Page 41 of Forget Me Not
I stick close to the marsh, keeping my eyes trained on the distance, though I have a feeling that I’m being watched. Still, I pretend not to notice, biding my time as I trail my fingers across various plants—until I pause, recognizing the leaves now grazing my skinas the same ones Mitchell had applied last night. I grab them gently, fingers stroking the rubbery veins as I remember him popping them into his mouth, chewing until they became a thick paste.
I lower the plant, recalling my first day on the side of the house; Liam and me snapping those flowers and sucking the honey straight from the stem.
Just don’t go blindly eating stuff around here,he had said after I stuck that blue berry into my mouth. I had teased him about it, but still, he’d insisted.Marshland grows all kinds of things.
I twist back around, my eyes darting between the vineyard and porch. Liam has gone back to the harvest and Marcia and Mitchell have gone back inside so I turn toward the plant again and remove my phone from my back pocket, checking the service in the corner of the screen. I’m still close enough to the main house to have a single blinking bar so I navigate to the camera as I think about a trick Ryan once taught me, one of those iPhone features nobody knows that they have. Then I snap a picture of the plant and click on the image, swiping up to find an icon of a leaf at the bottom of the screen.
I tap on that next, my phone giving me the option to look up what it is.
Plantago major, also known as broadleaf plantain, is an herbaceous, perennial plant. The young, tender leaves can be eaten raw, and the older, stringier leaves can be boiled in stews.
I look down at the picture on my screen, identical to the plant that was just in my hand.
Commonly used in folk medicine for wounds, sores, and insect stings, broadleaf plantain leaves are known to reduce inflammation, block bacterial growth, extract venom, and relieve pain.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, wondering if this is all an overreaction. After all, the description on my screen right now is the exact same as the one Mitchell gave me last night, which means he really was only trying to help… but then again, I still don’t know what was in that tea he gave me. I don’t know what Marcia is constantly drinking, whatever it is making her so lethargic and slow, so I swipe back to my camera and take a picture of the next plant I can find, skimming the article before moving on to another. There are all kinds of things growing out here: needlegrass and nettles, cordgrass and cattails. I eye a cluster of scorpion grass next, the pale blue petals huddled together making some faraway memory itch. Everything seems to be perfectly benign and I’m about to keep walking until I come across a vertical collection of lush green leaves, the description on the screen making me stop in my tracks.
Convallaria majalis, commonly known as lily of the valley, is a garden flower that is both sweetly scented and highly poisonous. All parts of the plant are toxic, including the berries, leaves, roots, and stems.
I stop reading, glancing back at the plant as Marcia’s last entry writhes around in my mind.
Its compounds attack all parts of the body, most notably the heart and nervous system. Upon consumption, initial symptoms of lily of the valley poisoning include a slow and irregular heartbeat, nausea, vomiting, confusion, drowsiness, weakness, and blurry vision.
If left untreated, symptoms will progress to cardiac arrest and, eventually, death.
I look back at the plant, remembering the fox I saw by the marsh. Its copper fur blowing gently in the breeze. Then I hearthe screen door slap and I twist around fast, watching as Mitchell makes his way toward the shed. I stand still as he walks, his body disappearing inside before coming back out a few seconds later with yesterday’s harvest all bagged and stickered and ready to sell. Then he loads it all into his truck along with crates of produce and cartons of eggs before sliding into the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut behind him.
I watch as he reverses fast down the drive, a tornado of dust erupting from his tires. Then I turn back toward Liam, still picking in the vineyard, as the first part of my plan kicks into motion.
“I’m going back in to grab a nap,” I call out, pushing my phone into my pocket as Liam looks up, squinty eyes trailing me across the yard. “You were right, all this walking is wearing me out.”
He lifts his hand in a friendly salute as I make my way toward the guesthouse. After a few yards, I chance a glance around, making sure he isn’t paying attention.
Only then do I reverse course, jogging up the steps of the main house and rapping my fist hard on the door.
“Marcia?” I call out after a few seconds, shielding the sun from my eyes as I peer through the windows. “Marcia, it’s Claire.”
I knock again, turning back around as the first trickle of nerves work their way up my spine. Liam is still in the vineyard, his back to me while he picks, but I don’t want him to glance back around and find me standing on the porch instead of in my own house. I’m sure I could come up with an excuse, some simple reason to explain it away, but more than that, it’s the prospect of Mitchell returning that’s making me nervous. He’s going into town, like he does every day, and while I haven’t been here long enough to keep a precise log of his movements, based on the distance between here and there, I figure I have about an hour until he comes back.
If I’m going to talk to Marcia, steal these precious few moments of her being alone, I need to talk to hernow.
I wait another few seconds before finally deciding to try the knob, surprised to find it twists easily in my hand. The door pushes open as if on its own and at first, it seems strange that they would keep it unlocked, given how private they seem to be—but then I realize that living their lives in seclusion like this means they don’t have to worry about strangers breaking in the way other people do. They don’t have a security system; no hidden cameras or alarms on their doors.
Mitchell doesn’t seem all that concerned about keeping people out; instead, he seems to dedicate his time to keeping themin.
“Marcia?” I call again, stepping gingerly over the threshold and closing the door quietly behind me. “Marcia, it’s Claire. Can I talk to you for a second?”
I tiptoe deeper into the house, the memories washing over me as I remember more snippets from when I was in here last night. My plan is still shaky, still starting to form, but as of right now, my intention is to just come clean. I figure there’s no point in trying to be coy, not when I only have this hour-long window to get to the truth. Because of that, I’m going to tell Marcia I found her diary and that I’ve read enough of it to be concerned.
I’m going to offer her the opportunity to explain, and if I don’t like the things that I hear, I’m going to leave and I’m going to get help.
“Marcia,” I say again, a little louder this time. “It’s me, Claire—”
I enter the living room, stopping dead in my tracks as I find Marcia’s body lying limp in a chair. I feel a pang of something shoot through my chest—panic, fear, the sight of her unconscious body like this making me practically choke back a scream—but then I notice her breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.
She’s asleep,deeplyasleep, like the very first night I came into this house.
I creep closer, thinking about how my voice didn’t rouse herawake. Even through my knocking, my yelling, she didn’t seem to hear me at all… and that’s when I register the mug by her side, the same one she was sipping out of this morning.
