65. Ambrose—present day #2
Dollie stiffens in my arms, her legs kicking wildly. She catches me in my bad knee. I grit my teeth, and so does she, hysterical sobbing coming through the tiny gaps.
Her grip on me tightens, terror-filled eyes wide and on me, pleading for help.
“I don’t know how it happened, but I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I could change everything.”
I tuck her in, holding her tightly against me. Pressing her face into my chest, where she can see nothing around me. Her knees jerk, catching me in the balls so hard, she steals my breath. Air stammers from my mouth into her hair.
“I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I could change everything,” like a broken record, she repeats the exact same words as she thrashes in panic. And while I know she wouldn’t intentionally hurt me, I know these words aren’t for me.
She isn’t present right now.
And her words are still for who she’s trapped in this bathroom with.
Our Mom and Dad.
Her gaze moves to me, sad eyes meeting mine. “Tell them I’m sorry. They hate me. Please, tell them I’m sorry.”
“They don’t hate you, Dollie.” I manage to vocalize through the pain in my throat and heart. “They don’t.”
“They do, they do.” Her head collapses against my neck, snot, tears, and drool drip onto my shirt, but I can’t give any of that a second thought. “Please, make them understand. I can’t live like this.”
I nod, pulling her tight to me as I smooth through her hair.
Wide nostrils suck in air, the stench of this room making me feel ill again as I dig into painful memories.
Still in that same spot on the floor, I rock, Dollie in my arms.
And I talk, and knowing it’s to nothing but the broken pieces of Dollie’s mind, I tell Dad everything I ever wanted to.
“Do you remember what you told me, Dad?” My first tear falls.
“That night? I do. It was the first time you touched me in years. I reached for you, already holding Mom, and I waited to see if you’d take my hand.
Or if I was still too dirtied by all the things you couldn’t face in the hardest of moments.
Sometimes, I can still feel your hand in mine.
You used your last moments to tell me you were sorry, and to ask me to look after my sister, that she needed help.
That it wasn’t her who hurt you. That it wasn’t her fault, and you wanted her safe.
” I nod again, Dollie’s wide eyes drifting to me and then the empty space behind me.
“I hope I did right by her by going away?—”
“No, don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me,” her tiny face becomes background music to my voice. I hold her tighter, my spread fingers letting her know that I’m not going anywhere.
“But she needs help again, and I can’t leave her this time. To help her this time, I need to send you away for now.” The words escape in a strained whisper.
Struggling up to my feet, I keep her plastered to me as I shift us into the kitchen and start opening cabinet doors. In an imperfect voice, I sing a song for the first time in years—a melodic story from her favorite Barbie movie that I shouldn’t still have in my head.
I’m thanked by silence and almond nails digging into my neck. Icy terror still sits in her eyes, her complexion graying with worry as she stares down at my mouth, hers gulping in big breaths of air.
Condiment jars scrape the wooden shelf as I move stuff around quickly, finally finding the salt at the back.
Fast feet rush us back to the bathroom, and I pop off the lid with my thumb.
It drops and pirouettes, leading the way to where I start sprinkling salt. Quickly, I cover as much of the room as possible. Tiny grains crunch under my feet as I shift over the hard floor.
“Look,” I stop my song to tell her something that might just calm her down. “The salt has sent them away.”
Dollie’s glassy eyes scan around the room.
“They’re gone, yeah?”
She nods, her wet cheek dragging against mine. Sweaty hands hold my face close to hers.
“He didn’t seem mad anymore.”
“He was never mad at his princess.”
Through her cries, she tells me again, “I wish things were different. How am I meant to get through this?”
“With me.” My words are barely a whisper with all the agony I’ve put my throat through, but she can see my mouth move even when nothing comes out.
“You should hate me.”
“No. Never.” I let my hands roam her body, and heat radiates from her as she continues to suck in bigger breaths than she needs.
I set down the salt jar on the sink before taking Dollie to the ledge of the bath.
I sit there and begin to fill the bath as my hands continue to roam.
“I know it hurts. It hurts me too. But they weren’t innocent people, Dollie.
They did something really horrible, and it screwed up our whole lives.
This is on them, not you. Their actions led the way to that night. ”
“Did they give us to Chuckles?”
That name raises the hairs on my neck. The space in the distance calls to me because I can’t look at Dollie right now.
I nod and swallow hard.
