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Holidays sucked. Myka thought this every time, every stupid Christmas, every stupid Thanksgiving and every stupid family birthday. And on Easter, she thought it, too.
Yet, she kept going back, back to Colorado, back to her family. Back to her father’s commentary, because if she didn’t, then next time she wouldn’t only listen to, “work more, be better, eat less, sleep less, why every foreign person is evil,” but also to, “why you are the worst daughter ever, how can you just leave your family alone like this, your sister was here, you know, but you weren’t, it's because you think you are so much better, than us, isn’t it, but you aren’t, without us you would never have gotten to where you are now.”
So, every year, Myka went to Colorado.
Where was she now? That place that her parents' motivational words had gotten her to, where was that? Sure, she had a well paying job, that she was fortunate enough to enjoy sometimes and traveled a lot. She had met a lot of people. But she had never understood any of them. She always tried–she always tried at everything, gave her best and tried her hardest. But this in particular, she always and always tried to understand and to imitate.
Why did people act the way they did? Why did Myka herself act and feel the way she did? And how did they do it, connect to others like that?
Myka had always felt isolated, out of place, in her own bubble, isolated from her peers.
Except for Pete obviously. And that was the good thing about the holidays.
While Myka felt obligated to come back to Colorado for them, Pete actually enjoyed spending time with his sister and his mother, so, whenever Myka couldn’t take it anymore, he would be there.
Today, it had come sooner than usual, that point of not being able to take it anymore. Her father had been sliding from the decline of the bookstore into "this generation" into "moral degeneracy of thinking nothing means anything, gender, marriage, anything, and how just last week he saw Kurt Smoller–do you remember, Myka, that boy, that you had your silly crush on, see what that got you, and him–holding hands with another guy in public like it was nothing.”
“Well, it kind of is nothing, like, nothing of our business, right?” Myka had tried once, but she should have known better.
“You are not meeting him at that high school reunion are you? You really should wash your hands after, in that case, and do that more in general, living in the city as you do. They spread diseases everywhere, these people, they are everywhere and so is their AIDS. That’s what they get for fucking monkeys; and we are the ones who have to suffer from it. Do you even know what this is costing the healthcare system? All these perverts getting themselves sick and not working? My tax dollars and just because they can’t be normal or at least keep it in their pants…”
At that point Myka knew three things: one, it wouldn’t matter what she said or did not say, her father had talked himself into a rage and no matter what anyone said he would not stop any time soon; two, he was talking bullshit, obviously; and three, this hurt more than his usual commentary. And not because of Kurt, but more because of the absence of the Kurts in Myka’s life.
Recently she had done some serious reflection, but it was hard because she wasn’t like that, she was just… she wasn’t different, she was simply not like the others. But that didn’t mean, that she wanted… that she was… it could mean that, though, even if it didn’t, that she would want to walk holding the hand of someone having the same gender as her, so a woman, because Myka was a woman–at least she believed to be one, why wouldn’t she have been?
So, people like her father being there in that unrealistic, but potential scenario of her holding someone’s hand… hurt. The theoretical angry glances hurt. Even if Myka wasn’t getting them, because she wasn’t holding anyone’s hand and she wasn’t… that. Wasn’t even interested in… that. But even if she was… this was still just theoretical. But it hurt.
So, fourth: She had to get out of here.
She went to Pete before “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve” could be brought up.
Pete was calm, Pete was reliable, Pete was good. Okay, the calm part was debatable, but Pete would not say things that made Myka feel all wrong and twisted because she had spent far too much time in recent months to think about them in relation to herself, even though maybe that was wrong, but also maybe right.
Pete would hug her and reminisce about the good old times, and with a mouth full of cookies say, “Remember that time we got trapped in that old pyramid and you geeked out about the hieroglyphs, and then that cat showed us the way out?” And Myka wouldn’t be sure if he said that to tell her that she / they had seen a shit ton more of the world and of humanity than her father–and, especially of humanity’s earlier days, to ridicule that “Adam and Eve,” saying. Because Pete was the kind of guy who would reassure her like that, but he was also the kind of guy who just liked to relive all the fun–aka scary–adventures they had been on together all this time ago. Twelve adventures, to be exact. Myka liked being exact.
