Beyond the Tree House

by Gudrun Frerichs

  I’m sorting through the disorder on the dining table. Scottie lifts his head and watches me.

  “Did they take anything?”

  “Nothing important. They took a folder of paperwork, a letter auntie wrote, and copies of the title.”

  I dig through the masses of paper for our plans for the extension and the copy of the building consent application. They are not there anymore.

  “Imagine that, they also took our plans and the building consent application. What is interesting about that, I ask you?”

  By Scottie’s frown I know he’s just as clueless as I am.

  “Nothing, unless we are missing something .”

  “How silly. Anybody can go to the council and look up the plans for our extension.”

  “But maybe people didn’t want it known that they are interested in it. You have to admit that would give them away.”

  “And breaking in and leaving a mess doesn’t?” It doesn’t make sense, whichever way I look at it. “Hm, a guy came to the door last week and wanted to buy the house.”

  “You didn’t tell me about that. Who was it?”

  “His name was Simon Barker, a real estate agent from Port Somers.”

  I search through the papers on the table.

  “His card must be here somewhere. He said the Gateway group would be interested in buying this place for their youth project.”

  At the mention of Gateway Scottie sits up on the sofa. “Gateways? I knew they had something to do with it. It’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “He talked about Auntie Amanda being the sister of my mother, who was a founding member of the Gateway community. It appears they’d always expected to use Wright’s for their youth project.”

  “You can’t trust any of them.”

  I’ve never heard Scottie lose his composure before but he speaks with such force that I take a step back.

  “He wasn’t a Gateway person, just a real estate agent trying to make a living. He was friendly enough.” I shake my head. This is so nonsensical and over the top. I don’t know what to think.

  “Why would they need to break in? I’ll go and check upstairs.”

  I go upstairs but both bedrooms are untouched as far as I can make out.

  “Up here everything is as I left it.”

  I stop on the landing and look down, seeing him struggle to keep upright. It breaks my heart to watch him.

  “I’m putting you to bed; you need to lie down.” I aim for a tone that wouldn’t tolerate any objection but I fail. Scottie shakes his head and spreads out on the sofa.

  “No, don’t bother, I’m staying down here.”

  He pulls a blanket over him and his eyes challenge me to disagree with him. I shrug and manage a faint laugh.

  “I give up. You’re a hopeless patient.”

  “I suggest we go to the city council and look up the history of this place. There must be records of who built it, who lived here, and what the connections were with the local community. I mean, who builds a house in the middle of nowhere? Only an odd person, someone who didn’t want to have neighbors around. Perhaps even someone who has something to hide.”

  So many unanswered questions. I take a seat at the dining table and stare at the paper in front of me.

  “This house holds more secrets than you and I can imagine, I’m afraid. What if all of this breaking in has nothing to do with you and me or the court case? What if the reason lies way back in the past and we are collateral damage because we happen to live here now?”

  I think I’m making a valid point but he shakes his head.

  “Unlikely. The house stood empty for what? Thirty years? Nobody has bothered with it. It all started when you moved in.”

  He has a point, even if I don’t like it and hate to admit that I’m the reason all this is happening. What did I do to generate so much hostility in another person?

  “When you are better, we’ll go up to the city council and see what we can find. If we don’t find anything there, we might find something in the church register and take it from there.”

  A shiver ripples down my back as if someone is standing behind me, breathing down my neck. My head flips around almost on its own volition but there is nobody there. Then I sense a hand on my shoulder like Sky used to do when she showed her support. Tears shoot into my eyes and I reach with my hand to my shoulder as if I could touch her.

  “Oh Sky, is that you? Please, let it be you, I miss you.”

  I don’t get an answer. But an idea pops into my head. Our family Bible. I have to take our Bible when we go on a search.

  “I’m good, we can leave tomorrow.”

  For a moment I don’t know what Scottie is talking about. I’ve been somewhere else entirely. Of course, he can’t know that. I track back to what was said before I got lost in my inner world looking for my mates. Ah, yes, going to the city council.

  “Oh no, my love, don’t think for a second I’ll let you off so easily. I want you to have much more color in your cheeks before we go snooping about.”

  Who said being a nurse is easy is lying through their teeth. Not with patients like Scottie.

  “Let’s compromise. We’ll talk about it after I have a good sleep. Something hospitals are lousy at. People are constantly traipsing about, coming in all the time taking your temperature and pulse, giving you medication. I’d be surprised if I had six hours of sleep in one hit.”

  “You had undisturbed sleep for the days you were in a coma.”

  “Don’t be stubborn, it doesn’t suit you. You know exactly that’s not the kind of sleep I was referring to. Being in a coma is not catching up on sleep.”

  I grin at him. “I had to try. If you promise to tell me truthfully how you are feeling tomorrow morning I’m happy to make a deal with you.”

  Half an hour later I find him with a notebook on his lap making a list. At least he’s resting and not walking around. I’m at the range using Ama’s favorite recipe for pumpkin and carrot soup. Scottie makes impressed noises from the sofa as if I’ve embarked on a journey he’d deemed impossible. He doesn’t know Ama left a recipe book with easy to follow instructions for me.

