The Summer of Letting Go (12 page)

Up in my room, I try Lisette again, but no answer. I text her instead and tell her to please stop torturing me and tell me the name of my mystery date.

I lie around for a while trying to think of what to do next, but my mind is preoccupied with all the same questions about reincarnation and Frankie's connection to Simon. Like, what Mrs. Schyler meant that day in her kitchen when she wondered aloud to me why Frankie was convinced that he could swim.

This thought jars something in my brain. I run to my closet and dig way in the back for my box of old school projects and reports. There are piles of stuff: construction-paper drawings, dumb poems mounted on oak tag, composition notebooks filled with ridiculous short stories about friends and animals and sea life. I scoop it all out until I come to what I'm looking for: a paper I wrote the year before Simon died.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart; The Musician and the Man, by Francesca M. Schnell

It was Mr. Brenner's class, some silly ten-year-old's research paper. It meant nothing to me back then.

Biographical Background
: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born in 1756. His father was Leopold Mozart. His mother was Anna Maria Pertl Mozart. He was born in Salzburg, which is now Austria. He was a classical composer who composed over six hundred works during his career, and is one of the most well-known of all the famous composers. He started composing at the age of five.

I remember that when Mr. Brenner had given the class our list of choices, I had picked Amadeus because my mom had been watching a movie about him. I had no idea he was actually the same person as Mozart until I read the book from the library on him.

But I'm looking for something else. I flip pages of my kid-like print until I see it, under its own heading, in the middle of a page:

Was Mozart A Prodigy or Something More?
By the time he was five, Mozart had already written a piano concerto, a sonata, and several minuets. His compositions were not simple, and they were technically accurate. How could he know how to do this?

Because Mozart was so young, people called him a prodigy. But could that alone really explain how amazing he was?

By the age of eleven, Mozart had completed a full-length opera. People began to think it was more than genetics or good DNA. Maybe Mozart had been reincarnated with the soul of a great composer. Maybe only that could explain how he played so well.

Good Lord, why is that child so completely convinced he can swim?

Had Simon's soul swum into Frankie Sky? Did the ocean have something to do with it?

Mrs. Schyler had been in the ocean with Frankie on the day he was born. Frankie hadn't been born until later that night, but if that was the same day Simon died, maybe Simon's soul transferred then and there, and that's why Frankie thought he could swim. Maybe Simon couldn't swim yet, but his soul could, and did. Maybe his soul swam into Frankie Sky.

I toss the report into the box and shove it all back into my closet. At my desk, I flip on my computer and type in the term transmigration, then click on the Wikipedia entry, which directs me with an arrow back to Reincarnation:

The word “reincarnation” derives from
Latin
, literally meaning “entering the flesh again.” The Greek equivalent metempsychosis (υετευψυ´χωσΙς) roughly corresponds to the common English phrase “transmigration of the soul” and also usually connotes reincarnation after death, as either
human
or
animal
, though emphasizing the continuity of the soul, not the flesh.

I scroll down, passing information on Buddhism, Jainism, and Hinduism, until I get to the names of famous philosophers I've at least heard of or learned about in school.

In Phaedo, Plato makes his teacher
Socrates
, prior to his death, state: “I am confident that there truly is such a thing as living again, and that the living spring from the dead.”

I ex out the screen and walk quietly down the hall and open the door to Simon's room. I switch on the light and walk over and sit on Simon's bed.

Fisher Frog tips over when I do, yellow-green legs poking up in the air. Mom's gift to Simon from me when he was born. I'd forgotten all about him. He was Simon's favorite, a soft, plush terry, with his white shirt and black jacket and shoes. When he got bigger he named him after Jeremy Fisher from the Beatrix Potter books.

I pick him up and hug him to my chest. He still smells of Simon, of powder and peaches, the smell of his baby shampoo. Is it just in my head, or is it possible for things to hold his scent for so long?

On the nightstand is the little table lamp with the frog engineer. I flip the toggle and the train starts up, clicking its circle around the base. It startles me. I didn't expect it to work after all this time, as if I believed that all the parts of Simon's world stopped the very same moment that he did.

I switch it off again and stare at the glider chair across the room, with its tweedy flecks of ice-cream colors. Mom had nursed Simon there for what seemed like forever. I remember feeling jealous, whining for her to finish, to stop paying so much attention to him.

