The Girl in the Treehouse

by Jennifer Asbenson

  I’m about to pour a glass of red wine and tell you all about my little treehouse. In this treehouse of mine, I recall the past like it was yesterday. I know how to live like this, primitively, but I didn’t ever imagine I’d be living in a treehouse when I was forty-three. Life can throw the unexpected at you, like a new adventure—an adventure where nothing is missing, except for maybe a goat or two.

  This night is a fantastic night in my treehouse. My heater is aglow, and the temperature is just perfect. The evening is unique because it is windy outside. It is my first stormy night in the tree. I’m sure I will experience and survive all the weather conditions life will throw at me except snow and tornadoes, but we don’t get those here. The thought of an earthquake did run through my mind as well. Mother Nature is more intriguing than scary to me, and if an earthquake did happen, my ten belongings here would be easily replaced, apart from maybe the wine.

  The Lumineers entertain in the background while I sip my wine— Francis Coppola Diamond Collection Cabernet, to be precise. Incense burns every night. Tonight, it is Nag Champa. I am loyal to Nag Champa. Some say incense has spiritual uses, such as to sanctify or purify an area. I believe it’s working. I feel as pure as the first driven snow. I also burn white sage. For hundreds of years, white sage has been considered a sacred, cleansing, purifying, and protective plant. I feel very protected.

  My treehouse is covered with Moroccan tapestries that give off a musty odor, as if a wet dog slept on them for years. More likely than that, I simply inhaled the scent of cheap dye. The burn of white sage and incense helps, maybe even complements the smell in a way. Some of the tapestry’s colors are oddly saturated by the glow of my Christmas lights. Instead of the traditional red, green, or rainbow string of lights, mine is comprised of deep purple and blue bulbs. The cool glow has a slight inconsistency that soothes, as every fifth and sixth light flickers, while the rest burn continuously. Either they were designed this way by some hippie-treehouse-light-effect genius, or my staple gun missed its mark, crimped the wire, and created a short that triggered this welcomed side effect that aims to mesmerize.

  Under the tapestry is plastic, hidden completely. When insulating your treehouse, you can choose from a variety of materials. I favored plastic. It works splendidly. The floor is layered with ugly rugs underneath and a large, beautiful carpet on top. It is all about layers when living off the grid.

  One thing I cannot regulate is the weather. It has become a true adventure now. As I describe my luxuriously humble surroundings to you, the treehouse rocks in the wind and the branches wildly hit the sheet-metal roof. I hear sirens wail and dogs bark. Pandora plays Ray LaMontagne’s “Trouble,” as if the universe is saying, “Time to go home, crazy lady.” Mother Nature doesn’t know me as well as she thinks.

  Not speaking is a surreal experience. I haven’t spoken a single word in what feels like an eternity—for three hours, according to my phone. I feel like a monk in monastic silence—a spiritual practice in various religious traditions, where monks or other holy people are quiet for different periods of time in order to become gods or goddesses. So, if I understand this correctly, the longer I stay silent, the better chance I have of becoming a goddess.

  Who am I kidding? I start to make noises to remind myself I can still speak. I’m not about to become a monk anytime soon, or in this lifetime even.

  There is something to this silence, though. The less I speak, the more I think. In this treehouse, no household noises pollute my thoughts. This makes me feel absent from the world, yet present in the moment. My mind begins to feel cleansed. In the treehouse, I don’t have anxiety, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), or obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). The treehouse has grown into a safe house for my soul.

  The wind is more rigorous now. We sway. I feel like I’m in a sea fort or on a boat, out in the middle of the ocean.

  But like when I was taking a cold shower outside as a kid, I can be wherever I want to be. My imagination soars. It feels as though the treehouse is lifting up into the air. It might be the wind, or it might be the wine, or maybe it is both the wind and wine. Whatever this is, I’ll stay and enjoy the ride for as long as it’s here.

