Summer with My Sisters (17 page)

V
iolet sat at the kitchen table with Grimace. She was eating a bowl of cold cereal. He was lapping up a bowl of cold milk. Daisy was still asleep and Poppy had gone out early to her favorite farm stand to get a jump on the tomatoes and curly kale. For some reason Violet had picked up the day’s copy of the
New York Times
(still delivered though rarely read) to flip through while she ate her breakfast. On the front page of the paper there was a story about homelessness. Violet started to read, and this is what she learned. That homelessness was rampant in certain areas of the United States. That sometimes people weren’t even aware that the person they regularly saw at church or walking through the park or getting onto the city bus was homeless or nearly so. That children without homes suffered terribly from the experience, and sometimes never really recovered from the trauma. Every right-minded person, the writer said in conclusion, should consider the situation a disgrace.

With a shaking hand Violet put down her spoon and fled the kitchen, Grimace at her heels. Once inside the haven of her room she lay on the bed, her arms at her side, her palms flat against the mattress, her eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling. It had never, ever occurred to her that she might one day be homeless. But the article said it could happen to anyone and while in the past Violet had never been one to leap to negative possibilities or to anticipate catastrophe, now . . . Now the image of an uncertain future loomed large in her mind. What had prompted her to open the newspaper? Had the universe been sending her a message—or a warning?

Violet closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but the worry continued to grow. Maybe if she knew the specifics of her family’s financial situation she would feel more assured. But even if she asked someone to explain—like Freddie—she doubted she would understand. Math was not her best subject. She opened her eyes again and the ceiling and the scarves draped across it refused to come into perfect focus.

What if something happened to her family’s money and they had to leave this house Violet loved so much? Where would they go? Freddie and Sheila might take them in for a while, but they were old and might not want the responsibility. What if something happened to Poppy, and she could no longer take care of her sisters? Would the girls be separated? Would Grimace be taken away from her?

Suddenly, Violet realized that she couldn’t move her arms or her legs. She couldn’t even
feel
them. The ceiling, no, what she could see of the entire room, was out of focus. She felt dizzy. Her heart was pounding and her breath was coming in short and painful gasps.

Grimace leaped onto the bed and pawed at her arm, all the while making frantic little sounds in his throat. He was afraid for her. Violet was afraid for her, too.
Am I dying?
she wondered.
But I don’t want to die
.

For what seemed like an eternity Violet lay immobile on her bed, waiting for whatever it was that was going to happen to happen. Finally, she realized that she could feel her arms again. Tentatively she tried to move her right hand. It moved. Then she tried her left. That, too, moved. With a whimper of relief Violet realized that her vision was clear and that her heart had slowed. Grimace, sensing that the worst was over, settled in a lump beside her and was quiet.

Violet knew only one thing for sure. She would tell no one about what had happened. Poppy would insist she go to the family’s doctor who would probably put her on some scary medication that might dull her imagination and maybe even damage her ability to think clearly. There
was
that nice woman from the local family owned drug store downtown. Back when Violet’s mother had been undergoing chemotherapy she had recommended a very effective natural remedy for nausea. But if Violet went to Ms. Hollister for help then Poppy might find out and others, too. Gossip was notorious and inevitable in a small town like Yorktide.

No, Violet thought, she would handle this all on her own. Slowly, she got off the bed and went to the bookcase for the volume of ancient and contemporary herbal remedies. The book would tell her what she could take to calm her nerves, to stop these negative thoughts from harming her.

Ashwagandha root, the book said, was used in the Indian tradition of Ayurveda. It was added to calming serums to treat anxiety, panic attacks, and depression. Sometimes it was used with brahmi or bacopa. Violet had never heard of brahmi before. Valerian root, she read, was used as a sleep aid and to reduce anxiety, but you had to check with a doctor before using it. Ginseng root was a possibility, as was L-theanine, an amino acid found in green tea. Perfect, Violet thought. How could Poppy object to her drinking green tea? It was definitely worth a try. And there was meditation. She could spend more time trying to meditate, to sit quietly and clear her mind, to focus only on her breathing. It hadn’t worked a few minutes ago, but . . .

Violet pricked her ears. It was Daisy coming out of her room and heading down the hall toward the bathroom. She remembered that she had left a half-eaten bowl of cereal on the kitchen table. If Daisy or Poppy found it they would be concerned; Violet never left anything half eaten and she always put her dishes in the sink. Dropping the book of herbal remedies, Violet hurried back downstairs to remove the evidence of her distress.

“B
ut you don’t need a new phone,” Poppy argued, putting a carton of orange juice back into the fridge. “You’ve only had that one for a few months.”

Daisy crossed her arms over her chest. “We can afford it, can’t we? You haven’t lost all of Dad’s money, have you?”

Violet was in her room, wisely, Poppy thought, avoiding the fray. Allie, reading the current edition of the local paper, was a silent witness to this . . . discussion.

