The Summer of Letting Go (14 page)

I sit in the damp sand next to my sneakers and stare out at the ocean, to where I think I see them, Peter and Lisette, two dark spots swimming in.

At least Bradley's right. As far as Lisette goes, everything seems okay.

She seems oblivious to anything wrong, rambles on about some friend of Peter's cousin who was out on the water on a Sunfish. Where they've been hanging for the past hour. While I was kissing her boyfriend.

“You should have come!” Lisette says, pulling at a corner of Peter's towel to dry herself. “It was pretty awesome.” Peter hands her the whole towel, then helps to wrap it around her.

For a split second, I find myself praying that Lisette and Peter have fallen in love out there in the water, on that Sunfish, and that she'll break up with Bradley forever. Then he'll proclaim his love for me, and everyone will live happily ever after.

“So, hey,” Lisette says, leaning her still-wet body against Bradley's. “Did you guys have fun?” When she moves away, you can see dark splotches across his T-shirt where she's marked him.

“Yeah. We just walked,” Bradley says.

“Do you want to stay longer, or should I call Alex so we can make the movie?”

I stay silent. I don't really want to do either. I only want to be with Bradley again.

“Up to you,” Peter says.

“Movie,” Bradley says quickly.

“Is that okay with you, Frankie?”

“Yeah, sure, it's all okay,” I mumble.

“Movie it is, then,” Lisette says, texting Alex as we start the long walk back to the parking lot.

• • •

The movie's some comedy-thriller spoof with zombies and werewolves and dead people popping up everywhere. I can't pay attention to save my life, because all I can think about is Bradley.

Periodically, I glance over. He sits on the end, his fingers entwined with Lisette's. Next to me is Peter. He smells like sweat and suntan lotion and popcorn. It's better than being next to Lisette.

Even from here, I feel like the guy in that Edgar Allan Poe short story about the murderer who buries the old man with the telltale heart. The old man's heart beats so loud from under the floorboards, he's sure it will give him away. I'm surprised she can't hear mine ratting me out from here. If she finds out, she'll hate me, and she'll have every reason to.

And yet. I glance over at Bradley again, and my heart just crushes some more.

I stare down at my lap and try to think of something happy instead. I close my eyes and picture Frankie Sky and me on the steps of the pool at the club.

In my mind, he smiles at me, and I take his hand, and we wade into the water and swim.

• • •

I shut the bathroom door, turn on the shower, and let it run.

The water is cool. I can't stand it hot. I like the feel of the cool water on my skin.

It's September. Two months since Simon died. The days are so different than they used to be.

I went back to school this month, and that's different, too. I can tell that everyone feels sorry for me.

I double-check that the door is locked, strip off my clothes, and lean over the cool porcelain ledge to stopper the drain and let the bathtub fill.

I'm not supposed to take a bath, just a shower. I'm not allowed to fill the tub.

I'm supposed to hate water, but I don't.

I leave the shower running as I slip into the filling tub. I do this all the time now, so she won't know.

The water envelops and soothes me. Sometimes I slide all the way under, lie faceup, eyes open, and pretend that I'm drowned. I do this now, let my hair float outward, let my lips loosen, let the water seep in.

Drowning doesn't scare me. If I drown, I will be with Simon.

After a minute, I turn onto my belly and swish my hair back and forth, side to side. I am alive again, a beautiful mermaid now, with gills and a tail. I live in this ocean and am happy and have friends here. We'll explore and explore together until we find the portal at the bottom, the one that will take me to my brother.

• • •

I don't know how I made my legs walk from the beach to the car, or my body ride in the car next to Peter to the movies, nor how I got from the parking lot into the cool, dark relief of the theater. Now, once again, I make them stand and carry me out of the theater into the dark July night, where, thank goodness, Alex is already waiting.

In the car, there's chatter about the movie, about Bradley taking his road test next month, about the beach, and baseball, and Lisette and me trying to sign up for yearbook committee next spring. I participate as little as possible, without really taking in most of what is said.

Eventually, I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat, thankful that the night is warm and Alex has the top down. I just need to keep breathing until we get home.

When we reach my street, I say, “Thanks, guys,” and wait for Alex to pull up to the curb.

As I start to get out, Peter grabs my sleeve. “Oh man, now I know! It's been bugging me all afternoon.” I yank away. I have no idea what he's talking about.

