The Summer of Letting Go (16 page)

Despite all the drama, for a day or two things seem more normal. I work for Mrs. Schyler—full-time now, practically—and try to keep my mind off Bradley. I avoid Lisette, too, and she seems too busy to care. I hope Mrs. Merrill doesn't tell my dad about what I said, but Dad doesn't say anything to me, so I guess she's keeping it to herself.

As always, being with Frankie Sky helps. He keeps me busy and always knows how to make me laugh.

Take now, for example, in the chair next to me at the swimming pool. He's wearing a ridiculous pair of cobalt blue aviator sunglasses.

“Nice glasses,” I say.

“Mom broughted them back for me from Cape Cod.”

“Well, they look good on you.”

“The guard guy is watching you,” he says.

I glance up, and he's right. Peter stares at me from his lifeguard chair. He does that all the time now, since the day of the beach debacle. And, worse, since Bradley's visit to the playground.

I want to tell him to quit it and mind his own stupid business, but instead I nod at him, and he looks away. People are seriously weird.

I look back at Frankie and shrug.

“You is blue, Beans,” he says. “Blue, blue, blue.”

“Not when I'm with you, Frankie.”

He frowns and moves the sunglasses off and on his eyes. “No, Beans is blue. Really. I can see her.”

“I know, Frankie. I was making a joke. Blue means the color, but it also means sad. And I'm never sad when I'm with you.”

He pushes the glasses down again and makes a funny face at me. I giggle, and he smiles back.

“Beans is blue, but not blue, right?”

“Right,” I say, leaning across to push the glasses up the bridge of his nose.

The sunglasses are a gift from Mrs. Schyler's new boyfriend, the friend of Mr. Schyler's from the army who lives in Cape Cod. I'm glad I encouraged her. Mrs. Schyler seems like a different person already. More relaxed and less tired than before. Plus, the busier she is, the more hours she needs me for Frankie. And Frankie's the one thing that makes me completely happy.

“Hey, you want to go to the playground, Frankie?”

“No,” he says, “not now.”

“You want to swim?”

“Okay, sure.”

I help Frankie swap out his blue sunglasses for green goggles. We wade into the shallow end together, holding hands, taking the steps slowly because the air is hot and the water feels especially cold. Frankie shivers a little and doesn't go splashing off like a wild man like he usually does, but instead hangs by me on the steps.

Finally he ducks under, and I watch him swim back and forth across the width of the pool. After a few laps, I glance toward the back of the pool area for Mrs. Merrill. Her chair is empty. No big surprise there, I suppose. She'll probably never set foot here again.

Frankie crosses back to me again, his little arms and legs moving in perfect froglike motions. I wade down the last step and take off after him when he turns, catching up so we swim side by side. It's a wonder to me that I stayed out of the water for so many years. And a bigger wonder that I've made it back in. Underwater is the one place where everything feels light and hopeful and okay.

When we get out for lunch, the sun is high and the sky is a perfect, cloudless blue. We dry off and put our clothes on and head inside to the dining room.

It's not until afterward, as we step out the back door to the pool, that I notice a lock on Mrs. Merrill's cabana door. Of course! Now I remember seeing her pull a key for it from her bag that very first day I was here. That weird small key goes to this door.

“Beans?” Frankie pulls on me. “What's wrong?”

I look at his worried face, and suddenly it's more important to make him happy than to fret about what it means that Dad has the key to some cabana. Besides, what does it matter if Dad runs off with Mrs. Merrill? Will anything actually change? It's not like Mom seems happier because Dad comes home every day. How could I blame him if he left?

“Nothing, Frankie,” I say, steering him toward our chairs. “Everything is okay.” And, miraculously, at least for the moment, it is.

• • •

The next afternoon, I sit on the stoop and pull out my cell phone. It was buzzing all day at the club. Probably another text from Lisette. She keeps sending them, just a few words, a smiley face, or a “hey.” I've barely paid attention. Let her think I'm still mad about Peter instead of feeling guilty because of Bradley.

I scroll through:

Beans, everything okay? U barely answer my calls. :(

Hey. Seriously. Am starting 2 worry about u. Pls call. Is all ok with ur Dad?

