She pointed toward the bed.
“You show me where the things are.”
“I’ll have Eli bring them.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if there is another bottle in this house, I want to know exactly where it has been sitting and who could reach it.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Who could reach it?”
“Yes.”
“You think someone—”
“I think nothing yet.”
She lowered her voice.
“And neither should you.”
That was a lie.
Nola was thinking a great deal.
Too much.
Garrick clearly knew it.
Still, he nodded.
When Clara returned carrying a stack of cloths almost as large as her chest, Nola arranged them beside the basin.
Then she looked at Garrick.
“Go.”
He left.
The moment he disappeared into the hall, Clara climbed onto the side of the bed.
“Is Weston going to die?”
Nola’s hand stopped.
Children always asked what adults avoided.
She looked at Clara.
“No.”
She said it too quickly.
The little girl knew.
Nola tried again.
“He’s very sick.”
“But?”
“But I’m going to do everything I know.”
Clara’s eyes filled.
“Papa did everything too.”
Nola looked toward the doorway where Garrick had vanished.
“I know.”
“He doesn’t sleep.”
Nola said nothing.
“He forgets breakfast.”
“I noticed.”
“He burned biscuits yesterday.”
“I also noticed that.”
Clara looked almost offended.
“They were black.”
“I saw.”
For half a second, the corner of the child’s mouth lifted.
Then it disappeared.
“Papa cries outside.”
Nola looked at her.
Clara whispered:
“He thinks we don’t see.”
The statement lodged somewhere under Nola’s ribs.
She reached over and smoothed the girl’s hair.
“Your father is frightened.”
“So am I.”
“I know.”
“Are you?”
Nola glanced toward Weston.
“Yes.”
The child seemed relieved by the answer.
Adults believed children needed fearlessness.
Often they only needed truth that did not abandon them.
Eli returned with steaming water.
Nola spent the next several minutes cooling Weston gradually, giving him tiny sips whenever he could swallow, keeping the blankets light enough that heat could escape.
She did not know if it would be enough.
But within half an hour, his breathing became marginally less frantic.
Not safe.
Better.
Better mattered.
Garrick returned carrying a wooden box.
He placed it on the dresser.
Dust covered the lid.
His hands stayed there.
He could not open it.
Nola understood.
“Was this hers?”
He nodded.
“Name?”
“Mae.”
The way he said it changed the room.
Not “my wife.”
Mae.
A person.
Nola opened the box herself.
Inside lay a blue ribbon.
Two hairpins.
A small sewing kit.
A dried sprig of lavender.
Letters tied with twine.
And three medicine bottles.
All brown.