The Girl in the Treehouse

by Jennifer Asbenson

  The depression hits me out of the blue and can go on for days. It never occurs to me that a certain situation might have triggered an episode.

  Other times, I’m thrilled. So manic, in fact, that I believe I can complete any task in the world that I want, that I can be who I want.

  Sometimes I want to skip around and ride shopping carts, but I know it is not socially acceptable at my age. So I usually bite my nails instead while I ponder other fun activities to indulge in. Other times, the urge is so powerful that I give into the mania and ignore the invisible critiques.

  The maniac mood forces me to bake, dance, sing, and even talk to animals. It is easy for me to find beauty, cuteness, and funniness in everything. When I am maniacal, I have so much optimism and energy.

  Once, I imagined the view of the mountains from the backyard would look better if a clueless and colossal tree wasn’t in the way. Without a second thought, I went to the store and purchased a chainsaw. As I munched on a dill pickle, I watched internet videos on how to use the weapon. Within minutes, I skipped in the backyard with goggles on and slayed the deformed beast.

  When the tree was gone, I regretted cutting it down. Plus, I was worried I might get into trouble, not only because this was my boyfriend’s house, but also because the tree fell into the neighbor’s yard.

  Sometimes I am manic when I write. When I am maniacal, my imagination soars. My writing is stronger and more creative—like right now. Right now, I am manic. But I’m also a bit sad. It saddens me to know that I need to complete this book soon, and that I’ll lose my connection with you. Finishing the book is definitely a must, but I want to write on to keep our bond. The connection between us is so real to me that I feel like I know you and you know me. My imagination projects your face as you’re looking at this book. It shows me you are sad too. But hold on. If you know me by now, you know I will not leave without a grandiose good-bye.

  My daughter Augusta

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  There’s No Escaping You

  My treehouse stands calmly in the presence of a warm, gentle wind. The sun sets behind the picturesque mountain that was once obstructed by a thriving but disfigured tree.

  I’m here, too—manic but happy. Today was a good day. The soundtrack of my life plays in the background. My time here is almost over, and the journey has been bittersweet. My mind can’t decide whether to smile or cry, so I sit in limbo and ponder my departure.

  The newspapers that covered the treehouse walls have been removed and replaced with tinsel curtains. The long, silver, shimmering streaks flow in the light breeze as my fall-scented candles reflect in their sheen. The beauty I’ve created here brightens my soul.

  Since my pee bucket has endured foul situations, it only seemed fitting to shove all the scary newspapers in it. No image of the monster who tried to extinguish my flame remains here in my sanctuary.

  I feel powerful and liberated. As I breathe deeply, I close my eyes and sit tall. A sigh of relief exits my breath. My emotions are a kaleidoscope of sadness and excitement, gain and loss. It’s time to say good-bye. Prepare yourself …

  I’m going to tell you the answers to the questions still

  lingering in your head.

  Who is alive and who is dead?

  Ten years prior to the writing of this book, my mom passed away from ovarian cancer. Her demise began with words that fell on deaf ears as she complained about pain often. She told us she had pre-cancer. About a year after she initially introduced the diagnosis of her disease to the family, she died.

  Before her death, I’m sad to say my mom and I never developed a perfect relationship. During her time in hospice, I did attempt to make amends with her by searching the town for her favorite tea—raspberry iced tea. It had to have the tiny, crushed ice, she said. When I delivered the tea to her nearly two hours later, she yelled at me because I took so long.

  Even though my mom and I never saw eye to eye, I did notice her relentless desire to advocate for the disabled. Her hard work was admired over the years as she continued to support the rights of children and adults with disabilities. She put the active in activist and did things like catching a bus at two in the morning with other activists to go to Sacramento and “fight the fight.”

  The fight in Sacramento was a push to have handicap-accessible bathrooms put in every public facility in California. She had also worked on a class action lawsuit for children who received a “bad batch of baby shots” in the ‘70s.

  My brother was one of those babies.

