Page 109 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
She doesn’t have an answer. All she has are more questions that she fires at me on a quick call during an escape from dinner with her work friends. I end the call, promising to call if I get scared, but the second she’s off the phone, fear wraps around me, and I break that promise.
It isn’t fair for me to keep her on the phone.
But I need someone to talk to.
Lucky…
I’d like to say I managed to get a good night’s sleep last night, but it would be a lie. Ambrose stayed true to his word and didn’t bother me—well, not outside of knowing that he’s here, in this house, dressed like a fucking clown.
The death threat from all those years ago taunted me until way past midnight, staying loud in the bright room as I tried to relax enough to sleep. But how could I sleep when he’s living here? Him, a clown who’d threatened me.
I thought tears would have dried my eyes shut.
It didn’t happen.
And I look awful because of it today, with puffy eyes and blotchy skin.
Silently, I can’t help but wonder if that’s why Bubbles is avoiding me by playing in the yard when it’s as cold as it is.
She’s been out there for more than an hour now, chasing long-legged bugs that fly across the dank background of weeds and destroyed garden gnomes. In that time, I’ve barely found the energy to move.
After a night on the bathroom floor, each limb aches as I stretch on the chaise lounge. The only thing that gets me moving is Ambrose strolling into the room with his permanent limp. Every scar is on show, thanks to his topless display. The ones on his face look fresh beneath his painted skin. The ones on his body definitely are.
The image of him makes me tremble, and I rush back to the bathroom before he nears me.
Gray sweatpants are the only thing he’s wearing, aside from a double band-aid below his elbow. He’s probably cut too deep. I try to focus on the old childlike band-aids and not how the sweats hang low on his hips as he slips into the kitchen. He lingers in there and makes Bubbles some breakfast, paying little attention to me, hiding in the bathroom, as he takes it outside.
With him out of view, I move from my position of peeking around the door to the mirror. And discover my image is definitely the reason Bubbles wants little to do with me. She isn’t even bothered by the clown makeup or self-abuse all over Ambrose’s face.
But I am…why are those scars fresh? Why has he butchered himself?
“God, why do you care?” I ask the mirror as I plaster on concealer thickly.
As if someone above is punishing me, my boob blasts me with pain, reminding me of the lump I’ve tried to forget.
A noise rings out in the kitchen, and I spin to see if it’s my parents judging me, but it’s just Ambrose as he grabs a water from the fridge and moves to the kitchen wall, doing something strange with the skirting boards.
As if he feels he’s being watched, he turns to me and pretends to be brushing away a little dust.
God, I don’t even know him anymore. The Ambrose I knew would never have touched that stuff.
With barely a smile, those fresh cuts are cracking and bleeding through the white paint. Then he’s gone back through the dining room and heading upstairs.
Bubbles’ whining speaks of her disappointment as she peeks through the open door.
There is little point in me going to her, given her avoidance of me and my unsightly face, so I stay at the mirror, examining today’s temporary flaws.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Shane:
Can we talk?
Please.
I am sorry, you know.
I miss you so much.
