4. Dollie—present day
Dollie—present day
A tantrum at the next table makes my nerves worse than they already are, and I shake lightly in my chair. Apparently, the toddler disagrees and feels she definitely wants a second dessert.
I agree with her, anything for her to stop the tears and hide those tiny fangs that just sank into her father for telling her no.
He should have given in. As the saying goes, anything for a quiet life.
That’s why I’m here, in this restaurant, sitting across from my soon-to-be in-laws, who have never strung more than a handful of conversations with me in the ten years I’ve known them.
For that reason, I’m edgy.
I have other reasons for not wanting to be here, as well. The breast lump I discovered this morning is the cherry on top.
My real choice would have been to enjoy—as best I could, at least—my last day crammed into the tiny apartment I call home, wearing too-big pajamas, and because that was my initial suggestion, we now have to spend our last night there fixing the hinges on the bedroom door and a hole in the wall.
All while I worry over the lump in my boob that doesn’t seem to bother Shane, my boyfriend, who says he’s sick of my spoiled behavior.
He doesn’t see that his behavior is worse—that he isn’t supportive or caring, and that this issue could be life-threatening.
Right now, I’m wondering if proposing to him was a good idea.
Especially since I said I wanted to get married within the year, and time is ticking away.
Tomorrow, we pack up and leave for my childhood home. We’ll be fixing it up all fancy to sell and pay for the wedding.
Dread is all I feel regarding that—the house, well, and now the wedding, too. But mostly the house.
Bad memories haunt my mind, images of tears streaming down my face and my stepbrother’s while we were pulled apart as he was cuffed and carted off to an institution. Memories of him and me three years later—him trying to drag me around my parents as they lie in their own blood, unmoving.
I blink away the images that place goosebumps on my arms and feel another tear claw at my bloodshot eyes. I’ve cried a lot today. And I’ll cry a lot tomorrow because that place was, and no doubt still is, hell dressed up as a Gothic mansion.
And this two-for-one restaurant on the outskirts of this declining town isn’t much better.
Shane wanted us to come. I’m sure the free dinner is what enticed him, as in the time I’d known all these people, I hadn’t seen any of them interact with each other all that much, either.
A stab of pain catches me in the breast, and I push away the starter I didn’t enjoy.
Half of the soggy bruschetta is still on the plate, camping out in grease.
The childhood comfort I got from only eating pinkish or yellow-colored foods is still something I struggle with breaking away from in my mid-twenties.
And with the anxiety of this lunch date, I didn’t need the added worry of foods that I felt unsafe eating.So, I’d ordered what looked unappealing from the menu because it was the only thing close to those colors.
William and Miranda sit opposite me.
Miranda gives the wasted dish a squinted glance before she shows off her bad table manners by talking with a full mouth.
The polite and probably awkward-looking smile on my face drops when I catch up with the conversation she’s having with her son.
“You don’t remember her? How could you not? She’s a pretty girl. A very pretty girl. You were in school together.”
“I don’t remember her.” Shane practically inhales a chicken wing, barely chewing the meat before he swallows. He drops the bones, and they clatter on his plate.
“She still wears those booty shorts.”
The urge to soak Miranda with the table water nudges me hard. So hard I’m out of my seat, but before I drench her and tell her that her wing woman practices need work, I shift my attention to Shane.
“Excuse me. I’m going to the bathroom.” I’ll come back when I’m sure I’m done being disrespected at the table.
He barely nods as I smooth down my sundress and leave. Miranda’s eyes wander to the glove on my left hand as I pass her. It’s almost like she thinks she hasn’t made me uncomfortable enough already.
After a long twenty minutes and a failed attempt to make myself look and feel better, I exit the bathroom, assuming the conversation is done. However, Miranda and her full mouth are still talking about this woman in booty shorts that only she remembers.
No one gives me more than a quick glance upon returning. A lifetime of stomach issues gives me excuses to leave whenever I need a break, and no one asks questions.
I sit back in my seat and take mouthfuls of the pasta I’d ordered. It’s soggy, so it has either been here for a while or left in the water too long.
Shane is as eager as I am to change the subject. “We decided we’re moving back to Lancie’s hometown. We’re gonna stay in her house while we fix it up to sell.”
“God,” William finally breaks his silence. “That place is gonna need a lot of work, you know that, don’t you?”