  It is now believed that Jay Jay’s seizures and other mental handicaps came from those shots. The paperwork she was given for the lawsuit was too much to complete in the allotted time, so she did not receive money.

  My mom was never treated or diagnosed with mental illness.

  The diagnoses I came up with inside my treehouse led me to feel compassion toward her. I do not agree with how she treated me as a child, but I am no longer being mistreated by her. I cannot allow myself to be an emotional hostage of someone who no longer exists. Although I do not miss my mom, I have forgiven her in my heart. I will forever love and miss “Alice.”

  A few years after my mom passed away, my dad fell ill. He developed celiac disease, and beer became off-limits. When he could no longer drink and my mom was no longer in the picture, my siblings and I began to develop a wonderful relationship with him.

  A year after he was diagnosed with celiac disease, he was diagnosed with three different types of aggressive cancer. He could no longer work. My sisters and I would all visit him often, as he still cared for Jay Jay in the dome house he had built.

  On one particular night, my dad was in significant pain. After I explained how marijuana could help, he smoked some of it for relief. Soon after, he saw a donut on a TV commercial. He made me rewind it eight times!

  “Jennifer,” he said in a minor daze. “Get me some Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.”

  “Dad, I can’t get you those. You are celiac. You will die!”

  “Krispy Kreme Doughnuts would be the best way to go.”

  “I will go to jail for assisted suicide!” I said. But he wouldn’t hear it. So I left the house and found some in a convenience store. I struggled to buy them. The cashier probably thought I was nuts because I just stood there and stared at the doughnuts for a few minutes, as I imagined my dad’s joy, then his demise. Surely, the doughnut display had never caused anyone to cry, ever.

  Along with one ticket to prison, I purchased the doughnuts. Fortunately, one final scrap of self-preservation kicked in. To save both my dad and myself, I sat in the car and ate every single doughnut. Not bad as far as epic sacrifices go.

  My dad ended up forgetting about the tasty gluten treats, so my fears of relationship death by doughnut were quickly eased.

  Before my dad moved to heaven, we skydived together. To continue along with his thrill-filled sprint toward the finish line of life, he also drove a race car with my brother around a real racetrack. He told me it was “the most fun he ever had.” I’m glad he had the pleasure of saving the best for last.

  He began to say I love you every time we spoke, and I knew he did. He kept that up for years before he finally made his departure from this world.

  My faith and imagination tell me that my dad is just fine. He is probably working on a greasy, white car with Grandpa, while my mom tells a story of a two-headed angel to Grandma Beulah as she boils up her famous potato dumplings.

  “Do the best you can.” This was my dad’s advice to everyone, and he is the perfect example of a man who did the best he could. I forgive him and will love him always.

  After my dad passed away, Aunt Janine invited all of us siblings and our children to my amazing Grandma’s ninety-sixth birthday party in Florida. Of course, Jay Jay and his new caretaker were invited too.

  My sisters and I rented a spectacular themed house to accommodate our entire family, including my daughter and the man in the house. It felt appropriate to include Ty
ler too, since she now traveled the United States in search of adventures in a motorhome with her tail-wagging dogs and enthusiastic boyfriend.

  After we celebrated my grandma’s birthday, Janine asked if she could talk to me in private about the book I’m writing. As the man in the house scrubbed the grill and Augusta tried to convince a terrified Jay Jay to get the pretend alligator out of the pool, Janine and I found a quiet spot to sit on the back porch.

  “Since you are writing a book about Alice,” she said, “I thought you should know the truth.”

  I nearly knocked my wine over to get closer to her. “The truth?”

  “When Alice passed away, a few of your family members approached me to tell me that your mom didn’t like me. Did she ever mention anything like that to you?”

  I told my aunt about the snide comments my mom made about Janine while we were growing up. She was shocked. For all of those years, she had no idea.

  Then another shocker came.

  “Your mom confided in one of your aunts why she didn’t like you.”

