I wanted Charlotte to help me get rid of whoever lives inside me like a parasite. I wasn’t going to co-operate in her crazy plan to make them my friends. Of course, I didn’t tell her that, I only thought it. It’s unkind and ungrateful to contradict someone who wants nothing but to help you.
She never understood why I don’t need friends. What would I do with them? Drinking endless cups of coffee or having a night out in town? That’s not my thing. I never had friends and never saw a need for them. When someone calls for Elizabeth Reid, I answer, even though I don’t like that name and wish people would call me Elise. I answer, and not some other internal Tom, Diane, or Harry. It’s my body, my life, so go away and leave me alone.
I did everything to get rid of them; even taking the pesky pills Helen gave me to make the voices go away. It didn’t work. I’m running out of ideas and out of patience. Even jumping off a chair repetitively for about an hour in the hope these parts, these invaders, would fall out of my body didn’t help. I don’t know where that idea came from, but it was useless. I should have known it was childish. It showed how desperate I was. All I got, though, was an hour-long lecture from Helen, a sprained ankle, and needing to rest for a week with my foot elevated.
I wanted to get rid of these time-robbing parts, but nothing worked. Maybe working with them will? I glance over to the black notebook and can feel it teasing me, daring me to open it. I reach for it, open it, and find another message. Although I expected it, it gave me a fright.
I slam the book shut and shoot upright, almost falling over Prince, who hasn’t left my side. I catch my balance and kneel, stroke his coat and scratch behind his ears. In return, he licks my hand as if to say, “I’m on your side.” I guess having a friend isn’t such a bad thing as long as it has four legs.
“Good boy. Come.” Prince gets up and waits, his eyes fixed on the backdoor.
“What are you telling me, boy? Do you need to go outside?” He’s been with me for only two days, but it feels as if I’ve known him forever. His eyes tell me I’ve guessed right. I open the door and let him out. He rushes to a bush and relieves himself. Then he sniffs around.
“I’ll leave the door open. Come in when you’ve had enough fresh air.”
He lifts his head as if to say, “Go ahead, I’ll be back soon.”
Back inside, I pull out the piano chair from under the loom and sit. Although nothing soothes my nerves as weaving does, it has been an age since I have had time for it. Horace always had something more important for me to do. I let my hands stroke over the wooden frame, smoothed by the busy hands of generations of weavers before me. Stripped of its warp, the loom looks abandoned and I’m eager to breathe new life into it.
There is a basket next to the loom filled with a great number of balls of wool. It’s gigantic; it can’t decide whether it’s a firewood basket or a cot. I might even fit into it. A picture of a smiling little girl lying in the basket snuggled up in a mountain of wool blitzes through my mind. A wave of recognition ripples through me, sending my heart fluttering.
I have been here before. It shouldn’t surprise me. It’s my aunt’s house; it makes sense that I have been here, even if I don’t remember. I chose a ball of purple boucle and put it on the table and then a ball of, dark blue wool that feels like Merino. I take a while to decide on a third ball. Green. Dark green like the surrounding forest. Yes, they are beautiful colors.
It doesn’t take long warping a twenty-inch wide piece on the loom. I put the shuttle aside. For this small piece, a weaving needle will do. It doesn’t take long and I’m weaving the dark green weft back and forth. Back and forth. A deep peacefulness spreads through me as the rhythm settles. Back and forth. I know what I’m doing. My hands work the loom in a synchronized dance letting the needle flow through the gap in the warp and picking it up with my left hand.
I almost forget the pain. I change the color, only using half the length of the warp, creating a small triangle before I take the purple and fill up the other side of the warp. By the time I’ve woven a twenty-inch by twenty-inch piece, I am relaxed. I’m back. I’m me. And I’m not a sissy. I can read a note in the notebook destined for me and written by… me… or if you want to be picky, a part of me.
I cross over to the table and open the notebook.
Dear Elise,
It’s Lilly again. I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t intend to freak you out. I guess there is no easier way of saying you are not alone. And please, don’t try jumping off the chair again. We are not loose marbles inside your head you can shake out through the ears. The little ones had a hard time with the sprained ankle. Whatever you do—whatever we do—it affects all of us.
