49. Ambrose—age nine
Ambrose—age nine
A groggy feeling holds me hostage, making my surroundings a blur of blue and white.
Big fingers maul me, prodding all over. They are a small distraction from the sterile scent that burns my nose, but not the blinding lights that shine down on me as I blink to clear my eyes.
It turns out that blue is the sad color that they’ve painted the walls of this hospital room that I face while resting on my side. The white is the blanket I lie beneath and the coat of the doctor who looms over me.
I blink again at the thought, am I really here? Did the teens bring us here?
I wiggle my toes to make sure that’s something I can still do.
They no longer feel icy cold.
The light above torments my adjusting eyes and highlights each bruise that the doctor’s hand runs along as he examines my arm, where there are newer injuries.
Most of my burns are already bandaged, but they still hurt, and the swelling in my hand is painful as I find the strength and bat him away with the back of that hand.
With a struggle, I push myself up. The screaming pain in my head drags me back down.
“Take it easy. You’re okay,” he coos in a gentle voice. It doesn’t match his appearance. He’s younger than he sounds, and geeky glasses hang off his nose. The light reflects in them.
It’s too much, and my eyes roll closed.
I hate it. I miss the dark.
Pretending I’m somewhere else—that black space where only I can fit, I keep my eyes closed, and a sense of calm rolls over my limbs, locking them back at the sides of my body.
A ghost of a touch tickles my arm, and the doctor’s words penetrate my safe space.
“It’s been flushed now, and antibiotics have been administered, but this injury was showing mild signs of infection.” That word rings in my ears, and I miss what the doctor says next because the germs in my blood make it to the tortured part of my brain, and all I hear is the voice inside me.
It’s trapped here in my black box with me.
Fighting against it, I force my eyes to squint open and take in the man whose prodding fingers examine my healing before he reapplies a bandage.
I squint through my eyelashes, but the light still burns my eyes.
“What do you think gave such a bad cut?” Dad’s tortured voice pulls me on to my back, and I wince, feeling all my burns press into the mattress as my head snaps to the left of me, where he stands.
There’s no acknowledgment of the worn leather seat at his side as he leans down on the bed, denting the mattress at my side. He spares me a sad smile, and I grit my teeth over it. How dare he smile at me.
How dare he look so stressed when he caused this.
Yet he does. The lines on his face are more pronounced than I remember, and his lips are tight whenever he isn’t speaking. They part…
“It’s okay, champ. I’m here. No one will ever hurt you again, I promise. I’m here.”
I don’t want him here.
I blink him away and turn my head, not wanting to see him, especially those eyes I’d inherited. My lips move in the shape of my little sister’s name.
Dollie…
She’s the only person in the world I care about right now.
“She’s here, buddy—just next door. Mom is with her. When we’re done, we’ll go see her.” His touch finds me, and I jump away from it like it burns, getting closer to the doctor in the long white coat.
“Is that normal?” Dad asks the doctor about my behavior.
“We’re unsure right now what should be normal for him. But we can refer to a psychologist, which I think is wise.”
Dad’s shadow slowly nods over me, blocking out that light when he tries to touch me again. “He’s seen one before. I’ll make contact.”
“I think it’s best.”
“His aversion to touch, do you think that’s because of all these cuts and bruises? I mean, he has OCD, but it’s never applied to us. Do you think his experience could have worsened his symptoms?”
Without glancing his way, I notice the extra bite in Dad’s voice.
“It’s possible. It’s also possible there’s another cause.”
There is another cause.
“Is there a name for it?”
Colin Bannadosi.
I force my mind somewhere else, not to the blackness but to Dollie in another bright room.
I picture this one pink, and I picture her smiley little face lighting up as I enter, but instead of staying with her, vague memories flood in the darkness behind closed eyes.
Teenagers prying Dollie from my sweating hands as my vision turned black.
Dad brushing my hair from my sweaty forehead wakes me up, and that light attacks me again.
“That’s something you’re best discussing with the psychologist.” The doctor smiles sadly.
“Will he ever be okay? Physically? Mentally? There are just so many fucking cuts, scars. His hand, is that a burn?”
“It is. We believe a fire caused it. There are more on his shoulders and back. We have treated and dressed the affected areas. We don’t believe he needs a skin graft.”
“Is that why he’s on fluids?”
I eye the little bag above me, half-full with liquid.
“We want to maintain his blood pressure now that we’ve managed to elevate it. It was very low when he was brought in.”
