Beyond the Tree House Page 9

  Someone or something out there is still a threat to me. A faceless enemy closes in on me and his reach has spilled over to Scott. It’s my fault he is in the hospital fighting for his life.

  When I moved into the homestead, I brought trouble with me. It’s as if evil is following me wherever I go. Perhaps it’s connected to me with a kind of invisible umbilical cord. Tripping me up and throwing me back into the dirt whenever I get a glimpse of light and happiness. I’m like poison to everyone I come in contact with. If I were a real woman and not this wimp who disappears at the tiniest conflict into an imaginary tree house, things could be different.

  “That’s enough now. We are not to blame for what happened and you may not call our multiplicity craziness.”

  Oh, dear Sky, if only I had your conviction. If only I wouldn’t feel so lacking. I’m shaken. Sky seldom goes into full-frontal criticism. I didn’t mean to upset her or the Tribe. I should do better, shouldn’t I?

  As a child, I needed the mantel of multiplicity to cope, but I’m no longer a child and that mantel is many sizes too small. I can’t move in it, it stifles me. It holds me back. But I can’t just put it away either. Even if I could put it away, how could I go on living without the Tribe, incomplete as I am?

  From the trees, a night owl takes off into the early morning to spend the day in her nest. I close the door and with my mug of tea in one hand and Prince by my side, I walk to the loom. Perhaps I can weave the fear into the current work. It’s a commission for a gallery customer who wants a wall hanging about the mercilessness of nature.

  Prince curls up at my feet. He has recovered from whatever drug the intruders fed him. His head rests on his paws and his eyes are closed, dreaming of some exciting doggy-adventures, no doubt.

  Lost in weaving, I startle when Prince’s head jumps up and his ears flick about listening to noises only he can hear. I get up and walk to the window. A tall stranger in his mid-fifties steps out of a Toyota and comes up to the house. He straightens the jacket of his pin-stripe suit and rakes his hand through the leftovers of his blonde hair he wears draped over his balding head.

  We never get visitors. The hairs are standing up on my arms and Prince’s low growl doesn’t help either. The Tribe, nervous and on tenterhooks after last night, is paying attention too. I imagine lots of heads swiveling from right to left as if they’re running on ball bearings.

  This one looks like a car salesman or an insurance agent. Someone, I didn’t expect to show up in the backwaters of the West Coast peddling wares I neither want nor need. He comes, unaware of us watching him, brushing away twigs of my flowering Daphne bush and looking around with a deep frown of disapproval. I dislike him even before he has uttered a single word and am determined to send him on his way without delay.

  Before he can touch the knocker I open the door, leaving his hand hanging in midair. It looks funny and, even though the fearful flutter in my stomach increases, I bite back a grin.

  “How can I help you?” I raise my eyebrows.

  “I wonder if it’s possible to talk to Ms. Seagar.”

  “You are speaking to her.”

  “Ahem, Ms. Seagar, my name is Simon Baker. Do you mind if I come in, I would like to present you with a lucrative offer.”

  No stranger gets invited into my house. Not after last night’s attack. My head is still sore. This man leans forward, expecting me to let him in. Amadeus takes this as an invitation to step in. His angry energy is spilling over to me. I need to put on my assertive big people pants or Amadeus will hijack the body. That’s not a good idea. First I have to find out what the stranger wants. I step out and shut the door behind me.

  “We can sit out here on the garden chairs. Be careful, the table is not stable.”

  His dislike of my suggestion is hanging in the air. Warning bells are going off inside my head. Oh yes, the Tribe is on full alert too.

  The man maneuvers himself onto a chair, but not before inspecting it. I’m sure he’s trying to estimate how much his suit will suffer from my rusty garden chairs.

  “Unless you prefer to stand?” I admit, there is a bit of a smirk in my voice, but I don’t think he’s catching the finer details of my response. He’s too focused on completing his task.

