The Big Sugarbush

by Ana Good

  Storm didn’t get a chance to argue. Less than five hundred feet from the ground, her chute failed to deploy. One of the soldiers who had jumped with her was trying to reach onto her back, reach the second rip cord on her safety pack.

  Storm was fighting him off. “Get off me!” she screamed. “For God’s sake, let me die!”

  58. Bad News BBC

  Everyone scurried about when Thumper and Poppy dragged the Christmas tree into the TV room, bringing with them the fresh-cut scent of balsam fir. The room swarmed with celebratory cheer. With Nan’s help, the women soon had the tree screwed into a red metal stand, ready to be decorated.

  Poppy stood back and sipped hot chocolate as Thumper and Dirk fought over a badly ripped box of Christmas tree decorations. Thumper grabbed one end of an impossibly long silver garland just as Dirk grabbed the other. A tug-of-war broke out. The twins had snapped the garland in two and started a playful war over a second one before Babe managed to intervene.

  It made Poppy’s heart warm to see Thumper and Dirk playing like sisters again. She sighed as she realized they had no idea how rare such love was in this lifetime. Poppy doubted she’d ever find such love. In a few days she’d be back in London, inside her closed circle of musical associates. She’d have to start recording almost as soon as her feet hit English soil. Her band, the Pop Tarts, was eager to try out a new sound. Two weeks after that, she’d be on the road on an Asian tour. Her life was booked solid for months to come. Poppy would have no time to do anything but sing her heart out night after night to legions of adoring fans.

  Faceless, nameless fans.

  Hoping to take her mind off that sad thought, Poppy tapped on the TV remote. The nightly news blared into the room. A local weatherwoman was standing in front of a fake radar screen that boasted the outline of a red Santa in a blue sled sliding across the Adirondacks of New York toward Vermont. “Santa is only an hour out from Burlington, Vermont,” declared the weatherwoman. “Better get to bed now, kids!”

  Babe entered the room. “That means you, ladies. Upstairs! All of you. It’s an hour past lights-out!”

  Laughing like children, the women jostled past Babe, upstairs. Poppy came last, switching off the lights in the TV room. She stood alone for a while, admiring the twinkling blue lights on the stately tree. She wished there really were a Santa Claus. She was, of course, old enough to know better.

  After flipping off the remaining lights, she climbed the stairs slowly, not eager to curl up alone in her bed. But when she arrived in the room, Wee Gee was wide awake. And pacing. She had her laptop flipped open on the desk. A live Internet feed was issuing a special report on the battles under way against ISIS death squads.

  Poppy ran across the room to see why Wee Gee looked so ashen. There, on the screen of the laptop, flashed a photo of Storm Waters. Another female reporter, not Storm, was speaking rapidly over gunfire popping in the background. “Storm Waters has been reported missing in action. All we know for sure is that she was on an important mission into the heart of the war zone in the southern provinces of Iraq this evening when she lost communication with the network. There is a rumor - and I repeat, this only a rumor - that Storm may have died trying to parachute into the war zone after a story of immense importance to the safety of everyone in this country. We’ll keep you posted as news develops.”

  Poppy dropped down on her bed. “My God!” she wept. “That can’t be right! That has to be bloody wrong!” She ran to Wee Gee’s laptop and shot the browser off CNN to the BBC station. There, a male correspondent with an English accent repeated the same story.

  Wee Gee slipped both arms around Poppy and hugged her tightly. “It’s all right, baby girl. They don’t know anything yet. She’s probably fine. You know how mean and mulish that girl is. Ain’t no one taking her. She’s fine. I’d bet you that.” Wee Gee held Poppy, who was shaking like a frightened kitten, as tightly as she dared.

  59. Life Sucks

  Christmas Day there was to be no therapy. But the women requested an ad hoc group session after breakfast, anyway. They were shaken to the core by the news that Storm was missing in action.

  Even Dylan was upset. “She can’t be dead. Man, that can’t be right. That chick was like Rambo.”

  Babe stuck to her mantra: “We can’t know what happened to her. We have to wait. Don’t jump to conclusions. Wait for the news reports. Be patient.”