But this time, Pete didn’t sit on the couch with a huge grin on his face and opened his arms to hug her, this time that huge grin seemed to burst the confines of his face with excitement and he was already jogging down the driveway when she walked towards the house.
“Mykes!” he called, “Mykes! It’s back! It’s back!” He was jumping up and down now, apparently not able to stay still until she had gotten close enough to understand more than two word sentences.
What she did understand even from this distance was his pointed finger towards the wood behind the village. It was back.
Myka was back home for three days, for three days, and so was Pete, and it was back as well. That could not be a coincidence. Statistically impossible. It hadn’t been back in years. And now? Why now?
“Come on, Mykes! Let’s go!”
As soon as Myka had caught up with Pete, gotten her welcome-back-hug and given him his good-to-see-you-punch in the shoulder, he pulled her along, towards the little trail towards the line of trees that they had trampled out as kids.
“It hasn’t been back in ages; and I mean so have you, but I’m here with mom way more often–and Mykes, I miss you, I get it, why you don’t come, but I miss you–and I haven’t seen it, not once since that last time, and that was ages ago, ages, I’m telling you, and now, it is back!”
“Fifteen years,” Myka said. She liked to be exact. It had been fifteen years, they had been sixteen years old, and it had been their twelfth adventure.
After that Myka had been busy with school, moved away as soon as she could, and the Tree House had not been seen again by either of them. And, to be completely honest, despite the admittedly pretty amazing adventures it had taken Pete and her on, Myka had been too busy trying to make a name for herself in Washington to think about the Tree House very often.
But now it was back. Following Pete’s finger, she could see it too, far away, on the tops of that oak, waiting for them. She hurried her steps. Pete adjusted his jumping to keep up.
“I have a good feeling,” he said. “No idea why it’s back or where it’s going to take us, but it will be fun, I think. Like old times!”
“I always assumed it would only take kids,” Myka replied. “It will be very different to travel like that after everything that’s happened.”
“After everything that’s happened? After you closing up and alienating yourself from everyone, including yourself?”
Myka looked at him in surprise.
“What? I can use hard words. I actually started reading some of the weird books that you left at my place.” He shrugged.
“I guess, I was hoping it would lure the Tree House back here somehow. Or at least make me feel closer to you, and to those times again. Not that I don’t like being an adult, I sure do,” and here Myka snorted at his wiggling eyebrows, despite the tears that burned behind her eyes at his words, “But, as I said, I miss you. And I wanna see dinosaurs again!”
“As long as we don’t get almost eaten by them again…” Myka said weakly.
“Right. As long as we don’t get almost eaten again. Maybe the ninjas, then. They were nice.”
“The ninjas were nice,” Myka echoed.
They had been nice–and so had the dinosaurs, despite the danger they posed. After all, all the voyages the Tree House had taken them on had been pretty dangerous. And pretty cool. Actually, they had been very cool.
Each time the Tree House had appeared one of the hundreds of books in it had been laid out for them, and Myka had read aloud a bit until Pete and her were so fascinated that a wish had formed within them; until one of them had pointed onto the page and said it out loud, those magic six words: ‘I wish we could go there.’
And the Magic Tree House had taken them there, and they had been almost eaten, trapped in pyramids, sparred with knights, been saved from drowning by a kraken–they had seen incredible things.
They had learned so much, and Myka couldn’t say that some days she didn’t miss it as well.
It had been amazing adventures, and yet, so much simpler than trying to be an adult person who was herself while fitting into her family’s and society's views. So much more simple and so interesting. So much more satisfying than her office job, too: the Tree House hadn’t taken them to random places and times, there had always been a mission waiting for them. They didn’t know what it would be beforehand but there had always been something that needed correcting, a book that needed to be saved, or a message that needed to be found.
They were reaching the first trees now. The Magic Treehouse always resided in the tallest oak when it appeared; that hadn’t changed apparently.
