Page 278 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
I knew differently.
I knew Dollie was awake when she saw all those things.
I knew magic rituals wouldn’t work, but I let her believe they’d keep her safe when she found a spell book on the old shelves. I sat in salt circles and organized crystals for her when times were scariest.
I never communicated it to my parents because I didn’t trust them to keep her safe.
And then it was too late.
They were gone.
Dollie stiffens in my arms, her legs kicking wildly. She catches me in my bad knee. I grit my teeth, and so does she, hysterical sobbing coming through the tiny gaps.
Her grip on me tightens, terror-filled eyes wide and on me, pleading for help.
“I don’t know how it happened, but I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I could change everything.”
I tuck her in, holding her tightly against me. Pressing her face into my chest, where she can see nothing around me. Her kneesjerk, catching me in the balls so hard, she steals my breath. Air stammers from my mouth into her hair.
“I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I could change everything,” like a broken record, she repeats the exact same words as she thrashes in panic. And while I know she wouldn’t intentionally hurt me, I know these words aren’t for me.
She isn’t present right now.
And her words are still for who she’s trapped in this bathroom with.
Our Mom and Dad.
Her gaze moves to me, sad eyes meeting mine. “Tell them I’m sorry. They hate me. Please, tell them I’m sorry.”
“They don’t hate you, Dollie.” I manage to vocalize through the pain in my throat and heart. “They don’t.”
“They do, they do.” Her head collapses against my neck, snot, tears, and drool drip onto my shirt, but I can’t give any of that a second thought. “Please, make them understand. I can’t live like this.”
I nod, pulling her tight to me as I smooth through her hair.
Wide nostrils suck in air, the stench of this room making me feel ill again as I dig into painful memories.
Still in that same spot on the floor, I rock, Dollie in my arms.
And I talk, and knowing it’s to nothing but the broken pieces of Dollie’s mind, I tell Dad everything I ever wanted to.
“Do you remember what you told me, Dad?” My first tear falls. “That night? I do. It was the first time you touched me in years. I reached for you, already holding Mom, and I waited to see if you’d take my hand. Or if I was still too dirtied by all the things you couldn’t face in the hardest of moments. Sometimes, I can still feel your hand in mine. You used your last moments to tell me you were sorry, and to ask me to look after my sister, that she needed help. That it wasn’t her who hurt you. That it wasn’ther fault, and you wanted her safe.” I nod again, Dollie’s wide eyes drifting to me and then the empty space behind me. “I hope I did right by her by going away?—”
“No, don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me,” her tiny face becomes background music to my voice. I hold her tighter, my spread fingers letting her know that I’m not going anywhere.
“But she needs help again, and I can’t leave her this time. To help her this time, I need to send you away for now.” The words escape in a strained whisper.
Struggling up to my feet, I keep her plastered to me as I shift us into the kitchen and start opening cabinet doors. In an imperfect voice, I sing a song for the first time in years—a melodic story from her favorite Barbie movie that I shouldn’t still have in my head.
I’m thanked by silence and almond nails digging into my neck. Icy terror still sits in her eyes, her complexion graying with worry as she stares down at my mouth, hers gulping in big breaths of air.
Condiment jars scrape the wooden shelf as I move stuff around quickly, finally finding the salt at the back.
Fast feet rush us back to the bathroom, and I pop off the lid with my thumb.
It drops and pirouettes, leading the way to where I start sprinkling salt. Quickly, I cover as much of the room as possible. Tiny grains crunch under my feet as I shift over the hard floor.
“Look,” I stop my song to tell her something that might just calm her down. “The salt has sent them away.”