  As I lay me down to sleep, I gaze at the ceiling, covered with a maroon and gray tapestry. The speakers have been strategically placed in metal paint cans, which hang below the hidden birds carved into the headboard of my twin bed. I stare into the colors on the ceiling and see twinkle lights glowing through little elephants.

  The elephants have luggage on their backs. All of my problems are in the bags and bundles on the elephants’ backs. I’m not hallucinating; the elephants are printed into the material. The wind, mixed with the beautiful sounds and my heightened level of creativity, can make the elephants move. They travel off the tapestry with their belongings and fly out the tear in the plastic sheeting I call the front door.

  As I lie here, full of dreams and aspirations, I think of the experiences I’ve had, and the life yet to come. My eyes are wide with wonder. The roof blows away without a sound, and I see the stars and stare.

  These are my eyes, and this is my mind. Visualization helped me survive the horrible happenings that came my way. There was always a roof, but when I looked up, I could see the sky.

  The blue truck that we used to haul water

  The dome in winter

  Me at four years old

  CHAPTER TWO

  Through the Lens of a Smoke-Filled Treehouse

  I was born in Indio, California, on the third of April in 1973. There were three other Jennifers born on the same day, which leads me to wonder if I might have been switched at birth. I think I had a lovely birth, but I don’t remember any of it. I did, however, see a picture of myself at three weeks old, and I looked happy.

  I also have a newspaper picture of when my mother had taken me to the public pool for swimming lessons. Unfortunately, the newspaper got my name wrong, but I know it’s me. My mother looked thin for just having birthed me, and she seemed as happy as someone could be.

  I arrived home from the hospital to an older sister named Gina. Gina was a year and a half old when I was born. We lived in a modest home in La Quinta Cove. We had a large, grassy backyard.

  From what I can tell, my mom and dad were kind to my sister and me, although I don’t remember any of this. Videos of my dad giving us rides on a motorcycle around the backyard tell me that what I believe is the truth. In the same footage, my sister chases a scraggly dog around the house as she laughs. We looked like we were happy children. We had a marvelous swing set and cuddly rabbits we couldn’t pick up because of their razor-sharp claws. A picture also exists of me in a pretty dress with a humongous candy cane in my hand and a genuine smile on my face.

  My earliest thoughts of Gina were that I was her plaything. She had short, chestnut brown hair and big brown eyes. She was huge compared to me. At the time, I didn’t know what a sumo wrestler was, but if I did, that is the way I would have seen her—big, burly, and robust. I think she may have taken my food sometimes.

  I was a delicate child with colorless, wispy hair and turquoise, puzzled eyes. Both my mother and father had brown hair and brown eyes. The only resemblance between Gina and me was our bowl haircut provided by our mom. Besides that, I did not look like anyone in my family, but you could tell Gina belonged to our parents.

  Everywhere Gina went, I followed. She wanted to boss me around in return. Once, she had me climb into the front of a plastic toy shopping cart, and my legs became stuck. My circulation was cut off, so my dad had to cut the basket to get me out. He said it was a good thing he knew how to work with tools, or I would be stuck in that cart forever.

  My parents would bowl every Friday night. They were in a league together. Their association was called The Friday Night Owls. My mom was so good she had her own shoes and ball. My dad wasn’t at her skill level but always seemed to win the money shots. They were a good team and sometimes won prizes. This was their weekly night
out. My sister and I frequented the bowling alley daycare. I wouldn’t leave Gina’s side; I felt distressed without her. As a scaredy-cat, I admired her strength.

  One night, she went to the restroom, and I raced after her. When I tried to follow her in, my attempt was thwarted with force. She slammed the door shut with my hand in it. Chaos unfolded. Blood was everywhere. But the scene, which had transformed into an absolute horror show, thanks to my three-year-old eyes, was suddenly brightened by the people around me. Everyone was incredibly kind. Their concern for my welfare made me the center of attention.

  The caregivers banged on the bathroom door, but my sister decided to take her time and finish her business before she opened it. She had no idea what she had done. When she finally stepped out of the restroom, she took in the grisly scene. The expression on her face, pale and scared, looked exactly how I felt. My pinky finger had nearly been chopped off. It dangled, attached only by the skin. After being rushed to the hospital, my tiniest finger was sewn back onto my hand. Today, the finger works fine.

