2008. Ten-year-old me

After three years leaving me in peace, the attempts to socialize me resumed. One day my mum and I returned from a checkup and found visitors at our house. A man I'd never seen before, tall and intimidatingly serious. A woman next to him, blond, beautiful, and impeccably dressed. And there were two teenagers, fourteen or fifteen years old, a boy and a girl. They looked similar, pale-skinned, with big, deer-like eyes and curly brown hair. They were both a head taller than me.

The girl was looking at a trophy John had won in the city curling championships, and the interest she took in John's prize immediately put her on my enemies list.

The boy stood tense and frozen in the middle of the room, and he looked around, squinting at everything. He obviously did not like it here.

Well, I don't like you, either, I decided, and got ready to bolt. But just then my father stood up from his chair and spoke to me.

"Dolores, come in, sweetheart. Say hello to Mr. Veland and his wife Ingrid. And this is Vibeke and William."

"Hello." I lifted the hem of my imaginary skirt and made a clownish curtsy. Given my jeans, windbreaker and muddy boots, I was hoping that my act would offend these unwanted guests and they'd get out of my house. But nobody took offense. The woman gave me a warm smile, and the girl tilted her head to one side, studying me, intrigued. But the boy looked me over, head to toe, then averted his eyes again.

"We have some business to discuss with Mr. and Mrs. Veland, sweetie. Why don't you show Vibeke and William around the house and the garden? Then we'll have dinner in a little while, okay?"

"Where's John?" I whispered, feeling awkward with all these strangers staring at me.

I hoped he wouldn't come home. I hoped he wouldn't see this strange girl with the round face and adorable splash of freckles across her nose. What if she latched on to him and asked him to show her all his trophies? He had so many of them! I wouldn't see my brother for three hours after that!

"John will be back from practice soon to keep you company."

Crap.

Daddy asked Melissa to serve them coffee in the living room. I spun around and headed for the back yard without looking back. It was only when I was stepping outside that I realized the older kids were following me, quietly, warily, like beasts from the forest. They probably sensed that I wanted to whack them with a hurl stick. Too bad John had taken his with him to practice.

"Your name is Dolores, yes?" Vibeke asked. Her voice was low and smooth, as if she'd eaten too much ice cream, and she had a slight accent. Definitely not from our town. Nobody in Athlone talked like that.

I didn't answer. I didn't feel like talking to her.

"Can I call you Dolly?" she asked.

"No!"

Dolly was much too sweet and girly for me. I hated it. I wasn't anyone's doll!

"Is your family from Spain? That's not a very common name for Ireland, is it?" she asked.

"Sure it is. Dolores O'Riordan is the singer from the Cranberries." I went on, counting on my fingers. "Dolores McNamara. She's from Limerick, and she won the biggest lottery jackpot in Irish history, a hundred and twelve million euros! Dolores Keane. Another singer. My grandma likes her, but I don't. There's a nurse named Dolores who took my blood at the hospital today. That's what she had on her name badge, DOLORES. So I assume that's her name. Otherwise why would she stick it on herself, right here?" I asked, jabbing myself in my left breast—or, actually, in the place where it would supposedly grow one day.

"Fine, fine, I believe you," Vibeke said, laughing. "So it is a fairly common name. But what does it mean?"

I knew exactly what my name meant, and I hated it. Sometimes I even thought that my name was the source of all my problems. It didn't mean anything very pleasant. My mum's name meant "beloved." My brother's name meant "wise." But mine...

"Let's talk about you, instead," I said, annoyed. What's your name again? Chewbacca?"

I remembered her name. But I felt like being mean.

"Vibeke," the girl answered, stopping beside me on the steps leading into the garden.

"And his name is, what, Walter?" I nodded toward her silent brother, who was peering glumly at the garden, looking bored. It was late autumn, so there really wasn't much to look at.

"That's William," Vibeke corrected me patiently. "You'll be able to remember that one. That name is as popular here as it is where we're from."

"Where are you from?"

"Norway."

"You're from Norway?"

"Yes, we flew in today. Your dad and ours are doing some business together."

"You speak English well," I said, and Vibeke thanked me, which was weird. She probably thought I was trying to give her a compliment. But I was just saying the thoughts in my head. "Does Walter speak it?"

