in groups of threes numbered in the hundreds.
“It’s poison ivy,” I said.
“Oh shit,” Mo said. All the joking was over. She reached out to help Mom up.
“No, wait,” I said. “Don’t touch her. The poison can spread to you too.”
Mom stood up and looked me over. “You okay? I don’t see any welts.”
“Yet,” I said quickly. “It could take a few minutes to show up.” I knew I should’ve felt something already.
“What do we do?” Mom asked.
“We have to wash it off,” I said. “The oil in the plant is what causes the reaction. We have to get it off us.” The cool sensation on my skin dissipated as images of the hemlock root splayed open on my desk flashed in my head. This feeling was nothing even close to that.
“Come on,” Mom said.
I followed her to her room. She went into her bathroom and turned on the water in the tub. Mo was furiously Googling Mom’s symptoms on WebMD, asking her if she was having trouble breathing or swallowing. She wasn’t, so at least we didn’t need to go to the ER.
“I’m gonna go wash off in my bathroom,” I said.
“Okay,” said Mom. “Hurry before it gets too bad.”
I went to my bathroom and closed the door. I turned on the faucet in the tub. The water spurted brown for a few seconds before clearing. I took off my shirt and stared at myself in the floor-length mirror that hung on the back of the door. I waited for the hives to appear.
I turned and tried to get a look at my back—nothing there, nothing on the curve of my belly where my shirt had risen up when I fell. No splotches on my legs. The cool feeling had completely disappeared. Maybe it was because the poison ivy was less toxic than other plants, but even still, welts and blisters should have been popping up all over me by now. I sat on the edge of the tub, watching the water swirl into the drain, feeling like I was missing something. Something important.
“Briseis?” Mo called from outside the bathroom door.
I turned off the water. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m gonna have to go into town and get some calamine lotion for Mom. She’s a mess.”
“Into town?” I laughed. “Sounds real country.”
“Right?” she said. “We’re already fitting in. How much calamine lotion do you need, love? You need a whole bottle?”
I looked at my reflection again. “I don’t think it got me as bad as Mom. I’m good.”
“Okay. Text me if you change your mind. Be back soon.”
I heard her leave and close the door. I stripped off the rest of my dirty clothes, washed my cut elbow, and changed into a pair of leggings and an oversized T-shirt I’d shoved in my bag before we left home. I went down the hall to check on Mom. I knocked on her door.
“Don’t come in here,” she said. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
I could tell by her tone that she was only half-joking, so I turned the handle and went in. She was sprawled across her bed in her underwear, staring up at the ceiling. Every inch of skin that wasn’t protected by her tank top or shorts when she fell was covered in welts.
“I want to scratch my skin off,” she said.
“Don’t,” I said. “That’ll make it worse.”
“It can get worse? Great.” She turned her head to look at me. “You’re not scratching. You didn’t get any on you?”
“I guess not,” I said, looking at the floor. An entire triplet of leaves had gone in my mouth when I fell, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.
“Lucky,” she said.
“Mo’ll be back soon. What can I do?”
“Nothing, baby,” she said. She gave in and scratched her forearm. Relief spread across her face. “Why don’t you go look around some more? See if the fridge works so we can pick up some groceries. But text Mo and tell her to grab takeout for tonight.”
I went downstairs to explore the kitchen. Everything we needed was there: dishes, glasses, silverware, pots and pans, but the appliances looked as old as the house itself. A huge black contraption with a bunch of rectangular doors on the front was set into a tiled alcove in the rear wall. I sent Mo a text and asked her to grab some food on her way back.
My thoughts wandered to the letter Mrs. Redmond had given me. I took the crumpled note from my pocket and went