“Five minutes, Francesca. He's just a baby. You and I will have plenty of time.” The memory of her words makes my heart tighten.

Beyond the glider is a bookshelf still filled with Simon's books, many of which had been mine before his. I put Fisher Frog down on his pillow, walk to the shelf, and run my fingers along them—The Tale of Peter Rabbit, The Tale of Mr. Jeremy Fisher, Where the Wild Things Are, In the Night Kitchen, Sylvester and the Magic Pebble—until I find the one I want.

I slip it out and study the cover. Frog and Toad Are Friends. Two frogs, one yellowish, one green, sit in the mushrooms and leaves, the yellow one reading a book to the green one. I never knew which one was Frog and which was Toad, but Simon did, and he'd correct me when I mixed them up.

I open to the table of contents:

SPRING

THE STORY

A LOST BUTTON

A SWIM

THE LETTER

The titles flood back like the names of favorite toys.

I close the book and pull two others in the series, Frog and Toad All Year and Frog and Toad Together, then run my finger along the shelves. There is no dust. In fact, every inch of the room is perfectly clean. I think of my mother coming in here every week to vacuum and wipe off all of Simon's old things, and it makes me sad. It makes me feel sorry for her. Who is she keeping it clean for? It's not as if Simon is coming back. I wish she'd raze the room, empty his things, turn it into something new and cheerful and productive.

I run my finger along the shelf again, wishing it were thick with dust, that I could write Francesca Schnell Was Here in gray-white fuzz so that she'd find it the next time she came in here to clean.

I write it anyway, invisible letters that slip across the pristine wood.

I turn to leave, the three books in hand, but my mother is there, staring at me through the crack in the door.

“Francesca?” She pushes the door open. The look on her face is wild, furious. As if I've betrayed her.

My eyes dart to Simon's bed, where I left Fisher Frog lying faceup on his pillow. I was going to fix him before I left. Leave everything the way I found it.

But my hands, they still cling to his books. Frog and Toad.

“What?”

I hear it in my tone, in that one word, how it is laden with attitude and anger. I want to suck it back, but I can't. It's already out there in the air.

One defiant little word, What?

She glares, her eyes filled with disbelief, then tears. Why is she so angry at me? Have I done something so wrong? I mean, back then, yes, I did everything wrong. I left my baby brother unattended. But here, now? I have done nothing wrong. And yet, I will never be forgiven.

“Francesca. Why are you in here?”

Why should I not be?

Have I trespassed? Am I a criminal? A thief? Isn't this my house, too?

He was also my brother.

But, of course, I have no rights here anymore. I am—and will always be—the person who let Simon drown.

“Francesca, I'm speaking to you.”

I set my contaminated feet upon Simon's sacred ground.

“I don't know why I came in,” I whisper. “I just needed to. I wasn't doing anything, I promise. Just being here with . . .” My eyes go to Fisher Frog, then to my hands. I'm holding out the books. “I wanted to bring some to read to Frankie Sky.”

“Who?” She shifts. Her anger crackles. Every move is stilted with the effort to contain herself. To not lash out at me like she wants to.

“Frankie Schyler. The boy I watch?” Does she not hear one single thing that I say? Does she not pay me one iota of notice? “He likes frogs, so I wanted to read them to him. I promise I'll return them.” My voice shakes. I want to get past her and leave.

“Don't,” she says. “Put them back. All of them. I need them to stay there like they were.” She blocks the door, her arms wrapped to her chest, against me.

“Seriously? I can't . . .” But I don't finish. It's not worth it. It doesn't matter. There's nothing to argue about anymore.

I walk back to the shelf and slip the books in their places, each spine perfectly flush, as they were. My eyes dart to the spot where I wrote my name, but of course I can't see anything there.

I turn back to her. “Done. See?”

“Thank you,” she says.

She walks to the bed and takes Fisher Frog and props him at the end where he was, then looks around to see what else I've moved out of place. When she's satisfied, she ushers me out the door. But she doesn't need to worry. I'm gone.

Friday morning and it's raining. I pray tomorrow will be sunny. I'm excited, if terrified, for my big double date with Lisette.

We've been exchanging texts, but all she will say is
Trust me,
or
When have I steered u wrong?
And I do, and she hasn't, so I stop pestering her.

Still, I run through the names of all the guys I can think of who are on the baseball team with Bradley. The truth is I don't know most of them. Bradley has one friend I've met who's kind of cute. Michael Peach. I could probably be happy with him. Nice smile, dark hair, dimples.