The girl tossed a look at her brother and smiled awkwardly.

"No, he doesn't speak English. William, not Walter. They teach, um, French at their school."

"So he doesn't understand what we're saying? Awesome!"

"No," Vibeke sighed, giving her brother another look.

"That's good, because I don't like him," I said. "I don't like anything about him! His long hair looks stupid. And his face! It looks like everything makes him want to puke. Why'd he come around here with a face like that? You know I spent all day at the hospital, getting stuck with needles? This is not a good day for you guys to show up. Plus, what's wrong with him? Are his hands stuck in his pockets?" William just stood there nearby, as if nothing was going on, staring at the colorless sky overhead.

Vibeke definitely hadn't expected that outburst. Her eyes got big and round, and she wasn't giving me such a happy look as she had a minute ago.

"I'm sorry. That's a shame. About the hospital."

Insane. How could anyone be so polite? John would have slapped me. She was probably weighing her options. Vibeke was four years older than me, maybe even five, but I wasn't about to back down. I figured my special talents could easily compensate for the difference in age. My talent for fighting, for instance.

"But you shouldn't say that about William. He's the best brother in the world. And his hair's only long on top," Vibeke added. "It's shaved underneath. When he puts it in a ponytail it looks really cool."

"I doubt it," I said, and just then, my heart dropped down to my feet. Practically down to my little toe.

A car pulled up to the house, and John hopped out of the passenger side. He opened the trunk, tossed his backpack over one shoulder, and picked up his hurl stick and helmet. Man, was he good-looking! He was a walking miracle, not a boy. Not a young man, I should have said. He was fifteen by then. His blond hair was cut short, and he had a smile on his face and a spark in his eye. I stood there enjoying the sight—and obviously, Vibeke was doing the same.

"Hi," said John, eyeing our guests.

I opened my mouth to explain who they were, but Vibeke beat me to it.

"Hi! I'm Vibeke, and this is William. We came here with our parents to visit you for a few days."

"A few days?" I burst out.

Vibeke didn't even hear me. She was too busy drowning in my brother's eyes.

"I'm John," he told her. He tried to shake hands, but William wouldn't (what an ass!). He only nodded.

"We were going for a walk. Want to come with us?" Vibeke batted her eyelashes.

She had a lot of nerve! I was about to tell her off, but John spoke before I could.

"Just let me get changed," he said.

What? Excuse me? When did this happen?? When did I stop being the most important person in this house?!

John kissed me on the forehead and headed inside. Vibeke watched him go, arms crossed over her chest.

And what a chest! She had actual breasts, obvious breasts, thanks to the way her angora sweater stretched. I couldn't quite understand what I was feeling. Jealousy? Envy? My chest was as flat as my brother's, and for some reason, I suddenly thought that was terrible.

Before my eyes, Vibeke had suddenly ascended to unbelievable heights, some place so high I could never catch up. Not even if I pushed her to the ground and started pummeling her with my fists... John wouldn't let me beat her up, though. And not just because a fight with Vibeke would definitely send me to the hospital with burns. It was because she was gorgeous, tall, grown up, and had boobs.

John came back quicker than I'd expected, wearing his favorite t-shirt. He'd put gel in his hair and a string bracelet on his wrist, and he only wore those sneakers for special occasions...

I gave Vibeke a look. She was the special occasion. Suddenly, my brother was driving me just as crazy as these two unfamiliar teenagers. What an idiot! He's fifteen and he's got a crush like a little kid! All dressed up, cologne and everything! And that grin on his face... All this for some stupid girl with tits!

"John and Vibeke, sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" I started chanting, my hands stuffed angrily in my pockets.

"Lori!" John scolded me.

"First comes love, then comes marriage!"

"Ready to go?" Vibeke asked, paying me no attention. "Anything interesting to do here?"

"We have this huge trampoline. Have you ever jumped on one of those? Do you know how to do a flip?" John asked, cooing at her and showing off his radiant grin.

"Then comes John with a baby carriage!" I shouted. I turned and stomped away, kicking angrily at the gravel that lined the walkway.

