The Summer of Letting Go (17 page)

I've walked around our neighborhood for at least an hour, but I don't want to go home. I don't know what I'll say if I do.

I feel sick about everything. Not just about what I said to Mom and Dad, but about telling on Dad, and even ratting out Mrs. Merrill. Part of me thinks she deserves it, but part of me feels bad because there's something that seems sad about her, too.

Anyway, how could I have told Mom about Mrs. Merrill when I don't even know if it's true?

How could I tell her if it is?

It occurs to me that maybe I want it to be true. Maybe I want Dad to have done something terrible and wrong like that, because even if he did, I'd still love him and I'd still want him to be my father. Even if he screwed up, I'd still think he was a good person.

Maybe that's what I'm secretly hoping for.
Because if Dad could make such a huge, horrible mistake and still be a good person, then that would mean, technically, I could be, too. I could still be worthy of loving, even if I let my brother drown.

I stop shy of the front of our house. Mom's and Dad's cars are both in the driveway, so at least they're not driving around looking for me.

Maybe nobody cares if I'm gone.

My eyes shift across the street to Mrs. Merrill's house. Her car is there. And her husband's Maserati.

I take a deep breath and, without thinking more, move in that direction.

I slip around the house to the deck stairs and knock quietly on the back door. Through the window I can see Mrs. Merrill in the kitchen. I knock a little harder and she turns around, a look of alarm crossing her face. She holds up a finger—one minute—and disappears around the corner.

She returns with a box of tissues and a light sweater and comes out onto the deck. She wraps the sweater around my bare shoulders and says, “Let's go sit over here.”

I follow her down the steps and into the garden. There's a bench by the roses in the back corner. She glances nervously up toward the house, to the window that looks in on the living room. I can see the TV's blue glow from here.

“Now,” she says, putting her hand on my shoulder, “tell me what on earth has happened.”

“I told her,” I say. “I told my mother about you.”

The alarm returns to her face, but she works hard to hide it. She scratches at a speck of thread on her linen slacks and waits.

“It's just that we got in a fight, and this afternoon when I was at the club with Frankie, I saw it. I saw where the key goes.” My heart starts up when I say this, but she gives me a puzzled look, and I remember that the last time I was here, I never actually showed her that I have her key.

“Oh, I have it,” I say. “I have your key. I mean, my dad had it in his car, and I thought it was yours and, well, that's why I came here that day. But it doesn't go to your house, because it's too small, but it goes there, to your cabana at the club. And, well, I'm not an idiot, you know.”

She closes her eyes for a moment and squeezes my shoulder, then leaves her hand there. I want to shake it off, but I don't.

“I see. Of course not,” she says. “Nobody thinks that you are.”

She rubs my back, which only makes it worse. I don't want to feel comforted by her. I want to hate her. And I don't want her to be kind. I don't deserve it.

“So,” she says quietly, “tell me, what exactly happened with your mother?”

“We got in a fight. Because I went to the beach and didn't tell her. Because she wouldn't have let me go if I had. Because of how my brother drowned.”

“Ah, yes, Simon. That must be so incredibly hard. For both you and your mother.”

My breath catches when she mentions my brother by name. As if his name is sacred and not hers to say. Then again, there's something soothing about her knowing it, too, and wanting to talk about him. She makes it seem okay to talk, instead of it feeling taboo.

“I know it's hard for her,” I say, “but it's hard for me, too. And she blames me. She's always blamed me. Like all of it was my fault. And maybe she's right. I mean, it is my fault that Simon died . . . ” But I can't talk anymore because I'm crying too hard.

She pulls me in and hugs me now, rocks me, and says, “Oh, you poor, poor dear,” and holds me there until I'm all cried out and exhausted.

When I finally calm down, I pull away, a little embarrassed, and look past her at the roses, now shadowy in the twilight. Her whole backyard smells of them.

“If my dad leaves us, I'll have no one,” I whisper. “My mother doesn't love me anymore.”

She laughs gently, but not in a funny way. “Your dad isn't leaving you, honey. I told you that already. I promise you that. I do.”

“How do you know?”

“We're friends, Francesca. That's all. We talk. That's all I'm going to say. I'm not going to go into further details with you, because it's not your business, or at least it's not mine with you. That's between you and your dad. You have every right to ask him if you want.” She pauses and smoothes her slacks. “Suffice it to say we're friends, we've become friends—well, good friends—perhaps better friends than we should have. We'll have to be more careful about that.” Her eyes dart away to the house again, to the window with the blue glow of the TV.

