CHAPTER THREE
There is a treehouse at the end of my property. It stands, a testament of time, a figure of Mother Nature and her great love. What paint hasn't long since been weathered away is visible only up close, in pink and purple and blue chipping streaks of childhood art. Handprints on the ceiling, princesses for me, and cowboys and superheroes for James and Harry. They stay there, for years; they grow as we do, though they fade instead of age, and they wait for our return. We are women and men now, some of us did not make it through, and soon the drawings won't either.
There is a great metaphor to be found in the treehouse; now, as I am writing, my much taller body takes the place of my childhood verison body, and I trace the paint with my fingers. It chips off onto my hands, and I blow it away, as if making a wish. I wish I could stay in the treehouse, but sometimes I will climb down, just as I once did as a child. There is comfort in the treehouse now, just as there was for thirteen-year-old me:
After James and my father retreated, or really fled, I was left in the kitchen. A child not yet knowing she was crumbling inside. I looked down; there were scrapes bloodying my knees from jumping fences with William, and nobody to clean them. My clothes were dirty too, no doubt, and with nobody to wash them. Goodness knows my dad wouldn't know how to either.
I stood in front of the washing machine, gaping like an open-mouthed fool. I was already thirteen, and quite tall for my age, so even though I was taller than it, it still had a certain power over me. The buttons seemed intimidating, and the loud rumble seemed to spin itself in my brain, like oncoming fear attacking my senses I was trying to avoid. The washing machine represented a lot more than its physical embodiment; my life, coming apart at the seams, wouldn't be fixed with a single load even once I figured out how to work it!
Instead, I looked out the window, and my eyes fell on the tree house. My dad had built it for James and Harry, on Harry's sixth birthday; they had gathered in the garden, underneath the swampy summer sun, and watched the man work. I could picture the scene in my head, though I wasn't alive yet; James, a mere toddler, would've had his cowboy suit on. His mousy blonde hair he refused to let my parents touch would curl out the sides underneath his hat, and his freckled face wouldn't yet be hardened by the hardships of his life. Harry would've been dressed in a 'Birthday Boy' shirt- my mom always made those, and even had made me one, but scrapped it once a girl was born. It must've been blue, the walls of his room remained then even after he moved out, and Harry's gapped smile would've been covered in the homemade popsicles my mom made. When my dad finished with the fine wood structure, my mom would climb up with her paints; a blonde cowboy for James, and a brunette superhero for Harry. Then, she squashed my brothers' little hands into red and blue paint, so the cool sensation squished into their skin once she pushed them into the roof. Playfully, she would wipe excess paint onto their small noses, and she would be what a mother should be.
I do not know how long I laid up there, on my back, trying to recreate every moment of my mother; her breaths, her smile, her ease. It was dark by the time I heard two people climbing up, and only then did I become aware of the feeling lost in my legs due to lack of movement; advancing voices called my name, but I was not inclined to hear them until the two faces hovered above me.
"Brandy?" William eased, very sweetly, though both of their faces blinked openly in confusion. I squinted in the moonlight, through the sheen of tears, but made no sound. I didn't feel I was capable, considering a new sense of guilt filled me since I had skipped out on our plans without so much as a phone call.
"I'm sorry." I finally whispered, and the boys exchanged both a look of confusion and slight fear. They hadn't yet comforted a crying me yet, and figured something serious happened. Nonetheless, they dropped to their bottoms on either side of me, "What's wrong, Murphy?"
