Page 4 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Ishake the rain from my coat at the doors to our new house in a new town. We’re here becausemy new motherwanted a mansion after all four of us were cramped into a tiny apartment—her words.
I memorize a lot. It doesn’t help my trust issues.
And this house isn’t going to help my current mobility issues, but my new mother got what she wanted because Dad wanted her to have everything her heart desired.
Those were his words.
What she wanted, apparently, was a big black house, cast in the shadows of surrounding trees. It wouldn’t be so surprising if my new mother didn’t love bright colors and cozy spaces.
This place isn’t her. At all.
I take in the details, embedding each one in my memory. The dark bookcase ahead, filled with stories older than my parents and theirs, too. The giant patterned rugs that sit on the floor of each visible room. The paper on the walls is stained with black patches where dampness has attacked the ugly flowers.
With the help of a crutch, I step deeper inside the house until I’m under a flickering yellow glow and away from the chill atthe front doors and all that lurks in the gloom of what looks like giant Christmas trees.
My feet pat carefully, and the next step has my rain boots squeaking against the dark, shiny floor. I fear worsening my healing knee as I limp ahead. If I do that, I’ll never dance again. My fleckerl—my favorite move—is already ruined. Mrs. Mendrakis—my last dance teacher—thinks it’s over for me.
I hope that woman is wrong.
It’s been two months—only two months.
I could heal.
I have to heal.
My crutch helps me move as cobwebs greet me, hanging from above. My neck hurts as I crane, looking for the giant spiders who created them. I’m not a spider fan—too many legs, and don’t get me started on that skin they leave behind when they outgrow it.
My skin crawls as I move past my father, who’s smiling at me sympathetically like he knows what I’m thinking, as my thoughts sway back to dance.
He usually does.
He knows my stolen future hurts me, but he says nothing.
He shifts from his position in the doorway on my right to help Mom with the heavy front doors that she can’t close.
Moving, he reveals the room behind him. A long-abandoned music room: dust-covered tambourines line the wall, along with a cello that looks like it’s never been used. My eyes are on all the old furniture when I hear him curse this house already.
“God, what the fuck is wrong with it,” he mutters, thinking I wouldn’t hear him swear over the heavy rain. “Damn house is testing us already.”
I heard those words and all the others you’ve voiced today, Pops.
“Hon, chill. We knew buying an old house wouldn’t come without a few problems.” Mom rubs his arm.
“We at least need to be able to lock the door, love!”
And with a struggle and a lot of jingling, together, they do exactly that.
“See, nothing to worry about.” Mom’s voice becomes small as I create more distance.
The house is so big compared to me, so dark compared to my new stepsister’s little pink coat as she disappears up the stairs and fades into the blackness that dwells around the banister.
She’s two years younger than I am. Six and tiny—partly because of her health condition. Dad, trying to be the perfect stepdad, says I should look out for her because of it. He says I’m good for her—that she hardly talked before I moved in. That’s hard to believe to me. She doesn’t shut up now.
I blink, and she—Dollancie—is gone completely.
A sigh escapes me. The air from my lungs becomes a noticeable fog in this damp house.
I follow her small wet footprints deeper down the hall while Dad and Mom linger at the archway to another room, flipping a switch that doesn’t flood light into it.
