Summer with My Sisters (22 page)

“I
’m glad you were interested in coming with me,” Sheila said. “Freddie hates this sort of thing.”

Violet managed a smile. She had woken at two o’clock that morning from the dream about the weird garden, and this time, it had been more frightening than ever. This time, she had killed both of her parents by giving them each a goblet of poisonous tea. What was unclear in the dream world and now in the waking world was if she had known the tea was poisonous when she offered it. And the demon in the well had been covered in what Violet could only call gore. In spite of the comforting warmth and bulk of Grimace, curled up under her left arm, she hadn’t been able to get back to sleep, but had lain awake until six when Grimace had announced with his usual earsplitting howl that it was time for breakfast.

It was almost noon now and Violet still felt groggy. She had avoided drinking any of the decaf green tea (the poisonous tea from the dream?) that morning because she thought it might knock her out entirely and she really wanted to go to the craft show with Sheila. Sheila had shown her a brochure advertising some of the artists who would be selling their work and a stained glass artist named Kashmir had drawn her attention. Violet had been envisioning a beautiful piece of stained glass for her room, which had a south-facing window where the piece would glow with the light.

“Freddie’s probably going to hate this,” Sheila said. They had stopped at a booth where a man was selling hand-printed silk scarves and Sheila had picked up a scarf in shades of taupe and gray. “She has a thing about long floaty scarves. Maybe they remind her of snakes. She’s terribly afraid of snakes, you know. Or maybe they make her think of Isadora Duncan. Wasn’t she the dancer who was accidentally strangled to death by her scarf? But I’m buying it anyway. She’ll just have to look away when I’m wearing it.”

Violet smiled, as she was meant to do. Sheila often complained about Freddie, and Freddie often complained about Sheila, but everyone knew they totally loved each other. It was just a little game. Annabelle and Oliver Higgins had played little games with each other, too. Like how her mother had teased her father about his incompetence with a hammer and nails and how her father had teased her mother about her inability to master the art of eating with chopsticks.

The memory of her parents’ good-natured banter made Violet feel sad. At least she hadn’t had a full-blown panic attack again, and the Independence Day parade had brought no memories other than happy ones. She was grateful for that.

Sheila paid for the scarf and they moved on along the double row of booths. It was interesting, Violet thought, how so many people felt the urge—the need—to create. Not much of what Violet saw struck her as particularly new or special, but she liked being around creative energy. She really believed that there was value in the effort of creativity alone. It was good for the soul.

“Stop, Violet. I have to look at these earrings!” Sheila made a dash across the path to a booth where a woman was selling handcrafted jewelry. Violet followed her, and while Sheila examined several pairs of dangling silver earrings, Violet watched the stream of people passing by. There was always something interesting to see if you knew how to look for it. Like the man walking by with that magnificently carved walking stick. It was taller than he was and Violet thought it might be made of oak. Or like the woman carrying a teeny dog wearing a teeny costume of a teeny frog. Or the girl standing before the booth across the way . . .

For one powerful moment Violet was absolutely sure that she knew the girl and that she had always known her. And then, the certainty was gone, replaced by an inexplicable feeling of loss. The girl was about her own age and wearing a long loose dress like the sort Violet often wore, and a large cross-body bag made from scraps of different materials and varying patterns. Violet wondered if the girl had made it herself. It would be awesome to know how to sew.

“Do you know her?” Sheila asked.

Violet turned back to face her friend. “Who?” she asked.

“That girl across the way. The one you’ve been staring at, by the awful pottery.”

Had she really been staring? “No. For a second I thought she looked familiar, but I don’t know her.”

“That’s a beautiful pendant she’s wearing,” Sheila said, “though it looks awfully heavy. I could never stand anything heavy around my neck. It makes me feel like I’m choking. I’ll stick to floaty scarves.”

“It’s an image of Isis, the Egyptian goddess,” Violet explained. “She’s the patron of nature and magic. She’s also the protector of the dead and of children.”