“Daisy, don’t be ridiculous. Of course we can afford it and no, I haven’t lost a dime of the family’s money. But that’s not the point. The point is you don’t need a new phone when the one you have works perfectly.”

“But I . . . Look, Poppy, I really want this.”

“You can’t always get what you want in this life, Daisy.”

“Like I don’t know that?” Daisy retorted, unfolding her arms and throwing them into the air. “I want Dad and Mom to be alive again, but I’m not going to get that wish, am I? The least I can have is a stupid new phone!”

Poppy sighed and turned to her friend. “Allie, back me up here. Daisy’s being dramatic again.”

“No thanks,” Allie said, not looking up from the paper. “I make it a policy to stay out of family squabbles.”

“But—”

“Nope. You’ll thank me for keeping my opinion to myself, trust me.”

Poppy wasn’t at all sure about that. “Daisy,” she said, “the answer is no and that’s final.”

Poppy left the kitchen without another word. Behind her, she heard Daisy continuing to grumble, but continued silence from Allie. She went upstairs and put her hand on the doorknob of the master suite and then she turned and walked down the hall to her old bedroom. She closed the door behind her and slumped onto the twin-sized bed. It had been rude to walk off as she had. But didn’t she have a reason to be rude on occasion? Didn’t everyone?

Well, Poppy thought, letting her shoulders sag, maybe there was no good excuse for rudeness, no matter the provocation. It was just that these past few months had given her a taste of what it meant to be a parent and at times—like now—she felt utterly exhausted by the experience.

Poppy’s eye fell on the faded poster of a boy band she had been obsessed with back in high school. The image of the baby-faced kids made her feel uncomfortable. She really should take the poster down and throw it out. It was a relic now and of no use to anyone. Unlike her old rag doll, Annie. Poppy reached for Annie where she rested against the bed pillows. She would never throw Annie away, no matter how limp and bedraggled she became.

Photographs. They were memories made tangible, also to be cherished, like the photograph of Julie and Poppy that sat on the dresser. It had been taken on a class trip to a petting zoo in Wells when they were about eleven. There had been this one aggressive goat who kept trying to get a mouthful of Julie’s sweater. . . . Poppy smiled at the memory though she had been slightly terrified at the time. Julie had thought the whole thing hilarious.

The boy band. The rag doll. The photograph. She was surrounded by bits of the child that she had been. The child she still was, at least in part. A child who was playing at the adult game of parenthood.

Poppy sighed and gently straightened a strand of Annie’s yarn hair. What would happen if one of her sisters got really sick? What if one of them required drugs given through a PICC line? What if one of them had an open wound that needed to be cleaned and dressed? Poppy felt weak at the knees just thinking of being called upon to fake nursing skills. How did anyone ever decide to have children, knowing they might one day be called upon to save their lives? All Poppy could do was to pray to who or whatever might be out there guiding or determining human life that neither Daisy nor Violet would be forced to rely on her as nursemaid because she would undoubtedly fail her sister miserably.

Suddenly, Poppy remembered something her mother used to say. Worry was interest paid on a debt that might never come due. Annabelle was right. Poppy got up from her old bed, put Annie back against the pillows, and left the room. Both Daisy’s and Violet’s bedroom doors were closed; she could hear Daisy’s clarinet and Violet talking, no doubt to Grimace. She continued on downstairs and found Allie in the sunroom, reading the first of Oliver Higgins’s books.

“You were right,” she said without preamble. “I’m here to thank you for keeping your opinion to yourself. And to apologize for being so unreasonable.”

Allie put aside the book and smiled. “No worries. Sit. Have some wine. And FYI, don’t try to read your father’s work under the influence of alcohol. It’s a mistake. I don’t think I understood one word of the three pages I managed to get through.”

“I can’t make out his work sober.” Poppy sank into the comfortable chair next to Allie’s. “You know,” she said, “sometimes I think I’ve gotten it all under control, that I’ve made my peace with the changes in my life, and then suddenly, I find myself acting like a ten-year-old.”

“Hardly a ten-year-old. Anyway, family tensions always bring out the worst in people. We’d never treat our friends the way we sometimes treat our family. If we did, we’d have no friends.”

Poppy smiled. “You’re right about that.”

“I
’d love to get a peek at what’s inside that house,” Joel said, craning his neck to get a view through the windshield. “His art is so—unique—I imagine his home is pretty interesting, too.”

Joel, with Daisy in the passenger seat, had pulled up outside The Clamshell just as Evie was leaving for the day, and offered her a ride home. Evie, in spite of her dread of riding in cars, had accepted his offer. Standing for five or six hours at a time was tiring, especially when you were wearing thin-soled sneakers. Her feet—and her back—could use the rest. Besides, it was a short ride home and they wouldn’t be anywhere near a highway, which was what really terrified her.

Evie laughed and unbuckled her seat belt. “Not really,” she said. “It’s all pretty normal.”

“Do you think we could come in, just for a few minutes?” Joel asked.

