Poison Ivy's

Ivy’s Journal — Entries 1–3

Entry One — Age 35

“They said my life was a blessing, but my memory was a curse.”

Dr. Watson, my neurologist, says it will help if I keep a journal, and my therapist, Dr. Halpern, agrees. So, here we are, off to a good start. I’m not really sure how I should start. How am I supposed to record my life when it’s slowly being taken away from me, and the thief… my own mind.

I don’t know who “they” are. Probably the same “they” who said I was “such a pretty girl” when I was little, before the world decided I wasn’t, before the whispers. Before the rumors about my mother, my gran, and me — the “witch women” who looked too young, smiled too knowingly, and kept to themselves.

I’m writing because Dr. Halpern says Dr. Watson is right.

“Externalize your thoughts,” she said.

“Anchor your memories,” she said.

“Give your future self a map,” she said.

Future self.

Funny phrase, considering she’s the one I’m losing.

But fine. Here’s a map:

I live on a houseboat named The Greenling. I own a flower and apothecary shop called Poison Ivy’s. I have one cat, Pansy, who loves me only when I’m slicing chicken. I am 35 years old. I am not married. I am not dating. I am not interested.

My mother’s name was Jackie. She was gorgeous—statuesque with long, thick black hair that she always kept in a bun with a braided crown. My Gran was Josie; she hadn’t started to show her matured age until she hit 50, and even then, she looked more like 40. The women I knew and loved always aged more slowly than most I had little to no respect for. That might account for the rumors we never admitted or denied.

I wasn’t always alone, but I was always lonely.

School was a place I survived, not lived. The girls whispered about me — the “witch baby,” the “flower freak,” the “girl whose daddy didn’t want her.” They’d say it loud enough for me to hear but soft enough to pretend they didn’t mean it. I learned early how to shrink myself. How to take up as little space as possible. How to pretend I didn’t care.

People in town liked to say I didn’t know who my father was.

I did.

I knew exactly who he was — I just wasn’t someone he wanted to know.

I’d see him sometimes on Gaye Street, walking with his real family. His wife. His daughters. One of them — the oldest — used to bully me at school. She’d sneer at me like she knew a secret. Maybe she did.

The worst part wasn’t that he ignored me.

It was as if he looked through me.

Like I was a stranger.

Like I was no one.

The shop was the only place I ever felt wanted. Mom and Gran would let me mix petals and oils, teaching me which flowers healed and which ones hurt. My father used to come in sometimes, buying roses for his wife. He’d stand there, wallet in hand, pretending not to notice the little girl sweeping the floor.

My mother would ring him up with a smile sharp enough to cut glass.

My gran would mutter under her breath in Gaelic.

I’d pretend not to understand.

I always understood.

My name is Ivy Colbert, short and stout. I love purple, I love carbs, I love my cat, and I love plants and flowers more than people.

They say I am not sick.

Not really.

Not in the way they think.

Just tired.

Just stressed.

Just… forgetful.

That’s all.

But why does it not feel right?

Entry Two — Two Weeks Later

I forgot the word for “lavender” today.

Lavender.

My mother’s favorite.

The scent of my childhood.

The thing I’ve tied into bouquets since I was tall enough to reach the counter.

I stood there in the shop, staring at a bundle of it, and my mind went blank — a clean, white, echoing room with no doors.

I laughed it off. Told the customer I was having a “Monday brain,” even though it was Thursday. She laughed politely, the way people do when they’re uncomfortable.

I remembered the word an hour later.

It came back like a slap.

When I was eight, I forgot my lunchbox at school.

My teacher said, “You’re such a forgetful little thing.”

The other kids laughed.

I didn’t know then that forgetting would become a theme in my life — a shadow that grew taller as I did.

“Think of it this way, witchy Ivy, you could stand to miss a meal or two.” Barbara Nelson would tease.

Lavender.

What’s next to have a delayed recollection? Juniper? Thistle? What else is this condition going to take away?

I wrote it down three times in my pocket notebook, just in case it tries to run away again.

Lavender.

Lavender.

Lavender.

There.

Stay.

Entry Three — One Month Later

A new guy is living in the slip next to mine.

A boat called The Blue Hour.

Pretentious name.

Pretentious man, probably.

He knocked on my hull this morning — actually knocked — and asked if I had a wrench he could borrow. I told him I didn’t lend tools to strangers. He smiled like he knew something I didn’t.

He’s young.

Too young.

Twelve years younger, if I had to guess.

The kind of man who still believes life is something he can wrestle into shape with enough charm and caffeine.

He said his name was Talyric.

I pretended not to hear him the first time because I thought he was joking.

He wasn’t.

Talyric Roth.

Tal.

He talks too much.

He looks too closely.

He notices things I don’t want noticed.

I’ve never liked being looked at.

Not when I was a child being whispered about.

Not when I was a teenager pretending I didn’t hear the rumors.

Not when my father’s wife would stare at me like I was a stain she couldn’t scrub out of the town.

Being seen has never felt safe.

So why does it feel different with him?

Why does it feel worse?

Pansy likes him.

Traitor.

I don’t know why he bothers me.

Maybe because he sees me.

Maybe because I don’t want to be seen.

Maybe because I’m afraid, he’ll remember me long after I forget him.

Talyric Roth — First Impression of Ivy Colbert

The first thing I noticed about her was her green hair.

Not the soft, mossy green you see on Pinterest girls trying too hard.

No — hers was vibrant, alive, the kind of green that looks like it would glow under moonlight.

Like she dyed it with crushed emeralds and spite.

I saw her through the window of her houseboat the night I moved in.

She didn’t see me — or maybe she did and didn’t care — but she was padding around in mismatched knee‑high socks, one striped, one polka‑dotted, like she’d gotten dressed in the dark and decided it was good enough for whoever wasn’t looking.

Except I was looking.

And then there was the coffee.

God.

The aroma drifted across the dock like a spell — exotic, bold, warm, with something sharp underneath.

Cardamom.

Anise.

I’d know those notes anywhere.

My mother used to brew coffee like that when she wanted to keep me awake long enough to talk about life.

I didn’t expect a stranger’s coffee to hit me like a memory.

Every morning after that, I’d hear her moving around before sunrise, the soft clink of mugs, the hiss of her kettle, the faint hum of a tune she probably didn’t know she was humming.

Then she’d step out onto the dock in whatever outfit she’d chosen for her bike ride — skirts, overalls, dresses with pockets, sweaters that looked like woodland creatures had knitted them.

Always practical.

Always whimsical.

Always… her.

She’d lock up her boat, swing her leg over her bike, and ride off toward town like she was escaping something only she could see.

And the potions — yeah, I’m calling them potions.

I swear the first night I slept on my boat, I heard her cackling.

Not a cute giggle.

A full witch‑in‑the‑woods cackle.

It echoed across the water and made me sit straight up in bed.

I told myself it was a bird.

Or a drunk neighbor.

Or the river playing tricks.

But the next morning, she walked past me with a jar of something swirling and iridescent in her hands, muttering to herself like she was negotiating with the ingredients.

And she didn’t even look at me.

Not a glance.

Not a nod.

Nothing.

Which, of course, made me look harder.

There was something about her — something sharp and soft at the same time.

Something that made me want to know what she was thinking.

Something that made me want to know why she looked like she was carrying a secret she’d die before telling.

I didn’t know her name yet.

But I knew this:

I’d never met anyone like the woman with the green hair on The Greenling.