Girl From the Tree House

by Gudrun Frerichs

  I take a step back. I don’t shake hands. Ever. It has nothing to do with him. It’s self-preservation. Every time I touch another person I see and feel their past. I would be a great success on a gipsy summer fair. Charlotte said once, I should have trained as a therapist with this special gift. How feeling other people’s past is a gift is still unclear to me. I find it wholly unpleasant because it’s not a thing I can switch off.

  “Hi. Elizabeth Wright.” I take another step back to let him know his tall body is imposing upon my space. “Are there any more neighbors around?”

  “We are the only ones in this neck of the woods. Is it only you?”

  “Only me for now.”

  I cringe and clear my throat. Is he sizing me up? A sense of annoyance spreads through me. If he thinks he’s got himself a damsel in distress as a neighbor, he’s dead wrong.

  “I’m getting a guard dog first thing.”

  “That’ll help. Otherwise, just fire your gun if you need help. I can make it over in less than ten minutes.”

  “I don’t have a gun.” Heat shoots into my face, and I bite my bottom lip. I shouldn’t be so open with personal information to a total stranger.

  He raises his eyebrows and in his mind’s eye, he seems to calculate how often I’ll need him to help me out. I have to disabuse him of that notion.

  “I have a black belt in Jiu-Jitsu, that’ll take care of things.” He doesn’t have to know I told the biggest lie ever, but going by the grin that parts his lips, I’m sure he guesses what I’m trying to do.

  “Make sure you get an excellent dog then.” He motions with his head toward the house. “Need any help with stuff like water-pump or generator?”

  “Thanks for the offer. I’m fine with all that.”

  He squints and stares at me. I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but he shrugs and swings back onto his horse. It dawns on me he too might have reasons to live far away from people. There is a story there, I’m sure.

  “See you around.” He tips his hat and turns the horse around.

  “Not if I have a say in it.” He’s already too far away to hear my response. As long as he keeps his distance, we’ll get along fine. I wave and watch him disappear among the trees.

  Chapter Eight

  Ama: 19 November 2015, Just After Midnight, Wright’s Homestead

  For how long have I been staring at the open shoebox? Never in my life have I seen that many $100 bills. There are at least… I haven’t a clue how much money is in this box. It must be thousands and thousands. Where in the world did Horace get the money? Why did he hide it from his sister and us? Musty, metallic whiffs from the money hit my nose. They conjure up images of young children, beaten and locked up in cages like cattle. I’m feeling sick.

  “What are you doing? Go to bed, Ama. It’s past midnight.”

  I didn’t hear Lilly coming, but I’m glad I’m no longer alone. I point to the shoe box. That we took money weighs on my conscience like a block of concrete.

  “We can’t keep it.”

  “What do you mean? Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting here agonizing about the bloody money.”

  “Exactly. That’s what it is. Blood money. What have we done?”

  “Ama, you are getting wound up.”

  “Can’t you see? It’s dirty money. Don’t tell me you believe Horace got it from neutering stray cats. It’s Gateway money. If we keep it, we are no better than that disgusting group.”

  The words come blasting out of me like bullets. I can’t stand the sight and the odor of the money any longer and shove the box away from me. It appears I set Lilly thinking. She rubs her lips with her index finger.

  “I guess, by pretending it’s money from Elizabeth’s parents I feel justified taking it. It probably isn’t, is it? Nobody in their right mind would keep that much money stashed away for thirty-two years.” She bit her bottom lip and looked at me. “What do you think? We need money to live.”

  Lilly is right, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. It’s so easy in movies. People find money, their newfound riches solve all their problems and they live happily ever after. But it’s not that easy. It’s ill-gotten money. What if they come after us? Whoever they are? Haven’t we got enough problems?

  “We have to discuss it with Sky and the others. Together we will find a solution, I’m sure. In the meantime, we have to write down what we use so we can give it back when the time comes.” Lilly looks relieved and goes back to her room. She doesn’t have to know that I’m not even half as calm on the inside as I appear. There is no sleeping for me tonight. Not just yet.

