The Space Between Sisters

by Mary McNear

  Poppy sighed. Once again, she saw, she would be trading on her sister’s good name.

  “What about . . . ?” Poppy asked, indicating the NO PETS ALLOWED sign on the door.

  “Not to worry,” Caroline said, smiling. “At least, not when you both look like you’re on the verge of heatstroke.” She gestured for Poppy to come inside, and, amazingly, Poppy’s limbs cooperated, and she walked through the open door and into the deliciously cool café. “Lucky for you, we have a new air-conditioning system,” Caroline said, locking the door from the inside and closing the blinds in the front windows. “It used to go on the fritz in weather like this. Why don’t you take one of those,” she said, gesturing to the row of red leather booths that lined the back wall of the restaurant. “And I’ll bring you something cold to drink.”

  “Thank you,” Poppy said. And there was something about this woman’s practical brand of kindness that made her want to cry again. She chose one of the booths, and slid into it, and then she sat there, letting the tears that came now fall freely, and mingle with Sasquatch’s fur.

  “Here you go,” Caroline said, reappearing. She set a glass of iced tea down in front of her. “Anything for your friend?” she asked, looking at Sasquatch. “A dish of cream, maybe? Or some tuna fish?”

  “No, thank you. He’s . . . he’s not really eating right now,” Poppy explained, reaching into her purse to pay for her drink.

  But Caroline waved the money away. “You take your time,” she said. “You can let yourself out when you’re done.”

  “Thanks,” Poppy said, more tears coursing down her cheeks.

  “You’re welcome,” Caroline said. “And by the way,” she added, kindly, before she left, “you’re not the first person who’s needed this booth to cry in.” Poppy sipped her iced tea, gratefully, and then pulled a napkin out of the napkin dispenser and wiped, ineffectually, at her tears. She’d never cried so much in her life as she had this summer, she thought, putting the crumpled napkin in her purse and rearranging Sasquatch in her arms so that she could see his face. He looked better, she decided. Less stressed. Maybe the pain medication had begun to kick in. She rubbed him under his chin, the way he liked her to, and waited for him to purr, but he only blinked at her. Still, he seemed content.

  She took a deep breath, and exhaled, slowly. She leaned back against the booth. This was better. This was much better. She wouldn’t think about the fight with Win. Not right now. She would think about that later. She would have to think about that later. Right now, she would think about Sasquatch. He’d been with her for almost half her life, and, after Win, he’d been the most important part of that life. He’d come into it at a time when she’d needed him the most. She remembered the week after she’d gone into the photographer’s apartment, the week that had, finally, brought her Sasquatch.

  The day after “it” had happened—she couldn’t then bring herself to call it by its real name—Poppy had stayed home from school. She’d told her mom she didn’t feel well and her mom, who’d recently decided she was an artist, stayed home and painted in the corner of their living room she referred to as “her studio,” while Poppy stayed in her bedroom most of the day. The truth was, she was terrified of running into Rich. She didn’t know how or when she’d ever be able to leave the apartment again. But when Win came home from school that afternoon, she had news for her.

  “Pops?” Win said, peeking into their bedroom, where Poppy was lying on her bed.

  “Yes?” Poppy said, raising herself on one elbow.

  “You don’t look so great,” Win said, as she sat down on the edge of her bed. And Poppy knew this was true. She’d lied about being sick, but now she felt terrible anyway.

  “Remember how you were asking last night about the photographer down the hall?” Win asked.

  “Yes,” Poppy said, sitting up suddenly. She felt panic rising in her.

  “I looked into his apartment just now—” Win began, but Poppy grabbed her arm.

  “Win, don’t ever go in there,” Poppy said. “I mean it.”

  “What? No, it’s fine,” Win said. “He moved out. His door was open. The place was empty except for some junk in a corner.”

  Poppy lay back down on the pillows, awash in a cold, prickly sweat. “Are you sure he’s gone?” she whispered.

  “Positive. While I was standing there the woman with the facial piercings came down the hall and said he left this morning. He went back to New York. That’s where he’s from, I guess.”

