Out of the Ashes

by Kelly McLean

I know that this will be my last visit to the treehouse. I use my shoulder to push the door open, stiff on its hinges, the wood swollen with humidity and age. I put my backpack down, and dust particles dance in the dim light filtering through the overhung windows. I have made this pilgrimage once a year, for twenty years, and I don’t know what I hope to find anymore. I have found no answers, no forgiveness, only silence.

No one comes here, not since the main house burned down all those years ago. I can still smell the smoke, feel the naked panic as Mama scooped me into her arms, held me tight to her chest, my long limbs dangling, and ran out into the cool night air. She passed me to a stranger, alien looking in their bulky fire gear, before turning back for my brother, Matty. Mama was a tiny thing, but still, it took two fire fighters to restrain her. It might have been better if they had let her go. Instead, she had to live with her choice.

I am still living with her choice, even now that she has passed. The night of the fire, she could have saved Matty had she not had to stop to save me. And what have I done with this gift of life she bestowed on me, the one that I stole from him? I have lived my life drowning under the weight of expectations, of failing to live up to promises I don’t remember making, of hiding my shameful secret.

Matty was not just my big brother. He was my idol, my protector and my best friend rolled into one. With four years between us, there must have been times when I slowed him down, when it would have been easier, maybe more fun to go off on his own, but he never did. Perhaps he felt the main house was no place to leave me, or maybe he was as lonely as I was. Whatever the reason, I am thankful.

I take my jacket off and lay it on one of the beds. The treehouse had survived the fire, set back in the woods as it was. The vast rolling lawn, and the speedy response of the fire service, kept the fire contained to the house, which burned with a vengeance. Now, if I stand on my tip toes and squint through the canopy, I can see what’s left of the foundations. As far as I know, Mama never set foot on the property again, but she never sold it either, allowing the ruins to crumble with time.

From year to year, the treehouse stays unchanged. Daddy may have had his troubles, but he was a masterful carpenter. When he was young, he promised his bride a beautiful castle. Not having a lot of money, he fulfilled his promise by finding a dilapidated old house in a remote location and labored night and day until he was finally ready to reveal his finished work. What he had overlooked is the fact that Mama was never going to feel at home in this retreat; she craved the hustle and bustle of the city, the social events, the restaurants, and theatres. She tried, of course, but trying only takes you so far when you’re working against your nature. Eventually, the trying turned her bitter and resentful.

I lay on the empty bed and close my eyes, listening to the gentle creak of the ropes as I sway back and forth, and I fight a surge of nausea. I am here to remember, but it takes effort to release memories that I usually work so hard to keep at bay. The amber pendant I wear feels like a weight upon my chest, in no way reflecting the delicateness of the feather embedded within. The pendant had been Matty’s prize possession and now it was my burden to carry. I open my eyes again and take in my surroundings.

The treehouse had been a gift for my brother and I, one of Daddy’s lofty projects dreamed up in a fit of manic optimism that we could be a normal, happy family. Daddy’s enthusiasm was a remarkable sight, and as kids, our delight with this fun, manic version of our father was only slightly tinged with the uneasy knowledge that he could be replaced with a morose, irritable version. Although I understand more about bipolar disorder now, his cyclical moods were inexplicable to us at the time.

He had picked out the perfect tree, one rising with a single solitary truck for about thirty feet before strong branches shot off in every direction. He built an octagonal platform about fifteen feet up, to support the eight-sided structure that sat nestled below the canopy. The platform extended beyond the hut’s footprint by about four feet, offering a surrounding deck with a sturdy railing circling the perimeter. The treehouse had a conical roof that reached over the deck, offering protection from the weather and the falling leaves of autumn. A whimsical spiral staircase led from the ground to the deck, circling outside the tree as if suspended in midair, complete with rails and pickets for little climbers, leading directly to a gracefully arched front door.

Matty was ten and I was six when Daddy led us into the woods for the big reveal. Mama trailed behind, having reluctantly joined our outing. I knew she did not approve, even if I didn’t entirely understand why. I used to think she was jealous of this fun side of Daddy, and the adoration it garnered from us kids. As the treehouse came into sight, Daddy watched as I burst into tears and even Matty’s smile slipped. Tree houses did not have stairs! They had trap doors, and rope ladders that could be retracted at will.

Puzzled by our disappointment, Daddy coaxed us up the hated stairs, and begrudgingly, we admired the lovely wooden door that led inside to reveal panoramic windows, fitted with screens to keep out the bugs, and two innovative suspended beds.