BEEAAANNNSSS!!!! >:(

Hey, Bradley says he saw you! Pretty funny. :)

Pretty funny? Is that her interpretation, or is that what he told her? Is that all he thought that it was? I tell myself he had to say something lame to cover, but still, my heart breaks a little anyway.

K, r u mad at me? >:( I'm sorry about Peter. Will u ever forgive me? I want 2 c u before I go to Bible Camp. Leaving tomorrow. Did u forget? Days & days of nothing but the outdoorsy woods. Are u seriously not gonna say good-bye?

Bible Camp! I'd almost forgotten. Every year, Lisette and her brothers go with their parents for two weeks at the end of each July for a retreat. The camp's in Maine, and Pastor Sutter is one of the main counselors. Kids come from all over the country. Now that they're older, Lisette and her brothers help run things. Lisette's gone every summer as far back as I can remember. The camp is by a lake, rustic, with wooden bunks and outhouses, and not a piece of electronic equipment allowed. Unless you sneak it in, which Lisette always does.

Lisette would mind it more, but it's coed, at least, which usually means a chance to scope out new boys. Of course, this summer she won't need that since she already has the most amazing boyfriend in the world.

Which is when the full impact hits me: She's leaving Bradley for two weeks, too. I could have him all to myself if I wanted.

But I don't want that, right? Because that would be totally wrong.

I delete her texts and send one back.
Sorry. Been busy with Frankie. If I don't see u before u go, have a great time!
Lame, I know, but it's the best I can manage right now.

I hit send, rub a kiss on Simon's frog, and head inside before I get any more crazy ideas about Bradley or do anything else stupid to get myself in trouble.

Except that the minute I reach my room and see my green sneakers on my bed, I know that it's already too late.

Not only are my sneakers on my bed, but Fisher Frog is gone.

A folded piece of Mom's stationery sticks up out of one sneaker. I'm sure I don't want to know what it says. I know it can't be good, since the other sneaker is turned on its side, leaving a pile of sand released onto my bedspread.

I pull out the note and unfold it, my hands shaking.

You left these downstairs for days. I thought I'd be nice and clean up for you. Of course, unless the Hamlet Dunes Mall is now covered in sand, you'll need to explain where you were last Saturday night. It clearly
wasn't
the mall.

—Mom

I read her words again, growing angrier as I try to sort out the real reason why she's mad. Because we both know it's not because I left my sneakers out by the kitchen door, or even because I lied to her about where I went. She's mad because she knows I went to the beach. And if that's the reason, forget it. I don't give a crap what she says. I'm done hiding from the water; I'm done standing safely on shore.

Just because she chooses to spend the rest of her life in a dark basement of drowning, misery, and doom doesn't mean everyone else around here has to. Simon is dead, for God's sake. Simon is dead. Does she really want us to all die with him?

I throw the note into the wastebasket and take my sneakers and pound them out over the wastebasket, too. I watch the sand spill, wishing I could click the heels together like Dorothy and make myself disappear. Wake up from some nightmare like she did to find myself elsewhere. Anywhere but this stupid, broken house.

I slip the sneakers onto my feet, happy to still feel some grains press beneath my toes—proof of some other, carefree life—and lie on my rug, staring at the ceiling and holding my breath, counting longer and longer till I'm dizzy and tired, and barely even hear her come home.

• • •

I awaken, groggy, to the smell of onions cooking.

For a second, I'm fine, and then it all comes back to me.

I don't want to go downstairs, but sooner or later I'll have to face her. It might as well be now.

Mom stands at the kitchen stove. Vegetables are spread across the counter. A box of pasta stands open next to a pot on the burner with steam rising from it. She has her back to me. She hasn't heard me come in.

I sit quietly at the table. Part of me is afraid of what she's going to say, but, mostly, I don't care. I already know she doesn't like me. So what if she's mad?

I watch her thin shoulders move up and down as she chops celery and throws it into the sizzling pan. Finally, I clear my throat.

She turns her head. Her eyes look watery, but maybe it's just the onions sizzling.

“I got your note,” I say, and pause for effect. “We went to the beach, not the mall. To the ocean where Simon drowned. Before the movies, I mean. We did go to the movies, that part is true. But first we went to the beach.”

She whirls around and glares at me. “The beach?”

