wraparound butcher-block countertop, marred with at least a century’s worth of stains, gashes, and cuts, and a huge prep island in the middle that is just as worn. The walls are lined with shelves filled with earthen apothecary jars that look ancient, their glazes aged and cracked, each etched and painted with the name of an herb or spice. There are hundreds of them, some as common as salt and cinnamon, and others with weird labels like boneset, galax, kidney weed, and sassafras. But my favorite has to be sticklewort. What could you possibly do with something like that?
“Normally I’d treat a burn with cow dung and spittle, but I doubt your brother would like that.” Miss Delia cackles as she washes her hands at the sink.
“Too bad, because I’d love to see his face when you put those on him.” Although considering his recent behavior, maybe that’s exactly what she should use. But she seems too nice to go through with it.
She dries her hand on a dishcloth. “Not to worry, I’ve got plenty of other remedies. We’re going to make us a poultice for those ugly blisters. Fetch me that pot from under the counter and put it on the stove.” She points her warped finger at a cast iron saucepan.
I reach for the long, textured handle, but it’s so heavy, it takes two hands to lift, and crashes against the gas burner with a thud. She squints up at the jars with her good eye. “I’ll need the American senna, elderberry, and sweet gum bark. And don’t forget the balm of Gilead buds, either.” On tiptoe, I search the labels, then reach for each of the items she asked for and carefully place them on the center island. Meanwhile, she drags a small marble mortar and pestle across the counter.
“I’ll need your help crushing these since I don’t have the strength.” She pulls a thick wad of wound cloth from a drawer. Humming to herself, she draws some water from the tap, pours it into the pot, and turns on the flame. Then she opens each jar and places some of their contents on the counter. Pursing her lips, she stares into the elderberry jar.
“What’s wrong?”
She sucks her front teeth. “It’s empty.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s not good.” She shakes her head. “It’s the best medicine for boils.”
“Do you want us to run to the store for some?”
She laughs and replaces the lid. “Child, you can’t go to the store to pick up elderberry leaves. You got to pick them in the wild. I suppose I could do without them, but he said that burn was getting worse. I wanted to brew the strongest medicine I could.”
“What do they look like? I’m sure I can find some.”
She pats my arm. “Bless your heart, but you’d probably get confused by the wild cherry. Their leaves are pretty similar.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Wild cherry’s a tree, and the other’s a shrub, right?”
She cocks her head. “How do you know that?”
I stare at the counter and mentally trace the shape of a deep brown scorch mark. “Um, well. I don’t have a ton of friends back home, so I spend a lot of time in the woods sketching.”
I’m not sure why I feel so comfortable telling her the pathetic truth about my life, but I can’t hold back. At home, I’m generally recognized as the art freak with a bag of art supplies. With Jack busy playing soccer or baseball or working on the school paper, and Mom at work or with one of her boyfriends, most of my free time is spent at the Arboretum or the National Zoo, reconstructing their gardens in my sketchpad.
Summer is my saving grace. When I’m with Cooper and Jack, I feel like I belong, like I’m part of a team. And even though we usually spend our time sailing Beau’s boat or fishing and swimming in the Sound, there’s plenty of time for drawing or painting—that is, when we’re not obsessing over an exploding treasure.
But all that time in nature has its upside, too. Like being able to recognize the difference between a wild cherry tree and a shrub. I meet
“Normally I’d treat a burn with cow dung and spittle, but I doubt your brother would like that.” Miss Delia cackles as she washes her hands at the sink.
“Too bad, because I’d love to see his face when you put those on him.” Although considering his recent behavior, maybe that’s exactly what she should use. But she seems too nice to go through with it.
She dries her hand on a dishcloth. “Not to worry, I’ve got plenty of other remedies. We’re going to make us a poultice for those ugly blisters. Fetch me that pot from under the counter and put it on the stove.” She points her warped finger at a cast iron saucepan.
I reach for the long, textured handle, but it’s so heavy, it takes two hands to lift, and crashes against the gas burner with a thud. She squints up at the jars with her good eye. “I’ll need the American senna, elderberry, and sweet gum bark. And don’t forget the balm of Gilead buds, either.” On tiptoe, I search the labels, then reach for each of the items she asked for and carefully place them on the center island. Meanwhile, she drags a small marble mortar and pestle across the counter.
“I’ll need your help crushing these since I don’t have the strength.” She pulls a thick wad of wound cloth from a drawer. Humming to herself, she draws some water from the tap, pours it into the pot, and turns on the flame. Then she opens each jar and places some of their contents on the counter. Pursing her lips, she stares into the elderberry jar.
“What’s wrong?”
She sucks her front teeth. “It’s empty.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s not good.” She shakes her head. “It’s the best medicine for boils.”
“Do you want us to run to the store for some?”
She laughs and replaces the lid. “Child, you can’t go to the store to pick up elderberry leaves. You got to pick them in the wild. I suppose I could do without them, but he said that burn was getting worse. I wanted to brew the strongest medicine I could.”
“What do they look like? I’m sure I can find some.”
She pats my arm. “Bless your heart, but you’d probably get confused by the wild cherry. Their leaves are pretty similar.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Wild cherry’s a tree, and the other’s a shrub, right?”
She cocks her head. “How do you know that?”
I stare at the counter and mentally trace the shape of a deep brown scorch mark. “Um, well. I don’t have a ton of friends back home, so I spend a lot of time in the woods sketching.”
I’m not sure why I feel so comfortable telling her the pathetic truth about my life, but I can’t hold back. At home, I’m generally recognized as the art freak with a bag of art supplies. With Jack busy playing soccer or baseball or working on the school paper, and Mom at work or with one of her boyfriends, most of my free time is spent at the Arboretum or the National Zoo, reconstructing their gardens in my sketchpad.
Summer is my saving grace. When I’m with Cooper and Jack, I feel like I belong, like I’m part of a team. And even though we usually spend our time sailing Beau’s boat or fishing and swimming in the Sound, there’s plenty of time for drawing or painting—that is, when we’re not obsessing over an exploding treasure.
But all that time in nature has its upside, too. Like being able to recognize the difference between a wild cherry tree and a shrub. I meet
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