Girl From the Tree House

by Gudrun Frerichs

  Getting up is not as easy as I thought. I’ve hurt more than my ego. There will be bruises by tomorrow.

  I open the windows and let the fresh air pour in. Then I take my time to admire the cleaning work I must have done in my sleep. No wonder every muscle in my body is hurting, and I am tired as hell. Am I a sleepwalker? I have to ask Charlotte the next time I call her. Even the bookshelves are dusted, and the books put back. Everything looks spick and span and—I hold my breath—a little familiar.

  On the dining table, next to the flowers, are two books, the obligatory clipboard, and a few hundred-dollar notes tucked under a saucer. Before I read what’s on the clipboard, I reach for the money. Five hundred bucks. Where is that money coming from? I don’t remember having that much money on me when I left Horace’s place. But maybe I did and have forgotten it like so many other things? Come to think of it, I don’t remember leaving Horace’s place.

  It occurred to me that someone could have snuck into the house before I got up. Someone like Scott, the neighbor. I run out to see if anyone is in the garden. But nothing moves in the front yard or the back. Only the tree stands there, majestic and quiet as if it could say, “Don’t you worry, I’ll make sure nothing untoward happens.”

  Well, that’s mighty fine of the tree, isn’t it? I stomp back into the house and sit down at the table. I pick up the clipboard and stare at it. It takes a while for the letters to come into focus and make sense.

  Dear Elise,

  Please don’t worry. You are not going crazy. Once you understand, this will all make perfect sense. Charlotte Macfarlane—we call her Miss Marple—is right. You are not alone. We share the body with you, but we are different from you. Think of us as a handful of friends who are on your side, rooting for you, and helping to make life worth living. We know a lot about you, but you don’t seem to know anything about us. We want to change that so you can be more at ease and we can all work together.

  You didn’t believe Dr. Macfarlane when she talked about us and you weren’t keen to get to know us. But that needs to change if we want to stay out of Helen’s claws. You won’t regret it we are a great Tribe. Didn’t we arrange the getaway from Helen in formidable fashion?

  I’m Ama; I cleaned up the place after you went to bed. Think of me as the mother Elizabeth never had. My job is cleaning, cooking, and making sure everybody is okay. That includes you.

  The money is from a shoebox Horace hid from you and Helen. He had it in his wardrobe for years. We think it is money that belonged to your parents. But we have to check that out. There is something fishy about Horace and the NGYD people, that’s another thing we have to check out. I hope the money will be enough to buy needed provisions and get the dog you want. There is an SPCA in Port Somers. Try them first.

  Don’t go shopping in Coopersville. It’s closer by, but it’s only a small settlement. Going to Port Somers is anonymous. We don’t want to alert Helen to where we are, and we don’t want people asking questions you might not be ready to answer.

  Your friend Ama

  My first impulse is to take the clipboard and fling it into the fireplace. My second impulse is to give it a try. It can’t get any worse than me feeling crazy most days. What have I got to lose? I pick up the clipboard and read the letter again.

  So. So. It looks like I have a self-appointed friend called Ama. I swing my head around as if I can catch her standing behind me. There is nobody there, just me giving myself a crick in the neck. Sharing the body with me? In which universe isn’t that odd? When Charlotte talked about multiple personalities, it sounded outrageous and crazy. Ama’s letter appears pretty normal, not crazy at all. If it is possible that events can confuse one in a good way, I can confirm: I am confused. Confused and hopeful. Charlotte often said, “All will be well.” Perhaps she was right?

  At least I didn’t hallucinate. There was someone here, and that someone did an excellent job cleaning the house. Using my body while cleaning the house? Is it even my body? I still don’t get how that works, but it explains my sore muscles. They are not only using my body, but they are also invading my thoughts. That’s the weirdest of all, that my thoughts are no longer private. Perhaps they never have been, and I just didn’t know it?

