At the top of the stairs, she turns around. He’s still watching us with this pensive stare I don’t like. He looks like a sniffer dog that’s not letting go of the trail he’s on. Elise decided he was okay. She saw into his life. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t be a threat to our freedom if he continues to nose around in our life.
Lilly: 21 November 2015, Early Morning, Wright’s Homestead
If there’s something weird in your neighborhood and a job needs doing, who do you call? Me. Lilly. Anybody who’s after ghosts has to talk to Elise. That’s her specialty. She sees things all the time. I feel sorry for her, because, I mean, this is not the Sixth Sense movie where it’s okay to see dead people. In real life, you don’t get a million-dollar movie contract for seeing things that are not there. You end up behind locked doors, heavily medicated.
Consider this. If you tell a person that you are talking to people nobody can see, that they talk back to you and instruct you on what to do, they label you schizophrenic and that’s your career down the toilet if you have one.
If you sit in a church and tell people you are talking to someone nobody can see that he talks back to you and instructs you on what to do; you are a good Christian. It’s a numbers game. If you’re hallucinating, make sure you’re in the company of lots of other people who live under the same spell.
This morning it’s my job to dispel whatever theory our lovely neighbor formed after Maddie’s grand appearance last night. Sky says I have to dress for the occasion, but I’m ignoring her. A herd of ten horses won’t get me into these stupid Bali pants and as for those sweaters fit for a person four times our size… I’m always amazed where Elise finds these XXXL sized horror outfits.
So, its normal jeans that fit and my save the animals ~ eat people t-shirt. That’ll be just the thing for our hunting neighbor… I skip down the stairs and find him poking the fire alive in the cooking range. Shouldn’t he still be resting?
“You seem as good as new, or are you aiming to impress me?”
He jumps up like Toby does when we catch him with his hands way, way into the cookie jar.
“I believe I’m good to go. No headache at all, thanks to you.”
“Don’t thank me. All I did was get you here, clean you up, and order you to sleep on the sofa. That wasn’t really anything out of the ordinary.”
“Talking about sleeping on the sofa. What was that last night?”
“What do you mean?”
“You do remember talking to me last night?”
“Of course, I do. I’m not senile, you know.”
“You’re sure you don’t have a twin or something upstairs? I could’ve sworn it wasn’t you last night.”
“Maybe you were half asleep or still knocked out from the accident. I don’t have a sister, twin or otherwise. Nor do I have a brother. I wish I had. Having a large family would be so much more fun.”
I fold the blankets and put them back into the cupboard. He’s finished stoking the fire and I bring a pot of water to a boil.
“What would you like for breakfast?” I open the pantry door and feel stupid. There is porridge, a box of cereal, long life milk, eggs, butter, and a loaf of sliced whole meal bread. Not really a sophisticated, extensive choice. Though it’s all the stuff we like and eat.
“You have the choice between porridge, cereal, or eggs. I can recommend the porridge. But even the eggs, cooked to perfection for three minutes are worth a trip into the outback of the South Island. The coffee is like auntie Mandy used to make. Letting freshly ground coffee boil for a few minutes in hot water.”
He looks at me speechless. What did I just say? There was nothing strange about what I said, was there? Perhaps I grew horns? I touch my head just to be sure.
“Did you expect us to send you on your way on an empty stomach? That would not be the neighborly thing to do.”
“I guess not.” He shakes his head as if he’d tested a theory inside his head and shook it off after deciding it wasn’t working out. “I’ll have cereal and a cup of coffee, please.”
I pull the table to the open window with the view to the vegetable garden. If you are quiet, you can hear Flatbush Creek gurgling as it dances over the boulders right behind the trees at the other end of the clearing. We sit on opposite sides at the table, in front of us for each a bowl with cereal and milk and a mug of fresh coffee.
