Girl From the Tree House, стр. 43
“Could you bend forward, please?”
I pour a cup of water over his forehead and catch it with the water bowl. Well, most. It’s a mess, but that’s a minor problem. I’m afraid there could be pieces of dirt lodged in his gash. Sometimes I’m obsessive compulsive, I’ve been told by Helen, my dear sister-in-law. In times like this, though, you can’t be careful enough. Once I’m convinced it’s clean, I get a tube of antiseptic cream from my first aid kit and apply it. He cringes when I put Steri-Strips over the cut and pull together the edges of the gash.
“You should be okay without stitches. These Steri-Strips work wonders.”
“Thanks a lot. I’ll be on my way then.”
He gets up and staggers a few steps. I rush to him and grab his arm to stabilize him. Goodness me, he’s in worse shape than I first thought. I push down gently on his shoulders and make him sit on the couch again.
“I don’t think you’re fit to go anywhere in a hurry. You might have a concussion. I’d also like to see if you have sustained any further injuries.”
“I’m all right.”
“Don’t be a baby.”
“You’ve said that before. I don’t appreciate being called a baby.”
“I have? I don’t remember. Please lean back so I can check you. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Imposition or not, please lay still.”
After checking his torso, arms, and legs I’m satisfied that all he’s got is a bad case of bruising, accompanied by a bad case of grumpiness.
“You have bad bruising on your chest, legs, and arms. You’ll be sore for some weeks to come. For now, though, the couch has your name on it. I’ll get a few blankets. Make yourself comfortable.”
He settles on auntie’s couch and closes his eyes the moment he stretches out, but not without mumbling some stubborn protest. I can see his body deflating as if he’d put tons of effort into staying upright and in control. I’m smiling on the inside. We are so similar.
He’s growing on me.
Chapter Sixteen
Sky: 22 November 2015, Late At Night, Wright’s Homestead
When something is wrong with one of the Tribe, it reverberates through our system like an earthquake and puts me on high alert. Like now. Something isn’t right. I look around the common room and find the door to Maddie’s room open. She’s left the tree house and slipped out. It must be past midnight.
I’m worried about her. Since we arrived at this house, Maddie has not been her old self. She’s changing and I don’t know what that’s about. It is as if arriving at the homestead caused a door to spring open that was locked.
“Maddie, where are you? Come back!”
I catch her standing at the top of the stairs. For a moment, she looks over her shoulder to me, then shakes her head with a cheeky smile, and tiptoes down the stairs in her long, old-fashioned nighty. She floats down into the moonlit living space like a delicate fairy, her treasured doll Madeline tightly clutched in her arms.
It would be a mistake to think she’s breakable even though she might look it. Maddie has seen things and been through experiences that nobody, let alone a child, should have been through. Aren’t parents supposed to love you? Isn’t that’s a non-negotiable law of nature? That they didn’t do so made Elizabeth’s parents monsters. Many of our inside children can testify to that, most of all Maddie. Against all odds, she kept her childlike innocence.
“Maddie, come back,” I whisper louder now but she doesn’t hear me. She’s a girl on a mission and, like all of us, if that happens, we become single-minded. She must have watched Elise on the loom earlier today and only waited for the right time to sneak out and have a go herself. I hold my breath as she bumbles past the couch and heads for the loom. I hope she avoids an encounter with our neighbor who’s sleeping on the sofa.
She probably hasn’t seen him and instead is fascinated by all the colors and different materials Elise put into the large wool basket earlier. For the next while, she rummages through the basket, then picks up a ball of wool, only to drop it for pieces of silky material. With her treasures in hand, she climbs onto the chair, picks up a pair of scissors, and cuts the silk into strips.
It’s easy to forget she’s only four years old as she threads the material through the warp. Rapt by her work, her little hands fly as she creates a small masterpiece. I’m no longer surprised by her creativity. This girl holds more than her fair share of our creative potential. Yes, Elise is the one who works the loom most of the time. She’s the one with a vision of the finished product. However, Maddie is the one who brings flair and excitement to the weave. She’s not afraid to try out new materials and new ways. Together, the two of them create stunning works of art.
A loud, gasping moan from the couch startles her. She spins around and knocks her scissors off the table with a loud clatter.
I’m watching the scene unfold in predictable patterns. Our neighbor wakes, jumps up too quickly, and holds his head with a groan. You don’t jump up from a couch when you have a concussion. Men are not wise. I noticed that a long time ago. There was Horace, who was the epitome of predictability in his single-mindedness, stupidity, and cruelty. Little Jimmy knows all about it. He’s much better now that Horace is dead. He even sleeps at night.
I pray Maddie says nothing and flees to the safety of the tree house. I call her again,