"Dolores!" John called after me. "Why are you acting like such a baby?"

"Leave me alone!" I growled back, and walked faster, almost running. I was almost choking on my own disappointment. So I went to the place I knew I'd find comfort: the little house in the back yard, surrounded by a simple fence. That's where my parents put my dog when we had company. She didn't like strangers any more than I did, and always got nervous around them.

Hazel had grown up, and impressively. She weighted twice as much as me, almost sixty kilos. With her brick-brown fur and black face, white chest, and round little ears, she sometimes reminded me more of a giant cat than a dog.

When Hazel saw me, she stood up, resting her huge front paws on the low barrier. I walked in and gave her a hug. We tumbled together into the sawdust and rolled around together.

"Hazel!" I sighed, pressing my face into the white fur on her chest. My tears flowed. "Some Chewbacca came to see us, and John is totally in love with her. And she's nothing. You should see her. And her brother's a total moron! He has hair like a girl! Why did they have to come here? What for?"

Hazel pricked up her ears and turned to look at something past the fence. I tried to follow her gaze. That Walter, or whatever his name was, was standing close by, looking around. Completely alone. Vibeke and John must have decided to have a little time just the two of them. No witnesses. My cheeks burned hot, and invisible claws clutched at my throat.

"Hey!" I shouted at him. "Get out of here! Your sister's an idiot! And so are you!"

But the boy didn't budge. I picked up the stick Hazel had been chewing two minutes before and threw it at him as hard as I could. The stick landed at William's feet. He gave me a completely indifferent look, then turned around and started to walk away.

"That's right! Get out! Move it!"

I picked up a chunk of dry dirt, hard as a rock, and threw that after him, too. This time I almost hit him. The clump flew right over his head.

William turned back, picked up his own clump of dirt, and launched it. He was more accurate. It crashed into the fence just in front of me and exploded into a cloud of dust. I started squinting and coughing. Hazel stared at him over her front paws and growled threateningly.

"Are you crazy?" I howled. "Do you know anything about dogs? This is a real akita! She'll rip you to shreds! Idiot!"

At that, the silent William flashed me a mocking grin, and his middle finger.

"What's the matter with you?" I shouted again.

He answered in a language I didn't know. That must have been Norwegian. Even though I didn't understand a word, his tone of voice made it clear he wasn't saying anything nice.

Then I found a rock and walked out, past Hazel's fence. She was agitated, panting hard and barking. I wound up and threw the rock at William. This time, he ducked too slowly, and my little present hit him right in the face. I'm sure my good aim surprised him. Take that!, I thought.

Blood was running from his nose, over his lips and chin. William spat and came toward me, walking fast. Suddenly all my bravado and insolence retreated. Before I knew it, William was in my face. He grabbed my jacket collar and tackled me, pushing me to the ground. I screamed and twisted under him. I tried to scratch his face, but he was much bigger and stronger than me.

"Go to hell! Go to hell!" I howled at him.

William grabbed me by the wrist, held me down, and moved his own face right up to mine. His wide gray eyes looked enormous, set in his pale face.

"Stupid. Little. Monster," he said, in slow, perfect English. "I'd give you a beating, but you're just a kid."

"Then you can try beating up my dog," I shouted at him. "Hazel! Sic him! Sic him!"

I've gone back to that moment, in my head, a million times. Everything could have gone so much differently. I could have just bit my tongue and accepted my defeat with pride. I could have dealt with him myself, without bringing the dog into it. Or I could have just burst into tears, and William would have walked away. But I could not cope with the emotional typhoon inside me.

Hazel obeyed my command. She jumped the fence, and in half a second, sixty kilograms of canine fury were all over William. She tossed him away from me like his body weighed nothing. He didn't scream, but his mouth gasped soundlessly for air while my dog's sharp teeth tore at his chest, his face, and his arms as he tried to protect himself. Then I saw the blood. Bright red, and spurting. William's white sweater was stained a dirty scarlet.

"Hazel! Hazel, stop!"

She was too busy whipping William's body from side to side to obey.

"Stop it, Hazel!"

The dog didn't even seem to hear me. I tried to pull her away, but it was hopeless—her paws were bigger than my hands.