  Poppy nodded, distractedly. So he was gone . . . Of course, there was always the possibility that he’d come back again. Not to live, maybe, but to look for her. Poppy didn’t think he would, though. She thought she knew why he’d left. He’d left because of what he’d done to her.

  Win looked at her curiously. “Pops, what’s up with you? You’re acting weird.” She put her hand on Poppy’s forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever.” She frowned.

  “No, I’m fine,” she said, taking Win’s hand away. “I had . . . a stomachache, but I’m better now.”

  “You sure?”

  Poppy hesitated, and, in the first of what would be many times over the ensuing years, she was tempted to tell Win what had happened to her. She didn’t, though. After all, Win would make her do something about it—tell her high school counselor, or her parents, or the police—and Poppy didn’t want to do any of those things. She was ashamed she had let it happen, and afraid, somehow, that if she told someone it would mean seeing him again. (Here she relied on her limited knowledge of the criminal justice system, most of it gleaned from police procedurals or courtroom dramas she’d seen on TV.) Would she have to pick him out of a lineup? Point to him in court? Or worse, come face-to-face with him in a shadowy hallway of some criminal justice building? And this fear of having to do something, and the possibility that it might mean seeing Rich again, persisted, against all reason, long beyond the point when he could have been held accountable for the crime.

  And there was another reason she didn’t tell her sister then. Sharing it with Win might make her feel better, for a little while, but it would make Win feel terrible. And then there was the part about forgetting . . . It would be easier for her to forget by herself than for both of them to forget together, wouldn’t it?

  “Don’t worry about me,” Poppy said now to Win, who still looked worried. “I’ll get better. I promise.”

  And, in fact, after Poppy returned to school a few days later, two good things happened to her, one after the other. The first happened while she was sitting in Spanish class. She’d felt a familiar cramping sensation. She’d gotten a hall pass, and, in the third stall to the right in the second floor girl’s bathroom, she’d learned that she was not pregnant. She was almost light-headed with relief, since this ended a fear almost too terrifying to consider.

  And then, that night, a second good thing happened. She met Sasquatch for the first time. She was at her bedroom window, looking out at the night, and trying, hard, not to think about what had happened, when she saw a gray cat slinking along the fire escape. She wondered if he would come to her.

  Three nights later, she stood there again.

  “Poppy, what are you doing?” Win asked, irritably, from her bed. “I want to go to sleep.”

  “I’m waiting for him,” she said.

  “Waiting for who?”

  “The cat.”

  “You mean the flea-bitten thing that you call a cat,” Win said, with a groan. “Don’t pet him anymore, Pops. I swear, if you do, you’ll probably get some disease, and then you’ll give it to me.”

  But Poppy ignored her. She liked the cat. She’d already nicknamed him Sasquatch—Big Foot had been one of Poppy and Win’s childhood obsessions—and she was of the opinion that while he might look a little matted, he most definitely did not have fleas. She knew because she’d petted him three nights in a row and she hadn’t seen any on him. Now she hoped that if she left the lights on and the window open and stayed very still
, and waited very patiently, he would come again.

  “Pops, I’m tired,” Win said now. “I have an algebra test tomorrow. Can you please turn the light off?”

  “In a minute,” Poppy said softly, because right then she saw Sasquatch edging along the fire escape.

  Win huffed, and rolled over, pulling the covers over her head.

  “Come here, boy,” Poppy whispered, but she knew he couldn’t be hurried. He would come in his own good time. And, in fact, after a moment’s hesitation, he leapt, gracefully, onto the windowsill. Poppy allowed herself to smile, but otherwise stayed still. Now Sasquatch sauntered, casually, over to her, as if their meeting here was a complete coincidence, and not something that was becoming a nightly ritual. Poppy waited until he stopped in front of her, then reached out, slowly, and began to stroke him, running her fingers lightly down his back, from his neck to his tail.

