It was silent the day Dad moved out. The house, lately, had been filled with the screams of our mother and the crashes of my father throwing expensive items across the room. But the afternoon he packed up his three suitcases of shoes and ties, packets of cigarettes, and the other odds and ends of his life with us there was a dead hush. I sat on the top of the winding staircase that lead to Mother and Dad's room. I watched as he packed with his head bowed down, quiet, and his face red and runny with tears. Mother was on the first floor, sipping on her fourth glass of wine since she'd woken that morning at nine with a migraine only booze could fix.

The most eerie ending to the silence that had fallen under our roof was Dad's goodbye. He carried his bags down the stairs, shaking his head. He opened the door, he looked at Mother, he looked at me, and then he smiled. He lifted both corners of his mouth, stared down at the floor, and blessed us both with the last sad little smile. Once he had turned and carefully shut the large mahogany door Mother started to screech. She threw herself onto the sofa, flung her arms over her head, covered her ears, and screamed. The ruckus had returned to the Amelie's household so I slunk back up to my room, the attic, and let the noise ring through the walls and into my aching ears. I was seven and already had more of an understanding of hate then I did love.

Mother's name was Ingrid Amelie, a beautiful elegant name that fit her well. She was tall, slender, with long dark hair that swayed with every move she made, and had delicate breathtaking features. I looked much like my father and resented my mother's beauty. But each day that she slipped deeper into the depression of loss she little pieces of her charm vanished. Mother started to drink more heavily, she took pills with her meals, and slept most of the day. She did not work because she had inherited her father's fortune when he had passed a month before my birth. She did little in the way of exercise, activities, or fun. She stopped picking me up from school, forgot to make meals, and gave few thoughts to me in general. But once the hitting started I could not see her as fully human. There was something that took her over, made her forget I was her baby girl. I was ten when social services put me in foster care.

The day I left was fast. They came, two men who both were large in build with flat faces and a severe gaze. They packed for me, bringing all the wrong clothes, none of my favorite books, and even forgetting my toothbrush. I stood by the door with my jacket and boots on, sweating in the overheated house. I could not make eye contact with Mother and focused my blurry gaze on the grimy floor. I waited until they came down and handed me my duffle, ushering me outside. I stole my first look at Mother as I was escorted out the door, she sat on the kitchen counter, clutching the top of a bottle. She simply stared blankly as they escorted me out the huge and ominous door. I did not hear a cry from inside the house as I ducked into the black SUV and watch the Amelie mansion roll away.
- - - -

I was twenty six when my mother died. I had reached out to her once after I had graduated high school, mostly in hope for funds for my venture to Europe. However after bouncing from homes with guardians that did not feel for me, I longed for a mother's love. I asked her to lunch and she agreed, inviting me over. We small talked over a mug of tea, her’s spiked with vodka I was sure. After an hour she had given me a thousand dollars and a pat on the back as she rushed me out of her house. After that brief and loveless encounter with Ingrid I had lost interest in having much to do with her.

I got a call on New Years. I was laying on my large, old mattress that rested on the floor with sheets that needed to be washed. My four room apartment, shared with my boyfriend and his best friend, smelled like weed and beer. I hated holidays, too many ties to family and painful memories. New Year's Eve however was one of the exceptions. I liked the idea of celebrating something new, a starting over. We'd invited mostly Brad's friends and a few coworkers of mine. We had listened to our music too loud and let the night roll away with an attitude that was totally and wonderfully irresponsible, my vision of what college must've been like if I had attended.

Basking in the sun that streaked through the blinds and the fuzz of an almost hangover I stretched out of bed. I tip-toed over to Brad's closets to grab an oversized shirt and into the kitchen. Brad was one of the lightest sleepers I'd ever met, I tried hard each morning to let him rest. I piled my hair on top of my head, dark brown and curly like my fathers. I tried to make eggs and toast as silently as I could but felt the arms of failure slip around me.

"Good morning babe," he kissed my neck from behind.

