…
Emma Matthews
by Anton M.
Chapter 3: Hyundai Accent
…
"Emma?" He stared at Isabella's sleeping face. "Are you sure?"
Edward feigned a smile that said he felt sorry for the man. "One would imagine I know my own wife."
"Yes, of course. I mean no disrespect," he replied, still hovering, pointing at her with his hand. "It's just—the resemblance is… it's uncanny. But I s'pose the Bella I knew, she had shit for family. New Zealand wouldn't be far enough from her brother, so I hope she's way farther than Milwaukee. Besides, she'd have rather died than dyed her hair blonde. Sorry for bothering you, sir."
"Not a problem," he answered. "I'm sorry you didn't get to reconnect with that Bella girl you're describing."
"Me, too." His eyes were wistful, but he let go of the headrests. "Have a good day, sir."
Even without turning his head, Edward knew they'd garnered some attention. For good measure, he pressed his lips against her hair and squeezed her hand, appearing entirely unconcerned as he continued to read his novel. He knew Air Marshal Brodbeck had noticed the exchange and would be keeping an eye on the young man. He wouldn't, of course, know anything more about Isabella's predicament than what he'd read on the news (and now that the boy had recognized her, the Air Marshal would, most certainly, have an idea about the Witness Protection, but he wouldn't be foolish enough to voice it).
He didn't wake her up until the last moment before landing, and when she did open her eyes, Edward, knowing that they had yet to work out code words for situations like this, pulled her to him. His voice was barely audible.
"Avoid eye contact with all passengers."
He watched the lighter dots around her irises as she stared at him before nodding. Patiently, he waited for the passengers to leave, making sure the guy who'd recognized her wouldn't have the chance to look at Isabella's face. After most people had left, Edward shared a few words with Air Marshal Brodbeck. Isabella's brother had yet to leave traces of himself, and all planes leaving Baltimore today had an Air Marshal on it.
Waiting in line to get Edward's gun case returned to him, Isabella recognized a profile of a guy from a distance. Black hair, talkative, much thinner than she remembered—her closest friend in seventh grade. She would've loved to go say hi, to find out what he'd been doing all these years or what brought him to Milwaukee, but instead, she turned away, hid her left hand in her sleeve and her ears under her hair. She had three birthmarks on her left ear, perfectly aligned, and no matter which fairy tales she fed him if they met, he would know. He'd recognize her if the only thing she did was lock eyes with him, she just knew it. So it pained her to do it, but she didn't seek contact with him.
"What's wrong?" Edward asked, noticing the guarded expression on her face.
She tilted her head toward the guy, wanting to tell Edward she knew someone here without having to say so, but she cast a brief glance behind her, and Edward, somehow, knew. She didn't know how, but he did.
He switched sides and put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to him and effectively covering her from the man's point of view. He nuzzled her hair, not quite kissing it but hovering above her hair, saying nothing for a while. As they advanced in line, they moved together.
"Later," he whispered, letting go of her to receive his gun-case. She didn't need him to elaborate.
Isabella asked Edward to wait as she found a bathroom. It felt reminiscent of child-like freedom to move without a phone or a purse or an ID, but the emotion faded as she continued to sit in the stall, resting her head on her hands, holding her breath until she had to let it out. She repeated the process until her exhales became erratic, until she had to bite her knuckles to muffle her sobs, until she remembered her mother's concerned voice, telling her father that little Bella had an abnormal ability to let her wounds show only when it suited her. He was proud. His youngest was tough as nails, that one. Never let anyone see her cry, that one.
So it felt raw and necessary, and she'd never done it with an ulterior motive, but today, she rubbed her eyes to emphasize. She'd avoided actions that drew attention to her moments of fragility, and she'd never thought she'd be grateful to be able to let out emotions only when it suited her, but today, she was.
She exited her stall.
Her reflection showed her internal struggle, and as she stood, crying silently in front of strangers, waiting, a kind woman stopped in front of her. Isabella knew that someone would. If they hadn't, she would've asked for a phone. Someone would help, she knew.
Briefly, she considered playing dumb, going with the Spanish Me han robado. ¿Puedo usar su teléfono, por favor?
"All you all right, my dear?"