  My parents quit the league because of what happened. They took a financial blow and couldn’t trust the caregivers to watch over us properly. My parents didn’t sue the bowling alley, because back then, people weren’t as sue-happy as they are today. They just understood and accepted that accidents happened.

  WHEN I WAS ALMOST THREE years old, my baby brother was born. My dad held him often. I see now my dad probably wanted a boy so that his son could follow in his footsteps. I think the happiness my dad had about his expanding family was more significant because he now had a son.

  My sister and I played with him when we could, and both our parents cared for him. He was the sweetest baby ever. We named him Jason. He had soft, curly brown hair and brown eyes. He smiled and laughed, sat upright, and held his bottle. Our family appeared perfect in the pictures we had … until the scene in front of the images transformed.

  When my brother was three months old, our lives changed forever. Horror and chaos replaced all that was once predictable. My mom’s screams could be heard throughout the house; her uncontrollable sobs followed. We heard my dad yell, in an ironic effort, to calm her down. Gina and I were scared and confused as we watched our brother shake. Strange noises whimpered from his mouth, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  The day before this nightmare, my brother had received his DTP shot. This vaccine was supposed to protect a baby from diphtheria, tetanus, and pertussis. These shots were vital. All babies received them.

  My parents rushed us into the car; they had no insurance to afford an ambulance. We were in our pajamas. My mom held Jason in her lap as my dad drove. She thought my brother was dying. My sister and I didn’t know what dying meant, but it looked terrible.

  We reached the hospital, and the doctor told my parents that my brother was having grand mal seizures. My mom mentioned that Jason had just received his baby shots, but the doctor assured her the two were not related.

  A team of doctors tried to count the seizures. Once they reached 150, they stopped counting. The seizures just continued. It was horrifying for everyone, especially our parents. Imagine thinking your child is about to die and no one has any idea why.

  Even though we were young, my sister and I stayed out of the way and stared, with fear and confusion in our eyes, when the seizures would start. My sister and I only went to the hospital the first time this happened. After that, whenever my parents needed to take Jason to the hospital, we were not allowed to go.

  The doctors told my parents that my brother would not live to see his fifth birthday. My sister and I could sense their broken hearts. The change in them was beyond words I could convey at the time, but our tiny hearts felt it firmly, and our lives changed forever.

  I feel the need to stress how hard this chapter is for me. I’m in my treehouse with my left hand over my mouth, as my eyes well up with tears. None have yet trickled out because I force them back. As an adult, I see and understand all of this differently than I could as a child. To see it and write about this experience now is so necessary but utterly heartbreaking for me. I know I will revisit unresolved pain as I write this chapter, but I must face the truth about my life to understand myself and heal. And if it can help anyone, I will risk it all. I cannot hold back. I’ll type through the tears.

  So, the floodgates open, and my emotions soar. I smoke some pot because I don’t want to go into the house for wine, where people will see my tear-streaked face. Marijuana makes me feel relaxed and creative. Wine makes me feel sophisticated. Together, they help me feel relaxed, creative, and sophisticated—an excellent combination to form a healthy foundation for storytelling.

  Through my smoke-filled treehouse, a memory of my dad manifests into reality. He sits on the same recliner he has owned as long as I can remember. He holds my baby brother, who rests his right cheek on my dad’s chest. That chest was strong once. Now it seems concave. My brother faces upward as he rests and looks at my dad. No, he looks past my dad, up into space. He seems to have lost his will and ability to move after a day of seizures. His face is red. The redness is blurry, so I can’t tell exactly how bad the rash has become. The redness has a sheen to it as if an ointment had been applied to calm it down. His mouth is open, and drool spills over the bottom of his chapped lip. I can tell, from this profile view, that his eyes are glossy—he has been crying.

