The Space Between Sisters (21 page)

But when Poppy, who looked caught between anger and sadness, had latched Sasquatch's pet carrier closed, and picked it up, and settled her handbag on the other arm, she hesitated at the front door. “If you don't mind,” she said, her face coloring a little, “I really do need to borrow your car keys. Sasquatch's appointment is in half an hour.”

And Win, savoring the irony of Poppy having to ask her for a favor now, went to get her keys off the front hall table. “Here,” she said, handing them to Poppy. “And while you're driving into town maybe you can think about
your
life, Poppy. Because the last time I checked it wasn't going
anywhere
. In fact, it's starting to look a lot like Mom and Dad's lives.”

W
in stood in the doorway and watched Poppy drive away. She was so angry, but her anger had nowhere to go.
It was so unfair,
she thought. Today, heat aside, was supposed to have been a nice day, a special day. Everett was coming soon
and they'd planned on taking a swim and going out for dinner in town. Their first date. Their first
real
date. Now she wasn't even sure she wanted to go on it, and, worse, doubts about Everett were creeping in, mixing dangerously with anger. Then, as if on cue, Everett's car came down the driveway.
He must have passed Poppy,
she realized.
Had he been hoping to see her today, too?
After all, she was the reason he'd come here the first time, and maybe even the second and third times. And suddenly, it seemed preposterous to Win that she'd ever believed Everett had come here to see her.

By the time he got out of his car, Win was already halfway down the front porch steps. “She's not here,” she said.

“Who's not here?” he asked, caught off guard.

“Poppy,” she said, coming up to him.

“That's okay,” he said uncertainly. “I didn't come here to see her.”

“Are you sure?”

He looked mystified. “Yes. I'm sure.”

“Well, all that means is that you've decided to settle for me,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

“Win, what are you
talking
about? I haven't settled for you. I haven't settled for anyone. I don't . . . settle.”

She shook her head impatiently. “So, you're saying it was always me you wanted to be with? Since the first time you came up here? Because that's not how I remember it. You came here for Poppy. And you came
back
here for Poppy. And the only reason you ended up with me, Everett, is because she wasn't interested in you.”

He looked at her uncomprehendingly, as if she were speaking a language he didn't understand. But then he pushed his hair out of his eyes and said, with an unfamiliar tightness in his voice, “Look, I don't know where this is coming from, but we need to
get one thing straight. I
never
came here because I was interested in your sister. Not even the first time. That time, I gave her a ride because she needed a favor, and I like coming up north. The other times, though, I came here to see you. I mean, why do you think I've been spending so much time at my cousin's cabin this summer—”

“
Oh, please,
” Win said, exasperated.

“No, it's true.”

She wouldn't let herself be sidetracked, though. “You didn't come back to see me that second time,” she reminded him. “You came back to give Poppy a box she left in your trunk.”

“I could just as easily have mailed it to her,” he pointed out. “I wanted an excuse to see
you
.”

“But you texted
her,
” she pointed out.

“Only because I didn't have your number.”

This stymied Win, but only for a moment. “You came to see her that night,” she persisted. “And do you know what she did, Everett? She made me say she was out, and then she hid, in her bedroom, the whole night.” Later she would wonder what her motivation for telling him this had been. Had she wanted to hurt his feelings, or had she wanted him to see Poppy in an unflattering light? Probably both, she'd decided.

But he only shrugged. “I don't care what Poppy did that night.” He wiped perspiration off his brow. “I really don't. But would you please tell me what's going on? The last time I was here, we could barely keep our hands off each other, and now, now I feel like we're strangers or something.”

“Maybe we are,” she said, and the anger was back. The doubt, too. And the doubt . . . the doubt was
full-blown.

He leaned on his open car door. He looked hot, but mainly
he looked disappointed. “Why are you selling us both so short, Win?” he asked, quietly.

She didn't answer him; instead, she left him standing there. She heard, but didn't see him, driving away as she went back inside the cabin, slamming the front door so hard behind her that she knocked the wind chimes off their hook. She threw herself onto the living room couch then and buried herself in its pillows. Their feathery softness sunk beneath her weight, and, like them, she felt suddenly deflated, her anger suddenly gone. She lay there, perfectly still, for a long time, oblivious to the suffocating heat. Finally, though, her thoughts coalesced around a question. A question she desperately wanted to know the answer to. And it was not about how Poppy and Everett had failed her, but rather, about how she had failed
them
. Why had she provoked two fights, with two of the people she cared about the most, all within the space of thirty minutes?

