Summer with My Sisters (8 page)

D
aisy climbed out of what had once been her father’s car, murmured a hurried thank-you to Poppy, and jogged up the graveled path to the doors of Pine Hill Residence for the Elderly. Three people were coming out of the building as she dashed up the front stairs, a man, a woman, and a girl about Daisy’s age. They had probably just paid a visit to an aged relative, Daisy thought. And the girl looked vaguely familiar . . .

Ah. She knew what it was. The girl looked a bit like the one Daisy had bumped into in the convenience store the other day, the one wearing the pink hoodie, the one who had seemed nervous or on edge. Well, Daisy supposed that having a stranger almost send you crashing into a shelf of toothpaste could unsettle anyone. She really wished she weren’t so prone to stumbling! Poppy and Violet were both so graceful in their movements.
I’m the oddball sister,
she thought.
The ugly duckling among the swans.

Daisy waved to the security guard by the front door and signed in at the volunteer station. Then she took the stairs to the second floor, where her favorite residents had a small apartment—one bedroom, one bathroom (complete with several safety bars), an open-plan living/dining area, and a kitchenette. Muriella and Bertie Wilkin had been married for sixty-three years; they were now in their late eighties. Daisy found Muriella sitting comfortably in an armchair, leafing through a magazine about quilting. (Arthritis had forced her to give up her favorite hobby, but she still kept up with the quilting community.) Muriella smiled when she saw Daisy. Though she had told Daisy she had once been five foot seven inches tall it was hard to imagine, seeing her now. Her shoulders were sadly bent and her neck was set forward, giving her, in her own words, “the look of a curious turtle.” But Muriella’s eyes were still bright and she was proud to tell anyone who cared to know that all of her teeth were the originals.

“How are you today, Mrs. Wilkin?” Daisy asked, kissing the woman on the cheek and taking a seat in the other armchair facing her.

“Just fine. And how are you? Enjoying the summer when you’re not kindly paying a visit to my old bones?”

Daisy laughed. “I’m trying to. What would you like to do today? We could go sit on the back porch, but I have to warn you, it’s pretty humid out there.”

Muriella pretended to shudder. “The humidity always did wreak havoc with my hair. No, let’s stay here.”

“Where’s Mr. Wilkin?” Daisy asked.

“In the lounge down the hall, playing checkers with that cheat, whatever his name is. I always forget.”

Daisy laughed. “Does he—whoever he is—really cheat at checkers? I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Tom must—that’s his name, Tom—because Bertie loses a dollar to him every time they play and let me tell you, Bertie never lost a legitimate game of checkers in his life.”

“Do you want to report Tom to the staff?” Daisy asked. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about turning in a senior citizen, but the Wilkins were on a very fixed budget. A dollar here and there could really add up.

Muriella laughed. “Oh, no, that’s the last thing I want to do. Bertie loves complaining about Tom and his underhanded ways. If Tom was made to be law-abiding, Bertie would be very annoyed indeed.”

“Okay,” Daisy said. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.” And then she got up from the chair and began to pace around the room.

“You’ve been thinking,” Muriella noted. “Would you like to tell me what about?”

“Yes,” Daisy said. “I would. The other day I read an article online about couples who have been married for fifty, even sixty or seventy years, dying on the same day or just about. They just can’t live without each other. It’s like they became one person somewhere along the line.” Daisy came to a sudden halt and whirled to face Mrs. Wilkin. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she cried. “I shouldn’t be talking about dying. I
told
myself not to and then I totally forgot!!”

Muriella laughed. “Why shouldn’t you talk about dying? I
do
know that I’m going to die, and quite possibly some time very soon.”

Daisy hurried over to Mrs. Wilkin and put a hand on her arm. “But I shouldn’t be reminding you of it.”

“Mortality, my child, is not something I’m likely to forget for more than a moment at a time.”

“I guess,” Daisy said, and sank back into her chair. “So . . . do you think that you and Mr. Wilkin will die one soon after the other?”

Muriella shrugged. “Impossible to say. But for myself, I suspect that if my beloved passes before I do, I won’t much want to stay around. Not that I would take any measures to end my life. My religion forbids it and since it won’t be long before I meet my Maker I don’t want to start sinning now.”

“No, of course not,” Daisy said. “You know, Mrs. Wilkin, I really believe that my father died of a broken heart. I think he died because my mother had died. Not right away. He had my sisters and me to take care of. But I think that after a few years without my mother he just couldn’t go on any longer.”

Muriella leaned forward in her chair. “I do hope you don’t spend too much time dwelling on such things,” she said. “You’re too young to be morbid.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m being morbid,” Daisy said quickly. “I mean, I hate the fact that my father is gone, but it is kind of wonderful to think that people can love each other so much they can’t live without each other. That they’re together again, forever.”

“And there,” Muriella said, sitting back, “you veer a little too close to the morbidly romantic, my child. Suicide pacts and whatnot. Romeo and Juliet. Better to look at those widows and widowers who were able to live on and rebuild a life while honoring the spouse’s memory.”

“Yes,” Daisy said. She wasn’t sure she agreed with Mrs. Wilkin, but she didn’t want her friend to be worrying about her any more than she might already be. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Now, I think you need some cheering up. What do you say we go down to the café for an ice cream?”

Daisy smiled. “I’m supposed to be the one cheering
you
up.”

“A relationship works both ways, my dear. And one is happiest when one feels needed.”

“That’s true,” Daisy agreed.
And it made me so happy to take care of Dad. . . .
“How are your children?” Daisy asked as she offered a hand to Mrs. Wilkin and helped her out of her armchair.

“Causing their parents chest pains.” Mrs. Wilkin peered up at Daisy. “You would think that after sixty or so years Bertie and I would be free of worry about our children. But sometimes, it doesn’t work that way.”

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?

“S
tart, 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.

“E
verything 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 be 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.