The squashed hand is a prime example. My apologies. Amadeus slammed the door shut to get you out of the suicidal thoughts you had. Given how much it hurt all of us, he’ll think twice about doing it again, I’m sure.
I drove into town earlier and bought a computer, a printer, and a new cellphone. Luke threw your old one away when we ran out on Helen. The new one is on a prepay plan, so we don’t have to open an account Helen or her cronies can track. Don’t underestimate Helen she is dangerous. Helen has gone to the police and put an official notice into the newspaper. The national newspaper! With a photo. This makes it rather difficult for us to move around.
“Elizabeth Reid, a mentally ill woman has gone missing from her family home in Waitakere Flats in the early hours of 18 November 2015. She was last seen at her husband’s funeral the previous day. The police have reason to believe she is in the Bay of Plenty. Her concerned family is asking everyone to help find her. Mrs. Reid has shoulder length brown hair, and blue eyes. She has a long history of mental illness and has been known to become violent in the past. Please approach her with caution. If you have seen her or know about her whereabouts, please contact your local police station or the Reid family under 09-387.3977.345 or 027-387.3977.345”
I push the notebook away and lean back, staring at my shaking hands. These messages… it would be hilarious if it didn’t make so much sense. I push the back of my hand against my lips to stop the cry forming in my throat. Please, please, this is too fast. I haven’t gotten to the point of accepting I have parts. Let me not lose my grasp on reality.
I haven’t forgotten waking up in a hospital, restrained on a stretcher, being given injections that made my head explode, and then these horrible…
Later, I read an article that hailed electroshock treatment as the last resort to provide relief from some mental disorders. The next step would be a lobotomy, cutting out parts of my brain, turning me into a zombie that has nothing in common with the person I am other than the looks.
That was only days before my eighteenth birthday. It was the day I stopped fighting. Three weeks later, I guess it was three weeks, Horace promised to keep me out of the hospital if I’d marry him. It didn’t take more than a second to say yes. He never intended to keep that promise. But it’s no use crying now.
I feel brittle and empty as if I’m made of fine china, bound to break upon the slightest pressure. From the corner of my eye, I see my laptop computer sitting open, next to a small printer. This Lilly person—can I even call her a person, or is she a ghost, a figment of my imagination—has been out shopping while I’ve been doing what? This is crazy stuff. I’m gutted to see evidence of something I refuse to admit, and the emotions connected to it, create a brand of sharp pain in the back of my mind I’d rather not feel.
Once I calm down a little, I have to be honest; having parts that do things while I’m not around, has good sides to it. To think about it, I wouldn’t have a clue how to start a fire. I don’t even think I own a lighter. The water in the copper pot is still hot. I shove a lump of wood into the range, add two spoonful of ground coffee beans in a pan with hot water, and let it well up. It takes no time at all and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee is wafting through the house, filling it with a warm, cozy lived-in atmosphere.
“The old-fashioned way like Aunt Ma
ndy used to make it.”
I nod in agreement and then jump and spin around. It was the same silvery bell whisper I heard when I arrived.
“Who’s that? Who’s talking?”
I hear a soft giggle and make another 360-degree spin.
“You’re funny. It’s me.”
The giggling sound fades as if the person with the silvery bell whisper withdraws into a long tunnel. I’ve had enough playing cat and mouse with parts I’m rumored to have but who don’t bother to face me. I have two options. I could feel sorry for myself, collapse into a puddle and dissolve, seep through the gaps in the floorboards and become one with the ground they built the house on. Or I could get the notebook out and involve Lilly to sort this out.
I figure option two is the lesser of two evils.
Chapter Fifteen
Lilly: 22 November 2015, Morning, Wright’s Homestead
Sometimes I wake up with an eerie feeling of gloom and doom that I can’t shake off for hours. Today is one of those days. I wonder whether one of the Tribe had a bad night, or even a flashback, and their low mood seeps into my experience. I would hate that because one of the few benefits of being a multi is not feeling what other parts are feeling. That’s the whole point of the exercise, isn’t it?
