Summer with My Sisters

by Holly Chamberlin

As Daisy and Mrs. Wilkin headed for the elevator, Daisy wondered if Poppy would ever be free of worry about her sisters, now that she had taken on the responsibilities of a parent. Poor Poppy, she thought. What did she do to deserve this?

  Chapter 17

  “Start, you stupid thing!”

  Poppy was on the front lawn battling with an old lawn mower she had found in the garage. For the past ten minutes—it had seemed like a century—she had been pulling on the starter cord to no avail.

  “Need help with that?” a voice called.

  Poppy straightened up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. It was Jon Gascoyne, sitting behind the wheel of his truck at the foot of the drive. “Do you have an axe with you?” she called back, wiping the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead.

  “Uh, no. Why?”

  “Because I want to smash this thing to bits. I just can’t get it to start.”

  Jon smiled, climbed out of his truck, and loped up to join her. “There’s probably no need for drastic measures. And why are you doing the mowing? I thought you had a landscaping service.”

  “We do. But I was feeling ambitious earlier and thought I’d drag out this old mower and get some exercise. . . .”

  Jon twisted the cap off the gas tank and peered inside. When he looked up at her he seemed to be resisting a smile. “You do realize you need to fill the tank with gas? It’s as dry as a bone.”

  “Oh,” Poppy said. “Well, that was pretty silly of me, not to check the gas tank.”

  “Not everybody can be a mechanic,” Jon said, wiping his hands on his jeans.

  Poppy smiled. “You’re being kind. From now on I think I’ll leave the landscaping to the professionals. Look, do you want to come in for some lemonade? It’s not homemade, but it’s pretty decent. My mother used to make lemonade from scratch, but . . .” But what, Poppy asked herself. Why can’t I squeeze lemons just as well as Mom did?

  “Sure. Thanks. I’ve never been inside this house before,” Jon told her as he followed her inside and through to the kitchen. “I’ve always wondered about it. The exterior is so unusual—I think your house is the only one in the county with good old-fashioned gables!—I figured the interior must be as well.”

  “Well, would you like a quick tour?” Poppy asked.

  “That’d be great,” he said enthusiastically.

  So Poppy led him through the first floor, from the kitchen back to the living room, through the dining room, and into the study that had been her mother’s favorite room in the house. “Upstairs,” she explained, “are the bedrooms, nothing too special. The sunroom is really the showpiece of the house. Through here.”

  A moment later they stood side by side in the sunroom. Poppy watched as Jon noted the profusion of books, the green plants with their pink and purple flowers, the two massive jade plants, the comfortable couch and chairs, the collection of perfectly white seashells on a low wooden table. “I can see why it’s considered the showpiece,” he said, smiling at her. “It feels like an oasis of calm and beauty. I have a romantic side, you see.”

  “This is where my father died,” Poppy blurted. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I had to tell you that.”

  “It’s okay. It must still be so fresh. The memories. The feelings.”

  “Freddie found him. Daisy was home at the time, but she was in the kitchen. She could have been the one. . . .”

  “But she wasn’t.”

  Poppy silently scolded herself for sounding so maudlin. She didn’t want Jon—well, she didn’t want anyone—to think she was mired in sorrow and incapable of meeting the challenges of the new role she had been given. “Well,” she said briskly, “let me get you that lemonade.”

  They went back to the kitchen, where Poppy retrieved the carton of lemonade from the fridge, added ice cubes to two tall glasses, and poured.

  “Thanks,” Jon said, as she handed him a glass. “I met your father once, you know, a long time ago.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “It was back when I was in college,” Jon explained. “I knew who he was, of course. My economics professor had mentioned him several times and I knew that he was married to Professor Higgins. And, I’d seen him on campus—and on TV for that matter—so when I spotted him in town one afternoon I recognized him immediately.”

  Poppy smiled. “He was kind of distinctive, with that wild white hair. Kind of a cross between the actor who played Inspector Morse and Einstein.”

