Prologue

My life had ever been

A cycle full of stumbles and falls

A cycle whose end cannot be reached.

But know this and take no pity on me

For I am a woman, and I am strong.

Desert Rose

I couldn't understand why my mother was holding me firm
 by the wrist, pulling me forward at a speed too fast for me 
to handle. I begged my mother to stop, but she only shook her head 
and pulled on, explaining that we must catch the next plane to Spain. 

 I asked about my father, was he coming too? But my mother 
only shook her head, and said not anymore, not anymore.  I tried to
 be brave, scanning the small, desert city for the last time. 
I tried hard to soak in the Arabic words I couldn't understand, 
as my family was foreigners, and I absorbed the smell of sand, wind,
 and spice mixed together. But that special smell was foiled when
 we arrived at the airport, smelling of foreign and unfamiliar 
things. I did not want to go, but what could a young child do 
against the strength and determination of their mother? In 
the end, I sat in the plane and cried.
 The plane landed in , on a clear afternoon. My eyes 
opened widely as I took in the sight of all that was new, and 
foreign; the clothes, the language, and the flowers! Oh, the flowers...
I smiled brightly, and tried to get out of my mother's grip to take
 in the scent. My mother took one look at me, her daughter, 
then at the flowers, and promptly went to a vender and bought 
a Spanish rose. She handed it to me, but didn't wait for a 
"Thank you" as she grabbed me by the wrist again, and dragged me on. 
But, this time, I didn't mind as much because in my hand was a memory,
 if not from a different place, of home.

	I remember walking the streets for a while. We had little 
luggage, as we left the grand mansion quickly. I frowned as
 I recalled my former house. There was my best friend...and 
my dog......and my father. My father. I looked up at my mother, 
her eyes dull with fatigue, but bright with determination.

"Maman," I asked. "Ou avons nous?" Where are we going?

"My brother's house," replied my mother, her dark skin 
glowing in the heat. I did not know that I had an uncle living here. I thought all 
of my relatives lived in Eastern Europe and in the Caribbean. But I
 did not argue, trusting in my mother.

Soon, we arrived at a large house, with impressive architecture 
and beautiful box gardens hanging from the windows. My mother 
kneeled down to her knees, desperately trying to fix my image and
 her own as best as she could, trying to hide all signs of
 fatigue and misery as she can. She took a breath, smiled for me, 
but also for herself, and rang the doorbell. A French maid, 
to my surprised, opened the door, speaking in French.

"Bonjour. C'est le maison de Bulout."

"Ah, oui! Eh, je m'applle Joanne Bulout," replied my mother.

I noticed that my mother left out her married name. Tourlout. 
The women talked for a bit, and the maid went in to get the master,
 saying that we were expected. I turned to my mother.

"We where expected? Maman, did you plan this?" I asked.

My mother turned to me and smiled. “It’ll be better soon, you'll see."
 "Ah, Joanne!" boomed a voice.

"Henry," said my mother with a weary smile, hugging and kissing the 
tall man. She gestured in my direction. "C'est Eliza."

"Eliza?" questioned my uncle, staring into my eyes.

I quietly stepped behind my mother because older people 
intimidated me. My uncle laughed, heartily.

"You're daughter is very beautiful. Charming," he said, gesturing 
both of us to come in. My mother took me by the wrist again, but this time softly, 
and guided me inside. She placed the luggage by the door.

"Mr. Cortez will pick that up," said Uncle Henry, leading us to our
 rooms. My mother's room was huge, bigger then the master bedroom at my old house.
 It was draped in Parisian silk, and the fragment of desert flowers
 and spice....I stepped out of my mother's room quietly. 
It was beautiful, but it was too much for me to handle, at the time.
 My uncle stepped out of the room and took me by the hand.
 "Come, Eliza," he said, with a broad smile.

"I hope you like your room..."

I gasped when I entered the door. It was French styled, with 
lavender sheets and curtains, my favorite color. It was warm, 
as the fire was lighted. But what really touched me most was the 
bundle of roses in the vase, fresh from the vendor.

Me and my mother stayed at my uncle's for the next five years. 
By then, they say I had grown to be a young woman of fourteen, with 
long, black hair that felt like silk, and a figure envied the 
ther mothers, comparing their own daughters to me. I knew I was 
beautiful, but I was still stained with the memories of the desert. 
Not that I could remember much......I refused to. But they all 
came back to me in my dreams......

