64. Dollie—age thirteen
Dollie—age thirteen
E verything is a blur as it moves in front of me. Mine and Ambrose’s arms being pried from each other’s bodies by men in white coats. Ambrose’s body shuddering, and his face scrunching.
They shouldn’t be touching him, but their fingers squeeze his tanned skin, denting his perfection.
The watering of his eyes brings so much emotion to mine, the first tears falling as I grip him harder. My arm makes it around his neck, my legs around his waist. I lock onto him, refusing to let go, and I grapple with my doorframe, holding it with my other hand in a desperate death grip.
Losing that grip, my fingers fly back to Ambrose, clutching at his clothes.
“I won’t let go.”
Men’s arms wrap around me, pulling me away from the person I love most in the world as we move through the hallways and away from my perfectly lit room.
From the tranquil hue that suits us both, to bright hallways that Ambrose squints his way through as he’s dragged backward.
His legs kick and thrash, unable to break away from the forty fingers boring into him.
I hiss in Dad’s direction, seeing him at the stairs, leaning over and covering the eyes of a gargoyle with an arm that takes his weight.
Katie and Amy stand behind him, whispering things into each other’s ears behind cupped hands.
“What did you say!” I yell at them, and Dad mistakes my direction.
“Only that we need help.” His lips become tight, not realizing I was talking to someone else.
My skin prickles with goosebumps because these days, I only see these girls when I’m sad or stressed… and no one else sees them at all.
Those feelings will become overpowering if I let these people take Ambrose away. I’ll be haunted.
I turn, watering eyes back on Dad, feeling no pity for him and the cut above his eye that sits with a purple swelling around it.
Making it downstairs, Dad’s heavy footsteps follow, and Mom appears from somewhere, too. Sadness is a common expression for her, but it’s stronger today on her blotchy red face.
Pointless whispered apologies seep from her mouth to Ambrose, while, as usual, Dad says nothing. Both parents peel at my arms, forcing me to break my connection with my brother.
Ambrose’s feet protest and slide in his socks over the shiny wooden floor, as the strangers and our parents drag our torsos away from each other.
“No. No!”
Ambrose’s wild eyes mirror my tone as Mom steps between us, her hands removing my legs from around his waist, the only physical thing joining us together as those guys in white keep his hands behind his back, stopping him from reaching for me.
And then, we have nothing.
Screams fill the air, all my desperation coming out in broken sobs that I doubt even my mother, who stands inches from me, understands.
Ambrose feels them all, tears dripping from his eyes, telling me everything I need to know.
That our time together is over.
I claw at the air between us. My throat turns raw, and my voice breaks as I continue screaming.
Turning on her heel away from the noise I’m making, Mom’s red, rimmed eyes stare at him. “It’s for the best, baby. They’re gonna help with your moods. Gonna make you more independent, and then you can come home. I promise, it’s not forever. You will come home.”
Ambrose’s head snaps around, lips moving to one of the doctors standing at the open doors.
A chill creeps in around them, and it runs down my spine.
The doctor, a middle-aged guy with bright orange hair that shines in the bright lights of this house, doesn’t lose his stern expression as Ambrose silently tries to communicate with him.
They can’t be trusted, he mouths quickly.
It’s the last thing I see before doctors shove his feet into his least favorite pair of sneakers, a white pair that proudly shows off every stain.
This is it, the end of us.
They pull him through the doors.
Dad’s fingers no longer clutch my arms, imprisoning me, but his back is blocking my view, and in my stupor, I don’t realize the heavy wood slams in my face until it’s too late.
The noise snaps me back to reality, and I rush forward.
Both of my hands lock around the handle a second too late. Dad’s key clicks as it turns and locks from the other side.
My fists pound on the door, all the desperation I feel coming out in hysterical screams as I bash the wood.
“You can’t do this! You can’t take him away from me! I need him! You can’t take him from me!”
“Dollancie,” Mom steps up behind me, her gentle touch on my shoulder irritates my skin, and I shrug her away before spinning on my heel to face her.
My socks fall down my legs. They’re the only things I’m wearing aside from one of Ambrose’s T-shirts and the underwear below.
The scent of old books clings to the plain pink tee that he’d asked for last Christmas because he knew it was my favorite color.
The smell reminds me of the stories we’d read this week: Emma, Pride and Prejudice, and his favorite, Wuthering Heights. Of times that have come to an end.
“How could you do that?” I snap at my mother. “He was defending you for sticking up for us.”
“He hit your father because of you, not me. And Dad is right. You are too close.” Mom talks with her hands, giving me something to focus on. “And you are too young to be acting the way you are with anyone, never mind your brother. It is wrong.”
“No! You’re making things dirty when they aren’t!”
I’d done nothing. It was a simple kiss on my brother’s cheek. It could have only looked innocent to my parents.
They couldn’t read my thoughts. They weren’t close enough to see the goosebumps spread across my arms as they stormed into his bathroom.
Ambrose and I had been in there together.
Him in a towel, shorts below it. Me in his tee because he’d gotten me wet when I put him in the shower to cool down after an episode of what we’d learned are anxiety attacks.
The cold water drowned out his thoughts for a little while, but then it wasn’t enough. He needed to touch me, to hold my hand to ground himself while I sang to him.
Mom and Dad didn’t believe me when I told them what had happened.
Dad blamed Mom for not being stricter with us.
Mom cried and screamed of feeling guilty about something.
All those painful words slapping Dad in the face until he pushed her away, and she fell, just missing the bed that Ambrose never sleeps in.
It triggered something in him when Mom looked his way and apologized like she’d done thousands of times before.
.. and he lunged forward. So much rage came out in flying fists, all aimed at Dad’s face.
Mom was still talking about guilt when we managed to come between them.
And guilt is still plastered on her face now, in place of the heavy makeup she wore when we were younger.
Tears fall down my cheeks. “What do you and Dad mean when you talk about guilt?”
Before Mom can collect her emotions enough to make herself understandable, the front doors unlock, and before Dad can stop me, I race through them, not caring what she has to say because they keep so much from me.
“Dollancie!” he screams, charging behind me.
Rain assaults my body, forcing Ambrose’s T-shirt to cling to me. It doesn’t compare to the safety of his arms. Big steps tread mud to get down the hill faster to the car that takes him away.
I follow rear lights as they shift through dark trees, following another car of doctors and picking up speed as they leave our property.
“No,” I pant out. “Ambrose, no!”
I can just about make out his sad features as he looks at me through the rear-view window of the crammed car.
Dark eyebrows knit together on his pale face.
His skin is usually darker this time of year, despite the storms. The ten minutes of sun we shared yesterday in the backyard were enough to enhance his tone, and yet somehow, that color has drained from him.
Green eyes stay on me as he struggles in the backseat to break away from the men on each side of him.
“Please, don’t go,” I beg, knowing the only person who can hear me is Dad. His legs bring him closer, as my tired legs continue.
My lungs burn with each step, and the cold wind attacks my wet cheeks.
“Come back. I need you. Please, come back!” The car doesn’t stop, and his face fades away with the red lights.
“No, I need you!” I collapse in defeat and fall into mud, which splashes up my clothes and limbs. “Ambrose, I love you! Come back to me!”