The Space Between Sisters (20 page)

“Neither did I,” he said, smiling at her as he climbed up the steps. And Poppy, who was watching the two of them, sighed resignedly. “I'll wait inside,” she said, going back into the cabin and closing the screen door behind her.

But when Win and Everett were left alone on the porch, they both seemed to revert back to their old shyness. “I'm sorry I didn't call,” he said, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “I just found out I have to go back to the city tomorrow for some work and I won't be up here again until late next week.”

“That's fine,” Win said. “But is everything ok?”

He nodded. He looked a little embarrassed. “I just . . . wanted to see you. I'm sorry, I know you hate surprises.”

“I
used
to hate surprises. Now, I think, I might actually be starting to like them.” She smiled at him. She felt both nervous and flattered at the same time. Here was a cute guy she really liked, and he was pursuing her.
Wasn't he?

He reached out and touched the bow on her dress, carefully, gingerly, as if it were a potentially deadly spider.

“I know,” Win groaned. “It's a hideous dress.”

“No, it's not.”

“Everett, it's the color of an
eggplant
,” she objected.

“I
like
eggplant,” he said, coming closer. “It's my favorite vegetable.”

“It is?”

“Well, it is
now,
” he said. She laughed. “Win, I know you need to go, but I wanted to ask you a question: Can I see you on Thursday? I'll be back up here then.”

She smiled. “You drove here to ask me that?” He nodded, seriously. And she didn't know if she moved closer to him or if he moved closer to her, but they kissed. A funny, awkward,
lovely
kiss. A kiss that was like Everett; it took nothing for granted, and it conveyed a shy tenderness.

“You better go,” Everett said, when it was over.

“Come with me,” Win said, suddenly. Delightedly. “Come to the wedding. You can be my plus one.”

“Dressed like this?” he asked, amused. He gestured at the T-shirt and blue jeans he was wearing.

She shrugged. “Mary Jane won't mind.”

“I think she might.” He smiled.

“No, you're right,” she said. “If she's freaked out about the baby scallops not being baby enough she might freak out about what you're wearing.”

“Go. Have fun,” he said, kissing her quickly this time. “I'll see you soon.” He started down the porch steps.

“Everett?”

“Yes?” He turned around.

“Did I answer your question?”

He smiled. “I think you did.”

T
he week after Mary Jane's wedding, the weather turned hot and muggy, and by Thursday it was unbearable. During the day, the still air was heavy with rain that refused to fall, and, at night, the heat lightning sputtered, uselessly, on the horizon, without ever coming any closer. In the un-air-conditioned cabin, Win and Poppy had trouble sleeping. There was no breeze, and even with fans on in their rooms, the sheets seemed to stick to them like a second skin. The days were no better. By noon the temperature was already in the nineties and the only way to stay cool was to keep jumping into the lake. After a while, though, even this did not bring much relief.

But Win, buoyed by the kiss she and Everett had shared, was at first barely conscious of the heat. As the week wore on, though, she became increasingly irritable. And it wasn't just the weather, either. The weather, in fact, might have been the smallest part of it. It was Poppy, too. Poppy, who now spent her days lying listlessly in the hammock Win had strung up at the beginning of summer, and her nights lying listlessly on her bed. She was like some nineteenth century heroine dying of consumption. And
Win, try as she might, could not understand this lethargy. Except for the weeks following Kyle's death, her life had practically been a case study in productivity. And nothing made her happier—well,
almost
nothing—than putting a satisfying check mark next to every single item on a long to-do list.

But Poppy . . . Poppy had been lying in the hammock now for hours, and Sasquatch had been lying in it with her. Win had gone down there earlier, and had delivered a little pep talk to her. Yes, Poppy's heart had been broken, but the only thing to be done about it now was to try to stay busy while giving it time to heal. The more Poppy did, the better she'd feel, starting with getting out of the hammock that second and doing something, doing
anything,
really, just to get going again.

This pep talk had failed to produce the desired results. Poppy had stayed in the hammock, and Win had gone back up to the cabin, where she was now, listening to the radio, emptying the dishwasher, and trying not to think about how hot she was. She thought instead about Mary Jane's wedding. It had been lovely. The ceremony had been sweet, the food had been amazing, and the DJ had been so good that people danced for hours until finally the manager of the White Pines had had to close the party down. Everyone seemed to be having fun, everyone except Poppy. She never did come out of her funk, not even when Bret's handsome cousin John repeatedly asked her to dance. Win paused as she put the last dish away so that she could hear the weather report. They were calling for a storm that evening.
Thank God,
she thought, putting a plate in the cupboard.
It couldn't come soon enough.
She closed the cupboard door and leaned her forehead, briefly, against it. She blew out a long breath, peeled her damp T-shirt away from her skin, and tried to gather up the strands of her hair that had escaped from her ponytail. But as she was
doing this she saw something glinting on the kitchen floor, right beside one of her bare feet. She bent down and picked it up, and, holding it between her thumb and forefinger, examined it. It was a three-inch shard of glass.
“Poppy,”
she murmured, darkly, remembering the juice glass her sister had dropped at breakfast that morning. Win had watched her sweep it up with such lethargy that she'd been tempted to take the broom away from her and do it herself, which, obviously, she should have. But by that point in the morning, Win had already picked up Poppy's wet towels from the bathroom floor, and vacuumed a new layer of cat fur off the living room rug. How was it possible to love someone as much as she loved Poppy, she wondered, and, at the same time, find living with them so endlessly trying?

