How weird, though. Because as I heard Claire tell Hannah, foxgloves shouldn’t be used in bouquets. They’re deadly to animals. And to humans, as well.
11
In the fading light, it’s hard for me to see. Slipping my phone from my pocket, I activate the flashlight and direct it toward the stumps of the missing flowers, then run the beam over the surrounding clusters of foxgloves to get a closer look at their stalks. It’s pretty clear that they match up.
Since Claire would never have picked the foxgloves herself, someone else must have. But why? They’re poisonous. Unless . . . My skin crawls. Unless someone picked them because they’re poisonous.
That’s crazy, I tell myself. No one here at the house would choose to hurt someone else. Unless they secretly despised that person, or felt threatened by them.
Well, Hannah has surely felt threatened lately, right? You do the right thing—or I will.
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 drop the 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?”
“I think so. 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 say after 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 google foxglove 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 was clearly 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.
I fill the next hour tidying up the cottage, checking twice on Henry, trying to read the news on my phone, and wishing I could dash over to the house. But what if Henry woke up, came downstairs, and found himself alone? I don’t want to add any stress onto what he’s already dealing with tonight.
Finally, the door creaks open and Gabe trudges in looking wearier than I’ve ever seen him. He has an update on the memorial service. It’s going to be held on Tuesday morning at eleven here at the house, attended only by immediate family and Claire’s closest friends, and followed by a simple outdoor luncheon that Bonnie will put together. Ash is also thinking of asking a meditation instructor friend of Claire’s to offer a spiritual reading. As for the burial, that will most likely be Thursday, down by the lower woods where the stream is.
“There are probably a few other things I’m forgetting,” Gabe says, “but my brain has stalled.”
“No problem, honey. Let’s go to bed.”
We collapse onto the mattress, though not before I’ve mustered enough energy to switch on the AC.