The elderly lady squeezed her shoulder, leaning closer, as a middle-aged woman and a girl observed them. Isabella bit her lip, knowing it would tremble, and went for a weak accent. "I… My bag was—stolen. I have to… my phone."
"Were you supposed to meet with anyone?"
"Yes, but…" She closed her eyes, letting a few tears flow. "I can't… my phone."
The woman dug out her cell phone, holding it out to her.
"Thank you," Isabella replied, looking up before dialing. "Thank you so much."
"Of course, my dear."
Isabella waited, hoping that her roommate had a phone with her. She didn't have a second shot at this.
"Rosalie."
It felt wonderful to hear a familiar voice, and she smiled, exhaling.
"Mamá… Mi bolso fue robado. Michael… Él debía recogerme en el aeropuerto hace una hora. ¿Podrías venir a recogerme… por favor, mamá?"
Rosalie took a breath on the other end of the line.
"Can you tell me where you are?"
"Treinta."
"Are you in danger?"
"Azul."
"Love you," she said, pausing. "Stay safe."
"Te quiero, mamá. Nos vemos."
She disconnected the call, deleting the number before she returned the phone. The elderly lady smiled at her.
"Do you need me to stay until your mother gets here, my dear?"
How young did she look, really?
"No," Isabella replied, wiping her damp face but smiling. "It was… very kind of you to help the stranger. I will throw some water on my face to calm down. I know exactly when and where she'll come. Thank you."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," she answered, eager to get the woman out of the door before she saw her and Edward together. "I don't wish to hold you. I just need to calm down for a while. Thank you for your kindness."
The woman patted her shoulder, uncertain-looking before squeezing it. "If you have any trouble at all, airport security will help you. Okay, my dear?"
"Oh… thank you. I didn't think of that."
Edward looked nervous as he rubbed the strap of his bag, looking everywhere and nowhere at once, waiting. When Isabella tapped his shoulder, he sighed in relief. He blinked at her red-rimmed eyes, and the awkward posture felt very unlike her. As always, a question about her crying seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't voice it.
"Everything okay?"
"Yup," she replied. "Let's go."
Isabella wondered what Edward was looking for as they walked through the large parking lot, but at the very end of it, a man stepped out of a grey Hyundai. He had curly, light-brown hair, undefined eyebrows, and he was, maybe, five foot ten. He could've been in his mid-forties.
"Varney," Edward said.
The man shook hands with Edward before holding his hand out to Isabella. "Call me Seth."
"Emma. It's a pleasure."
Other than holding Edward's gaze, the man didn't react.
"Very good," he said, closing his jacket in a way that revealed the presence of a gun (at least to her), and she remembered the name. He was a Marshal. She noticed he'd (no doubt, carefully) chosen a meeting spot with no traffic beside them and no security cameras.
"Any updates on Jacob?" Edward asked.
"Nothing you don't already know. You're good to go."
"Thanks."
Seth smiled at Isabella. "I would've bought groceries but then I remembered how picky he is."
He seemed to have an easy-going, light attitude, but Edward was all business.
"It's fine. We'll stop by a Walmart."
"All right." He, once again, shook hands with Isabella. "Nice meeting you. I'll see you around."
He gave the car keys to Edward and walked away.
"Picky eater, huh?"
Edward looked at her, but didn't comment. He returned his guns to their original places before they drove into the cloudy but windless noon. They ate at Drake's Cafe, stopped at the West Milwaukee Walmart to buy groceries, and it wasn't until they turned to I-94 that Isabella seemed to relax beside him; he hadn't realized how tense she'd been. He observed her as she read the binder but didn't interrupt, wondering just how screwed up her life had been before not to show any signs of distress—at least not in front of him. Usually, it was his job to reassure the protected witness that they were, in fact, in safe hands. Not this time.
Did she not question their choices because that's how used to danger she was? Did she feel unfazed because she knew her brother better than any of the experts combined? Because she'd been (quite) involved in the decision-making? Or did she only look unfazed? Her lack of apparent worry was starting to worry him, too, and he found it an uncomfortable state of mind to have. He trusted her, he'd told her he trusted her. He couldn't afford doubts.
