Page 274 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
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 thosepainful 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!”
CHAPTER 65
Ambrose—present day
Crouched over, the strong scent of vomit rises up and burns my nose. Stomach lining and a few of those mushy potatoes from yesterday fill the sink.
