Summer with My Sisters (7 page)

E
vie glanced over her right shoulder and then her left. The convenience store was almost empty of customers; it wasn’t yet noon when there would likely begin a rush of people wanting sodas and chips to go with the expensive sandwiches they had bought next door at the high-end takeout and café. Good. Hardly any people meant there was hardly anyone to catch her in the act of shoplifting. As if it mattered.

Slowly, Evie walked down the aisle of personal hygiene products, picking up a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap here and there and pretending to read the ingredients. She hadn’t shoplifted often, only twice before, and both times she had been desperate—the first time for sanitary pads and the second for water. And both times she had been sick with anxiety.

Today, though, Evie was feeling reckless. It had happened before since leaving her aunt and uncle’s house, this temptation to throw all caution to the wind, to put herself in the path of exposure. So what if she got caught and sent to foster care or even to jail? How much worse could that be than the life she was living now, always looking over her shoulder for the police, always afraid at night, haunted by memories? Always alone. If nothing could bring her mother back then nothing really mattered. In these moments of recklessness she felt that she had been so stupid to run away from her aunt and uncle’s home. She felt that she deserved to be punished for having acted so idiotically. She felt that she deserved to be caught.

Evie stopped before the shelves of toothpaste. With a final quick and furtive glance toward the front of the store where the cashier was stationed, Evie extended her hand toward the shelf at the height of her thigh. And then she stumbled.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” a girl was saying to her. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s okay,” Evie said quickly. Had the girl seen her hand reaching for the tube of toothpaste? But even if she had, how would she know that Evie was going to steal it? Still, her heart refused to calm to its normal beat.

“I’m always bumping into things,” the girl went on. “And people. Bad coordination. It’s why I’m awful at sports.”

“Oh.”

“Well,” the girl said, turning away, “bye. Sorry again.”

For a moment Evie stood frozen to the spot, her hands dangling at her side. And then she walked hurriedly to the door. The encounter, unsettling as it was, had served to deter her from shoplifting and for that, she was thankful. What would her mother have thought about her daughter being a thief? Surely Evelyn had experienced plenty of minor hardships while she was trekking through the Far East and the highlands of Scotland. And Evie was certain that her mother never would have resorted to stealing. Evie would simply make do without toothpaste for a day or two until she next got paid. Or maybe Nico had left a stray tube in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. She could replace it before he got back at the end of the summer.

None of the store’s employees stopped Evie as she left the convenience store, though she half expected someone to have suspected her criminal intentions from the look of guilt that was probably all over her face. Once out on the sidewalk she put a hand to her heart and willed herself to calm down. And then she saw the girl who had bumped into her standing across the street. She was with another girl with very short hair and wearing a billowy mint-green dress; the second girl was chewing vigorously and holding a small bright yellow paper bag into which the older one now reached. Candy. Evie recognized the bag. The girls must have been to the homemade candy shop on the corner; they were sharing what they had bought.

Evie looked away, and with a powerful loneliness dogging her every step, she walked back to Nico’s house at the end of Nubble Lane.

“A
re you ready? I don’t want to be late to the vet.”

Poppy looked up from the copy of
Coastal Home
magazine she was idly browsing. Her youngest sister was standing in a shaft of sunlight coming through the kitchen’s skylight. A chunk of crystal quartz on a chain around her neck blared brilliantly. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Violet pointed to the purple plastic animal carrier sitting near her feet. “Grimace has an appointment at the vet this morning. His left ear, remember? It’s been bothering him.”

As if to prove the point, Grimace let out a dreadful yowl from behind the bars of his prison.

“But I made an appointment at the spa in Ogunquit for a hot-stone massage,” Poppy said. “In half an hour.”

“But I told you about Grimace’s appointment days ago.”

Had she? Violet never lied, but Poppy had no recollection of hearing this bit of news. “Can you reschedule Grimace’s appointment?” she asked.

Violet stared solemnly at her. “I’ve got him emotionally prepared for the trip. It wouldn’t be fair to change things now.”

Poppy sighed. “Okay,” she said. “Sorry. Just let me grab my keys.”

Really,
she thought as they left the house, her sister carrying the loudly protesting cat in his carrier.
How can you be so selfish? Does a hot-stone massage really trump the health of your little sister’s beloved pet, the kitty that had helped her survive those first horrible weeks and months after Mom’s death?

“How much is this visit going to cost?” Poppy asked as Violet loaded the carrier in the back seat and got into the front passenger seat.

“I have no idea,” Violet said over Grimace’s screams. “The bill will come to you.”

 

Julie had called Poppy three times now, inviting her to stop by and see the kids and the farm and catch up on old times. Poppy figured her old friend would continue to pester her with calls until she gave in and paid a visit to Fisk Farm; Julie had always been a persistent sort. Besides, she didn’t really know what was holding her back from seeing her friend. True, they had taken very different paths after high school; Julie hadn’t gone to college and she was married with two children. And maybe that was it, Poppy thought. Maybe she was afraid they would have no common ground. It would still feel like a loss if they faced each other across an abyss, realizing they had absolutely nothing to talk about anymore. And Poppy had had enough of loss.