“You knew we were selling it to pay for the wedding. We figured it would be easier for us to do it while we are there. Dollancie disagrees, but that’s because she thinks it’s haunted.” Shane laughs.
Twirling the ring on my finger, I let the thought drift back in. Is this even a good idea?
Miranda talking again stops me from coming up with an answer. “It probably does haunt her. What her awful stepbrother did to her family. He shredded that family apart. Literally.”
Just like her son, Miranda has a way of voicing words. They cut deep and make you bleed.
She makes a noise to show her distaste towards Ambrose, whom she’s never met. And the sound of her scratchy throat puts me off another mouthful of the pasta. I let my fork go back to the tasteless meal.
“Well, if it is, maybe her mom can inspire her with the paintbrush a little.” Shane looks my way, checking my reaction.
It feels like a silent warning for me to behave.
Does he even care how much he hurts me with his words? How much she does?
The ache in my heart is overridden by a pain in my lip that has me shuddering. I hadn’t even noticed I was pulling at the skin with my teeth until it comes loose, and I taste a tiny amount of blood.
“And what about your job?”
“The commute difference isn’t too bad. Just a few miles,” Shane’s eyes leave me as he answers his father.
“Will you have to speak to her stepbrother?” Miranda whispers to her son, like I’m not here, and this isn’t my childhood home and family she’s talking about.
“We’ll probably have to at some point. He’s in prison for another two years, but he has joint ownership.”
“Well, his share should have been forfeited after what he did. Scum.”
“It wasn’t, but I doubt he’d wanna go back to that town. We drove through last week, and it’s not like before. If we want to sell it, we’ll need to get the place done quickly, way before he gets out. Vandalism is starting around town. And it’s all surrounding him.”
And me.
“There are pictures of clowns painted everywhere.”
A sickly feeling confirms I’m done with dinner after all three mouthfuls, and unlike the child at the next table, still screaming as her parents clear the bill, I do not want dessert.
“Just be careful. He might want half of the money from the sale.” Miranda shrugs. “He doesn’t deserve it, but he might, and you don’t know how vicious he’ll become to get it. Money brings out the worst in people, and you’re dealing with someone who is already evil.”
Says the woman with over fifty thousand dollars stashed in her bedroom ottoman. There have been times when she’s sneered at her son for not being able to afford shopping, and for him being in a relationship with someone who can barely contribute.
So, I guess she’s right. Money does bring out the worst in people.
So does the lack of it. I’m sure that’s why Shane looks down on me. It happens every time he sees his parents.
God help me tonight.
“He’s capable of cold-blooded murder. You don’t want to anger him,” Miranda adds.
A chill runs over my body, and I brush at the goosebumps left behind.
It’s hard to think of Ambrose these days, forgetting the loving and beautiful soul that saved me so many times. The boy who fought demons daily just so I wouldn’t be lonely in life. The boy who’d held me each night as I read us stories from our bookshelf.
When did he become hateful?
Why did he become a monster?
Occupied by a fraying piece of lace on my glove, I get lost in our memories.
I don’t remember the night my parents died. Flashes of them on the ground have appeared in my head ever since we talked about going home, but that whole night is still a blur.
And I thank God for that.
I thank God that I don’t remember Ambrose dressed in blood. The image of him like that in my room is only brought forward by Shane’s words and not my memories.
“He showed up in her room covered in her parents’ blood. She could easily get a restraining order if needed.”
God, it’s like he heard me.
I look over to Shane.
“Do you think it will be? Do you really think he’d hurt me?” I have no idea why I’m asking. Shane and Ambrose met once, and they didn’t exactly develop any kind of bond.
“Are you being serious?” Miranda scowls. “Don’t be so stupid!”
This is the first conversation in years that she wants to have with me, and she starts it with an insult.
My eyes move to her, to the baggy sweater dress she’s wearing on this relatively sunny day.
“Of course, he’d hurt you. He’s a killer.” Her narrowed stare watches me with disapproval. “Have you forgotten the state your parents were found in?”
My mouth falls open in pure disbelief that she’d ask me something like that.
“Really? You think I could forget seeing my parents lying in their own blood?”She’ll never know that I have. I only know this is how it happened because Shane brings it up every anniversary.
It’s more painful than it is comforting, but maybe he means well.
Maybe he thinks I remember.
I don’t want to remember.