The Girl in the Treehouse

by Jennifer Asbenson

As I waited, I trembled. The detective spoke.

  “When you open—uncover—your eyes, examine the photos and let me know if you see the man who kidnapped you.”

  The detective spoke with a voice that reassured me the man’s photo was in the lineup.

  Because I knew the picture was on the table, I did not want to move my hands away from my face. My fingers were all that separated my eyes from the evil face that had haunted me throughout the years.

  After I was told to remove my hands, I decided to keep them on my face. This was my way of saying, “Nope. Sorry. The ball is in my court now.” The rebellious thought gave me a sense of control. The next move I made would prove that my story had been true after all. So I tried to savor the moment and make others hang for once. Why was everybody so interested in something that I had made up? I thought, with sarcasm echoing through my mind. The detective was nice and probably didn’t deserve my childish attitude.

  “You can move your hands, Ms. Asbenson.”

  When I finally obeyed his request, I couldn’t help but laugh at my peculiar behavior. Then I looked up at the face of the devil, and my smile vanished.

  “That one,” I said.

  The sound of my voice was unfamiliar, so firm and sure. With complete assurance, I pushed the photo toward the detective.

  “Look at the others, Ms. Asbenson.”

  “No need. That’s him.”

  “Look at the—”

  “I don’t know them! This is him!” I said, after I gave the photos a quick glance and pulled the monster’s face back in front of me.

  “Okay,” he said.

  The expression on his face suggested there was something wrong. I was confused.

  “What?” I asked.

  He seemed reluctant to speak his next words.

  “This guy was arrested in Chicago,” he said as he tapped the photo and took a giant breath.

  There were brief pauses between his next sentences as if he struggled to tell me the severity of what had happened. “He is a serial killer. He killed eight women. And you are the only one who got away.”

  There are times when I reflect on the moment I received verification of the horrors that had altered my mind and my life so fiercely. Those few minutes in the police station replay in my head, and I think: Wow, that’s freaking crazy! Why me? Why am I alive? What the fuck am I here for?

  My mind is blown. I’m not perfect. I’m not the best out of all of these women. I’m no one. Why am I here? Why am I the only one out of all eight girls? I take another puff off the “crack pipe” and look around the treehouse.

  Smoke begins to cloud the air, and my eyes scan my surroundings. What have I done? I wonder. All of the news related to this case is plastered throughout my treehouse, covering the walls. The killer’s ugly face stares from the covers of the newspapers.

  My name stands out in every article, although it is not highlighted. Magazines read “The One That Got Away.” There are pictures of me looking humbly determined. Sticky notes naming a slew of mental disorders have been posted about. My treehouse now resembles a detective’s office, with a green glass legal lamp in the corner, like you see in the movies.

  If the gardener stumbles upon my madness, what will he think? And the man in the house is going to assume I am nuts, if he ever comes in here. But does it matter if he thinks that? Maybe I am crazy. Perhaps it is okay if I am nuts, considering the experiences I have gone through.

  Lost in the detective’s words, an uncontrollable cocktail of emotions surged through my body. The various parts of my face contorted as my heart and mind felt the contrasts of terror and relief, sadness and triumph. My gut urged me to vomit as my mind encouraged me to celebrate.

  My mom began to talk, and I wanted to put my hand over her mouth. This was my time, my redemption. My—whatever it was, it was mine.

  “Can I talk to the girls, the other girls he hurt?” I asked, interrupting my mom.

  The detective looked confused but remained gentle. “He killed all the other girls. You’re the only one left.”

  My head felt heavy. Guilt filled my veins. The entire situation was bizarre.

  The detective began to gather his notes. “We need to warn you that the news is all over this, Ms. Asbenson. They are going to call you and try to talk to you about this. They will want to interview you.”

  My confusion awkwardly turned to joy. Is it appropriate to combine mourning with pride? I wondered.

  As we left the office, all eyes were on me. People saw greatness in me, a quality I had never seen in myself. A few people at the police department shook my hand and told me that they admired me. Their admiration seemed like nonsense, but I enjoyed every minute of it. For the first time in my life, I felt special and important, like a movie star.

  I’m on the deck of the treehouse. The most comfortable spot, surprisingly, is on my back, sprawled across my queen-size air mattress. There is a tiny hole, and the mattress deflates with a faint whistling scream. The weather is ideal, and I notice a slight breeze. Newspapers wave up and down on the bamboo fence that has become the walls of my deck.

  The treehouse now physically represents my past. When I enter, it brings me places I may or may not want to go. In order to tell my story, I must endure the discomfort that too often surfaces. The reminiscent decorations help propel me to the past. Instead of going directly back in time, I swirl around in the memories like I am on a merry-go-round.

