The Space Between Sisters (23 page)

T
hat was Dr. Swanson's office,” Poppy said, standing in the doorway to Win's bedroom.

Win looked up from the overnight bag she'd laid on top of her bed. “Are they ready?” she asked. She meant Sasquatch's ashes.

Poppy nodded. “They came today.”

“That was quick,” Win said, putting a nightgown in her bag.

“I know,” Poppy said. It had only been a week since Sasquatch had been put down. “Late August must be the slow season at the pet crematorium,” she offered, aiming for dark humor when what she was still feeling was quiet misery.

“Well, you're not going to pick them up today, are you? Are they even open on a Saturday?” Win asked, putting her cosmetic case on top of her nightgown, and zipping up her bag.

“They're open. They don't close until six. I thought I'd go there later this afternoon, if I can . . . borrow your car.”

“Of course you can borrow it. I'm not going to need it. We're taking Mary Jane's. But, Pops, don't pick them up alone. I'll come with you on Monday.”

“No, it's fine,” Poppy said. “The hard part is over.
That
part, I
could never have done without you. This part's easy. It's just his ashes. Besides,” she added, “it'll give me something to do while you're away.”

Win frowned. “Are you sure you don't want to come with us?” she asked. She and Mary Jane were driving to a daylong teaching strategies workshop in Duluth and spending the night at a hotel there afterwards. “You'd be on your own today, but there are fun stores to browse in the waterfront area, and tonight the three of us could go out for dinner.”

Poppy hesitated.

“Come on,” Win said. “Otherwise, I'll spend whatever time we're not at the workshop listening to Mary Jane discuss the ‘adjustment process' she's going through, living with Bret for the first time. Apparently, she's shocked to discover he leaves his dirty socks on the floor beside the laundry hamper, instead of making the extra effort to move them six centimeters to the right and actually put them
into
the laundry hamper. I mean, I could have
told
her he'd do this.”

Poppy smiled, though her smile was a little weary. In the last week, she'd become the insomniac in the family. It was hard to fall asleep without Sasquatch's comforting presence at the end of her bed, and when she
did
fall asleep, she was apt to wake up and forget, for a moment, that he was gone now. Barely awake, she'd search for his warm body with her foot, only to find the space where he'd usually slept empty. And then, wide-awake, she'd remember putting him down all over again. No wonder then, that sometimes it seemed easier not to go to sleep at all. Still, she had an idea that having his ashes might bring her a modicum of comfort, and maybe even a good night's sleep. Nonetheless, Win was still looking at her hopefully.

“Thanks for the offer,” Poppy said, mustering another smile.
“But I don't want to intrude on your and Mary Jane's time together. And I
really
don't want to hear about Bret's dirty socks.”

“Fair enough,” Win said. She reached for her car keys, and tossed them to Poppy.

P
oppy had imagined that picking up Sasquatch's ashes would be a quick affair, but when she got to the veterinarian's office, it was so busy she ended up having to wait for them, which meant sitting on a plastic chair, flipping through an issue of
Modern Cat
magazine, and trying to ignore all of the other pet owners and pets in the room with her. When she came across a picture in the magazine that reminded her too much of Sasquatch, though, she set it aside and ended up watching a little girl who was holding a calico kitten in her arms.

“Mommy, he's scared to see the vet,” she said, turning to the woman beside her.

“Don't worry, he'll be fine,” her mother assured her. “The only thing I'm concerned about,” she added, smiling down at her daughter, “is that you might be holding him too much.”

The little girl noticed that Poppy was staring at them. “Do you want to pet him?” she asked, holding her kitten out. “His name is Butterscotch.”

“No. No, thank you,” Poppy said, trying to smile. She looked away, quickly, fighting back tears. Who knew she wouldn't even be able to
look
at a cat without wanting to cry? She stared straight ahead, and thought about Cassie. She was about the same age as that little girl with the kitten, and, like her, she loved cats. When Poppy had babysat for her, they'd spent part of the night watching cat videos on the Internet. Poppy had told Cassie that she would introduce her to Sasquatch. But it was too late for that now, too late on both counts. She sank down a few inches in her chair.