When the passing trees and skyline caught her attention, she closed the binder and turned to him.
"Why aren't you accusing me of lying to you?"
"If you're admitting to abusing my trust, you should be more specific."
"I listed Wisconsin as one of the states where I'd never been, where I knew nobody and assured Carlisle of the fact. Yet, there he was."
He hesitated. "Who, exactly?"
She wrapped her hair in a pony tail before turning her attention to him. "Daniel Marquez Salas."
"He said you went to school with him in New Mexico."
"You spoke to him?"
"He saw your face as he passed us by. I convinced him he was mistaken, but his voice drew attention and quite a few passengers tried to catch sight of your face. Thank you for following my orders."
"Of course." She turned away her gaze. "He's… he added me on Facebook a couple of years ago. Maybe that's how he recognized me."
"Maybe."
"You're not mad?"
"You went to, what, eight schools in the course of twelve years?"
"Eleven. Eleven schools in five states and two countries."
"Right," he replied. "And you expect me to believe that nobody—nobody—from these eleven schools in five different states and two countries would travel or have relatives or step out of their homes for the next four months?"
"It would be quite convenient."
"Yes." He smiled. "But life isn't, which is why we will know our story and history back and forth. Nothing may contradict."
"Is your mother a linguist?"
He looked at her in surprise. "An English teacher. How did you know?"
"No reason," she replied, smiling to herself. She could feel his eyes on her as they got stuck in traffic, but he didn't ask again.
"That guy, he called you Bella."
"I'm sure he did."
"Is that what your friends call you?"
"Used to," she corrected. "Past tense. Although one could argue that I've rarely had enough time to form relationships meaningful enough to be considered friendships."
He couldn't help but feel sorry for her, to be moving constantly until you were effectively alienated from your peers, but he didn't think admitting it to Isabella could achieve anything.
"You don't prefer Bella?"
"Not anymore."
"Hmm," he replied. "So, Daniel what's-his-name, he was your friend?"
"I'd like to think so. We didn't hang out at school, but we were inseparable in the afternoons."
"Did you play computer games?"
She side-eyed him, but it was teasing. "No. I mean, yes, he liked them, but I liked the more technical stuff, how to make my computer do certain stuff, or better yet, how to make his computer follow my commands. But no, his mom usually took me with them to Carlsbad Caverns National Park where she worked as a ranger. She trekked and roamed with us in the caves as much as we wanted. My favorite was the Spider Cave Tour, but… at the end of my stay, Dan and I knew all of them by heart."
"Did you father mind?"
"No."
"Really?"
"Why? You think all evil in the world starts with my dad?"
"No, I just…" Edward hesitated, looking ahead. "Never mind. How long were you there?"
"Half a year," she answered, opening the binder, but instead of ending the conversation, she ran her fingers across its edges, pensive.
"He was my first kiss," she added.
He observed her from the corner of his eye. He felt protective, somehow, thinking about the tall, lean and tan guy holding Isabella's small waist as they… he wasn't eager to imagine it. But he was glad she'd been friends with him.
"How old were you?"
"7th grade, so twelve, I think."
He smiled. "I bet all the girls were jealous of you."
She returned his smile, and he wished she wore that playful smile more often. "Even if they'd known—which they couldn't because, first, kissing a boy is not something I would talk about, and second, everyone was ordered not to communicate with me—the 12-year-old Dan was slightly chubby and not at all smooth with girls. But he was talkative and interesting and… I dunno. Kinda sweet. Plus, his family didn't care about my father."
"And that didn't happen often?"
"Uh, no," she replied, her smile wistful but hurt, too. "A handful of times, at best."
He wanted to know more, but she lifted her binder and started reading it, ignoring his glances.
Twenty minutes later, she shut the binder, and when she pulled her legs up to wrap her arms around them, Edward turned down the volume of the radio.
"Want to tell me about your husband?"
"My husband Anthony Philip Matthews is 30 years old. He was born on December 2, 1984, in Omaha, Nebraska, at home. His father gave him the name Anthony because he was conceived in Anthony, Kansas, and—"
"It doesn't say that, does it?"
"No."
"But such a place exists?"