We chat along like friends who were best buddies at school and meet again at a reunion twenty years later. He tells me a few funny stories from when he moved here and cleared out his place. He used to live in a tent and built his log cabin with his own hands. That must have been something because you don’t just build a cabin in a fortnight. As far as I know, you don’t.
He tells me of his wife who died in childbirth. Really? Do they still die in childbirth? Is this Africa? I thought we were in New Zealand in the twenty-first Century. I would like to hear more about that because I can feel his story affects the Tribe. But something in his eyes stops me. He looks as if he already regrets telling me that much. We like this guy. Which is a bit lame because we should like him because he is a neat person, not because he’s been through hell and back.
I want him to know that we know a bit or two about what it means to have a crappy life. Although I guess, nothing compares to losing a loving wife and one’s child. A cold shiver runs down my back and for a fleeting moment, all I can think of is a sea of blood. Not now. I squeeze my eyes together and think cinnamon rolls, cinnamon rolls, cinnamon rolls. As always, that good old NLP technique does the trick and removes all upsetting thoughts from my mind.
“My husband died two weeks ago. After the funeral we overheard his sister arranging to lock us up in a mental hospital. We packed our bags and left the same night.” I wait for a response from the inside, for someone shouting “No” or “Are you crazy?” but it doesn’t happen. That must mean Sky has decided it’s okay, even though I sense some of the Tribe are in two minds about this.
Get it? Two minds?
I have trouble to hold back a giggle. Two minds. It would be so good to have an ally and not be so alone in this super paranoid place, thinking everyone is out to get you.
“You? Crazy?” He looks at me as if I’d told him someone canceled Christmas this year. I do like this guy. I could even forgive him slinging dead rabbits about.
“I do have my moments.” A few videos are running in my head that are probably hilarious if you were to describe them. They weren’t that hilarious living through them, like when Maddie woke up one morning next to Horace and asked him, “Who are you?” When he told her with a stern frown that he was her husband, she shook her head and said, “You are telling fibth. I’m four yearth old. I’m too little to have a huthband.”
We paid for that with a two-week stay in a psych-ward, drugged out of our brains. It took forever to get the stuff out of our system. Since then Sky tries hard to keep us out of trouble. Still, episodes like last night keep happening, and it’s exhausting to be alert all the time for mishaps like that. Staying alert and keeping our existence a secret is draining.
“Aren’t we all?”
That’s all he says. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to imagine the crazy things he must have gotten into after his wife died to end up living like Robinson Crusoe in the middle of nowhere, just without the man Friday.
“I’m afraid she’s still looking for me, that’s why we’re trying to stay away from people as much as possible.”
He shrugs. “What’s in it for her? She must have a good reason.”
“I don’t know. I’m here to find out. She sure doesn’t do it because she has our best interest at heart. There is a bit more to it. I might tell you later.”
“Let me know if I can help. You saved my life yesterday. I owe you.”
“I didn’t save your life. It wasn’t a big deal.” That’s a stretch. My back and leg muscles are still crying out in pain from the effort of pulling him from his car. But I don’t want him to feel he has to pay us
back.
“At least let me have a look at your water tank.”
“No way. I’ll drive you home if you promise to rest for at least another day. After that, we’ll see how you are and help you get your truck to the garage.”
“You are pretty bossy for a young woman. I could be your father.”
I dip my head and eye him up over my imaginary reading glasses. “And in Africa, it’s Mother’s Day.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, yeah, right, and I don’t care.”
Chapter Seventeen
Elise: 25 November 2015, Afternoon, Port Somers
Since we reached the highway, Scott doesn’t moan as much as he had when we drove down the forest road. My neighbor is not doing too well. A quick sideways glance tells me he is staring out of the passenger window. I’m not sure what he sees on this rainy, gray day other than a rough coastline, moss studded trees with their crowns hidden in low hanging rain clouds, and the sea pounding on the cliffs.