Sky once suggested that I might have some of Elise’s clairvoyant skills. Ha. Me? Clairvoyant? You’d sooner see pigs fly than me being clairvoyant. I don’t believe in this spooky stuff anyhow. If I had those skills, I would have known what was coming and kept Amadeus from slamming the door on Elise. That was two days ago, and our hand is still hurting like hell.
He’s unpredictable when he gets going. He got so annoyed with her. That girl is not a quick learner. She had it coming. But perhaps I don’t give her enough credit? We have had forty years of adapting to being more than one. It’s unfair to expect her to get the multiple thing in one day. Knowing you are a multiple, doesn’t guarantee you know what it means. It’s like seeing a piece of Black Forest gateaux. You know it’s a cake, but you only know what it tastes like when you eat it. There you have it. Eat the multiple cake if you want to know what our life is like.
I’m on my way to Port Somers to get provisions. I don’t mind getting away from the house for a few hours. Elise has been gushing over her plans for weaving and reviving the vegetable garden. It was easy to take over from her and take the van for a ride. I’m sick and tired of all this green stuff. Wherever you look, green, green, green. It wouldn’t surprise me if, by the time we move somewhere else, all of us have a green skin tone, grow roots instead of nails on our toes, and live on an exclusive diet of spinach, zucchini, and brussels sprouts. I don’t mind zucchini, but I take a stand against brussels sprouts. Leave them for the Belgians; they can have them.
Now, I love nature. But there is something like too much of a good thing. Where’s the diversity, the entertainment, the change? Who likes peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Maddie. Yes. Next to a spam sandwich she’d survive for years on peanut butter sandwiches if she had to.
Sky must have known I was succumbing to cabin fever. Bless her for sending me shopping. I jumped at the chance to drive into town and get a ginormous portion of fish and chips. I didn’t mind getting groceries and the newspaper as well. It would be interesting to see what’s happening beyond the confines of our green dungeon in the big wide world. Can you call it a dungeon if you go there of your free will?
I have the best intentions to distract myself with positive self-talk, but the doom and gloom feeling is lingering like the smell of cow dung in a milking shed. Not even the forest road can provide a diversion with its large moss encrusted trees, bushes, and giant ferns. Quite the opposite.
Sometimes nature irritates me no end. Today is one of those days. I would’ve used a swearword, but Sky doesn’t like us to swear. It’s not ladylike she says. I should get a get-out- of-jail card for that one because I’m only eighteen and becoming a lady does not appeal to me just yet.
Every now and then the sun breaks through the canopy and hits my windscreen like a laser beam. I can’t see anything and have to slow down, not that I’m racing on this forest road. Ahead of me is the wooden one-way bridge that spans over Flatbush Creek, a remnant from the gold rush days of the Nineteenth Century. It still has some rotting poles sticking up along the side, evidence that the bridge once had a safety railing. You want to line up right because the bridge is narrow and, although the bank down to the creek is only one yard high, with all the boulders and the water gushing down from the mountains, this old van would be a write-off.
I let out a sigh of relief when the bridge is behind me. From here on, it’s gravel road until I get to State Highway Six. At the next sharp corner, the sun is in my eyes again. I get a brief glimpse of a pickup truck and slam on the brakes. Crashed down the bank is Scottie’s truck. It would have ended up in the stream if an old weathered tree hadn’t stopped its journey. Drifts of smoke and steam are rising from its dented hood. I turn off the engine and jump out. My heart races like a herd of wild horses chasing the wind on a highland plane. I land twice on my backside as I rush down the bank, holding on to bushels of fern, sliding and stumbling over moss-covered boulders and slippery clay.
Lodged with its nose in the tree, Scottie’s truck dangles precariously on two wheels, the other two still turning in the air as if someone has forgotten to tell them that driving is over for today. I have to stretch and stand on my toes to open the door to the driver’s seat. Scottie’s lifeless body is hunched over the wheel and blood is oozing from a large cut on his forehead. I—usually never shy of a comment or a smart come back—stare at him, my mind blank like a freshly cleaned whiteboard.