"Sorry I woke you handsome," he always looked the best when he had just woken up. His flaxen hair was tousled and sticking to one side, his eyes sleepy and deeply green looked the most innocent this time of day, and he smiled more. I loved him. It had taken a while for both of us to learn to let each other in. I struggled with belief of a relationship of any sort causing and effecting nothing more then pain and his substance abuse had left him with no trust or respect for himself or anyone. Now after five years the fantasies of a family with him played in and out of my mind. They scared me, kept me up at night but they also tantalized a feeling of hope inside me.

"Want some coffee?" He went to get the grinds out of the far cabinet.

"That's not even a question," I divided the pan of eggs into three plates and put one more batch of bread into the toaster.

"Wanna wake up Mikey or should I?"

"Got it."

I walked into the smallest room in the apartment. Mikey was fat, sweaty, and extraordinarily funny. He snored softly and was only convinced to get out of bed if there was food waiting. I carried his plate of breakfast into the musty room, ready to lure Mikey awake when Brad called from the kitchen. "Lilia? The phone’s for you. I'll wake him up no worries." I laughed when I turned around looking over my shoulder at the large man, curled up in the Arizona sunlight.

"Hey it's Lilia," I held the phone in one hand and balanced the fresh cup of coffee I had just been handed in the other.

"Hello Ms. Amelie-"

"Cyris," I corrected, I had changed my middle name to be my last.

"Ms. Cyris I am Doctor Roberts I am calling from Meredith Hospital."

"Okay, what can I help you with?"

"Well it looks like you are the emergency contact for Ingrid Amelie, you are her daughter, yes?"

"Yes." A knot grew in my throat, confused.

"I am afraid she was discovered this morning. It appears she drank herself to death last night. I am so sorry." The man's voice did not sound apologetic. I drew in a sharp breath and closed my eyes. "We need you to come down here to identify the body and make arrangements for her burial."

"Yeah okay," I stared at the handle of my cup, "I'll be there in like forty-five minutes. Thank you." I hung up before I could hear the Doctors voice pour anymore ruin into my day.

"Morning girlie," Mikey slapped my behind that was not fully covered due to my lack of pants and Brad gave him a reproachful look.

"Hey can I talk to you?" I motion to our bedroom and Brad followed.

"Who was that on the phone?"

"Meredith Hospital. Ingrid is dead." I let the words tumble out without much in my voice, empty. I looked into the eyes of the man I loved and he saw the shudders and cries I could not bring myself to and wrapped me in his arms. He let his scent engulf me, let my restless hands pull at the fabric of his shirt, and kissed the top of my head. We stood there swaying and grabbing onto each other.

"What did they say?" He still held me tightly and whispered the words into ear, softly and with so much caring in his voice.

"She drank so much that she just died." I stopped. Brad had been an addict for ten years of his life. "I have to go down to identify the body, make arrangements for the burial."

"I'll drive." He embraced me tighter, released, and grasped my hand tightly. Mikey saw the somberness of our faces and nodded a good morning without the questions. I heard the keys jingle in Brad's other fist and stared straight ahead, blank.

"We'll be back in a bit dude. Maybe clean up a bit?" The apartment was in a messier state then it usually was.

"Yeah. Love you guys."

The ascent down the four flights of stairs was silent. Our hands still interlinked and the narrowness of the stairwell was awkward but manageable. We got in the Volvo, it was old and not reliable but we had bought it together and loved it dearly. There was no talk for the first ten minutes, I rested my hand on his knee, and he placed his on mine. I turned on the radio after we got on the highway, loud enough so no conversation would be permitted. I thought about Mother's body, cold and dead. I realized that she had always been cold and perhaps she had always been a little dead.
- - - -

