31. Ambrose—age nine
Ambrose—age nine
I t’s still dark down here. The light is still out. The dirty water is up over my knees now. I’m almost sure it’s getting deeper. I’m sure Dollie is getting skinnier as she stands in front of me with water up to her thighs.
Using my balled-up T-shirt, I help her scrub the blood from her legs, praying not to touch anything that will trigger the voice in my head.
Her accident happened yesterday, but embarrassment kept her away from me until that invisible crocodile returned.
Chattering teeth prevent me from holding my breath. I move my tongue around my mouth and feel a new adult tooth poking through my gum. My tongue moves to the other vacant space where a tooth will never fill.
A wave of sadness washes over me, and then another, knowing that somewhere outside, other children are enjoying freedom and my favorite time of year.
Fall.
Colin told us yesterday that Halloween will be soon.
I’m past crying over things we won’t get. Pumpkins and enough fake blood to scare the locals forever. I let go of the thoughts of the town fearing my name, as a patch of old blood refuses to move from Dollie’s thigh without a fight.
If it were any darker in this room, I wouldn’t see it.
I bend a little lower, straining my wounded stomach. Dirty water splashes my healing wounds, and whispers of infection tease my ears.
The voice.
Slap Dollie for creating this mess, or you’ll get infected and die.
Colin had been exceptionally cruel yesterday. He threatened Dollie with a knife. He told her he’d cut the pain right out of her.
I couldn’t let that happen.
My skin begged, slash after slash across my ribs and chest, for a break. For him to pick on someone else.
Not me.
But it couldn’t be her.
Not tiny innocent Dollie who cries for me whenever I’m not close enough for her to touch…except yesterday. I should have known something was wrong when she kept a foot between us at all times.
I’ve become her safe person.
And she’s become my reason for living. My purpose.
Determination to get this over with kicks me into gear, and I start scrubbing harder.
The voice repeats itself because I ignored it.
But I can’t bring myself to do anything that’ll put more tears on her face.
Wincing once or twice, she braves my rough hand. I almost knock her over, but my fingers quickly grab her bicep, closing around it completely and stop her from faceplanting the wet floor.
Finally, she’s clean. And that means I can stop fighting off thoughts of germs and the fear of catching her illness. Now, I’m only left with the worry of infection.
The voice continues.
I need to get out of this water.
The tiny body that belongs to my sister moves with me like a shadow as I step away. Her bony hand slips into mine, and she smiles up at me.
I freeze on her image, looking so different from the little sister I never wanted. Dark purple hangs around her eyes, and those sunken cheeks make her face skeletal. She no longer has a golden glow to match her hair. Hair that now bushes at her ears with so many tangles.
It’s no struggle as I hoist her up onto the dresser. Trying hard to ignore the voice in my head that changes direction and speaks of the germs she carries, I hum over it.
She’s so light, she could die . That thought slips through.
We’re fed daily, but it’s always something that doesn’t agree with Dollie. Yesterday, it was vegetables again. Green vegetables again. Not only were they not her safe color, but they are actually bad for her. I’m slowly learning things.
The three I’d coaxed her to eat because her energy was slipping away had her stomach inflate like one of those balloons she loves so much.
“What are you singing?”
“You don’t know?” I jump up at her side and let her tuck herself into me. Her rocking rocks us both.
“I’m sorry you don’t have a T-shirt. We could try to dry it by the fire if we can make it work.”
The fire is never lit, sitting on some step that’s only big enough to occupy it. I shake my head, not wanting her to stress over my T-shirt because now that it’s unwrapped from my hand, I will never touch it again.
“You didn’t tell me what your song was.”
“It’s your song.”
“It’s not Mom’s lullaby.”
“I’ll sing that one next. This one was from your Barbie movie.”
The basement door creaks open before she can answer, and a sinister tune comes down the stairs, making me forget the melody in my head.
A Christmas carol.
Dollie had been singing it yesterday because Christmas makes her happy, and she was trying so hard to find a reason to smile. Dad always said it was unlucky to sing carols when it wasn’t Christmas, and I feel unlucky now.
Now that Colin is back.
Flappy shoes hit the wooden steps, and each one moans beneath them.
The song continues, the clown’s terrible voice hurting my ears.
Dollie trembles against me. Tiny fingers wrap around my hand, and I glance down to see the nails she’s chewed until they’ve bled.
A splash calls my attention to see Colin standing in the water. Dollie pushes her ear against my ribs, hating the sound of the water. Even that’s too much for her now.
Looking on, I can vaguely make out that I’m crying from my reflection in the blade in his hand.
Maybe it’s stress, possibly fear, or the pressure of protecting my sister.
The blade is bigger than the one he usually hurts me with, and it doesn’t hide inside a little red handle.
A pitiful cry echoes in the room as Dollie squeezes my hand harder.
I take her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles before telling her, “I won’t let him hurt you. You’re my little sister. I’ll protect you always, I promise.”