“I suppose I should have known that. I’ve certainly watched enough shows about Egyptian tomb treasures and the like.”

Violet looked back one more time to see the girl joined by a woman who put her hand on her shoulder and smiled. Her mother, Violet thought. She could always tell a mother and daughter, even when they didn’t look all that much alike. This mother and daughter, though, did look alike. They each had curly red hair, for one. Violet looked away.

“Come on,” Sheila said. “I’ve decided I don’t need another pair of earrings.”

Violet followed her friend along the row of booths. “I don’t know how some people have the nerve to call their work art,” Sheila was saying. “Look at that abomination. That metal . . . thing. Who in God’s name would buy that?”

Violet was only half listening. Seeing that girl with the Isis pendant had caused her to experience a totally new and unexpected sense of longing for a friend her own age, not someone to replace Sheila, but someone who could bring another element to her life, an element she hadn’t known had been missing. What that element was, exactly, Violet couldn’t say. She was very, very grateful for all that she did have, but now it occurred to her that she might need something more,
someone
more....

“Look!” Sheila said excitedly. “There’s the stained glass artist you were telling me about.”

“Good,” Violet said, glad for the distraction from her confusing thoughts. “And then let’s get something to eat. I’m starved.”

“I
t looked like a family,” Daisy said, digging her hand into the sand. “Like a
happy
family.”

Joel, sitting beside her, shook his head. “I know. But whose happy family?”

Twenty minutes earlier Daisy and Joel had left Nico’s house in a state of minor confusion that had now morphed into a state of major confusion. What had happened was this. It was Evie’s day off and after lunch at The Friendly Lobsterman (Joel’s treat since he got the family discount) they had driven Evie back to Nico’s house, where Daisy had begged to come in to use the bathroom.

“Why didn’t you go at the restaurant?” Joel had asked.

“Because I didn’t need to go then. But I do now. Too much soda. I’m going to bust any moment.”

“Okay,” Evie said, climbing out of the back seat. “But be fast. You know I’m not supposed to have people in.”

Once inside, Daisy dashed to the powder room, while Evie went up to Nico’s bedroom to check his voice mail. When Daisy finally joined Joel in the living room he greeted her by putting his finger to his lips and shaking his head. Then he beckoned her to where he stood by the fireplace.

“Look,” he whispered, pointing to a messy stack of papers piled on the mantel. “This stuff must have fallen off the mantel. I came over to pick it up.” He held out two laminated cards. “From a high school in Vermont,” Joel went on, glancing nervously toward the stairs. “The name says Sophie Steuben. This one is dated this year and this one from the year before.”

“But the photos are gone!” Daisy hissed. “They’ve been cut out.”

“And there’s this.” Joel put the identification cards back on the mantel and took a photograph from the stack. “Look at the girl. Doesn’t it look like—”

Thundering footsteps alerted them to Evie’s return. Joel stuck the photo back in the stack of papers and pulled Daisy into the middle of the room.

“He had ten messages! And that’s just since this morning.”

“Any creditors?” Daisy asked, hoping that her voice didn’t betray her anxiety.

Evie frowned. “That’s an odd question.”

“We should be going,” Joel said, already moving toward the door. “Thanks for letting Daisy use the bathroom. I’m trying to break her of her soda habit, but . . .”

Joel had then driven to the beach with no protest from Daisy. She couldn’t go home just yet, not with this mystery unsolved.

“Why cut out the picture and save the rest of the card?” she wondered.

“I have no idea. Have you ever seen Evie’s handwriting?”

After a moment Daisy shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“Because if one of us had we might be able to compare it to the handwriting on the cards.”

“Meaning, you think that maybe Evie Jones is really Sophie Steuben?” Daisy asked. “Or that she
was
?” The thought that her new friend might be deceiving them was disturbing.

Joel shrugged.

