Chapter Nineteen
Elise: 18 March 2017, Early Afternoon, Port Somers
I hate arguments. They are more Lilly’s thing. She seems to thrive during arguments. I’m rather sorry Scott and I argued. It left me with a sick sense of dread in my stomach. I’m aware it’s old stuff and has little to do with Scott, but knowing it and stopping it are two different kettles of fish.
Ms. Marple said once, part of moving beyond being a victim is doing what is right and not doing what others would like you to do. So that’s what I’m trying. Stopping a person with a head injury who just came out of a coma from traipsing around the countryside and playing Magnum PI is doing the right thing.
Scott had a different opinion. Why was I not surprised? Still, we made him stay in bed. Who does he think he is? Twenty years old and indestructible? He wobbled on his feet like a drunken sailor. I even had to hide the car keys. How ridiculous is that? Are we back in kindergarten?
He’s lucky he’s in a relationship with me and not Amadeus. He would have had to nurture a bruised ego as well as a bruised head. The sheepish grin on his face told me he knows that. While Scott took it easy, together with Mikey we used the time to turn over every stone in every little corner of the homestead. We found nothing that could justify a break-in.
“I told you so. You should start listening to me,” Mikey gloated.
Before I agree to discharge Scott and go with him to Port Somers, I make him get up and sit down a few times and take his pulse. It took him four days to be well enough. Four days of hell for me with a grumpy patient. I know now I’m not born to be a nurse.
On the way to Port Somers, Scott puts his hand on my leg. I guess he’s finished sulking.
“Are we good now?”
“I’ve never been ‘not good’ with you. You gave me the silent treatment, remember?” He’s lucky that I’m a multiple. One lesson I learned as a member of the Tribe was that if some part is not responding or behaving oddly, they can’t do any better. They’re either caught up in some weird thinking or outside of ‘reception’ as I like to call it. You have to be fully switched on and not with your mind digging in the dumpsters of yesteryear if you want to be content and happy.
“I’m so sorry. I’m a lousy patient. You didn’t deserve me acting like a spoiled child. I hate being dependent. You of all people should understand that.”
“I do. And you of all people should accept my expertise when it comes to healing matters.”
“Touché. I promise to do better.”
I’m leaving it, knowing that it’ll happen again. It’s the human condition, I’m sure. It could be my turn next to act all cranky about something. Right now I have to concentrate. We’re leaving the open country road and entering Port Somers. It’s always a shock coming into Port Somers from the seemingly unlimited emptiness of the vast countryside with hardly any traffic and even fewer people milling about. Not even the strong southerly and the chilling rain keeps people at home.
“It’s like a beehive.” Scott says it more to himself than me. I smile and comforting familiarity warms my heart. I’m sure, like me, he can’t wait to get back home. We both love the solitude of Flatbush Creek Valley. How rare is it to find another hermit and get along with him as well as we do? It’s worth fighting for. And we will. I squeeze his hand.
By now it’s pouring down. All the parking spaces in front of the city council are occupied and we have to park on a side street. I pull up the hood, zip-up my rain jacket and run with Scott through the heavy rain. The gusty wind pushes us ahead, making a mockery of my umbrella is turning it inside-out … more a hindrance than protection.
Inside the city council, we shake off the water droplets. I look at Scott and laugh.
“What?”
“You look like a drowned rat.”
He grins and puts his arm around me. “That makes two of us then!”
We are not the first to arrive in such a state. Raincoats are hanging on the large, iron coat rail and dripping umbrellas stand in the old-fashioned, wooden beer keg. The council people are prepared for this kind of weather.
“I hope we have more success than I had when I inquired about my auntie’s grave.”
I squint at the door of the land information office, keeping my expectations low out of fear they’ll disappoint me.
“If not here we’ll find the information somewhere else.”
Sometimes his optimism irritates the heck out of me. It’s a different department, though. A middle-aged man clad in sturdy working pants and a hunting vest with bulging pockets greets us, the smell of sawdust still hanging on him. He looks as if he is more at home on a building site than in an office.
Relieved, I greet him with a smile. At least he might be familiar with building houses and not just with pushing pencils. The small sign on the desk says we are talking to Donald Houghton, building inspector.
“How can I help you?”
He looks at Scott. Of course, he looks at Scott. This is a wild country, men’s country. Women are good for cooking stew and mending woolen socks. As I’m bad on both accounts, I might as well grab the steer by his horns. Isn’t that what they say?
“We would like to look into the title history of Wright’s Homestead.”
“Give me a minute.”
He sends me a surprised glance, then smiles friendly