    I was playing jump rope with my friend by the big tree. I had
 long forgotten the name of the tree, but one end of the rope was 
tied, the other my friend turned the rope as I jumped. She shouted 
common chants, my dog watching. Believing my friend to torture me,
 my dog had laid a paw on my friend's head so that her skull began 
to bleed.... The people screaming on the streets, shouting for the
 King to be overthrown.... My parents arguing, shouting in loud 
tones....my father away for long periods of time.........
my father's airplane.........my mother being scared…

    But my memories were scattered, as scattered as the wind of the 
desert that I had once knew. My mother had long seeded me with a 
hate of our old home, saying that we'd never go back. And what was 
the point in loving something you could never return to? I hated
 . I hated the schools, where I was treated badly, taunted
 for my strange taint of skin, teased for my pigeon toes, and made 
fun of my French accent. My endless excuses couldn't stop the w
hispers, couldn't stop the teachers for turning a blind eye.
 Who cares about the strange beauty that their mothers were all 
too fond of....... But I loved my Uncle, and his house. 
It was a home to me; a beloved place where I could relax and forget 
for a while I didn't belong there. Often, my uncle would throw
 evening parties or talk to me about many things; politics, 
science, literature. But life changes. One day, back home from 
school, I ran up to my mother's room, to greet her. But instead 
of finding my mother, with her warm smile and tender kiss, I found 
her laying on the bed, sobbing into the pillow.

"Maman? Qu'est ca?"

"Ah, Eliza...," murmured my mother, whipping away my tears, and 
smiled at me, the pain still in her eyes. She opened her arms wide 
for my embrace. I walked up to hug my mother, slowly, and whispered
 again.

"What's wrong?"

My mother pulled away from me, and looked at me in the eye.

"We cannot afford to stay here any longer."

I was dumbfounded.

"Why?" I asked.

My mother bit her lip.

"Your uncle is too found of gambling. He gambled away most of
 his money. He'll be broke and won't be able to afford keeping us
 any longer, so I decided to go."

"But where?” I protested.

My mother looked at me. "To France."

I was sixteen when I moved to  with my mother, whom had now
 taken the habit of smoking a pack of cigarettes a day. We stayed 
in a shabby room, in a small boarding house. My mother worked as a
 radio announcer, and stayed at the station for long hours. I went 
to a public school for the first time. This time, I was made fun of

 her Franco-Spanish accent and how though I was such a 'broad',
 I was not loved. This thought never occurred to me before, and 
struck me hard. My mother loved me; why do they say such things?
 But then I realized that it was not the kind, comforting love a
 parent they mocked me about, it was the passionate love of a lover,
 territories I had never dared to enter before. But I had seen it.
 My mother came home often escorted by a man, usually tall a
nd handsome. But I hated all of them, because they were taking my 
mother away from me, my mother whom I had loved so dearly. 
I tried to scare them away. I mocked these men, giving them cold 
glazes and sarcastic remarks. By doing this, my mother never got 
a chance to go out on a date more the three times with a man. 
Often, she would yell at me, screaming, getting drunk, and 
sometimes a slap across the cheek.

"How dare you?" she would hiss to me. "How dare you do this to me?
 Don't I deserve it? After all these years, and you still don't care?"
 These arguments made me heartbroken. Of course I cared, 
I would often plea. But my mother, drunk and troubled only 
sunk into her chair and slurred, "Prove it."

    I tried my best, but I never wanted another father. I dreampt
 often of my own, then, and asked my mother about memories of 
him for the first time since the plane. She would only shake her
 head and say, "He was a bad man." I soon couldn't bear asking 
my mother that question anymore, and answered myself through my 
dreams, in which forgotten memories tend to be revealed, in the
 form of constant nightmares.

     I was five, and was calmly playing on the floor with toys my 
Nurse had bought me. I heard shouts, my mother and my father, 
and then a loud smack. I could hear somebody falling, then 
running down the steps; my mother. Her check was red and swollen,
 but turned to me and smiled. "See? Didn't I tell you?" she said, 
her face getting older, until she was no more then a skeleton. 
"Didn't I tell you your father was a bad man?"

    I woke up screaming, sweat pouring out of every pore in my body.
 Every time this happened, my mother, if not drunk, would soothe me,
 asking me about the dream. But I would shake my head and say that
 nothing was wrong. I resolved to myself that I would forget my
father completely. From that day on, I would almost never bring
 my father up again, and would dread recalling my childhood.
 That was when I met Ali.        
     Ali was the cousin of a family friend of mine, Paul.
 Ali was charming and always smiling. I had met him at a dance, 
being the first boy to ask me to dance with him, calling me 
'his angel'.  Me, an angel. It was the first time some one 
called me that. We soon started to date, our relationship lasting 
for several years. I loved him, but we would argue often. Ali
 complained that I wallowed all the time, not taking time to 
enjoy life. I argued what was there to be so happy about? Ali 
could only stare at me then, whispering, "Do you not see us?" 
 No, I couldn't. I, at this point could no longer understood 
happiness anymore.
      Ali broke up with me at their graduation. I was brokenhearted,
fuming with rage, and stayed at home. I did not attend the 
ceremony, but there was no need. I was not an excellent scholar,
 and I didn't have enough money for university. I worked at the 
radio station with my mother, instead, trying hard not to
 think of the life I was missing. But not thinking about 
wishes became easy for me at that point. I wanted my father, 
and he had left me. I wanted a stable home, and that, too, was gone.
 I wanted happiness; but were was that? It was not a place you
 could get to, only to afford. Oh, they say it was priceless,
 but I knew better; everything had its price. Still, I 
found comfort in my garden, a small patch of land that the landlady 
let me use. I grew roses, which I would sell by the street for cheap.
 My roses were my only source of joy. My roses and the only other 
stable thing in my life, my mother.

