Page 86 of Chasing Creed

Brodie glanced at Hannah to see she was still waiting for more. Anyone could have read about the Christmas house.

“I put something in the house for you,” Sara finally said.

Brodie still waited. There had been bags of grocery. A letter tucked into a magazine. But the letter was from a Charlotte by a different name: Kristel Unger who was already dead. Otherwise, the house was locked up tight, just another prison.

“I thought you could use the company,” Sara explained. “A kitten.”

This time Brodie felt the air sucked out of her lungs.

“A gray female. Mostly gray except for a stretch of white from her chin across her belly. And a white tip on her tail.” She was smiling as she described Kitten. “She was so sweet. I was afraid that as soon as I left, Iris would throw her in the well.”

The smiled disappeared. Sara’s eyes flitted away as if she’d seen it happen before, the image stamped on her memory. Then she added, “Iris didn’t like me getting attached to anyone or anything.”

Only a handful of people knew about Kitten, let alone could describe her down to the tip of her tail.

“Was she there?” Sara wanted to know when Brodie took too long to answer.

“Yes,” Brodie said. “She gave me a reason to live.” Then she looked over at Hannah and said, “She’s telling the truth.”

60

Nebraska

“Would you look at that. I can read!”

Eleanor tried on each pair of glasses and with each, picked up another book or magazine. The blue ones seemed to work best, but the pink allowed her to hold the book farther away.

Maggie sat and watched and listened. The lifeless eyes that had only stared at the blank television screen were now focused, skimming and darting over pages and covers. Her hands that had been clasped together, now flipped pages. Her limp body sat up easily.

Maggie hoped this newfound joy wouldn’t be temporary, only until the dementia set in and gripped reality.

“What is it you'd like to know?” Eleanor asked, glancing at Maggie without putting down the book in her hands. There was a sparkle in her eyes behind the glass.

“It’s okay. You don’t need to talk about your daughter. I didn’t bring the eyeglasses and the books as a bribe. I wanted, and I hoped that this would work. The fact that it does is a good enough reason for my trip here today.”

She went quiet then put the book down and folded her hands on top of it.

“Iris is not my daughter.”

Maggie’s first reaction was that the dementia was already taking over. She waited.

“I married Iris’ father when she and Elijah were teenagers. Their mother passed away when they were small children.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I guess we all presumed.”

“Our community is good that way. Privacy is important. Iris and Elijah didn’t want me to replace their mother, and I didn’t try. Their father...my husband, John, was a good and gentle man. But even he admitted he’d been too lenient with their discipline.

“Iris fought with me at any chance she had. That girl resented me for taking her daddy away, and she never let me forget it. I’m certain that’s why I’m stuck here.” She held up her hands in exasperation.

“What exactly do you mean?” Maggie treaded lightly. She knew people with dementia could make up grand stories. Was that what was happening here?

“I had a bad fall. Down some steps. I needed help, and that was true. Iris convinced me I should stay here until I healed and got stronger. Everything was murky after that. I still believe she talked her doctor into giving me medication I didn’t need. Then convinced everyone I was forgetful. Couldn’t live on my own. Told me, too, that it wasn’t safe for me to be living clear out in the middle of nowhere. What if I fell again, and no one found me?

“It was after Sara had gone. I know Iris sent her away. And I knew Iris was right. I didn’t have anyone. That was when Elijah and their friend Owen were running around like they owned everything. It was a dreadful time. To be honest, I wanted to stay out of their way. I just knew they were up to no good.”

Maggie wondered if Eleanor knew Elijah was dead. She didn’t want to stop the woman from talking, but said, “I know Elijah. I don’t know Owen.”

“Consider yourself lucky. If you met Elijah, you know that one’s no good. Owen is something, for sure. As a boy, he used to come up from Texas for the summers and stay with his aunt and uncle. They lived a few miles up the road. Small farm. Beautiful apple orchard. Elijah, Owen and Iris were thick as thieves as teenagers. Always so secretive. Even back then, they were careful enough to cover their tracks. John had to bail them out a time or two. That was my John. He was kindhearted. Almost to a fault.