Girl From the Tree House, стр. 47
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 seat 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.
“Patrick, I mean Mr. Armstrong,