Saving Amy (46 page)

I am sorry for not telling you how pretty you are – and my word you are beautiful – I hope someone else has told you. You deserve to be told every single day. I am sorry for not taking you clothes shopping for your sixteenth birthday, for not ‘talking boys’, for not taking you on a spa weekend. I am sorry for never telling you your skirt was too short, or grounding you, or telling you ‘not to see that boy again’.

I am sorry for not telling you that I loved you. So, here it is… I love you, Amelia – my beautiful baby girl. I am sorry for everything. I am sorry for not giving you the life I had planned for you when I felt your first tiny kick in my womb. I am sorry for being too weak to protect you.

I need you to know, you were the most wanted baby girl in the world. I can’t describe how happy I was to discover I was carrying you. You won’t understand just now, but when you do, know that that’s why I wanted to keep you with me. I loved you too much to let you go and that makes me the most selfish person in the world. I have never forgiven myself for keeping you, Amy. I thought I could keep you safe, I promised to keep you safe.

I failed.

But my biggest regret, the thing I am most sorry for, is not telling you the truth about your father. His name is Jack Monroe and everything you need to know about him is buried in the back yard under the apple tree by the shed. He is a good man, Amelia. Whatever you do, don’t blame him.

It’s nearly
time
for me to go now. I want you to know that if you can’t forgive me, that’s okay. That’s not what this letter is about. I don’t expect forgiveness, nor do I want it. I just needed to say goodbye before I set you free. Jim and I have ruined your past – DON’T LET US RUIN YOUR FUTURE.

Whatever you do in life, be happy, baby girl. Live the life I always dreamed you would. Love people and let them love you back. Believe in the impossible. Dare to dream.
And smile, baby girl.
Laugh until your insides ache. Live the life that was meant for that perfect little girl I first cradled in my arms at 03:42 AM on June 19
^th
1994. But most importantly, Amelia…
don’t
trust anybody. That doesn’t mean you can’t love, just don’t let love control you, baby girl - always keep a little piece of your heart locked away. My father had a saying that I never understood until it was too late…

‘Love Many, Trust Few, and Always Paddle Your Own Canoe’

I love you, Amelia, and I am so, so sorry.

Mom

P.S. I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but nevertheless I hope you can find it in your heart to honour this request. Please don’t let them bury me next to Jim. I would like to be cremated – gone for good. I don’t care what you do with my ashes, as long as they’re far, far away from Lake View. Again, I understand if you want no part in this, but I had to ask…

I’m sorry

xxx

“Amy, you’re shaking,” Richard said, trying to stem the quivers by rubbing my arms.

“I-I-” I could barely breathe. “He’s not my father? How the fuck can he not be my father? Why the hell would she make me live with him, suffer by him… if he’s not even my fucking father!”

“May I?” Richard asked, pinching the top of the tear and blood stained letter. I shoved it further into his hands – I sure as hell didn’t want it anymore. Richard set his eyes down on the blotchy ink, furrowing his brow, concentrating.

“Why didn’t
he
save me? If he’s that much of a fucking good man why didn’t he take me away? Why would he allow
them
to take care of me? Am I that god damn fucking unlovable?”

“Amy, you’re hysterical.” He shifted in his seat to face me and took my hands in his.

No shit!

“You need to calm down. Breathe for me, baby.”

Ignoring Richard completely, I tugged my hands free, swung my door open and jumped out of the car without bothering to close it behind me.

“Amy, you can’t go in there until the police…” Richard called after me until I’d ran so far ahead I couldn’t hear him anymore.

“Amy!” His voice was faint in the distance but I could tell by the tone he was shouting.

I leapt over the broken door, raced down the hall, straight past the blood-drenched living room and to the back door. Thankfully the key was nestled in the lock already so I didn’t have to pause before yanking it open and bounding over the patio steps, running to the apple tree by the shed.

The dirt was hard and frosted over. I dropped to my knees and started to claw away at it with my bare fingers.

“Amy, stop. We’ll come back tomorrow when the ground’s thawed.” Richard had appeared behind me. I ignored him and carried on scratching at the earth. The frost burned my skin and my fingernails split as they scraped through gravel and shards of rock but I kept going.

“Here, let me do it.” Richard prized my hands away from the dirt. I tried to fight him off until I saw he’d taken the more sensible, practical approach of busting the lock off the shed and fetching a shovel.

I fell back on my heels and watched as Richard pounded the ground with the shovel.
His chest muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he forced it into the ground over and over again, using his tensed foot as leverage.
He stopped when something clanked against the metal.

I flipped back onto my knees and bent forward to peer into the hole. Sure enough there was something glinting under the bright orb of the moon. Richard gave it a tap with the tip of the shovel. It sounded like metal.
A tin perhaps?
I brushed away the top layer of dirt with my hands and wedged my fingers between the tin and the earth, rocking it from side to side and loosening the dirt until it slid free.

It was an old square cracker tin – dented and rusty with a faded Christmas fern pattern printed all over it. Immediately I pressed my fingers into the seam and attempted to prize it open but the lid wouldn’t budge. I kept trying – refusing to let myself think about the pain radiating from my frozen fingers as they started to bleed under my nails.

“We’ll do it at home. Please, Amy, let me take you home now.” Richard gently took the tin from me and I started to resist but then realised I was too weak to fight him. He was right - as usual. I was cold, damp, bleeding and exhausted. I needed to go home.

Richard ushered me straight into the bathroom when we got back and together we took an hour-long bath. It helped… a little. I was free from dirt and blood and my skin had returned to a comfortable temperature. I wished my mind could be washed clean so easily. It was so full of torment, and I was starting to think it always would be.

