Girl From the Tree House

by Gudrun Frerichs

  It’s late in the day. The sun is already hanging low in a picture-perfect blue sky. I’m waiting for my mind to settle so I can fill in the gaps. I take a deep breath and then another one. That’s better, much, much better. I remember overhearing Helen and having the urge to run away but suppressing it.

  It’s obvious I changed my mind and ran away after all. I don’t think I’ve been here before. It’s a wild, rough beach and the ocean, whipped up by a stiff, forceful wind, gleams through a thin fringe of bushes.

  Think. Think. Think.

  I knock my forehead with my fists. I should be able to remember. What happened since the funeral? The funeral! Disjointed, hazy images of the funeral service are floating through my mind’s eye. What kind of a monster am I, not even remembering the funeral of my husband?

  Instead of sitting on an unknown beach with a wet bottom, I should be at home, at Helen’s side and receiving the many well-wishers, expressing appropriate sentiments of grief and regret that everybody expects from a young widow. What made me do the unspeakable social faux-pas and take off? Filled with guilt, I’m bobbing like a cork on a current with no direction and no control. I must have been quite out of it. How long ago was that? What date is today?

  Fragments of memory are coming back. I must have left Auckland, running away like a thief in the middle of the night. I’m waiting to hit the usual wall of shame, the one I hit when I’ve done something wrong in Horace’s or Helen’s eyes.

  Like when they accused me of sneaking out of my room at night and eating the cake meant for the church’s cake stall the following day. Of course, I hadn’t. I swore every oath, but they called me a liar. Later I found a used plate with leftover cake crumbs on my bedside table.

  They were right. I’m a liar. I can’t be trusted, and I can’t trust myself.

  I pull the jacket around my shoulders, get up, and look around. A pair of discarded trainers sit neatly next to the tote bag with Horace’s vet clinic emblem. Sadness wells up in my eyes and echoes the lump in my throat. I’ll miss working with animals. Horace was always impressed with my vet-nursing. At least, he told me so. Whereas everyone deemed me a crazy failure—in a rage I think Helen called me a waste of space once—with animals I have a golden touch. I know what they need. It’s as if I speak their language, even though I never did any formal training.

  I slip into my trainers, pick up my bag, and follow the road along the beach to where I hope the village center is. After the first hundred yards, my feet start rushing, as if they have a life of their own.

  I know where I am, but I’m shocked and excited, all at the same time. Ahead of me, on top of a hill, stands the famous Port Somers lighthouse.

  Yes, there is a story that goes with the lighthouse, but I don’t remember it. I’m sure it involves pirates, sunken ships, and hidden treasure. Why else would a child be excited by it? Because that’s how I know I lived here as a child. I’m glad I know where I am. Port Somers, in the South Island, 800 miles from Waitakere Flats. That’s a long way from home.

  Home? Do I even know what that means? A cascade of bitter laughs escapes my mouth, followed by a wave of dread that makes me feel sick. I look around to see if anyone noticed my laughter. The last thing I need is someone taking me to a hospital because they think I’m crazy.

  When you think you’re crazy, the number one rule in life is to make sure, whatever you do, don’t cause a stir. Don’t attract attention or you’ll find yourself in a barren room, with a doctor in a white coat behind a desk, asking you a battery of weird questions, which—by the way—you always have to answer with an empathic no. If not, they’ll throw every antipsychotic and anti-depressant pill at you the pharmaceutical industry ever cooked up.

  I hate those pills. They are evil. On my word, they make me worse. My head goes funny as if I’m floating on a cloud of cotton wool, my bones turn liquid, and what used to be the annoying voices in my head turn into howling monsters or dark, bottomless snake pits with no hope of escape.

  I thought I heard someone calling my name and turn in a circle. Nobody was even close to me. Is it starting again? The voices, the feeling I’m watched and followed? My heart thumps against my chest, fired up by my increased ragged breathing. My hands tremble as time trickles by. I can’t go to that crazy place again. I just can’t.