We loved it; we truly did. All but those hated stairs. We were wary, however, of sending our fun-loving father into retreat with the wrong words, and so we tried to mask our disappointment. Mama, however, had no such qualms. “I told you this was a waste of time,” she said, before starting back to the main house.

“Tell me what’s wrong with it,” he said, once she had retreated out of earshot. “I won’t be mad.”

We looked at each other before Matty explained about the stairs.

“I see.” Daddy looked at his creation thoughtfully. “Let me think on it a bit.”

The next time he took us back was weeks later. There were no blindfolds, and Mama did not accompany us. We eagerly waited for the treehouse to come into sight and deflated when we saw the stairs, right where we left them.

“Trust me,” Daddy said with a quiet sigh, as he led us up the stairs.

When he opened the door, the room looked much different, cozier somehow. I realized that the room now had a ceiling; you couldn’t see up to the inside of the roof anymore. On one wall, there was a narrow bookshelf full of books, extending from the floor to the ceiling. Daddy walked over to the bookshelf, fitted his fingers into a decorative groove, and swung it open like a door. Hidden on the back, the shelves had rungs attached to them forming a perfect ladder, and the piece of ceiling where the bookshelf had been, revealed a panel with a finger hole. Daddy climbed the ladder far enough to put his finger in the hole and slide the panel back. He then disappeared through the hatch in the roof before peeking his head out.

“Are you guys coming?”

We wasted no time scampering up the ladder to explore the secret loft he had built. He showed us how to swing the bookshelf back in place, before replacing the panel. A small skylight had been installed to allow light in. Even Daddy could stand right in the middle of the room, but the roof quickly sloped down around the edges, making a lot of the space unusable. Still, we loved it.

As we hugged him, Daddy made us promise not to tell Mama. “She wouldn’t approve.” Eventually we came to realize that our loyalty was constantly being bought, subtle demands for us to choose one over the other came frequently. Tacitly we agreed to always choose each other.

The treehouse became our sacred place. In a time when children were to be seen and not heard, we tried our best to avoid both. Loading our red radio flyer wagon, we took trip after trip to furnish our nest, looting the basement for treasures. So long as we showed up for breakfast and dinner with clean hands and faces, no questions were asked. It was easier when we entertained ourselves, no need to know how we did it. It is hard to understand this type of childhood freedom today, but it certainly existed for us.

It turned out we didn’t need the attic the way we thought we might. Our treehouse was so far off the beaten track, it was our own private universe, even with the stairs. Other children invited friends from school to their homes, but intuitively we never did. Each morning on his way to work, Daddy would give us a lift to the nearest school bus stop, and at the end of each day, we climbed off the bus, our feet dragging on the long walk back to the house, never knowing what to expect. The dysfunction within was something we all participated in hiding.

Looking around the treehouse now, I try to focus on the happy memories. Summer days spent playing pretend, shooting pinecones from the sling shot at targets painted on nearby trees, building habitats for the creatures we captured: frogs, caterpillars, salamanders. Matty always insisted we release them before we left. “Nothing should live trapped in a cage,” I remember him telling me. “No matter how nice it is, it’s still a cage.”  He understood the unhappiness in our house in a way I did not.

The night of the fire, Matty and I had planned to sneak out to the treehouse. It was something we often did in the summertime, especially when the atmosphere at dinner was especially tense. There would be the sound of cutlery scraping on plates, the clock in the hallway ticking, the rattle of ice cubes at the bottom of a glass but otherwise, the silence would be heavy and fraught. Matty would catch my eye across the table and with a look, a plan was made. Early to bed, then we would make our escape.

Oh, how I loved those nights. He would tap on my door, then we’d slip out my bedroom window and steal quietly along the shadows of the house into the safety of the woods. We carried a flashlight, but rarely used it; our feet knew the path by heart. We’d climb the winding staircase, close the door behind us, and let go of all the tension our bodies had been holding. We would light the lantern, which gave the room a cozy glow, and then we would spend the evening reading stories and playing games. This was where I learned what a home should feel like. Matty would wake me at the first light of dawn, and we would creep quietly back into the house.

The night of the fire, Matty came to my room as expected, but his eyes were wild, his voice urgent. “Quick, out the window. I’ll meet you at the treehouse. Go.” I had never gone to the treehouse without him, and I was terrified. Matty had closed the door behind him but still, I could smell smoke. “Not without you.” 