“Come on!” Pete was still inpatient, and by now, so was Myka. Why was it back now? Where would it send them? What mission were they to fulfill this time? Would it be very different?
Probably, but the Treehouse was magic, so maybe it would adjust for them having grown–metaphorically, but hopefully it did adjust for the literal growth, otherwise Myka’s annoyingly long legs would become a problem in that tiny space, and as much as she was glad to see Pete… he was bulky and she didn’t need to be that close.
It did. There it was, the Tree House, and its ladder hanging from the highest branches of the tallest oak, and the space between the rungs was definitely wider than it had been. It looked sturdier, made to hold more weight, than back then.
And yet, when they climbed up there, it looked just as it used to, just a little bigger. Rows of books, worn books meant for reading and not just for sitting on shelves like the books in Myka’s family’s book store, books that made her heart sing. The warm, comfortable wood and the windows that allowed a view over the entire forest. A feeling overcame Myka, and she had to look at Pete.
He, too, had wonder in his eyes, wonder and warmth, and suddenly Myka recognized that feeling. Home. She was home. Home in the most wondrous, oddest place, and yet the one place she had always felt like she belonged. Here in the Tree House; she was here once again–for the thirteenth time, that precise part of her brain reminded her– and she was home. Between trees and books and magic, and with Pete.
Myka felt a smile settle on her face. It wasn’t a huge grin, like Pete’s earlier, but it wasn’t the one she usually wore at work, or with her family either. It was a smile of contentment, a real one. She looked around.
There were two books laid out for them this time.
“Two?” she mouthed, still too much in awe to speak out loud, and gestured towards them.
Pete leaned over and grabbed one of them. “Score!” He didn’t seem to have any problems speaking at any volume at all. “We are going to an island! Vacay time!”
“I doubt the Tree House is here to send us on a vacation, Pete.” Myka frowned. “What island is that about anyway?”
“It just says, ‘The island of Doctor Moreau’. I don’t know, must be a small place if it doesn't even have a real name. Skinny dipping time, if there is no one else around!”
Myka laughed. “It doesn’t exist! That’s a novel by H.G. Wells, I told you about him, remember? Father of science fiction? You like Sci-fi, remember?”
“‘Doesn’t exist’ is not a boundary, not when it comes to this loyal friend,” Pete said, and kocked against the wooden wall of the Tree House. “This baby can bring us anywhere, real or not. So, you read this? Is it a cool place? Should we go?”
“I read this, yeah. Pete, don’t you at least remember when you made me watch the movie?”
“Uhm, no?”
“Edward Prendick?”
Another shake of head.
Myka sighed. “Marlon Brando?” she tried.
“Ohhhh! I mean, yes, but no, island yes, mad scientist, nope, nope. Second book!”
And with that Pete slid the second book over to Myka.
She looked at its cover. “H.G. Wells on the rights of man” it said on the cover. More H.G Wells, then. Interesting.
Myka started skimming the preface.
“‘And since, as more and more of us are beginning to realize now, there can be no more peace or safety on earth without a profound reconstruction of the methods of human living’,” she read aloud.
“Yes, Pete, see, people weren’t all bad back then despite history being cruel. H.G., he was a genius and not only scientifically, he commented on society in his novels, and, gosh, he had such good thoughts, especially considering the times! He wanted change!”
“‘Nobody and no group of people knows enough for this immense reorganization, and unless we can have a full and fearless public intercourse of minds open to all the world, our present enemies included, we shall never be able to establish a guiding system of ideas upon which a new world order can rest’,” she read another passage.
“He wrote that in an open letter to the Times, and they printed it. And, oh, here is a second letter! Ah, he actually made a list–
“And who doesn’t love lists,” Pete commented drily.
“Exactly! Who doesn’t love lists!” Myka agreed, and tried to go on, but Pete snorted. “You! You like lists, and no one else on earth does!”
“H.G. Wells did, too! Look! He made a list of the rights of man!” Myka said and shoved the book into Pete’s face.
“(1) That every man without distinction of race or colour is entitled to nourishment, housing, covering, medical care and attention sufficient to realize his full possibilities of physical and mental development and to keep him in a state of health from his birth to death,” she started reading.