  I grab the dilapidated bench standing forlorn on the beach side of the road. It might have once been a meeting place for people watching romantic sunsets or enjoying the amazing ocean view. For me, it’s a life buoy I’m holding on to.

  After five minutes things are back to normal. I must have imagined hearing my name. It must have been the wind rustling the leaves of the trees lining the street. I have to stop teetering on the brink of a psychotic breakdown every time I imagine things. That’s what you get when you don’t pay attention and live with your head in the clouds. Horace told me so often enough.

  I have to stop telling myself off. To be honest, I didn’t need Helen to tell me off all the time. I’m doing a superb job of it myself. Charlotte McFarlane said half of my problems stem from the high expectations I have of myself and my need for perfection. Every time I don’t meet my standards, I fall into a deep abyss of insanity. Today it took only five minutes to get out of it. That’s progress, I guess.

  Now, where did I leave the van?

  I squint into the setting sun until I spot the white roof of my Toyota HiAce twenty yards down the road. Who’d believe my luck? I parked the van right in front of the Pet Doctors, Port Somers. I have to remember this place. Once I’m ready to look for a job, I could inquire with them. Maybe I can build a future worth living? Maybe. For a second I enjoy a warm sense of excitement. Then I turn away from the vet clinic and the warm feeling collapses like a house of cards.

  It’s better not to hope too much.

  At the van, I stop just before I slide the key into the slot. This isn’t my van. How could I have been so stupid and not see the sign for the Forever Fit Gym? I turn around and search the parking spaces along the road. There is no other white Toyota HiAce. It doesn’t make sense, especially when the dent in the back bumper looks exactly like the one, I made when I backed out of our driveway a few weeks ago.

  I try the key and to my surprise, it opens the driver’s door. This is strange. I’m familiar with strange. It has been the domineering flavor of my life. But this is taking strange to a whole new level. I look around like a thief, expecting any moment to see a person running up to me shouting, “Stop thief.”

  But nobody comes running, no alarm blares. Instead, I see on the passenger seat my orange clipboard where I keep my notes and my travel bags are stashed in the back. Not just bags. Boxes and bags filled with books and other stuff are piled in the back of the van. Even my favorite pillows and floor cushions are here. I feel like a Peeping Tom looking in on a life that doesn’t feel like mine at all.

  I slip behind the wheel. The door swings shut, and I stare at the traffic signs at the intersection ahead. I don’t know where I’m going and don’t know why I’m here. I’m so tired of running into the same problem over and over again. Do I have to write everything down? Really? I reach for my clipboard and to my surprise see I have written down where I’m going. I’d forgotten all about it. Obviously, with a memory like mine, you have to write down everything. One day it’ll go so far that I’ll have to write down not to forget to breathe.

  At first glance, the handwriting is hard to read. I must’ve been in a hurry. Well, my handwriting was never anything to be proud of. Depending on my mood, it changes dramatically. I envy people who have a steady writing style that never changes over time. A graphologist would have a ball analyzing my handwriting. At least I can never be convicted of a crime simply by my handwriting. That should count for something.

  The top sheet features a yellow warning sign. It says: STOP! The van signage is to disguise our escape! That’s a great idea. I wish I could say it came from me. Further down it says Wright’s Homestead, Flatbush Creek Road, Port
Somers, Aunt Mandy’s place. I know that one. I remember spending summer vacations at her cottage in the woods.

  So, I am in the right van. A weight lifts off my shoulders. Clipped under the top sheet with travel directions I find the deed to a house with my aunt’s name on it. Amanda Wright. I stare at it and let the memory come trickling back. I found this document in the spine of the family bible. I’m at the end of my journey. It should take mere minutes to get to my aunt’s house. My new home?

  But first I have to get out of these horrible clothes. The Swanndri Jacket is stiff and itchy and at least two sizes too small for my taste. I hate clothes that stick to my body like cling film. They suffocate me. I slip into the back and rummage through the bags. I don’t have to look far for my baggy pants and my oversized t-shirt. They are lying neatly folded on top of a bag with my other clothes.

