“My full name is Amelia Florence Marsh,” she says, in the tone of voice as if she’s the queen of England.
“Mrs. Marsh...”
“Ms. Marsh, actually, though I suppose that’s confusing since Marsh is my married name. I’m a widow.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, backpedaling.
“No need to be sorry. What do you have people call you when you never divorced but you’re also not married anymore? Anyway, I go by Millie with my friends. And we’re going to be friends, aren’t we? I can always tell.”
I smile. “Millie, I couldn’t help but overhear your story about meeting Frank Sinatra. Do you want to start there?”
Millie arches one perfectly plucked gray eyebrow. “Sure. I was a young girl then—around fifteen probably.”
“So what did he say to you?”
She purses her lips as she looks up to the ceiling like a little kid who’s been keeping a big secret for a long time and just can’t wait to tell someone, even though she also doesn’t want to be in trouble. “He told me I’d be just his type if I was just a little older,” she says with a throaty laugh. “Oh, that Frank.”
I laugh with her. “Did you meet other famous people?”
“Of course. We lived in Beverly Hills, and it was only natural in my husband’s line of work. But I’m not some kind of vulgar name-dropper, if that’s what you’re thinking, missy. The memory just reminded me of being young again, of having a body that worked for me instead of against me. Being old’s terrible.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say, although I like that she’s a pistol.
Millie wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. “No, I’m sorry, darling. I’m an awful wretch when I’m sick. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I just don’t feel well. At my age, everything stops working. They’re supposed to tell me if I have something wrong with my heart, but I think the only thing wrong with it is that it’s old.”
“I should let you get some rest.” I begin to stand, but Millie reaches out and grabs my forearm, pulling me back down.
“Please stay. It would be nice to talk a little more.”
I smile at her. She reminds me of my auntie Girlie—scrappy yet gentle. I feel slightly homesick for the Philippines. Even though I wouldn’t want to move back there to live, I miss my big family. My grandparents and cousins and aunties and uncles—all of them coming and going through the big house—all that noise and laughter and light.
“So you live in Beverly Hills?” I ask, wondering if maybe Royce is from there too. With a name like that...
Millie adjusts a pillow behind her back, sitting up and settling in for the long haul. “That’s right. Should I start there?”
I nod, and Millie begins to unravel her tale. I listen patiently, giving her my full attention, even as I’m eager for the day to end so that I can get home and tell my parents my good news already. They’re going to die when they find out about the National Scholarship. I can’t wait.
I had always hoped that this land might become a safe and agreeable asylum to the virtuous and persecuted part of mankind, to whatever nation they might belong.
—GEORGE WASHINGTON
ON THE WAY back home from the hospital, Mom is quiet and tired. I want to tell her my news, but decide to wait until she and Dad are together. That way it’ll be more dramatic and special. So instead of talking about that, I tell her about Millie.
“I’m so glad she signed up for my project,” I say. “She was a cool old lady. Did you know she founded her own construction company? She was a building engineer.”
Mom nods approvingly. “See, I told you, girls can do anything.”
When we get home, I dawdle behind her as she walks up the driveway. Shockingly pink bougainvillea flowers spiral around the trellises and lean against the outside of the house. My mother loves bright flowers. They make her feel more at home in America. She plants them every year: hibiscus, ylang-ylang, azalea, birds of paradise, verbena, scarlet larkspur, night-blooming jasmine. Our house may be small, but Mom makes sure we always have the neighborhood’s best garden. It’s her pride in life besides her three children.
I walk through the door and kick off my sneakers, exchanging them for a pair of light blue tsinelas, comfy slippers to wear around the house. Mom is already in the kitchen talking loudly to Lola Cherry on the phone as she cuts up yellow jackfruit and bananas to make turon for dessert. Lola Cherry isn’t my grandmother. She’s my mother’s cousin’s aunt, but we call her Lola—grandma—anyway. She’s as close to a grandmother as I have in the States. We haven’t seen my real Lola since I was thirteen and my brothers were seven and five years old. My brothers don’t even remember her that well anymore—they don’t remember much about our native country. Danny and Isko can only speak English, and my Tagalog is so atrocious, my mother scolds me for “losing my culture.” I hate when she says that kind of thing. As if she wasn’t the one who decided to move to America in the first place. I’m not complaining though. If my parents had stayed home, I would never have earned this scholarship. And getting to meet the president? The leader of the free world? Forget it.
I weave around Mom and grab a piece of jackfruit, then bite into its sticky flesh, letting the sweet juice linger on my tongue. She shoos me away from the kitchen, pretending she’s annoyed at me. I can’t wait to tell everyone my big announcement but decide to hold off until dinner is over so I have everyone’s full attention. I want my brothers to hear too. I love them almost like they’re my kids and not just my brothers. It’s funny. When they were really little, when we first moved to America, my mother’s pinay—and closest—girlfriends would call me maliit na ina—little mother—because I was so protective of the boys.
My brothers and I are very different though. Not only because I’m a girl. It goes deeper. Since I’m the oldest, I’ve always felt more pressure to be successful. I have to show them the way. And I also have to act like a bridge between them and my parents. Danny and Isko are pretty much 100 percent American. It’s as if my parents are first-generation immigrants and they’re second generation. But I’m stuck somewhere between both of them, trying to figure out how to help them understand each other.
The sounds of my brothers playing video games in the back of the house float down the hallway. Dad is watching the local news. I kiss him hello on the cheek and sit on the couch to watch with him. The anchor introduces a video clip of a politician from Los Angeles slamming an immigration reform bill that’s just been introduced in the Senate.
Suddenly, I recognize the man on-screen from the hospital.
It’s Congressman Blakely. Royce’s father. He’s talking about how a path to citizenship shouldn’t be granted to undocumented immigrants at all. If they entered the country illegally, he says, then they don’t deserve to be Americans. Oh great, he’s one of those politicians who think illegal aliens are as good as criminals, and deserve punishment rather than mercy. I shift in my seat, thinking of Royce, and wonder if he agrees with his father. I sort of hope not.
My family got their green cards when we moved to America, but none of us are American citizens yet. I don’t think I can apply to become a citizen until I turn eighteen next year. But the minute I do, you can bet I’m taking the oath. I can’t wait to vote.
Dad shakes his head and starts pontificating to the air. “If that congressman had to grow up in a different country, he would understand better why people come here. These politicians know nothing of true hardship.”
“Easy lang, Dad,” I say, meaning take it easy. “Don’t get too riled up. It’s bad for