“Phew, that wasn’t too bad. Thanks, Ama, for helping with Maddie.” I can stop worrying. For now, we averted the worst.
“But that wasn’t all, was it?” Ama all but whispers to keep the conversation from eager ears.
“I’m afraid not.”
“It was good that she heard auntie defending her.”
I thought the same and smile at Ama. “Yes. It makes all the difference. Auntie Mandy’s house became a safe place after that. But it won’t protect her from the flashback about the Gateway compound. I hope we have more time and get stronger before that happens.”
Ama tucks Maddie in and covers her with the snuggle blanket. “When she wakes up tomorrow morning, she’ll feel safe among the pink flowers and white unicorns that cover her walls.”
They are her friends. I often watch her spending hours playing with them and building houses with the pillows strewn all over the floor in all sizes and shades of pink. I look up when Lilly enters the room and sits on a pillow next to Maddie’s bed. She is the best singer of all of us and often sings for the little ones with her beautiful, warm contralto voice.
“Twinkle, twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are.”
“Lilly? Am I a Schtar?” Maddie lifts her hands and wiggles her fingers like twinkling stars.
“You are a treasure, and treasures need to close their eyes and go to sleep.” Lilly smiles and continues with the song.
“Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky…”
Maddie is asleep before Lilly finishes and we all leave the room. It was a long hard day, and everyone is tired. Ama’s shoulders slump with the weight of looking after our physical needs. I don’t know what we would do without her. It took years of persistent effort to change what was a hostile, disconnected group into something resembling a caring family. We don’t get it right all the time, but we never stop trying.
“Thank you,” I mouth to her.
The day is over, but our problems aren’t. We can’t allow events we have no control over, like today, to rule our life. Living day to day hoping that nothing untoward happens, is naïve and careless. We need a plan of action. It’s time for another tribal council.
Tomorrow!
Chapter Twelve
Elise: 20 November 2015, Early Morning, Wright’s Homestead
I’m sitting in a pitch-dark cinema. The credits chase each other over the screen and white blips that try to register in the corner of my mind turn into flashes of a petrified young child in a nightgown, being devoured by a tree. Seized by horror I watch the lights come back on, cone by cone illuminating more and more of the cinema… which isn’t a cinema at all.
Where am I? I have a terrible headache and I’m freezing. Something sloppy and wet is working up my leg. Tired to the bone, I lash out at the uncomfortable wetness. Let me sleep a little longer.
I want to get out of bed and have a shower. But I can’t move my legs. They are ice-cold and don’t respond to any commands my brain is giving them, as if someone snipped the connection between head and legs. My whole body is rock-hard like a block of ice. Hideous fear hits me. I can’t breathe because my lungs can’t expand in this frozen body.
A violent shiver runs through me, making every muscle scream in pain. Awake now, I’m gasping. I wish I were still in that space between sleep and wakefulness, where everything is possible, and fairytales come true. Fairytales? I try to push away the feeling of horror spreading through me. I gag and throw up on the grass next to me.
Grass?
I’m not in my bed?
A light breeze springs up, swirls gently through the sluggish morning mist, and carries me to the treetops. I’m floating like a weightless feather in a landscape of dreams of shifting colors and forms, waving and nodding like seaweed in the tidal current. Down on the ground, my body lies, collapsed at the foot of the big tree in my backyard.
The pain is gone. It belongs to my body down there while I’m up here in the tree. How is that possible? Am I dead? Prince is stretched out next to the body, nudging it with his nose and licking its leg as if he wants to say, “Are you okay?” He looks at the body with his soulful, brown eyes, whimpering softly as he nudges it for a response.
I want to throw my arms around him, bury my head in his warm fur, and give him all the petting and behind-the-ear-scratching I have in me. As soon as that thought enters my mind, I’m no longer floating in the air but being locked back into the confines of my body. I gasp for breath and my throat hurts as I breathe in the crisp morning air. The pain in my legs and the headaches are back, too. I peel my arms off the tree trunk and start rubbing to get the blood in my limbs circulating again.
“Did I spend the whole night clutched to the tree?” I startle hearing my voice rasping into the surrounding silence and the words drop to the ground like drops of morning dew.
If this were a Disney fairy tale, a couple of bunnies or tweeting birds would join me now and lead me to a warm place where a rat with the pretentious name of Clafoutis would prepare a cup of hot, spicy chocolate for me. But nothing stirs except Prince who thumps his tail on the ground in an excited welcome as he hears my voice. Has he been here all night as well?
I must have been sleepwalking. Again. And I’m talking out loud to myself. Again. Only insane or demented people walk around the bush at night dressed in nothing more than a thin nightgown, talking to themselves. Not in November at any rate, in temperatures no higher than forty-five degrees.
My legs are still not working. An old doll is lying by my feet and staring at me with a half scratched out eye, as if it’s holding me responsible for its tattered clothes and dented celluloid body. The image of the doll fills me with dread. I will make sure it will land in the big gray rubbish bin at the side of the house.