  Where had he come from? she wondered. He didn’t have a collar on him. Had he run away? Gotten lost? Been left behind? Or had he always been a stray? Or—and this was a worst-case scenario for Poppy—did he already belong to another person or another family, and was he simply visiting her on his nightly trek around the neighborhood? She didn’t know. But she hoped, secretly, she was the only human in his life, or, if not the only one, than at least the most important one.

  After Poppy petted Sasquatch for a few minutes, he began to purr. It sounded, at first, like an electrical hum, and then it progressed to a steady drone. Poppy sighed, contentedly.

  “Pops,” Win mumbled. “The lights. Please.”

  Poppy frowned, and went to turn off the lights. This was usually the point at which Sasquatch left, but tonight he stayed. Poppy, navigating in the dark, came back to the window. She had an idea. She’d never tried anything like this before, but tonight, for some reason, the timing seemed right. She patted Sasquatch again, and then she picked him up, carefully. She waited for some sign of resistance. None came. She carried him over to her bed and set him down on the end of it. She waited for him to jump off. Instead, he curled up with the air of someone who was settling in for the night. Poppy closed the window, and locked it, and then got into bed, slowly, so as not to disturb him. Chances were, he’d wake her in the night and want to be let out the window so he could go back to wherever it was he’d come from.

  When Poppy woke up in the morning, though, he was still there, curled up at the end of her bed, luxuriating in the sunshine streaming in through the window. She was so excited she could barely contain herself. This is better than Christmas morning at Grandpa and Grandma’s, she thought, reaching down to pet him. He started purring again, almost immediately, and Poppy was so happy she barely paid any attention when Win rolled over in her bed and sat up and said, “Oh, my God. You let him sleep here. Why, Poppy?”

  “Because he makes me feel safe,” Poppy said without thinking.

  Later that week, she and her dad took Sasquatch to a veterinarian’s office. Poppy was anxious because she was afraid that, for some reason, the veterinarian would tell her she couldn’t keep Sasquatch. Poppy’s dad was anxious because he knew this appointment would cost a lot of money and he had, as usual, very little of it. And Sasquatch was anxious, Poppy assumed, because this was a new and unfamiliar place for him, and because the staff here had already drawn his blood and given him a vaccine. (Poppy was grateful this part of the exam had been done behind the scenes, out of her sight; the very thought of someone sticking a needle into Sasquatch made her feel queasy.)

  “It’s okay, Sasquatch,” she whispered, near his ear, as she held him in her lap. “Everything’s going to be all right.” And, in fact, at that moment, the veterinarian came back into the examination room, armed with a file folder and a reassuring smile.

  “Thank you for waiting,” she said, as she pulled a plastic chair over to them and sat down. Poppy had liked her immediately. She seemed so young to be wearing such a serious white coat, though Poppy was interested to see that she’d paired it with some very unserious looking high heels. “I’ve got some good news for you,” she said. “Your cat—Sasquatch,” she added, respectfully, “has already been neutered. He’s healthy, and he doesn’t have parasites or fleas.”

  “I knew it,” Poppy said, loyally.

  “Overall,” the vet continued, “he’s in excellent health. Whoever last took care of him, took very good care of him.”

  “So he’s not a feral cat?” Poppy asked. She’d been doing research on feral cats at her school library.

  “No. He’s definitely not feral. He’s too tame. Which brings me to my only real concern here. Are you sure you’ve done everything you can to find his former owner?”

  Poppy nodded, emphatically. “He never had a collar on,” she said. “And my sister and I put up flyers with his picture on them all over the neighborhood. And I called all the local animal shelters and gave them his description.” This was true. She had done all of these things. She hadn’t wanted him to be found, but, on the other hand, she hadn’t wanted to keep him if she couldn’t do it with a clear conscience.

  “All right then,” the vet said, beaming at her and Sasquatch. “I think it’s fair to say that you, young lady, have got yourself a cat.”

  Poppy smiled, enthusiastically, but her dad managed only a halfhearted “How about that.” Poppy glanced at him. He looked tired. He’d had a late night last night, he’d told her, though as far as she could tell, all of his nights were late nights.

  “How old do you think he is?” Poppy asked the vet, ignoring him.