  Stacks of peanut butter sandwiches in cling wrap beckon from the kitchen cupboard. Leftovers from the trip down from Waitakere Flats, I guess. However, I’m not hungry at all. I take a bottle of water, grab the money and the shopping bag, purposefully stride out of the house and hop into the van. I hope they don’t get into any mischief while I’m in town. Then I remember. They are where the body is. That means they are with me. Oh, this is so creepy.

  On the way into town, I catch myself looking to my right and left expecting any moment to notice one of the Tribe, as Ama called it, popping out. That’s ridiculous, I know. It won’t happen. Even the voices in my head, that have driven me to distraction in the past, seem to have gone away. I feel an odd sense of loneliness.

  My first stop is the SPCA. I’m excited to get a rescue dog. It’s not only good for protection; the animal will also give me company and someone to cuddle and take care of. I like that. I park the van and enter the building. As so often happens, the people in the office look at me sideways. I make a mental note to change my dress code from hippy bohemian to dungarees and checked bush shirt. Otherwise, people here won’t take me seriously. But then, I don’t want people to take me at all. Ideally, I want them to forget me the moment I close the door behind me.

  “I’m looking to adopt a guard dog.”

  A young man with the nametag Peter had hard-working farmer’s son written all over him. He sizes me up from head to toe as if he wants to determine whether I’m capable of dealing with any breed larger than a miniature schnauzer.

  “We don’t have many big dogs. Come through, I’ll show you.”

  The kennels are located at the back. With every step, my heart feels heavier and heavier. There are so many dogs looking at us through wire-netting fencing. I swear each one looks at me with a silent “Pick me” in their eyes. If I could, I would take them all, but that’s impossible. I don’t dare to ask how long they keep the animals before the center euthanizes them because the answer will give me sleepless nights filled with guilty feelings. My gaze falls on the dog in the kennel second to last at the end of the hallway. I stop and look up at Peter and dip my head toward the German Shepherd Rottweiler mix in front of me.

  “What’s his story, Peter?”

  “He’s pretty old. He’s a good boy and the staff love him. His owner died. He’s been here for four months now and he’s earmarked for being put down.”

  “It’s hard to re-home old dogs, isn’t it? I used to work for a vet and we often had problems finding a place for older dogs. It’s a shame. How old is he?”

  “He’s eight years old. No papers, though.”

  “I don’t need papers.” I kneel in front of the dog’s kennel and admire his beautiful dark fur. It could be shinier, but that might change as soon as he lives outside of the kennel. He looks at me with attentive eyes, following each of my movements. The information on the outside of the kennel says his name is Prince. It’s a strong name. Just right for a strong dog.

  “Can I take him out and walk him a bit?”

  Peter reaches for his keys and opens the kennel door. “No problem. Looks like you know what you’re doing”

  “After ten years of vet-nursing, I do hope so.”

  I take Prince outside and walk with him in the backyard. His previous owner trained him well. He stops when I stop, walks at my heel, and doesn’t pull. I try a few common commands, like sit and stay. I let go of the leash and walk away. When I’m at the hedge, I turn around and call Prince. He comes immediately. I know enough. I found my dog. I buy a collar and leash for Prince and a month’s worth of dog food.

  Without hesitation, Prince jumps into the passenger seat, looking at me with a sense of entitlement as if he’s claiming his rightful place.

  “Is
the front seat where you used to sit?” I stroke him and let him lick my hand. “Okay then, buddy, but no comments on my driving or you’re going in the back.”

  I bask in the warm feeling that spreads through me. It’s been a long time since I had a companion. Actually, I can’t remember ever having had someone coming home with me. Yes, I bonded with the animals in the vet clinic, but they went home with their owners. I pat Prince’s head. It feels good, not only in a safe way but also in an I’m-no-longer-alone way. I smile at the dog and could bet a thousand dollars he smiles back at me. I start the van and we are on our way.

  Happy with my day so far, I stop at the grocery store. A woman with a trolley filled to the brim with groceries pushes past me as if she’s afraid I’ll pick items she’s set her heart on. For one terrifying moment I’m afraid everyone can read on my face that I’m a fraud and don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t remember the last time I went grocery shopping. Helen always took care of these household tasks.