  “I’m coming with a business proposition. People in Port Somers have overheard that you want to move away and sell Wright’s Homestead.” He’s swallowing and his eyes blink rapidly as he eyes Prince standing next to me with a low growl stuck in his throat.

  “You’re wasting your time. You shouldn’t follow every gossip that circulates in town.”

  “I had hoped it wasn’t gossip and you would consider listing with my real estate company. I might even have a buyer lined up making it an easy transaction for you.”

  “Stop right there. If you’re local, you realize there has been an arson attack on my partner’s cabin and he’s in hospital critically wounded. You must understand this is not the time for real estate deals. I’m surprised you even dare to come at a time like this.”

  “I’m so sorry. I thought…I heard Mr. Thompson is out of danger and thought…My apologies. I was too eager.”

  “I will decide nothing until all the facts of the arson are on the table. That’s in the best interest of a prospective buyer too.”

  “Ms. Seagar, that’s a wise decision. If you let me explain, you’ll see I’m coming with the best intentions. My buyer has plans to use your property as an outdoor education center.”

  “You’re not listening. Your client, whoever he is, is of no interest to me at the moment.”

  “The Gateway Corporation has been interested in your homestead for years.”

  “Gateway? I want nothing to do with that sleazy lot. I’m surprised you dare to present the offer to me. Unless you are ignorant about the recent court case involving the Gateway people.”

  I shove my chair back to increase the distance between us.

  He puts his hand on my hand. “Sorry, I understand that must be hard for you. Please, don’t feel bad. The new guard, what we call the young folks of the Gateway community, has taken over. Now that the old leaders are all locked up and sitting behind bars, the new leaders are working hard to make a new beginning. You should know that many of the young people are glad you exposed the child abuse. It’s a huge embarrassment for those who live there with the good intention of finding a new communal way of living and serving.”

  “You seem to know a lot of what’s going on there.”

  The man shrugged and smiled. “I keep my ears to the ground. One has to in my business.”

  “You are saying they knew nothing about the abuse? That is hard to believe.”

  “I don’t blame you. They, too, can’t believe they noticed nothing. Yes, in hindsight some things should have caused alarm signals, but they were all too in awe of their elders.”

  “Why do they want to buy Wright’s Homestead after all these years?”

  “They want to build an outdoor education center where young delinquents learn survival skills, social skills, and self-sufficiency. Many kids could benefit from a program like that. Your homestead is ideal for it. Far enough away from temptations and yet close enough to provide help if needed.”

  I’ve seen how much damage Gateway has caused under the cover of educational programs for young people. I trust them as far as I can throw a piano. I have no intention of lending them a hand. The idea of yet another educational program for young people gets my hackles up. I have no intention of lending them a hand. This can’t be the only house suitable for that purpose.

  “This can’t be the only house suitable for that purpose. They had thirty years to take over the house.”

  Something about this man’s proposal doesn’t sit right with me, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  “Amanda Wright, who owned Wright’s Homestead, is the sister of one of the founding community members. She purchased the homestead with a loan from Gateways and the unspoken agreement was that it would one day becom
e part of the Gateway community. Unfortunately, she passed before she could put it in her will.”

  “I know the founding members you speak of. They were my parents.”

  “Yeah, Uhm, Gateways always believed Wright’s Homestead would become part of their community after the passing of Ms. Wright. They know they don’t have a legal claim to the homestead. But they would like to purchase it. The new board of directors is trying to bring Gateways back to the original vision.”

  “I’m sure if she intended to give the homestead to Gateways, she would have specified it in her will. It’s not, so I see no reason for our conversation to continue.”

  I get up from my chair to see the agent off.

  He gets up too but seems compelled to try one more time to change my mind.

  “Don’t you feel spooked being out here all by yourself since Scott Thompson’s hut burned down?”

  “Thank you for your concern. I am okay here. Should I consider selling, I’ll contact you. Why don’t you leave your details with me? I’ll be in touch.”

