Poppy
Back in Scotland, her room at the castle is near Lillith’s ground floor office, studio, and darkroom. Lillith’s private suite is upstairs. It isn’t possible to snoop up there without drawing staff suspicion. And Athens was too rushed for opportunities. This cruise is her chance.
Atropine eye drops, prescribed “sublingually” to dry the mouth. Gabapentin, for nerve pain and cramps. A tub of Swalloweze Clear “for dietary management of dysphagia.”
She finds an unopened box of hyoscine hydrobromide patches, co-codamol for pain. More diazepam, this particular prescription “for panic and shortness of breath.”
She frowns, tension increasing in her chest as she places the medications in the bathroom cabinets.
There’s a card tucked into the side of the cosmetic case.
Dr. Annette Rowling,
Regenerative Neurology Clinic, Edinburgh.
Alongside the card is a piece of paper with contact information for a community palliative care team, plus the address of a hospice in Scotland, coupled with a helpline number.
A chill works down Poppy’s spine—this is a pattern she recognizes: She knows MND stands for motor neuron disease. She’s seen similar collections of meds. Usually for symptomatic relief of ALS—amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—or Lou Gehrig’s disease. The rapidly progressing kind.
And judging by this medication—especially the fact that Lillith brought with her the unopened tub of Swalloweze—she may have six months, or maybe less, before she will need round-the-clock palliative care.
But so far the old woman’s cognition seems okay to Poppy.
Just the occasional hesitation while searching for words, and the odd slurred phrase.
Poppy assumed it was drink. Lillith likes a good tipple—she had, after all, been a hard-living war correspondent and no stranger to a wild life. That alone could take a toll.
Poppy closes the bathroom cabinet. This should feel like a win.
So why does she feel a sadness curling through her instead?
She glances at her reflection. And it hits her.
In the nine months since she was hired, Poppy has actually grown fond of her boss.
Lillith is not what she expected. She’s not condescending, patronizing, demeaning, or demanding, like so many of the superrich are.
Despite her wealth and elegance, Lillith is down to earth.
Kind, even. Poppy isn’t used to kindness.
Lillith asks how she’s feeling. She asks if Poppy is happy, and whether she needs anything.
This realization makes Poppy’s stomach hurt.
Ever since she can remember, Poppy was always the odd one out. She never belonged anywhere. Always the ungainly one. Too big, too fat, too clumsy, always misspeaking, too nerdy. All she ever truly had was her mom and dad, and when she lost them, she felt completely abandoned. Worthless.
She inhales a deep, shaky breath.
Not only is she growing fond of Lillith, she respects—even admires—her.
She was a daring war photographer—her work is phenomenal.
Poppy has been going through all the old photographs while helping with Lillith’s memoir.
Before she married Angus, Lillith Ravenscroft went places men dared not go.
She captured photos of children and women and seniors in violent war zones across the globe.
She gave faces and voices to innocents, the victims of conflicts.
Poppy stares at her reflection a moment longer.
Who are you, really, Poppy Buchanan? Do you even know anymore? What do you really want?
“Poppy?”
She startles at the sound of Lillith’s voice coming from the other side of the door. Her pulse kicks and her heart begins to race.
“Is that you in the bathroom, Poppy?”
“Coming!”
Poppy quickly splashes water on her face, pats it dry, whispers to her reflection:
Calm down. You’ve handled worse than a dying old heiress. You’ve got this.
She smooths her hair, straightens her glasses, adjusts her simple navy sheath dress, and opens the door.
“I unpacked your toiletries and medications,” she says evenly. “Didn’t want to wake you. How are you feeling? How was your rest?”
Lillith struggles up into a sitting position. She leans back against the pillows and studies Poppy with her good eye. Beyond the windows the sky has turned soft indigo and mauve, and the sea ripples to the horizon.
“Thank you,” she says simply. “And yes, I feel somewhat restored.” She reaches for her glass of water on the nightstand, and sips. “How about you? How are you feeling? Did you catch the launch? A nice cocktail or two?”
Something clenches in Poppy’s chest. She forces a smile. “Actually, yes. And there’s nothing a good G&T can’t fix. Shall I make you something to drink, Lillith? Or there’s chilled champagne? Juice?”
“A G&T is exactly what I need.” She smiles, sits up fully, and edges her legs off the side of the bed. “Then I’d like to dress for dinner.”
A nice feeling infuses Poppy’s chest. It’s precisely what she wants, too. To go up for a fancy dinner. With the rich widow. And she’s warmed by the fact Lillith has chosen to live out her last days drinking G&Ts. On a cruise. With her.