I’m feeling defeated once again. Not only that, I feel unsafe. I can’t be trusted. How do I know I didn’t walk around and commit a crime while I was sleepwalking? I could have murdered someone without knowing it. And if it wasn’t me, what if one of my inside parts were violent and homicidal? How do I know I can trust them? I don’t. I have no clue what they’re up to when they have control over the body. The familiar fear clutches with cold fingers at my heart.
The only thing I tried to murder last night was the tree. My scratched arms and legs and the torn nighty are evidence that the tree won that battle. I chuckle in a bout of comic relief as I sit on the cold ground and rub my legs. Prince is staying close by my side as if he knows I’m about to go crazy. What am I saying? I am crazy.
The last thing I remember from yesterday was bringing the dog home, feeding him a bowl of doggy biscuits, filling a dish with water, and sitting down at the table. The rest is blank. I hate blank. Hate it with a vengeance. My blood is running cold.
Someone must have cleared away the bushes and rubbish. I didn’t… and I didn’t call anybody to do it for me. Inside friends, huh? It’s time to get to the bottom of this. Maybe I have early onset Alzheimer’s? Can someone at age forty-two show early signs? These blackouts happened on a regular basis when I was still living with Horace.
Evidence of activity was everywhere in my rooms. Things were pulled out and clothes were thrown around. One morning I even found my bathroom painted in bright pink and unicorn stickers were stuck all over my bathroom mirror.
Nothing I did stopped the unexplained activities. I even put in double locks and changed the keys to stopping whoever came and messed with my place. Nothing worked. Horace thought I was completely crazy. I guess in his eyes it was not a big step from crazy to completely crazy. How could I argue with him?
I hoped getting away from Horace and Helen would change things and I would find peace and quiet. And then this. After the first night in my house, it looks like an army of maids has performed a spring clean. Tonight, a battalion of gardeners cleared the yard; and I’m sleeping draped around a tree, in serious danger of catching pneumonia. I’m not getting better, I’m getting worse.
Hopeless and defeated, I get up and stumble toward the house. If this is how my future life looks, I don’t want a bar of it. Without a smidgeon of control, I’m drifting on this ocean of life, tossed about by some invisible current, bruised and battered. This life is not worth living. I can’t do this anymore; it’s just too much.
Did I remember to pack my pills when I left Waitakere Flats? I had enough to put an end to this pitiful excuse of a life. Nobody will miss me. They might not even find me for a month or two.
My hands are hot from all the rubbing. Stamping my feet to help the circulation, I walk to the house and form a plan of action. Not that I have to think hard. I’ve been here before. The difference is that in the past either Horace or Helen showed up and stopped me or got me to the hospital in time.
It feels like this is the end of the road for me. I’m not upset about it. I’m just tired. Who will deny me the right to put my head on a pillow and sleep without ever waking up? This never-ending fight against the emptiness inside me that sucks me into a dark bottomless, vortex, has to stop. My search for meaning came up empty. There is no meaning and nobody in my life to hang around for. That’s okay, too. Nobody can blame me for not having tried.
I open the back door and let it slam shut behind me.
A piercing pain lances through my left hand like a thousand sharp knives. Colorful spots swirl at the edges of my vision and tears shoot into my eyes. I caught my fingers in the door. I open the door, wincing in pain as it releases my hand and blood is circulating to fight against the injury.
“Pay attention, stupid woman.”
Who said that? I turn around, but nobody is there. Only Prince is sitting in front of me watching me dance in pain and wiping away tears I couldn’t manage a few moments ago. I run to the sink in the kitchen and hold my fingers into a bowl of cold water. Soon they’ll turn from deep red to purple blue.
I drag myself to the chair at the table. Prince joins me and puts his head on my lap, licking my good hand. He looks at me and I swear he’s trying to comfort me, telling me I’m not alone, and that he’s worth hanging around for.
“What would I do without you, boy? I’m sorry I forgot about you for a moment in my selfish gloominess. Of course, you are worth hanging around for.” The dog’s tail is thumping the wooden floor, and he has that thoughtful, patient look as if he’d say, “I have all the time in the world to wait till your silly phase is over and we can go for a walk.”
Nothing puts an end to suicidal thoughts like getting your fingers caught in a door. Prince is right. I don’t want to put an end to my life. I want to stop feeling hopeless and empty and want the pain and inner chaos to stop. I’ve tried medication and everything else I could think of. Perhaps it’s time to give Charlotte’s suggestion a shot and have a stab at the voices she claims are other parts of me. Last time I saw her she challenged me.
“What have you got to lose?”
“My sanity, my mind,” was my answer. She tipped her head to the side and raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t you tell me only minutes ago, they’re lost already?”
She had a point there. Other parts of me? My mind boggles. If they were parts of me, wouldn’t I know about it? Never in my life have I heard something more ludicrous.
I scratch Prince’s neck and smile at him. “Good boy. I guess we’ve got work to do.” My gaze wanders to the black notebook on the table. It’s open. Someone scribbled in it and that someone wasn’t me.
Actually…
I pull the book closer. Yes, it’s a note for me.