  Dylan wasn’t buying that. “That’s fuckin’ cold, man.”

  “No,” insisted Babe. “It’s not cold. It’s life, and it is exactly how you will get through your own lives going forward. One day at a time.”

  Poppy spoke up. “But we feel bad! Bloody bad. And hopeless. How are we supposed to deal with that?”

  “That’s fine. Feeling bad is okay. You’ll feel bad. The important thing -”

  Dylan jumped in: “Is what we do with those feelings.”

  “That’s right,” affirmed Babe.

  Poppy glared at Babe. “This rehab thing sucks.”

  Babe nodded. “You’d be right about that. But your life without rehab also sucked, as I recall. It’s your choice, really, which kind of suckiness you’d prefer.”

  Nan, who had been silent all morning, spoke up. “What I don’t get is what we’re supposed to do with these bad feelings. I mean, how do we keep feeling this awful and not let it eat us alive? I mean, I’ll be honest with you, I have no effing idea what to do with the feelings of betrayal that are churning inside me.”

  Babe paced the circle of the group. “What would you have done a month ago?”

  “Who the hell knows! Downed a quart of gin? Knocked Tinker Bell’s head off with a tire iron?”

  “And now?”

  “Now” — Nan pursed her lips — “I feel angry with nowhere to put it.”

  “What are you angry about?” asked Babe.

  “That Birge left me after all these years. Left me effing here. Then left me for real with that little slut bunny.”

  “Why do you think she did that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Why do you think your partner ditched you and took up with another woman?”

  The room was so silent you could have heard an elf skittle.

  Babe spoke next. “Did Birge say anything to you when you confronted her in that hotel room?”

  Nan ground her back molars. Babe knew full well what Birge had said, as Nan had confessed all to Babe in private therapy the day before. “She said the usual crap about how it was me who’d abandoned her. Left her for a bottle of gin.”

  “Isn’t that true?”

  Poppy tried to come to Nan’s rescue, but Babe made her sit down and be quiet.

  Babe turned to Nan. “Is it true that you left your partner for a bottle of booze?”

  Nan inhaled deeply. “All right, maybe that’s somewhat true. I get how she might feel like that. But I’m sober now. I’m not going to run away and hide in a bottle. I’m going to deal with my feelings now.”

  “How does she know that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve been with this woman almost thirty years?”

  Nan nodded.

  “And how long have you been drinking gin?”

  “Since seventh grade.”

  Everyone laughed. Nan included.

  “Okay,” said Nan, “I get what you’re telling me. You’re telling me Birge has no reason to trust me, given my record. You’re telling me I have to win back her trust. You’re telling me I have to be the bigger person. That maybe I owe it to Birge to discuss this thing with her?”

  “A discussion? I’d say that’s the least you owe her. She said she wanted to talk to you about this?”

  “Yes.” Nan remembered the pained look on Birge’s face as she’d stood literally and figuratively naked in that hotel room. Birge had been willing to talk. Nan had been the one to flee, run from the pain.

  Babe spoke again. “Look, I am not excusing your partner’s behavior. What she did was wro
ng and hurtful and deceitful BUT unless you talk to Birge, you’ll not be able to work this thing through. You can’t pretend to know what she’s feeling. You have to have the courage to go out and ask her. Listen to what she has to say. Do you think you can do that? Do you think you can stay present and let Birge tell you how she’s feeling, even if what she has to say is very hurtful for you to hear?”

  “I don’t know,” Nan mumbled at last. “I honestly don’t know.”

  60. Gold Medal Muff-Diving

  After group, Candice took her feelings to the exercise room. Dirk loped after her.

  Candice climbed the endless steps of the StairMaster while Dirk watched.

  Halfway through her workout, Candice stopped to wipe sweat from her glistening face with a microfiber towel. “Why do you watch me?” she asked Dirk, who’d been bench-pressing weights as long as Candice had been faux-climbing.

  Dirk sat up and took a swig of her vitamin water. “Because you like it.”

  “I most certainly do not!” protested Candice.

  “Yeah, you do. You like being watched. Some chicks are like that.” Dirk lay back on the bench and began fiddling with the weight locks.

