Cutler 01 - Dawn

fist. I saw a gold wedding band on her finger, but other than that, she wore no jewelry.
    "Yes?" she finally said.
    "I'm looking for Mrs. Dalton, the Mrs. Dalton who was a nurse."
    "You're looking at her. What do you want?" she asked leaning back in her wheelchair. "I don't work no more, not that I don't wish I could."
    "I want to talk to you. My name's Dawn, Dawn Lon . . . Dawn Cutler," I said.
    "Cutler?" She studied me. "From the hotel family?"
    "Yes, ma'am."
    She continued to stare at me.
    "You ain't Clara Sue?"
    "Oh, no, ma'am."
    "Didn't think you was. You're prettier than I remember her to be," she said. "All right, come on in," she added and finally backed her wheelchair up.
    "I'm sorry I can't offer you anything. I'm having enough trouble taking care of myself these days," she said. "I live with my daughter and her husband, but they got their own lives and problems. Spend most of my time alone," she mumbled, looking down at the floor and shaking her head.
    I paused and looked into the entryway. It was a small one with hardwood floors and a blue and white throw rug. There was a coat rack on the right, an oval mirror on the wall, and a globular overhead light fixture.
    "Well, come in if you're coming in," Mrs. Dalton said when she looked up and saw I was still standing in the doorway.
    "Thank you."
    "Go on into the living room there," she said, pointing after I entered. I went through the doorway on the left. It was a small room with a rather worn dark brown rug. The furniture was vintage, too, I thought. The flower-pattern covering on the couch looked thin in the arms. Across from it was a rocking chair, an easy chair, and a matching settee, all equally tired-looking. There was a square-shaped dark maple table at the center. Against the far wall were paintings—seascapes and pictures of seaside houses. To the left was a glass-door bookcase filled with knickknacks as well as some novels. Over the small fieldstone fireplace hung a ceramic cross, but I thought the nicest thing in the room was an old dark pine grandfather's clock in the left corner.
    The room had a pleasant lilac scent. Its front windows faced the sea, and with the curtains drawn back it provided a nice view and made the room bright and cheery.
    "Sit down, sit down," Mrs. Dalton commanded and wheeled herself in behind me. I chose the couch. The worn cushions sank in deeply under me, so I sat as far forward as I could. She turned her wheelchair to face me and put her hands in her lap. "Now, then, what can I do for you, honey? There ain't much more I can do for myself," she added dryly.
    "I'm hoping you can tell me more about what happened to me," I said.
    "Happened to you?" Her eyes narrowed. "Who'd you say you were?"
    "I said I was Dawn Cutler, but my grandmother wants me to go by the name I originally had been given when I was born—Eugenia," I added, and I might as well have reached out to slap her across the face. She snapped back in her chair and brought her hands to her sagging bosom. Then she crossed herself quickly and closed her eyes. Her lips trembled, and her head began to shake.
    "Mrs. Dalton? Are you all right?" What was wrong with her? Why had my words caused such a reaction? After a moment she nodded. Then she opened her eyes and gazed at me with wonder, her lips still trembling.
    She shook her head softly. "You're the lost Cutler baby. . . ."
    "You were my nurse, weren't you?"
    "Only a few days. I should have known someday I'd set eyes on you. . . . I should have known," she mumbled. "I need a drink of water," she decided quickly. "My lips feel like parchment. Please . . . in the kitchen." She gestured toward the doorway.
    "Right away," I said, getting up quickly. I went out to the hallway and followed it to the small kitchen. When I brought back the water, she was slumped to the side in her wheelchair, looking as if she had gone unconscious.
    "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,