“God. This stuff should never have happened.” The growing sadness in Dad’s voice weakens whatever walls I’ve built around my heart. Heat flushes my cheeks, and I fight the tears clawing at the side of my eyes.
His dry knuckles scrape over my heated cheek, and the little monitor at my side picks up the faster speed of my heart monitor with a little beep.
“Look at all these. Look at what’s happened to his fucking face.” Dad’s words hurt. They make me feel ugly as he looks away from me.
The doctor leaves my side, moving to his station before heading to my father with a tissue in hand.
Dad’s fingers drop to my neck, the thickest of all my scars right below the touch. It sets my hair on edge.
I swallow, the feeling different since my injury.
“This—it looks like?—”
“It looks like his throat was slit.” The doctor hands the tissue to Dad as he silently sobs over me. “And if I were to guess, I’d say it’s been professionally stitched. Given the severity of this gash, it’s healed well.”
Dad pats his eyes, drying them only slightly. Another tight smile is given to me before he turns to my doctor. “Have you heard him talk? Can he? Like, will that scar impact his speech? When he said his sister’s name, there was no sound.”
“It’s possible. We have yet to hear him attempt a conversation. We’ll have to run some tests to be sure. I would also like to run some other tests.”
“What kind of tests?”
“I feel it’s best you take a seat, Mr. La’Darragh.” The doctor offers the chair that my dad has ignored for everything other than holding his brown leather jacket.
“What? Why?”
“Please,” the doctor offers again with an extended arm.
Dad sinks into the chair.
The doctor continues, “When he was brought in, along with your daughter, they were filthy, wet, and cold. When changing their clothes, we noticed some trauma?—”
“Ambrose? Where’s Ambrose? Where is he?” Dollie’s voice pulls me up on the bed, fighting the protests of my aching body and head.
Dollie…
My heart races.
I need her.
“Ronan?” Mom’s voice comes into the private room.
A rattle of knuckles follows, then the heavy door pushes open.
I catch a glimpse of police officers, some in uniform, some in suits with badges on their hips.
All of them at the door as Dollie charges in, her hair clean and glowing gold under the bright lights that I can’t stand.
“Oh, princess!” Dad turns into her path as she runs to me, pulling her into his strong arms. “God, you’re so tiny. What’s happened to you both?” He takes her small, burned fingers to his lips and kisses her knuckles.
“Ouch.” Dollie winces when his stubble gets her.
“I’m sorry, princess. I’m so sorry.” He holds her impossibly close.
I hate it. I hate that he’s touching her at all. My teeth grit together over the image of them—a poor excuse for a parent and the little girl who loves him so much.
That’s the thing with Dollie. She’s gotten in trouble so many times in the past for things she can’t control that she craves love, even from the wrong people.
I guess, in some way, I do, too.
“She’s been hurt, but she’s okay. She just wants to see her brother.” Mom smiles a sad smile, moving closer to me. “How are you doing, baby?”
She looks different from how I remember. Her hair is darker and shinier, and her body is somehow slimmer. Her lips glossed slightly, dropping into an O shape as her eyes find me in the bed.
“Oh, my god! Baby, what happened?” Her grip on the rail at the bottom of my bed turns her fingers white. “What happened to him!”
“Daddy, I missed you,” Dollie interrupts, and Dad just sits there, smoothing her clean hair.
She’s fine with touch.
I take a breath, struggling with the heavy feeling in my chest. A tear finally falls, but it isn’t from sadness.
I saved her.
I kept her safe all that time, and she’s okay with someone who isn’t me touching her.
Dollie’s small arms let go of Dad.
Mom moves to my side, the most tentative touch gracing my cheek. Still, it’s too much.
It fucking hurts.
I push myself away from it.
Tears from Mom’s eyes land on my white pillow. A tiny patch turns gray from her diluted mascara.
“All these scars? That sick bastard did this?” Mom’s blue eyes fill with tears, and the pretty color seems brighter below the sheen.
The doctor and my father are still on the other side of me—Dollie is still on Dad’s denim thigh.
“Don’t be offended,” Dad lowers his head until it rests lightly on Dollie’s. “He doesn’t want to be touched by anyone, and he can’t or won’t speak, either.”
Mom wipes at her eyes, smudging more mascara down her cheeks. Her eyes drift across my throat, tracing the scar.
“Oh, this can’t be happening. Look at him!”
Mom wailing about my image will live on in my ears forever.
She thinks I’m ugly, just like I do.
“He’s beautiful. He’s strong. And he’s lucky.” Dollie’s words call all eyes to her.