Silent since we left his cabin, he still looks pretty beaten up. I should not have agreed to take him to the panel beater to pick up his truck. Three days have passed since his accident, and a large purple bruise blooms around the gash on his forehead. Together with the mouse-gray stubble that covers half his face, he looks miserable and pulls a face at every bump in the road.
I can afford to drive slowly because the road is almost empty aside from the occasional car overtaking us and fading into the foggy distance. I’m glad he isn’t in a chatty mood because I wouldn’t know what to talk to him about. I can’t remember the last time I sat in such close proximity to a stranger and it’s as comfortable as sitting on a bed of nails. It makes little sense, but still I’m uncomfortable. Not that I think he would try some hanky panky stuff. Not at all, but still, I can’t shake off the strange feeling.
“We are almost at the shops. Are you still okay to stop for groceries? If not, I can do my shopping on the way back home.”
He looks at me as if he has trouble deciding what to do. It’s too early. I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to give him a ride into town. He needs rest, not me helping him gallivant around the country.
“No worries. I need stuff too. They might be closed when you go back.”
“You look bad. Can’t I convince you to see a doctor?”
“No.”
That was the end of that conversation. He’s gazing out of the window again and I try to avoid the mini ponds of rainwater collecting at the side of the road. Driven by the strong westerly, the rain is beating against the side windows. We are crawling along at a little over ten miles an hour and I can’t wait to get to the supermarket and off the road.
“Thanks.”
“What for?”
“For taking me to pick up my truck.”
“I’m not sure if it was a wise thing to do. You still look as if a few days rest would have been just the ticket.”
“I’m fine, Kiddo. Leave it.”
I refuse to argue. After all, he’s an adult and I’m not responsible for his actions.
“You were lucky when your friend came along with his tractor and pulled your truck up from the riverbed. I doubt my van would have been powerful enough.”
“Hm. That wasn’t luck.” He grunts and looks at me. “It’s the West Coast way. Neighbors help each other.”
I brace myself for a lecture about this is an unforgiving country, and no place for Sissies but he’s already looking out of his window again.
“This Martin guy, your friend, does he live close by?”
After another grunting noise, he says, “About a mile further on past our turnoff.”
“I give up attempting conversation with you.” I snort, annoyed at his short answers.
He lets out a sharp chuckle. “I forgot; you don’t know I’m not very sociable when I’m not 100%. Forgive me. It’s no accident I’m living alone in the middle of nowhere.”
By the time I spot the supermarket to the left I’ve forgiven him. The small wooden building is nothing compared to the large supermarkets in Auckland with acres of parking and shiny store fittings. Its windows are plastered with large, yellow on-sale signs for soft drinks, frozen chicken, apples, and ice cream. I grin. This is my kind of shop. None of that fancy stuff, just the basics. I’m sure I’ll feel right at home.
It’s a mission to park the van so that I’m not blocking the whole car park. Peak customer hours don’t seem to require more than two and a half parking spots. I lock up the van and follow Scott into the store. The shopping list I found this morning on the dining table is long. When I saw the unfamiliar handwriting, I realized that I don’t often do the grocery shopping.
I don’t even know what a stocked pantry looks like. Ama would. She must have written the list for me. Ideally, she swoops in now and takes over from me to do the shopping. I figure that’s not how it works today because here I am.
It’s still strange for me to think of other parts having a life separate from mine, with separate interests and skills. After having spent the last two days reading in the black notebook, I’m getting more and more used to the idea. At least it doesn’t send me into a tailspin anymore.
My shopping trolley is filling with potatoes, fruit, bread, bottled water, flour, sugar—I’m glad there was sugar on the list because I don’t trust the thirty-year-old bag aunt Amanda left behind—eggs, blocks of cheese, spaghetti, sauces, tea, long-life milk, and all sorts of canned stuff. On my way to the cashier, the newspaper stand catches my eye.