“Life is hard, Francesca; you of all people know that. It's full of tragedies. Some big, some small. People hurt, they get lonely, they make mistakes. Even grown people. That's not an excuse. I'm just telling you how it is. I'm not saying it makes it all okay. Understand that. I'm not making any excuses. For anyone.”

She stops because she's getting choked up. We both sit quietly until she can talk again.

“Your dad and I are friends, that's all, and I need to work harder to keep it that way. Because our friendship matters to me. He's a good man.”

She tips my chin up so that I'm looking at her and makes her voice brighter, but somehow still stern. “People make mistakes, Francesca, but if they're lucky, they figure it out before it's too late. Maybe you and I have that in common.” She brushes back a strand of my hair. “Do you understand?”

I nod, even though I'm not sure whether she's talking about her and Dad or me and Lisette and Bradley. Either way, it doesn't matter.

“Good. Now, about you and your mother.” My heart sinks. My mother. God, what was I thinking? I've told my mother all sorts of stupid, horrible things. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes to stop new tears from coming, but Mrs. Merrill pulls them away and says, “Sometimes we just need a good cry. If you let them all out, maybe they'll stay away for a long while.”

So I do. I give in and let them flow again. When I'm finished, she pats my knee. “See? That's better. Now, let's get a few things straight. It is not your fault that Simon died, Francesca. Your mother knows this, and your father knows this. The whole wide world knows this. You were not the grown-up there. You were not responsible. Do you understand?”

I nod, even though I'm not sure my mother would agree with her.

“And one more thing: I know your dad loves you. And I'm sure your mother does, too. She's just not as strong as you and your father are. Is that possible, to view her as not as strong?”

I shrug, and she smiles.

“So, then, here's what I think. You go home and trust me that everything will be okay. Maybe messy for a while, but sometimes messy is okay. You apologize to your mother and tell her that, from now on, you will speak only the truths that you know. No more rumors or gossip. No more half pieces of information. And you do your best to right things between the two of you. Okay?”

I nod, and she stands up, letting me know that we're finished. I stand up, too, and we walk together across her backyard.

When we reach the deck stairs, she stops. “It's hard, I know, but you try anyway, Francesca, you promise me? You keep on trying the best you can. And you know what? Sometimes life surprises you and rewards you for it more than you know. You never actually know what life will bring.” I nod. “Okay, then. Go on home and do what you need to do.”

I watch her walk up the stairs, back straight, head high. She's poised, but now I see how sad she is underneath.

I walk slowly across the street. At the curb, I stop and stare at our kitchen window. The lights are on, but I don't see Mom or Dad. They're in the house somewhere. I'll have to find them and talk. But I don't know what I'll say.

I cross our lawn toward the stoop. Nothing to do but push forward.

The kitchen is empty and clean.

Dad's voice drifts in from the living room, low and soft, but he stops talking when I walk in. They're both in there. Mom and Dad. Maybe not for long, but for now.

“Hey,” I say softly, careful not to look at her.

Dad jumps up from the couch and walks toward me. “Beans, are you okay? Where the heck did you go?” I can tell he's mad but trying to control it; that, for the moment, his anger is overshadowed by concern.

Or maybe he gets that I'm the one who should be mad. He's the one sneaking around. He's the one betraying us.

Mom stands, too, arms clutched to her waist. Her eyes are puffy from crying. But the look on her face isn't anger or hatred or disappointment. It's something different this time.

I'm not sure what, but I can't bear it. And I can't talk about it, either. Not now. Maybe in the morning.

I turn away and veer toward the stairs. “I'm going to bed,” I say.

No one stops me. No one grounds me. No one yells.

I could just keep going, but I promised Mrs. Merrill.

A few steps up, I turn. “Mom?” Her head jerks up to look at me. “I was wrong,” I say, shifting my gaze away. “I'm sorry. I was wrong about everything I said. I was angry, so I made it up. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry I said such horrible things.” I try to look at her so she knows I'm sincere, but I can't stand seeing her look so hurt and broken and small.

I start up the stairs again.

“Francesca!” she calls. I keep going, my back to her. I kept my promise to Mrs. Merrill. There's nothing else I need to say right now. “Frankie, please!”

I stop. I stop because she calls me Frankie.

I turn and look at Dad. He's nudging her forward. Holding her hand.