  After I roll onto my side, I stare at the face of the ugly human on a newspaper page. He stares back. I do not plan to look away. His death-like, pale face begins to produce color, and the hair on the sides of his head begins to blow away. He is now bald, and he wears black-rimmed eyeglasses. He is older, maybe in his fifties. His drab white T-shirt transforms into a suit and tie. He sits straight. Our eyes are still locked. I am not in the treehouse anymore …

  It is the year 2018. The courtroom is filled with people. As my eyes engage with his, I refuse to look away. I want to smile at him because I know evil despises happiness. Why is he staring at me? Is it strange that I am not afraid? I ask myself. My lips seem to be moving. Wait. Where am I again? Oh, my goodness. I am in court. Why do I feel detached from myself as I speak? Who are all of these people?

  Focus. Tell your story.

  Am I crying? Everyone watches me. Their eyes are on my lips, their hearts dangle from my every word. Supporters are here for me, although they don’t know me. The spectators know me from the newspapers, magazines, and TV shows. My parents are not here to support me, but they have an excellent reason not to come. As I speak, my mind roams about, and I begin to experience flashbacks. Maybe this is the PTSD joining me in this event.

  My story has been told a thousand times. Sometimes, when I share the details of the kidnapping and escape, I think of other things. Now I think about how important I feel. The families of the murdered girls will receive justice, and I will see to it. The world will be a better place because I shared my story. If I help one person, I will have succeeded.

  As I sit on the black swivel chair behind a wooden podium and tell my story, I remember everything the first detective said when Andrew Urdiales was initially captured. A whirlwind of thoughts takes over my mind, and I go back again—back to what happened after the man was captured.

  Me in self-defense class

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Lost and Found

  When the man who tried to kill me was finally caught, my younger sister came to me and admitted to writing I WAS HERE on the bathroom window. She explained that the words had just been a prank. Because the police got involved, she decided to keep quiet when she realized the gravity of the situation. I chose to forgive her, even though that message on the window drove me to sleep on the roofs of houses and underneath beds for four years.

  Like everyone else, my little sister was unaware of the seriousness of the situation, and I couldn’t blame her for that. Apologies weren’t forthcoming from the people who hadn’t believed me, s
o I decided not to expect any. From an outsider’s perspective, I seemed to have come out unscathed, which did anything but inspire such apologies.

  After what I had been through, there was a huge possibility that the soul I so desperately sought out would fall through the cracks. But I did a good job hiding my injuries. So much so that my happiness and good health seemed to outshine those of others around me. While they walked, I skipped. While they talked, I sang.

  To drastically change my outlook on life, I was keen on adopting a perspective that focused on the beautiful, placid side of everything. I also mustered courage to go in search of lost bodies.

  My room was swamped with newspaper articles, flyers picked up from bulletin boards, and an old collection of missing persons’ milk containers from the ‘80s. The cardboard containers were attached to some old Christmas lights hung over my daughter’s crib, and the walls were covered with the haunting papers.

  Sometimes, when I stared at the children’s faces, I became overwhelmed by thoughts of who they were and who abducted them. It unsettled me when I thought of them suffering through the same ordeal I had experienced. These innocent children were too young and fragile to defend themselves or to escape.

  As I watched my daughter sleep, I imagined how I would lose my mind and be institutionalized indefinitely if anyone ever hurt her. In the same vein, I shuddered when I thought of the fear that gripped the families of the lost children.

  My new train of thought urged me to action. Unfortunately, it was likely the missing children had been murdered. Deep down in my heart, the feelings about that possibility were extremely intense. These overwhelming emotions drove me to go out on searches. From place to place, I drove around looking for the bodies of these angelic children.

  Although I was quite nervous to stumble upon one of them, I persisted with a strong sense of obligation. A serial killer had nearly murdered me. So I became motivated by the fear I had felt when I imagined my body would be thrown into the desert like trash and possibly eaten by coyotes at nightfall.

  My remains could have disappeared forever. But the hope that someone would have found me early enough and gently covered me up also crossed my mind. All of these thoughts rushed through my head because I had been so close to death’s door.

  As a spiritually conscious person, I know I would have been in heaven by the time someone found me, but I would still prefer to be found quickly. My body would hold clues and answers that could eventually help catch my killer and prevent future murders.

  What really drove me to search for the children was the profound love I felt for them. They were precious and innocent, and they deserved to have someone look for them. My nature and will turned me into that someone. The search for the dead became one of my main reasons to live. When I searched for their bodies, I felt the divine spark light up in me. Because I felt a unique bond with these children, there was a strong drive in me to become their hero.

  My new hobby seemed strange to some, but I didn’t care what others said. That task and my daughter were the threads that held me together.

  “Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn’t people feel

  as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them?”

  –Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy

  The blow-up bed in my treehouse has lost enough air that my body begins to sink into the middle. My heart is still, and I feel powerful. The photos of the man on the walls bring me joy. His ugliness reveals my beauty. It took me over twenty years to realize that love conquers hate. When I found love for myself, everything else fell into place. My fears vaporized, and I became courageous.

  In order to release the emotional hold that he had on me, I forgave him. When I forgave him, he disappeared from my nightmares, and I gained power. He did not destroy me, and he never will. He is weak. I am strong.