“You taste like Peach,” I will say after we kiss.

“And now you do,” he will answer, leaning back in to taste me some more . . .

I look over my choice of outfit again, the one I think I've settled on. A three-tiered black-and-white polka-dot miniskirt and white hoodie over a green burnout T-shirt and my green no-lace Converse sneakers. I hold the skirt up against me in the mirror and twirl, checking both sides. Bradley's face keeps popping into my head. I try to replace him with Michael Peach, but my brain isn't having that at all.

I flop down on my bed and imagine us together here, Bradley beside me, our fingers linked, just talking about baseball and pelicans and things. But Lisette's mad face keeps horning in, her gorgeous, blond, Barbie-doll locks blocking him from my view.

I give up and think about Frankie Sky instead. I'd better get dressed and get over there. So what if my boyfriend is a four-year-old? At least he loves me back.

I laugh at the thought, but the truth is I already love Frankie Sky, I do. And I'm grateful for whatever weird, crazy karma brought me to him.

• • •

Downstairs, evidence of Mom still sits on the counter: half-eaten toast, a teacup with the paper tag dangling. I toss the toast in the garbage, rinse the plate and cup, and put them in the dishwasher.

I wander down the hall to Dad's study. He's at his computer, dressed for work in khaki pants, a sports coat, and a tie. When I knock, he looks up, his eyes shooting back to the screen. Does he look guilty? Hard to say.

“Hang on a sec, Beans.” His fingers move fast across the keyboard.

“What are you doing?”

“This?” He looks up, then back down to finish whatever he's typing. “Nothing much. Just some prep work for a big closing next week.” He shuts the computer and walks over to me, smiling. “You still here, then, eh? You need a ride to work? I'm on my way.”

Relief. He's going in to his office, then.

“Sure,” I say. “I've just got to get my things.”

As I run upstairs, I hear him singing some dumb old song about San Jose. Well, good then. Whatever. As long as he's going to work.

In my room, I grab my backpack and a bathing suit in case it clears up and head back to the stairs. On the landing, I change my mind, double back, and walk to Simon's room.

I open the door, go to his bookshelf, and take down the three books about Frog and Toad. I press the other books together to close the gap and slip the ones I took into my bag. On the way out, I grab Fisher Frog and quickly shut the door behind me.

I run back to my room and sit Fisher Frog on the bottom of my bed, then toss a blanket over him, and close my door as I leave.

• • •

It's been weeks since I've been in Dad's car. He got a new one a year ago, unlike my mother, whose is still the same one from Before.

As always his car is neat, but today it seems neater. It smells like leather and rug shampoo and air freshener. There's one of those cardboard pine trees swinging from the rearview mirror.

My head swims with accusatory questions:
Why is your car so clean? Why do you have an air freshener? What are you hiding in here?
I feel like the Spanish Inquisition. Maybe I should just ask him straight out:
So are you or are you not having an affair with Mrs. Merrill?

Of course I won't, and I don't, but part of me relishes the look I'd get if I could. But then, I'd upset him, and I don't want to alienate my father. Who would I have left?

I reach into my backpack and pat the Frog and Toad books. I'm excited to read them with Frankie, someone who wants to be with me. So be it if I've resorted to stealing things from my own home.

I turn up the music—Dad's got some lame oldies station on—and scope around for evidence. I pop open the glove box and close it, pop it open and close it, like I'm fidgeting rather than snooping. Each time, I let it gape open just a few seconds longer, but nothing seems out of the ordinary in there. I slip my fingers into the door pocket, then pretend to drop something and lean down to peek under my seat. I pull the lid to the console between the seats up, but don't see anything of note in there.

Of course I have no idea what I'm looking for. Tissues with lipstick, maybe? A lost earring? As I'm about to close the console, I see Dad's eyes shift ever so slightly. The movement is small, but I catch it, and there's something suspicious about it.

“What do you need, Frankie?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Because you're rummaging. Like a squirrel looking for nuts or something.”

I laugh because he's funny. “I thought maybe you'd have a mint,” I say, because I know I saw some in there. “Oh look, you do.”

I pull out the tin of Altoids, snap the lid open, and place one on my tongue. It burns there, way too strong for this early hour of the morning. I want to spit it out, but need to kill time, so I take another few out and slip them in my pocket, my eyes darting back to the console. To the spot beneath where the tin sat.