The Tribe is stirring inside and getting agitated. All I can think is trigger alert. I have no idea what to do. If only I’d paid attention when Elise patched up the animals in Horace’s clinic or Ama put a band-aid on a kid’s knee. I need them now. Here. This minute. But none of them comes to help me.
“Scottie, can you hear me?” I’m too afraid to shake him, but I have to do something. The smoke coming from the hood frightens me and there is blood all over his face, the windshield, and the steering wheel. Anything is better than doing nothing. I hope. Please, please, let him be okay.
But he doesn’t respond. It looks so gruesome with blood everywhere. I remember Ama saying that a head wound bleeds a lot more than any other. At this point, it’s not much help. Will someone please tell me what to do?
Afraid that the truck could explode at any moment as I’ve seen in the movies, I try to pull him out. It’s a blessing that he didn’t wear a safety belt. Although, if he had, he would have probably walked away from this accident with only a few bruises. I reach under his arms and pull. It’s a hell of a job getting this six-foot-something man out of the car.
My shoulders are burning; my back hurts, and my legs have buckled a few times under his weight. I can’t do this. All I want is let him slip to the ground, collapse next to him, and wait for someone to rescue us both. I close my eyes and appeal to Luke and Amadeus. Please, guys, come close enough so you can lend me your strengths. It works. At least I think it does. I don’t feel so alone anymore, and I experience something people might call second wind.
I brace my feet against a boulder and pull Scottie a foot away from his truck, and then another foot, and another one. My body is on fire and sweat trickles down my forehead. I’m tempted to give up, but the smoking hood and our closeness to the truck are great motivators. I manage to pull him another yard along the stream and look up to the top of the bank. It’s so close and yet, I know I’ll never make it. He is just too heavy.
He moans and stirs.
I give up pulling him and lower him down on the grass strip. Blood is still oozing from his head wound. I should at least put a bandage around his head before I go on pulling him up the bank, but we are still too close to the smoldering truck. This is one of the situations where there is no right solution. Do you want to die of blo
od loss or burn to a crisp? Those seem to be the options I’m facing for Scottie.
One thing is sure, living in this wilderness may be great for the soul and all that kind of spiritual stuff, but I’ll never again leave the house without a tow rope, or a phone to ring for a tow truck or a first aid kit. Then I remember. We have a first aid kit in the van. Why didn’t I think of it earlier? I jump to my feet and crawl up the bank. Never mind the dirt and the bushes. I’m sure by now I look like a scarecrow. None of that matters. I run to the van, fetch the first aid kit, and slide down the bank. I’m kneeling next to him, just as he opens his eyes.
“Hi, neighbor, good to see you coming by.” I can’t say how relieved I am.
“What happened?” Scottie reaches for his head. “Ouch.” He looks dazed and stares at his blood-covered hand.
“You had an accident. I found your car hugging a tree down the ditch and you’re bleeding all over my designer jeans.” His empty, expressionless gaze tells me I just wasted a great joke on him. Maybe my timing needs polishing? I open my first aid kit. “Let me put something on that gash.” He tries to lift his head, but I push him back down.
“Easy!” I put antiseptic on the cut, and he jerks up with a groan.
“Ouch. Careful, Kiddo.” A sigh of relief slips through my lips. He’s talking, so he’s out of immediate danger, I’m sure.
“Come on, don’t be such a baby. I can’t get you up the bank. You are too heavy. Do you think you can help me to get you into my van? I’ll take you home and we’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
He looks at me with what I assume is his version of the you-overstepped-the-line look, but it turns into a ghoulish grimace as he tries to stand.
“I guess it’s not just your head that suffered. Lean on me.” I offer him my arm and step by laborious step we make our way up the bank and to the van. Pale like a ghost, he slumps with a moan in the passenger seat and closes his eyes. If I were the praying kind, this would be a good time to do so, but I’m not. I’ve learned to help myself. Relying on others never worked for any of us.
Girl From the Tree House Page 12
