CHAPTER ONE
CORINNE WILDE - 1994
The sky is strange as we return to Foxglove. Gray, like after a storm, even though it hasn’t rained today. It gives me a funny feeling deep in my gut. Something I can’t explain. Like when I know something bad is going to happen before it does.
Like the earth here knows it, too.
It’s July, so I’m out of school, but this entire summer has had that strange edge to it—like it already knew fall was coming, like it’d been preparing since the final weeks of spring.
Today, as we loaded the car for our trip, there was the kind of wind that lifts the hair at the nape of your neck. The kind that makes the trees sound funny, like they’re whispering secrets you’re not meant to hear.
Mom and I have driven all day without saying much. I don’t even think she’s noticed the radio isn’t on, but I can’t bring myself to point it out. She’s trying not to cry, and I’m afraid to break the spell.
So we drive up the long gravel road in silence.
I haven’t been here in years. Not since I was a little girl—nine or ten, maybe. But even if she hadn’t told me, I’d have known where we were going. I felt it under my skin, crawling like ants,even before I saw the old cedar tree, the rusted mailbox half-devoured by goldenrod and pokeweed.
Foxglove looks the same as I remember.
Haunting. Formidable. And somehow still cozy.
I have always loved that about the old stone cabin. She looks like she can take care of herself. Like the witch’s hut from the stories Grandma used to tell me when I was little. Fairy tales about magical houses and powerful women.
I can’t explain it, but it feels like she’s been waiting for us. Or maybe I’ve been the one waiting. Seeing Foxglove again makes me feel like I’ve been holding my breath all this time.
Despite my time away, the meadow still knows me. The tall grass, lush with wildflowers, sways in the wind like it’s waving hello, as if welcoming me back. Welcoming me home. As we step out of the car, I resist the urge to wave in return.
I’m glad to be home, I say, only in my mind. I don’t need to say it out loud for Foxglove to know.
The old house doesn’t smile, but it doesn’t frown either. It just waits, the way it always has, as we unload our bags and make our way onto the porch. The air smells of rosemary and lavender, and I brush my fingers over a strand of wisteria hanging near the porch as we approach the door.
Mom doesn’t knock. What would be the point? There’s no one here to answer.
That’s why we’re here. My grandma is dying.
Mom says she can’t make it to the door anymore. A man who lives nearby checks on her, makes sure she eats—but even he can’t fix this.
Mom didn’t want to bring me. She said it would be too hard, that I’m too young. But Grandma asked, and Billie Wilde has never been able to say no to her mother, even after all the years and distance between them.
The small house smells of campfire smoke as we enter, and my eyes immediately find the charred logs in the fireplace. Once, when I was little, Grandma let me make s’mores there using sticks we collected in the yard.
Now, that same grandma—the one who once seemed so full of life and invincible—lies in her bed, wrapped in a quilt the dull color of old leaves. It makes me sad, like the color has drained from her, too. Her skin is thin like the tracing paper Mom keeps in her desk at home, and her body looks like it has sunken into itself—concave and terrifyingly empty.
But her eyes, I’ll never forget them as long as I live—they are still sharp as ever. The kind of eyes that find you the second a bad thought crosses your mind. Before you ever have time to act on it. As we enter the room, they find me before they find Mom.
“Corinne,” she says, and her voice carries the distinct rustle of dry grass. “Oh, honey. You came.”
I rush to her side, tears already stinging my eyes and making me feel foolish. I sit by the bed on the old wooden stool I used as a child to see in the mirror when I brushed my teeth. The same one I used to climb on to reach the cookie jar hidden away behind the toaster. Thinking back, it was never a great hiding spot, and I have to wonder if she meant to truly hide it at all. Maybe it was always just a game.
“Of course I came,” I say, my voice cracking like ice on a frozen pond. I promised Mom I’d be strong, but I’m failing.
She smiles at that. Slow and quiet. Thoughtful. I’m grateful she doesn’t acknowledge my tears. “Good. You belong here. Always have.”
Mom stands by the doorway, arms folded tight. Her eyes are as dry as a bone, but she’s pale. Scared.
Grandma reaches out her hand—not to Mom, but to me. She grasps me tight. Under my warm palm, she’s cold as ice, and I’m horrified by how thin her skin has become. I refuse to let it show,holding her hand tighter, more fully, out of spite. Like if I hide my fear well enough, the reasons to be afraid will disappear.
Like if we don’t acknowledge that we’re losing her, we won’t.
