Page 249 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Her eyes pay little attention to the whisk and bowl in her hands. Eyes on my body, she wants to look at my scratches, missing the days when she could touch me without me having a breakdown.
I shiver, discomfort clawing at me. I keep my arms around Dollie, minimizing it, because while I feel how much Mom cares these days, by spending her every waking hour trying to invade Dollie and my lives, educating us, inviting our only friends over for dinner on occasion, pretending we’re a normal family, we can’t erase the past.
To this day, it’s never come up between us, that I know all the things I do.
I keep those thoughts to myself, using them only as ammunition for my broken brain.
Dollie doesn’t know. Can’t know. She’s seeing ghosts in every corner of this house, shadows that move without being attached to a host. She’s haunted enough… by the past, and by whatever she thinks lurks in this house. She can’t find out that our parents put us in the hands of a maniac, who to this day walks free, all for some book deals that would pay to fix up this shit hole.
That’s exactly what it is now.
It isn’t the creepy old house that enchanted me with the stories the old pictures told. It’s a mess of half-finished jobs that Mom can’t face, and Dad has no time for. They have the money, but the motivation is gone, taken with our childhoods and all for fucking nothing.
The guilt keeps Mom’s head low whenever she looks my way, and it keeps the weight off her fragile bones. She fears, I know. I can feel it.
“Ambrose, your arm?” Mom’s eyes flick back to me through bushy, uncut bangs. The color is somewhere between blonde and brunette these days, but stress has welcomed a few grays, which are pinned back in a loose bun. I kinda wish she would divert her attention to her appearance and take it away from me.
The giant mixing bowl in front of her swallows up her frame as I look at her and shake my head.
I won’t be showing her my arm, even if she drops to her knees and begs. My skin is raw from the itch I can never seem to scratch away. I keep it at Dollie’s waist, pinning her to me. Having her close makes things slightly better on my nerves.
“Are you not feeling like signing? I thought we said it would help with communication.”
It has, I’ll give that to Mom. She puts in so much more time with me than Dad, the man who can hardly look at me, does.
That’s his choice.
And mine is that I’d prefer to keep my distance from them both. I shift across the kitchen, taking Dollie with me.
A new smell enters the room, overpowering the cupcakes Mom is baking. Vanilla is drowned out by a musky cologne that clings to Dad.
“Evening, guys.” Water drips from his hair.
“Hey, Daddy!” Dollie has a big, welcoming smile on her face.
“Hey, princess. Did you save me a cupcake?”
“They’re not done yet. We’re running behind, aren’t we?” Dollie gazes up at me, and I match her expression with a smile as she brushes my longer strands of hair from my face.
It’s been a while since I cut it because it annoys Mom whenever I do it myself, and it annoys me when she reminds me of how uneven it is.
Smile at Dad three times, or Dollie dies tonight.
False happiness appears and disappears from my face, once, twice, three times.
Dad’s eyes bore into me, flicking to Dollie as her soft fingers slide down over my cheek.
“Keep smiling. It makes my heart happy.”
“Gen’, a word.” Dad points over his shoulder.
Mom follows him to the dining room, her shadow still in view as she pulls out a chair.
“I know what you’re gonna say, and I’ve tried.”
“Try harder.” The words come out thick and fast in his accent.
“Come with me.” Dollie leads me to the other side of the kitchen, finding Mom’s perfectly mixed frosting set aside on the breakfast table. “I think we should just taste a little bit. What do you think?” Wide, hopeful eyes stare up at me.