Her eyes meet mine and dart down. Dad nods. Finally, she speaks, her words slow with effort. “Frankie, listen. I was the one who was wrong. Who's been wrong. I'm so, so sorry for that. You don't know how sorry I am. We're all hurting, yes. It's been hell to try to get past the terrible thing that happened. But no one is hurting more than you. I should have known that. And I should have been there for you. I haven't been here for you . . .” Her voice cracks, and her eyes fill with tears. “I haven't done a very good job. And for that, I'm truly very sorry.”

My eyes well up, too, but for some reason I don't cry. Maybe Mrs. Merrill's right. Maybe I'm all cried out for now.

“Okay,” I say, because I don't know what else to say, and I start again up the stairs.

“I want you to be happy, Frankie,” she calls up after me. “Please. I should have done a better job.”

• • •

I'm so tired, I don't even take off my clothes or bother to get under the sheets, just lie on my bedspread and let my body tumble into sleep. As I drift off, the last thing that occurs to me is that the sand is gone. Mom has been in here and vacuumed. The room is straightened and clean.

And Fisher Frog is back on my bed.

I awaken with a start, feeling odd. The house is quiet and gray.

I roll over and glance at my clock—5:05 a.m. I sit up and stare around my room, but everything seems normal. It's not, though. I remember.

Maybe Mom forgives me, but how will she forgive Dad? I may have tried to make things right, but she's not stupid. I wonder what he told her about all the horrible things I said.

I slip out of bed and tiptoe down the hall past Simon's door to their bedroom. Their door is ajar, like always. I peek in. For now, they're together, sleeping.

I walk back down the hall, stop in the bathroom and brush my teeth, and stare at myself in the mirror. I'm a mess of tangled hair and smudged eyes. Not to mention in yesterday's clothes. I wash my face and inspect again, brushing my fingers across my lips. I close my eyes and imagine Bradley's fingers there instead, and then his mouth pressing down on top of mine.

Imagination and memory are all that I have left of that.

I turn off the lights and head back down the hall to my room. At Simon's door, I stop. The door is open a little. I slip in, my heart racing, as my eyes scan the room. I quietly close the door behind me.

His bed looks sad and empty without Fisher Frog. I sit and it creaks softly. I lie back, resting my head on Simon's pillow, and stare out his window at the top of the trees, remembering the spill of sunlight that filtered in that very first day I met Frankie Sky.

Frankie Sky and Simon. Is Simon Frankie Sky?

I close my eyes and try to sort out what is real and what is merely wishful thinking, then sit up with a start. I don't know why, but I feel like something important is in here. Some clue. Some answer.

“Simon, what do you want to tell me?” I whisper, sitting perfectly still. I feel my brother in the room. The air smells of him, of peaches and sunshine and the ocean.

I flip the switch on his table lamp, my heart beating hard as the train with the little frog engineer circles the base. I switch it off quickly, before it circles again and lets out its faint, hollow whistle. The sound of distance and longing.

My hand drops to the night table drawer. I know beyond a doubt something's in here.

I tug at the knob. The drawer sticks in its track. Objects rattle inside.

I kneel down and work the drawer out slowly, then remove items one by one: Simon's baby book. A tube of half-used diaper-rash cream. A Raffi CD. A piece of cardboard with his first lock of blond hair taped to it.

I place them carefully on the bed, but there's nothing unexpected in there.

I slide the drawer closed, but as I do, something rattles, so I yank it open again further, reach in, and feel around with my fingers.

My heart nearly bursts when I feel the smooth round disk in the back. Even before I pull it out, I know.

A sand dollar. God's fingerprint in a lowly little shell.

I stare at it in my hand. It looks exactly like the one that Bradley gave me.

I put everything else back the way I found it and straighten up Simon's bed. When I'm sure it looks the same, I close the door and tiptoe back to my room.

Sunlight creeps in through my bedroom window. I study the sand dollar. A perfect, white, five-pointed flower. I turn it over and look at the base. Pinprick holes that stretch toward the edges like a starburst.

I glance at the clock again. It's still hours before I'm due over at Frankie's. An hour or two before Dad will get up and leave for work, before Mom will leave for the Foundation.

Was the shell always there, or is it some weird sign from Simon?

I flip the shell to the front again, to the five white petals, and try to remember the words to the song. The part about the petals like white doves.

Now break the center open

And here you will see. . .

No, not see. Release.

Now break the center open

And here you will release

The five white doves awaiting

To spread good will and peace.

I close my hand around it and wonder, but I won't break it open. I can't.

I walk to my desk, open the secret drawer, and take out the sand dollar from Bradley. I place them side by side on the desk in front of me.