  I love the time of the night when everyone is in the tree house, tucked up in bed and asleep. There is no pitter-patter up and down the stairs, no cries, no shouts, and no laughter. Tranquility spreads like a woolen blanket over the house. I listen to the heavy rain beating down on the roof. It sounds like a drum roll of a marching band. Together with the smell of burning wood in the fireplace, it creates a feeling of peaceful order and normality I adore.

  I get a cup of hot chocolate and let the warm, silky liquid swish around my mouth before I swallow it. While I enjoy my midnight treat, I reflect on today’s massive achievement. I’m so proud of the Tribe. The kids managed the escape from Waitakere Flats so well, I couldn’t wish for anything more. It’s not often that whoever is in the body can do so without tons of commentary and angst in the background. But today… nothing. Everybody knew how much depended on a clean getaway and came up trumps.

  Elise impressed me today too. She connected with Maddie. She saw her. Not only that, Elise didn’t turn away and do her help-I’m-going-crazy bit. She studied Maddie, if not with love, at least with curiosity. That was a huge step forward. My hunch is Miss Marple would call it integrating.

  Not that any of us have a clue what she means by that. Miss Marple said it’s like coffee and milk. Very different in taste and looks. When you pour it together, both change. You can still notice the ingredients, but they are not the same.

  I don’t think she hit a winner with that metaphor. Lilly laughed out loud and imagined how the milk-coffee mix of her and Amadeus would look. No. I can’t say we’ve got the concept, but seeing Maddie and Elise turn towards each other instead of away, was touching and made me much more hopeful.

  It must have happened because of the tree. I always took our tree house for granted, for something we were lucky enough to have, similar to finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Seeing the tree in the backyard of the house was a big shock. It took less than a second and the Tribe knew this was where our tree house had come from.

  It took no more than a split second for fear to rise. “If everyone can see the tree, can they also enter our tree house? Are we still safe?”

  It wasn’t easy to explain to the kids the difference between the tree in the backyard and our tree house. Not because it was difficult to explain, but because I don’t know how it happened that our house looked like the spitting image of the tree in the backyard. I told them we have a tree house and a house-house. The tree house is a place only we can see and only we can enter. That makes it the most important of all the houses. It’s our safe place.

  If one of us slips into the body and interacts with the outside world, we find ourselves in the house-house, or on the streets, or in the forest. When we slip into the body people can say or do hurtful things to us. When we are in the body, our actions can cause trouble.

  Like when Mikey pushed Luke aside and slipped into the body as the car drove past a sign that said Treasure Island Fun Park. Mikey wanted to look for the treasure. All hell broke loose. For starters, he doesn’t know how to drive a car and he’s too small to reach the pedals, so he couldn’t even stop. We came off the road and ended up in a paddock. Not much harm done, but Mikey never again tried to snatch the car from Luke.

  My hot chocolate is getting cold and our house-house needs cleaning. I promised myself to have it done by the time the Tribe wakes up. That means, stop mulling th
ings over and getting started. You’d think cleaning in the middle of the night, in a house without electricity, was a crazy idea? Not if you want a decent stretch of time to finish what you’ve started. During the daytime, the competition for body time is too strong. Our house would look like a pig sty in no time. Not on my watch. Anyhow, I counted at least six oil lamps throughout the room.

  I get up and walk to the window. A few clouds race across the sky as if they have places to go and things to do. The rain has stopped and beams of pale moonlight stream through the windows into the room. They don’t give much light, but it’s better than nothing.

  That reminds me. I have lots of things to do if I want the Tribe to wake up to a warm, welcoming home. I find the matches Luke left on the kitchen cupboard and light the lamps. It’s not the best light, but I’ve cleaned rooms under worse circumstances. With an oil-lamp in my hand showing me the way, I go on a discovery mission.

  The house has no cellar, but I remember two doors at the right hiding a pantry and a laundry. The pantry holds a pleasant surprise. Rows of preserves greet me. Aunt Amanda must have hoped to live for many more years. I see pickled gherkins, lemons, apples, cherries, plums, pears, tomatoes, and two rows of jams and marmalade. I’ll check another time whether they’re still edible.