“Your dad! When he came out earlier, I thought I knew him from somewhere.” I nod as if I care and slip out of the car. “The club,” Peter blabs on. “I've totally seen your father at the club.”

I nearly fall out of the car. “I doubt it,” I snap as Lisette leans forward with alarm. I try to calm my tone. “We used to belong, but not for a long, long time. But maybe he went golfing or something. Anyway, good night.”

Lisette nods at me, letting me know it sounds legit and that Peter can't possibly hear my panic, the voice screaming accusations in my head.

I stand on my lawn and watch the car disappear down our street, feeling completely sick to my stomach. About what Peter said, about Bradley and me, about what I've done to Lisette. She's only ever been a good friend, and I'm a terrible one. She doesn't deserve to be cheated on.

I reach the spill of bright yellow light from the front stoop, and realize all the downstairs lights are off. Only my parents' bedroom light is on. They must already be in bed. Without thinking, I veer across our driveway to my father's car.

My heart pounds like crazy, but part of me doesn't care if he catches me. Let him be mad. Let him tell me I'm being deceitful!

Praying it's not locked, I pull the handle on the driver's side door. It opens and the interior light switches on. I lean in, lift the console lid, and feel around for the small silver key. It takes less than a second. It's still there under a fresh box of Altoids. If it were so secret, wouldn't he have moved it? Maybe it's not Mrs. Merrill's key. Maybe it goes to his office.

Still, there's only one way to find out. I close the lid and slip out, shutting the car door as quietly as I'm able, and walk back to the stoop and sit.

Across the street, Mrs. Merrill's house is dark. Am I really going to do this? Be guilty of breaking and entering? But it's not a crime if I just try it in the lock and leave. It's not like I'm going inside.

I flip the key in my hand, and it glints in the moonlight like magic. But whose magic? What may be magic for my father will be the end of any happiness for me.

I think of Bradley, the day he “just stopped by” on the way to Lisette's, and then today, wading with me through the inlet. How badly I wanted to kiss him! How badly I want to kiss him again right now. Why can't I be anywhere with Bradley instead of sitting here worrying about my dad?

I want that life, the one where I'm someone's girlfriend, where I get to feel happy and loved. I want to be her, someone other than the girl with the dead brother and the unhappy mother and the possibly cheating dad.

Is that what's going on with my father? Is that how he feels, too? Does he need to escape his life? My mother?

Does he need to escape Simon's death?

Tears trickle down my face, because what if he does? And what if, to escape Simon, Dad needs to escape me, too?

A light behind me flashes on, and the door opens. I squeeze the key tight in my fist.

“Beans?” Dad says.

“Yeah?” I wipe the tears.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I was just sitting here with Simon's frog.”

“I'll join you.” The wicker chair on the porch creaks as he sits down. “So, did you have a good time?”

I shrug, then shake my head.

I want to do more. I want to tell him what happened with Bradley and all the stuff going on with Lisette. But even more than that, I'm suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to tell him about Frankie Sky. Because maybe if he could meet Frankie and see what I see—see that he's somehow connected to Simon, or at least see that it's possible—maybe that would make everything different, and we could all let go and try to be happy again.

A light flickers across the street at Mrs. Merrill's, and I hear him shift in his chair. And that's all I need to know to realize it won't matter at all. It won't matter what I try to say, or show him, or share, if he's already left us in his head.

I slip the key in my pocket. I have to know. Either way, to prepare myself, I really have to know.

“Sorry it wasn't better,” he says. “It's a pretty night at least, huh? Cloudy, though, no stars. I guess that means rain for tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess.” I kiss my free hand and place it on Simon's frog. Then I stand up and kiss my father's cheek. “I'm tired now. I'm going to bed.”

• • •

I lie on my bed and reach for the key in my pocket, but pull out the sand dollar instead.

It wasn't a dream, then. Part of me was thinking it was all in my head.

I slip the sand dollar back in my pocket and retrieve the silver key, holding it in the air above me. It doesn't look like a house key, exactly. It's smaller. Maybe it goes to her back door. At any rate, there's only one way to know. And, if it kills me, I'm going to find out.

If my universe is crashing in, I'm going down with answers.