Poppy pulled up the dirt drive and parked in front of the old farmhouse Julie called home. The house had been in Mack’s family for generations and though it clearly needed some repair—a new paint job, for one—it looked sound enough and it certainly had charm. The front porch was right out of a home decorating editorial—white wicker rocking chairs, hanging flowering plants, a brightly colored flag proclaiming “Welcome,” a child’s tricycle. The front door was painted bright red and there was a gleaming brass knocker in the shape of a rooster. Set as it was on several acres of cultivated farmland and backed by fields of wildflowers, Poppy thought the scene before her was as near to idyllic as you might get on this earth.

Two children came running around the side of the house, laughing and chasing after a beat-up soccer ball. Julie’s son and daughter. Virginia, she thought, would be about eight and Michael about five. Poppy thought again of her own “child”—Violet. She had apologized again to her sister and had gone into the treatment room with Violet and Grimace, though the ferocity with which the cat was clawing at the bars of his carrier had frightened her. (To her great surprise, he was as calm as a Buddha once released.) Really, she had to keep in mind that even though Violet could seem preternaturally mature and self-sufficient, she was only thirteen. She would have to pay closer attention to her youngest sister. After all, her mother had asked her only weeks before she died to look out for Daisy and Violet.
If only she had known what that would entail,
Poppy thought.
If only she had known that Dad would be with us for only another three years.

Poppy got out of the car just as her old friend was emerging from the house, a smile on her face. Julie was a good deal shorter than Poppy (most women were), and looked to be about seven or eight months pregnant. Her hair, a natural peachy color, was pulled back in a messy ponytail and there was a smudge of what looked like jam on her cheek.

Poppy smiled. “Putting up preserves?”

Julie automatically wiped both cheeks with a small towel that hung over her shoulder. “More like peanut butter and jelly for lunch. My kids are addicted to it.”

Poppy gave her old friend a hug. “It’s good to see you, Julie,” she said. “Number three! When are you due?”

“End of August, if this one can be patient. The way it dances around . . . Come inside. I’ll make us some tea, unless you’d prefer coffee. Virginia! Tell your brother we’ll be in the kitchen.”

Poppy watched as Julie’s daughter signed to her brother. Michael had been born deaf; Poppy didn’t know exactly what had caused his deafness and she had always felt it wasn’t her place to ask Julie for details. As long as Michael was happy and healthy . . . Poppy saw him nod and then give the ball a kick that sent it flying through the air.

“Michael’s got quite a kick for a little guy,” she said, following Julie through a spotlessly clean and impossibly neat living room and into the kitchen. The room was charming: dish towels printed with images of chickens and roosters were placed neatly over the handle of the oven door and on the lip of the sink; several gleaming copper pots hung on a rack to the right of the oven; a bright red enamel kettle was boiling away on the stove; an old scrubbed milk can stood in one corner, from which erupted a spray of dried Bells of Ireland.

“Where did you learn to be such a good housekeeper?” Poppy asked. “And interior decorator. If we were ever taught housekeeping in school I must have been sick that day.”

Julie laughed. “My mother. Where else?”

“I guess I don’t remember my mother doing all that much around the house,” Poppy said, taking a seat at the round wooden table. “She spent a lot of time working in the garden, but otherwise we had a housekeeper. Do you remember her? Mrs. Olds also made a lot of our meals. With both of my parents always working so much and my father on the road so often it made sense. Of course, I never paid any attention to what Mrs. Olds was doing and now I regret it. I’m having to learn everything about keeping a house and a family in good working order all at once.”

“It’s not rocket science, Poppy,” Julie said. “Mostly it’s common sense and organization.”

“I’m finding that out,” Poppy admitted. She thought again of Violet and vowed to buy one of those large whiteboards and install it prominently in the kitchen. She would make it a habit to write down every appointment and event her sisters mentioned and to check the board regularly.

Julie brought the tea and a tin of homemade chocolate chip cookies to the table and sat down across from Poppy.

“So, what is it exactly you do in Boston?” she asked. “Or, I guess, did, unless you’re working from home?”

“No, I’m taking a hiatus from work.” As succinctly as she could Poppy explained the sort of writing and reporting she had done for the online magazines.

“It sounds so exciting,” Julie said.

Poppy laughed. “Not exactly cutting-edge stuff, believe me.” In fact, Poppy thought, Julie’s cheese-making was far more exotic than what she had been doing for the past few years. “Mostly it’s sitting at a computer for so many hours a day you almost forget how to talk to a person face-to-face.”

“That
doesn’t
sound very exciting, you’re right. I’ll stick to my curds and whey.”

Poppy laughed. “What are they, exactly? Other than what Little Miss Muffet was eating when the spider came along.”

Julie explained. “But enough about dairy products,” she said then, “tell me more about you. Are you seeing anyone special?”

