I haven’t forgotten waking up in a hospital, restrained on a stretcher, being given injections that made my head explode, and then these horrible…
Later, I read an article that hailed electroshock treatment as the last resort to provide relief from some mental disorders. The next step would be a lobotomy, cutting out parts of my brain, turning me into a zombie that has nothing in common with the person I am other than the looks.
That was only days before my eighteenth birthday. It was the day I stopped fighting. Three weeks later, I guess it was three weeks, Horace promised to keep me out of the hospital if I’d marry him. It didn’t take more than a second to say yes. He never intended to keep that promise. But it’s no use crying now.
I feel brittle and empty as if I’m made of fine china, bound to break upon the slightest pressure. From the corner of my eye, I see my laptop computer sitting open, next to a small printer. This Lilly person—can I even call her a person, or is she a ghost, a figment of my imagination—has been out shopping while I’ve been doing what? This is crazy stuff. I’m gutted to see evidence of something I refuse to admit, and the emotions connected to it, create a brand of sharp pain in the back of my mind I’d rather not feel.
Once I calm down a little, I have to be honest; having parts that do things while I’m not around, has good sides to it. To think about it, I wouldn’t have a clue how to start a fire. I don’t even think I own a lighter. The water in the copper pot is still hot. I shove a lump of wood into the range, add two spoonful of ground coffee beans in a pan with hot water, and let it well up. It takes no time at all and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee is wafting through the house, filling it with a warm, cozy lived-in atmosphere.
“The old-fashioned way like Aunt Mandy used to make it.”
I nod in agreement and then jump and spin around. It was the same silvery bell whisper I heard when I arrived.
“Who’s that? Who’s talking?”
I hear a soft giggle and make another 360-degree spin.
“You’re funny. It’s me.”
The giggling sound fades as if the person with the silvery bell whisper withdraws into a long tunnel. I’ve had enough playing cat and mouse with parts I’m rumored to have but who don’t bother to face me. I have two options. I could feel sorry for myself, collapse into a puddle and dissolve, seep through the gaps in the floorboards and become one with the ground they built the house on. Or I could get the notebook out and involve Lilly to sort this out.
I figure option two is the lesser of two evils.
Chapter Fifteen
Lilly: 22 November 2015, Morning, Wright’s Homestead
Sometimes I wake up with an eerie feeling of gloom and doom that I can’t shake off for hours. Today is one of those days. I wonder whether one of the Tribe had a bad night, or even a flashback, and their low mood seeps into my experience. I would hate that because one of the few benefits of being a multi is not feeling what other parts are feeling. That’s the whole point of the exercise, isn’t it?
Sky once suggested that I might have some of Elise’s clairvoyant skills. Ha. Me? Clairvoyant? You’d sooner see pigs fly than me being clairvoyant. I don’t believe in this spooky stuff anyhow. If I had those skills, I would have known what was coming and kept Amadeus from slamming the door on Elise. That was two days ago, and our hand is still hurting like hell.
He’s unpredictable when he gets going. He got so annoyed with her. That girl is not a quick learner. She had it coming. But perhaps I don’t give her enough credit? We have had forty years of adapting to being more than one. It’s unfair to expect her to get the multiple thing in one day. Knowing you are a multiple, doesn’t guarantee you know what it means. It’s like seeing a piece of Black Forest gateaux. You know it’s a cake, but you only know what it tastes like when you eat it. There you have it. Eat the multiple cake if you want to know what our life is like.
I’m on my way to Port Somers to get provisions. I don’t mind getting away from the house for a few hours. Elise has been gushing over her plans for weaving and reviving the vegetable garden. It was easy to take over from her and take the van for a ride. I’m sick and tired of all this green stuff. Wherever you look, green, green, green. It wouldn’t surprise me if, by the time we move somewhere else, all of us have a green skin tone, grow roots instead of nails on our toes, and live on an exclusive diet of spinach, zucchini, and brussels sprouts. I don’t mind zucchini, but I take a stand against brussels sprouts. Leave them for the Belgians; they can have them.
Now, I love nature. But there is something like too much of a good thing. Where’s the diversity, the entertainment, the change? Who likes peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Maddie. Yes. Next to a spam sandwich she’d survive for years on peanut butter sandwiches if she had to.
Sky must have known I was succumbing to cabin fever. Bless her for sending me shopping. I jumped at the chance to drive into town and get a ginormous portion of fish and chips. I didn’t mind getting groceries and the newspaper as well. It would be interesting to