  The number of aisles and items overwhelm me. How does one know which of the five different brands of spaghetti to choose? In the end, I decide to work down Ama’s list and just pick something. It takes a bit of backtracking until I find everything. A thought—or is it a voice that talks to me?—distracts and calms me as I wait at the checkout.

  “It’s just shopping and not rocket science.”

  We arrive at Wright’s Homestead just after midday. To my astonishment, I drove all the way into town and back. I didn’t black out, and I didn’t wake up in a different town. That makes today an exceptional day. Maybe connecting with the friends inside isn’t that bad if this is the outcome? Maybe things are looking up? Lots of maybes?

  Prince jumps out of the car after me. He doesn’t run away but stays by my side. I praise him and scratch him behind the ear. I have a good feeling about this dog. I get a bowl for water and another one for his doggy biscuits. Prince waits until I motion him to eat. I’m happy all around and there is a spring in my step. My life looked so grim and depressing only two days ago.

  I leave Prince to eat and get the grocery bags from the van. Then I start the fire in the cooking range, cut up half of a pumpkin and a bag of carrots, and start a pumpkin soup for tonight. I have no clue how long it’ll take on the old-fashioned cooking range. The good news is I have all the time in the world to learn all the things that go with my newfound freedom.

  Chapter Ten

  Lilly: 19 November 2015, Late Afternoon, Wright’s Homestead

  The truth about being a multiple is that it sucks. I’ve heard people talking about it as if meeting a multiple is the most exciting thing in the world. They try to make parts come out as if this is a game of hide and seek. It makes me want to punch people and give them a bloody nose. It’s not a lifestyle choice, for crying out loud.

  “Can I talk to Lilly?”

  No, you can’t, moron. That’s one reason we don’t like people knowing our names. It gives them the power to call us out. More often than not they have seen all the wrong movies and read all the wrong books. They either expect us to grow horns and twist into ugly looking aliens with souls darker than the darkest night, or function as tonight’s entertainment program in the form of a standup comedian.

  I was once part of an online chat group for trauma survivors. Believe it or not, the stupidest question asked was,

  “Can an otherwise peaceful multiple turn violent?”

  I’m not joking. Do they compare us to The Silence of the Lambs?

  All I said was, “Can you?”

  I left the group after that. I have better things to do than bother with ignorant people. They are all in awe of us being able to switch in and out, having all these different skills, ideas, and values. Most of all though, other survivors envy the fact we can switch into parts that have no memories of the past. They don’t get that they too have times when their bad memories are not in their awareness because their focus is on other stuff. It’s the same thing.

  I, for example, have none of the bad memories. I know about events because I listened when we visited Miss Marple. But these second-hand memories don’t have the same punch as if they were mine. With them, I’m more detached, like hearing a sad story on the news.

  What people forget is that being a multi is like giving a class of school kids only one computer. You’re always fighting for your turn to use it, everyone has different ideas on what to do with it, and often nobody knows what the others have done with it.

  Take this morning, for example. Elise had the body and read Ama’s letter. I love what Ama wrote and for once, Elise took the time to read it and reflect on it, rather than dismissing us again. That’s a good start and I will do my part by introducing myself, too. She has to accept us now. After all, she owes her newfound freedom to us. We persevered when she’d given up.

  Then Elise went dog shopping. I get it. The dog is important for our safety. But she’s not the brightest bulb on the porch. She should have searched for the stash and taken more money. But that’s Elise for you, strait-laced and obedient. I had to push her aside and sneak out to get more money because nobody remembered we threw away our cell phone and five-hundred dollars won’t go very far. She didn’t even notice I popped into Noel Leeming’s in Port Somers and bought a new phone, a solar charger, and a mobile USB Wi-Fi connection for our laptop.

