Wilde Women

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The sky is strange as we return to Foxglove. Gray, like after a storm, even though it hasn’t rained today. It gives me a funny feeling deep in my gut. Something I can’t explain. Like when I know something bad is going to happen before it does.

Like the earth here knows it, too.

It’s July, so I’m out of school, but this entire summer has had that strange edge to it—like it already knew fall was coming, like it’d been preparing since the final weeks of spring.

Today, as we loaded the car for our trip, there was the kind of wind that lifts the hair at the nape of your neck. The kind that makes the trees sound funny, like they’re whispering secrets you’re not meant to hear.

Mom and I have driven all day without saying much. I don’t even think she’s noticed the radio isn’t on, but I can’t bring myself to point it out. She’s trying not to cry, and I’m afraid to break the spell.

So we drive up the long gravel road in silence.

I haven’t been here in years. Not since I was a little girl—nine or ten, maybe. But even if she hadn’t told me, I’d have known where we were going. I felt it under my skin, crawling like ants, even before I saw the old cedar tree, the rusted mailbox half-devoured by goldenrod and pokeweed.

Foxglove looks the same as I remember.

Haunting. Formidable. And somehow still cozy.

I have always loved that about the old stone cabin. She looks like she can take care of herself. Like the witch’s hut from the stories Grandma used to tell me when I was little. Fairy tales about magical houses and powerful women.

I can’t explain it, but it feels like she’s been waiting for us. Or maybe I’ve been the one waiting. Seeing Foxglove again makes me feel like I’ve been holding my breath all this time.

Despite my time away, the meadow still knows me. The tall grass, lush with wildflowers, sways in the wind like it’s waving hello, as if welcoming me back. Welcoming me home. As we step out of the car, I resist the urge to wave in return.

I’m glad to be home, I say, only in my mind. I don’t need to say it out loud for Foxglove to know.

The old house doesn’t smile, but it doesn’t frown either. It just waits, the way it always has, as we unload our bags and make our way onto the porch. The air smells of rosemary and lavender, and I brush my fingers over a strand of wisteria hanging near the porch as we approach the door.

Mom doesn’t knock. What would be the point? There’s no one here to answer.

That’s why we’re here. My grandma is dying.

Mom says she can’t make it to the door anymore. A man who lives nearby checks on her, makes sure she eats—but even he can’t fix this.

Mom didn’t want to bring me. She said it would be too hard, that I’m too young. But Grandma asked, and Billie Wilde has never been able to say no to her mother, even after all the years and distance between them.

The small house smells of campfire smoke as we enter, and my eyes immediately find the charred logs in the fireplace. Once, when I was little, Grandma let me make s’mores there using sticks we collected in the yard.

Now, that same grandma—the one who once seemed so full of life and invincible—lies in her bed, wrapped in a quilt the dull color of old leaves.

It makes me sad, like the color has drained from her, too.

Her skin is thin like the tracing paper Mom keeps in her desk at home, and her body looks like it has sunken into itself—concave and terrifyingly empty.

But her eyes, I’ll never forget them as long as I live—they are still sharp as ever. The kind of eyes that find you the second a bad thought crosses your mind. Before you ever have time to act on it. As we enter the room, they find me before they find Mom.

“Corinne,” she says, and her voice carries the distinct rustle of dry grass. “Oh, honey. You came.”

I rush to her side, tears already stinging my eyes and making me feel foolish.

I sit by the bed on the old wooden stool I used as a child to see in the mirror when I brushed my teeth.

The same one I used to climb on to reach the cookie jar hidden away behind the toaster.

Thinking back, it was never a great hiding spot, and I have to wonder if she meant to truly hide it at all. Maybe it was always just a game.

“Of course I came,” I say, my voice cracking like ice on a frozen pond. I promised Mom I’d be strong, but I’m failing.

She smiles at that. Slow and quiet. Thoughtful. I’m grateful she doesn’t acknowledge my tears. “Good. You belong here. Always have.”

Mom stands by the doorway, arms folded tight. Her eyes are as dry as a bone, but she’s pale. Scared.

Grandma reaches out her hand—not to Mom, but to me.

She grasps me tight. Under my warm palm, she’s cold as ice, and I’m horrified by how thin her skin has become.

I refuse to let it show, holding her hand tighter, more fully, out of spite.

Like if I hide my fear well enough, the reasons to be afraid will disappear.