  My heart dropped. Obviously, I was nervous. But there was another feeling. It was as if a muscle somewhere in my body that had been tensed all my life was starting to loosen up. My lifelong search for this answer was about to conclude.

  “Why?”

  “Because you reminded her of me.”

  My jaw dropped as the flashbacks of my life began to make sense.

  “Right before she passed away, she kept repeating one thing.”

  With my head tilted, my eyes implored her to continue.

  “She said, ‘I love you’ over and over again.”

  I repeated the words as a question. “I love you?”

  She nodded.

  I leaned closer. “That means she loved me.”

  Aunt Janine smiled. “Yes, it does.”

  Finally, I had what I had wished for my entire life. But it no longer mattered; I already had learned to love myself.

  After Janine and I spoke, the party’s alcohol began to flow and the night took on a life of its own. Tyler and my sisters and I all ended up with our feet in the pool as we talked about old times.

  “Whatever happened to our goats Dolly and Alphie?” I asked.

  My sisters looked at each other with their eyebrows raised, then looked at me with concern. Janna took a sip of her beer.

  “You don’t know?” she asked.

  “No! Wait. Know what?” I asked.

  Instantly, the pool grew silent. Janna and Gina struggled to hold their laughter back.

  “We ate them!” Gina said.

  Tyler looked disgusted as she splashed us with water. “Gross!” she yelled.

  Naturally, we all busted up with laughter until we lost our physical composure. Gina snorted as she attempted to keep her eyeglasses from falling into the pool. After I dried the tears from the laughter, I paused for a breath of air and then asked one final question.

  “For real?”

  In the stillness and solitude of my treehouse, an intense feeling wells up from within me. An emotion so powerful, no gift in the world could ever replace it, but it could replace all the gifts in the world. The emotion is self-love. As I stand, I realize my unique powers. The anthem of my life, courtesy of The Rolling Stones, begins to play— “She’s a Rainbow.”

  The wind picks up, and the sticky notes of diagnoses start to blow around. After I grab them, I shove them into the toilet-bucket with the newspapers.

  My mind is brilliant. My imagination not only protects me, it gives me life. Who cares if I’m different? At least I have an exciting life.

  While I scan my surroundings, a newspaper pokes out of the bucket and catches my eye. For a second, I stare.

  With a large black marker, I scribble the words to oblivion and shove the paper back down into the bucket. I skip away from the tree-house with a glass of wine in one hand and the bucket in the other. As I sit on a wobbly-legged lounge chair, I find a joint in my pants pocket and begin to smoke it.

  Free from distraction, I take in the scene: the foreground and background, the twinkly-lit treehouse, my glass of wine, and the joint.

  Untroubled, I toss the spliff into the bucket and gently drip my glass of wine on top. With the strike of my lighter, my collection turns to fire, and I watch it burn.

  From the table near me, I snatch a newspaper. ANDREW URDIALES HANGS HIMSELF TWENTY EIGHT DAYS AFTER BEING SENTENCED TO DEATH, it reads. The paper is shoved into the flames.

  As my brightened eyes watch the paper dissolve into ashes, a certain few words pique my interest. “Jennifer Asbenson is now writing a book called The Girl in the Treehouse.” A smile frames my face. Who I am and who I’ve always been have been revealed to me. All along, I knew my true story. Everyone who has ever harmed me in any way has been forgiven, and I have forgiven myself. No longer am I “The One That Got Away.” I am, and always have been, “The Girl in the Treehouse.”

  Through the smoke of the flames, I travel toward the past,

  just one last time.

  Needless to say, you follow as

  The Rolling Stones continue to play.

  I tell myself daily that I am fearless

  Me, going places

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  My Mind

  Dusk. My beautiful treehouse—more of a cottage these days—is all grown up. The dwelling is so large that I can no longer see the tree that supports it.

