Some people go through their whole lives looking for that special best friend. I was fortunate enough to have been born with her 3 years ahead of me. From my earliest memories I can still hear the story as my sister Maria told it to me. Growing up in my house was rough. I know this from experience. With an alcoholic father and a mother who was forced to spend all of her time trying to keep him calm and happy, there was little time for childhood. I am my mother’s fourth and last child. One son was born, then two girls, so when she became pregnant with me they wanted another boy. My sister was excited about this new baby coming. She got down on her knees and prayed to God, “Please, send me an angel.” My mom was working the graveyard shift while pregnant with me. Her job was to pop sliding glass doors in to frames, one every three seconds. My dad was unemployed at this time, turning down job after job because they weren’t good enough for him, with his college education and all. So he stayed home and looked over the three kids. All stories that I’ve heard seem to suggest that this consisted of locking them outside to fend for themselves, eating dog food and wild berries while my mother slept, oblivious to it all, with a belly full of me. When I was born, my dad brought his three oldest children to the hospital to see their new sister that was supposed to be a brother. Maria tells the story of looking through that glass, seeing me for the first time, with my golden hair and blue eyes, and knowing that god had answered her prayer. Her angel had arrived. My mother went back to work and my sisters cared for me. They tell the tale of learning how to put a diaper on, one little girl four, the other three. My mom recounts riding home on her bicycle as fast as she could during her lunch breaks, her breasts full and leaking of milk. My brother tells me of the crying that wouldn’t stop sometimes, until my dad, screaming in anger at my hunger, would fill a bottle with beer or whiskey and hand it to me. My brother still recalls the horrifying thud of my head hitting the floor after falling from my high chair,drunk.

We moved from that house to Australia, then after 11 months to Washington State. This is where my memories begin. In the deep forest behind the house we ran and played with our St. Bernard, Bruno. We buried the few toys that we had deep in the ground because the next door neighbors would steal them, busting the heads off our dolls and the wheels off of our cars. Maria would mix together butter and sugar for me as we would sit and play afternoon tea with water. When the beatings came she would often take mine as well as hers. Anything to protect her angel.

Always moving, when I was three we ended up in Portland. I remember the first time I entered our new house, eating McDonalds on the living room floor and marveling at the blood red shag carpeting. Maria was off to school then, and I would play in the backyard of the house alone, carefully making mud pies for her that I decorated with flower petals. When she came home from school I would run for her, and she would eat my pies, declaring them the best that she had ever had. I would sit in her lap and she would read my favorite book “Puss in Boots” to me again and again. At night my mom would stick the four of us in the shower together, or bathe us one after another, using the same bath water. Everything always went according to age, so I got the last bath. By this time it would be brown and sometimes I would cry to my mom, “It’s pee mommy, they all peed in the water.” She would say, “it’s only dirt.” I never believed her. I longed for clear water with bubbles and dresses that were mine, not handed down from two sisters with the rips poorly sewn and the stains a glaring reminder of our poverty.

It was at four that I discovered sex. Saturday mornings my mom and dad would lock us outside bright and early. The four of us would play in the tree house, which had a cup and string telephone that went to the garden shed .I remember shouting back and both to each other, then declaring our phones a hit. In my mind it was always raining on these Saturday mornings, and knowing Portland the way that I do now, it probably was. When the rain got particularly heavy, we would all pile in to the shed for cover. I hated being in that shed. It was right next to my parent’s bedroom window, and I could hear the disgusting sounds that they made. I was confused as to how my mom could be beaten bloody one day, and then be in bed with that man with the evil hands the next. It gave me a fucked up view of love, let me tell you. My mother preached at her girls, “Being a housewife is just glorified prostitution.” And her favorite, “Girls, stay away from all men. They each carry a loaded weapon.” That one scared me, I thought every man had a gun, and it was awhile before I understood.

My hair was long now, down my back. Maria would brush it carefully and put it in rollers at night. I remember the soft words that she would whisper to me as she brushed my hair, making me feel beautiful and special. She taught me how to brush my teeth, wear my clothes with the tags in the back, ride a bike, and tie my shoes and jump rope. She showed me the meaning of love, every day. We are now as close as ever, if not closer. We have one of those bonds that transcends time and space. When we are apart we are still together, because she is always with me. I don’t even have to talk and she knows. Sometimes she calls me and we talk for hours and I’ll hear her husband yelling in the background, “What the hell do you have to say that can’t be said in 5 minutes?” We laugh at him, because he will never understand. When we do see one another we pick up right where we left off. She still calls me “her little angel” or “Boo Boo Bear” a nickname she found for me as children watching the Yogi Bear cartoons. “You’re better than the average bear, Boo Boo,” she would say to me in her best Yogi voice. I could tell her now, how my mom gave me life, but she kept me alive. I can’t count the times she stopped me from suicide when I was really at the end. Sometimes when I feel like shit, I remember, “Maria loves me.” Then I can breathe again. I have an angel too.