  He looks like a miserable baby. His arms lie paralyzed to his sides. He doesn’t move because he can’t. His hair is brushed on the top of his head into a smooth wisp, like the picture of the Gerber Baby.

  He is dressed in a light blue jumpsuit and white socks. He is three months old. He will never be a happy baby. He will never walk or talk. My baby brother will die before he is five years old.

  My dad is shaggy. If I were a cartoonist, that is the thing I would make stand out the most. He never used to be this hairy. He has dark brown hair above his lip, on the sides of his face, and on his cheeks and chin. His beard is not mountain-man length, but it is a sure sign of shaving neglect, as if he just stopped grooming altogether. A strong aura lingers around his chair and suggests this too. Or perhaps the Mary Jane cloud in the treehouse has misled my vision.

  My eyes begin to bemuse me. Whatever the nimbus is, it signifies the passing of a distressed ego. A man’s identity unrestrictedly being let go, because it has no place here anymore. One energy must be replaced by another, though. He is now the epitome of altruism. A machine, once a man with dreams, aspirations, and explanations, now irrecoverable.

  The hair on his head matches the hair on his face, of course. It is a mess and hasn’t been brushed for days. Imagine Einstein on a bad hair day, but worse. His back is one with the recliner. His gray T-shirt is wrinkled. His right arm mimics my brother’s—straight down and paralyzed. His legs are in worn jeans and they, too, are paralyzed.

  It is strange how sometimes the look on a face can be harder to describe than the meaning in someone’s eyes. I could interpret my dad’s expression, convert it into emotions, but I don’t want to. Better to observe with an emotionless, clinical eye. He’s dehydrated. Too much beer is the likely culprit.

  His eyes, though, stare past the camera. A candid picture tells so much more than one that is posed. All illusions fade away. My father, without a façade, is difficult to look at. His eyes aren’t completely vacant, but something is not right. Did he not know he was supposed to smile for the camera? Did he not know his photo was being taken? Or did he simply not care? In his averted gaze, I see the fall of a man— an exhausted, confused, and defeated man—financially drained with hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt, two small daughters, and now a severely disabled baby boy under his care. The exhibition was undeniably the gaze of a man with newfound alcohol addiction, and a wife who was about to lose her mind.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Boots, Beer, and A.1. Sauce

  We are now abandoned by our own blood. Eating condiments to survive. Pushed out of the circle we once completed.<
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  Day after day, the madness repeated.

  Rain falls gently as I walk toward the treehouse, now enveloped in a dense fog. I can see where I step, but I have no idea where I will take you tonight. I am a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants type of girl at times.

  The first thing I do when I enter the treehouse is greet the surge protector, and hope he doesn’t quit on me during my stay. The surge protector is connected to a long, yellow extension cord. The yellow cord is attached to a long, once-bright-orange, now rustic-looking extension cord. The rustic cord is plugged into a grimy outlet on the outside of the house. The connections have met. I climb the ladder and flip the switch on the surge protector, and the treehouse comes alive as if to say “Welcome, Jennifer.”

  The rain taps the sheet-metal roof. The Christmas lights glow, the heater coils ignite, the wine is poured, the lights are low, the music is just right. I am physically alone as I prepare to enter the depths of my mind. Somehow, I feel safe with you here.

  Are you ready? Hold my hand. Let’s fly into the mist and over the light. The rain is warm, the moon is bright. Spread your arms and fly with me. You will not know what you never see.

  My world changed overnight; all attention was on my brother now. A new family developed before my eyes, consisting of my mom, my dad, and my brother. My sister and I were no longer involved; we had no place. We were not a priority because we were healthy. In our home, normal children were a nuisance.

  The next few years would play out like a heartbreaking Groundhog Day scene. The impact this new drama had on my parents was tremendous. My dad no longer smiled or laughed. My mom cried all day long and played records, and if she saw us come out of our room while my dad was home after work, she would whisper loudly, “Get back in the room!” We listened and did what we were told because we wanted her to be happy. For whatever reason, she didn’t want us around our dad.