  The laundry brings another surprise. Elizabeth’s aunt must have planned to come back because there were even dirty dishes in the sink. Armed with a broom, rags, dusters, brushes, and dustpan, I’m almost ready to start. All I need is a bucket with clean water. In a house with no electricity and no town water connection, this is not an easy chore.

  I wish I’d thought about filling the bucket at the pump earlier in the evening. It’ll take a few days, I guess, to have new routines established. Going out of the house in the middle of the night is not my idea of fun. I pick up the empty bucket and head to the pump in the backyard.

  Now, cleaning is one of the most satisfying activities I can think of. Cleaning a house that has been empty for over thirty years is the best because the difference is like night and day. There’s nothing better than a tidy room, gleaming surfaces, and the distinct smell of lemon and soap lingering in the air.

  I chase several families of mice—I hope they weren’t rats because the thought of rats makes me cringe—out of the house, getting rid of spider webs and truckloads of dust. After three hours the ground floor is spotless. I even found a jar with oil I used to shine up the large table and cupboard. It smelled a little rancid, but I plucked a lemon from the tree in the front yard that still carries plenty of fruit and mixed its juice with the oil.

  I unpack the bags we brought from Horace’s house and look for a new home for our things. Elise’s books end up on the now clean bookshelves. There is enough space for Elise’s large bag of wool in the basket next to the loom. Elise has to decide where she wants her art materials. I leave them in the bag. Our laptop goes on the dining table.

  I take $500 in notes from the shoebox and put them on the table under a porcelain saucer. That should be enough for Elise to get a dog and stock the pantry with groceries. I stop. I know nothing about how much one would need to pay for a dog. Should I leave out more money? I’ll discuss it with Sky tomorrow morning. I close the lid and look for a place to hide the box. This is not the kind of money I want lying around.

  While cleaning I discovered several treasures which I put on the table. There is an album with old photos, yellowed from daylight and the passing of time. I pull up a chair and sit. In the sparse light of the two oil lamps, the photos look familiar. As if a hand from the past is stretching out to me.

  A woman with a colossal bosom squeezed into a colonial style dress—resembling my dress—stands next to the cooking range. I stare at her and feel a cold draft on the back of my neck. I don’t believe in ghosts, I never have, but I turn around to make sure there’s nobody behind me.

  The dress is identical to mine. And that’s not the only thing. The woman… it could be a photo of me. I’ve heard the expression of her blood curdled. Of course, my blood didn’t curdle, because I don’t have blood. The body has and I’m not the body. But if I had a body all to myself, this unpleasant piercing and tingling and the sudden lack of oxygen, that’s what I image bloodcurdling must feel like.

  I shut the photo album with a slam. Sky and the others have to help me figure out how a photo of me shows up in a thirty-year-old photo album.

  There is also a leather-bound notebook that Aunt Amanda clearly used as a diary. It’s a mighty thick volume and at three o’clock in the morning, I have no ambition to read the whole thing. I jump to the last entries. Aunt Amanda left the house to see a lawyer in Port Somers on December 18, 1993. I flip through the pages that follow, but there are no further entries.

  I hesitate before I look for more information at the front. It feels like snooping around in someone else’s life. We don’t do that. We like people respecting our privacy and we’ll do the same for them. The name in the front is Amanda Seagar. My hands tremble when I look at the picture underneath the name. I jump up and pace the room. What does that mean? The woman in the photo looks like me just as in the other photos I found earlier. Amanda Seagar and I look alike?

  Confused, I leave the books on the table so Sky and Elise can make sense of this. There is lots to take in and to understand. Tonight is not the time. I carry the box with the money into the bedroom and slide it under the bed as if touching it a moment longer leaves a dirty mark on me.

  Longing for sleep I open the window and slip under the blanket. It doesn’t take long before exhaustion and the crisp night air carry me away.

