3. Ambrose—age eight #2
There’s no label or any content notes scribbled in a black marker pen. The box is large but light, just like the room, as the sun peeks in from beyond the drapes.
It’s a good thing the day is brighter, as this is the room with the faulty light.
Another reason it’s good that the weather is better today is that Dollie is still outside, staring into the distance at the neighbor’s yard, watching as they inflate the bouncy house.
Rain wouldn’t prevent this. She’d still be out there, even if it soaked her.
Her lips move like she’s talking to someone, but there’s no one out there. Mom and Dad are both in the kitchen, by the distant clanging sounds coming from that way.
I draw my eyes away from Dollie as my nails catch under the tape, and I’m finally able to pull it off the box.
I slump, still in my PJs, in front of a dusty fireplace to open it, finding Duggan on top of all Dollie’s dolls and stuffies.
She’s still outside, and I can hear her now that the kitchen is quieter.
“No, sillies. She’s a good Mommy.” It’s hard to see the sadness in her eyes, but I can hear it in her little voice. “Really. My daddy is nice, too. They love me. She was just stressed last night, and that’s why she was mad at me.”
There’s a pause.
“She only gets like that when I feel really ill.”
Another pause.
A shiver crawls down my spine as I stretch to see who she’s talking to.
No one.
Dollie stands alone on the bank outside our house, close to a drop almost as tall as our house.
“My new brother? He’s okay. I like him, but we don’t like the same stuff. He likes creepy movies, and I like Barbie ones. I’d try a creepy one if he’d play dolls with me.”
“Dollie!” I call pity laced in my voice. “I found Duggan La’Darragh!” I hold up her favorite possession for her to see. “Now, get in here and away from that ledge!”
Duggan adopted my and Dad’s last name last month when Dollie and Mom officially became part of our family.
A tiny squeal comes from outside before the patter of tiny bare feet rushes into the room. Stepping on the length of her pajamas and sliding on the wooden floor, she tumbles into me and knocks me over.
My leg bends uncomfortably, and I wince.
I’m about to push her off when her arms wrap around my neck, and she yells straight into my ear, “Thank you, Amrose! You’re the best brother ever!”
Her squeeze is tight.
“Hey! Look at you two getting along!” Dad appears in one of the open doorways. How about you both head upstairs and get dressed.”
“We don’t know where our clothes are yet.
” I guide Dollie from my lap, and she doesn’t care, too engrossed with the fraying tie around Duggan’s neck.
I’m not sure if it’s the yellow color or something about the feel of it that affects her senses, but it calms her, and the sadness in her eyes fades a little.
“Mom opened those boxes. She’s put them in each of your rooms.” Dad taps his watch screen. “Come on, it could rain again at any time, and I want to be back by midday to help Mom set up your beds, or you’ll be on the lilos again.”
Lilos… Dad is still Irish, despite where we live.
Dollie follows him out, asking what a lilo is before she brings up the possibility of a poodle again. Their conversation ebbs to silence before I hear Dad say anything back.
I pull out one of her dolls, noticing something in its hair, and toss it across the room when I realize it’s chewed gum.
Wiping my hands on my pajama bottoms, I rid myself of the idea of germs on my skin. I push at the box and see something I didn’t notice before.
One of Mom’s fancy ornaments rests amongst the dolls. It looks like a Pegasus, and Dollie has a history of getting in trouble for flying her dolls around on it.
I pluck it from the box and eye the room, wondering where I can put it so that Dollie can’t reach it.
Two built-in bookcases line the walls on each side of the fireplace, but unlike the bookcase in the foyer, these are empty. This peach and white horse will look nice against the dark wood.
Stretching up high, I select a shelf and push the ornament to the back. Something clicks and releases, and the bookcase juts forward.
Jumping back, I land awkwardly, and the pain in my knee pulls me to the ground. Agony wraps around my limb as I try to stand. All this for the fear of my toes getting crushed. The bookcase barely moved three inches.
With a struggle, I climb back to my feet and wedge my fingers into the small gap. I try to pry it forward, suspecting a secret room behind it. I strain with the weight, and a noise creeps from my mouth as my stomach tightens.
With the bookcase open a good few inches from the wall, I manage to squeeze my body into the secret corridor hidden behind it. It’s dark and vacant of furniture.