It was my eighth birthday the first time she placed a hand on me. When I was younger she spanked me, I occasionally knocked over vases or disturbed her dinner parties. However on this birthday Mother had indulged herself in a bottle of rum, tipsy and sad. I think it was the stress of the party I had worn her into. Every little girl dreams of being a princess, I wanted the mansion to be my castle, and my friends to be my servants. So Mother had bought a pink dress for me. I still remember the way it itched around the waist and how the fabric pressed stiff against my sides. She had arranged for thirty-nine second graders to come see me in my birthday glory.
The sun lit the sky and I bounced into my mothers room with the kind of excitement I had not felt since Dad was with us. The air smelled fresh and springlike, the melting of frozen mud perfuming the air. Mother dragged me off her, opened the cap and took the first dainty sip. The morning progressed and the sips slurred together, less ladylike as the quantity in the bottle decreased.
I was still not scarred enough by her constant drinking to understand the precaution in which I should have approached her with. I rushed to her, excited and anxious, complaining of the things my party was still lacking. Some of the delights she had promised me were not yet there, I was not a patient girl or a particularly clever one. She raised her left hand to me and yelled, screamed that I must be a more dignified child. She withheld her punch until I was thoroughly scared. Once the tears flowed from my eyes and into my braided hair she released her arm, swung it hard into my jaw.
When I looked at her there was something truly missing. Her face was glazed and her eyes were dark. It was the most twisted I had ever seen her beautiful face. She hit me again, blackening my eye. She hit me again, bruising my arm. Once she had stopped and cast her blank gaze down at the floor, averting her eyes from my hysterics she picked up the phone. She called all thirty-nine of my friends, cancelling my party. Mother went to her room and I went to mine.
The next morning she came into my room and sat on the edge of my bed. She nodded at me and placed her hand on my forehead, sighing. She began to weep and with an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach I wrapped my arms around her. I felt her apologies, silent and regretful. This was the only time she had made amends after her abuse. The next time and the next time and everytime after that we awoke the next day and pretended that nothing had happened. She lived in the shadows of facing who her own self was.
- - - -

The hospital doors opened automatically, I stepped through clasping Brad’s clammy hand. The stench of disinfectant, beeping machines, and feverish clicking on keyboards filled my nose and head. I had not been to a hospital since I was sixteen. My first boyfriend, nearly five years older, had driven me on his motorcycle through the country. The accident we flew into left me with six stitches and a twisted knee.
The women who checked us in was tall with light red hair and the worst glower I had seen. Her mouth was turned down, sour and disdainful. Brad spoke for me, I heard the noise but not the words. He followed a man in scrubs, dark blue and pressed perfectly. I was dragged along by Brad’s tugging arm. We went down flights of stairs into the morgue.
Ingrid lay on a shiny silver table, her naked bodies contours were covered by a thin blue cloth. She had already been lifeless long enough to lose her color. Her cheeks, hollowed with age, didn’t hold the rosy flush that had always blessed her face. Her eyes were the part that haunted me most. I recalled all the nights of her drunkenness, the way she sleep it off. Her eyelids flickering and restless. As I looked at her resting on the hard metal bench her lids sat heavy in her sockets, peaceful.
“Yeah that’s her.” I looked at the man, my lack of emotion startling him. “I don’t want to make arrangements for her burial or her funereal. Should I give you the name of her sister? She lives in Colorado but I’m sure she’d be willing to come back for the funereal. She can be the one to do all those things.”

“Yes of course.” He smiled, “Talk to the women who directed you when you came in. She can change the emergency contact. But wasn’t she your mother?”

“Yeah she was.” I looked away and turned to head up the stairs. Brad shook the hand of the man and they murmured conversation. I was absorbed in the fluorescent lights, beating into my eyes. The emptiness that filled me was scary. Fear was the one factor that seemed to be forever encircling Ingrid. I got back to the desk of the glowering women and gave her what I thought was my distant Aunt’s phone number. Brad held onto my hand much more vigorously as we let the doors slid open for us on the way out. My hand was limp in his.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” My voice was spiked with irritation. I cringed when I heard how ungrateful I sounded. “I love you.”
“I love you too Lilia Cyris. I am sorry this had to happen and that you had to be the one to see that.” He opened the car door for me and I smiled at his kind eyes as I eased myself in. I let out a long exhale and felt my chest concave under the weight or hurting.
A silent twenty minutes later, the car rolled into the designated parking our apartment had given us, the image of Ingrid’s still form burning behind my eyes. The scent of hospital clung to me and did not make the sickness in my stomach easy to escape from.