  Suddenly, reality fractures. From the rift comes a tornado of change, of time. Roots creak and strain as they rip away from the Earth’s tight grasp. Boards on the treehouse tremble against the nails and screws that hold them in place. One by one, wildflowers, shrubs, and flowers are uprooted. I’m sprayed with clumps of dirt sent flying by the upheaval.

  Most of the structure, even wood from the treehouse, pulls away and whips by, dangerously close to my face. Because I’m in control of the storm, I do not feel fear. Nails and hammers cut through the air to someplace far, far away. Bricks and rocks fly by. The lights, once strung beautifully across the pool, stream past my head, still lit. They leave glows and streaks of charged air in their wake. More graceful than violent, the grapevine on the walls and the window screen unwinds itself before it escapes into the air.

  So many flowers are in the sky.

  To my surprise, I see a potato emerge from its hiding place beneath the ground and take flight. The entire treehouse deck is now gone. There goes the wine bottles and their accomplices: the joints and pipes. Amid all the chaos and deconstruction, there is one resurrection. A felled tree turns upright again, reattaching itself to the stump that once made it whole. It lives again. And a chainsaw—the murder weapon—takes flight and tumbles through the air, away from the scene of the crime.

  A plastic toilet seat makes its departure, followed closely by an unwinding roll of toilet paper. My bucket of smoky papers dumps out and flies away with the rest of the man-made toilet.

  Colorful rugs, Christmas lights, and sticky notes catch the wind and go swirling into the sky. My music speakers rush past, playing a beautiful swan song of the hymns they use to breathe. A Bible flies by, followed closely by a calm within the storm. Time continues to move, clouds still swirl, but the remaining parts of the treehouse are afraid to let go. They’re rattling, but holding in place.

  The backyard is now bare, reverted to a time when the treehouse was just an ugly fort struggling to stand on four legs. A noise builds from around the corner. It sounds like an old creaking dock. Four pieces of waterlogged plywood fly into the yard and attach themselves around the bottom of the fort. The panels create a box. One of them has the rough shape of a door carved into it.

  Paint chips fly through the air, coalescing from nowhere; they attach to the structure and take shape as graffiti. Stickers join the party, adhering to the wall. A nudie magazine flies by. Of all the flying items, that one makes my eyes go wide.

  A rackety, rusty ladder comes tumbling forth, and then I hear cans. They sound like the calamity th
at traditionally follows close behind a “Just Married” sign. These are beer cans, though, and no one has been married. They fly by, some landing on the roof like monuments, others fall to the ground.

  As with the nails, hammer, and chainsaw, I have nothing to fear when spiders fly by and nestle back into their cozy webs in the fort.

  You can only see my face. I have been crying. The fresh bottle of wine I sip from tells you it must be a different day, but you are not sure. I stare at the run-down old fort that the man in the house built for his sons long ago. I look worn down; I feel it, too. In my eyes, you can see the new lens through which I view the world.

  Inside my mind, there is another tornado. I cannot physically stay still; the mental winds are so strong. In my thoughts, I have always been able to imagine shacks into castles. With my two hands, I have been able to resurrect these powers from my mind into reality. Who knew I was about to fulfill my biggest dream of all?

  There are crickets now. Not whipping through the air, but chirping placidly. They provide the score to a brief interlude as everything goes black.

  Then there’s an argument between a man and a woman. A door is slammed. Then silence.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I WOKE with swollen eyes and an empty bottle of wine beside me. I also had the most horrible headache ever. Before I got out of bed, the man in the house knocked on my barricaded door. He proceeded to gently pry the door open and asked if I would like a cup of coffee.

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  Then I told him I was moving into the treehouse to write a book.

  “Treehouse?” he asked.

  “With God, humor, and imagination, all things are possible.”

  –Jennifer Asbenson

  P.S. To this day, I still don’t know for sure if we really ate those dang goats or not.

  About the Author

  Jennifer Asbenson is a survivor in more ways than most people ever encounter in their entire lives. Despite the challenges Jennifer faced early on, she has learned to rely on her belief in God, her sense of humor, and her imagination to overcome all adversities.