“You better not still be down here, Champ!” Dad shouts, heading back to the room I was in.
I pull the handle on the back of the bookcase and seal myself into the dark. Hopefully, he’ll assume I’m upstairs, getting ready like he asked, so I won’t have to listen to him yelling at me.
Dad’s feet move around the room. I can only assume he’s collecting the box of Dollie’s toys when they stop for a second.
I press my ear to the back of the bookcase, listening to each step he takes, but I’m not about to open the door and tell Dad about the secret room, even as his feet bring him closer.
I’d kinda like to keep it to myself.
I cup my mouth and close my eyes, silently chanting, “Please, please, please,” don’t let Dad already know about this place .
He moves toward me. His feet stop on the other side of the door, and I hear him dragging the Pegasus to his desired spot. I step back and hold my breath, devastated that my secret space is already about to be discovered.
But the door doesn’t open.
He doesn’t catch the latch.
My eyes spring open when I hear his squeaky shoes again, going in the opposite direction.
I breathe.
Glancing around, everything is dark…something clings to my skin when I edge to the left. I fall into the wall when I realize I’d bulldozed through a spider’s home, and the resident was hanging from my chin.
My arms flap in panic as I flick the creature from my face. My fingers tremble as I flatten them to the stone walls on either side of me and rush backward until I find the lever on the door. I pull it and push my weight against the door, but it doesn’t open.
Dust clings to my feet, bringing forth the worry of germs. My breathing comes fast with a new fear of being trapped in this tiny room forever. It bothers me more than my family finding out about the space and not being able to keep it as my own personal hideaway.
“Dad!” I call out, but no one comes. “Dad!” I try louder, my throat scraping.
I wait a moment and call again, but no one comes.
“DAD! MOM! Someone help me!” My fists pound the door.
No one hears me.
Without a choice, I creep through the narrow room, dirtying my socks and feeling the walls as I move.
I come to a fork and choose to veer right.
I trip over a tiny step and fall onto the floor, gasping with pain as blood flows from my knees.
The agony in my left leg causes me to scream out, and tears drip from my eyes.
Rolling onto my back, I clutch my leg, unable to straighten it out. Unable to worry about whatever grime clings to my pajama T-shirt. The pain controls me, and I can’t hear the cruel whispers in my head as I voice my agony.
Still, no one hears me.
And all I hear is my own sniffling.
Dad says boys aren’t meant to cry.
And as a tear drops into my ear, I force myself to make that the last one.
Rolling over, I put most of my weight on my good knee and use the walls for support. A break in the plaster catches beneath my fingers, and while still on my bleeding knees, I feel around, looking for a way out.
I return to the small clip, my hand rubbing back and forth as I realize what it is, and I fumble until the catch releases.
This door, much smaller than the other, pops open, leading me to two little doors.
A flicker of light shines between them. I push, and the view in front of me changes from blackness to the kitchen.
I glance back, staring into the dark. My eyes wander the room, wondering how many hidden passageways this ancient house has.
Mom and Dad are outside the back window. I open it when I stand because my lungs feel awful after almost inhaling cobwebs.
Mom has already put some paper towels on the window ledge. She has plans to start cleaning while we’re out. I drench one under the tap and wash my knees, hissing through the sting it causes.
I add the towels to the trash, where the pizza leftovers create an ugly smell in the kitchen, and I watch through the window as Mom and Dad decide together where to place the garden gnomes on the dirty patio. Both moan about the noise coming from down the way.
They agree with Dollie that we should have been invited to the party.
I couldn’t care less, confirming that thought in my head as I duck down, securing the passageway door before closing the kitchen cabinets.
The last gnome is placed, and I struggle to hop upstairs to get ready before my parents get inside to ask why I’m still not dressed, why my pajama bottoms are ripped, and why I’m bleeding down both legs.
“Anything you want to get, Champ?” Dad is at the register, paying for Dollie’s balloons.
She’d begged for one after we drove by this place, claiming the big one that looked like a clown was waving to her through the window.
Ironically, he wasn’t for sale, but she’s picked three others that she deems good enough backups, and Dad even had to talk her out of a fourth.
