The Language of Angels

My mother and sister seated themselves on either side of me, neither of them saying a word. In front of us was a semicircular row of windows, each with a consular officer behind the smooth glass that constituted the barrier between us on one side and them on the other. This ensured that we shared no air save for that which blew through the small circular orifice a little below the level of the chin and the rectangular depression at the very bottom—where folders and envelopes and passports were passed this way and that.

The palms of my hands were cold and damp from sweat, and I sat on them for warmth. This, of course, did very little to relieve the growing tension, which had me literally on the edge of my seat.

The counter dinged again and called number 1562 to Window 4, and the couple in front of us rose to approach said window. Only eight calls now stood between us and the verdict that would either make or break my life, and I was on the verge of desperation.

God, I said with the voice in my head, I know I haven’t asked you for anything in a really long time, but if you could grant me just this one thing—I stopped as another ding pierced through the anxious stillness, urging me to finish my prayer quickly. If you would grant me this, I promise—I shut my eyes in earnest—I will tell Mom everything.

I’ll tell her everything, I swore. I’ll come clean and tell her everything if you would just— Mom, seeing that we were only five numbers away, busied herself and checked to make sure we had everything we needed: police clearances, valid IDs, e-mail correspondence, and everything else I didn’t have the energy to be bothered with at the moment. Butch, who was more like my mother when she was anxious, immediately joined in and helped ruffle through the envelope.

It wasn’t too long before our number was up, and the ding of 1570 seemed to me to be the loudest of all that I’d heard since we got there early that morning.

When I rose from my seat, I could barely feel my legs. And I followed behind Mom and Butch, putting one foot in front of the other mechanically, now numb to all the emotion that had overwhelmed me, nearly to the point of suffocation.

“Good morning,” the officer said with a smile.

We greeted him back.

He was a tall, well-built American with light brown hair and rimless glasses. He towered over us by a good twelve inches, yet his greeting was warm and friendly. The smile alone could have been enough to indicate that all of our applications had already been stamped and approved. He looked through our files one by one, asking which of us was Alice (Mom raised her hand coyly at the mention of her name) and which was Georgia (Butch did the same thing), and of course, being the only one left, I had to be Grace.

“So you wish to immigrate to the States,” he said, a sort of question that sounded more like a statement.

“Yes,” we responded, nodding.

“You were petitioned by your sister?” he said to Mom.

“Yes, twenty years ago,” she replied.

“Will you all be living with her when you get there?”

I immediately noted that he said when and not if. My anticipation escalated.

“Yes.”

“Could you give me the full address of her residence?” He added that it was all right if only one of us gave the answer. Butch took over and recited the California address we’d memorized days before.

I can’t remember what other questions he asked, only that they were nothing we didn’t already have typed out in our visa application.

“And you have never traveled outside the Philippines before?” he asked all three of us.

We all shook our heads. “This will be the first time,” Mom said with a nervous chuckle.

“Yes indeed.” The officer smiled again.

He looked through our papers and then singled out mine. I watched him closely as he surveyed my application and then took out another stash of papers from a desk beside him. The seconds ticked on for what seemed like an eternity, and all the anxiety I had been feeling earlier morphed into an exaggerated sense of dread. Mom squeezed my hand, which was still cold.

“We have a little problem with Grace’s application,” he said, glancing over at me with an apologetic expression. I would never forget what happened next, and it has been branded on my memory to this day.

He said it in so many words—which might have been more understandable if only I had had the wits to remember them—but my mind had shriveled into a mass that could only understand the simple fact: the moment the petition became active, I was already past the age of twenty-one and therefore no longer my mother’s dependent. This in turn meant that I could cut my ties and not have to be strung along wherever they went.

And in so many words, with comforting smiles that no longer had any effect, the consul regretfully denied me my visa.

We returned to our seats in silence, and when it was time to go to the next window, they gave me back my passport. Not Mom’s, not Butch’s—just mine.