  “John Thaw. One of my favorites. Anyway, your father was kind to a gushing fan. He invited me to have coffee with him. He listened to my half-formed ideas without laughing. He answered my fumbling questions in a way that made me feel I was almost an equal. A few days later there was a signed copy of his latest book on our front step. I still have it.”

  “But did you ever read it?” Poppy teased.

  “Twice. And to be honest, I feel I’ve barely skimmed the surface of his arguments. He was a formidable thinker, your father.”

  “A genius, some said. Did you ever read my mother’s book?” Poppy asked.

  “Of course! Much more accessible for a layman.”

  “I feel I know parts of it by heart,” Poppy told him. “We’ve all read it, even Violet. And we have all of my mother’s notes. She was writing a second volume when she died. I keep thinking that someday I’ll find someone who wants to finish the book. It would be a sort of tribute to her.”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea.” Jon looked at his cell phone. “Two o’clock already. I’d better be off. Thanks for the lemonade, Poppy. And the tour.”

  “And thanks for diagnosing the problem with the mower.”

  Poppy walked him to the door and watched as Jon got into his truck and drove away. She wished he had been able to stay for a while longer. He was so nice. He was so kind. She wished . . .

  Poppy shook her head, went back inside the house, and closed the door behind her.

  Chapter 18

  “Everything okay, Evie? Settling in all right?”

  Evie smiled at her boss. “Everything’s fine, Billy. Thanks.”

  “Good. You let me know if there’s something I forgot to explain. The old brain isn’t what it used to be.”

  Billy Woolrich wandered over to the large chalkboard on which the daily specials were listed (simple things, including a non-seafood sandwich and a soup) and Evie, on her fifteen-minute break, continued her inventory of the paper napkin supply. She was very aware of how lucky she had been to find a job working for such a nice boss. She had been so nervous the day she had applied for the job that she hadn’t really paid much attention to what he looked like. Billy Woolrich was very tall, several inches over six feet, Evie guessed. She thought he must once have been very handsome. Even now, with his wavy gray hair and large brown eyes he was attractive. Not to Evie, of course—he was old enough to be her grandfather!—but she imagined that lots of adult women would like him in that way. Her mother might even have thought he was a good-looking man. But none of that mattered because Mr. Woolrich wore a wedding ring. His wife was probably as nice as he was.

  “We’re short a fry cook this afternoon,” Billy suddenly announced, sticking his cell phone back into his shirt pocket. “Just got a call from Tommy. Says he’s down with a stomach flu. Hope he didn’t pick up something here!”

  “Maybe Mrs. Woolrich could help out,” Evie suggested. “Just for the day.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, with a small smile. “I’ve been on my own now for almost eight years, ever since Susan passed away. Can’t say I’ve gotten used to it, not really. I keep expecting Susan to come through the door and tell me dinner’s ready or the washing machine’s on the fritz again.”

  Evie felt her heart constrict. “I’m so sorry, Billy,” she said. “I didn’t know. I never would have . . . You . . . you must have loved her very much.”

  “More than a man can say. Sometimes I think it should have been me, but God’s will be done.” Billy turned away. “I’ll b
e in the storeroom if you need me.”

  God’s will be done. Evie had heard those words so many times since the car accident that had destroyed her family and she still couldn’t see the sense in them. What sort of God willed destruction and sorrow? Whoever he was, he wasn’t the sort of God Evie wanted to believe in.

  A family of three came into the restaurant then. They were laughing and Evie watched as the father leaned over and kissed the mother’s cheek. Evie turned away. She didn’t want to remember her parents being happy together because it made it so much harder to maintain her anger against her father, the man her mother had loved, the man who had once been so good to his family. It was better—easier—to erase the memories of the happy years and of all the good things her father had done for them—like take Evie and her mother to a tree farm each Christmas season to choose the perfect tree, and grill hamburgers in the backyard on even the coldest of winter days, and fix anything in the house that was broken, and chase away the occasional bat that got into the house through the attic—and to see him only for what he had become. The man who had killed her mother. The man who had lost his job and the family’s home because of addiction. The man who had abandoned his daughter.