Dad is a weather forecaster, because in the morning, it's pouring like crazy. The kind of rain that falls in sheets, nearly impossible to see through.

Mom and Dad are both in the kitchen when I get downstairs. It's Sunday, so even the Foundation is closed. Mom's reading the paper and, thankfully, asks me no questions. In fact, she doesn't even look up at me.

Dad, on the other hand, who is fiddling with his cell phone, keeps giving me weird looks, though what kind of weird, I'm not sure. Maybe he knows I took the key.

If you're so worried, I want to say, why didn't you just get rid of it?

I try to make use of myself, find something to do, but it's hard to think about much besides Bradley. And with all the rain, there's really nowhere for me to go.

Of course, Lisette calls and texts, like, ten times asking if I'm okay and apologizing about Peter.
I didn't think . . . it was Bradley's idea. I am so, so sorry!
or
Beans, call me back. No more mystery dates, I promise.
And:
Seriously, Beans, please call me,
in yet another. Every time my cell phone buzzes and her name pops up, I fill to bursting with guilt.

It's fine. No problem, just busy with Frankie,
I finally respond, hoping she won't realize that it's Sunday.

For hours, I lie on my carpet and stare at the ceiling like a lovesick fool, a thing I never thought I would be. Then again, I'm a lot of things I don't recognize these days.

Eventually, I get up and go to my desk, slide open the thin, secret pencil drawer under my computer, and stare at the key where I hid it. It's on a single ring, no markings, nothing to identify it except a tiny six-digit serial number.

My cell phone buzzes again. I close the drawer and grab it.
Btw, can you believe what Peter said about your dad being at the club? What is UP with him, Beans? Do you think you should say something?

I hit delete and pull up the note I typed myself from Frankie's house the other day, the words from the base of Saint Florian.

Non vel ocean mos somniculous nostrum animus.

If I can't solve Mrs. Merrill or Bradley, maybe I can find some answers about Frankie Sky.

I type Saint Florian into the search bar, click on the first website that looks decent—Catholic Saints Through History—and scroll down and read.

Saint Florian was an officer of the Roman army in Noricum, a Celtic kingdom of Austria. He died in the days of Diocletian.

I seriously have not one clue what that means.

Though venerated, Florian suffered at the hands of his faith. When the Roman regime sought to eradicate Christianity, Florian confessed his faith and was beaten, burned, and scourged. He survived all of these torments through his unyielding faith, but was finally thrown into the river Enns, a millstone tied around his neck. His body was found by a pious woman, but it was too late to save him.

Saint Florian holds patronage of firemen and chimney-sweeps and is believed to protect against bad harvests, battles, fire, flood, and storms. He is also the patron saint of those in danger from water, floods, and drowning.

Patronage of firemen and chimney-sweeps? Some of the information seems plain weird, and the rest, contradictory. How can Saint Florian protect from drowning when he died in the water? How does he save others if he couldn't save himself?

I open another screen and type Latin to English translation into the search bar. I click on the first site and type the saying from the base of the statue, one word at a time, into the text bar: Non. Vel. Ocean. Mos. Somniculous. Nostrum. Animus.

As each word comes up, my eyes bounce from the Latin to the English, picking through choices, more and more frantically by the end.

non

non : not.

vel

vel : or, (adv.) even.

ocean: ocean.

mos

M:

mos : will.

somniculous

somniculous : sleepily, sleep, drowsily, drowse.

nostrum

noster nostra nostrum : our, ours.

animus

animus : courage, vivacity, bravery, will, spirit, soul.”

My heart beats wildly. I know it says drowse, but it's so close to drown, and both sort of mean to put to sleep. I read through again to make sure I'm not seeing things, and when I know I'm not, I shut down my computer, grab my cell, and race downstairs.

Not even the ocean will drown our soul!

I need to see Frankie Sky.

I fly past Mom in the kitchen. “I'm going to Frankie's!” I yell.

“Francesca!”

“What?”

“It's pouring outside.”

I turn around. Not even the ocean will drown our soul. “It's okay,” I say. “Seriously. I don't mind the water.”

As soon as I say it, I realize my mistake. I can see it flash in her eyes. She stares at me hard, her face red with fury.

“God, what?” I glare back. “All I meant is the rainwater. The stupid, harmless rainwater. When will you stop it, Mom? Why do you always have to go there?” I slam the door before either of us can say any more.