     I lived this way until the age of twenty five. I still met up
 with Ali and Paul; at parties and such. Ali moved to  after
 collage, and Paul to New York City. I enjoyed Paul's company, and 
thought him as a sweetheart. That's why I was overjoyed for the
 first time when he called me and proposed. I only had to look
 around her shabby house to say "Yes."
We got married the next summer, a warm August day. We loved each 
other, but argued frequently; on the day of their honeymoon, 
my husband couldn't understand why I wouldn't ride an airplane 
to California, but it was too difficult for me to say how my father
 used to fly airplanes for a hobby, and I vowed never to remember
 him no matter what.

   Becoming an American was hard on me; I tried to get my mother to
 come over, but she wouldn't. I screamed often; my only stable 
support throughout my life was across a vast ocean. I didn't like 
learning English, but did it anyway. I was a domestic house wife, 
Paul worked, and life became a routine. I would call my friends, 
whichever ones I had, often. My husband got frustrated that our 
bills were too high. He told me, gently, that maybe I should get a 
job. But I didn't want to. I worked throughout my teenaged life, 
I didn't want to do it again; isn't that what a husband is for? 
Working? My mother said that it was tradition. I grew up to 
tradition. But Paul shook his head.

"Tradition means nothing here."

I still refused to work and he let me be. Life was a bit weary, 
in that apartment in New York. But we went by. I got pregnant four 
years later. I was so excited, I called my mother, and she came
 over, promising to stay for a while. I wanted a boy badly. 
I didn't know why, but I knew I wanted a boy.
   It was a cold winter day when I gave birth. It was snowing hard,
 and I wanted the window open, because I was so hot. I cried when 
I heard the baby's gender.

"It's a girl!" the doctor said cheerfully.

"But I wanted a boy," I murmured, sadly.

"Well, it's a lovely girl," said Paul.

Normally, a doctor would give the newly born child to the mother; 
but he gave her to Paul while I got over the shock.

"What are we going to name her?" I asked.

It hadn't occurred to me before that we would have a girl. I listed
 all the names of boys I could think of up until now but it's a
 girl, not a boy. But we did manage to name her, making up a name
 for her. Later, she found out the cruel irony of her name; though 
it was made up, she found out, using the internet that it meant 
in some foreign language "there is not".
   My mother stayed with us for a year after my baby was born, and 
then left to go back to . I was devastated. I was confused,
 and my husband had to work, so I was alone with a child. My mind 
wondered as I took care of the kid, my mind turning bitter. 
I though I deserved better. What ever happened to Cinderella?
 This is , where dreams come true, they say. So why isn't it
 happing to me?

  We moved five years later. When my girl was six, I received news 
that my mother died from lung cancer. It came as a shock to me; my 
mother is dead. MY mother is DEAD. Dead. In . Why didn't 
anybody tell me? In my head, I started to scream. It couldn't 
happen, I thought. It couldn't happen to me, not now, not with
 everything so new... My husband lost his job a few years after
 that. We had to sell the car. For two years now, we had to either 
walk or take a taxi to get to were we want. I hate it. I still 
yell at him, everyday. I would cry when no one was looking, 
complain everyday about pains just to see if my family would care.
 But, still, no car. Little money. A daughter. A husband whom I no
 longer cared for. My only child have to grow up like this, 
it wasn't fair... I wanted to scream louder then I ever could; my 
life was a circle with no end. I started to read the Bible more 
often, trying to find an answer to a happiness I can't seem to find.

  I think I hate new things, they hold too many surprises. 
I hate surprises. I think I went mad that day my mother died. 
My daughter certainly thinks so. Every time I lose it, she hides.
 She's fifteen now, and is too old for that, but I know it still 
scares her.  Deep down, I know she understands, but I won't face it.
 I can't......she doesn't know what happened to me, and I don't 
want her to. But I know she does, and that's what scares me the 
most. She knows my past, and she knows that the future is uncertain. 
But you know what scares me the most? What scares me most is that, 
as I see her grow up, I know that she's different from me; she's not
 afraid of instability, her whole life was around that, just 
like mine, but it scares me how unafraid she is to let go of my hand
 and become independent. She's not afraid to remember painful things.
 It scares me that I don't really think I grew up; but I have given
 birth to something, someone who will, and I'm afraid of being left
 behind, forgotten. Yet, every year for my birthday, my daughter 
presents me with a bouquet of orange roses, as if to say my fears
 were in vain.

As I pray they are. I pray they are.