  Candice came over and straddled the bench. She pushed herself up close to Dirk’s knees. “I got you a little Christmas present.” Candice slid a wrapped package out of the pouch pocket of her zippered workout jacket. She handed it shyly to Dirk.

  Sitting up, Dirk took the package. “Cool! But I didn’t get you anything. Me and Thumper are on a pretty tight budget.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Candice, shrugging. “Go ahead, open my present. I think it’s just the thing for a stud bunny like you.”

  Dirk grinned as she tore off the wrapping paper. As soon as the paper was off, she held up a black T-shirt. The front boasted an Olympic team insignia that looked quite official. The shirt read: “U.S. Olympics Muff-Diving Team. Head Coach.”

  Dirk roared with laughter. “You know me so well!” She leaned over and tried to kiss Candice, but the doctor dodged the kiss.

  “Whoa!” complained Dirk. “Thought you liked me.” She waved the T-shirt at Candice.

  “I do like you,” said the doctor as she jumped back on the StairMaster. “But I’m not having sex with you.”

  “Huh?”

  Candice had to shout to be heard above the whirling of the exercise machine. “Not yet! Not until we’re out of rehab!”

  Dirk slammed herself back onto the bench and resumed pumping weights with a passion. Whatever Candice wanted, she was willing to give it a try. Besides, the idea that she couldn’t have sex was making her incredibly horny. No girl had ever made her wait. Not once. Never.

  Dirk cast a furtive eye at Candice, who was climbing the exercise machine like her life depended on it. Dirk pumped the weights harder, happy to imagine Candice off that machine and on her.

  Upstairs, in the TV room, Poppy curled on the couch, a pillow clutched to her chest for comfort. She’d been staring mindlessly at CNN for the last two hours. She’d hoped for some news about Storm on the telly, but the news channel was instead chock-full of mindless stories: lackluster retail sales, an ice storm in the Midwest that had stranded thousands at O’Hare on Christmas Eve. Poppy didn’t care about these things; she cared about Storm.

  Wee Gee strolled into the room. “Any news, baby girl?”

  “Nothing about Iraq.”

  “Nothing on the Internet, either,” sighed Wee Gee. “I checked all the news sites and blogs.”

  Poppy offered the writer a seat next to her on the couch.

  Wee Gee took the offer.

  The two women were silent for a long time.

  Turning down the volume on the remote, Poppy spoke first. “You scared?”

  “Of what, baby girl?”

  “Leaving.”

  “Not so much,” said Wee Gee with a shrug. “Been through this before. Several times. It’s hard the first couple of days. Then you start to settle into your life again. You get busy. We all will.”

  “You heading home? To Kentucky?”

  “Not sure. Have to be back there in fourteen days. Me and my oldest girl, Shawnee, we’re checking into the fat farm together.”

  “Oh, God!” groaned Poppy. “More rehab! How could you?”

  Wee Gee chuckled. “I need to develop a new relationship with food. It’ll help if someone gets me off to a running start by teaching me to cook a bit better.”

  Nan sauntered into the room and threw herself halfheartedly onto the couch. “Any news, ladies?”

  Wee Gee and Poppy assured her there was not.

  The three women sat glumly on the sofa together.

  Nan broke the silence. “I’m going to my cottage in Maine when I blow this pop stand. Just for a week. Feel like I need a decompression chamber before I go back to Manhattan to deal with Birge. Anyone want to tag along? Help me celebrate the new year sober?”

  “Where’s Maine?” asked Poppy, cheered at the prospect of a real holiday.

  “Across the mountains.” Nan hitched her thumb to the east. “I have a cottage on the shore. Usually I keep it closed in the winter. We summer there, Birge and I. But it’s very quiet. Peaceful. I called last night to have my people open it up for a week. You guys are welcome to hang out with me for the new year. Got plenty of guest rooms. Great view of the ocean, too.”

  Poppy started to decline, but then thought about the stress waiting for her back in London. She really didn’t want to face that. Not yet. Not with her heart so heavy about Storm. Her band would hate her, but she could call, beg off another week. Part of the problem that had landed her in rehab had been her willingness to say yes to anything her managers had asked of her. She needed to start taking back pieces of private time. She owed herself that much. “Count me in,” she said, feeling somewhat cheered.