He steered me to the window and opened it wide. “I couldn’t wake Dad up. I have to go back for him. Then I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

Swinging my legs over the sill, I balanced for a moment, mid-air. I shook my head and clung to his arm. “I can’t.” The thought of venturing out alone had me paralyzed with fear.

“Trust me, you can do it.” I could feel gentle pressure on my back, urging me to go, but not pushing. “I will be right behind you.” I could hear the desperation in his voice. Suddenly he reached up, pulled his necklace over his head, and placed it around my neck. “Here. You know I would never give this to you if I wasn’t coming right?”

I touched the amber pendant where it lay against my heart. Letting go of his arm, I jumped the short distance down to the lawn below. I turned, immediately regretting my surge of bravery. “To the treehouse, now!” he shouted, closing the window and turning back into the room. I hesitated as I watched him disappear.

When I left my bedroom, the smell of smoke intensified, it stung my eyes and burned my throat as I ran down the lawn towards the woods. Turning back, I saw flames rising from the roof of the house, engulfing the area of Daddy’s study, but no brother chasing me down the lawn. I stood for a moment in an agony of indecision, before running back up the hill, and slipping inside through the garage entrance. The smoke was thick, and it was difficult to see as I stepped into the house. I screamed Matty’s name, turning at the bottom of the staircase, my eyes searching for him on the landing above. Mama appeared through the smoke and latched onto my arm.

“You need to get out,” Mama insisted, turning me toward the door.

“Not without Matty; he’s still in here,” I said, resisting her attempt to drag me along.

Her eyes widened, darting around the smoke-filled room before settling back on me. “I will get your brother, but you need to get to safety.”

“No, I’m coming with you. I can help.” I struggled against her grip.

Mama’s face was fiercer than I’d ever seen it. With strength I did not know she possessed, she picked me up and ran from the house as I wailed inconsolably. She saved me that night, instead of my brother. I had been saved twice, and that left no one to save Matty.

The firefighters tried. They held us on the lawn as the house burned and I saw them beaten back, one by one. When their attention turned from rescue and recovery to putting out the blaze, I quietly crept away under the cover of the shadows, heading for the treehouse. Maybe he had made it. Maybe he was there waiting for me. I pumped my arms, racing through the night, flew up the stairs and flung open the door. Refusing to accept the empty room, I ran to each bed, throwing back the covers, but there was no one there. In one final act of desperate hope, I swung open the bookshelf and climbed into the attic.

The room was empty. I sank to the floor, sobbing. I could hear my name being called in the distance and worked to swing the bookshelf into place before sliding the floor panel shut. Matty would find me, I told myself. He promised he would come, and I would wait for him.

Three days had passed when I finally emerged from the treehouse. I wandered in a daze to the burned ruins of our family home and must have appeared to the fire inspectors to have risen from the wreckage. I refused to speak about what had happened that night, and the days in between, and in my silence, I became the girl who rose from the ashes, a miracle. Mama clung to me with a desperation that never faded. I could not tell her what I had done, the part I had played in my brother’s death.

Matty and Daddy both died in the fire that day. The fire inspector determined that the fire had started in Daddy’s office, and because of his history of mental illness, it was ruled as intentional. Mama walked away from the house without looking back, but she never sold the land. It was where Matty’s ashes were, and I don’t think she could bear to let it go. Or perhaps I am projecting. When Mama died five years ago, the property passed to me, and here I am, still hanging on to it, even though the road is now impassable and the land is slowly being reclaimed by the forest.

I sleep in the treehouse one last night, unfurling my sleeping bag and crawling inside. I am exhausted, both emotionally, from the cascade of memories, and physically, from the exertion of hiking into the property. It does not take much to tire me out these days, and I fall into a deep sleep.

I dream, of course, of Matty. I’m back on the window ledge, clinging to his arm, refusing to go without him. He reaches out for something, and I realize that his amber necklace is already around my neck. Grasping the fossilized feather in his hand, he deftly tucks it inside my shirt and presses it against my heart. “You have to go without me,” he says, and I feel the gentle pressure of his hand on my back increase. “You have to let go.” Suddenly, I am falling, but before I hit the lawn, I wake up.

I have been crying in my sleep; my face is wet with tears. Although I have had this dream many times, Matty has never pushed me from the ledge. It feels like a visitation, a gift. His amber pendant feels unnaturally warm against my skin, pulsing gently with each beat of my heart. A tiny fluttering arises from deep inside of me, and I place a hand protectively over my gently rounded stomach. The morning breeze shifts, and I feel the warm, pine scented air caress my face, drying my tears. I am ready for forgiveness.