  I could’ve done so much more with the money. I know for a fact that Lizette would have loved to get a few new outfits. She loves fashion and if we had enough money, she’d fill our wardrobe with all the big names. Don’t ask me for their names because I don’t give a hoot about fashion. Give me a pair of cargo pants, a t-shirt, and sneakers, and I’m done. Lizette, though, is a different story. She’s dying a slow death having to wear all the rubbish Elise buys in second-hand stores. Pre-loved, Elise calls it. I can only laugh. Lizette calls it rubbish, barely suitable for wearing at home.

  Being a multi is like getting a post-grad degree in communication and community building. We have to make sure we meet everyone’s needs and the Tribe gets ‘time outside’. We are getting better at that, thanks to Lizette. Besides being crazy about clothes, she loves learning. When we first went to see Miss Marple, Lizette took off researching the multiple thing and how to make it work for us.

  It wasn’t always like that. Back in the dark ages—I call them dark ages because we all were sitting in the dark—we just about destroyed each other. Nobody knew what was going on. We expected the worst from each other. There was no communication, just suspicion and acting out. Everybody was hurting. I hate to think back to that painful time, so I don’t. Things are so much better now.

  Like today. After coming back with the dog around midday, Elise showed the dog the house and the outside and ended up throwing sticks Prince brought back to her. It was so cute how she played with the dog. Like normal people leading a normal life. The Tribe was smitten with the new addition to our family and we had trouble keeping them from spilling out.

  Elise made the mistake of not paying attention to the Tribe’s excited comments about the dog. She enjoyed the lazy afternoon. But with no more urgent business on her to-do list, she got sucked inside and Luke took over. He’d been waiting all morning to clear the garden and meet Prince. You have to stay on the ball and keep your energy up if you want to stay in the body. If you don’t, the door opens and someone else sneaks in. Before you even know it, you become a bench-player and have to wait for your turn to come around again.

  I would have liked to explore the tree behind the house, but Luke’s energy was much stronger than mine. He whirled around the place, got stacks of firewood, and searched the lean-to shed for tools. Don’t ask me what he needs tools for. I’m sure he spotted something in need of hammering or nailing. There is a large pile of weeds, bushes, and heaven knows whatever else in the back now, proof he’s been clearing parts of the overgrown garden. Sometimes he has the strength of ten burly men.

  Ama will have a fit because I saw he pulled out three raspberry b
ushes together with the funny fat-leafed weed bush that grew everywhere. Then something strange happened. Half buried under rotting leaves and dirt, he spotted a tiny hand sticking out of the ground… and BANG.

  We don’t deal well with stuff like that. Everyone and I mean everyone, including Luke, went undercover. Usually, there is a lot of conversation and humming going on in our head. Most of the time, those who are stuck inside have a lot of commentaries about what’s happening on the outside.

  But now? Total silence. Talk about putting the fox among the chickens.

  I guess that’s my cue to restore order. It helps that I’m not easily spooked. I mean everyone can see that it’s a doll’s hand, for crying out loud. Sometimes I tire of the Tribe being so jumpy all the time. In this case, it means it’s my turn for body time.

  I bend down and pull the doll out of the loose ground. It’s a surprise. On first glance, it’s just a bundle of dirty rags falling apart around a scratched and dented celluloid body. On closer inspection, though, the doll wears the same dress Maddie does and looks like her too. I can’t help feeling I’m transported into some sort of twilight zone.

  Prince comes sniffing at the doll but soon loses interest. There are too many other interesting scents to explore. Insects, rats, possums, and other critters will have lived an undisturbed life in this wilderness for the last thirty years and must have left a delicious trail for him. Still, he follows me to the front where Luke had also discovered an old wrought-iron table and chair.

  I never played with dolls. I’m almost eighteen and can’t remember ever being a different age than that. Sometimes I wish I’d grow older, but that doesn’t seem to happen. I put the doll on the table and take a seat. Madeline looks at me with her one remaining eye full of accusation—someone scratched out the other one—as if I’m responsible for the state of her being.