3. Ambrose—age eight
Ambrose—age eight
E verything echoes in this house. The sound of me struggling down the last three steps on the crutch. Dollie on what sounds like a grand piano. The doorbell and its ominous chime. Dollie then screeching because that chime is too loud, and she hates it. Dad soothing her.
Mom rushes down the stairs so fast that it shocks me when she doesn’t fall over her giant pink slippers in her dash to answer the door.
I ignore her struggle to unlock it as I follow the melody of my favorite classical tune—slightly wrong—as it drags me to the old music hall through its double doors.
“Morning, Amrose.” Dollie’s head is low, her bloodshot eyes from little sleep and her crying for half of the night are barely visible, with her hair blanketing her face.
I’m not sure if she intentionally says my name wrong each time she talks to me or if she struggles with it like I do with hers.
“Good morning.” I hobble past her at the grand piano, even while my fingers twitch over the idea of landing on the keys and showing her where she’s going wrong, just like Mammy used to do with me back home.
But the piano isn’t up to my hygiene standards.
It was white once, I’d guess. I’d also guess that was a long time ago.
Pictures line the wall, all of children playing instruments.
Children who are probably no longer alive.
I study each face and give them a name in my head as I continue to Dad, who sits with his phone glued to his hand, on one of the many basic wooden chairs in this room.
I want to see if he’ll part with it long enough for me to play on his game with the snake.
“You like to play.” He smiles. He isn’t talking about phone games. He’s talking about the dirty piano. “Why don’t you have a go with your sister?”
Before I can tell him I have little interest in playing the doting big brother or the piano, Dollie has already made room for me on the pink cushioned stool.
The mold is almost visible from here.
I sigh, not wanting to sit there and not feeling brave enough to play because it reminds me of home.
Homesickness dances in my stomach, twirling faster the longer I stay in one spot, so I move to the piano and sit with Dollie, convincing myself that I’m not bothered about this disgusting seat.
That it’ll be okay to sit on this filth and that it doesn’t matter that I had to sit down three times to prevent my father’s death today.
Another thought challenges me, resulting in me setting my crutch down three times. That was to save Mom.
“It’s all in your head. You don’t need to do that.” Dad doesn’t get it.
I don’t waste my breath explaining how real it is to me.
New feelings arise as irritation runs through my blood in the wake of those painful thoughts, the second my fingers touch the dusty keys, and I can’t brush it off, even when I try against my blue pajamas. It festers when Dollie joins in and hits the wrong key again.
“That’s wrong.”
My tone isn’t harsh, and Dad would realize that if he were paying attention to us, but his eyes are still downcast, still staring at whatever is amusing him on his phone, when he warns, “Play nice, Ambrose. It’s not her fault you’re agitated.”
“We have a guest. She made us some welcome cookies. They’re double chocolate chip and mint.” Mom appears in the doorway that leads into the foyer with two strangers at her side.
The first stranger is a woman considerably older than Mom, and the other is a child who looks like the miniature version of her mother, with her tightly pulled blonde hair knotted on top of her head and her posh little dress.
She sniffs, and her face scrunches hideously with displeasure over the scent of our house.
“Something smells funny.”
Feeling protective of my new home, I snap back, “I think it’s the cookies.”
“Ambrose!” Mom’s pink cheeks aren’t from makeup today. Like the rest of us, she’s still fresh-faced in her pajamas. The pink comes from embarrassment. The embarrassment comes from me.
Dollie laughs. “Sounds like you’re gonna be grounded later.”
Her tiny elbow slams into my ribs, and I roll my eyes as I rub away the ache.
“I’m sorry. Kids, huh.” Mom fakes a laugh. I know it because whenever she does it, she squints so much I can no longer see the blue of her eyes.
“Boys will be boys,” the woman smiles, and I’m pretty sure that’s fake, too. “I’m glad I only have a girl.”
Yeah, because she’s much less rude than I am.
“This is Dahlia, and I’m Rowena.”
“Well, you’ve met Ambrose.” With the cookie tray tight in one hand, Mom points to me with a finger and a warning glare before her gesture moves to Dollie, who turns to wave, whipping me with her blonde curls.
“Our girl is Dollancie. This is my husband, Ronan, and I’m Genevieve.”
“It’s nice to have new neighbors. I wasn’t sure it would ever happen.
This place has been empty for years, and I mean years.
My husband and I were in high school the last time someone considered buying it.
What made you guys take the plunge?” the woman’s voice heightens, and it sounds funny to my ears.