“Lilia?” I looked up at Brad. I was motionless in the car.
“I’m glad she’s dead.” I focused my eyes on the space between my thighs, ashamed. The car was baking in the beating sun and Brad shifted in his seat uncomfortable. “I used to hear her coming into my room when I was little, I could almost hear the sloshing of alcohol in her stomach. And you know what? I would wish Ingrid Amelie was dead. I wish she was trip on the top of the stairs. I wish she would drink herself to death.” Brad made a small, indistinct noise. “It seems I got what I wished for.”
I looked at him for the first time. My throat hurt with the horrible things I had just confessed. There was so much hatred in the way he stared at me, mouth agape and eyes set hard. He knew addiction. Before this we had discussed my mother’s alcoholism twice. Both times ended in a fight. He supported me and felt sick about the things she had done to me. However he told me that is was not her fault, he had made many of his own mistakes under the influence and the substance was to be blamed not the person.
“She was a human being Lilia. How could you even begin to say that? God, how could you think that?”
“She hurt me Brad. She hurt me every day from the age of eight. How could I not think that?” I was angry and my heart ached. I squinted my eyes to stop the tears from coming.
“I love you Lilia. I love you. I’m sorry,” He opened the door on his side and ran around to open mine. I unbuckled and went flying into his arms. We were back holding each other and this time I felt unsafe. I discovered the truth that I never wanted to be a mother. I never wanted a family with Brad or anyone. I was uncomfortable in the grasp of the man that loved me.
- - - -

Before my dad left life had a little more clarity. When I was a young girl he was my best playmate. Breathing was easier when he picked me up and threw me around. Mother would furrow her brows in worry but then in spite of herself laughed as I laughed. I was defenseless to joy.

The summer of my sixth year we went blueberry picking. It was the day after The Fourth of July. Dad was patriotic, he loved the open skies of Arizona, his job, and the right to carry a gun. On the 4th we lit fireworks and invited my uncles over, the adults drank beer, smoked cigarettes, and shouted obnoxiously while I tried my best to stay up as late as possible. It was never my favorite night. However the next day I was so fulfilled, there sunshine all over my skin and Dad held my small fist delicately in his own.

“Lilia,” he twisted his body around to smile at me over his shoulder. We were in the old BMW with the windows rolled down. The breeze swayed through Mother’s hair so beautifully but it only made my hair extremely confused. Dad had his left hand resting carelessly on the wheel and the right balancing on Mother’s thigh. “The best part of berry picking is that you eat as many as you pick, that way you only have to pay half.” He threw his head back in his own humor.

I liked my father, Todd Amelie. He had a long face, handsome but odd and dark curls that resembled mine. He was down to earth and kind. He lost his temper frequently, went of raging about frustratingly unimportant things. However the rest of the time he was gentle and I liked his smile the most out of everything in the world.

The rows of berries were straight and wide. The grew high above my head, I was an unfortunately short child. My fingers and lips became stained with purple. Dad let out his deep, loud, rumbling laugh. We payed out front and sat on the picnic tables, listening to the sweet sounds of summer. I envied the way Dad looked at Mother. That afternoon with the open horizon laid out before us he beamed at her in the most beautiful way, sweet and honest. On the ride home Mother turned on the radio, mournful music filling the car. The sun began to set and I curled up in the back seat watching the pinks and oranges consume my eyes.

My early youth was naive. The fights between my parents were closeted. I can realize now that the nights my father slept on the coach or Mother could not come downstairs for dinner were based on the conflict that tainted my later years. But there was something so stunningly beautiful about being young and not having any cares.
Amelie, I want you to have as few cares as possible.
- - - -

