Beyond the Tree House Read online

  “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 despite 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.

  Chapter Three

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

  I’m pleasantly surprised seeing Elise arguing with Scottie. We seem to have more in common than I thought. I’ve always likened her to Switzerland—you know—the neutral goody-two-shoes country; clean, pristine, always trying to get it right for everyone, and certainly never starting a war.

  A lovely warmth of finding a kindred spirit spreads through me. Though it’s still too early to tell, we might be on the same page. Who would have thought? I don’t even mind she’s about to retreat inside.

  “You and me both, girl. You can bet your precious loom I would love to shake him too. It’s easy for him to say, Don’t pay attention to what people think. They are not talking about him that way, are they? He’s the local do-gooder who’s down for a hero’s medal for putting up with us.”

  I’m giving Elise a nudge. “And what about you? I had you down for playing happy families renovating the homestead and all that goes with it. I was sure you’d tell him next you want to have his child.”

  The moment the words leave my mouth I know I’ve overstepped the mark.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You know we can’t have children. You told me so yourself. But you are right. I’d love to have a child… his child.”

  She shrugs at the pain that ripples through our body at that moment. I wish Elise would shout at me or something. Anything would be better than the resigned acceptance and the sense of emptiness echoing through the Tribe. We’ve been here before. It’s another choice the abuse took away from us.

  “Anyhow, I’m too old now. I have the Tribe, that’s more than enough.”

  Her pragmatism puts me to shame. It’s not martyrdom or a could’ve would’ve should’ve excuse for her. It’s a fact. Get over it and move on.

  “I’m sorry. It’s unfair to vent my frustration at the council clerk on you. Sometimes I wish we’d never spoken to Annabelle.”

  “That wasn’t your fault. We all agreed it had to happen. Our intention was good and right. The more survivors break the silence, the more successful the fight against child abuse will be.”

  I can see why everyone loves Elise. She’s a good person. I don’t mind her retreating into the tree house to recharge. After all, I’m upset today; her not so much. Our life has changed a lot since we allowed Annabelle to write our story, or better, our side of the whole sordid Gateway case. Not that there was much to say that hadn’t come out during the court proceedings.

  Special psychiatric assessments ordered from their defense lawyers and the Crown prosecutor meant our mind had been x-rayed and poked, our statements turned and twisted in the hope we would contradict ourselves. Both parties wielded our country-mile long psychiatric history like a weapon, their defense to discredit us, and the Crown to show the impact of the abuse.

  We were adamant to tell the story from our viewpoint. It gave us at least the chance to introduce a fourth version beside the picture of the raving lunatic, the poor little victim, or the cunning liar. We wanted to portray a person who goes about her life as best as she can, like everybody else.

  How had we survived the trial? It was never a question of if. When we’d lost hope, Sky reminded us several times that giving up was never an option. We’d survived the real thing, the abuse, the neglect, and the marriage. We will survive the re-telling of our story. And we will stand by our truth.

  It wasn’t always easy, but we did it. Ever since the court case, we continue to make headlines. People with no expert knowledge and experience of dissociative disorders or abuse recovery found it necessary to write opinion pieces, speculate on social media whether we made it all up, or whether our therapist planted it all in our head.

  Can you believe it? We had photos of the adults abusing children and still, there were doubters? There is the perverse willingness to discredit victims and on the other hand, the blind conviction that upstanding members of society couldn’t have done such heinous acts.

  Are people totally deluded? There are millions of photos and videos of children being abused and exploited sexually circulating on the Internet. Who do people think has taken those?

  None of us expected that being outed would have such an impact on our lives. Before the court case, only the mental health professionals debated our sanity and had a field day labeling us. Now it seemed the whole wide world was in on it. I can’t say we’ve gotten used to it yet. I hate it.

  I remember the weeks before the court case started. We were petrified. What would happen when the word about Dissociative Identity Disorder or DID got out? That’s when Sky played a dirty trick on us and brought out baby Elizabeth. She looked so fragile in her beautiful white cocoon.

  “We have to do it for her. It’s time we stop being ruled by fear and what people think. We have to speak out for the Elizabeths of this world, who can’t speak for themselves.” I still am not sure whom Sky resembled when she said that. She was neither meek nor mild. She was fearsome like the Angel of Vengeance.

  For a while, it felt good to speak for those who haven’t found their voice yet. But now it’s different. We came to the South Island for peace of mind and healing. Instead, we find prejudice everywhere.

  “Are you still brooding? Come here, let me kiss your frown away.” Scottie stood in the doorway, a towel slung around his hips, water dripping from his wet hair, wriggling his brows. He tries to pull me into his arms, but I dig in my heels.

  “Stop it, please. You can’t just kiss everything away.” I must have steam coming out of my ears judging by the way he jumped back.

  “Hang on, give me a second to get dressed.” He disappears back into the laundry and after some clattering noises, it sounded as if a chair toppled over, he came out again, dressed in his jeans and a fresh t-shirt.

  “What is the matter? I haven’t seen you this out of sorts for a long time. How can I help?”

