All We Left Unspoken

2008, August: Mika

I sit in the pale blue room, waiting patiently to be called, my mother sits next to me, worry stitching her brows together.

"Mamma nesarauc pieri, uztraukumam nav pamata." I try calming my mother down, knowing the last thing she needs right now is more worry.

"English, Mika. Repeat that in English please."

I sigh, I don't like speaking English. I can't speak it as well as I do Latvian, but I try for the sake of my mother. "Mama, don't worry, everything is going to be fine," I speak with a thick accent, making my mother frown even more.

"We need to work on your accent, but I suppose this is good for now." I don't understand why she's upset about my accent, she has an accent too. I push the thoughts from my head, such silly things to think about, we have bigger issues and now all I need to think about is how to make my mom less stressed.

"Elza Ivanova, you may go in now." A small lady steps in front of us, she's very short and thin, and is dressed in a white button up and a very ugly skirt. I don't like her. I don't even know her but I don't like her. She seems mean. The way she carries herself is uncanny, as if superiority is cushioning her every step, blanketing her feet from ever touching the real world. My mother gets up, and I move to get up after her, but before I'm able to pick myself up from the uncomfortable metal chair, a hand pushes me back down harshly, I look up and the woman is staring directly at me her piercing blue shooting lasers through my skin, she is smiling, but its not a soft smile like mama's. Her smile seems fake, plastered on, like it pains her to do it.

"No, not you. Only her." She points a sharp, manicured finger at my mama, the nails on her finger are so long and sharp they could pierce skin if she wanted to. Suddenly I am very uncomfortable at the thought. She looks back at me, the smile still there but slightly faltering. Her hand is still on my shoulder, squeezing much harder than she was before. My mama's still standing there, not wanting to leave me but knowing she has to. I don't want her to leave me.

"Mika, I'm going to have to go in for a little bit you know that," she says kindly as she leans down close to me, almost as if she knows I don't want her to leave. "The Americans are going to ask me some questions, then we can go home. Ok?". The woman's grip tightens around my shoulder, I wince, her nails dig into me, and it hurts. I nod, tears welling in my eyes. I'm desperate not to let them fall.

"Ma'am, you really need to get going now." The mean lady says, "American citizens are typically not late to important interviews, this might affect your chances in getting the citizenship."

My mother pales, and immediately turns on her heal and leaves. The woman lets go of me, as if she just realized she was touching some sort of toxic waste. I'm just glad her claws aren't on my shoulder anymore. I'm sure it's going to bruise.