Girl From the Tree House

by Gudrun Frerichs

  Scott is still the no-frills-man I met a year ago. We are boyfriend and girlfriend, but we take it slowly. After all, there are kids involved and it doesn’t feel right to kiss when kids are close by. I don’t mind. I’m not in a hurry and we still have a lot of healing to do. Lizette tried to push the sex thing a while ago, but that didn’t go well. I guess for now we are friends without benefits. It’ll happen, in due time.

  We spend a lot of time together, like great friends. Some people in Port Somers have commented on our unlikely friendship—why is a mystery to me—and speculated that we would marry.

  That’s much too early to tell. We’ve discussed it and agreed that it would be a pity to ruin a brilliant friendship with a hasty marriage. Just because the bad guys are behind bars doesn’t mean all my hang-ups have dissipated like lingering morning fog.

  What started out in the beginning as a relationship with a father-child feel to it has become an equal affair. It has become quiet in my inner world. The others don’t come out like they used to, but I feel them when they are close by. Scott can distinguish them in my moods, although he struggles to figure out whether it’s Lilly or Elise. He’s not the only one. We struggle too.

  Miss Marple came back to visit and work with the Tribe. Many of the little ones have found peace and have gone to sleep in the far corners of the tree house. A month ago, she discharged us. We asked her once how we would know we wouldn’t need any more therapy and she answered, “When you wake up and feel you have better things to do than coming to see me.”

  I’ve got many things to do that are better than going to therapy. Are we integrated as they describe in the books? No. I don’t even know if there exists such a thing as integration. I suspect it’s a myth spread by a bunch of zealous clinicians, who still haven’t paid off their mortgages and need income.

  “S’cuse me, Miss Seagar.”

  “Annabelle, I forgot we arranged a meeting. Why don’t you come with us? We are having drinks at the pub around the corner. It’s celebration time.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t want to intrude.”

  “You’re not intruding. It has been very helpful to have you on my team. I don’t know how I would have coped if you hadn’t agreed to write only what I approved. I owe you.”

  “Listen, Kiddo, I have stuff to sort out. You two go ahead and have your chat, and I’ll catch up with you tonight. I booked a table at Logan Brown’s.” Scott pecks a kiss on my cheek and walks away.

  “He’s an amazing guy.” Annabelle’s glance follows him.

  “Without his help, I wouldn’t be here. Let’s go to my hotel.”

  We chat lightheartedly as we cross bustling Lambton Quay and Featherston Street.

  At the hotel, I order a bottle of bubbly. Celebration it is.

  Annabelle takes out her recorder. We sit back and after a toast with the sparkling wine, I close my eyes to concentrate. I promised to give her my story after the court hearing. Where to start? It takes a while for me to sort through my thoughts. Then everything becomes clear as if someone switched on a light.

  Lilly: 17 November 2015, Midday, At The Funeral

  I’m sitting in this cold, musty church, giving my best impression of the grieving widow Reid. I’m good at that… getting the job done, like a magician who saws a person in half and puts her together afterward. Only, with me, it’s no trick or illusion. What you see is what you get. That’s me, Lilly. I’m one of many who live in the body of Elizabeth Reid. The poor girl disappeared a long, long time ago. I believe she’s dead. It’s us, the Tribe, who keep the body alive. But nobody knows that…

  THE END

  Excerpt

  BEYOND THE TREE HOUSE

  Chapter 1

  Lilly: 24 February 2017, Morning, Wright’s Homestead

  I guess I have to fill you in about what happened. Miss Marple, our therapist, told me people hate it when things are left unexplained. Open gestalts—that’s what she’d called them—are confusing to most. They get irritated when not everything is tied up and explained to the smallest detail. People have an inherent need for closure. They don’t try to be difficult. It’s psychology.

  Our story began with Horace Reid’s funeral. We were married to him for…it doesn’t matter. Too many years.

  But please, go ahead and forget him. He was a jerk and child molester all his life and his passing was better than the coming down of the Berlin Wall.

  Unlike the East Germans we, however, didn’t stage a big revolution. Most of us were too afraid. We were like the fish in the pond that didn’t notice the gradual pollution of the water until it was almost too late. We had too many child-parts and us older ones didn’t work together well enough to operate effectively.

  Doctors diagnosed us with Dissociative Identity Disorder or DID as they call it. But don’t get all hung up about it. You could call it green eggs and ham; it wouldn’t make a difference. It’s just a term that holds no meaning for us. The Disorder part doesn’t describe us, but the scumbags who inflicted multiple waves of abuse on us from early childhood. All it does is it shifts the blame to the victim of abuse and lets the perpetrator go scot-free. For me, DID means we are a family of parts. There are many of us—fifty altogether—and we call ourselves the Tribe and when we come out in force, a lot is going on.

  Becoming a person with different, distinct parts was our way of coping with abuse and bringing order into the chaos of our life. The Original person was Elizabeth. When bad things happened early on in her life, she’d called on the angels for help—and the angels listened. She could go away into the recesses of her mind and we came along, taking over and coping with whatever happened.

