Authors: Irene Radford
Thistle Down (29 page)
D
USTY STARED AT HER computer screen until her vision blurred and doubled. Without really thinking about it, she closed her eyes and dropped her head onto her crossed arms.
USTY STARED AT HER computer screen until her vision blurred and doubled. Without really thinking about it, she closed her eyes and dropped her head onto her crossed arms.
Suddenly she was ten years old again and bouncing around the backyard, running from rose to dahlia to lavender, smelling deeply of their fresh fragrance. Her legs stretched and her feet landed lightly. She pushed herself harder, taking longer strides, twirling with joy. She panted and a stitch grabbed her side. She didn’t care.
She danced outside for the glory of dancing again.
The doctors had told her and Mom that the cancer was in remission. With care, she could grow up normal. No reason now to sit quietly while everyone at school played and ran and danced. Dick didn’t need to hang around her all the time protecting and taking care of her as if he was a nurse or something. She’d had enough of nurses and uniformed aides wearing face masks during the months and months of chemo.
A flurry of movement among the herbs around the big old maple tree alerted her that she was no longer alone.
“Thistle?” she called into the trees, pausing to catch her breath. “Thistle, where are you?”
Dusty took one cautious step toward the shadows cast by the maple’s interlaced branches. A stray shaft of sunlight shone brightly like an amethyst glinting in the shop window down on Main Street. Mom had promised her a gem like that when she was old enough. Whenever that was. Dusty wanted it now because it reminded her of the tiny Pixie who flitted in through the hole in the screen of her bedroom window, who sat with her and told her all the neighborhood gossip when she was too exhausted to read, or play computer games, or . . . move.
Dusty followed the flicker of purple-and-green motion. She walked slowly, careful not to trip on the garden hose Dick had left out, or sudden dips in the lawn. Mom would kill her if she fell and got bruised or scraped again. Or if she stained her new skirt. Why did moms always make you dress up to go to the doctor?
“Thistle?” Dusty called again. She’d lost track of the purple flashes as clouds covered the weak sunshine.
Raindrops evaporated from the leaves as the sun peaked out again, making the air shimmer.
Dusty tasted the word. Evaporated. She liked the sound of it. Vapor, at the center. Mysterious mists. Hints of menace. But Thistle would protect her.
At last she found a frond of a silver fern bouncing as happily as she was.
A bright giggle enticed Dusty to take a few more steps among the silvery plants of Mom’s special garden. She watched very carefully to make sure she avoided the muddy spots. The giggle came again, a little closer.
“Oh, no, you don’t, Thistle. I know your tricks. I’m not getting muddy today.”
“Spoilsport.” Thistle landed on Dusty’s shoulder. “You went away in the car this morning. You never leave the house unless it’s something special. And now you are dancing in the backyard. What’s up?”
“Do you remember that I’ve been really, really sick?” Thistle forgot a lot of things and Dusty had to remind her often.
Thistle frowned and cocked her head a moment. Then she flashed a smile and ruffled her wings. “Of course I remember. I’m not like other Pixies who forget a friend. I’ve stayed by you the whole time, keeping you company.”
“The cancer is gone. The bone marrow transplant from Dick worked. It’s like a miracle. I can run and dance and play as much as I want.” Dusty spread her arms and spun in place. She loved the way the trees seemed to twist with her. The world titled and looked different. Awesome.
Her left foot caught on something. The world swung the opposite way as the ground came rushing up to meet her, face first.
Sharp pain spread through her chest and stole her breath.
Tears came to Dusty’s eyes. “Ouch!” she cried. A scrape on her knee started bleeding. A lot.
“Don’t cry, Dusty. I hate it when you cry. It makes me feel horrible, too.”
“It’s bleeding. Worse than when Phelma Jo pushed me down and I got an infection and then I got cancer.”
“Phelma Jo didn’t give you the infection, the cancer did. Dick told me so.”
“But she was so dirty and smelly. She hadn’t had a bath in like weeks!”
“Silly, you did her a favor by calling her Stinky Butt. The counselor called her in, and now she’s with a foster family who are taking good care of her.” Thistle erupted in laughter, flying complicated swirls and loops. “I made you trip because you really didn’t want to. I figured you needed some fun.”
“You needed fun. Not me. Now my new skirt is all dirty.” Dusty pulled her knees under her and slowly got up, checking for any signs of infection or bruising. The blood on her knee had already turned into sticky blobs that didn’t drip. She’d need a good wash and a Band-Aid to cover the bruise. But maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t get sick again.
“See? No damage. The skirt will wash. I wouldn’t hurt you. You’re my best friend.” Thistle giggled like delicate Christmas bells. “Maybe your mom will let you have one of those bandages with pink hearts on them.”
“Is that why you haven’t played tricks on me for so long? You were afraid of hurting me?”
“Yes.” Thistle quieted and sat still on the bow of her fern frond. “Pixie tricks are supposed to teach people not to take themselves so seriously. We don’t hurt people on purpose.” She bounced up, wings beating furiously as she darted around the backyard. “What game shall we play? You haven’t forgotten how to play games, have you?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. I’ve made up lots of new games and written stories about them. Mom says they are really good stories.”
“Baseball games and tag are so lame,” Thistle said.
“Let’s pretend I’m a princess and you’ve come to rescue me from a dragon.”