"Yes. It's a small town in the Southern part of Kansas. I've paid a visit. You don't like it? You told me the more specific our story, the more credible it will seem."
"No, it just took me by surprise. It's good. Let's use it."
"Yeah?"
He'd let her add anything to keep that light in her eyes.
"Of course. Please, continue."
She smiled at him before turning her eyes back on the road. "On January 30th 1986, two days after the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded, Anthony's mother Jane Margaret Keller, a Business Consultant specializing in Human Resources Consulting, and father Max Matthews who, at the time, worked in Customer Service for the Hy-Vee Supermarket, decided to move to Kansas City, Missouri, where they stayed for three years. They returned to Omaha when Anthony was five, and his father became an Assistant Manager at Walmart and a Manager five years later. Anthony attended Sunset Hills Elementary School, Westside Middle School and Westside High School. He worked as a construction worker for a year before he started attending Metropolitan Community College Fort Omaha Campus in an Electrical Apprenticeship Program."
"When did he graduate?"
"He was twenty five, so… 2009. A year before we met in Lincoln."
"What brought him to Lincoln?"
"A job opportunity at Best Service Electricity."
"Have you met his brother?"
"Once, at our wedding."
"Tell me about your wedding."
Bella pointedly put the binder in the backseat, resting her forehead against her knees. "Please tell me I don't need to memorize or know or explain that shit."
The corner of his mouth rose. "That shit was the best day of your life. Wasn't it, Emma?"
She plastered a fake smile on her face, waving her hand once in mockery, voice high-pitched and quite comical. "Oh, Anthony, it was soo perfect. Soo perfect. I, like, totally wore, like, a white princess dress with a massive veil and when I walked down the aisle and looked into the bottomless pools of my future husband's gorgeous eyes, I just knew I'd, like, spend the rest of my life with him."
Edward locked eyes with her, and neither reacted before the corner of his mouth lifted and he started laughing. His silent belly laugh was unexpectedly endearing and Isabella couldn't help but join in.
"Please, please, please tell me we can make up a version I would be able to recite without puking."
Still smiling, he pondered on her question.
"If you can't bring yourself to talk about this version without a grimace, we need one. I'll update a few people."
She reached out to squeeze his forearm. "Thank you, Edward. Thanks for not making me repeatedly imagine a wedding I'd run away from."
He nodded, once, and the small smile hadn't left his face. "So, tell me, Emma. What was our wedding like?"
"A small, secluded affair. Your family, my family, nobody else. When we met, I'd promised you I'd only ever get married in a potato sack, so that's what I wore."
He laughed, and it was that same precious, belly laugh she was starting to cherish.
"Indeed, a potato sack," she repeated. "My husband Anthony, however, bare-toed in grass, wore his favorite black shorts and a crinkled linen shirt. My friend Alice played Olexandr Ignatov on the piano inside, but the door was open, and you were smiling yourself stupid when I walked to you, bare-toed in the grass, and I put the tiara on my head on top of your brother's dog's head. His dog was your best man because Dennis refused."
She didn't mention that, in third grade, a girl named Alice who played the piano was the first friend she'd ever had.
"Is that so?"
His voice was teasing and sounded quite happy.
"M'hmm," she continued. "It started drizzling when you recited your vows and I made up mine, and when all was said and done, we sat on the grass in spite of the warm rain and enjoyed some take-out Thai food. Thirty minutes later, we left our families alone with free liquor and took off to your uncle Mark's cabin in Montana. It was wicked."
He looked at her, not having seen her talk this light-heartedly, and somehow, the oddball wedding she'd made up on the spot… he liked it. He'd never imagined a wedding, but a silly and untraditional one like that, how could he say no?
"There are two problems."
"Constructive criticism only, I'm afraid."
"The most constructive," he teased back, suppressing a smile. "Firstly, it's too good."
"Were you listening? I just said I was wearing a potato sack."
"It's too good. You recite that story and you get famous for your wedding."
"Noted. And the other thing?"
"With a wedding like that, people will ask to see pictures."
"Oh, that one's easy. I didn't allow cameras because I'm the queen of pretentious."
"Not having cameras isn't pretentious." He tilted his head on the side, as if in a shrug. "I wouldn't have cameras at mine. Does that make me pretentious?"