There was only one thing I could do... I threw myself right on top of William's body and hugged him as tight as I could. I squeezed his arms under me so Hazel's teeth couldn't grab them anymore. I wrapped an arm around his head and pressed my face to his so that my dog couldn't get to it. Hazel tried attacking William's leg, but I kicked her in the face.

"No, Hazel! NO!" I shouted, so loud I lost my voice. I'd never shouted so loud in my life. "Get away from him!"

William moaned. I thought he might be passing out from the pain. His face was awash in blood and there was a gaping wound in one cheek. He lifted a hand and weakly pushed me away. Two fingers dangled off his hand unnaturally, and I screamed, sobbed, and called for help.

"Mummy! Daddy! John! Hang on! Somebody will come! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, you're right, I'm a monster..."

I'm a monster, and even my name means "suffering!" That's what it means! Dolores: suffering and pain!

My clothes were soaked with William's blood. My hands, my face—there was blood everywhere. I knew I'd pay the price for touching him. Touching other people's skin leaves burns, but other people's blood eats through my skin like acid. Yet what choice did I have? I couldn't have just stood there and let him die!

The first one to reach us was our neighbor, Mr. Robin, a gray-haired old bachelor who had seen the whole bloody scene from his yard. He carried a garden hose, and he turned it on Hazel, managing to chase her away. Then he pulled me off William, and as he shouted, our parents came running... I don't remember very clearly what happened next. I think they tore off my clothing and turned Mr. Robin's hose on me to wash off the blood. The water was ice cold, but it burned like fire.

Then there were sirens, loud and terrifying...

And then darkness.

***

When I was six years old, I was a wild child.

When I was eight, the sight of unfamiliar children in my house sent me into hysterics.

And when I was ten, I sicced my dog on another child. That time, my burns weren't too bad—my clothes had protected me. I only spent one week in the hospital, and a few more in an outpatient clinic. That whole time, I thought of William: his torn cheek, and the two fingers barely hanging off his hand. I thought about how scary and painful it must have been for him. And I thought of how his mum must have cried. She'd brought him to visit us clean and handsome and healthy, and look at who she took home with her.

A cripple? Disfigured?

No! No, I didn't even want to think those words. They sounded terrible, too painful, too ugly. Those words got stuck in my throat whenever I tried to pronounce them. William wouldn't be disfigured. He couldn't be! I couldn't have messed up that badly, could I?

After that day, my parents stopped inviting people to visit. Horrible rumors began to spread. That McBride girl was the spawn of the devil, they said. Maybe she was even insane. And they have a dog who's obviously a psychopath. And the mother and father? Where were they? Some family, those McBrides!

Once or twice, John came home from school with bruises. He'd gotten into fights with someone who'd insulted us. I could just imagine him shouting: "My sister is not insane! And neither is our dog! It was just defending her!" Then his fists would fly...

Poor John. My poor family. My poor pup.

Soon enough, some people from animal control paid us a visit. They came inside, talked with my parents, and wanted to take Hazel. But I'd rather have offered myself up to be drawn and quartered than let her go. I didn't know what people like that did to dogs or where they took them in their official-looking van, but something told me that the dogs they took away didn't come home again.

I ran outside and rushed to the tree at the far end of the yard, where Hazel liked to nap after lunch. I slipped my fingers under her collar and dragged her with me through a hole in the fence, the one she sometimes used to run away, and I led her to the park nearby. This time, Hazel obeyed me perfectly, as if she sensed something was wrong. I remember how we ran together toward the overgrown blackberry thicket where the black thrushes had their nests. I remember that I told her to lie down in the densest part of the brush, and I crawled in after her, yelping with pain when the sharp thorns scratched my arms and neck. Hazel licked my face, swollen from all my crying. I wrapped my arms around her, and we lay there together for an eternity, until somebody lifted up the branches and found us.

It was my father. For the first time in my life, I was afraid of him. I'd fight him, if I had to, the same way Hazel had fought for me. He was on one side, the grownups' side, and Hazel and I were on the other. My father's eyes looked stern, cold, angry.

He stood there, looking down at me where I lay, in my nest of thorny branches, hanging on to Hazel, stubbornly bearing the pain, bloody scratches and mud all over me. He must have seen something he had never noticed before, something that penetrated straight to his heart.