  To begin with, we were two, but soon we had to call on more help. Things were just too hard for just one or two people to cope. It turned out we all love Elizabeth and go through fire for her…and many of us have, even if we weren’t aware of her in the past.

  Call us crazy, maybe we are. Enough people have called us that over the years. To us, it’s the world that’s crazy with all the wars, mayhem, murder, and abuse wherever you look. Compared to that, we think we are pretty cool.

  After Horace died, we needed a Five-Star-General to plan our getaway. That’s when Sky stepped up and organized us. To be honest, that was probably the first time we older ones worked together. And it worked. We escaped and found freedom and a new life in our late aunt’s homestead on the South Island.

  As it happened, though, total peace and freedom had to wait because our childhood abusers must have felt threatened about our newfound freedom and tried to get rid of us.

  The good news was, though, we were no longer the confused woman they’d known, the one who didn’t have the slightest idea if she was coming or going. We became organized and started working together as a team. That was our turning point and the beginning of their demise.

  Let that be a warning to all the filthy abusers. There will be a reckoning. If it doesn’t take place in this life, there will be a heavenly judgment day, or they’ll be reincarnated and come back as the cockroaches that they are.

  We helped to put the bad guys that hurt us behind bars. That was super cool but it also was a super scary time. The aftermath was ugly. It’s what I struggle with the most. It turns out, when people find out you have a psychiatric diagnosis, they can’t help but hold it against you. We immediately became the mental one and people gave us a wide berth. Often I regret that we had to stand up and tell our story to get Sebastian Feldman and his Gateway cronies behind bars. But it was necessary. They had to be stopped. Many children’s lives depended on it.

  So now we live on Auntie Amanda’s homestead with Scottie. He’s our hero and we love him. He’s our lover, brother, father, mate, best friend, and protector. He’s become part of our family and every single one of us loves him differently. That makes for a lot of love. Miss Marple said once,

  You guys are pure love.

  You all came from love,

  from helping a helpless child.

&
nbsp; No matter what it cost you.

  That was a pretty neat thing to say.

  Yep, she was a great lady and we all miss her a lot.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Elise: 1 March 2017, Midday, Wright’s Homestead

  “Next time you talk to the cow at the city council. I was this far from giving her a piece of my mind.” Lilly indicates about an inch with her index finger and thumb. She’s fuming but underneath all that bluster I know are frustration and hurt. She feels people treat us as if we’re attractions of a Victorian freak show like the bearded lady, the elephant man, or the woman with three breasts.

  She sits back on the stairs, her elbows resting behind her on the landing, and staring forlornly into the empty space.

  “I’m glad you didn’t.” I put as much feeling into my voice as I can to let her know she’s not alone, that I have her back, even if I’m less feisty than she is. “The last thing we want is to draw even more attention to us. We want the building permit to go through quickly and without much hassle.”

  But Lilly is far from being pacified. Her eyes all but shoot darts.

  “Did you see her smug face? “I don’t know what’s wrong with people. You appear totally normal to me.” She mimicked the condescending tone of the office clerk at the town hall.

  “She literally said that. This far. Honestly.” Up came her fingers again.

  Of all of us, Lilly suffers the most under the unpleasant attention the court case and Annabelle’s article about us has caused. She feels responsible that the newspapers reported about life in detail. As if we had any other choice. We all agreed to go to court.

  “Just ignore her. I’m sure she meant well.” At least I hope so, but like Lilly, I’m disheartened by some people’s attitude. We all are.

  “Heaven save me from people who mean well.” She rolls her eyes and is gone, leaving me with a residue of her feelings.

  I move to the open window and lean out, inhaling the crisp air filled with the earthy perfume of the forest. Summer is on its way out. A little over three months ago we’d returned home from Wellington leaving behind the ugliness of the Gateway court case.

  Back then summer had come rushing in on a warm, brazen nor’-westerly driving out the unreliable spring and spreading an abundance of light and color over our small paradise. Complete with buzzing bees and a myriad of insects dancing on the sun’s rays, it announced its arrival with fanfare and drumroll. For a few short weeks, a stunning display of flowers ignited around us, weeds heavy with seeds swayed in the warm breeze ready to spill, and birdsong competed with the rustling of the trees as the lightest of winds danced through their branches.

  It was as if nature knew it had to hurry because summers are short on the West Coast of the South Island. Every day counts before the storms of fall and winter take hold again, chilling our bones and driving us to the warmth of cozy fireplaces.

  It was our first real summer at the homestead. By that I mean it was the first summer we’d been happy.

  Really happy.

  It was like eating ice cream for the first time, an unexpected, surprising enjoyment. We’d run barefoot in the high grass, let the wind tousle our hair and let kisses travel to Scott on the warm air. We had lazy picnics by the creek, danced over boulders and waded into ice-cold water, clothes and all. We couldn’t get enough of our new life. Michael said, it’s better than finding a treasure, and that means a lot.