Anger, she decided, still buried in the pillows. Anger and doubt and sadness. Anger at the ups and downs of a summer spent living with Poppy. Anger at being the sister who always had to fix things, to prop up what was falling, to mend what was broken. And doubt. Doubt that a guy—a
nice
guy, a
funny
guy, a
cute
guy—could truly be interested in her if her sister was around at the same time. Doubt that she was lovable in her own right, that she was, as her father always said, “winning Win,” doubt born of those crucial high school years when she couldn't shake the feeling that she was always standing in Poppy's lovely shadow. And sadness. Sadness that her marriage was over and that Kyle was gone. Sadness that they'd had so little time together, and sadness that the memory of that time was being whittled away by the intervening years. Didn't Poppy get that? Didn't she understand
that the reason Win kept those things on her dresser was less because she wanted to remember and more because she was afraid to forget?

Win didn't know how much time passed before she finally stirred on the couch. She felt a breeze, the first one in days, coming in through the open living room windows that faced the lake. She sat up, and started to rearrange the jumbled pillows. She still felt hot, and sticky, and now, tearstained, but she felt something else, too: a new understanding. Yes, she'd fought with Poppy and Everett today, but she'd also fought with herself. Her childhood self, the one who'd felt responsible for her sister and her parents, who'd felt the weight of the world on her shoulders, and who'd believed Poppy was the beautiful sister and she the pale imitation. But she wasn't a child, or even a teenager, anymore. Her life had changed since then. She had work now, and friends, and a town, and a cabin and a place that she loved.

She got up from the couch and went out to retrieve the wind chimes from the porch floor. She disentangled them and hung them carefully on their nail. She knew now what she
should
have done today. She should have taken Everett at his word. And she should have told Poppy, kindly but firmly, to take charge of her life—to look for another job, to talk to Sam, to get up, and to start to move forward—because otherwise their living together was not going to work.

She was going to need to apologize, she realized. To two people. She sat down on the porch steps, and wondered how long she'd have to wait before Poppy came home.

A
fter a long wait in Dr. Swanson's over-air-conditioned waiting room, Poppy sat in his over-air-conditioned office. The fact that she was shivering now, though, probably had less to do with being cold than with what he had just told her.

“Kidney failure?” she repeated.

He shuffled some papers around on his desk. “In layman's terms, it's kidney failure, yes. In veterinary terms, its end-stage chronic renal failure. It's not uncommon in older cats,” he added, gently.

“Are you . . . sure that's what it is?” Poppy pressed. “I mean, could you run some more tests?”

Dr. Swanson hesitated. He was an older man with thick white hair and kind blue eyes, and, at first, Poppy had trusted him. Now, she wasn't so sure. He took off his glasses and polished them on his white coat. “It's not necessary to run more tests,” he said. “Your cat's blood and urine tests have already confirmed it.”

“Okay,” Poppy said, refusing to panic. “So, can we start him on dialysis?” She looked down at Sasquatch. He was lying, limply, in her lap.

“Dialysis wouldn't be appropriate under the circumstances,” Dr. Swanson said patiently. “His kidney failure is age-related.”

“He was fine, though, until recently,” Poppy insisted. “I mean, he's been low energy this summer. He's been sleeping more, and eating less. But these
other
things—the thirstiness, and the peeing, and the not eating anything—these are all new. They only started over the last week.”

“I know it seems sudden,” Dr. Swanson said. “Partly, it's because in a cat this age, the symptoms of aging can mask the symptoms of other illnesses. But partly, too, it's the nature of the disease. By the time chronic kidney failure is symptomatic in a cat, they may have lost as much as 75 percent of their kidney function.”

“If I'd brought him sooner—” Poppy began, feeling a wave of guilt, but Dr. Swanson was already shaking his head.

“I can promise you that even if you had the outcome would still be the same.”

“The outcome,” Poppy said, looking down at Sasquatch again. “You mean . . . death?” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“Yes,” Dr. Swanson said, and Poppy noticed that he was speaking softly, too. “That's what I mean.”

She closed her eyes. This was not happening. This was too soon. Too fast. She opened her eyes. Dr. Swanson was still sitting there, a concerned expression on his face. His office's waiting room was full of people and their pets, but he wouldn't rush her, she saw. How many pet owners, she wondered, had he delivered this news to over the years? Too many, she decided. She tried to smile at him then, but she couldn't quite manage it. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, a lump hardening in her throat. “I knew Sasquatch wouldn't live forever. But I thought the two of us would have more warning. You know, more time to get ready for it.”

He smiled, a little sadly. “Can I tell you something?”

She nodded. A single tear slid down her cheek.

“I've been doing this for forty years. And, trust me, there's never enough time to get ready for it.”

“What . . . what happens now?” she asked. She was back to whispering again. It was the best she could do. She didn't trust her voice to speak out loud.

“Well, that depends on you. You have some decisions to make.”

“You mean, about putting him down?”

“Yes.”