“Miss Robbins?” the office manager called, and Poppy, glad for the distraction, went to collect the urn. It looked nice, she thought, as she signed for it. She'd chosen the “classic brass cremation urn” from the catalogue, thinking it was the most dignified option. “It's so light,” she commented, lifting it up, but the woman at the desk had already moved on to someone else, so she left, careful not to look at the little girl and the calico kitten again on her way out.

Back in the car, with Sasquatch's urn stowed safely on the floor of the front passenger seat, Poppy felt at a loss. She'd planned on returning to the cabin, but now, as she pulled out of her parking spot and drove down Main Street, she found she was dreading its emptiness. She didn't know anywhere else to go, though. Butternut was not exactly known for its nightlife.

She turned on the radio, then cranked the volume up all the way. She was determined to keep all of her feelings at bay, but they crowded in on her anyway. Regret, sadness, loneliness, the last one most of all. Why hadn't she gone with Win and Mary Jane? she wondered. Anything, even listening to Mary Jane discuss her new marriage ad nauseam, would be better than the silent cabin waiting for her now.

And it was as she was thinking this, and cruising along a quiet stretch of road outside of town, that she saw the Mosquito Inn ahead on her right. It was an old roadhouse that had been there for . . . well, probably forever, though it was odd to think that she'd driven by it at least a dozen times this summer without ever really noticing it. Now, though, as she approached it, she slowed down and studied it in the early evening light, and decided there was something appealingly retro about it. This was most likely due to the blue-and-red blinking neon sign, which not
only spelled out
MOSQUITO INN
but also included an outline of a mosquito hovering over a martini glass. On a whim, she pulled into the rutted driveway and parked in a mostly empty dirt lot. This would be fun, she decided, unfastening her seat belt and reaching for Sasquatch's ashes. (It seemed rude, somehow, to just leave them in the car.) She'd have one cocktail, something sweet and summery. It would give her an excuse not to be alone, for a little while, anyway, and by the time she got home, she'd be that much closer to the evening being over.

When she pushed open the bar's screen door, though, she was disappointed. If the Mosquito Inn had a certain ramshackle charm from the outside, it didn't translate on the inside. It was dark, for one thing, much darker than it should have been considering that it was only early evening, and it smelled of stale beer, and of something else, too, something she didn't care to investigate too closely. And, except for a few older men hunched over their beers at one end of the bar, and a few younger looking guys playing pool in the back, there was no one around.

She hesitated, and tried to remember what she knew about this place. Not much. Her grandfather had never come here. He hadn't been much of a drinker. And it went without saying that Win wasn't one, either. When her sister did have the occasional drink, though, Poppy was pretty sure she went to the Corner Bar on Main Street, which was much nicer than this. But going there would involve getting back in the car and driving again, and, right at this moment, Poppy didn't have the energy.

One drink, she told herself, heading for the side of the bar that was empty. She chose a stool, settled her handbag beside her, and, after considering what to do with the urn, she placed it, discreetly, on the floor underneath the stool. The bartender, a
burly man with a handlebar mustache, was wiping a dirty looking counter with a dirty looking rag. He glanced, disinterestedly, at Poppy, then did a double take. He came over to her.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“Um . . .” She looked around for a cocktail menu. No such thing here. “How about . . . a cosmopolitan,” she said.

“We don't serve those.”

“Really?” she said. “They're not that hard to make. At least, I don't think they are. They're pink, and they have vodka—”

“We don't serve pink drinks here,” he interrupted.

“Oh, okay. Well, then . . . something else that's sweet.”

He stared back at her impassively.

“Oh, I know, a sea breeze,” she said, brightly. “It's not pink, it's red, so it won't violate the ‘no pink drinks' rule here,” she said, venturing a smile. He didn't smile back. “And, let's see, it's got vodka and cranberry juice and . . . I'm not sure what else.”

