“He . . . Heathan James . . . it’s . . . it’s not possible . . .” she stammered and ran her eyes over me. Every inch of me.
“Rabbit.” The bitch flinched at my correction. “I am Rabbit. The motherfucking White Rabbit. So never fucking utter that peasant name to me again.”
Her skin paled, and her eyes fell to Dolly sitting on the chair. Dolly still hadn’t moved. I shifted my grip on the box I had brought inside, about to hold it out to Mrs. Jenkins when she asked, “How are you here?”
I threw the box across the room. It landed right at her feet. “Dress her.”
“Wh-what?” Mrs. Jenkins asked.
I pointed to the box at her feet. “Dress her. It wasn’t a request.” Mrs. Jenkins shook as she picked up the box and moved to where Dolly sat. Dolly didn’t look at her either. Mrs. Jenkins opened the lid of the box and gasped again.
Her old, wrinkled eyes snapped up to mine. “No—”
Before she had even finished the sentence, I had reached into my pocket and pulled out my knife. I ran the flat side of the blade down my cheek. Slowly. Controlled. Watching her terrified gaze track my every move. “You’d best do as I ask, Mrs. Jenkins. My patience and tolerance for you appear to be at an all-time low.”
She swallowed and, hands shaking like an earthquake, pulled out a blue dress, black waist belt, and black-and-white striped knee-high socks. Black ankle boots followed, along with a black silk headband adorned with a black bow.
Mrs. Jenkins straightened. “She hasn’t worn these dresses since the day you left. She . . . she is no longer that person. She is no longer obsessed with that book . . .”
I vividly recalled the very day she referred to. The blood on the striped socks pooled at Dolly’s ankles, the blood on the trim of her new, adult blue dress . . . “I’m back, bitch,” I spat out. “Dolly will be in color once again. She’ll be my Dolly, not the fuck-thing you all groomed her to be when you destroyed her innocent mind.” I pointed the knife at the old woman’s face. “Dress her. And make it quick.”
Mrs. Jenkins reached her frail old hand out for Dolly. It took every ounce of my self-control not to rush forward and snap those bones in my hands. In many places, relishing each and every crack.
Mrs. Jenkins pulled Dolly to her feet and led her to the dressing room attached to the bedroom. Dolly followed her nanny without any semblance of awareness. Her black dress reached the floor, tenting her willowy body. Dolly was small. Maybe only five foot one.
Small, but all grown up.
As the door shut, my heart struggled to slow down at the thought of how she would look when she reappeared. Then I thought of her dead eyes and knew Henry had been right. Knew my biggest fear had been realized. I prayed that Henry’s wise counsel would work.
“If she’s been hurt as much as you believe, if her mind is as fragile and childish as you believe,” Henry said, “she may not be the person you once knew.”
“What do you mean?”
“Repression, probably; I worked primarily with repressed patients when I practiced psychology. Severe abuse or trauma can prompt timid fantastical personalities, such as Dolly, to shut down. Like a frightened child may hide under a bed when she is scared, a character with a fragile mind may find solace in a similar manner. But her safe place will not be under a bed, under her comforter or in a closet, but rather in the depths of her mind. Dolly may have locked herself behind a metaphorical mental door—no talking, no real living. Seek out her uniquely programmed protection mode. She may have adopted another personality to cope. A new personality, which to her way of thinking hasn’t been touched or sullied. One that can face the world when her original self cannot.”
“Like you,” I asked. “Like you with Hyde?”
Henry’s face clouded over at the mere mention of the other being lurking in his mind. “Hyde and I are . . . a unique case. Let’s just leave it there.” He leaned forward. “If you find your Dolly repressed, in repose from this world, you can attempt to lure her back to you with familiar but— most importantly—safe things. Things she loved, she adored, she liked. Things uniquely safe to her. Above all, things she recognized as belonging in her world.” I listened to every morsel of advice Henry gave. “It may not work. Some minds, once cracked open, are lost forever, their prisons immune to breakthrough. But if there’s a chance, that’s how you bring your darlin’ back to you from inside the panic room in her head. With things she loved.”