“‘(2) That he is entitled to sufficient education to make him a useful and interested citizen, that he should have easy access to information upon all matters of common knowledge throughout his life and enjoy the utmost freedom of discussion.’ Yes! Education matters! Did you know, that H.G. actually came from a middle class family? Anyway, here he writes, ‘There shall be no secret dossiers in any administrative department. All dossiers shall be accessible to the man concerned and subject to verification and correction at his challenge. A dossier is merely a memorandum; it cannot be used as evidence without proper confirmation.’ Which, yes! Yes! Pete?” She looked up. “Pete?”
“Yeah, if we are just gonna read dead dude’s stuff, I’ll pick creepy, sunny adventure island,” Pete said, and looked at the cover of ‘The Island of Doctor Moreau’, bored.
“Fine.” Myka looked back into her book. Then she looked up again, “But, listen, ‘(9) That no man shall be subjected to any sort of mutilation or sterilization except with his own deliberate consent, freely given, nor to bodily assault, except in restraint of his own violence, nor to torture, beating or any other bodily punishment; he shall not be subjected to imprisonment with such an excess of silence, noise, light or darkness as to cause mental suffering, or to imprisonment in infected, verminous or otherwise insanitary quarters, or be put into the company of verminous or infectious people. He shall not be forcibly fed nor prevented from starving himself if he so desire. He shall not be forced to take drugs nor shall they be administered to him without his knowledge.’ He was right, and pretty bold to say it this explicitly, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Pete made. “No, you are right, he is right. But shouldn’t feminist-you be super appalled by all this ‘the man has this right’, and ‘no man should be’ stuff? Women are allowed to be tortured?”
“Actually,” Myka said, “H.G. Wells was known to be quite the feminist himself.” She turned another page. “Ah, see? Here it is: ‘in order to be as clear as possible about this, let me submit a draft for your consideration of this proposed declaration of the rights of man - using "man" of course to cover every individual male or female, child or adult, of the species,’” she read. “See? That is one of the modern strategies gendered languages use in scientific papers as well, only using one case, but be up front about meaning all of them. Usually in the beginning not in the end, but hey, he did do it. A hundred years ago!”
“Okay, okay, I get it, the guy was perfect, your personal hero and probably had the most shiny mustache in all of England. Go on, then, read the book, I’ll just look if I can find the Ninja-book again.”
“Okay.” That was one of the good things about Pete. He might not share her interest, but he still understood when something was important to her.
For a moment there was silence. Then Myka snorted loudly enough for Pete to sneak over her shoulder.
Myka pointed at the line, she had been reading, “Neanderthales,” she laughed. Pete looked at her in mock indignation. “‘Men are neanderthals, essentionally’?’ he read. “And a guy wrote that?”
“It’s called self-refection, Pete.” Myka sighed dreamily. “Ah, he really was a genius. And so funny. I mean: neaderthales! I wish–”
“Mykes, watch out!” Pete cried out. “Remember where we are! You always said, ‘don’t wish us to dangerous places, Pete!’”
Myka halted. She hadn’t–had she?
But Pete went on already, “Actually, wait, neaderthales! That sounds cool, not dangerous! I bet I’d be best friends with Neanderthal-Pete and he could show me cool neanderthal-food! let’s go!”
He looked excitedly, again, and expectantly at Myka.
But, “I didn’t mean to wish to see neanderthals,” she said. “I think actually that would be pretty dangerous. And yeah, the tree house could probably send us there, and right into some mess… No, I was just saying–H.G. Wells, he was so…” She gestured through the air with the book in her left hand.
“He was a genius,” she concluded after a moment of searching for more eloquent words. “I just wish he were still alive; to exist at the same time as that mind who thought those genius thoughts. So I could travel and talk to him. Talking to H.G. Wells, that would be–”
But she was interrupted.
Wind started to blow.
“Oh, no,” she said.
“Mykes!” Pete said. He sounded way too excited.
The wind blew harder.
Oh, no.
The tree house started to spin.
It spun faster and faster.
Then everything was still.
Absolutely still.