  “That’s just it, you can’t. Or do you think I’m too weak to sort out my own life and all I need is a logical, strong man to put my affairs right?”

  “Hold on. Stop snapping at me. You know I admire you for your strength, don’t you?”

  “I do, sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I walk up to Scottie and stretch up on my toes to kiss him. “It’s still a touchy subject when people label us crazy. The problem is, discrimination is lurking around every corner. It’s them and us, the well people defending themselves against those they categorize as mentally ill. People accept us as long as we stay in our box.”

  “What box is that, darling?”

  I brush his darling away with a flick of my hands. “Don’t you understand? It’s demeaning playing the grateful receiver of psychiatric help and social services. People say, Oh no, that’s not true. We accept you, blah, blah, blah.”

  “Are you saying they don’t mean it? Are you saying it’s only a pretense?” A frown carves deep valleys into his forehead.

  “I’m sure they mean it at the time. However, I feel like saying: Really? You accept me? Will you let me look after your four-month-old baby tonight? Will you give me a job in your shop or your office? No?”

  “I hear what you’re saying; all words and no action.”

  “At least no action that goes beyond voting for more funds for mental health care. Besides, whatever they use the funding for may or may not help. It’s the attitude of each person that does the damage. They can’t shir
k responsibility by voting and thinking they’ve done their bit.”

  “You have to admit that’s a start.”

  “I don’t have to admit anything. It turns us into second-class citizens. It’s not good enough to stand at the corner of the supermarket and collect donations for the mentally ill.”

  “Isn’t that a positive beginning? You can’t change the world in two months.”

  “Are you saying I’m too impatient?”

  “A little. Give people time to change. You know how hard that is.”

  “People had years. Actually, they had centuries. No, no, I disagree. The practice may no longer be putting the insane onto a ship of fools, into madhouses, or prisons.

  “The modern method may be a treatment program. That may be a good thing, but things shouldn’t stop there. Mental illness isn’t contagious. We don’t differ from you. We deserve better.”

  Scott holds up his hands in defense. “Don’t shoot, I’m on your side. I know you’re not crazy.”

  “The ironic thing is most of these normal people go home and swallow a handful of antidepressants, anti-anxiety, anti-heaven-knows-what-pills, followed by some happy pills or whatever weed they can get hold of, and chase all of that down with glasses of wine, beer, or hard liquor. Ah, I’m so sick and tired of these double standards.”

  By now Scottie holds me in his arms as if he’s afraid I’ll fly away and leave him behind. I don’t know if I have what it takes to keep fighting. It shouldn’t bother me that people don’t treat me as equal. It shouldn’t.

  That’s when Sky’s voice, our voice of reason, our moral compass, as always finds the right words to pull me up.

  “But if nobody speaks up things won’t change. Women would still not have the right to vote, homosexuality would still be a crime, and slavery would still be acceptable. We can’t give up now.”

  I give a hefty sigh. She’s right. I lift to my toes and give Scottie a light kiss on his cheek. “Don’t worry about me. I needed to let off steam. I’m good now. When you and Tom go on your hunting trip, we have all the time to think about what else we can do.”

  “It’ll be two days until he arrives. If you feel so distraught, I’d like to find out if there are ways I could support you more.”

  He catches me by surprise. He already does so much to let me know that he’s on my side. I should just stop moping around and get on with life. Like Elise does.

  Chapter Four

  Lilly: 3 March 2017, Morning, Port Somers

  “You lose.” Scottie beams at me, his warm brown eyes sparkling with joy. Those are the moments he reverts to a boy who loves beating me at rock-paper-scissors. Who’s the multiple, now? I would never resent him for going bush with his friend—not after all he did for me… He can be such a child.

  He’s rearing to get to his beloved bush and check out potential tracks for the hunt. I don’t mind picking Tom up from the bus. That way I can get our groceries on my way into town and drop into the vet for Prince’s shots. I clear the breakfast table, get his backpack from the laundry, and drop it by his chair.

  “Don’t make me beg you to leave. I have a million things to do. If the bus is on time I’ll drop Tom off at your cabin about midday.” It’s funny to see him relieved as if he’s barely escaped prison. I have to make sure he’s doing his own thing more often. It’ll kill our relationship if he thinks he’s obligated to look after me all the time. That’s not how good relationships work.

  It’s shocking but I’m becoming a relationship expert, second to Elise, of course. I’ve learned to keep the fire burning, you’ve to make sure your partner has plenty of alone time for his friends and hobbies.

  “Lilly, you’re a champion.”

  I’m not sure if I’m Elise or Lilly. We are so similar nowadays, it’s hard to tell us apart. Most of the time it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s rearing to leave. The bright morning sun is bringing out the warm copper streaks in hair. Scottie gets up too, reaches for his floppy hat, pushes it to the back, and gives us a long kiss.

  I have little to compare him with, but I’ve got to say his kisses are … Elise said once his kisses are a revelation, full of promise and tender love. Me? I just like them. They make me feel wanted and give me shivers all over my body.

  After what seems like a long time, he lets me go. Grabbing his backpack, we leave the house. At the truck, he gives Prince a goodbye rub behind the ears.