  “Based on his muscle tone and his fur, I would say about two or three years old.”

  “Did you hear that?” Poppy said to Sasquatch. “We’re going to have a long time together.”

  “I hope so,” the vet said, smiling, but then she turned serious. “My guess is that Sasquatch was abandoned by someone. It’s hard to know why. Sometimes, it’s due to an owner’s death, or a move to another city. Sometimes a family falls on hard times, or a couple splits up and a pet falls through the cracks. If that’s the case with him,” she said, giving Sasquatch an expert pat, “then I don’t think you need to worry about him leaving. But if he left his old owner voluntarily, despite the fact that they were taking good care of him, he might leave again sometime. There are cats like that. They have something . . . call it wanderlust, that makes them not want to stay in any one place for too long. On a brighter note, though,” she said, going to get some pamphlets for Poppy. “Let’s go over his care and feeding instructions.”

  After the appointment, Poppy and her dad stood on the corner outside the veterinarian’s office, waiting for the light to change. Poppy was holding Sasquatch in his pet carrier, a new purchase of which she was very proud, and her dad was looking wistfully at a bar across the street. He slid his wallet out of his pocket and opened it up. It only had a few ones left in it.

  “Your friend here cleaned me out, kid,” he said, gesturing at Sasquatch.

  “Sorry, Dad,” Poppy said. But she wasn’t. She asked so little of him, of both of her parents. Besides, she needed Sasquatch. Needed him more than her dad could know. He made her feel safe, something Win found absurd. How can a twelve-pound ball of fur make you feel safe? she’d asked Poppy. He just can, Poppy had said, without trying to explain.

  “You know, sweetheart,” her dad said now, as the light changed and they started across the street, “your sister thinks she might be allergic to this cat.”

  “I’ll be very careful he stays on my side of the room and I’ll vacuum every day,” she said.

  “Okay,” her dad said, doubtfully. “What about what the vet said, though? About how he could leave again one day?”

  “Don’t worry. He won’t,” Poppy said, confidently.

  And he didn’t. He never left. Not once in all those years. Oh, he wandered. He wandered a lot. But he always came back. He always came home. And it was because of this that she always had a home for him to come back to, even when that “home” was never anything much
to brag about. She’d wanted to take good care of him. And she had, hadn’t she? His life had been as comfortable, as safe, and as pleasant as she’d known how to make it. Of all the responsibilities she’d shirked, she hadn’t shirked this one. And of all the relationships she’d failed at, she hadn’t failed at this one.

  She’d wondered, often, what would have happened to her if she hadn’t adopted him. As it was, there hadn’t been much stability in her life, but what little there had been, she could credit him for, and Win, too, of course. They’d been the two constants in her life, the twin lights by which she’d navigated the years.

  She leaned down and kissed the top of his head. She’d done her best by him, and it went without saying that he’d done his best by her. “Thank you, Sasquatch,” she whispered, wishing that she were more eloquent, and that she could provide him with the tribute she knew he deserved before tomorrow morning. But words failed her. In the end, all she said to him, sitting in one of the back booths at Pearl’s, was, “You were a good cat.” As inadequate as those words were, they would have to be enough.

  CHAPTER 20

  When Poppy returned to the cabin, Win was waiting for her on the front porch. “Dr. Swanson called after you left his office,” she said, coming down the steps as Poppy was taking Sasquatch’s pet carrier out of the backseat. “He was worried about you.”

  “I’m fine,” Poppy said, not meeting her eyes.

  “Poppy, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. And about Sasquatch . . . I had no idea he was so sick. Here, let me take that,” she said, reaching for the pet carrier, but Poppy shrugged off her help.

  “I’ve got it,” she said, heading up the steps. By the time she reached the top step, though, she felt suddenly light-headed. She sat down, and put Sasquatch’s pet carrier beside her. “I’m just going to rest here for a second,” she said.

  Win sat down beside her, and watched as she took Sasquatch out. “Oh, poor guy,” she said.

  “You hate him,” Poppy pointed out, still not looking at her.