“They gave us to him, a man that Dad knew from work. He was a crime scene investigator who grew chatty with Dad over money struggles. He offered to help.”
“By taking us and staging a kidnapping?”
“Yeah.”
“And Dad agreed?”
“Yeah, and Mom went along with it. They didn’t know what he was really like until we were found.
They never called because it made their loss more believable when they cried over missing us.
They never confronted him. And no one ever found out who he was because when the cops checked the houses in that area?—”
“He knew what they’d look for.”
“Yeah, and he got rid of all traces of us.”
“Did Mom and Dad tell you this?”
“No. You know, Dad could hardly look at me after the things Colin did to me. I found out in prison.”
“How?”
I take a moment to breathe before saying the next part. “Because Colin Bannadosi was arrested for something else in his past. He ended up sentenced and later became my cellmate.”
Dollie’s full lower lip trembles. “Tell me he didn’t hurt you.”
“He didn’t physically touch me. I think I haunted him. He’d found God and wanted forgiveness... and a favor.”
“How can that monster ask you for a favor, after what he did?”
“He offered me an exchange. Told me he’d give me justice if I visited his dying wife.”
“Did you do it?”
“Yeah, I agreed.”
“And what was justice?”
“He hung himself that night.”
“Did you ever find his wife?”
“I got Bubbles from her when she died. She was there a few times when we were kids. She stitched my face, my throat.” My hand moves to the nastiest of my scars, still thick and rope-like around my neck. I rub the area, now aching more than ever. Dollie’s hand meets mine there.
“You feel guilty for him. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Yeah… sometimes. We, as humans, feel guilty for hurting the people who hurt us. But it doesn’t change the fact that I couldn’t sleep each night having him close to me in that tiny room.
It’s different from your situation. You weren’t present.
You’d dissociated. I hadn’t. When he gave me an opportunity not to see him again, I suspected what he meant, and I still took the deal,” I murmur.
“That doesn’t make you bad, either. He slit your throat. He raped you, and then you had to share a tiny room with him. How is that fair?”
“Life isn’t fair, Dollie. We know that.”
Neither of us talks for a few silent seconds that tick by, but she nods.
“Speaking of fair, we don’t have bubble bath for your bath.” I crack a smile, trying to lighten the mood.
“It’s for me?” Dollie asks, a little calmer now.
“It’s for you. You remember what you used to do for me when my mind got too loud?”
Dollie’s hand wedges between us, a tight grip forming on the material covering her chest.
I have to keep her talking. I need to keep her safe here in reality.
Slowly, not to startle her, I guide her arm through the designated holes in her hoodie.
“Talk to me, tell me what you used to do for me.”
“I’d put you in the shower… to cool down,” she stutters.
“And I’m gonna put you in the bath to cool down, okay? Because this thing—” I slip my hands inside her hoodie, “is stuck to you with sweat.” I drag it up over her stomach, my hand catching on something unfamiliar.
“No, Ambrose, don’t.” From inside, small hands grip the hem.
“What was that?” My question is quiet, gentle, while she’s still sitting in my lap.
“A colostomy bag.” She stares up at me through wet, downcast lashes, shame heavy on slumping shoulders. “I’m sorry it was in the way. I know you don’t like germs.”
When did she get that? I can’t ask because I have to tell her, “Dollie, you don’t have germs?—”
“Shane says?—”
“Do not finish that sentence.” My tone changes instantly, too much bite in my voice, so that I no longer sound like I did seconds ago. “I’m not him.”
“I just—it’s embarrassing.”
“Because he’s made you feel that way.” I grit my teeth.
“They aren’t sexy.”
If it makes you healthy, makes you feel better, who the fuck is he to say anything negative? I have to resort to signing because my throat is aching so much, but I need her to know this.
God, I’m so glad she’s done with him.
She shrugs her dainty shoulders.
When did you get it? I gesture.
“I was twenty-two. So, it’s been a few years now. I have a confession; I used the money from the joint account to pay for surgery. My insurance wouldn’t cover it. That’s why there’s nothing left from Mom and Dad’s book royalties.”
I wasn’t aware we had a joint account.
“No one told you?”
No.
“Mom and Dad set it up while you were away. I figured someone would have said something. But I shouldn’t have touched your half.”
Why not? I’d have given it to you anyway.
Her soft fingers move on my cheek, feeling over the hint of stubble I haven’t shaved off these last two days.