  He hands me his card and returns to his car. Only when his Toyota disappears through the trees does the pressure inside my head and nausea in my stomach ease.

  I rush back inside the house, stirred up and unsure what to do with myself now. Will I never be free of Gateway?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elise: 9 March 2017, Midday, Post Somers, Hospital

  I just got off the phone and stare at my shaking hands. Inside my head a firework of voices is going off, laughing, talking, and crying all at the same time.

  “It’s a little early but we expect Mr. Thompson to wake up today or tomorrow.”

  The doctor sounded tired as if it took a special effort to pick up the phone and let us know that his high-priority patient is as good as back in the world of the living.

  “Don’t be so mean. Like other hospitals, Port Somers’ is probably under-staffed and the few nurses and doctors they have are bound to be overworked. We should be grateful that he thought of calling us.”

  Sky is right, if I don’t take care I’ll turn into a grumpy old woman. It’s not the doctor’s fault that my head is as noisy as Times Square during peak traffic. After a while the tangle of voices hones in on one loud chorus: We have to see Scottie.

  I agree and minutes later, powered by a cup of Ama’s strong coffee and a fair amount of joyful anticipation, we spin along State Highway 6. Just in case Scott wakes up sooner rather than later.

  The drive to the hospital is challenging, trying to keep the switching under control. Lilly is dancing and skipping up and down the stairs of the tree house. I wish she would stop and keep the Tribe quiet. It’s hard to keep the car steady with everyone playing up.

  By the time we arrive at the hospital, I am exhausted.

  “I swear, the thirty-minute drive to Port Somers was at least thirty-five minutes too long,” Lilly said, checking her hair in the rearview mirror. She’s full of beans and ready to shoot out the truck. The young ones have to wait for their turn. While she vibrates with energy, I use my last resources to collect myself and present an adult facade to the hospital staff.

  Surrounded by piles of charts and files, the nurse at the reception desk taps away on her computer even though I’m sure she noticed me. It’s funny, at least half the time of my life I was invisible and it didn’t bother me. That has changed. It bothers me now that the nurse ignores me. I pull my shoulders straight and walk past her desk to the ward.

  “Hello, where are you going?”

  The nurse’s voice is sharp and commanding. I turn around and find her staring at me with a deep frown. I’m in no mood for sharp, commanding, and frown. First the burglary last night—my head is still sore—and then the real estate agent this morning. I’m done with unpleasant for the day.

  The woman has seen me every day for the last six days. Not that she has been friendly so far. Lilly put her into the category of people who expect us to grow horns next. She knows bloody well where I’m going. I stare back at her and after a few moments she has the decency to look away and I’m on my way to Scott’s room.

  The charge nurse comes out of Scott’s room and leaves the door open for me. She drops me a tired smile. Can she tell I’m all over the place?

  “Thank you for calling me. How is he?”

  “Not awake yet, but he’s doing well. We’ll keep a close eye on him today.”

  Too excited to sit on the recliner chair next to his bed, I stand unable to keep my eyes off him. He looks much better than the previous days, his skin is no longer pasty and…am I imagining things? He breathes deeper now. I sit down, take his limp hand into mine, and listen to the ebb and flow of his breath, settling into watching over him.

  Scott’s room is like a bubble of tranquility, closing us off from the busy world around us. We have nothing to do and nowhere to be other than letting time and nature do their healing. Streaks of sunlight are sneaking in through half-closed shutters leaving a streaky pattern on the wall behind him and bathing the room in subdued lighting. The only sounds are the click-clack from nurses hastening along the hallway in their clogs and the beeping of instruments measuring his vital signs.

  I long to hold his face in my hands and gaze into his kind eyes. Anything that brings me closer to him, but that has to wait. Now and then the fingers of his left hand twitch. Deep in my heart I know he will live, he has to. When I met Scott I found happiness, love, and trust at the darkest time in my life and in the farthest places of the West Coast wilderness.