“Anyway, a signature isn’t really a good indication of a person’s handwriting. I mean, my signature is a scrawl, but in general my handwriting is fine. So even if . . .”

Daisy found she couldn’t go on.

“You know,” Joel said suddenly. “I really didn’t mean to snoop. All I did was pick up the stuff that had fallen off the mantel.”

“I know. And how could you not have noticed the damaged cards?”

“The girl in the picture. She could be Evie. Did you see the eyes?”

“I only got a quick look,” Daisy admitted. “Just enough to see that all three people were smiling.”

“How old would you say the girl was?”

Daisy shrugged. “Eleven? Twelve? Why?”

“Didn’t you tell me that Evie said her parents died in a fire when she was ten? And don’t look so guilty, I haven’t told anyone. We’re the only two who know the truth.”

“Yes. She said she was ten. But . . . Maybe the adults in the photo aren’t her parents. Maybe they’re foster parents. Or relatives.” But some instinct told Daisy that the people in the photo, whoever they were, were father, mother, and daughter.

“Maybe,” Joel said after a moment, “the ID cards and the photograph have nothing to do with Evie. Maybe they were left behind at The Clamshell. People are always losing things in restaurants and not claiming them. Maybe some woman dropped her bag and the cards and the photograph fell out and she didn’t notice they were gone.”

“But what would Evie want with them?”

“I have no idea,” Joel admitted. “I’m just trying to consider all the possibilities. Maybe Nico knows someone named Sophie Steuben. Maybe she’s a niece or something. Though why he would have her outdated, vandalized high school ID is beyond me.”

“Does Nico have a housekeeper?” Daisy wondered. “Maybe the stuff belongs to her. Maybe she has a daughter named Sophie Steuben.”

“Possible. Evie never mentioned a housekeeper, but that doesn’t mean Nico doesn’t have one. Anyway, back to the photograph. We think the girl in the picture is eleven or twelve, right? Evie’s eighteen. People change so much over time. How could we ever tell if they’re the same person? And what does it matter?” Joel rubbed his forehead. “Why is this any of our business?”

“Because we made an emotional investment in Evie’s friendship,” Daisy said. “You know, it’s the fact of the missing photos on the ID cards that really puzzles me. Was whoever cut them out angry? Or did she—or he—only want to reuse the pictures?”

“This is too weird,” Joel said forcefully. “I think we should just pretend we never saw anything out of the ordinary. Because maybe it
is
all ordinary.”

“But what if Evie is in trouble?” Daisy countered. “What if she needs our help?”

Joel sighed. Daisy thought he sounded annoyed. “What makes you think she could be in trouble?” he asked. “You’re always assuming that everyone needs help!”

“Just, what if?” Daisy pressed. “Look, I was right in the beginning, when I didn’t know Evie but I sensed that she was hiding something.”

“Fine. But if she does need help, shouldn’t she come to
us,
not the other way around?”

“What if she’s too scared to come to us?”

“Why would she be scared?” Joel said. “We’re her friends.”

“Look,” Daisy argued. “The fact is that she hardly knows us. And we hardly know her. Here
we
are wondering if she’s been hiding something from us. Why should she think she can trust us when we’re not sure we can trust her?”

Joel nodded. “Good point. I guess we can’t just forget what we saw. But I’m worried she’ll be angry if we confront her.”

“I think,” Daisy said, “that we have to take that chance.”

“E
vie,” Daisy asked, looking down at her hands folded in her lap. “Who is Sophie Steuben?”

Daisy, Joel, and Evie were sitting at a picnic table outside The Clamshell. Evie was on break. And her blood had just turned cold. “I don’t know anyone with that name,” she said quickly.
Too quickly,
she thought.
Stupid
.

Daisy looked up now. Her expression was worried. “Because the other day, when we came in so I could use the bathroom we saw—”

“You were snooping!” Evie cried.

Daisy reached across the table, but Evie snatched her hand away. “No,” she said. “Honestly, we weren’t!”

