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"Mrs. Dalton?" I cried in a panic. "Mrs. Dalton!" She straightened up slowly.
"It's all right," she said in a loud whisper. "I'm all right. My heart's still strong, although why it still wants to beat in this broken, twisted body is beyond me."
I handed her the water. She sipped some and shook her head. Then she looked up at me with big searching eyes.
"You turned out to be a very pretty girl."
"Thank you."
"But you've been through a few things, haven't you, child?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Ormand Longchamp was a good father and Sally Jean was a good mother to you?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am," I said, happy to hear their names from her lips. "You remember them well?" I took my seat on the couch again quickly.
"I remember them," she admitted. She swallowed some more water and sat back. "Why did you come here? What do you want from me?" she asked. "I'm a sick woman, advanced diabetes. I'm going to have to have this leg amputated for sure, and after that . . . I might as well be dead anyway," she added.
"I'm sorry for your trouble," I said. "My momma . . . Sally Jean . . . became a sick woman and suffered something terrible."
Her face softened.
"Well, what can I do for you?"
"I want you to tell me the truth, Mrs. Dalton," I said, "every last detail of it you remember, for my daddy . . . the man I called my daddy, Ormand Longchamp, sits in prison, and my mother Sally Jean is dead, but I can't think of them as being the evil people everyone tells me they were. They were always good to me and always took care of me. They loved me with all their hearts, and I loved them. I can't allow such bad things to be said about them. I just can't. I owe it to them to find the truth."
I saw a slight nod in Mrs. Dalton's face.
"I liked Sally Jean. She was a hardworking woman, a good woman who never looked down on nobody and always had a pleasant smile no matter how hard things were for her. Your daddy was a hardworking man who didn't look down on nobody. Never saw me without saying hello and asking how I was."
"That's why I can't think of them as bad people, Mrs. Dalton, no matter what I'm told," I insisted.
"They did take you," she said, her eyes turning glassy.
"I know that, but why . . . how is what I don't understand."
"Your grandmother doesn't know you're here, does she?" she asked, nodding because she anticipated the answer.
"No."
"Nor your real father or mother?" I shook my head. "How is your mother these days?" she asked, pulling the corners of her mouth in.
"Nearly always locked up in her room for one reason or another. She suffers from nervous ailments and gets everything brought to her, although she doesn't look sick to me." I refused to feel sorry for my mother. In her own way she was just as selfish as Clara. "Occasionally she accompanies my grandmother at dinner and greets guests."
"Whatever your grandmother wants," Mrs. Dalton muttered, "she's sure to do."
"Why? How do you know so much about the Cutlers?" I asked quickly.
"I was with them a long time . . . always worked special duty for them when any of them were sick. I liked your grandfather. He was a sweet, gentle man. I cried as much when he died as I did when my own father died. Then I was a maternity nurse for your brother, for you, and for your sister."
"You cared for Clara Sue, too?" She nodded. "Then my grandmother certainly wasn't mad at you for what happened and didn't blame you for my abduction."
"Heavens, no. Who told you that?"
"My mother."
She nodded again. Then she widened her eyes.