It starts, Dear Elise,
I’m not sure I want to continue, because this feels very much like being caught in a cheap time travel novel. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m trapped in some cheap time travel movie. I flick back to the previous message from Ama. This is not her handwriting, it’s different, and that’s spooky. I give myself a mental smack around the ears. If this is a movie, there is no harm in reading what’s written.
Dear Elise,
Can you believe Charlotte McF. thinks writing to you is a good idea? I hope she is right because the last thing I want is to freak you out. I know how much you struggle… we all do. Like you, we knew we couldn’t go on like this much longer. That’s why we decided to get away from Helen, the doctors, and the whole, creepy NGYD. They are intertwined with our past; Elizabeth’s parents and the daily nightmares we call our life. Remember, Charlotte often said to you, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” We are here at Wright’s Homestead to remember that past and deal with it because we’ve had enough of the pain and the hurting. How about you? Are you onboard?
I push the notebook away and sit back. My breath comes in ragged gasps as if I’ve surfaced from a deep underwater cave where I hid for far too long. Have I forgotten how to draw a breath? I wish I could stay relaxed and contemplate the state of my affairs. But I’m anything but relaxed. These could have been my words, but they’re not. Familiar thoughts of wanting to be anywhere but where I am, rush through my mind.
What did Charlotte say? “The definition of craziness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome.” That woman was full of annoying sayings like that. Tools of the trade of a therapist? Sayings like that made me swing between feeling like a wimp and giving her the boot as my therapist. But I’m not a wimp! I can do this.
From the corner of my eye, the notebook beckons me. Yes, yes, I’m coming, but first I need a cup of tea. On the cooking range, I find a kettle sitting on the back element with hot water. Next to the range, hanging on hooks from the bottom shelf of a spice rack, are four white, chipped, enamel mugs. I pick one and let a tea bag steep in the hot water until the liquid is honey brown.
For a while, I’m sipping my tea and let my gaze wander past the notebook and through the room. Soft crawling shadows of the dying flames in the range combine with the smell of smoldering wood and old house. What am I doing here, thrown into the long-forgotten world of my long-forgotten family? I’m not even sure I want to be here, but where else could I go? Running back to Helen and my old life is not an option.
Perhaps the safety and solitude this place offers can help me to put my life in order without the threats of ridicule or hospitalization? That sounds about right. With the steaming tea in my hand, I return to the table and pull the notebook to me.
You never liked the idea that the voices you hear are part of you, a bunch of ‘internal’ friends, who came to help you manage life. Trust me, we struggle with that concept just as much as you do. If we are part of you, you are part of us. It doesn’t feel like it, does it? I don’t even know what that means, but I trust Charlotte—by the way, we call her Miss Marple—to know what she’s talking about.
We are a large group of about fifty people. Most of them are children and you won’t ever have much to do with them, other than feeling their pain when it seeps through.
We see our existence as an act of love born through the unbelievable creativity of a young child. When bad things happened to Elizabeth and she couldn’t tolerate it any longer, she went ‘away’ and a new part got created, a part that could hold on. Each and every one of us came along to help, including you. We didn’t ask for it. Perhaps, mother nature or God just made it happen to help Elizabeth get through stressful and painful times.
As the body is getting older, the coping mechanisms of dissociation are getting in the way. We can see that. It stops us from dealing with the cause of pain and keeps us a prisoner of the past. Will you work together with us?
I’m Lilly. If you want me to, I’ll tell you more about myself next time.
<
br /> Whoa. I’m glad I’m sitting because I don’t trust my wobbly legs right now. The inside of my head turns again into a loud choir. I guess if this Lilly is right, I’ve got myself a bunch of musical friends. I feel the urge to laugh, but out comes only a resigned gurgling.
I could do with a second cup of tea and need to give my fingers another cooling treatment. I look over to the kettle, but my legs don’t seem able to move.
“Hey, internal friends, can you make my legs work?”
All of a sudden, my head is quiet. Eerily quiet.
“No, no, don’t run away. I don’t like silence. It creeps me out.”
As I expect, nobody answers. I reach for the notebook and read Lilly’s letter again.
Chapter Thirteen
Lilly: 20 November 2015, Morning, Tree House
It’s not even eight o’clock and we are already on high alert again. Where is the Grinch who stole my beautiful, tranquil, sun-drenched Friday morning? Not that I had many of those in the past. But today is off to an even worse start. Maddie had a massive flashback last night. Fear as sharp as knives is still burning through the body. For a while, I listen inside to its source. It’s the young ones who feel its vividness and power.
They show me their memories of the cloaked shape waiting in the recesses of their mind. If it weren’t for the lifeless, powder gray holes where eyes should have been, I could dismiss the memory as the night’s shadows playing tricks on their minds. But someone or something was there. I felt it too. Whatever frightened the kiddies was real.
In our attempt at panic control, we rallied around Maddie to make her as comfortable as possible, totally forgetting the body. That sent Elise, who woke up at the foot of the tree where Maddie left the body, into one of her I-can’t-stand-life-like-this spins. In his frustration, Amadeus slammed the door on her hand. So, we have only one functioning hand at the moment. The unexpected, yet positive outcome was she snapped out of her poor-me, semi-suicidal state. We don’t have time for that going on.
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