Beyond the Tree House

by Gudrun Frerichs

  Right now I would be grateful if that someone were Lizette with an arm full of clothes for me to wear. But that’s not happening anymore. She disappeared weeks ago. I miss her … not because of the clothes. That would be silly. I miss her because she’s my sister who was always by my side. She sneaked away to the sanctuary without saying adieu.

  Every time I get dressed I feel the gap she left behind. We had this game where I always chose the opposite of what she suggested. The arguments we had were lots of fun. Now getting dressed is boring.

  When I leave the house twenty minutes later in my best jeans, white blouse, and gray blazer, Prince looks at me with approval. And because he is a male, I appreciate it and give him a scratch behind his ears.

  I take the bunch of flowers I picked earlier from our garden and lock the door behind me. I had a debate in my head whether to bother locking up. Nobody ever comes here. Although that’s not right anymore. We’ve seen more traffic in the last few weeks with all those ominous visitors than Times Square does on a busy day.

  Scottie would want me to lock up, so I do. There is a chuckle in the back of my mind. I know, I’m becoming domesticated and some of the Tribe find that amusing. Ha, ha, ha.

  When Sky asked me why I wanted to see the grave of Auntie Amanda I had no answer. I still don’t know why I’m driving through Quarry Gorge, along this neglected, forgotten road, nudged in-between two lush hills about halfway between the Flatbush Creek Road turnoff and Port Somers.

  There is a voice insisting I look for Auntie’s grave. Voice might not even be the right word to describe it. It’s different from the voices of the Tribe. With them I can argue and—if I choose to do so—ignore them. The voice I’m talking about is more like a knowing and having the sensation the surrounding air is talking to you. At the risk of people calling me bonkers, I’d say Auntie is calling me. There, I said it.

  No wonder I feel a little off-color. I don’t do ghosts and otherworldly stuff like that. Voices from Beyond? Puh-lease! I have enough on my hands with the Tribe. But the closer I come to the cemetery, the clearer the knowing becomes. This is creeping me out.

  “What if this is God talking to you?”

  “Mikey stay out of my head.”

  The last thing I need right now is Mikey putting a crazy idea into my head. If there is a God, he’s been looking the other way for years. I have to drive carefully. I’ve never been to this forgotten valley before. There are no cottages with smoking chimneys, no sheep grazing on the hills, no cows munching and watching the passing car. Just dense bush that turns quickly into an even denser bush. I slow right down out of fear I’ll miss the cemetery or plunge down a steep bank.

  I turn a corner and hold my breath. A giant rock face—the leftovers of a deserted quarry—is rising to my right. Buried in the mass of granite are reflecting minerals in different colors as if someone sprinkled glitter over the rocks. Moss and lichen are clinging to the gaps. A large red crevice looks as if someone has slashed into the wall of sheer rock and left it behind bleeding. I shiver and can’t shake off the image of a gaping wound as if the mountain is screaming its agony into the wind.

  When I leave the quarry behind, it starts drizzling. Should I turn around and look for Auntie’s grave another time? A sensible idea, but I can’t turn around. Something drives me forward. When the valley opens up again an old, forgotten settler’s chapel greets me as it stands to watch over the entrance of the cemetery.

  Its once pristine white wooden walls have succumbed to the passing of time. Some weatherboards are still standing upright, while others have fallen apart a long time ago. Paint has peeled from some boards and faded from others. The rusty, corrugated iron roof is still hanging on, courtesy of a few nails and a skeleton of roof beams. Spots of red color on the few remaining panels are a testimony of its former glory.

  I’m disappointed and my hope for a vicarage or someplace still in working order where I could ask for information disappears like morning mist under the burning rays of the rising sun. Left to my own devices, I walk past the ruins of the old church. The cemetery must have been here since the early settler times. Overgrown with weeds, most of the graves look very old and nature is reclaiming the land stolen from it almost two centuries ago. How hard can it be to find a grave?

  A peaceful, serene atmosphere hangs in the air as if the people buried here put their index finger to their lips and urge visitors to hush. There is no birdsong and even the rain drifts down quietly. I stroll past rows of headstones, their roughly carved names and dates faded over time and invaded by large patches of lichen to devour the messages of love and loss.

  Many of the old headstones sit lopsided in the ground, like teeth of an old person, tired from a long life of chewing and resigned to falling out any moment now. One of the newer headstones among a group belonging to the Wright family is laying flat on the ground. I brush away the dirt and weeds and stop dead in my tracks.

  Here lie Eugene and Sarah Seagar.

  I should have expected to come across their grave and feel silly now that I’m caught by surprise. The cemetery borders against the back of the Gateway compound. It makes sense they bury their people here.

  Shivering and overwhelmed by fear, parts of me want to sprint away, want to forget they have ever seen the headstones. But I can’t. My feet are not listening to my commands. I notice Sky’s hand on my shoulder giving me strength. I’m not alone.

  “Listen, kids, I want everyone to take a good look. This is the place they put the parents to rest. They can’t hurt us anymore. Every time a memory surfaces and you think they are coming to hurt you, remember us putting flowers on their grave.”