  The man who, like Billy, might still be mourning his wife.

  Evie shook her head, as if to clear away that last thought. She went back to her place behind the order counter, thanking the girl who had taken over during her break.

  Chapter 19

  Peeling carrots. An oddly satisfying employment, Poppy thought, watching the pile of orange strips grow. She had decided to make her mother’s famous carrot-raisin salad for dinner. The recipe was very simple, but Poppy had shied away from attempting the dish. The few times she had tried her hand at one of the old family favorites both of her sisters had barely touched their food. Maybe it was because she had badly over-salted. Maybe it was because memories could take an appetite away. Well, she would give it one more go and if the carrot raisin salad wasn’t a hit with Daisy and Violet, she would try to feed them dishes with no associations good or bad. But what?

  Poppy began to cut the pile of peeled carrots in chunks; they, in turn, would be shredded in the food processor, and the rest of the ingredients mixed in later. The task was simple enough to allow her mind to dwell on more important matters, like the fact that it had only occurred to her that morning as she was taking her birth control pill that while she had been focusing on things like buying health insurance (with Freddie’s help) and budgeting for daily and monthly expenses (ditto) and making sure that her sisters were eating properly (she had caught Daisy drinking soda for breakfast the other day; since when did Daisy drink soda?) she had entirely ignored the potentially explosive subject of their sexual lives.

  Speak of the Devil, Poppy thought, as Daisy came loping into the kitchen and grabbed a chunk of carrot from under Poppy’s knife.

  “Daisy, I need to ask you something.”

  “Okay,” her sister responded around a mouthful of carrot. “Ow. I bit my tongue.”

  “Will you be honest with me? It’s important.”

  Daisy shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Are you having sex with anyone?” Poppy asked.

  “What!” Daisy cried, her hand halfway to snatching another piece of carrot from the cutting board. “No way. I don’t even have a boyfriend, you know that.”

  “Girls in high school have sex with people who are not their boyfriends. Hookups, I think they’re called, or they used to be.”

  “Well, I’m not one of them,” Daisy said emphatically. “I think hookups are pathetic. What ever happened to self-esteem?”

  Poppy felt relieved, but also realized that she wasn’t really surprised. Daisy might be prickly and perverse at times, but she had always been levelheaded. “Good,” she said. “So, you know all about sex, right? I mean, did Mom talk to you?”

  “Of course she did,” Daisy responded. “Jeez, Poppy, I’m sixteen. I’ve known all about sex for years.”

  “Well, that doesn’t mean you don’t have any questions. Do you?”

  “And you’re the expert?” Daisy laughed.

  “No, but I’ve had sex and—”

  Daisy put her hands over her ears. “Stop right there! I don’t want to hear any details. And no, I don’t have any questions.”

  “I wasn’t going to give you any details,” Poppy assured her, “and okay. But if you do someday have a question you know you should come to me. And when you need to get birth control—”

  “Poppy!”

  Poppy sighed. “I just want you to know you can count on me.”

  “Look, I won’t be needing birth control any time soon, okay? I’m not planning on messing up my life. Really.”

  “Good. I mean, not that sex is wrong or bad. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, Poppy,” Daisy said, rolling her eyes skyward. “I know that. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I think. Look, what does Violet know about the birds and the bees?”

  “I’m not sure,” Daisy admitted. “I don’t think Mom talked to her about sex. Violet was only nine when Mom died. And as for Dad . . . But I know she had a sex ed class in school. So did I. So did you.”

  “Hmm. But that doesn’t mean she knows everything. Or that she knows enough to keep her safe.” Poppy sighed. “I guess I’d better talk to her.”

  “None of this is easy for you, is it?” Daisy asked suddenly.

  Poppy smiled ruefully. “No. It isn’t. I feel like a pretender to the throne. Like a fake. Who am I to be counseling my sisters about life?”

  “You’re the one Dad put in charge.”