Now, she got down on her hands and knees and looked for more pieces of broken glass. There were three of them. She gathered them up and started to throw them away, but then changed her mind and, saving the largest one, stormed out the cabin's back door and down the steps to the lakeside hammock that Poppy was lying in.

“Excuse me, Poppy,” she said, holding up the glass shard for her to see. “Does this look familiar?”

Poppy barely glanced at it. “It's a piece of glass,” she said.

“It's a piece of glass that you missed when you swept up this morning, and that I almost stepped on in my bare feet.”

“But you didn't,” Poppy observed.

“But I
could
have.”

Poppy sighed, an exasperated sigh, as if Win were the one being unreasonable. “What would you like me to do, sweep again?”

“No, Poppy, because I've already found the other two pieces you missed.”

“Isn't it amazing how far broken glass can travel,” Poppy mused.

“No, it's
not
amazing,” Win said, “it's a fact of life. And it's why you can't just pick up the big pieces. You have to sweep the entire area so you get all of the little pieces, too.”

But Poppy wasn't listening. She sat up in the hammock, swung her legs over the edge, and set Sasquatch down on the ground. He immediately started lapping, frantically, from a bowl of water. It wasn't just
any
bowl, though, Win saw. It was a soup bowl, a soup bowl with a bird of paradise china pattern on it. One of a set of eight Win and Kyle had gotten as a wedding present.

“Oh, my God,”
Win said, watching, in horror, as Sasquatch continued to drink from it. “Poppy, please tell me you're not using my wedding china for Sasquatch's water bowl.”

“Well, obviously, I am,” she said, a little sheepishly. “And I'm sorry. But his cat dishes are too small. He's
so
thirsty. I needed something that would hold a lot of water. Besides, you never . . . you never use this stuff,” she added, gesturing at the bowl. “It just sits in the cupboard.”

“That's the whole point, Poppy.”

“You mean, not to use it?”

“No. I mean to only use it for a special occasion. And
this,
” she said, gesturing at Sasquatch, who, amazingly enough, was still drinking from the bowl, “this is not one of them.”

“Yeah, okay, but . . . I'm worried about him,” Poppy said, changing the subject. “Since yesterday, all he's done is drink water and pee. Pee and drink water.”

“Poppy, it's hot. He's thirsty.”

“It's not only that, though. He's not even . . .” Poppy hesitated. “He's not even using his litter box to pee in. I mean, at least, not all of the time. And it's not like him. You know how fastidious cats are.”

“So . . .” Win reached up to massage her temples. “So if he's not peeing in his litter box, where exactly is he . . . ?”

“Don't worry about it,” Poppy said quickly. “I've been cleaning up after him. And there were only a few that—”

“Okay, you know what? Forget it,” Win said, holding up a hand to stop her. “I don't need to know. I'll just take my wedding china and go.” She slid the bowl out from under Sasquatch and started to carry it back up to the cabin. She had to get away from Poppy now.
Right now
. There was a thrumming in her ears that preceded all of their worst fights, and it was building steadily louder.

Poppy, scrambling after Win with Sasquatch in her arms, called out, “I'm sorry about the bowl. I'll put it in the dishwasher now.”

“It doesn't go in the dishwasher, Pops,” she said, not slowing down.

“Then I'll hand wash it.”

“Why, so you can break it?” she said, over her shoulder. “And then not sweep it up?”

“Win, you're not being fair,” Poppy protested, right behind her. “Look, I told you, I wasn't thinking. I'm worried about Sasquatch. I made an appointment for him at the vet this afternoon.”

“Good,” Win said, impatiently, opening the cabin's screen door. “I'm glad you're taking him to the vet. Because now they can tell you what I've already tried to tell you, which is that the only thing wrong with Sasquatch is that he's old, Poppy. He's just . . .
old.
”

“He's not
that
old,” Poppy objected.

“Oh, come on, Pops,” Win said, rolling her eyes. “He's been sleeping practically all summer, you just haven't wanted to see it.”

There was silence from Poppy, and then she said, testily, as she
passed Win, “Excuse me. We need to get ready to see the vet. Someone who, unlike you, does not
hate
animals.”