I was two weeks late. I sat on the bathroom floor and chewed the disappearing tips on my fingernails. A month ago Brad and I had moved out of our Cherry Street home, there was a falling out of sorts with Mikey. We’d gotten an apartment with a large empty bedroom, a cramped kitchen, and a bathroom too tight for much movement. It was small and we were both constantly tripping over each other. But the bedroom had huge gaping windows that flooded our new mattress with light and there was a poorly working built in air conditioner.
I stared down at the blue and green speckled tiles. I liked them, they reminded me of my father’s eyes. I was too nervous to pee so I perched a glass of water precariously between my cross legs and glared down at the floor.
I pulled out the cold, white stick from its package. It was heavy resting in my hand, weighted with responsibility. The gulping of what remained of my cup of water rang in my ears. I sighed and squatted awkwardly over the toilet and let out a little prayer to no one. I washed my hands and the pregnancy test and caught sight of myself in the tarnished mirror. My hair was overgrown, it’d been years since the last cut. The dull grayness of my eyes darkened my pale skin. I was not a beautiful women. After years of waking up and seeing my mother so exquisite and delicate I was well adjusted and much acquainted to my plainness. I sighed and walked into the kitchen to set the oven clock timer. The package said it should take six minutes for my results to appear.
Brad was at work. He designed album artwork, posters, logos, or anything really. The way he drew was beautiful with sweeping motions and loose lines. I sometimes laid in bed at night watching him bend over his latest project, staring at the arch of his hand and tilt of his head, completely focused. I had not gone to college or done much with my life after high school. I had just been promoted to the manager of a small restaurant on Main Street. The food was good and the money was okay.
I hopped up on the counter and let my exposed legs dangle off. I watched with not much running through my mind as the minutes descended on the obnoxious neon clock. I waited for the beep and scrambled for the test. It was still blank. I walked into the bedroom. The sky was dusty blue and there was a mist that hung over Phoenix that morning. I crawled under the blankets and hugged my knees to my chest. The blankness of the plastic tube filled with a pink plus.
“S***.” I flipped onto my stomach. “S***.” I repeated and emitted a low groan into the soft flannel pillows. I cried for a few hours. Then I got myself up, found the a hundred dollars I kept in my copy of Pride and Prejudice. I had never trusted Brad enough to let myself be completely dependent on him. I packed the two dozen articles of clothing I actually wore in the duffle I had carried with me since I was ten. I brushed my teeth and packed my tooth brush, pulled on leggings, and piled my curls into a rambunctious bun. I wrote a note. It wasn’t specific or with much feeling.
I ducked out the door, locking it from the inside as I had left my key with the note. The sun was hidden and I let the tears roll silently down my checks. I walked slowly with no purpose. It had been almost half a year since the death of mother was discovered. There wasn’t much morning inside me. Brad and I grew distant, he was shocked at my lack of feeling and I was shocked at his lack of understanding. I turned onto Ridge Lane and rested a shaking hand on my stomach. The baby that was growing inside me meant being a mother. I left because I knew Brad would have wanted to keep it. You.
- - - -

The second foster home I was put in was my favorite. Howard, the man of the house, did not interact with me. He mostly drank beer and yelled at the television, the classic american hick. His wife Tammy was sweet. She worked at a bar a few blocks over and frequently apologized to me that she couldn’t spend more time with me. They had a boy that was three years older than me. His name was Houston, he was pudgy and had a great big teethy and yellowed smile. We became friends with ease. That was the one house that I stayed in that made me feel at home.

“Do you want kids when you grow up Lil?” Houston was kicking a soccer ball against the metal fence that surrounded the neighborhood playground.

“You trying to ask me somethin’?” I was convinced one day we would settle down and marry. I often teased Houston that he had feelings for me too.

“Hell nah,” when he swore he spoke louder, needing to prove something. “I was just asking. Don’t get all crazy on me.”

“Oh. Well I don’t want kids. Not with you or anyone. Family destroys.”

“Why would you ever say that Lilia?” He turned from his one man game and looked at me square on. “We’re family, right? This is the best.”

“Yeah.” I smiled. “This is the best.”

That night Houston crawled into bed with me. Not like some of the older boys of other houses did. It was filled with innocence and caring. We layed on our backs, staring up at the ceiling of the small pink room I stayed in.

“Do you believe in God?”

“No,” I answered in my smallest voice. “If there was a God bad things wouldn’t happen. He’s supposed to protect people? Reward people? I don’t think good people get anything in return for their goodness. That means He can’t be real.”

“Hmm. What happens when people die?”

“There’s nothing. There ain’t no consciousness past living Houston.”

“Oh.” We stayed there for a while, the two of us. He hugged my left arm, squeezing it tight in his arms. Then he tip toed out the door into the dimly lit hallway.

Houston shot himself the next week. No one really understood why. I came home from school and my black bag was packed and resting on the bottom step of the stairs up to my room. Tammy wasn’t around. I looked over at Howard, his face illuminated by the moving shapes on the television.

“Howard? Why’s my stuff here?”