  The van is spacious enough for a quick change of clothes. I don’t have to be afraid of people looking in. Port Somers’ streets are almost empty at this time of the day in any case. Further up the road a few people file past closed shops, probably window-shopping for tomorrow or just killing time before dinner.

  A minibus with the signage West Coast Adventure spits out a handful of tourists in front of a place with the pretentious name of Grand Hotel, and a mother is leaving the corner store, handing her two youngsters a giant cone of ice-cream.

  Sounds of music and chatter are coming from nearby backyards. Going by the whiffs of steak cooking on grills that floats by on the evening breeze, people are enjoying the first BBQ of the season.

  I take a deep breath. Is this my new life? Here, on the wild West Coast? It’s hard to imagine a slower pace of life than Port Somers in the early evening. I could get used to this place.

  With a smile on my face, I turn the ignition.

  Chapter Six

  Lilly: 18 November 2015, Early Evening, Port Somers

  We’ve made it to Port Somers! I had my doubts, but my inspired idea to send our phone with the plumber’s truck to Whakatane was a winner.

  “Oh no, Elise, you’re not driving. In your state, you’re bound to hit a tree or drive off the cliff.”

  She doesn’t hear me as usual. Miss Marple said she won’t until she wants to hear us. That hasn’t happened yet. Elise wants us to go away. She has no idea how well I understand that. I want her to go away too. Elise is a master of wallowing in self-pity. It makes me cringe. When has self-pity ever served anyone? But Sky says we should be nice to Elise and try to get her on board. I agree. Someone needs to do the boring things like brushing teeth or having lunch with Helen.

  But she’s like a wet blanket. Why can’t she toughen up? She’s got none of the horrible memories Maddie or Casper have and still she is moaning and moping around. Can’t she be fun, or witty, or at least a little less mediocre?

  My energy must be much stronger than hers because as soon as she turns the ignition, she gets sucked into the vortex of our inner world. Here’s my idea of how this coming into and leaving the body works; It’s a mixture of opportunity and necessity. If we are attacked, Amadeus comes into the body, because he’s our warrior. No questions asked.

  Other situations are less black and white. Like driving the car. That’s when it’s about opportunity and energy levels. Luke drove for over fifteen hours. No wonder he was tired, and his energy was low. In comes our default person and drama queen, Elise, worried and moping around, which started in high energy and sank to low, depressed energy. When I saw her turning the ignition, I got all hot with worry and annoyance. On an energy level mine was much higher than Elise’s.

  Luke had been behind the wheel since three in the morning. He deserves a rest. He drove us all the way to the beach in Port Somers. There he stared out over the wide ocean, wiped a tear from the corner of his eyes and drifted to the tree house whispering Freedom.

  I love this guy. After all the running and doing to get away, the significance is sinking in now, bit by little bit. Precious freedom is in our grasp and we better make sure we hold onto it.

  Et Voilà! I’m driving us to our new home. I like that. The choices left were Amadeus or me. In my hands the van drives with precision and within common boundaries of traffic rules. I never run a red light, even when there is no traffic at all. It costs me heaps of flak from Amadeus who calls me stuffy. It has nothing to do with stuffy but with following rules or risking mayhem… and maybe a teensy-weensy bit with being German.

  However, I prefer driving a BMW or Mercedes and detest our flimsy tin-trap import. But Elise insisted on the HiAce when she got a new car so she could transport her beloved animals. And I admit, for our getaway it was ideal.

  Amadeus has no preferences in cars. He has only one driving style, as if the devil is after us. Just like Vin Diesel in The Fast and The Furious. I kid you not. More than one of us ended up with wet pants when he was behind the wheel. That’s not going to happen today. This is a new beginning. Less fear, less hurt, less wet pants. We have nothing to gain by acting recklessly.

  I’m German, not Kiwi like the others. Don’t ask me how that came about. I think it has to do with my German great grandmother and happened when Elise was kindergarten-age. We could already read back then and started learning different languages. We wrote diary notes and swore in foreign languages when bad stuff happened. It helped us express our anger or hurt without being punished because our parents and other people didn’t understand a word.

  It reduced the number of punishments we received. If you think about it, that’s super clever. I’m so proud of the Tribe. What we’ve achieved—given the circumstances—is mind-blowing.