“Yes. The beach. In fact, I go there all the time. With Frankie and Mrs. Schyler. I like it there, too. It makes me feel closer to Simon.”

She cuts me off. “My God, Francesca, do you know what could have happened?”

“No,” I say, rolling my eyes, “I don't know. Why don't you tell me? Oh, wait, you mean what's already happened? Because I doubt that's happening again. Maybe something else, but not that one. Simon's dead. He can't re-drown now, can he?”

I'm being mean. I'm trying to hurt her. I'm not sure why.

“Jesus, Francesca, don't say another word! You know better than anyone . . . And I wouldn't even have known where you were! You think that's smart? You think that's a good idea?” She's screaming now, her voice shrill, her lips trembling. Tears fall, but they're not about me. As always, they're for Simon.

Still, her anger frightens me a little. I'm suddenly afraid of what she'll really say. What she hasn't said, but has wanted to, since the day that Simon died. What she's always thought. That it's all my fault that Simon died.

Why doesn't she just come out and say it? Blame me. Get it over with. Tell me what I've already known for years.

I bite my lip to stop from crying. I won't give her the satisfaction.

The sharp smell of burnt garlic and onions singes the air.

Still, I goad her more, willing her to say it already. “In fact, guess what, Mom? People swim all the time. Every single day, people are out there swimming. And not everyone drowns. Do you hear me? Not everyone drowns! In fact, almost nobody drowns!”

I shift gears, making my tone formal and singsong, as if I'm delivering information for a public-service announcement: “Did you know that less than one in one hundred thousand people drown in the United States every year?” I'd enjoy it more—the horrified look on her face—except my voice breaks, and the tears betray me and start to fall. “That is a very, very small percentage. Safer than, well, pretty much everything there is. But go on! Keep devoting your life to . . . ” I stop, totally choked up.

“To what, Francesca? To what? Trying to make some good come from your brother's death?”

I shove my chair back and stand. She's hurting now, I can see it, but I don't want to stop. It's like I want to enrage her. I want to push her to say what I need to hear.

“Make good come? You spend your whole life in some dark basement trying to keep people out of the water. Me, out of the water! You don't want me to swim. You don't want me to drown. But we all know the one person you cared about has already drowned!

“And, still, you want me to be afraid. Of everything. To stay frozen in that day. Well, guess what, Mom? I'm not! I'm sad and I'm sorry, but I'm not afraid anymore, and I don't want to be. I don't ever want to be like that again! I love the water. I love to swim. Can you believe it? I swim practically every day. With Frankie at the club. And in the ocean! But you're right. I don't tell you. I can't tell you. Because you'll give me that look, that scared, pathetic look, like it takes all your effort to get up out of bed in the morning and just breathe.

“Well, here's the thing: I don't want to be like that, like you. And just because Simon died doesn't mean everyone else is going to. So I don't care if you give me that look anymore, that look like you hate me. I'm used to it by now. I know you hate me. I know you do. For everything. For letting Simon drown.”

“Francesca, my God—”

“God, what? There is no God, remember? There's no nothing for you. No faith, no love, no Simon, no me, no Dad. No nothing! Oh, right, wait. Nothing but your stupid Drowning Foundation. So nobody ever, in the history of mankind, drowns again! Good luck with that.”

I've said enough. I should stop. But I can't. I can't stop myself from crashing.

“So go ahead! Keep walking around here in your miserable, sad, ghost bubble until no one can take it anymore. But trust me, I'm done. And Dad is done, too. Not even Dad can take you anymore!” My eyes shift to the window, and I feel myself tumble over the last cliff, the one from which I can never return. “No wonder he's always with Mrs. Merrill! No wonder he's cheating on you! Even Dad can't stand you anymore!”

Mom drops the wooden spoon she was holding and walks over and slaps me across the face.

Which, at least, shuts me up.

I don't move. The air between us buzzes with the silence. My cheek stings where her fingers struck.

“Francesca?”

I turn. Dad stands in the doorway. I have no idea how long he's been there.

But I can guess. Because I've never seen him look so hurt and upset. Not since the day that Simon died.

I didn't mean to hurt my father.

“Great, you can both hate me now,” I say, and storm out, slamming the door so hard, it echoes.