  Time crawls and hours pass as my mind drifts. These last six days had been pure torture, but they also taught me I don’t want to live without him. If he had died in the fire…There is no telling if I…we…It doesn’t bear thinking about it. I swallow hard not to cry as the words went round and round in my head.

  A little over a year ago I arrived on the West Coast alone and with no illusions about my future. I would survive. That was the best outcome I could hope for. But surviving is not enough. Scott taught me I have a right to thrive. Now my life is nothing like it was before I left Auckland.

  I’m no longer the frightened and confused woman who lost significant periods every day and couldn’t make sense out of her life. With lots of hard work and Scott’s help so much has changed. I’m at peace with myself. We have a future to look forward to. My eyes are misting over. I came too close to losing him.

  Come back to me. I blink away the mist that blurs my vision. From now on keeping each other safe will be our number one priority. If that means I must sell Wright’s Homestead, so be it.

  “Don’t expect too much. Who knows whether he’ll be the Scott we know? He could have forgotten us or changed or had enough of being around us. We are bad luck.”

  I don’t recognize the anxious voice. It’s one of the young ones, no doubt. But for once I’m not listening to frightened parts.

  Today is a good day … a fantastic day. All will be well. We need good news as much as we need air to breathe. Lots of good news to counter the lies abuse taught us. Abuse makes you believe you are not okay, you don’t deserve a good life, nobody will ever like you, you can trust nobody. It takes thousands of good experiences to erase the scars caused by abuse.

  Uncomfortable anger wells up inside me I don’t know what to do with. I want to lash out at a world that doesn’t protect children, a world that sanctions unspeakable acts of cruelty for the sake of power, money, and lust. I give up, feeling powerless and giving myself a mental beating for being a wimp.

  “You are not a wimp. You expect too much of yourself, of us. It takes time to change the thinking of men and women. It’s not a one-woman-show, and it’s not done in a handful of decades.”

  As so often, Sky intervenes and puts things into perspective when we are not on our side. Feeling a little less hopeless I close my eyes.

  I’m just about dozing off when I notice something. I sit up. Did Scott just squeeze my hand? Was it a reflex or is he coming to? I gasp as the air in the
room seems hot and sticky. Mesmerized I stare at his hand but nothing happens.

  Then. There.

  Another squeeze of his hand. I’m squeezing back and hold his hand against my lips for a soft kiss.

  “Scott? It’s me, Elise.”

  Nothing. I shake my head. I’m so gullible. It is only a dream. I taste blood and notice I’ve bitten my lip. Disappointed I catch my breath and leave the chair, pacing the room from the bed to the window. Out there life goes on as if nothing special happened, and yet in here a man fights for his life and struggles to regain consciousness. I let out a sigh and turn around.

  A pair of dark, brown eyes are staring at me.

  “You are awake. Thank God.” I rush to his side and take his hand into mine. It’s no longer clear whether I’m me or Lilly. Tears fill my eyes and my mind is light-headed as if it’s filled with champagne bubbles dancing to the surface.

  He came back.

  Scottie is back. Lilly is over the moon and pushes me aside. I wouldn’t stop her, even if I could. She tries to cover him like a blanket and never let go. Her fingers touch his hair and run through his locks, making sure he’s not a mirage. Holding his face in both hands, she beams and showers him with her love.

  I’m jealous of the ease with which she shows her affection. I could never do that. Until I’m one hundred percent assured I would always second-guess whether my demonstration of love is appropriate.

  Again I’m surprised how different I am to Lilly. While she pours love over him I haven’t forgotten the days I suffered, the days I walked around like the living dead, trying to build a wall around my heart to stop hurting. I didn’t expect to want him to hurt as much as I have. Nobody has to tell me those thoughts and feelings are ridiculous. I’m not a moron. But I might be broken beyond repair.

  “Don’t be silly, what you experience is normal. Once you tear down the wall you’ve built around you, you’ll be okay. You said you loved him.”