“I’m driving you to social services. You’re done here.” He kept his eyes fixated on the game.

“I haven’t done anything.” My voice cracked with hopelessness.

“You told my boy-” he stopped. “My boy’s gone. Shot himself. Now that you’re back get in the car. Tammy doesn’t want anymore kids coming through here.”

On the way to the dark building that I slept at between families the anxiety killed me. I thought of where Houston was. I wondered if I was what made him desperate. Maybe he just wanted to see what was up there or down there.

I watched the stretches of pavement slip away behind me. I sat in the back, the smell of booze and sweat tingling in my nostrils from the front. I had an unsavory memory of the conversation at the playground. I was right, family was chaos. There was too much hurt in letting the goodness and hardships and the everything of it into your heart.
- - - -

“Were you close with your mother?” Daisy Smith was the smartest dressed women I have ever met. Her husband was running late, CEO of a company. The delicately painted china cup rattled in it’s saucer, my hand unsteady and unsettled.

“Ah no. I left when I was ten.” I gritted my teeth at the ‘o’ of her red lips “Foster care,” I explained. I was sitting in the most color coordinated living room I had ever set foot in. The walls and furniture were all various shades of pale to deep green. My pregnant belly protruding from my flowing dress, Daisy eyes kept looking down at my stomach with an envious gleam in her sharp blue eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I hate to but may I ask you something personal?” I smiled and nodded. Already the whole visit had been dreadfully personal. “Why are you giving her up?” Her crystal eyes narrowed in interest.

“My mom died six months before I realized I was pregnant. When I saw her stiff body, dead and alone I was happy. I was happy to see the women who gave birth to me was dead.” I was not surprised by the shock on Daisy’s face. “I saw that little pink sign and I thought what kind of parent would I be? I can’t raise a kid with the ideology that family is a bad thing. I want my daughter to have a mother that loves her with no regrets. My experience, Daisy, is that family creates destruction.” She looked at me for a while and got up from her side of the room and sat next to me on the emerald coach.

“I am horribly sorry. Would you like to know what I believe about family?”

“Very much so.”

“I was raised with a mother and father that loved me.” Her brow creased with the worry she had implied mine had not. “I had three brothers. My goodness, the trouble we got into! I think family is the most important thing in the world.” Her cheery voice made my skin itch but my heart melt.

“I am very happy to hear that. You deserve this little girl. I do not.” I gave her a watery smile. Tucker Smith opened the door. He was well built and handsome. He gave me an overly warm hello and ran over to his wife to kiss her. They were wonderfully ordinary and very in love. I had made sure they had been together long enough to hopefully not get mixed up in divorce. They seemed happy.

“So how many months along are you again?” Tucker sat down where his wife had recently been before our uncomfortable heart to heart.

“Oh silly! I just told you.” Daisy looked from him to me, “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh it’s fine. Eight months. Almost there. I want it to be a closed adoption.”

“That works very nicely for us.” They both grinned at me. The situation felt too much like a business arrangement. It was sickening.
“Can I have one request?”
“Of course,” Tucker nodded.
“Would you name her Amelie? Amelie Smith.” I sucked in my breath.
“We were thinking about Jane.” Tucker’s face turned reluctant.
“Honey,” Daisy tilted her head at him. “We will name her Amelie Jane Smith. It is a beautiful name Lilia.”
“Thank you so much.”
I rested a hand on the child I was growing to love. You.
- - - -

Amelie, I am giving this to Daisy and Tucker to give to you when you are old enough. They said they would not read it but they are your parents now. I would not be mad if they did. I wanted you to hear the truth about who I am. I love you. I will always love you. In every crowd I travel in I will look for your face. I will forever wonder if every laugh I hear is yours.

I asked that you were named Amelie. For me there is so much hurt in that word. I wanted to make it into something beautiful. You are so beautiful. Most of all, I wanted to give you a piece of me to carry with you. Whether I like it or not, Amelie is the deepest part of who I am.

I wish I could have raised you. I hope one day you find me and I can give you one sad little smile. My life has proven to me that I am not the kind of person that should have a family. I gave you up not because I did not want you. I gave you up because I will no longer let myself be defenseless to joy.

Love, Mom