After wrapping myself in the fluffy pink
gown which
Vivienne bought for me while I was in hospital, I headed to the living room. Richard was setting two mugs of hot chocolate and marshmallows on the coffee table, either side of the rusty cracker tin. Suddenly, it was the only thing I could see. The rest of the room and everything in it had morphed into an insignificant blur.

Richard settled himself on the edge of the couch and patted the space next to him for me to join him. I did, and for the next few minutes we both stared in silence at the conspicuous tin.

“Do you think she was telling the truth? Do you really think he wasn’t my dad?” I asked Richard, my eyes refusing to leave the tin - almost as if they were afraid it would disappear.

“There’s only one way to find out,” he said. “Open it.”

I lifted the tin onto my lap, noticing that Richard had cleaned it. Then I closed my eyes and counted to ten in my head, sucking in a deep breath with each number. When I opened my eyes I ran what was left of my fingernails along the groove, and now that the dirt had been rinsed away it flipped effortlessly back on its hinges.

Inside there were papers, letters, photographs and… my birth certificate. Or was it mine? The birth date was correct but it said my name was Amelia Anne Monroe. I slumped back in my seat before I fell back involuntarily.

“
Amy?
” Richard pressed, concern clouding his beautiful eyes. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure. I think it’s my birth certificate.” I cast it one last glance, noting my mother’s name – Mary Anne Monroe – and the father was listed (just like the letter said) as Jack Edmund Monroe.

They were married?
I thought as I handed the tatty certificate to Richard.

“I’ve seen my birth certificate though. I’m sure I have. When I applied for my drivers licence for instance…”

“Well, your father – or
Jim
- was a lawyer. I’m sure it wouldn’t have posed that big of a problem to get a fake one drawn up.”

Of course.
Duh.

Richard was biting his lip, his eyebrows heavy as he intently studied the birth certificate.

“What is it?” I asked, lightly grabbing his forearm.

“It’s just, um, I’ve seen this before,” he admitted casually like it was last month’s copy of Cosmo.

“What! When did you – how did you - did you know all along?”

“No!” he protested, flipping his body to face me and taking my hands. “When you were gone, I wondered if you’d tried to look for your grandmother, that maybe you were there. And while-”

“But she’s dead,” I interrupted, the words panging in my heart.

“I know. But,
I
didn’t
know - neither did you
,
remember
? Could you really take your fath-
Jim’s
word for it?”

“So, she’s alive? Richard, are you telling me she’s alive!” I bounced up and down on my seat, smiling in anticipation. But then the lugubrious expression taking over Richard’s face made my smile fade.

“No, Amy. She’s not. I’m sorry.” My heart had twisted into a reef knot and it was like I’d just lost her all over again.

“But you see, to help me find her I had to look for you, but it was like you didn’t exist. The closest I came was this exact same certificate – the date tallied, as did your mother’s name and your forenames, but then the father… I just assumed it wasn’t you and discarded it as a dead end.”

“When did she die? What killed her? Would she have suffered?” I fired at him, my mind still grieving the fresh loss of my grandma. This was the third time I had lost her. First when I was nine or ten, then when I discovered Jim wasn’t my father therefore she wasn’t technically my grandmother, and then now… I kept my eyelids forced open, knowing if I blinked I would cry and not be able to stop.

“She died in 2008…”

“2008!” I yelled as though it was Richard’s fault. “Sorry. I just… I can’t believe Jim lied to me about something like that.” As soon as I spoke the words I realised they were ridiculous. Of course he was capable of such a thing. “So, did she suffer?” I repeated.

“No. She died of a massive stroke. It would have been very quick. She wouldn’t have felt any pain,” he stated very matter-of-fact, assessing me with his eyes.

“My whole life just seems like one big fat lie,” I said, deflated.

“Not your
whole
life. If there’s one truth you can count on, it’s that I love you,” he said as he cupped my face in his hands and kissed my forehead. I smiled, I
think
, before flicking my eyes back to the tin of dishonesty.

I sifted through the photographs, straightening the worn, bent edges between my fingers. At first glance I didn’t recognise anyone in them, but then I noticed how much the woman resembled my mom. She looked young – early twenties at a guess. Her black hair was curled all the way down to her lower back and she was full figured in all the right places. Her skin was pale, flawless like porcelain and… she was
smiling
. I’d never seen her smile before. She looked…
beautiful.

The woman who I was almost sure was my mom was holding a young girl – two years old, three maybe – with straight glossy blonde hair settling on her shoulders, big golden eyes and an adorable smile. She was looking up at my mom with such fondness in her eyes. It was only a picture but you could see how much they adored each other. A man stood next to my mom and the girl with his arms stretched around them both. He was tall with the same gold eyes and blonde hair as the little girl and a very out dated moustache.

“This must have been taken before I was born,” I said, passing the photo to Richard. “Do you think that’s him? Do you think that’s my father?”

Richard shrugged his shoulders, studying the picture while I picked another one up from the tin. This one had the same man crouching beside the same little girl – though she looked a little younger. They were hugging and looked to be in some kind of zoo.

“Um, Amy, have you seen this?” Richard passed the photo back to me. It was flipped over with something written on the back in my mom’s handwriting.

Me, Jack and Amy.
September 12
^th
’96.

“That
can’t
be me,” I breathed, feeling winded. “I’d remember.”

“Amy, you’d have been, what? Two?”

I flipped the photo back over and stared at the little girl. There was no denying she looked like me, but it couldn’t be… she was too happy. And she
loved
my mom. I shuffled faster through the photographs. They were all of the same three people.
Each one full of smiles and laughter and love.
I couldn’t let myself believe that little girl was
me
– it only made the idea that I could have been spared my horrific upbringing, the idea that I used to be
normal
, so much harder to bear.