I take the mug from her hand when she holds it out. On the far side of the room, the fire crackles, throwing shadows across our cozy space in the dim evening light.
“Are you ever going to tell me what that was?” I ask, casting my eyes toward the cupboard. I’ve been too afraid to open it since we saved Lewis, too afraid of what I’ll find. Or what I won’t.
I know I didn’t imagine it, I know it was real, but sometimes I start to question everything.
Mom’s lips tip up with a smile that says I may never know all of Foxglove’s secrets. That’s why it surprises me when I hear her say, “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. If you’re ready.”
“I want to know, too,” Taylor says, leaning forward in her chair by the fire. She closes her book, and I start to argue, to list all the reasons she’s already been through enough and doesn’t need to worry herself with anything else, but Mom puts a hand on my arm like she senses my incoming protests.
“Walk with me. Both of you.” Mom places the chipped mug down on the counter, the steam curling toward the ceiling like a ghost, then holds out her hand.
Cautiously, I take it.
We walk together through the living room, where Taylor joins us, looping her arm through her grandmother’s.
Medically, Mom is bruised, but not broken, and I guess the same can be said for all of us.
Outside on the porch, I draw in a deep breath, tasting the rosemary and lavender in the air. The meadow grass rustles in the breeze, so loud it sounds like whispers.
“Where are we going?” I ask as we step down off the porch and into the yard.
“I thought we’d visit your grandma.” Mom’s voice is low, and I can’t help thinking of the last time the two of us were here together, saying goodbye to Grandma, but also to Foxglove.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
We cross the meadow slowly, the weeds and flowers grasping our legs as if welcoming us, calling us forward.
“Do you remember much about her?” Mom asks, eyeing me curiously. There is wisdom etched across her face that I haven’t noticed before, lines worth of stories I want to hear.
“I remember everything. She was always singing. And she knew every flower, and that every plant had a purpose. She could sense when a storm was coming, even before the weatherman.She was patient and could make anything. Do anything. She could make any meal delicious.”
“And she loved you,” Mom reminds me, her eyes sad. “And I kept her from you. More than I should’ve.”
My stomach drops. I can’t argue with the truth, but that doesn’t mean I want Mom to hurt over what she can’t change. “I knew she loved me.”
Mom runs a thumb over my hand as we reach Grandma’s grave. Together, the three of us sit down on the grass, and instinctively, our hands go to the earth, side by side.
“My mother—Hazel,” she tells Taylor, “your great-grandmother, used to say the women in our family are born with roots rather than bones. That the forest is inside us, as well as around us.”
Taylor gives her a quizzical smile. “She loved nature,” she deduces.
“She loved this place.” Mom runs her hands through the grass. “Foxglove isn’t just a house. A building. It’s…it’s a promise.” She nods, confirming something to herself. “It’s a living thing. It knows who we are, and more than that—it remembers us.”
With her last words, she turns her face up to the sky, eyes squeezed shut. A tear skirts down over her cheek, following the wisdom lines almost as if her face were being caressed by a gentle hand.
The wind blows through the trees, and they seem to lean toward us, like they’re listening, too. Like they’re confirming her words.
“I never told you why I left Foxglove,” Mom says, dropping her head forward to look at me. “But it’s time you know now.”
I wait, anxious to know, but also scared. I fear the truth will hurt worse than the wondering.
“I was a little younger than six when your grandfather, Charles, died. I don’t remember a lot about him, but I remember his smile.” Her fingers trace her own lips in memory, her eyes looking through me rather than at me. “He had a charm like sweet poison. I think, even then, I suspected he had a darkness in him. I was a child. I didn’t understand. But looking back, I know it’s true. I believe my mother’s story.”
She runs her lips together, plucking three daffodils from the earth. Slowly, her fingers work to braid them together, the movement happening without thought. “When I was ready to marry your dad, my mother sat me down and told me the truth. About love. Marriage. About this place. About…about what happened to Charles.”
The earth is eerily still around us. Even the flowers and trees have stopped moving. It’s as if everything—us included—is holding its breath.
“He was a dangerous man. Not just to your grandmother, not just to me and Violet, but to others. To Violet’s birth mother especially. And her boys. Conrad.” She nods her head toward the woods in the direction of Conrad’s house. Our new, dear friend. “His brother, Cory, too.”