There's no way it's just a coincidence. There's no way it isn't a sign.

But a sign of what? That Frankie is Simon? Or that I'm meant to be with Bradley? Of course, both are nothing more than wishful thinking.

And yet.

I press Simon's sand dollar to my cheek. I swear I can feel his breath.

My cell phone buzzes and startles me. A text from Lisette.

Hey, Beans! Sure ur sleeping. Just saying good-bye at this UNGODLY (hah!) hour. Wish me luck, I just used a real toilet for the last time till I get back. Will try to sneak texts but if not c u soon. Luv u, Zette.

Ungodly.

I stare at the sand dollars again and wonder if Pastor Sutter knows something I don't. If it is possible that life isn't ungodly. That there are things unseeable—powers, miracles, karma, souls, God—bigger than we are, orchestrating how everything unfolds.

I press ignore on Lisette's text, reminding myself to respond later. If I do it now, she'll ask why I'm up so early. Instead, I turn on my computer.

My phone buzzes again. I almost don't bother to look, but it's not from Lisette. It's from a number I don't recognize.

Hey, Beans LOL! Was doing some research and found out that fewer crabs died on Xmas Island this year than last. Seems like a good thing, so I wanted u to kno. Bradley.

I stare at the note in disbelief, my heart going crazy. He's texting me at the crack of dawn. I shouldn't respond, but there's no way I can ignore it completely.

Good to know. Thanks,
I type back. In three seconds, a “
” appears.

I press the phone to my heart. I should leave it at that.

No Bradley.

No cookies.

No more betrayals.

I put my phone down, push it away from my needy, disobeying fingers, and do what I was about to do anyway: type Christmas Island crabs into the search bar.

I turn the volume low and click on some video from a nature channel. Classical music plays as a sea of red crabs crawls across the screen, just like Bradley described to me. A British guy narrates how, every year, over one hundred and twenty million crabs migrate to the ocean to breed even though they don't know how to swim. He explains that they lay their eggs in the water, but then have to return to where they came from. And that, even though they try to close roads and put up roadblocks, over a million red crabs get killed every year.

“It appears for these small creatures, at least, an innate sense of purpose, a higher calling, if you will, overrides logic or good sense.”

I watch amazed as the mass of tiny red crabs crosses streets to the music, crawling up the sides of curbs, through drainage tunnels, over bridges. Bradley wasn't exaggerating; it's freaky, but mesmerizing. A moving red carpet of crabs.

When it's over, I'm still not sure what to do with myself. It's not even six thirty, and everything feels upside down. Sooner or later, I'm going to have to deal, though. And I'm hungry, so I head downstairs.

As I walk into the kitchen, I see the note folded on the table. Propped like a greeting card, my name—
Frankie
—on the front in Mom's tight, perfect script.

I sit down and slide it over, even though I don't know if I really want to read what's inside. What if it's a good-bye? Or worse, what if she explains how, now that she knows about Mrs. Merrill, she just can't let Dad live here anymore?

My beautiful Frankie,

1. I just wanted to tell you that you were right. I have buried myself in the Foundation and the past and all that was lost, instead of all that I still have to live for, including you, my bold and beautiful daughter.

I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to realize this, and that I haven't been a better mother when you needed your mother the most.

Please know that I'm not angry with you, nor do I blame you for Simon's death. Nor have I blamed you,
ever
. Your brother's death was MY fault, Frankie, and your dad's fault, but certainly it was never, ever yours. You were the best big sister that Simon could have had. He loved you very much, and I do, too. You make me proud every day, and I've done a horrible job of letting you know. But it's the truth, and I'm going to try harder to show it.

2. If you ever lie to me again about where you are, or where you are going, you will be grounded for life. Seriously.

—Mom

I sit for a long time, staring at her words, and at my name like that—the good way, Frankie, like she used to call me. Then I walk to the window and stare out across the street to Mrs. Merrill's house like I did that last day of school. The day I saw my father drive by. The house is quiet and still, her black Mercedes and the silver Maserati asleep, side by side, in the driveway.

I think about how Mrs. Merrill has lived here for years, and I never even knew her before. Is it really just a coincidence that all this happened? That, for better or worse, she suddenly came into our lives?

I skip the food, take the note, and tiptoe back up to my room. I fold it in half again, slip it in my desk drawer, and take out the silver key instead. I pad back downstairs and out the front door and return the key to the console in Dad's car.

There are just some things you don't need to know for sure.