Joel, sitting next to Evie, took a deep breath and turned to her. “This is what happened. You had gone upstairs to check Nico’s voice mail and I saw a bunch of papers on the floor by the fireplace. I figured they must have fallen off the mantel, so I just picked everything up to put it back.”

Evie felt nauseous. This was a nightmare. “And you couldn’t help but look,” she said flatly.

“Yes,” Joel said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. You know how your eye just catches something.”

“What did you see, exactly?” Evie asked.

Daisy told her. “Was it you and your parents in the photo?”

“Yes,” Evie said shortly. The photo had been taken less than a year before the accident, back when they were all so happy. Why hadn’t she left it behind at her aunt and uncle’s? And those stupid ID cards! Why hadn’t she thrown them out after cutting away the pictures to use if she needed more false identification someday?

Evie did some rapid thinking. She could continue to swear that she didn’t know anyone named Sophie Steuben. They couldn’t prove that she did. She could say the damaged cards must belong to Nico; maybe he was using them in one of his crazy assemblages. They might believe her. And they might not believe her. Either way, something in her gut told her that if she didn’t tell Daisy and Joel at least a part of the truth then the friendship they had been constructing over the past weeks would fall apart. And that was something she really didn’t want to happen.

Still, for another moment Evie could say nothing. It occurred to her that Daisy might have told Joel the phony story about the fire and the foster homes. And if Daisy
had
betrayed her, Evie had absolutely no right to be angry. After all, she had told Daisy a lie. Daisy didn’t yet know it, but Daisy had every right to be angry with
her
.

“Evie?” Joel prompted.

“I didn’t tell you the real truth, Daisy,” Evie said carefully, crafting the story as she went along. “My parents didn’t die in a fire when I was ten. My mother died of cancer a few years ago. And I wasn’t in foster care. My father always used to drink, but after my mother died he got worse. He couldn’t take care of me, so he sent me to live with some old friends of his, but . . . but the man tried to . . .” Evie looked down at the table. This lie was hard to say aloud. “He tried to rape me and I had no choice but to run away.”

Daisy put her hand to her heart. “Oh my God, that’s so awful, Evie. Or should I—”

“No,” Evie said fiercely. “Don’t call me Sophie. She’s in the past. Those things you found. I should have thrown them away. I will.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” Daisy asked gently.

“Because I was scared of . . . Scared of him finding me. The more people who know who I really am . . .”

“How long have you been on your own?” Joel asked.

Stay calm,
Evie told herself. “I was only sixteen, I mean seventeen, when I left those people, but I’m eighteen now, like I told you. Everything’s okay. Anyway, you have to keep this a secret.” Evie looked pleadingly to Daisy. “Don’t even tell your sisters.”

“I’d rather die than reveal your secret,” Joel said earnestly.

Evie smiled. “Thanks.”

“I promise, too,” Daisy said. “By why would my sisters care? I mean, you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re an adult. And you have nothing to be ashamed about.”

Oh, yes,
Evie thought.
I do!
“I know, but . . . It’s just that I don’t want people knowing about what happened to my family. . . It’s . . . It’s embarrassing.”

“Don’t worry, Evie,” Joel assured her. “Your secret is safe with us.”

“Look, I’ve got to get back to work so . . .” Evie got up from the picnic table. The others rose with her.

“We’ll see you later, Evie,” Daisy said. “And don’t worry. Everything’s all right.”

Evie watched for a moment as her two friends—could she still call them that?—walked to Joel’s Volvo. And she found herself wondering if she had wanted to be found out. If she hadn’t, why had she been so careless with those ID cards and the photo? Maybe, she thought, walking toward the restaurant, she should just run off again, before she got herself further embroiled in lies. Take what money she had managed to save and cut her losses, as she had heard her father say. Start over somewhere new.

But even as Evie contemplated this action, she knew that she just didn’t have the energy.