“I can't just let him go . . . naturally?”

“You could,” he said.

“But you don't recommend it?” she said, already knowing the answer.

“I don't. I think he'd be in a lot of pain.”

“I don't want him to be in pain,” she said, shaking her head. “I can't even stand to
think
about him being in pain. Is he . . . I mean, is he already in pain?” she asked, horrified. She pulled Sasquatch closer to her.

“It's very likely,” he said.

“Oh, God,” she murmured, letting a few tears roll unchecked down her cheeks. Dr. Swanson's words, though, had given her a new courage. She didn't want to say good-bye to Sasquatch, but she didn't want him to suffer, either.

“Let's do it,” she said, quickly. “Let's . . . put him down.”

“All right, but we can't do it right now. You'll have to schedule it with Valerie, our office manager. We should have an opening tomorrow, and, if we don't, we'll make one. In the meantime, we can give him IV fluids before you leave, and we can also prescribe a liquid painkiller for you to give him. That way you'll have a little more time with him,” he said. “And he should be reasonably comfortable during that time, too.”

“It won't hurt, will it? The putting him down, I mean?”

“No. And we'll give him an injection of a sedative beforehand.”

“And afterwards,” she asked, her voice tremulous, “do you have any . . . funeral packages?”

He blinked. “Funeral packages?”

“Yes.”

“Um, no, nothing like that. Though there's nothing to stop you, of course, from having one privately.”

Poppy nodded, miserably. Because who, other than her, would come to a funeral for Sasquatch? And besides, she'd never been good at planning things, anyway. That was Win's strength.

“Whether or not you decide to have a funeral,” Dr. Swanson said, “you could still have him cremated.”

“I want to do that,” she said, decisively. “And I want an urn, too.”
The best, most expensive urn available,
she thought. And then she remembered something. She had no money, and therefore no idea how she was going to pay for any of this.

“Dr. Swanson?” she asked, quickly, since he was starting to stand up. “Does your office have, like, a payment plan or something? You know, for people who can't pay for everything up front?” She was too miserable to be ashamed.

“You can work something out with Valerie,” he said, unfazed.

“I promise I'll pay for everything. I just need a little time.”

He opened the door to the examining room, and then looked back at her. “I'm not worried,” he said. “I know Win. She and my wife, Liz, are on the library board together. Your sister, by the way, has been a wonderful addition to this town.”

“I believe that,” Poppy said, a little wanly. No need to mention here that she and Win were not even on speaking terms with each other now.

A
fter she left the veterinarian's office, Poppy couldn't bring herself to put Sasquatch back in his pet carrier. Which was just as well, since she couldn't bring herself to drive back to the cabin, either. So instead, she put the pet carrier in the backseat of the car and, holding Sasquatch in her arms, crossed over to the other side of Main Street.

It was still sweltering outside. She stood perfectly still, under the red-and-white-striped awning of Pearl's, hoping that if she conserved energy, she would stay cooler. But it didn't work. Little beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead, and Sasquatch's fur, already matted from the heat, stuck to her bare arms. They needed to take refuge in the air-conditioned car, she thought, and the sooner the better, but she didn't know if she had the energy to cross the street again. Her despondency, like the humidity, was weighing her down, and making even the smallest movements feel like they were taking place at the bottom of a swimming pool.

Still, she was about to make a run for the car, when the front door of Pearl's opened, and Caroline, the woman who owned it—a fortyish strawberry blonde—started flipping the sign on it from Open to Closed.

“Hello,” she said, seeing Poppy there. “Everything all right?”

Poppy nodded.

“How's your sister?” she asked.

“Fine,” she whispered.

“Good.” She smiled. Win and Caroline were friends. Every morning during the school year, Win stopped in at Pearl's for their famous blueberry pancakes, or their slow-cooked oatmeal. “Are
you
okay?” Caroline asked, with a slight frown.

Poppy tried to say yes, but found she couldn't form the word.
No matter. If she looked the way she felt, it would be obvious to even the most casual bystander that she was
not
okay.

“Do you two want to come in?” Caroline asked, her eyes traveling down to a bedraggled looking Sasquatch. “Just to cool off?”

Finally, Poppy roused herself. “You're closed,” she pointed out.

“Well, for most people,” Caroline said. “But not for Win's sister.”

Poppy sighed. Once again, she saw, she would be trading on her sister's good name.

“What about . . . ?” Poppy asked, indicating the
NO PETS ALLOWED
sign on the door.

“Not to worry,” Caroline said, smiling. “At least, not when you both look like you're on the verge of heatstroke.” She gestured for Poppy to come inside, and, amazingly, Poppy's limbs cooperated, and she walked through the open door and into the deliciously cool café. “Lucky for you, we have a new air-conditioning system,” Caroline said, locking the door from the inside and closing the blinds in the front windows. “It used to go on the fritz in weather like this. Why don't you take one of those,” she said, gesturing to the row of red leather booths that lined the back wall of the restaurant. “And I'll bring you something cold to drink.”