  I divide the bunch of flowers from home and put one on the parent’s headstone as a reminder we’ve been here and that they are no longer a threat to us. A shudder runs through the body and not much later I can move again.

  One of these graves must be Aunt Amanda’s. A hint of guilt for not having looked her up earlier is making me walk faster. She must be here somewhere. I find a few other Wrights, but no Amanda Wright. I go all the way up the hill and look at every headstone. She should be here surrounded by her family in this stunning valley.

  An hour later I return to the car without having found Auntie’s grave. Did I miss something? I don’t think so. Could it be I’m at the wrong cemetery? There is still enough time to go to the city council and find out what I need to know. The voice in my head is still calling me. I have to find auntie’s grave.

  It’s now an obsession.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It’s a freaking rush to get to the city council before they disappear on their lunch break. A young man, with the sallow face of someone spending his days holed up inside, tears his eyes away from the computer and greets me with an annoyed expression because I disturb him playing Fortnite.

  “Winning?” I point to the now frozen computer screen.

  His face stretches into a wide grin as he nods.

  “I’ll make it short. I’m looking for the last resting place of my aunt, Amanda Wright. She’d died in 1985. I’ve been to the cemetery in Quarry Valley but couldn’t find a grave.”

  “What’s the name again?”

  “Amanda Wright.”

  He looks something up on the second computer and then dives into old-fashioned filing cabinets that line the back wall of his small office. After a few minutes, he comes back with a brown scrap folder.

  “I think I found what you’re looking for.”

  He beams at me triumphantly as if he’d found gold.

  “Here is your aunt’s accident report. We don’t have her last resting place. It says here, they found her car in Flatbush Valley. It had tumbled down a bank and ended up upside down in the creek. The police found lots of blood on the front seat of the car and bits and pieces of personal belonging, a shopping bag, and a blood-drenched headscarf at the scene. But they never found a body.”

  The young man shows me the report and six photos the police took from the
accident scene.

  “Search teams looked for her but didn’t find any trace of her. The case was closed. The coroner concluded that her body must have washed down the creek and into the sea. It was never found. It says here the weather was terrible. It had rained for days, and the river was much higher than normal.”

  I grapple with this information and leaf through the pages of the report. I must have looked forlorn because the clerk shows unexpected compassion.

  “I’m very sorry that I can’t help you any further.”

  “Wasn’t there anything indicating that she crawled away and went for help? She could have been disoriented if she had a head injury as you suggest.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, this is all we have.”

  I didn’t expect this outcome. I assumed the voice in my head was calling me to pay my respect. After all, I live in her house now. This, however, sheds a different light on the whole affair. Does Aunt Amanda want me to find her?

  “Thank you. May I have a copy of the report?”

  It takes the clerk five minutes to copy the ten pages.

  Disappointed with this outcome I turn to leave. This sheds a different light on the whole affair. The voice in my head is still calling me. Does it mean Aunt Amanda wants me to find her? Happy that I’ve at least something to go by, I leave the city council and drive to the hospital.

  When I arrive Scott already waits for me in the foyer. They’ve placed him in a wheelchair near the window. He grins at me and points to the wheelchair.

  “They made me use it. I’m now officially a cripple.”

  “We’ll have you up and running in no time.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “More a promise.” I bend down to kiss his cheek, but he stops me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He knows me too well, which is good and annoying at the same time.

  “I tried to visit auntie’s grave before I came here. I couldn’t find it. They never found her body. It just threw me.”

  “Tell me about it in the car. I need to get out of here. I’ve had enough of hospitals. I wanted to leave yesterday, but the doctors were adamant they had to do some final tests.”

  He’s grumpy and I have an idea of how to change it.

  “Where do you want to go? Straight home or do you want to get a decent bite at the Hogshead?”

  He laughs and I can hear relief and joy in his laughter.

  “It sounds as if you know exactly what I need. After all this hospital food, I’m longing for a decent steak and chips. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  The pub isn’t busy anymore. The usual lunch crowd must have left already. I find a place near the window, away from nosy eyes and ears. Scottie orders a steak for him and a salad for me. When the waiter brings our drinks, he takes a large gulp of a pint of lager.

  “They don’t serve that in the hospital either.” His eyes beam as if he struck a gold mine.

  “So fill me in, what spooked you?”

  “It’s Auntie Amanda. Don’t you think it’s strange that they never found her body? They found her coat drenched in blood, blood in the car, and some belongings, but they didn’t find her body. Why did nobody question her disappearance? Why would she drive up the valley?”

  “You said they found her coat covered in blood.”

  “Yes, but isn’t that strange in itself? Why would she take off her coat?”

  Scottie laughs. “You’ve become a real sleuth. You see crime and wrongdoing everywhere. People do odd things that may not make sense to us because we don’t have all the information. Thinking about that, even with all the information they may not make much sense.”

  “You think I’m making too much of it?”

  “You are worrying a lot. Don’t go crazy and become one of the conspiracy theory people who see the devil in everything.”