He went to mix it. “Vodka and cranberry juice,” he said, setting it down on the counter in front of her.

“Thank you,” she said, determined to ignore his unfriendliness.

“That'll be three bucks.”

Well, at least it's cheap,
she thought as she paid. Though even at this price, frankly, the atmosphere here left a little to be desired. She left a dollar bill on the bar for a tip, and took a sip of her drink.
Whoa,
they were not skimping on the vodka here, or at least not on the
amount
of vodka in their mixed drinks. As for its quality, she doubted very much that something that tasted as if it might take the enamel off her teeth was a top-drawer brand.

Still, she was drinking her drink, slowly, when the bartender came back over to her. He looked uncomfortable. “Are you, uh, meeting someone here?” he asked.

“Nope, it's just going to be me,” she said, with false cheerfulness.

“'Cause, uh, it can get a little rowdy here later on,” he said.

Good to know,
Poppy thought, taking a look around the place. Cute sign notwithstanding, it was a dump. Even so, it was a dump she intended to have a cocktail in. “I'm just going to drink this,” she said, indicating her sea breeze, “and then I'll be on my way.”

He nodded, curtly, and moved away.

She blew out a long breath. He wasn't exactly the friendliest bartender she'd ever come across. So the Mosquito Inn didn't get high points for customer service, either. But she got his point. The crowd, when they got here, would be a little . . . boisterous, probably. She took a hurried sip of her sea breeze, but then she realized that as soon as her glass was empty, she'd be going back to the cabin. Alone. At least here there were people. And noise; the murmur of a conversation at the other end of the bar; the clack of pool balls from the back room. No, she would take her time, she decided. She would simply send a very clear message that she wasn't interested in socializing with anyone. She reached down and lifted the urn out from under her stool and set it on the bar in front of her.
There
. Nobody would bother someone who was obviously in mourning.

A half an hour later, Poppy was still sitting at the bar. Her drink was unfinished—the melting ice puddling on top of the cranberry juice and vodka—and she'd declined the dubious looking bowl of peanuts the bartender had offered her. Instead, after she'd put the urn on the bar, she'd decided to take stock of her life. On the face of it, at least, it had been a brutal accounting. The present, it turned out, looked a lot like the past. She was broke, unemployed, and dependent on Win. Outwardly, nothing had changed.

But inwardly, she knew that was not the case. She was not the same person who'd showed up on Win's doorstep on the first day
of summer. She was different. While she'd been stocking shelves, and flirting with Sam, and chatting with Cassie, and sparring with Win, she'd changed. She'd stopped gliding over the surface of life. She'd stopped looking down on it like a casual observer. She'd stopped pretending that the things that concerned everyone else—work, friendships, relationships—didn't concern her. Instead, she'd fallen in love. She'd formed a bond with a little girl. She'd revisited a traumatic experience and taken a hard look at the years that had followed it. But most of all, she'd let herself feel,
really feel,
even when she hadn't necessarily wanted to, even when it had hurt more than she could have possibly imagined.

It had felt that way when Sam had broken things off, she thought, rattling the ice around in her glass. To have finally found someone she'd wanted to take a risk with, and to not be able to take it, that was heartbreaking. What choice had she had, though? Sam had made his case that morning, almost a month ago, in his office at Birch Tree Bait. But when had she made
her
case? she wondered now. When had she told him
exactly
how she felt,
exactly
how much she cared about him? She hadn't. She'd never told him. And that had been a mistake. Which was not to say that if she
had
told him things would have turned out differently.
But they might have.

She checked her watch. It was seven o'clock. Sam might still be at Birch Tree Bait closing up, but, more likely, he'd be back at his cabin by now. A tremor moved through her; it was part fear and part hope. She'd go there now, she decided, and say what she should have said the last time they'd spoken.

She picked up her handbag and reached for the urn, but before she could slide off her bar stool, she heard someone say, “You're not leaving already, are you?”