Eliza's Home by Rachael Herron

Author:Rachael Herron
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HGA Publishing

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As she drove into town, rolling down the window didn’t help her sort out the tangles in her brain. She touched the knitting on the seat next to her in the same way she used to touch her suitcase’s clasp.

Bertha. She had to find Bertha.

She wasn’t at Tillie’s. She wasn’t at the market, or the post office, or the small town library. Bertha was so rarely at home – no time for it, she’d say, got too many other places to be – that her house was the last place Eliza tried.

The curtains were drawn, even though it was now past nine. No one answered Eliza’s knock, and when she pushed the door open, the silence that met her was strangely thick.

“Bertha?” she called. “It’s me, Eliza. Are you home? May I come in?”

“Who is it?”

“Eliza,” she repeated. “Are you all right?” She went down the dark hallway to the first open door.

“I’m fine,” said Bertha in a small voice, which worried Eliza – usually Bertha was as quiet as a freight train. She was sitting under a green knitted afghan and looked small propped up against her pillows.

Eliza hurried to her. “Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?”

“No doctor for what I’ve got.”

“What? What is it?” She sat on the edge of the bed.

Bertha smiled. “Really, child. It’s no worry. I’m just busy being sad today. As long as you’re here, though, can you get me my knitting basket from the parlor?”

“Of course. And a cup of tea,” said Eliza firmly. “I’ll be right back.”

Tea at hand, served with a homemade banana muffin from the kitchen, Eliza settled at the foot of Bertha’s bed. A ray of sunlight came through the open curtains and warmed Eliza’s back.

Bertha smiled thinly. “You look like a cat, all tucked up there.”

“I love a good puddle of sunshine,” said Eliza, holding her knitting gently. “Now, eat a bite of your muffin. That’s good. Tell me about the sadness.”

“You’re not usually this bossy.”

“I’ve never had to be with you.”

Bertha carefully wrapped the yarn around her needle. “Every year, on this day, I stay in bed and cry.”

“Why this particular day?”

“My husband Nathaniel died on it. Twelve years ago.”

On a previous visit to Bertha’s, Eliza had seen Nathaniel’s picture, hung on the parlor wall in a place of honor. “You talk about everything, and everyone else. But never about him.”

Bertha inclined her head.

“Why?”

“Because it still hurts too much.”

Eliza spoke slowly, measuring her words. This felt important – she needed to get it right. “You were happy together. Will you tell me about that?”

“What do you mean? What more can I say? We were happy. What more do you want me to say?” Bertha stabbed at the shawl she was making.

“I don’t know if I believe in true love. True happiness.”

“It exists,” Bertha said crossly. “That I know.”

Eliza leaned forward and kept her eyes on Bertha’s. “Then tell me about it.”

With a sigh, Bertha set the shawl down. She closed her eyes. “I don’t talk about him because if I do, I might get something wrong.

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