  “Look after them for me.”

  Prince is thumping his tail, which I’m convinced, means okay boss.

  Minutes later I watch him drive away.

  A sudden chill in the air drives me back inside the house. I grab my jacket and shoulder bag. Yep, Lilly, the champion is now getting ready to work down our to-do-list. We seldom go to Port Somers although it isn’t all that bad at the tail end of summer. By then the tourists are on their way home and our little township is ours again.

  I can’t believe I use the pronoun ours. But it’s true, despite everything that’s happened, I feel at home. There is even the possibility that I might belong.

  Belonging.

  I’m saying that with a lot of hesitation as if I’m treading on untested waters. Who would have thought it’s so scary? I want to belong and at the same time, I’m petrified of it because if you belong, people can also expel you.

  Port Somers in fall is a pleasant place. You now meet more locals than foreigners and in the shops, you don’t have to queue with hikers wielding their backpacks about. You can even stop and have a chat with the stallholders at the Friday Farmers Market. Even Freddy Stanmore, our local painter and gallery owner, world-famous in Port Somers, has time for a cuppa. Freddy and Elise spend hours chatting about all things arty.

  I? Not so much. With art, I’m clueless.

  I use the title ‘gallery’ in it’s most humble form because Freddy exhibits and sells only his paintings, Alice Winter’s pottery, greenstone and jewelry carved by Spencer Tupene’s family, Elise and Maddie’s weavings, and Tip Top Ice cream. And I say that with no malice; he makes as much money with the ice cream as he does with all the art and craft pieces put together.

  Over the summer months, it always appears like the place only exists for the tourists. Most of them are gone once the gentle summer rain turns into a deluge and placid streams grow within hours into raging rivers, hurtling about rocks and debris and washing fertile soil, seized from the upper slopes of the mountains into the sea.

  But I’m not complaining. Tourists bring progress. Without them, we would still be getting blown about or freeze waiting for the bus to arrive. Those times are over. Last winter a cozy café with the intriguing name Vanilla Bean opened opposite the Intercity bus stop.

  They should have called it the Whistle Stop Café like the one in Fried Green Tomatoes because they used the old rundown railway station. But then busses don’t whistle, do they? They rather groan and rattle.

  With the grocery shopping in the truck and Prince asleep on the backseat, after he had his vaccinations, I park the car and hop over the road to the Vanilla Bean. It’s not busy yet, and I sit down while I wait. They make good coffee here, not that I’m an expert. But it’s miles better than Ama’s brew. And I say that with lots of love in my heart and the hope she’s not listening to my thoughts.

  I wash a bite of tasty quiche down with the coffee. The bus is late. The Tribe is impatient to see Tom again. We all like him now. It was different when we first met him a little over a year ago. Within five minutes we’d sacked him. It took a huge amount of goodwill and Scott’s reassurance that he was okay before he became a friend. Amadeus still thinks he’s a wuss. That’s his new word because Sky doesn’t let us use swearwords.

  Tom owes it to Maddie that he was allowed into our inner circle. Not that we knew we had one. It was always us, the Tribe, against the world. Then Scottie happened, the murder and the kidnapping happened, and after the trial, our inner world had changed in ways nobody had foreseen.

  So now there’s Scott, and somet
imes Annabelle our journalist friend when she’s around, and of course our therapist Charlotte McFarlane aka Miss Marple, who we all call our friends now.

  Elise said the other day, “Lilly, I don’t know how you do it, it gets really crowded.” But that’s Elise for you, our super introvert.

  I still remember how Tom became our friend. It happened before the court case last year. He caught Maddie one afternoon weaving; only he didn’t know he was talking to a child part. He didn’t know we were multiples. Don’t assume she’s just a five-year-old girl who does little girl things and has little girl thoughts. That would be a huge mistake. When Elizabeth went away Maddie and Toby took over from her but soon Sky the wise one, Ama the mother, me the person getting things done, and Amadeus the warrior came along.

  Kind of like the Famous Five, just that we were six and didn’t feel famous at all. It was pretty hard back then and each of us needed helpers to deal with the things life threw at us. It didn’t take long and we became the Tribe we are now.

  Despite remembering the early abuse, Maddie’s domain was always to love and to connect. She brings out the best in us and forms connections among the Tribe. She rarely interacts with outside people.

  When the court case began and everything went topsy-turvy most of the Tribe went into hiding until Maddie brought us together again. Seeing her sitting at the loom I knew we were going to make it. With each different strand of material she let glide through the warp, she called other parts from their dark place. As if she were saying “it’s safe to be, come back.”

  She hadn’t heard Tom, who thought she was Elise, approaching her. So we had to tell him that there are many parts to us. He hadn’t heard about multiple personality disorder or Dissociative Identity Disorder as it is called now. I told him it meant I experience myself as a person of many different parts.

  He thought that was a weird concept and I had to explain how our coming and going worked. In the end, it was easier to tell him about us than I feared it would be. He had to know. After all, he was our lawyer and every little detail about our life came out during the court sessions.