Like if we don’t acknowledge that we’re losing her, we won’t.

“When this is over…when it…happens, you’ll need to bury me in the field,” Grandma says, not wasting time. “With the others.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. How can she possibly talk so casually about this? About…dying.

Mom flinches at her words, and it’s clear she’s as unprepared for them as I feel.

“Do you remember the place?” Grandma goes on, her eyes no longer as sharp as they were mere moments ago.

She looks as if she might fall asleep. “Billie? Tell me you remember. Under the willow tree, where the lilies come up in May. There’s a row of markers I showed you when you were young.

They’re there, though they might be covered in moss.

Crooked. You might have to look, but you’ll see them.

They’re waiting for me. Your grandma Ruth.

My gran, Martha. And her mother before her. All of us.”

Mom steps forward, hands clasped together. “But you’ll want a funeral. A casket. You haven’t told me—”

“I don’t want any of that.” Grandma cuts her off with a heavy breath.

“Just put my body in the ground. Return me to the earth. To my mother and sister. My gran.” It’s the first time I hear her voice crack, and when I look from Mom to her, Grandma’s eyes are squeezed shut.

“Corinne should help. She needs to learn our traditions.”

“She’s a child.” Mom’s voice turns to steel, her cheeks pale.

“She’s a Wilde.” Grandma’s thumb runs over my knuckles, and her gaze spars with Mom’s. I love the way she says our name. It always makes me feel powerful. As if it’s a spell. A promise.

There’s a long pause, and it feels as if they’re still talking without moving their mouths. Still arguing, though only in silence and flicks of gazes.

Finally, Mom takes half a step back. When she speaks, her voice is flat. “I remember the place.” When Grandma isn’t looking, I catch her rolling her eyes.

“Good.” Grandma turns to me again. “You remember the meadow, don’t you, Corinne?

” She pats my hand, and my breathing catches in my throat.

“It’s special. Sacred. Guarded by generations of Wilde women, but played in by those same women as they grew.

” She lifts her hand, popping a finger on the end of my nose.

“The earth needs both, you know? The laughter and the bones.”

She pauses, studying me. “You were a child who played there, and one day…one day when you play, you’ll stop by and say hello to me again, won’t you?

You’ll visit me? In the meadow, where I’ll be waiting.

” She lifts her wrinkled hand and brushes a stray tear from her weathered cheek.

Then, a smile. “And someday, your grandchildren will visit you, too.” She draws in her lips, eyes closing once more.

I don’t know if she’s looking for an answer, but I can’t bring myself to speak.

When she opens her eyes again, I nod softly, afraid the memories of the meadow will make me feel too much, miss too much. But it’s clear I have no choice.

Without warning, the memories flood back into my mind without much care for my feelings.

Long days in the tall grass. Weaving flower crowns from the wildflowers.

Befriending the bugs and making bouquets with the dandelions.

The sunlight warming my tangled hair. Chasing shadows with a stick for a sword and dancing with the fairies.

Pretending the wind could talk. Imagining it could tell me secrets and keep me safe.

I used to lie in the middle of that field and feel the ground breathing beneath me.

“I thought it was a fairy garden,” I admit. “When I was little, I thought it was magic.”

Grandma’s eyes soften. “Who says it isn’t?” She squeezes my hand once more.

“We should let your grandma get some rest,” Mom says, touching my back gently.

I wait for Grandma to argue, to say I should stay right here with her, but she doesn’t. She nods her chin toward the door with a look I’ll never forget.

I think she knows.

I think maybe she is trying to burn the image of me into her brain.

Somehow, she knows it will be the last time she ever sees me. That this is it for us.

“Foxglove is yours now, Billie,” I hear Grandma whisper as we walk out the door, talking to my mom. “Don’t forget about her.”

“I’ll get you some tea and another blanket.” Mom doesn’t cry as we walk away. She just nods once, her body tight as a fist, and shuts the door.

As we watch her sleeping peacefully that night, Hazel Wilde—mother of Billie Wilde, grandmother of me—takes her last breath.

Death is silent, I learn. Hers is, anyway. She doesn’t make a sound. She just goes eerily still, her final breath slipping out between her lips like smoke from a chimney, barely there, then gone all at once.

Two days later, we bury her in the meadow under the willow tree.

