

Peter kissed me, then whispered, “I’ll keep you happy. I promise. I’ll do everything to make sure you’re happy. Anything.”

Typically, if someone had said such a thing to me—promised to ensure my happiness—I wouldn’t have believed them. However, Peter didn’t say words to say them. He looked me in the eyes, stared me down, let me feel the heat of his promise. I knew that Peter would do his best to make sure I was happy. And I wanted to make sure that I did the same for him. I reached behind my back blindly, found the stove knob, and turned the burner off.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I suppose we have time to go upstairs before dinner,” I said, biting at my lip.

“I don’t mind cold stew,” Peter growled, swatted my butt, and pushed me towards the back stairs.

Giggling like school children, we raced up the stairs. The stew could always be reheated. Spending our first night together in our home after two years of waiting for the day, we could focus on simply being happy.

The attic, accessible via a stairwell behind a door in the upstairs hallway, is a dark, cavernous room where dust motes dance in the beam of light that shines through the one window at the far end of the room. Floorboards that creak, boxes stacked neatly along the walls, and shadows that seemed to swallow everything they encounter to create an air of foreboding for anyone who ascends the stairs. Anyone except Peter and me. I always found the attic calm and peaceful. Too cold in the winter months and too hot in the summer months, it’s still a room that induces feelings of fondness when I think of it.

Because it holds special memories. Those that belong to Peter. Those that belong to me. And those that we’d made together.

On my second day in America, I carried a box of my memories up to the attic once the airline delivered the things it had temporarily lost. I knelt in the far corner of the attic and set the box in an out-of-the-way space, deep in the shadows. Compulsively, and in a mild panic, I opened the box, and stared down into its contents, making sure the airline had returned the right box. A coat made of sugar and blue clouds. A black peacoat, fancier than any coat I’d ever owned. A bamboo wind chime. My notebooks.

It was all I had brought from Montreal besides my clothes and toiletries and a few books I’d yet to read. Because they were my favorite memories.

The attic would keep them safe for me.

Because the attic was a good room.

Is It Me? It Must Be Me.

Upon moving to the U.S., I hadn’t expected that finding a job would be quick or easy. I had no expectations that I would move to the U.S. one day and I would have a job lined up the following Monday. I wasn’t delusional about being an immigrant with what was essentially a green card who was seeking citizenship through marriage. Those facts alone would make me suspect to potential employers.

What happens if we hire this guy and he gets deported?

Does he only want the job to help validate his claim to citizenship?

Will he fit in with the office culture?

The potential for employers to toss my applications and résumé aside after a glance was high. I understood that. However, when a month passed, and Minneapolis was sneaking into mid-autumn, I became forlorn. Not a single company had so much as wanted to interview me for a position. Surely, within a month, it was reasonable to assume that, at the very least, I would have an interview for a position somewhere. Anywhere. Following up via phone did nothing to help my prospects. I was never spoken to rudely, but I consistently received a firm “no, thank you” to all of my inquiries about job openings.

Peter tried to be reassuring and understanding—and he was—but I was beginning to feel hopeless in my new home within a mere month. In eleven months, you’ll be a full citizen, Enzo. Peter had said. Things will be different then. Even if you can’t find a job now, who cares? Everything will be fine. Things will change once you’re a citizen, so don’t worry too much. I tried to believe Peter. I really did. There was logic to his words. But it began to feel dismissive.

Things would change once I received legal, federal citizenship in America. However, that did nothing to soothe my hurt feelings. Why wasn’t I employable as an immigrant who was legally allowed to work, regardless? I had plenty of work experience. A degree from an accredited university. A willingness to do any job to the best of my ability. A desire to contribute to the economic power of the country I had chosen to make my home. I would be a good employee for any company.

American companies’ feelings diverged on the matter.

So, I tried to focus on other important matters. I made sure that Peter had a hot, fresh breakfast each morning before he went to work each day. I cleaned the house from top to bottom, getting on my hands and knees and scrubbing with abandon every little nook and cranny. Dinner was always homemade and hot when he came home from work at the end of each long day. I did the grocery shopping, taking the bus to and from the grocery store. Any inconvenience, no matter how minor or major, I handled before it bothered Peter. I dealt with service people, did all of the laundry, met neighbors, and introduced myself. I started regularly attending services at a local Catholic church that I’d gone to numerous times while in Minneapolis when visiting. My prayers each day and services on Sunday helped ground me. Peter never wanted to attend Sunday services with me, so it was one event in my weekly routine that was mine alone, something independent from my marriage.

I tried to be a good househusband while I was forced to be one.

I worked on learning the kind of English Americans used. I studied the culture and slang and lesser-known things that make America what it is that one never hears about outside of the country.

Perfection. I strived to be the perfect partner for my new husband, even if contributing to finances was impossible.

Peter and I took weekend trips twice a month to visit his parents on the other side of the state. His mother and father, both lovely people who welcomed me with open arms, enjoyed our stays. Because I did my best to show that I was the perfect partner for their son. I did everything I could to be the best Enzo that I could be. Even as I was eaten up inside with self-doubt formed from rejection after rejection from potential employers.