  When I faced him in court, I felt no fear. He did not know me, and I did not know him. He dragged me to hell once but would never have the ability to do that again. He was locked up behind bars and could not harm me. So I released his grip on my heart. The choice was and has always been mine, and when I realized this, my life changed.

  While raising my daughter, I began to transform myself into the person I had always wanted to be. One of my greatest desires had always been to become a storyteller and to feel important. I was featured on TV shows, and everyone was interested in what I had to say. Of course, it felt bizarre that the story I was telling was so horrible.

  Why couldn’t this be a better story? Why couldn’t I have a story that swept people off their feet? A story that, when on TV, didn’t need to have a warning disclaimer? Why isn’t my story a beautiful one of trial and triumph? Why do I feel like I have the plague after telling my story? These are the questions that often ran through my mind.

  It seemed as if God had answered my prayers of being on TV and being a storyteller, and I assumed it was because He knew I would be a great witness for Him. From inside that dark trunk, I had promised God that I would tell everyone He helped me get out. My testimony was now broadcasted around the globe. If this was all I was meant to do, then why did my childhood involve such bizarre circumstances?

  To be honest, I had always known that the kidnapping and my survival wasn’t all there was to it. This story alone was not why I was here. There had always been this part of me that knew I had a much bigger story to tell. What I really needed to do was to convince myself to show the world the bigger picture.

  Eventually, I started asking TV shows if I could mention other parts of my life during the interviews. Every time, they told me that no one was interested in my life story; they only wanted “the story of survival.” My response was always that my life story was indeed a story of survival. Sometimes they let me talk because, well, I’d do it anyway. But when each show aired for public viewing, my excitement became short-lived when I found that the segment about “my life” had been edited out and left on the cutting room floor.

  Deep down, I knew my entire story would one day be told. For many years, I waited for someone to ask me for it. No one ever did, but I still told everyone that my story would be made into a book and a movie. There was never a shadow of a doubt.

  In the meantime, I worked toward making my story even better. My acting and storytelling skills landed me multiple roles in community plays. At a local college, I took classes to better myself. My co-curricular and extracurricular activities included reading, singing, theatre makeup, public speaking, kickboxing, running, radio and television announcing, and acting. In every class, I earned an A. And I changed a law regarding murder (special circumstances), fought to keep the death penalty in California, spoke at schools about safety, and took self-defense courses.

  To be honest, I failed the running class. But that’s okay. When my life depends on it, I know I can run fast, so I don’t mind not being able to run at top speeds for sport.

  OVER A PERIOD OF NEARLY twenty years, I worked at more than thirty different jobs. At some of the jobs, I got into trouble for having too much fun. In those situations, I went overboard with my tendencies of trying to make others happy.

  Once, I was a substitute teacher, and I was reprimanded after I let the students play hide-and-seek when class was in session. An overzealous child broke the toilet seat in the classroom’s private bathroom.

  At another job, I put a fake spider on the desk, and when a patient approached, I would squeeze the inflator at the end of a tube attached to it, and the spider would jump high into the air. Because it was a cardiology office and my trick could cause a patient to have a heart attack and die, I was not allowed to scare patients, my manager said.

  A kind man brought grapefruits to another job. The idea to make fake breasts with the fruit suddenly jumped into my head, and I put two in my shirt and pretended they were my boobs as I checked in the patients. When I stood up, one fell out and busted on the floor. Needless to say, I was scolded.

  While working at Target, I rode the carts around and pretended all
the boxes I opened were Christmas gifts for me, not items to stock on shelves. It was all fun and excitement for me, until one day when they called for backup cashiers and I tried to hide. Terrified to work one-on-one with the public, I hid in the stockroom. The assistant manager found me and made me help check out the customers. When I stood at the register and stared at the keys, it all looked quite foreign. The faces of the people in line were also bewildering.

  Their expressions were a mix of kind consideration and annoyance. They listened as I tried to explain that I had never worked a cash register before. And I know they believed me—until a male employee on another register overheard me and said I had. At that instance, I was left breathless and felt my throat tie up.

  The thought that something terrible was about to happen grew stronger. My emotions, not my mental faculties, did the imagining. The feeling of apprehension was just so strong. My eyes turned red hot, and I looked around frantically for someplace to hide. I began to cry. Tears were everywhere. Then suddenly I had a jolt of energy. I struggled to mouth the word sorry to the perplexed customers, and then I ran straight out the door and down the road.

  My jobs were always short and sometimes terrifying. For many years, my life as an adult was full of struggles.

  To this day, I still face challenges. Diagnoses have shown that I have manic depression, a.k.a. bipolar 1. My case is the one with rapid cycles. It is technically called rapid cycling bipolar.

  The episodes come frequently. When I am depressed, I am so depressed that I cannot physically sit up. And I cry until I am short of breath. My stomach inflates and deflates abruptly. My face turns red. My breathing becomes very shallow. The only thing that brings joy and relief is nothing other than leaning against the shower wall as I watch my tears drift into the water stream and swirl down the rusty circular drain. Sometimes I wonder how long it would take me to sit in that shower and cry all of my tears out.