have documentation,” she whispers.
We’re still sitting in the parking lot. A woman passes by the car and gives us a concerned look. “How? Why would they even check? You’ve been working at the hospital for years,” I say.
I grip my seat. This is exactly what I was scared of, and now it’s happened. How could my parents be so stupid?
“My supervisor called me into her office,” Mom says, taking a deep, heaving breath. “She told me I’m a good worker but that she can’t ignore the paperwork this time. Not in this ‘political climate.’ Something about one of their big donors asking to make sure all their workers are legal.”
It gets worse. It turns out my mom’s papers were flagged, and some so-called expert claimed they’re forgeries. They told my mother she could be legally deported and the hospital fined for hiring her.
“I’m sorry, Mommy.” I hug her, which makes her start crying again.
“I tried to reason with them. I told them this was a mistake, and I could fix it. But they didn’t want to hear it. They just wanted me out—but that wasn’t the worst, Jas.”
I can feel myself getting angrier. How could they humiliate my mother, a woman who works twice as hard as anyone else, for not having the papers they were apparently willing to overlook for years?
Mom continues her story. “‘Go get your daughter,’ my boss said. ‘We don’t want two illegals in here.’ After all you were doing for them, neneng. After you’ve been working so hard on their project. After all you’ve done for the patients. I’m so sorry.”
I’ve never felt so ashamed. And now I’m terrified for our entire family.
What happens to illegals in this country?
I’m afraid we’re about to find out.
Still, there are times I am bewildered by each mile I have traveled, each meal I have eaten, each person I have known, each room in which I have slept. As ordinary as it all appears, there are times when it is beyond my imagination.
—JHUMPA LAHIRI, INTERPRETER OF MALADIES
YOU KNOW HOW people say “life goes on”? Well, life does go on. I take my midterms, I go to cheer practice, I become a bit of a robot, keep my head down and try not to think about the future and what it will or won’t bring. I don’t know what to do about the National Scholarship. When Mrs. Garcia sees me in the hallway, she reminds me that I have to turn in the acceptance form so the foundation can make my travel arrangements. I tell her I will soon.
Kayla and Dylan are hot and heavy and I rarely see her outside of practice. Royce and I have sent a few more texts back and forth, and he mentioned he’s been busy with school, which is why he wasn’t able to visit me at the hospital. But that he was there last Monday, and was looking for me but didn’t see me. I didn’t want to tell him I’m not allowed there anymore—it’s too painful. So I lied and told him my project is over and I won’t be at the hospital again anytime soon. Which is sort of the truth.
He sends me a Snapchat of himself falling off a kiddie scooter, to show that he’s bummed about that, but I don’t send him one back.
It’s like Kayla said—I do sort of believe he lives on another planet. One with no problems.
I did well on my midterms, except for an uncharacteristic B+ in AP Calculus. Don’t know if it was because I was stressed, or an honest mistake on the equation. Dad doesn’t make his usual joke about B’s being Asian F’s. No one thinks anything is funny in my house lately. In European History, Kissinger has just convinced Brezhnev to attend the SALT talks, and the Cold War is thawing.
I wish it would at home too. Mom hasn’t worked for three weeks now. It’s eating at her. She’s spending a huge amount of time reading the news online, watching TV shows, calling all kinds of people about our situation. Lawyers too, even though it’s clear we can’t afford any of them.
Dad’s home for dinner for the first time all week. He picked up some extra hours driving buses on the evening shift, since Mom isn’t working anymore. I used to complain that we had to eat at the table, but now I realize how much I miss having everyone gathered together, talking and laughing and stuffing our faces with Mom’s food.
Mom and I made Dad’s favorite dinner—a whole fried chicken and pancit with minced green onions, shredded cabbage, carrots, pork tenderloin, peeled shrimp, and soy sauce, working silently beside each other to prepare it. Even though I’m watching my weight, I heap a second helping onto my plate.
“It’s nice to see my family for a change,” Dad says. He squints, peering at Danny and Isko. “It’s awfully quiet at this dinner table. You boys must be up to some mischief. I know you too well.”
Isko giggles and Danny kicks him under the table. “We’re not up to anything,” Danny says. “Huh, Isko?”
“Nuh-uh. Not us,” Isko says. “We’re not up to no good.”
Cutting off a piece of fried chicken, I correct him. “You mean you’re not up to any good.”
“Yeah!” Isko says. “That’s what I mean.”
“Dumb little brother. She’s tricking you,” Danny says. He stands up, takes his plate to the sink, and returns to the table. “Can I be excused?”
Not looking up from his plate, Dad tells him to sit down. “Spend some time with your family. You act more like a teenager than your sister.”
“Leave him alone,” Mom says. “You don’t have to compare them.”
“I just want to spend some time with my children. Is that so terrible? I wanted to spend every minute with my father when I was Danny’s age. When he came home from harvesting sugarcane, I would pull his boots off his feet. It was an honor to take off his shoes. And now I can’t even get my boys to eat dinner with their family for more than fifteen minutes.”
“Okay. So does that mean I have to stay?” Danny asks.
“Sit down,” Dad says.
Danny sulks over to his seat and plops down on the chair. From under his butt comes the sound of a long, gassy explosion. Pfffffffft!
Danny jumps up. “Aw! Man!”
Isko doubles over, laughing so hard he’s gasping for air.
Danny picks up the whoopee cushion from his seat. He throws it at Isko but misses. It lands on top of the pancit. Dad’s face turns red.
At first we think Dad is going to yell but then both Mom and I try to stifle our giggling, and soon we can barely keep the laughter back. It’s the thing that cracks the Cold War, and Dad laughs too. It’s then that I realize nothing has changed, really. We’re still our family. We’re still here in America. At least for now.
“It’s not my fault that Danny’s a stinkatron,” Isko says.
Danny fights back. “You’re the gas master!”
“Stink-a-zilla!”