• • •

I run to Frankie's through the downpour, happy to get drenched, to have the rain slip down my shirt, splash up my shins, slosh between my toes in my flip-flops. I want to be soaked to the bone. I don't care how hard it pours, I just need to see Frankie Sky.

Not even the ocean will drown our soul.

I know in my heart—have always known—that he is somehow connected to Simon.

When I reach his house, I bang on the door, wondering if they'll mind me just showing up on a Sunday. Soaking wet, for that matter.

Frankie opens the door, Potato squeezing through his legs.

“You are really wet, Beans.”

“I know, Frankie. I know. I just wanted to see you. You answered the door fast!”

“I seed you from the window,” he says.

I laugh. “I know you did.”

Mrs. Schyler isn't home. Frankie's Grandpa Harris is. I recognize him from the photographs. He sits on the living room sofa, a kid's book in his hand. Frog and Toad Together. The other two books are on the cushion next to him.

“So, you must be the infamous Beans,” he says, taking off his glasses as he stands. He puts out his hand. “I'm Mr. Forrester, Frankie's grandfather.”

He's a handsome man, tall with white hair. I can see the resemblance to Mrs. Schyler.

“Yes,” I say, “Frankie talks a ton about you.”

“Oh, Lordy,” Mr. Forrester says. “I can only imagine.”

I laugh. I'm not surprised that I like him.

Frankie returns dragging a big beach towel, which he hands me, then walks over and leans against his grandfather.

“Grandpa Harris was reading the story. The one about Frog and Toad. Finish the story, Grandpa. Beans likes it, too, so she can listen.”

Mr. Forrester raises his eyebrows in question.

“Yes, sure,” I say. “I've got nowhere to go.”

“Well then, we were just reading ‘Cookies,' that was it, wasn't it? ‘Cookies' and ‘The Lost Button.' Those two stories, over and over again.” He chuckles and winks privately at me. “For the past two hours, now, if you can believe that.”

He sits and puts his reading glasses back on, as if those two story titles mean nothing. But they don't. Because they were Simon's favorites, too.

“Sit, Beans,” Frankie orders. He takes my hand and pulls me down cross-legged next to him in front of Mr. Forrester, then slides closer so our knees touch and slips his hand in mine. His skin feels warm, and for a second, I think of Bradley, and my heart wrenches.

Mr. Forrester opens the book and says, “Where were we, now? Oh yes. Here. The cookies. Frog can't resist all those cookies.”

He starts to read, but Frankie says, “Hold on, Grandpa. I need to remember Beans to the story.” He turns to me. “Toad made the cookies and Frog loves them so much, so they keep eating and eating and eating them. But now they will get fat, so they need to stop. But Toad can't stop, so Frog, he is trying to help him.” He nods, satisfied. “Okay, go ahead, Grandpa.”

Mr. Forrester adjusts his glasses. “ ‘We must stop eating!' cried Toad as he ate another. ‘Yes,' said Frog, reaching for a cookie, ‘we need willpower.' ‘What is willpower?' asked Toad. ‘Willpower is trying hard not to do something that you really want to do,' said Frog.”

Mr. Forrester stops and raises an eyebrow at Frankie.

“ ‘You mean like trying not to eat all of these cookies?' asked Toad,” Frankie says enthusiastically, just the way Simon used to.

Mr. Forrester laughs and keeps reading, and Frankie chimes in, but now I'm not thinking about Frankie or Simon anymore, because I'm thinking about Bradley, and how I am like Frog and want to kiss him, and how Bradley is just like those cookies.

• • •

When the book is over and the rain lets up, I tell Frankie I should probably go.

“My daughter should be home soon,” Mr. Forrester says, as if he's inviting me to stay.

“She is visiting someone,” Frankie says. “She is visiting Joey. He is my daddy's old friend.”

“Oh,” I say, smiling, because maybe, just maybe, I actually did something good.

“Is okay,” Frankie says, walking me to the door, “because yesterday and today was Grandpa Harris Day, and also I got to seed you.”

I kneel down in front of him and hug him as tightly as I can. “I know, Frankie. I know. I was lucky to see you, too.”

He hugs me back, then stops and puts his face to mine.

“Frankie Sky loves Frankie Beans,” he says. “Bigger than the whole wide ocean.”