In the end, Mom honors Grandma’s wishes. We find the largest stone we can to mark her grave, then begin digging. As we work, I silently promise to visit her, just like she asked.

Mom lets me help with every part of the process, which surprises me.

Maybe she needs my help, though.

I can’t stop watching her. Worrying. Taking stock of the slight wrinkles around her eyes, the streaks of shimmering silver starting to appear in her hair, the heavy way she breathes.

She’s getting older, and for the first time in my life, that scares me.

The earth is soft and pliable from the lingering effects of yesterday’s unexpected storm, and we work slowly and carefully beside the other grave markers Grandma talked about—flat stones covered in moss, wood slats with mushrooms peeking out of the deep cracks, an old iron doorknob hammered into the ground.

Though a handful have been carved with names or initials, most don’t have any identification. Just signs. Just honor and memory.

Grandma made it clear she didn’t want a priest. She didn’t want prayers. She wanted to go back to the land, the way all the Wilde women have.

Someday, this will be how I go, too. It’s my legacy.

Mom won’t carry on the tradition herself. She’ll have a proper funeral in a building, surrounded by friends and family. She’ll want a real gravestone—one carved with her full name, the one she reclaimed after the divorce.

She doesn’t have to say it; her bitterness as she carries out Grandma’s bidding makes it clear. She thinks it’s silly. Strange. I’m pretty sure I heard her mutter the word barbaric.

I’ll admit it feels weird to put her straight into the earth like she asked, but it also feels…right. It’s what she wanted. Dust to dust.

When it’s done, Mom goes back inside. Alone, I can’t fight my tears as I collect wildflowers the way we used to when I was a little girl. Grandma taught me to identify every plant in the meadow, taught me how to tell the dangerous ones from the harmless.

When I’m finished, I lay a braid of wildflowers at the base of the tree—Queen Anne’s lace, goldenrod, and a little foxglove for the name of this place. They were some of her favorites, from a time that feels so far away now.

As I step back, the wind picks up, and the tall grass bends low, like it’s bowing. Like it’s honoring her, too.

I stay with her, refusing to leave, refusing to say goodbye until Mom calls me inside. By then, it’s dark, and I try not to think about Grandma, cold and alone under the dirt.

I say goodbye to her but promise to be back soon. Even though I know it’s a lie.

With Grandma gone, Mom doesn’t want to remain at Foxglove for another second, let alone for another night. The house is too quiet, and the silence makes her skin itchy. She doesn’t stop pacing, stop twitching and fussing, until everything is packed.

In the car, as we pull away, I turn in my seat and watch the cabin get smaller and smaller until it vanishes behind the trees, swallowed whole by the earth around it.

“When will we come back?” I ask.

Mom doesn’t answer.

“It’s ours now,” I remind her of Grandma’s words. “We could live there. I could switch schools, and we could plant a garden. We could take care of it, just like Grandma said. I could—”

“No,” Mom says, cutting my hopes off at the root. There’s no negotiating with her when she’s this way. It’s firm. Final. “Foxglove is not our home.”

I don’t understand. “She said we belong there.” My voice is soft, weak. I’m not fighting the way I know Grandma would want me to.

“She says a lot of things,” is all I hear before she turns up the radio.

I turn back to my window, pressing my hand against the warm glass. As we turn off the winding road, with no guarantee of when or if we’ll return, I make a plea to the trees. To the flowers. To the land, to Foxglove.

Don’t forget about me. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the earth to hear me now like it seemed to when I was young. It’s childish foolishness, but if there was ever a time I needed to believe in the magic of this place, it’s now.

Please don’t forget.

Eventually, my longing for Foxglove fades. My time away does what Mom hoped it would do, distracting me. Distancing me. I forget about the wild fantasies of childhood and the magical meadow that once fascinated me.

The cabin sits empty. We don’t talk about it. Don’t visit.

Still, every once in a while, a dream will sneak up on me, catching me off guard.

A dream about the meadow or the willow tree, about the little creek that runs through the woods.

About the flowers and the sunshine that feel so different there.

About the wind, and the roots, and the stones sunk so deep in the dirt only the earth remembers their stories. Bones with names long since forgotten.

And, foolishly, when my mind wanders back to that girlhood innocence and whimsy, the place where fairies are real and the good guys always win, I wonder if the ground is still breathing.

If the house remembers me.

If it’s still waiting.

Still listening for a Wilde girl to come home.