  Chapter Nine

  Elise: 19 November 2015, Late Morning, Wright’s Homestead

  I wake up and try to ignore my splitting headache. Even opening my eye just a tiny bit and being hit by the bright daylight, feels like someone is stabbing me in the eyeball. I turn my face away from the light and rub my temples. As soon as I do, the lumpy pillow isn’t as comfy anymore as it was when I fell into bed last night. I fluff it up and lean against it.

  From this position, I have a good view of the backyard, the clearing and the line of trees in the distance. I inhale the fresh scent of pine drifting on the morning breeze through the half-open window. Birdsong fills the air. It wouldn’t surprise me if a deer stepped out from the tree line to graze on my clearing at its leisure. Still, even without the deer, I feel I’ve arrived in a Paradise Lost.

  Is this what freedom feels like? No traffic noises disturb the blissful moment. The house is quiet… not like a spooky mausoleum, but like a place filled with contentment and modest comfort. I’m quietly hopeful. No Helen is shouting from downstairs for me to hurry. Nobody is putting any demands on me.

  I should get up and take painkillers but getting out of bed is a surprisingly painful effort. I swear every single muscle in my body is complaining. You’d think I pushed my van all the way from Auckland down to Port Somers instead of driving. How does that make sense? I only cleaned this bedroom and fell into bed at eight-thirty last night.

  My to-do-list jumps to mind, like a jack-in-the-box, unexpected and yet not a surprise at all, if that makes sense. The house needs a good scrubbing to become habitable and I need to buy provisions… and yes, a dog. The idea of getting a dog makes me jump out of the bed. I stretch and yawn and flex my sore shoulder muscles. Suddenly I can’t wait to get going. The housework can wait, the dog can’t.

  My feet are fumbling for my slippers. Didn’t I drop them at the side of the bed when I went to sleep? I stretch some more and moan inwardly about my stiff shoulders as I step to the window and open it even wider. The sun is already high in the sky. It must be midmorning. I overslept, a luxury I’m not used to. A sudden wave of guilty feelings is washing through me until I turn away from the window and raise my chin. Nobody has the right to tell me what to do. Not anymore.

  Didn’t I put everything on the line to get away from people who tell me what to do? If I want to sleep in, that’s exactly what I’m
doing from now on. At the top of the stairs, I stop and blink. Twice. This is not the same dusty, dirty place I left behind last night when I went to bed.

  A hint of lemon and soap hangs in the air and clean surfaces wait for me where yesterday layers of dust and cobwebs lived. Everything is clean and tidy. A crystal vase with wildflowers dominates the wooden table, gleaming in the morning sunshine. Gone are the bags I dropped in the middle of the room when I arrived.

  I close my eyes and swallow. Not again. Please, dear Father in Heaven, not again. I can’t stop the panic rising inside me. Helen was right. I am crazy. I have to find a doctor. I have to get more meds. I have to curl up and die. That would be the best thing for everyone. The ungrateful person that I am, running away from Helen. She was right all along. They should lock me up and throw away the key. I’m a menace to society, a waste of space.

  I take the first step down the stairs and promptly lose my balance. The rest is a choreographic nightmare and a medical miracle. I tumble and hang on to the balustrade in an attempt to save myself a broken neck. My legs fold underneath me and I roll half sideways and half headfirst the last three steps. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone pushed me. But other than little forest critters that might still live in the corners of the woodwork, there’s nobody here.

  “Stupid woman.” Did I say that out loud?

  Horace often told me I’m a klutz. “I’ve never met anyone as clumsy as you. There isn’t a week in which you don’t walk into something, cut yourself, or end up with skin scraped off one of your limbs.”

  He’s probably right. I’m sitting on the hard wooden floorboards rubbing my sore backside. A quick internal check assures me no further damage occurred. That’s good. I’m looking at my feet poking out of my slippers. I wish they would be less traitorous and carry me through my day without further accidents. At least I got rid of my self-pity. The tumble down the stairs knocked it out of me, which makes the sunshine so much brighter.