And that brought him over to my side.

"Stay here until I come back," he said. He patted me on the shoulder and walked away. The thorns clawed into my shoulder blades, but knowing I had an ally gave me strength. Soon Daddy returned, bringing Mr. Robin with him this time, and he said Hazel would have to go with our neighbor to Donegal and move in with my grandmother. That was the only option. If I wanted to save her life, I would have to agree to it.

"All right." I nodded and crawled out from my hiding place, sniffling loudly. Daddy reached for Hazel, but he couldn't coax her out from under those branches. I had to call her myself.

"Come on out, Hazel. Everything's OK. Nobody's going to hurt you."

I hugged her, so tight that she started to whine. Then Mr. Robin hooked a leash to her collar and led her to his car, parked a short distance away. My father and I stood there by the blackberries, watching them go. He gave me a careful embrace, and pulled a stray thorn from my shoulder. But I didn't even cry. Inside, the pain was even worse.

Daddy knew the dog had only been defending me. I told him the whole story. Yes, I was a horrid, rude child, but I did have the courage to admit my mistakes. I confessed how I'd teased William and threw sticks and stones at him, how he'd finally attacked me, how I wanted to teach him a lesson...

There was only one thing I didn't mention, and that was how I'd lain on top of him to shield him with my body. I was afraid nobody would believe me, and they'd think I was lying to make myself look good.

Mr. Robin had told my parents that while Hazel had William's hand in her teeth, I'd been sitting on top of him, punching him. But I'd actually been punching the dog. The old man hadn't seen what was really happening, but I decided not to defend myself on that point. Let them think what they wanted to think. I couldn't take any of it back, anyway. I couldn't fix it.

We sat there in the park until night fell. Daddy talked for a long time, explaining how horribly I'd behaved, and what the consequences might be. Wounds heal, scars fade, bodies recover—but mentally, things are different. It could be, he said, that William would have a lasting fear of dogs, or would never be able to trust other people.

What I remembered best of all, though, is what my father told me at the very end of that conversation.

"I hope that one day, he'll be able to forgive you, Dolores."

My father was very, very sad.

"You're as fragile as a butterfly. A stranger's touch can kill you. You know that. But you can harm other people just as badly. One false move can turn the world upside down. One word can ruin a person's life. Don't forget that."

I vowed to myself that I would remember.

"What about William's hand? Did they fix it?"

"I don't know, sweetheart," he said with a sigh. "Mr. and Mrs. Veland aren't speaking to me. I think they went back to Norway, so the doctors there can take care of him."

"Bodies can be fixed, right, Daddy?"

"Sometimes it can be very difficult."

"But doctors know how."

"Good doctors do."

"Do they have good doctors in Norway?"

"I hope so."

"I hope they have the best doctors in the world!" I said. I smeared the tears across my face with a hand, then went on. "I didn't mean to do it. Do you believe me? I didn't want all this to happen. I'm not a bad person. I don't want to think I'm a bad person..."

"A very wise man once said, 'Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.' People thought that was such a wise thing to say that they even gave the saying a name: Hanlon's razor. I take that razor out myself now and then, when I want to stop suspecting the worst, stop looking for terrible evil where there isn't any. So let's use it now, too, and we'll say that you're not bad. You're just a little..."

"Stupid?" I concluded, and sighed bitterly.

Daddy grinned reluctantly and reached out one gloved hand to pull me up.

"You did something stupid," he corrected me. "That happens to everyone sometimes. The important thing is to learn from our mistakes, and try not to make them again."

"I'll never get so mad at any boys ever again. Or yell at them. Or throw sticks at them. Even if I don't like them very much. I can just leave them alone, right? Like mosquitoes. They're annoying, too, but you can just ignore them."

My father made a noise that might have been a chuckle or a moan. It was too dark for me to read the emotions on his face. Then we walked home holding hands, over the grass wet with evening dew. He wasn't angry at all. When we got to the house, there was a fire warm in the fireplace, and dinner, and my mother's kind eyes. And John. If the three of them were willing to go on loving me, then I would try to be the best little girl ever.