“After you wash your knee.”
“As soon as Mom sees it, she’ll make me go to bed and drink that awful herb tea.”
“Then we won’t tell her. We’ll sneak in and take care of it ourselves.”
Voices intruded on Dusty’s memory dream. For a minute she thought Dick and Chase had invaded her private game in the backyard. Not as good as The Ten Acre Wood, but better than alone in her bedroom.
Then she recognized the voice of the grant committee chairman. “I’m sorry, Mr. Newberry. I really can’t justify signing off on your grant application. There are just too many unknowns with the parkland. Who knows if the city and county will allow this museum to exist with the budget crunch and the logging off of the park. The money they spend on this place will be much better used by the clinic and the school district.”
The dragon of her games had captured her before Thistle could rescue her.
No grant. No Ball. The museum would go bankrupt within six months. A year at most. Her heart sank. She needed to curl in on herself in a fetal ball and hide again.
No. She was done hiding. She had to do something.
Who was the dragon out to destroy the museum?
She had to find out and soon.
The museum and The Ten Acre Wood were treasured by nearly everyone in town. A lot of community activities centered around the park and pioneer buildings.
Maybe she should start looking at people who had moved here recently.
Her fingers froze on the keyboard.
Thistle bounced up the stairs of her friend Mrs. Jennings’ house feeling as if her wings were back, helping her float several toe lengths above the sagging wooden risers.
She touched her mouth delicately with one fingertip, awestruck with the tenderness that lingered from Dick’s kiss. As she brushed their swollen fullness, she lived again the wonder of his heartfelt caress.
In her mind’s eye, she saw herself flitting from branch to branch up to the top of the Patriarch Oak. Bright green leaves and budding acorns trembled in anticipation with her as she followed her mate upward. Her heart felt too big for her chest, and her eyes watered with joy. This was what true love felt like. Not the momentary passion with Alder. Not the broken promises of a Pixie with delusions of grandeur.
In a daze of wonder, she joined Mrs. Jennings in her living room, noting the comfortable temperature and the whir of an air conditioner. “Did you eat your lunch?” she asked brightly.
“It doesn’t taste right. I think them folks what brings it are trying to poison me,” the old woman said. She pushed aside her walker with the lunch tray set across the top. Her water glass jiggled and tilted.
Thistle dashed to catch it before it spilled. “Now, now, Mrs. Jennings, no one wants to hurt you. We want to help you so that you can stay in your home rather than go to a care center,” Thistle parroted the words the nice lady from the clinic had told her to say.
“Hmf, if you send me there, you might as well take me out and shoot me. That’s where old folks go to die.”
Thistle couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You aren’t old, and you aren’t about to die.” She sniffed just to make sure. She found no trace of Death in or around the house.
“Damn straight I ain’t old. Not yet leastways. My daddy didn’t kick the bucket till he was ninety-three. And he didn’t go easy. He fought and wrestled with Death for nigh on three years.”
Thistle busied herself picking up stray pieces of paper where the woman had dropped them on the floor. She stacked them neatly on the coffee table for Mrs. Jennings’ son to sort through when he came tomorrow or the next day.
“And how old was your mother when she passed?” Thistle asked idly. She frowned at the congealed mass of the meal on the tray. Could she make the microwave work to reheat it?
“Mama only made it to ninety-two. Her heart gave out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You must have been heartbroken to lose her.” Thistle picked up the tray with the meal. What could she do to make it taste better?
“Turn on the TV, girl. It’s time for my game shows. I’m ninety-five, you know, and not as spry as I used to be.”
“Ninety-five? Is that all?” Thistle fished the TV remote out of a side pouch on Mrs. Jennings’ chair and handed the gadget to the feisty woman. It wouldn’t work if Thistle hit the power button.
“Just dump that awful mess in the garbage and make me an egg salad sandwich.” The old woman’s gaze riveted on the bright colors, spinning wheel, and applause on the television.
“You remind me of someone,” Mrs. Jennings said absently as Thistle made her way toward the kitchen.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I had an invisible playmate when I was a kid. I called her Thistle ’cause she had purple skin and barbed green wings, just like a thistle. Never had the heart to pull thistles out of my garden even though everyone told me they were weeds.”
Thistle stopped short. “Mavis. Your given name is Mavis, and you lived one block away toward the setting sun and two blocks on the uphill road. There’s a spindly stand of lilacs separating your yard from the neighbor’s across the back.”
“Those lilacs ain’t so spindly no more. They growed so big my son has to whack ’em back almost by half at the end of every summer. How’d you know that? You ain’t but twenty-five or so. Why, I’ll eat that god-awful mess of a lunch if you’re a day over twenty-six.”
Thistle plunked the tray back on the walker. “Actually, I’m twenty-seven. Or I will be at the Equinox,” she half lied.
Her chin trembled with sadness, and moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes.
Pixies could live forever if angry little girls didn’t put them in jars with wolf spiders, or cars squished them, or someone cut down their tribal territory.
Humans grew old and cranky like Mrs. Jennings. Any joy Thistle might find with Dick would be short. He’d never fly up to the top of the Patriarch Oak with her. They’d never be able to . . .
“Do you need anything else, Mrs. Jennings? I think the heat is getting to me. I have a headache. I need to go home now.” Home to Pixie before her heart broke so completely she’d never recover.
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