  “Ditto!” said Wee Gee, who hated to admit she had nowhere special to go to celebrate the new year.

  61. Angelic Blow Job

  Dylan strapped on snowshoes and clattered across the kitchen. She creaked open the back door and peered across the yard. Behind the farmhouse ran a series of sharp rock ledges. Granite teeth gnawed through the melting snow. Nothing for miles behind the farmhouse. Just rock and snow. More of the same.

  Stepping into the yard, Dylan slipped on her new rainbow mittens.

  “Effing weird!” she exclaimed to herself as she stared at the mittens. It was like her hands were on fire. Her heart, too.

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  Dylan looked back to see Poppy standing on the steps, her jacket and snowshoes already strapped on. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her ebony hair was yanked carelessly back in a ponytail.

  “Ah, sure,” Dylan said, realizing how upset Poppy must be over Storm’s disappearance. “Not going anywhere special. Just need to get some air.” She flipped back a swatch of hair as she spoke.

  Poppy ran jogged through the snow to join Dylan.

  “Ready to rock?” asked Dylan.

  “Go!” cried Poppy.

  The two women were off, trudging a hill, headed to the rise of an impossibly steep rock ledge. Both slipped and slid, using hand poles to balance themselves while propelling their bodies forward. The metal cleats on their snowshoes bit like teeth into the icy rock under the snow.

  Dylan lost her breath several times as they advanced up the ledge. One foot would start to slip, but then the metal teeth would bite in, saving her from a nasty fall. Common sense warned Dylan back, but she had several decades of experience ignoring that pesky little voice. She ignored it, enjoying instead the feeling she was about to do something forbidden.

  Dylan felt weird these days. Lost. No drugs. No sex. Like she’d flatlined in her own life. She was starting to hate being sober. She felt desperate to misbehave. Since all the other women in the farmhouse seemed serious about this rehab thing, she’d have to misbehave on her own. Poppy tagging along was a problem, but she could deal with that. Likely the skinny little femme fluff would give
out and turn back. If not, Dylan would try to entice her to join in. A couple of rock ledges more and they would be in a zone where nothing but a herd of moose could bust them.

  Deep in the pocket of Dylan’s jeans jacket nested a baggie of marijuana and some rolling papers. She’d come upon this stash by accident. Babe had asked her to clean out Betty’s room and pack Betty’s things for shipment back to her. In Betty’s fanny pack, Dylan had come across the drugs. She’d started to flush them, but then, well, it seemed a better test of her strength if she kept the drugs — just to prove to herself she could handle having drugs close by.

  But now a toke was starting to feel like a fine idea. Anything, really, to juice her humdrum life.

  Dylan huffed up a ledge, slid down a ravine, and huffed back up another ledge. She turned her head, sure the rock star would have turned back by now, but Poppy was on her heels, her cheeks streaming sweat. Poppy’s dark eyes sparked with devilish determination.

  Fuck, thought Dylan. She’d have to stop and hope Poppy would be cool with her taking a toke.

  Less than a minute later, atop a ledge, Dylan stopped. Exhausted, the muscles in her legs and buttocks burning, she hurled her body onto a fallen birch tree that was propped at an angle, the top stuck in the fork of a hemlock. She panted, desperate for breath.

  Poppy hurled her body into a snowbank beside Dylan.

  The two women stared up at a milky blue sky, their mutual panting the only sound other than a light wind that whispered through the pines above them. Dylan turned to face Poppy. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Never!” panted Poppy.

  Dylan stared at the sky. “You miss Storm?”

  “Yes. Terribly.” Pant. “Horribly, in fact.”

  Dylan was impressed that Poppy would admit this. She herself never admitted to needing anything — a huge part of her problem in life, according to Babe. “You in love?”

  “Seems so,” sighed Poppy as she turned to face Dylan.

  “You going after her?”

  “After her? Hell no! That woman is in a war zone.” Poppy rolled her eyes.