The View from Prince Street by Mary Ellen Taylor Page A

turned to the salons to maintain a color that grew increasingly dark, out of step with her pale skin. However, since she’d arrived here, there was no one to dye her hair, so time and washings had faded it to silver, which I found far more attractive on her.
    I angled the book so Amelia could better see it. Age had softened the pages, and I wondered if given a couple more years locked away, they wouldn’t have crumbled. “You were a pretty baby.”
    She traced the infant’s wide, expressive eyes, and with a little more confidence said, “Yes, I was. I always wondered where that red hair came from. I never quite looked like a Smyth.”
    â€œDid your birth mother, Fiona, have red hair?” I asked.
    Her light blue eyes darkened with an intensity that hinted of a truth no one in the family had ever mentioned. “Yes, she did.”
    Turning the page of the baby book, I stared at a picture of a young couple holding a baby. The inscription at the bottom read:
Fiona and Jeffrey McDonald with their precious daughter, Amelia.
“Amelia Elizabeth McDonald. You really were adopted.”
    Her chin lifted up in defiance. “I told you I was.”
    I ran my hand through my hair. “Holy cow.”
    â€œI know. Shocker. I was as surprised as you when I found out at age thirty-two.”
    â€œThat was over forty years ago. You never said a word.”
    â€œI was in shock at first. Didn’t want to believe it. And then my husband became sick. I tried to talk to my mother once, but she said she didn’t know what I was talking about. I pressed her, but the conversation went nowhere and she told me not to bring it up again. I thoughtabout talking to my dad, but if Mom didn’t want a subject discussed, he always obeyed her wishes. I thought I could ask her again one day, but she passed and so did my father. Time slipped through my fingers.”
    Over the last month Amelia’s condition had worsened. Bringing with it all kinds of crazy claims. Once she confused me with her doctor, thanked me for her discharge papers, and told me her niece would arrive soon to take her home. Another time she told me my late mother had come for a visit. We had many conversations and most simply weren’t based in reality.
    But now, as I stared at the page, I could see this statement was irrefutable. “Explains why you and Dad were so different.” My father was as closed as Amelia was open.
    â€œWe were never really close. I always felt that once he came along I became nearly invisible. He was the son my parents thought they would never have. Of course, to get everyone’s attention, I had to become more and more outrageous. My parents were never amused.”
    I turned the page of the book and studied a collection of telegrams wishing Fiona and Jeffrey congratulations on the birth of their daughter. Time had weathered the telegrams, making them appear all the more ancient. We all exchanged words easily today. Quick texts, or if time really allowed, an e-mail. Letters and note cards were relics. But when Amelia had been born, to send a note of congratulations took time, effort, and money.
    Carefully, I ran my hands over the beautiful cards that still had a silky, delicate quality. On the next pages were photographs of smiling strangers surrounding the young couple and their baby.
    Here were two people full of life and love. It was clear that Amelia had been a much loved and cherished child. “What happened to Fiona and Jeffrey?” I whispered.
    â€œJeffrey died.”
    I studied the face of the man who shared the same jawline and glint in his eyes as Amelia. “How?”
    â€œI don’t know. It was during World War II and he had been shipped overseas.”
    â€œDo you know why Fiona couldn’t keep you?”
    â€œNo,” she sadly whispered. “She left Alexandria after the adoption and then returned several years later married to David Saunders. They had