Something glints there. A small silver key against the black bottom.

I start to put the tin back, but Dad says, “Just keep them, Frankie,” and bangs the console shut with his elbow.

He's mad. Does he know I saw it?

“Thanks, you sure?”

“Yes. I have more. Is there anything else you need?” I shake my head, my mind swimming. “Good then.” He turns onto Sycamore, I point out the house, and he pulls over at the curb. “Have a good day, Francesca.” He calls me Francesca, a warning, and pulls away before I've barely stepped out of the car.

After Dad drives away, I sit on the Schylers' front stoop under the overhang. I'm early and don't want to wake anyone.

I stare through the raindrops at the house across the street and wonder whose key that was in Dad's car. Is it possible it's just some random and meaningless key? Lots of people have random keys that go to nothing, right? Keys that went to something once, but don't now. Or maybe it goes to Dad's office.

At nine o'clock, I stand and ring the bell. Frankie answers in two seconds flat. Potato slips between his feet.

“Hey, Beans. I was waiting and waiting, but you just stayed there sitting.”

He's in shorty pajamas with airplanes on them, just like a pair Simon used to have. It makes my heart skip, but then everything these days does. I mean, all little kids have pajamas with airplanes on them.

“If you saw me, Frankie, why didn't you open the door?”

“I seed you from the window,” he says, as if that explains anything, closes the door, and pulls me toward his bedroom. Potato follows. As we pass Mrs. Schyler's room, he puts his fingers to his lips and whispers loudly, “Shush, she is sleeping, so we have to be quiet in my room.” We sit on his bed, and Potato jumps up and curls in a ball on his pillow.

I haven't been in his bedroom since the day Mrs. Schyler showed me the statue of Saint Florian. Now I pick it up and hold it in my hand. It's lighter than I expected because it looks like real stone, but, really, it's just cheap old plastic.

I study the man's funny hat with the feather and his robe with all the folds and the flag with a cross on the front. Around the base, etched in fake gold, are the words Non vel ocean mos somniculous nostrum animus. Latin, I'm guessing. I have no idea what it means.

I pull out my cell phone and type in the words so I can look them up later, though I'm not sure why I'd want to know. Maybe all this endless sleuthing is finally getting to my brain.

“Frankie,” I blurt, “when exactly is your birthday?”

“June,” Frankie says. “When Grandpa gotted me the tractor.”

Simon died on June fourteenth.

“But which day, Frankie? Do you know which day you were born?”

He nods and holds up his pointer fingers on each hand, side by side. Either a two or an eleven.

“The second, Frankie, or the eleventh?” I ask, impatient. “Is your birthday June eleventh?” I feel oddly relieved, but then he shakes his head, looks at his right hand, and pops three more fingers up on that hand. One on the left. Four on the right. Fourteen.

“That is the right way,” he says, nodding.

“Fourteen? June fourteenth, Frankie?”

“Yep, June fourteenth. That is Frankie Sky's birthday.”

I try to steady the room from spinning out from under me. I need to keep focused, to get more answers, or I'm going to drive myself crazy.

“Frankie,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking, “do you know Simon?” The words, out in the air, feel dangerous.

“Yep, sure I do, Beans. I knowed Simon.”

Tears fill my eyes. I don't know what to do, how to feel. Everything's gone swirling in my brain. Maybe this is what I knew from the first second I met Frankie, but just couldn't let myself believe.

He stands in front of me, tugs on my knee. I try to see his face, not Simon's, but it's impossible. His face is the same as my brother's.

“Do you want me to show you how, Beans?”

“Yes, Frankie,” I breathe. “I want you to show me how.”

“Okay. Is easy.”

He lets go of my knee and walks across his room to his bookshelves. What does he have? What kind of proof of my brother's existence will he bring and place in my hands?

He stands on a plastic step stool in front of his bookcase and rummages. It takes forever till he finally jumps down. “Here, Beans,” he says, placing an old DVD in my lap.

I stare in disbelief at the case. Alvin and the Chipmunks, it says.

“See, this one.” He points to the chipmunk wearing a red sweater with an A on it. “This one is Alvin, and he is the most famous one. And this is Theodore. And this one, here, is Simon. I like Simon. He is smart. He is my favorite one.”

My eyes, fill with happy or sad tears, I'm not sure. But I start laughing, too, because how can I help it? Because sometimes it's all you can do.