  “Dear, Scott, after all, that I have experienced, I’ll question everything and everyone. And don’t you dare to take that away from me and call me crazy. I’ve stared crazy in the face and battled with it all my life. And that wasn’t me looking in the mirror, but watching the people around me.”

  He should know by now that I’m the only person who can call me crazy. He smiles sheepishly at me and I give him some slack. He hasn’t exactly recovered from his ordeal yet.

  “And then there is the police. They came over to get my take on your story and when I told them that people had broken in six nights ago…”

  “What? Who broke in where?”

  “We had people break in six nights ago. They were looking for papers I guess, by the mess they made in the bookshelves.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “When? While you were in a come? I’m not sure I should even tell you now.”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. What happened?”

  “The police are sending a patrol car on a regular basis. We are under police protection. Isn’t that a hoot? They’re becoming our best friends. It feels wrong on so many levels.”

  “I’m glad someone shows common sense.”

  He ignores my peeved stare and attacks the steak on his plate with gusto. After we finish our meal we leave and I help him into the car. I can’t say he’s very happy about it, because he rolls his eyes and swears under his breath. Men are such babies. Am I the only one who can see it?

  He looks paler now than he had when he greeted me at the hospital. Worried, I stow him into the passenger seat and turn the engine turned on. Whatever he’s pretending, he’s far from being 100%. Far from being as well as he wished he’d be. We will have to take it easy.

  “You must take it easy over the next few days.”

  That he doesn’t answer back and closes his eyes as I drive home tells me I’m right. He needs rest with a capital ‘R’.

  Back at the house, I know immediately something is wrong. Someone was here. I swing around to Scottie who’s followed my train of thought.

  “Someone was here.”

  But I must be wrong. Prince greets us with his usual ceremony of jumping at us, his tail thumping on the floorboards. By now I’m paranoid and rush to check the back door. It’s unlocked. I leave the door open all the time I close it when I leave the house. I swear I closed it this time too.

  “Did you leave the backdoor open?”

  “No, I’m sure I closed it. Someone was in here. I sense it. Someone has snooped around our place. I’m convinced someone has moved things around. I can’t be sure, but…”

  “Stop, Elise, you are driving yourself crazy. I’m sure Prince would show us if someone had broken in.”

  Sometimes Scottie is infuriating. “I’m sure if you’d teach him to write he would leave us a note with a rundown of what happened.”

  Oh dear, that was the first time I’ve snapped at Scottie. Does that mean our relationship is going down the toilet, or does it mean our relationship is running in a more normal, everyday-people direction? Do I have to kiss and make up, or is this tiff something a solid relationship can endure? I wish I had answers because this is uncharted territory for me. Sky? Elise? Anybody?

  But inside all is silent.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lilly: 14 March 2017, Afternoon, Wright’s Homestead

  I shouldn’t have snarled at Scottie. He looks pale like the silver moon I often admire hanging in the midnight sky.

  “I think you should have stayed a few days longer in the hospital. Just this trip home took a lot out of you.”

  This is perhaps the clumsiest attempt of an apology but it’s the best I can do.

  He shakes his head. “Maybe, but I’m so worried about you. It’s not good for you to live out here all by yourself. Not with all this stuff going on.”

  “You are like Tom, thinking I’m a helpless damsel in distress who can’t help herself. I’m not. Anyhow, you’re back so I’m no longer alone. I order you to lie down, be a good patient, and listen to what I’m saying.”

  “Okay, madam charge nurse. Jeez. I’m no
t that bad. I only need some fresh air and sunshine to get my color back.”

  If he thinks he can dismiss me that easily, he’s got some surprises waiting for him.

  “I insist that you take a seat on the sofa.” I point to the messy bookshelf and dining table. “It’s clear that someone was in here. Even with Ama gone, I would never leave a place in this state.”

  “Ama is gone? How so?”

  “I don’t know. She faded away. I couldn’t see her anymore and I haven’t heard her voice since the last burglary when we fought off the intruder. It feels like she’s passed her compulsion to clean and cook on to me, and left.”

  “You? Cook?”

  He thinks that’s funny, but I’m not in the mood for silly games. Someone has been through my stuff and I’m not amused.

  “I wish I knew what they were looking for.”

  “Okay, promise, no more silly jokes. Tell me what you see.”

  He sinks into the cushions on the sofa and puts his legs up.

  “They were quite precise with the areas they searched. The laundry and my bookcase. There must be something about Wright’s that’s worth breaking in for. It’s not that we hid the family jewels somewhere.”

  He nods and rubs his chin. “Perhaps your aunt has? And since you inherited the money from your parents, you are a wealthy woman. You could be the target. They might think you’re the money-under-the-mattress type.”

  “Hilarious. Look around. Do I live like a wealthy woman? Can you see any Picassos hanging on my walls? They’ve been here before and gone through everything. I could understand if they had cut open my mattress in the hope to find money, but laundry? Multiple or not, there is nothing special about my dirty clothes.”