I grab the New Zealand Herald and the Southern Chronicle, the local spread when I get dizzy and nauseous. My vision blurs and within seconds I’m no longer in control of my body but under an impenetrable dome. It’s as if someone has highjacked my body and I’m only along for the ride like a stowaway, hiding and observing. This feeling is one reason I stay away from people.
In my head, a voice is shouting at me the vilest swearwords I’ve ever heard. I try to fight through the blanket of fog but a force much stronger than me pulls me back. These aren’t Lilly, Luke, or Amadeus. They don’t hiss fire and brimstone like this voice. Am I still in my body? I can’t tell. I only know I’m about to throw up or drop dead, or both.
Faceless shadows approach me, open and close their mouths but no sound reaches my ears. That’s strange. Scott comes toward me and asks me something. I must have answered because he shrugs and next thing I’m back in the van. This time Scott is driving. My mind resembles a big rubbish dump after a storm had whirled trash, plastic bags, and bits of paper all over the place. I long to be alone and able to ask inside for guidance, to be merciful and for once tell me what’s going on. But I’m not alone. Scott looks at me with a worried expression as if I’m on my deathbed.
“Are you better now?”
I wish I knew what he’s referring to. What did I do? Did I throw up in the shop? Perhaps I didn’t have enough money to pay for my groceries? I can’t remember paying at the checkout. Somebody must have paid because no storeowner is racing after me shouting stop thief or some other abuse.
“I think I’m good now. I don’t know what that was.”
“For a moment I thought you’d faint when you took the newspaper. You turned all white and swayed like a leaf.”
“I did? Let me see.” I grab the newspaper laying on top of the boxes of groceries on the backseat. The front page of the Southern Chronicle features the view of a luxurious, gated community under the headline The Gateway Community is Flying High. They are seeking resource consent for building an airfield on their extensive eighty acres property.
It means nothing to me, but a whirlpool of nauseating sensations sits where my stomach used to be. I flip through the few pages.
“Nothing comes to mind that bothers me unless it’s the price of avocados. Four dollars ninety cents apiece? That can’t be right.”
By the time we reach the garage, I’ve come right again. Scott jumps out and talks to the mechanic while I shift over into the driver’s s
eat again.
Finally, alone, I whisper in the hope to understand what just happened, “What was that?” Nobody responds and no black book is at hand to read in. All I get is a faint sobbing, and a shutdown of the voices in my head. I never thought I’d say it, but I miss the constant humming in the back of my mind. In some strange way, it’s comforting.
I startle when Scott knocks on my window. Not bothered by the pelting rain he motions me to roll the window down.
“The truck is ready.” With one hand in my open window, Scott slaps the roof of my van with the other hand to let me know I’m free to go.
“Anything else I can do for you? Convince you to see a doctor?”
He looks at me and a small grin steals across his face. “Na don’t worry. I’ll be okay. Thanks again.”
“No trouble. That’s what neighbors are for, a little birdie told me.”
I smile at him, lift my hand for a good-bye greeting and drive off. Only minutes later I drive down Mountain View Road and stop in front of the lawyer’s office. I’m late and I hate being late. I need time to pull myself together again. The blackout in the store still echoes through my body. My heart is racing as doubt sneaks into my thoughts. Can I keep it together?
I need the lawyer’s help. I need the Tribe on my side too. Never has it been as clear to me as now that survival isn’t a thing I’ll achieve by myself. A peculiar pressure in my chest turns into razor-sharp focus. For survival, I need others, inside and outside. No more pussyfooting about. After a deep exhale, I know I can do this because I’m no longer alone.
Patrick Armstrong, the lawyer I contacted, has his office close to the town center. I expected a cold impersonal office. Instead, his shingle hangs outside a lovingly restored historical villa. I made the right choice. Even his waiting room looks more like a cozy lounge than a glass and stainless-steel office. His secretary, a gray-haired older woman with a friendly, inviting smile offers me a seat.
Girl From the Tree House Page 14