  “What are you scribbling?”

  He looks up from his notebook. “I’m brainstorming a list of possible explanations for the break-ins.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “My number one: There is a treasure under the house, a leftover from the gold mining era 150 years ago.”

  “It could be possible. We’ll find that out when we start digging for the extension, won’t we?”

  “Number two: There is a cellar with brandy and other contrabands from the time smugglers were living in this area. I always come back to the fact that it is unusual that someone built a homestead out here. A hunting cabin, like mine, I understand, but a homestead?”

  “I don’t know if there were smugglers in this area. I keep thinking that neither this house nor the families that lived here have anything to offer that justifies breaking in or attacking you. But burning your house down? That’s crazy.”

  He frowns and waves his right index finger from side to side. “My house could have been a revenge act from the Gateway people for helping you bring them to court. I’m more or less resigned to the fact that’s what it was. It’s likely the arson and the break-ins have nothing to do with each other.”

  I’m about to go crazy with all this back and forth. Whichever way I twist or turn it, my life is linked to some kind of nasty business and I have no idea what it’s about. None whatsoever!

  “Perhaps it’s not even people but a ghost who doesn’t like me living here. Wouldn’t that explain a lot?”

  Scottie looks at me as if I’ve lost the plot. I grin and raise my eyebrows and shrug.

  “Just joking.”

  “I believe we don’t have all the facts. And when we do get them, all of this will make perfect sense.”

  “I wish I had your confidence. For now, I want you to put this stuff aside and g
et some rest.”

  “Yes Ma’am, I will.”

  It doesn’t take long before his soft snoring tells me he finally fell asleep. I study him, worried about the dark rings under his eyes, and his pale face. I can’t stop thinking that all the bad stuff that has happened to him happened because of me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Elise: 18 March 2017, Early Afternoon, Port Somers

  I hate arguments. They are more Lilly’s thing. She seems to thrive during arguments. I’m rather sorry Scott and I argued. It left me with a sick sense of dread in my stomach. I’m aware it’s old stuff and has little to do with Scott, but knowing it and stopping it are two different kettles of fish.

  Ms. Marple said once, part of moving beyond being a victim is doing what is right and not doing what others would like you to do. So that’s what I’m trying. Stopping a person with a head injury who just came out of a coma from traipsing around the countryside and playing Magnum PI is doing the right thing.

  Scott had a different opinion. Why was I not surprised? Still, we made him stay in bed. Who does he think he is? Twenty years old and indestructible? He wobbled on his feet like a drunken sailor. I even had to hide the car keys. How ridiculous is that? Are we back in kindergarten?

  He’s lucky he’s in a relationship with me and not Amadeus. He would have had to nurture a bruised ego as well as a bruised head. The sheepish grin on his face told me he knows that. While Scott took it easy, together with Mikey we used the time to turn over every stone in every little corner of the homestead. We found nothing that could justify a break-in.

  “I told you so. You should start listening to me,” Mikey gloated.

  Before I agree to discharge Scott and go with him to Port Somers, I make him get up and sit down a few times and take his pulse. It took him four days to be well enough. Four days of hell for me with a grumpy patient. I know now I’m not born to be a nurse.

  On the way to Port Somers, Scott puts his hand on my leg. I guess he’s finished sulking.

  “Are we good now?”

  “I’ve never been ‘not good’ with you. You gave me the silent treatment, remember?” He’s lucky that I’m a multiple. One lesson I learned as a member of the Tribe was that if some part is not responding or behaving oddly, they can’t do any better. They’re either caught up in some weird thinking or outside of ‘reception’ as I like to call it. You have to be fully switched on and not with your mind digging in the dumpsters of yesteryear if you want to be content and happy.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m a lousy patient. You didn’t deserve me acting like a spoiled child. I hate being dependent. You of all people should understand that.”

  “I do. And you of all people should accept my expertise when it comes to healing matters.”

  “Touché. I promise to do better.”

  I’m leaving it, knowing that it’ll happen again. It’s the human condition, I’m sure. It could be my turn next to act all cranky about something. Right now I have to concentrate. We’re leaving the open country road and entering Port Somers. It’s always a shock coming into Port Somers from the seemingly unlimited emptiness of the vast countryside with hardly any traffic and even fewer people milling about. Not even the strong southerly and the chilling rain keeps people at home.

  “It’s like a beehive.” Scott says it more to himself than me. I smile and comforting familiarity warms my heart. I’m sure, like me, he can’t wait to get back home. We both love the solitude of Flatbush Creek Valley. How rare is it to find another hermit and get along with him as well as we do? It’s worth fighting for. And we will. I squeeze his hand.

  By now it’s pouring down. All the parking spaces in front of the city council are occupied and we have to park on a side street. I pull up the hood, zip-up my rain jacket and run with Scott through the heavy rain. The gusty wind pushes us ahead, making a mockery of my umbrella is turning it inside-out … more a hindrance than protection.

  Inside the city council, we shake off the water droplets. I look at Scott and laugh.

  “What?”