  I look up when the two males who make my heart whisper sing come around the corner. They must have been at the creek because Prince’s fur is still wet and glistening in the sunlight. Scott carries a big smile and four fish strung up.

  He holds up the bundle and shouts, “Trout!”

  Looks like we’re having trout for dinner. I open the backdoor and send him an appreciative smile while trying to keep Prince and his wet fur away from my jeans.

  “How was your morning?” Scott kicks off his rubber boots, puts the fish in a bowl in the sink, and wipes his hands on his jeans.

  “It was busy in town.”

  I bask in the beloved, familiar the smell of the forest, earth, fish, and wood-fire that always surrounds him like a precious cloak. He takes me into his arms and kisses me as we crab-walk into the living room. In his arms I’m at home, safe, and surrounded by love. I know that because my inner world is messy like a crumpled bed sheet in the morning. When he’s close, though, it’s as if an invisible hand straightens out the ripples and twists of my life. Even Prince knows that all is good and jumps excitedly around us.

  My heart expands and leaps about. It hits me and takes my breath away. I love this man to distraction. Will I ever get used to the wave of love coming from all the different parts of me? Will he ever know the depth of my feeling for him? At times I’m afraid I’ll burst.

  Lilly thinks we’ve turned him into a multiple too. He shifts and changes effortlessly to meet the needs of all the different parts of the Tribe.

  “You look tired.” He cups my head with his hands and gazes into my eyes. I’m never quite sure whether he’s searching for an answer or wondering who he’s talking to.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  How much shall I reveal? I nestle deeper into his arms. If only we could stay like this forever. Just the two of us…three counting Prince, without any interference from others. The last year had revolved around the Gateway community, the childhood abuse, and me being a multiple. I’m sick and tired of rehashing it over and over again and so too must he.

  I’d hoped the guilty verdict and the fact that the leaders of Gateway are behind prison bars would return our life to normal. Not that I have a clue what a normal life looks like. Would I even recognize it if I have it?

  We are a celebrity now but not in a good way. People are wary. I guess they expect us to transform any moment into some kind of unpredictable monster. We should have expected it.

  “You’re worrying too much. You should have joined us at the creek after you returned from the city council, air your gray cells, and enjoy nature.” He kisses my forehead. I don’t want the moment to end and bury my hands in his hair. After all this time I can hardly believe that he’s on my side. Not only that, he’s mine.

  “Next time I’ll try to go with you. I promise.”

  “Do or do not, there is no try.”

  “Yes, Yoda.”

  I bite back a sigh and roll my eyes. One day I’ll have to make him stop using that irritating quote. I shoot him an annoyed look but he has already moved on—oblivious to my grouchy mood…or maybe in spite of it.

  “I’ll have a quick shower. Don’t worry about the fish. I’ll gut them later.”

  I watch him disappear into the laundry where he installed a makeshift shower. Sometimes, I could shake him. It’s easy to go with the flow when you’re not the target of people’s gossip.

  ~~End of Preview~~

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  Thank You,

  for reading GIRL FROM THE TREE HOUSE. I hope you enjoyed the story of Elizabeth and the Tribe as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Did you love reading this book? Did it stir your curiosity? If so, you could support me by leaving a fair review on Goodreads or on Amazon, and by telling your friends how much you enjoyed it.

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  Acknowledgments

  My deepest gratitude goes to Ken Staley, my mentor, developmental editor, and friend. Thank you for believing in me when I didn’t. For years you have been my supporte
r and teacher. I don’t have words that express the sadness I feel about you passing away before we could celebrate the finished book. Wherever you are now, I hope they have plenty of books and music to keep you smiling.

  Thank you to the amazing women and men who allowed me to be part of their recovery journey. You shared your amazing inner worlds with me and taught me so much about what it meant to be expert dissociators, resilient survivors, and incredible human beings.

  To my group of Wellington Romance Writers – I swear most of what I know about writing and self-publishing I learned from our monthly meetings. I’ve never been part of a group of professionals that were as eager as you to share their knowledge and support—and have fun in the process. You guys are the best.

  Special thanks go to Katy Wilkinson, Sandra Hodgen, Mihiteria King, Lee Buckingham, Moira Jeen, and Sue Beresford for reading a beta copy and giving me feedback. That includes Steve Taylor who battled through my first drafts and muddled-up tenses and Svea Berling, who did a famous job of editing my Genglish and transform it into proper English.

  Last but not least there are my husband and children, who keep reminding me that there is more to life than writing. (Although I disagree most of the time.) My youngest even went so far as presenting me with a new grandson, who has already wrapped me around his cute little fingers.

  About the Author

  I spent my childhood on a small, dreamy fishing island close to Hamburg, Germany. From there I spent years in Switzerland and The Netherlands. For the last thirty years, I’ve called New Zealand my home. Once my three children were grown, I studied psychotherapy and worked for 25 years as a trauma specialist and started writing. Over the years I’ve learned that life is a bumpy ride full of highs and lows.