“Thank you,” Poppy said. And there was something about this woman's practical brand of kindness that made her want to cry again. She chose one of the booths, and slid into it, and then she sat there, letting the tears that came now fall freely, and mingle with Sasquatch's fur.

“Here you go,” Caroline said, reappearing. She set a glass of iced tea down in front of her. “Anything for your friend?” she asked, looking at Sasquatch. “A dish of cream, maybe? Or some tuna fish?”

“No, thank you. He's . . . he's not really eating right now,” Poppy explained, reaching into her purse to pay for her drink.

But Caroline waved the money away. “You take your time,” she said. “You can let yourself out when you're done.”

“Thanks,” Poppy said, more tears coursing down her cheeks.

“You're welcome,” Caroline said. “And by the way,” she added, kindly, before she left, “you're not the first person who's needed this booth to cry in.” Poppy sipped her iced tea, gratefully, and then pulled a napkin out of the napkin dispenser and wiped, ineffectually, at her tears. She'd never cried so much in her life as she had this summer, she thought, putting the crumpled napkin in her purse and rearranging Sasquatch in her arms so that she could see his face. He looked better, she decided. Less stressed. Maybe the pain medication had begun to kick in. She rubbed him under his chin, the way he liked her to, and waited for him to purr, but he only blinked at her. Still, he seemed content.

She took a deep breath, and exhaled, slowly. She leaned back against the booth. This was better. This was much better. She wouldn't think about the fight with Win. Not right now. She would think about that later. She would
have
to think about that later. Right now, she would think about Sasquatch. He'd been with her for almost half her life, and, after Win, he'd been the most important part of that life. He'd come into it at a time when she'd needed him the most. She remembered the week after she'd gone into the photographer's apartment, the week that had, finally, brought her Sasquatch.

The day after “it” had happened—she couldn't then bring herself to call it by its real name—Poppy had stayed home from school. She'd told her mom she didn't feel well and her mom, who'd recently decided she was an artist, stayed home and
painted in the corner of their living room she referred to as “her studio,” while Poppy stayed in her bedroom most of the day. The truth was, she was terrified of running into Rich. She didn't know how or when she'd ever be able to leave the apartment again. But when Win came home from school that afternoon, she had news for her.

“Pops?” Win said, peeking into their bedroom, where Poppy was lying on her bed.

“Yes?” Poppy said, raising herself on one elbow.

“You don't look so great,” Win said, as she sat down on the edge of her bed. And Poppy knew this was true. She'd lied about being sick, but now she felt terrible anyway.

“Remember how you were asking last night about the photographer down the hall?” Win asked.

“Yes,” Poppy said, sitting up suddenly. She felt panic rising in her.

“I looked into his apartment just now—” Win began, but Poppy grabbed her arm.

“Win, don't
ever
go in there,” Poppy said.
“I mean it.”

“
What?
No, it's fine,” Win said. “He moved out. His door was open. The place was empty except for some junk in a corner.”

Poppy lay back down on the pillows, awash in a cold, prickly sweat. “Are you sure he's gone?” she whispered.

“Positive. While I was standing there the woman with the facial piercings came down the hall and said he left this morning. He went back to New York. That's where he's from, I guess.”

Poppy nodded, distractedly. So he was gone . . . Of course, there was always the possibility that he'd come back again. Not to live, maybe, but to look for her. Poppy didn't think he would, though. She thought she knew why he'd left. He'd left because of what he'd done to her.

Win looked at her curiously. “Pops, what's up with you? You're
acting weird.” She put her hand on Poppy's forehead. “I don't
think
you have a fever.” She frowned.

“No, I'm fine,” she said, taking Win's hand away. “I had . . . a stomachache, but I'm better now.”

“You sure?”

Poppy hesitated, and, in the first of what would be many times over the ensuing years, she was tempted to tell Win what had happened to her. She didn't, though. After all, Win would make her
do
something about it—tell her high school counselor, or her parents, or the police—and Poppy didn't want to do any of those things. She was ashamed she had let it happen, and afraid, somehow, that if she told someone it would mean seeing him again. (Here she relied on her limited knowledge of the criminal justice system, most of it gleaned from police procedurals or courtroom dramas she'd seen on TV.) Would she have to pick him out of a lineup? Point to him in court? Or worse, come face-to-face with him in a shadowy hallway of some criminal justice building? And this fear of having to do something, and the possibility that it might mean seeing Rich again, persisted, against all reason, long beyond the point when he could have been held accountable for the crime.