  Lucky me, Poppy thought. What she said was: “And how do you think I’m doing so far?”

  It took Daisy a long moment to answer and when she did, she didn’t quite meet her sister’s eyes. “Okay,” she said. “I think you’re doing fine.”

  Poppy didn’t believe her for one second—Daisy had always been a terrible liar—but she said, “Thanks. Dinner at six thirty.”

  Daisy turned to go and then looked back. “Is that Mom’s carrot-raisin salad you’re making?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Poppy said.

  Daisy nodded. “Good. Just watch the salt, okay?”

  Chapter 20

  “May I come in?”

  Violet was polishing a chunk of some purple and white stone Daisy had never seen before. “Sure,” she said.

  Daisy stepped inside her sister’s bedroom and as always, was struck by how vastly different it was from her own. The walls in Daisy’s room were white. There were no floaty scarves or bowls of crystals. There were no books more esoteric than the King James Bible. The contrast always made Daisy wonder how she and Violet could be related and have such different tastes and interests. And then, of course, there was Grimace, who was draped across the back of an old armchair that used to live in the study. The chair had seen better days, and not only because Grimace used it as a scratching post, but for some reason Daisy couldn’t fathom her sister was attached to it.

  “I’m giving you a heads-up,” Daisy said. “Poppy is probably going to ask you about sex.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, what you know and do you have any questions.”

  “I know all I need or want to know right now,” Violet stated firmly.

  “Yeah, but she’s still probably going to want to talk to you.”

  Violet shrugged. “That’s her job now, watching over us.”

  Like a hovering buzzard, Daisy thought. But that was unkind. “Are you doing okay?” she asked, sitting on the edge of her sister’s bed. “Like, in general, you know . . .”

  “Do you mean am I handling the fact of Dad’s death in a healthy way?”

  Daisy felt a bit embarrassed. Violet never seemed to shy away from or dance around the difficult subjects, the way Daisy often did. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s what I mean.”

  Violet nodded and sat in the old armchair. Grimace grunted. “I think that I
am,” she said. “I’m sad. I miss him, and Mom. But I’m not afraid. So many people are afraid of death, but I’m not. And I’ve got a home. I love it here. I really do. And Grimace. And you and Poppy and Freddie and Sheila. So, I’m okay.”

  For a moment Daisy wondered if her sister was protesting a bit too much. But that wasn’t Violet. She didn’t lie or hide things. “Don’t you miss not having any friends your own age?” she asked suddenly. “Sorry, but I’ve wondered about that.” And sometimes, she had worried.

  Violet smiled. “How can you miss what you’ve never had?”

  “Yeah, but . . . Don’t you ever look at other girls around town or at the beach or in school and think it might be fun to hang out with them and talk about your teachers and cute boys and what bands are cool and just—stuff?”

  “No,” Violet said simply. “Don’t you miss not having girlfriends? What happened to that girl you used to hang out with, the one you went to Girl Scouts with for a while?”

  “Marla? She and her family moved away, like, four or five years ago. Anyway, I’ve got Joel.” Daisy didn’t want to think about what might happen to their friendship when Joel got a serious boyfriend, and he was far more likely to get one before she did—if she ever did.

  “So, you’re okay, too?” her sister asked. “About Dad?”

  Daisy smiled sadly. “Not really. I keep thinking that, I don’t know, that I could have saved him somehow. Don’t ask me what I might have done! But I was in the house with him when . . .”

  Violet got up from the armchair—Grimace grunted—and came over to put a slim hand on Daisy’s arm. Daisy was startled. Her younger sister rarely touched another living creature but for Grimace. It hadn’t always been that way. “It was his time,” Violet said. “It was meant to happen the way it did.”

  Daisy wasn’t sure she could believe that, but if it helped Violet to think so then she wouldn’t argue. “Yes,” she said. “I guess so. Hey, do you remember when Dad would go away on business, how he would always bring back something for each of us, even if it was just a pen from the hotel where he stayed?”