Page 29 of Forget Me Not

“I thought you were taking the day off.”

Liam is kneeling in the dirt, harvest bucket already strapped to his chest as I make my slow approach.

“I’m just stretching my legs,” I say, glancing over to Marcia and Mitchell sitting on the porch, twin mugs clutched in both of their hands.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

I turn back toward Liam, cocking my head as he squints into the sun.

“You’re supposed to keep that leg elevated,” he says, gesturing to my ankle. “Avoid unnecessary movement.”

“I’ll keep it short,” I say, already making my way toward the water. “That cabin gets stuffy. I need some fresh air.”

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 skin as 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 hear the 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 her now .

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 them in .

“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, deeply asleep, like the very first night I came into this house.

I creep closer, thinking about how my voice didn’t rouse her awake. 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.

The same one she has almost every time I see her. A clean, simple, ceramic white.

I peer inside, finding it empty except for some leafy residue caked to the bottom. Then I pick it up, my theory about Mitchell continuing to grow as I push the pad of my finger into the base, feeling a few leaves stick to the surface of my skin.

I pull my hand out, bringing it slowly up to my nose. There’s a hint of something herbal, a concoction of smells I can’t recognize. Then I bring my fingers to Marcia’s neck as I check for a pulse.

It feels strong and steady, albeit somewhat slow, but still, she’s breathing. She’s breathing fine.

I put the mug down, trying to think through what to do next. Talking to Marcia clearly isn’t an option, but now I realize I might have something better.

Now, I have free rein to search their home.

I pull out my phone and glance at the clock—ten minutes have passed since Mitchell left—and decide to poke around a bit, see if there’s anything here that might help.

I start in the kitchen, opening the fridge and scanning the contents.

Finding all the right things in all the right places, nothing jumping out as out of place.

Then I move toward the cabinets, opening the doors to find a bunch of canisters of dried herbs.

I sniff a few, not sure what they are, before I make my way back into the foyer, trailing my fingers across the banister.

I lean back, checking to make sure that Marcia’s still asleep.

I can just barely see her from down the hall but I can tell that her eyes are still closed, her breathing steady, so I take the stairs two at a time, making my way to the second floor and cringing as the old wood creaks.

Once I hit the landing, I find one long hallway with three closed doors—two on one end, one on the other—and it makes me blink for a second, my mind suddenly back on our hallway at home.

The layouts of the houses are practically identical and I picture our two rooms now, the way Natalie’s and mine were situated side by side.

How I would lie in bed and hold my breath, listening for traces of life through the walls before I heard her leave and slipped in behind her, snooping through her stuff like I’m doing right now.

I shake my head, ignoring the hammering of my heart in my ears, and decide to start with the door on the left.

I approach the knob, twisting it gently and peering inside.

It seems to be a guest room with a full bed in the center and two small tables on either side, a large wooden dresser pushed flush to the wall.

The bed is made, a checkered blue quilt folded tight across each corner, and I think about stepping in farther, looking around, when I realize twenty minutes have probably passed.

There isn’t much evidence of life in here.

The walls are sparse, all the lights off, and if it is just a guest room, I’d be better off using my remaining minutes in Mitchell’s room instead.

The room where he probably spends most of his time, the room he’s most likely to stash his secrets.

I close the door and peek inside the second door beside it, finding a small bathroom that’s immaculately clean. I do a cursory scan of the cabinet, sneak a peek behind the shower curtain, before I close the door and make my way back down the hall. My eyes trained on the last room left.

I grip the knob, my breath held in my throat as it turns.

The room behind this door is the primary bedroom, unmistakably, and I step inside, keeping it open to ensure I can hear any noises from downstairs.

The first thing I spot are two windows facing the front of the property and I walk toward them quickly, glancing outside.

The driveway is still empty, nothing but tire tracks where Mitchell’s truck is typically parked.

Liam is sitting in the shade of a live oak, eating his lunch, so I turn around and start my scan of the bedroom, pulling open various drawers as I search.

I find a tube of hand cream and a wad of thin tissues, a couple torn bookmarks and crumpled receipts.

Then I close the drawers again, sighing as I survey the rest of the room.

There are some clothes scattered across the ground, balled-up socks and a stray pair of sweatpants peeking out from beneath the bed…

and then I notice a patch of the floor that looks different than the rest, the boards slightly lighter than the ones that surround it.

I drop to my knees, running my hands along the edge of the boards.

The lighter ones are slightly loose like they were ripped out once, the wood worn down from being repeatedly handled, and I dig my fingers under one of the planks, surprised to find it comes up easily.

It isn’t nailed down; instead, there’s a hollow spot beneath it with some kind of fabric stuffed deep inside, so I keep lifting the others, removing two more until there’s a distinct hole in the floor.

I peer in, a knife in my chest when I see what’s there.

It’s a bag, charcoal black and covered in dust, and I feel my fingers shake as I think back to August of 2002, somehow just yesterday and a whole lifetime ago.

Then I take a deep breath, imagining myself listening as Natalie opened her window, grabbing a bag from deep in her closet before climbing her way down that old tree.

A bag that looked just like the one I’m staring at right now.

A bag that disappeared the same night she did.