Evie hesitated. Nico had made her promise not to have anyone over to the house, but she was sure that Joel and Daisy were not the sort of people to steal a valuable knickknack or to write on the walls with indelible markers. If she let them come in for only a minute or two, Nico would never know. . . .

“Sure,” she said. “But could you park in the back?” Evie buckled her seat belt again and Joel drove around to the back of the house. “We have to use the front door,” Evie explained, as they got out of the car. “There’s a deadbolt on the back door. Sorry.”
Why didn’t I think of that?
she chided herself.
What does it matter if Joel parks in back when we have to go in through the front
?

With a rapidly beating heart Evie unlocked the front door, and with a final glance over her shoulder, ushered Joel and Daisy in ahead of her. Quickly she closed and locked the door behind them.

Joel stood in the center of the living room. “It’s . . . It’s big,” he said. “And the site is nice enough, though with all the pine trees he must get very little sun in his garden, assuming he keeps one; I didn’t notice a garden when we parked. But it’s so . . .”

“Bland,” Daisy said. “It’s nothing like his art.”

Evie smiled. “I told you.”

“Still,” Joel said, examining Nico’s sparse collection of books, “it’s cool you can stay here for free.”

“I don’t have to do much, either. I just have to bring in the mail and sort through it. The junk goes in the recycling bin and I take it out to the curb once a week. And the garbage. And I have to answer the phone when I’m here and check the voice mail in case there’s an important message. And of course I can’t mess up the place.” Evie laughed. “And there’s a view of the ocean—if you can survive the stairs to the tower room and have a pair of binoculars.”

“That probably raises the value of the house by tens of thousands!” Joel exclaimed. “Nico must be doing all right if he can afford this place.”

Daisy harrumphed. “I wonder who buys his stuff? I think it’s hideous.”

Evie was about to agree with Daisy when she heard a car in the not-so-distant distance.

“Oh my God,” she cried. “Someone’s coming! I’m not really supposed to have anyone here. . . .”

“Don’t worry,” Joel said, grabbing Daisy’s hand and hurrying toward the back door of the house. “We’re already gone. I’ll take the back road.”

Evie slammed the deadbolt into place when they had gone and then hurried back to the living room. She peered through the window that faced the main road. Nothing but dirt and rocks and trees and ferns and chipmunks. No car. No witness to her crime.

“False alarm,” Evie whispered, but it had scared her. If she had been caught having friends in Nico’s house she might lose her temporary home.... Suddenly she remembered what Daisy had said about the police when they had gone to The Starfish to see Joel. Something about them not wasting their time bothering teenage girls . . . But what about teenage girls who defied the rules of their employer? Could the police forcibly evict her from Nico’s home?

Evie dropped into a chair and put her head in her hands. Everything was so fragile. The security she had found was so temporary and depended on her following the rules, unlike life in a family where you could make a mistake and still be loved and have a warm bed in which to sleep and healthy meals to eat.

Then again, Evie thought, she had made no mistake and broken no rules, and yet her home and her family had been wrenched from her. . . . Was there no real certainty in life, no real safety no matter how hard you worked to create a sense of security? It was an awful thought, the possibility of never being allowed to rest, never being allowed to let her guard down. Like the night she and Daisy had gone to see
Casablanca.
She had been so moved by the sad love story, so reminded of her mother though she couldn’t say exactly why, that she had been on the point of pouring out her own true sad story to Daisy. It had taken a supreme effort not to break down, not even to allow one tear to stain her cheek....

And the only reason she had said no to Daisy’s invitation to dinner the day they had gone to The Starfish (and she
loved
tacos) was that she was still unsure of how smart it was to get close to too many new people. What about the adults at Daisy’s house, that friend of Poppy’s Daisy had mentioned, and maybe others? What if they started asking questions she couldn’t answer? What if she couldn’t come up with lies quickly enough, what if she couldn’t keep the lies straight? It was hard enough to watch everything she said to Daisy and Joel, people her own age. Adults, even the nice ones, could be tricky. Parents, even her laid-back mother, were always asking questions, always on the lookout for potential problems so they could stop them in their tracks. Teachers were always suspicious of bad behavior. Even if an adult knew you were officially an adult, too, it wouldn’t stop them from—from meddling. Why did adults always think they knew better than kids? A lot of time they didn’t. Look at her father, for example. What did he know that she didn’t? Nothing.

Evie rubbed her eyes. She wondered if she was getting paranoid. That couldn’t be good. It was smart to keep an eye out for trouble, but it was stupid to see trouble everywhere you looked. You could make bad mistakes that way.

Wearily, Evie rose from the chair and wandered into the kitchen. She supposed she should eat something. There was a container of leftover Chinese food in the fridge. Billy had treated the staff to takeout the other day. “A change from our little menu,” he said. Evie opened the fridge and stared blindly at its meager contents. And then she closed it. And then she went upstairs to her bedroom. The bedroom that was
not
really hers.