“I don't hate animals,”
Win muttered, holding the soup bowl and staring after Poppy. All she'd done was hint that Sasquatch wasn't going to live forever. Why was that so awful? She was only stating the obvious. If Poppy couldn't accept it, she was in denial. And how had a conversation that had started out being about Poppy not sweeping up all of the pieces of a broken glass ended up being about what a terrible person Win was?

It was infuriating, Win thought, back in the kitchen. She threw away the glass shard and put the soup bowl in the sink. She had taken Poppy in for the summer, she thought, pacing up and down the room, and Poppy had promised to hold up her end of things. Now, though, she was back to where she'd been when she'd first arrived on Win's doorstep. And Win, of course, had to take care of her. Poppy had no job, no money, no car. No Car.

She went to Poppy's bedroom, and, standing in the doorway, said, “I suppose you're going to need to borrow my car to get to the vet's office.”

Poppy ignored her. She'd put Sasquatch down on the bed, and she was searching through her closet for something to wear.

“Because if you're going to borrow my car
again,
” Win said, “I'd appreciate it if you'd ask me first.” There was no response from Poppy. She'd taken a sundress out of the closet and laid it on the bed.

“Not that it would ever occur to you that
I
might need it this afternoon, or that you should put gas in it occasionally,” she continued. Poppy's silence was stoking her anger.

But right before Poppy peeled her faded cotton T-shirt off over her head she said to Win, “I know you don't need the car now because you said Everett was coming this afternoon.”

“That's not the point,” Win said. “You treat my car like your car. And you treat my house like your house. But you forget that they both cost me money.”

Poppy stepped out of her frayed denim shorts and kicked them, rudely, across the room. She started pulling the sundress over her head, and, as she did so, she said, almost more to herself than to Win, “Well, the house part doesn't cost you any money.”

“What did you say?” Win asked, instantly alert.

“Nothing,” Poppy said, unconcerned. She walked over to her dresser.

“Yes, you did. You implied that I live here for free. And you actually think that's true, don't you?” Win asked, her voice squeaking with indignation.

“Well, you
own
it, don't you?” Poppy said, sounding bored. She took her hair out of its ponytail and started brushing it. “You don't have a mortgage.”

“No, I don't. But have you ever heard of something called ‘taxes,' Poppy?” she said, so angry now her voice was practically shaking. “I pay the taxes every year on this cabin. And, let me tell you, they are
a lot
of money. And that's not all it costs me, either. I have lots of bills.” She started counting them off on her fingers. “Oil and gas, electricity, snow removal, tree removal, lawn mowing. And there's more,” she said, too angry to remember what the “more” was.

“Fascinating,” Poppy said, under her breath, as she stepped into her flip-flops.

Win felt her face flush hotly. “I'm glad you find it fascinating, Poppy. Maybe it's because you know so little about adult responsibilities. It must be nice, though, to float through life without
having to worry about all of the tedious things other people worry about.”

Poppy moved back to the dresser and went through her handbag. Her bored expression was gone, and her face was puckered with emotion. “I've been trying to change this summer, Win,” she said suddenly, turning to her. “I really have. I didn't
mean
to end up with no job. And I've been thinking about a lot of stuff, too. And . . . I told you, I've been depressed.”

“Uh-huh,” Win said, too caught up in her own emotions to feel any sympathy for Poppy. “Well, I think we can both agree it's time for you to snap out of it.”

“You're not supposed to tell people who are depressed to snap out of it,” Poppy said, looking genuinely hurt. “I read that somewhere.”

“Okay, fine, except you're not feeling
depressed,
Poppy. You're feeling sorry for yourself. There's a difference.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Poppy said, raising her voice. “I'm going through stuff you don't even
know
about. And as for Sam, I told you how much I cared about him. And I told you how much it hurts for it to be over. But it didn't count with you, did it? No, because you're the expert on loss, Win. You've cornered the market on grief. No one else can even begin to compete with you, can they?”

Win was shocked. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh,
please
. I've watched you all summer long, arranging and rearranging those little shrines on your dresser.”

Win felt tears burning in her eyes. “I was trying to remember Kyle,” she said.

“Then
remember
him. But stop using him as an excuse to not live your life.”

“I
am
living my life,” Win said, furiously swiping at her tears. “I have a job. I have friends. And I might even have someone else I care about.”

“Everett?” Poppy said dismissively. “I don't think so. I don't see how you can possibly make room for him when you've still got all of the memories of your marriage to Kyle taking up an entire closet.
An entire life,
” she amended. And then she picked Sasquatch up off the bed, and carried him to the front door, where she loaded him into his pet carrier. Win followed her and watched her do this. Why, she didn't know. She didn't know what she expected to gain from her and Poppy being together right now. Her emotions were positively in riot; so many different ones were battling with each other that she couldn't separate them, let alone name them or understand them.