“Are the balloons for Little Miss Dahlia’s party?” asks the lady who takes Dad’s card. Her name tag says Clara.
She doesn’t look like a Clara. And I say that because one of the movies Dollie replays daily has a very different-looking Clara.
I take another look at the shelf in front of me, doing all I can to stay still for another second because my leg feels ready to snap. Making my decision, I finally leave the cluttered shelves and head their way with my chosen torch.
“No. We’re their new neighbors, but my kids weren’t asked. We’re gonna have our own party tonight, isn’t that right, darling?” Dad gives a smile to Dollie, who’s swinging on his trouser leg.
I step around her and over Duggan, who is dragging on the floor. If I’d tripped on that antelope, I’d have ripped the head off the damn thing. And I like Duggan—he keeps Dollie quiet.
“Yes, Daddy, and I can’t wait!”
Dad’s smile drops when I place the torch on the counter. “That’s what you’d like? Are you all of a sudden afraid of the dark?”
“Well, you can’t blame the poor boy living in that big house.
” The cashier smiles at me. Her red lips seem out of place with her graying hair and lack of other makeup.
She steps back as I look her over, still not feeling she’s suited to her name.
“Oh, my goodness, that boy has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen! ”
“He has a love heart in his right one!” Dollie giggles, and I can’t help but wonder how she’s noticed that when she never looks me in the eye. Not often enough for her to have remembered the small cluster of hazel dots forming a heart against my green pupil.
I slump on my crutch and smile back at Clara, claiming my torch as soon as Dad pays.
I head to the door, knowing it’ll take me longer to get there.
Dollie rushes to my side. “What flavor are you getting, Amrose?”
She still wants ice cream.
“Is it strawberry, like me?”
“No… it’s coconut.”
“Eww. Who picks coconut-flavored ice cream!”
On our way out, I hear the lady at the register tell Dad, “You never get two the same.”
Nope. We’re nothing alike. Not in looks. Not in personality.
Dad agrees, then steps outside, guiding us across the street to the parlor.
We never got ice cream. Not coconut, not strawberry. As we reached the parlor, Mom was on the phone, and me and everyone else could hear her shrieking down the line and into Dad’s ear. Something had burst at home, and there was dirty water everywhere.
Everywhere downstairs.
Upstairs is clear, aside from the mustier-than-usual air, but the windows are open, and the smell of paint is starting to overpower it.
The black on my brush glides over the wall, hiding the headless child.
“Amrose…” The way she drags out my name tells me she wants something.
Twisting my head, I see Dollie’s popped around my door, long hair flowing down.
“What is it?” What exactly do I have to do, as Mom and Dad can’t currently tend to Dollie’s every need.
“I was just wondering if you wanted to watch a movie with me. I have a window seat and a dome above my room. You can sit in it with me if you want. Katie and Amy are in my room, and I’m a little nervous because they’ve been whispering scary stuff.”
I don’t bother telling her that Katie and Amy aren’t real, but I have to tell her, “The TVs aren’t set up yet.”
“I have my portable one, and I’d love…” she drags out the word love. “To watch a movie with my favorite brother in my new favorite spot. Or even the window seat! It’s the best seat in the house.”
Sure, it is… all the others are wooden and rotting.
With another stroke of my brush, more black is on the wall.
“Please…”
Sighing, I nod and place my paintbrush in the can, not stopping it as the paint pulls it down and stains half of the handle.
“Yay!” she rushes off but returns a second later, knowing I’m slower in all I do these days because of the crutch, because of the injury, because my broken heart in my chest that’s bleeding over the fact that I can barely walk, and I’ll never dance again.
Dollie starts questioning why I wanted the flashlight that I’d left on my bed. Apparently, she needs it more to scare off the shadow monster hiding under the bed in her room.
I don’t agree to give it to her as she takes it, but thinking about it, I’m happy to never go inside the walls again, with all the spiders and whatever else. So, I don’t fight for the right to keep the flashlight, either.
Dollie takes my hand and guides me to her room.
I haven’t seen it yet, and Mom and Dad will be pleased to see that we’re willingly spending time together, but all I can think of is how she’s gonna insist on her new Barbie movie that she’s watched on repeat for days, the one with the ballet dancing. And it’s gonna hurt as much as my leg.