  “You look like a drowned rat.”

  He grins and puts his arm around me. “That makes two of us then!”

  We are not the first to arrive in such a state. Raincoats are hanging on the large, iron coat rail and dripping umbrellas stand in the old-fashioned, wooden beer keg. The council people are prepared for this kind of weather.

  “I hope we have more success than I had when I inquired about my auntie’s grave.”

  I squint at the door of the land information office, keeping my expectations low out of fear they’ll disappoint me.

  “If not here we’ll find the information somewhere else.”

  Sometimes his optimism irritates the heck out of me. It’s a different department, though. A middle-aged man clad in sturdy working pants and a hunting vest with bulging pockets greets us, the smell of sawdust still hanging on him. He looks as if he is more at home on a building site than in an office.

  Relieved, I greet him with a smile. At least he might be familiar with building houses and not just with pushing pencils. The small sign on the desk says we are talking to Donald Houghton, building inspector.

  “How can I help you?”

  He looks at Scott. Of course, he looks at Scott. This is a wild country, men’s country. Women are good for cooking stew and mending woolen socks. As I’m bad on both accounts, I might as well grab the steer by his horns. Isn’t that what they say?

  “We would like to look into the title history of Wright’s Homestead.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  He sends me a surprised glance, then smiles friendly and disappears into the room next door. After a few moments, he returns with a thin folder.

  “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. We only have your application for your extension and a copy of your aunt’s purchase that you gave us when the title was transferred to you.”

  Scott gets his reading glasses out and studies the content of the file.

  “That can’t be all. The house must be over a hundred years old. There must be many more documents.”

  “I wish I could help you. A fire in 1992 that destroyed most of our archives. It’s only in the last ten years that we started saving documents as hard copy and electronically. I’m so sorry.”

  My heart sinks. Another dead end. I had put all my hopes in finding information that could shed light on our situation. It’s as if someone is pulling the carpet out from under my feet. Scott must have noticed my state. He’s putting his arm around my shoulders and pulls me toward him.

  “Oh, that is really bad. Ms. Seagar expected to find plans that document the changes over time such as building permits, architectural drawings, this kind of information.”

  “I can’t help you there. I’m sure there are folks around who still remember who lived in the place but I wouldn’t know where to start … except maybe … yes, that could work.”

  “Yes?”

  “I just had an idea. If you could find which builder has done work at the homestead, you might get lucky. They often keep a plan for their work.”

  I like the idea, but how do we find out who the builder was? Scott and I only recently moved here. Besides Tony at the garage, we don’t know anybody. Oh, I forgot Freddy the gallery owner. Another dead end.

  “Do you suggest we knock on all doors?”

  Colored with disappointment, the tone of my voice came out sharper than I wanted it to be.

  Donald Houghton’s face pulls into a friendly grin.

  “Na. Unnecessary. This is a small place. There are only three builders who’ve worked in the region in the last forty years. If you inquire with them, you might find something. That’s how I would go about finding plans.”

  Scott looks at me. “Three builders. That’s doable.”

  We take a slip of paper with the addresses of the builders in question and return to the car. This time we don’t have to make a run for it. The rain has stopped for now. I take that as a
good sign and check on Scott how he’s keeping up. He’s looking energized as if meeting the building inspector has given him a boost.

  “Do you want to go home or visit one of the builders on our list?”

  He winks at me and his cheeky smile turns my heart to mush. How can I not love this man? My hero. Before I can respond, he takes the lead.

  “There is no better time than now. Let’s visit the people on our list. I don’t feel even the slightest bit tired, thanks to my beautiful nurse.” He smacks a kiss on my hand. “I’m just as curious as you are. It’s about time we got some answers.”

  His enthusiasm is contagious and saying ‘no’ doesn’t seem to be an option. We are on a high as we drive away from the city council.

  The first address is a total miss. The son took over his father’s business a while ago, but he was sure they never worked on Wright’s Homestead.

  The second on the list threatens to set his dogs on us. He shouts a barrage of insults at us that boils down to “nobody in their right mind would have worked for those Wright-weirdos.”

  Shaken, I drive away and stop once we are out of sight. Scott tries to comfort me, but I push his hand aside. It’s been a long time since I felt humiliated like that. Inside my head, I hear a singsong going run, run, run. Never had running away felt more attractive; more like the right thing to do.

  “I’ve had enough. I want to go home.”

  There is only so much a person can take, and I have reached my limit. Tomorrow is another day, perhaps. I put the car into first gear and start driving when Scott pulls the hand brake on.

  “Don’t let one jerk get under your skin. We’ll call in at the last one, Mark Brewer Builder, he’s on our way home.”

  “Don’t ever do that again, or you walk home. I’m done.”

  “Perfect, then you can’t be disappointed. Let’s go. Do you want me to drive?”

  I should’ve known Scott wouldn’t give up that easily. I hate to admit it, but I like that about him. When we knock on the door at the last address a woman my age opens the door. I didn’t expect a woman answering and my mind flips into a tangle. Scott nudges me while I’m looking for the right words. Then, as if from nowhere, they appear.