"Gwyneth Paltrow level." She grinned.
"Thanks," he replied dryly.
She didn't mention that she, too, wouldn't really care much for cameras at her wedding—not that it mattered. She was pretty sure this was a part of life reserved for normal people who could form normal relationships under normal circumstances. That's why brainstorming random shit was so much fun, especially the part where he was too polite to tell her nobody had weddings like that.
"I like your version, but it needs tweaking. It needs to be less memorable."
"Aren't you just a ball of joy and ideas."
He smiled. "The potato sack has to go."
"Pity." She didn't sound surprised as she put her crossed arms on top of her knees and rested her cheek on it. "That was the best part."
"How about a red dress? That's different enough."
"With pockets?"
"Sure."
"Pictures of penguins?"
"Don't push it."
He enjoyed the smile on her face.
"First dance song?"
"Why do you care about this shit?"
"You're a girl, Emma. Girls ask that stuff when they get to know each other."
"I resent that."
"You don't want me to generalize? Okay. Statistically speaking, girls are likely to bring a subject like this up, and when they do, we need to have the same answer."
"I'm fine with that pseudo-statistics. I'll play." She sighed. "Eric Clapton?"
"Not a fan."
"Etta James, At Last?"
"Style?"
"Blues-y, jazz-y, I think."
"Hate the genre."
"How about something corny, old-timey. The Beatles? Maybe I'm Amazed?"
"Firstly, that's Paul McCartney, and secondly, it is neither corny nor old-time-y."
"Excusez-moi, Mr. Touchy. Will it work, though?"
"How about The Beatles, Here Comes the Sun? It's a bit more upbeat."
"It's a deal," she replied, pausing. "Any other changes except for my red penguin dress?"
"Red dress, Emma. No penguins."
"Okay, okay. Questions stands, though."
"I don't think so. We can have the oddball Thai delivery and leave our families to their liquor. You'll need to make me listen to that piano piece, though."
"Ningún problema, Eduardo."
"Do you speak fluent Spanish?"
"Si, pero tengo un pequeño problema con la ortografía."
He couldn't help but smile. "You said something about spelling issues, didn't you?"
"M'hmm."
They turned south at Johnson Creek to Highway 26, and he noticed that the concealer on the side of her neck had worn off and drew her attention to it. They were going to arrive in fifteen minutes and he'd rather not meet their neighbors with suspicions of domestic abuse. She hid the bruise, and when she turned her head so that Edward could make sure she concealed it all, he saw a fake tattoo behind her neck he hadn't seen before. It was a ladybug.
"You're good to go," he said, tearing his eyes from her neck. She rested her chin on her knees.
"So where, exactly, is our destination?"
"Fort Atkinson. Population of roughly ten thousand people. It's quite beautiful, I've heard. We're renting a house from a friend on Fifth Street, just under Bark River."
"Does your friend know about me?"
"No. To her, you are Emma, my wife."
"Okay."
She stared at the scenery, the warm-colored tag alders and maples with wisps of buckthorn thrown in. He observed her profile. Her hands peeked out from the large sweatshirt they'd bought and the back of her left hand showed a pale, angular burn mark the size of a thumb. As her fingernails scraped her pants absent-mindedly, he was reminded to make sure they bought clothes for her.
"You said there were two people in this world you'd trust with your life. Who is the second?"
He was struck by the youth in her eyes as she held eye contact. Her expression was fragile but, somehow, all the more beautiful because of it, and she closed her eyes for a second before staring at the road.
"My father."
Translations:
Me han robado. ¿Puedo usar su teléfono, por favor? - I've been robbed. Can I use your phone, please?
Mi bolso fue robado. - My bag was stolen.
Michael… Él debía recogerme en el aeropuerto hace una hora. ¿Podrías venir a recogerme… por favor, mamá? - Michael… he was supposed to pick me up at the airport an hour ago. Can you come pick me up… please, mom?
Treinta. - Thirty.
Azul. - Blue.
Te quiero, mamá. Nos vemos. - I love you, mom. See you later.
Ningún problema. - No problem.
Si, pero tengo un pequeño problema con la ortografía. - Yes, but I have some spelling problems.