“No.” Poppy shrugged. “Unlucky in love, I guess.”
If never having been in love at all was unlucky,
she thought. Maybe it was a sign that she was somehow emotionally deficient. That was a startling thought.

“Maybe you’ll meet someone here in Yorktide,” Julie suggested.

“You’ve always been such an optimist! There can’t be many single, eligible men in this little town.”

Julie grinned. “All it takes is one.”

“That’s true, but meeting someone is the last thing on my mind. Honestly, I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed by—by life.”

“You’ve been put in a tough position for sure. You know if there’s anything I can do to help, I will.”

Poppy was genuinely touched by her old friend’s offer of support. “For one,” she said, “you could give me the recipe for these cookies. Better yet, you could make me a batch. If you have time, I mean. I haven’t attempted to bake anything since I last made brownies with my mother and that was from a mix.”

“Gladly. In the meantime I want you to have these.” Julie went to the fridge and retrieved a round of goat cheese and a wedge of what she described as an alpine type cheese made from cow’s milk. “Fisk Farm’s finest. Wow. Try saying that three times in a row.”

Poppy smiled. “Thank you, Julie. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Julie assured her. “Just promise you won’t be a stranger.”

Poppy promised, said good-bye, and got behind the wheel of the car that had once been her father’s. What choice did she have but to promise? she thought as she drove off. Even if she wanted to disappear into a life of solitude, she doubted it would be possible in a town like Yorktide, where everybody knew everybody and gossip was often more reliable than the newspaper. And maybe—just maybe—that would turn out to be a good thing.

“H
e did have a flair for the dramatic, your father. Rabelais, no less.”

Violet and Sheila were visiting the Higgins family plot in Yorktide Memorial Cemetery. Someday, Violet thought, she would be buried there, alongside her parents. She knew for sure that she didn’t want to be cremated. She thought being buried was nicer, with a carpet of green grass over your head and pretty flowers sprouting from your body, like in those lines in
Hamlet
. She wasn’t sure what her sisters thought about such things. She strongly suspected they wouldn’t be comfortable talking about them.

Sheila placed the bouquets of wildflowers she and Violet had picked earlier on each of the graves.

“Do you believe in life after death?” Violet asked.

Sheila raised an eyebrow. “What a question! I wasn’t sure anyone wondered about such things anymore. But yes, I don’t see why not. Just don’t ask me what it might be like. I don’t know how anyone can presume to know such a thing, or even to hazard a guess.”

“I think it must be very interesting, whatever it’s like. Life after death. Interesting and beautiful, like a spectacular garden.”
But not like that garden in my dream,
Violet thought. The one in which she had killed her mother.

“I certainly hope so,” Sheila replied.

“Though I doubt it’ll be like those stories about heaven my mother told me she was taught when she was little. People meeting up again with long-dead relatives and friends, like at a big party.”

“How confusing!” Sheila cried. “I always wondered how you would work things out, meeting former husbands and their new wives or the weird kid in high school who followed you around, desperately wanting to be your friend. Let’s face it, there are some people you just don’t want to meet again, here or there!”

“Oh, I’m sure. I believe in angels, too, but I don’t think they have wings and wear flowing robes. I think they’re more—presences.”

Sheila looked carefully at Violet. “I didn’t know young girls thought much about . . . presences.”

“I do.”

“Do you feel your parents’ presences? That’s hard to say,
parents’ presences.
”

“Oh, yes,” Violet said. “Of course I do. For a while after Mom died I actually saw her around the house. But it’s been kind of a long time since that’s happened. I guess she’s moved on. That’s the phrase people use—
moved on.
”

“My dear, I never knew you were so—”

“So what?” Violet asked.

“So attuned. Have you also seen your father?”

“No. It’s been four months since he died, so I don’t think I’ll ever be seeing him. But I know he’s around, or that part of him is.”

“I understand,” Sheila said. “When our cat Jack died—remember him?—I heard him for almost a year afterward. I swear he was still in the house. I’d hear the particular sound of his jumping from the bed and landing on the bare wood floor. I’d hear his unique way of meowing. Ma-Mow! Ma-Mow! Freddie thought I was losing my mind, I’m afraid. There’s not an imaginative bone in that woman’s body.”

Violet nodded. “Freddie is very earthbound. You have to be earthbound to be a lawyer, I guess. She must be the practical one in your house.”

“I can be practical, too,” Sheila pointed out. “Don’t forget, I was a very effective administrative assistant for many years. But when I don’t have to be—earthbound—I’m glad. I know you understand.”

Violet remembered how Poppy had sounded dubious when she told her that Sheila was her friend. As if two people so far apart in age couldn’t understand each other. Couldn’t count on each other. She looked up at Sheila. “You are my friend, aren’t you?” she asked.

“What a question! Of course I am.”

“And I’m your friend?”

Sheila smiled. “Violet, never doubt it for a moment. You’re stuck with me through thick or thin.”

“Good,” Violet said. And she slipped her hand into Sheila’s, aware that it was the first time she had initiated physical contact with another person since her father had died.