  Horace and his friends always said we were stupid. Lizette gets angry when someone calls us stupid. “Au contraire,” she would say. Lizette speaks fluent French. For the same reason that I speak German, I think. It conceals what we are saying. Plus, when we speak a different language, we can pretend we don’t belong to the Tribe. It might sound strange, but pretending we are not part of the Tribe often helped us cope.

  Casper speaks fluent Finnish. That’s a language you don’t want to learn because you’ll break your tongue pronouncing the words. For example: ‘We can’t come today’ is translated as Emme voi tulla tänään. I ask you; how does that make sense? I haven’t seen Casper for a long time. He lives in one of the outer rooms of the tree house. I think he’s hurting a great deal. We used to be like brother and sister. I miss him. I don’t miss his Finnish though. It would have been his turn to talk to Miss Marple next. Our escape has put a stop to that for now.

  “Let’s go.”

  Oh, Sky, you are always so subtle. I smile and steer the van out of the parking bay and into the traffic. It’s mid-November and the tourist season doesn’t get into full swing until after Christmas. Still, I like what I see. Compared to Auckland, the pace of this small town is very sedated, as if they’ve added Valium to the drinking water. No, just kidding, of course, they didn’t. It will be good for us to get away from the hustle and bustle of Auckland.

  After twenty minutes driving through a deserted countryside where each corner and each turn offers another stunning view of mountains, forests, and the always present coastline, I come to the turnoff to Wright’s Homestead. I’m saying deserted countryside because we came across six cars in total on this stretch of the road. The secludedness suits us. Too many people make us nervous.

  Some people get all gushy about nature. I think it’s okay as long as you don’t lose sight of your goal. Don’t think for a moment that a beautiful landscape means you are surrounded by good people. When we grew up, Elizabeth’s parents lived in a valley that looked like paradise; and still, they inflicted horrendous abuse on us. I’ll wait a while with my final judgment about our new home, thank you very much.

  Our new home. It has a heavenly ring to it. I heard Elise worry whether it’s ours. She shouldn’t have. But then, she doesn’t know Sky, who is so meticulous in everything she does. Sky could be German as well, but she isn’t. I don’t even know
if Sky is anything. Maybe she’s like Switzerland. Neutral.

  Sky made me ring Land Information New Zealand in Wellington and check on the title. All we have to do is provide documents that we are Amanda Wright’s niece. The title hasn’t been touched for over fifty years.

  “In your own time,” the guy on the phone said, which translates into, no worries, no hurry. I won’t even comment on how slack that is, but for once it works in our favor. So, I shut up, no matter how hard shutting up is for me.

  I focus on the road that turns after a while from asphalt to gravel until it’s nothing but a narrow dirt road lined with moss-covered tree colossi. I’ve never seen giant trees like that. It wouldn’t surprise me if this piece of wilderness is still like it was when the dinosaurs roamed these woods.

  At the sight of the dense forest, a rush of excitement sends heat to my face. I love the wilderness. I couldn’t say why, but I know for certain, this forest will become my best friend.

  Luke’s instructions on the clipboard say take the third turn-off on the right. I almost miss it and slam on the brakes so hard the van is skidding sideways. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, not helped by the fact that it’s dark under the canopy of trees and a bit creepy. The track is uneven with old tire marks carved deep into the dirt. I slow down to avoid an accident.

  After four hundred yards the trees make space for a large clearing in front of me. I can see the house—our house—standing there, waiting for us. Just like the gingerbread house in Hansel and Gretel. Without the witch and without the gingerbread cladding. It looks forgotten. Wild ivy is climbing up the sides of the house, covering most of the windows on the second floor.

  A broken-down fence with bits of a gate marks the beginning of a forgotten, overgrown track that leads from the road to the house. I slow down and stop. Complete silence, aside from faint birdsong and the rustling of leaves in the breeze, floats into the van through the rolled down window. After a deep sigh, I breathe in the sharp fragrance of woodlands combined with the pungent smell of damp earth and composting leaves.