No, it’s not possible, I chide myself again. There’s got to be another explanation for the missing flowers. Maybe someone who didn’t know better clipped them for a bedroom arrangement.
A soft neighing sound startles me, and I nearly dropthe phone. Tightening my grip, I spin around and point the beam outward. All I can see are yards and yards of lawn, and farther away, shrubbery bleeding into the edge of the woods. The neighing comes again, plaintive this time, and I realize it’s from high up in one of the trees. It must be a screech owl, a sound Marcus identified for me once.
I quickly snap a photo of the gap in the flowers and scurry around to the front of the cottage. As I swing open the front door, Gabe’s emerging from the stairwell.
“Was that you in the back of the cottage just now?” he asks. “I thought I heard someone.”
“Yeah, it was only me.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was taking a look at the gardens and thinking of your mom. And all the magic she created.”
Gabe nods, walks over to the butler’s table in the sitting room, and grabs a bottle of red wine. “The gardens, the house, the ambience,everything,” he says, uncorking the bottle. “I can’t imagine how it’s all going to exist without her.”
“Oh, Gabe, I know. Your mother was so remarkable.”
He looks off, and though I sense he’s about to elaborate, he doesn’t.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Frankly, I’m at a loss for words tonight. It all still seems so surreal to me.” He pours us each a goblet of wine.
Should I mention the missing foxgloves? I wonder, then decide against it. Suggesting, without any evidence, that his mother might have been poisoned would be on par with telling him I suspect she died from the bite of a vampire bat. Besides, I’m clearly wrung out from everything that’s happened,and tomorrow there’s bound to be a totally rational explanation staring me in the face.
Gabe plops down on the couch to drink his wine, where I join him.
“So tell me about Henry,” I say. “It must have been so hard to break the news.”
“I wish I’d had time to google the right things to say, but I guess I did okay. At least I avoided stupid euphemisms, like ‘She’s in a better place’ and shit like that.”
“I’m sure you did a great job. Did he seem to get it?”
“Ithinkso. Nine is probably a tricky age for fully processing this stuff. You’re old enough to know that death is permanent, but you still don’t quite understand it all.”
“You’re planning on having him stay for the memorial service, right?”
“Definitely. I called Amanda right before you came back and filled her in. I could tell she wasn’t thrilled about the idea of Henry being here for the service, but I’m not going to let her pressure me out of it.”
“I’m sure he’ll be able to handle it,” I say, thinking of how I attended my grandfather’s funeral when I was ten and have always been glad that I did.
We sit in silence for a while, sipping our wine. Gabe appears misleadingly at ease—one leg stretched out across the coffee table and his hand dangling the wineglass—but with our bodies touching lightly, I can almost feel the emotions churn inside him. Grief, anguish, possibly anger at how unfair life can be.
“I know you need to get back over to the house,” I sayafter he’s drained his glass. “I’ll stay here with Henry. And please eat something, honey. Even if you don’t feel hungry.”
“Will do.”
As soon as he leaves, I find myself with a sudden urge to phone my mom, to tell her about Claire and to hear the words of comfort I know she’ll offer. But she and my dad go to bed early these days, and it wouldn’t be fair to wake her. The call will have to wait until tomorrow.
I should probably try to read, but I’m too distraught about Claire to focus on a book. I’m also still unsettled by that gaping hole in the garden. I grab my laptop from the table and take it back to the couch with me. I know that it would be foolish to jump to any conclusions, and even worse to spout off to Gabe about it, but I can at least googlefoxglove poisoning, right?
I open the first link that pops up, a site devoted to dangerous plants, and there’s no mincing of words. Foxgloves contain something called digoxin and can be extremely toxic—not only the flowers, but also the stems, leaves, and seeds. Over a century ago, small amounts of the plant were used for medicinal purposes, and later foxglove extract actually became the basis for the heart medication digitalis—though too high a dose can dangerously interfere with the electrical signals that keep the heart beating.
I quickly scroll down to the symptoms of foxglove toxicity: irregular or slowed heart rate; low blood pressure; rashes or hives; weakness or drowsiness; loss of appetite; stomach pain; vomiting, nausea, or diarrhea; blurred vision; headache; confusion; fainting.
Could this be what I observed in Claire today? She wasclearly tired, acting a little confused, and she didn’t appear to have much appetite.
But I remind myself, these symptoms overlap with those of a woman having a heart attack. I snap my laptop shut. Going down this internet rabbit hole is not how I should be spending my time tonight.