I hold in my laugh to avoid further trouble.
“We were just looking for somewhere new. I like a project, and this came up at a good price. That’s what I do, you see. I take old things and revive them.” Mom’s attention flicks back to Dad, who hasn’t offered the woman in our home more than a quick hello. “Do we have any of my business cards?”
“They’ll be in the moving van.”
“Oh, shoot, yes! Like everything else.”
“Oh, that’s okay, honey. We don’t really have anything that needs upcycling. My husband likes the modern look, you know. Anyway, we’d best be on our way. This little angel is seven today!”
Both of my parents wish Dahlia a happy birthday, and she revels in the attention, curtseying like a queen.
My lip curls, and an eyebrow raises.
“Yes, seven already. Time goes so quickly.”
“It really does,” Mom agrees.
“Anyway, we must be going. We have a big party this afternoon with all the local kids, and we have a clown, and someone is very excited.”
Yeah, someone at my side. Dollie is on her knees, and her favorite pair of pajamas are thinning in that area, which makes us look poor. She leans on my shoulder with the biggest smile on her face as she holds her breath, no doubt praying for an invitation.
“Do you want to go?” She startles me when she cups my ear and asks almost silently. “If you don’t end up grounded.”
I turn to her, and she looks away from me quickly. Avoiding eye contact is something she does with everyone.
“I am very excited.” Dahlia’s high-pitched squeal pulls my attention back to her. She’s already got her eyes on us, sharing a look that tells me we aren’t invited to her stupid party.
Dollie doesn’t see that, and not just because she’s looking around Dahlia. She’s too innocent.
“Is there really a clown?” my stepsister wonders aloud. “Will he have balloons?”
“I don’t know.” The spoiled brat shrugs. “Probably. Come on, Mom.” Dahlia grips her mother’s hand and leads her out.
Mom follows them, thanking them again for the cookies, and Dollie deflates against my side.
“Doll, it’s okay. You don’t want to go to her party.” Dad’s phone is finally out of sight, tucked in his jeans pocket, making sitting on his wooden chair look uncomfortable.
Dollie doesn’t turn to acknowledge my father, but she replies quietly, “I did, Daddy. I like clowns. I like balloons.”
“Yeah, but he’s probably a mean old clown anyway. All those kids there, he’ll run out of balloons.” Dad makes his way over and lowers to our level, his knees clicking like old people’s knees do whenever they bend down.
Dad spins Dollie around to him, and I twist the same way.
“How about I take you into town later, and we’ll get a balloon…and an ice cream?”
A smile appears, but I’m close enough to see the tears still in her eyes. “Can I get something else, too?”
“I’m not sure,” Dad teases. “It isn’t your birthday.”
“Just one thing, Daddy, please,” she pleads, her tiny hands clasped together like she’s praying.
“What is it you want?”
Her eyes wander around the room as she takes a minute, wondering how to ask for whatever it is she desires so badly.
The silence is filled by the sound of the mover’s van, signaling that it’s reversing up the hill to our house, which explains why Mom hasn’t come back in yet.
“Now that we have this great big house,” Dollie begins, “can I get a poodle? I’ve wanted one for the longest time, and I would like a pink one.”
“No,” Dad answers quickly as he stretches to look out of the window without leaving our proximity. “No pink poodles. Sorry, love.”
“Okay, I don’t mind blue, but I was worried she’d blend in with the walls.” Dollie laughs.
“No blue ones, either.”
“Then I guess Black or White is fine. Any poodle.”
Dad pops her bubble of happiness when he says, “No dogs at all, Doll.” Then he stands and heads to the door, signaling us both to follow. “Come on, shoes on, let’s help your mother.”
Mom makes some jokes about child labor. Dad laughs at them all as they carry boxes from one room to another. I carry stuff, too. My injured leg isn’t an excuse for the lighter boxes, apparently.
After leaving a small box of stuffies at the stairs that I hopped to without my crutch, I take a seat on the bottom step and stretch out my aching leg.
“Can you sort through these, Champ?” Dad signals for me to follow him into what he’s been calling the reading room.
“I’m not too sure what’s in here. Can you open it up and take a look?”
I’m not in the room when he asks, but I nod seconds later when I make it to the box.
“Thanks. I’ll be back in a sec.” He pats my head like I’m some sort of dog learning a new trick. “I’ll open this to let some fresh air in.”
The window creaks when he opens it, and he leaves with a sigh, heading off in a different direction from where we came.
With no one to help me, my short nails struggle to rip the tape sealing the box.