The Summer of Letting Go (19 page)

The ambulance comes in five minutes.

I insist that I ride with Frankie, but the paramedics won't let me. “Immediate family only, hon,” the EMT says, whisking Frankie, now strapped to a stretcher, into the back. “Don't you worry, though, we'll take good care of him, I promise.” He jumps in and pulls the doors closed along with him.

I stare as the ambulance speeds Frankie away.

“You come with me, child,” Mr. Habberstaad says. He nods toward his fancy red sports car that's parked right up front. “I used to do some racing in my time. We'll be there before the ambulance. You watch me. You've called Brooke, yes? I'm sure she'll meet us there.”

I turn to Bradley, though it pains me to look at him.

“Do you want me to go with you?” he asks.

I shake my head and look away. “Go check on Lisette. And thank you for helping me.”

He reaches out as if he's going to grab my hand or something, but I say, “Please, Bradley, just go,” and I slip into Mr. Habberstaad's car.

• • •

As promised, Mr. Habberstaad drives like a lunatic. The ambulance beats us there, but not by much. When we pull into the emergency parking area, it's still at the entrance, siren silent, back doors open, lights flashing.

I feel frozen, unable to face it if anything bad has happened.

Frankie is inside, being helped by doctors and nurses, I tell myself. He'll be okay. Please, God, let him be okay.

As we enter, I swipe at the tears. I don't want Mr. Habberstaad to see me cry. I don't want to explain to him how, one way or another, I make everyone I love leave me or die.

“Francesca! Here!” I whirl around to where Mrs. Schyler runs toward us, teary-eyed and small.

Mr. Habberstaad puts an arm around her and says, “Now, now, Brooke, don't you worry, my dear, you know how resilient that boy of yours is.”

“I prayed to Saint Florian,” I whisper to her, “even the Latin. I prayed to him the whole entire way.”

“Thank you, Francesca.” She smiles sadly and takes my hand, and we head into the hospital together.

At the nurses' station, a doctor walks toward us, a look of concern on his face. “Mrs. Schyler?” he says. “The boy's mother?”

“Yes.”

“Come, let's speak over here.”

My chest tightens. I can tell something terrible has happened, that Frankie Sky is gone. “Your son came in here with a high fever . . .” the doctor says, steering her away. I can't bring myself to listen to the rest.

I close my eyes and repeat the words at the base of the statue over and over in my brain: Non vel ocean mos somniculous nostrum animus, non vel ocean mos somniculous nostrum animus, until the hospital room sways and constricts and everything swirls and falls away.

“Francesca?”

“Francesca!”

One voice soft, girly. The other deep, louder.

“Francesca!”

The deep one again.

I blink and raise my arm to my forehead. There's a wet cold weight on it.

Not a weight. A cloth. There's a washcloth on my head.

I open my eyes. Fluorescent lights widen in a blurry halo above me. Mrs. Schyler's blond curls bob there, too. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

A man in the corner. My father? No, not my father. Mr. Habberstaad.

I'm in the hospital, but why?

Frankie Sky! Oh, God, please don't let Frankie Sky be dead.

“Francesca.” Mrs. Schyler touches my forehead. She's smiling. But it feels hard to trust what I see. “You frightened us! Did you hear the doctor? He said Frankie is doing just fine.”

I sit up dizzily. Mrs. Schyler puts a hand on my shoulder to steady me. She brushes the hair from my forehead. My body is drenched in cold sweat.

“You fainted, sweetie,” she says.

I search my brain, trying to make sure I'm not dreaming or hallucinating.

“Frankie's okay, then?” She nods. “But what about his heart?”

She shakes her head. “It isn't his heart. Just a fever. A run-of-the-mill old virus. He spiked a high temp and got dehydrated. They've got fluids in him now, and he's resting comfortably in triage. Come, I'll show you.”

I stand up, but Mrs. Schyler holds tight to my arm. A nurse brings a plastic cup of orange juice and places it in my hands. “Drink this, doll,” she says. “Let's get some sugar in you.”

I drink it as Mrs. Schyler leads us down the hall.

As we walk, she explains more how Frankie has a virus that they think was exacerbated by sunstroke. “Add to that some minor dehydration and we ended up here. Once he gets hydrated, they say he'll be feeling much better.”

“It's my fault,” I say. “I should have made sure he was drinking.”

“It's not anyone's fault, Francesca. Just one of those things.” Her red heels click across the linoleum. Mr. Habberstaad walks on her other side. He's been so sweet and fatherly, not at all the gruff man I met in his office that first day. “Of course, they'll want to hold him here for a few hours to run some routine tests and keep a general eye on things, make sure his temperature goes down. And they do have to make sure there's no infection—that it wasn't an episode of endocarditis.” I turn to her, alarmed, and she adds quickly, “But they doubt it was, and they don't seem worried at all. At any rate, if all his blood work comes back negative, they'll discharge him this evening, or first thing in the morning, latest.”

“I want to stay with him.”

“Don't be silly, Francesca. Frankie's grandpa is on his way. You say a quick hello to him and then let Mr. Habberstaad take you home. You must be exhausted.”

“But what about his heart?” I ask cautiously.

“Other than confirming that there's no infection—and there won't be—so far everything sounds quiet on the EKG.”

“Everything?”

She nods and shrugs. “Absolutely no evidence of a tear.” My eyes widen and I open my mouth to ask more, but she presses a finger to her lips. “Shush,” she says, smiling, “never question a good thing when you have one.”

We reach triage. Frankie sits on the stretcher with his sunglasses on. “Beans!” he says when he sees me. “You is blue again!”

“Believe me, Frankie,” I say, hugging him, “now that I see you, I am the total opposite of blue.”

• • •

I lie in bed and stare out my dark window, then glance at my cell phone on my nightstand—3:04 a.m.

Lately, there's been a whole lot of not sleeping going on.

I pick up my cell, grateful that Bradley dropped it home to me. I check for a text from Lisette, but there won't be any. There were none at midnight, and I'm sure there won't be any now.

I grab Fisher Frog and hug him to my chest. Of course, I'm happy and relieved that Frankie is okay, but that doesn't solve the mess I've made with Lisette.

Lisette, my former and only best friend, ever, in the world.

Not a single text from her since this afternoon.

I raise Fisher Frog above me and whisper, “How do we make such big messes of things, Fisher Frog? That is what I want to know.” But he just dangles his arms and legs, one plastic eye glinting at me. “Lots of help you are,” I say, tossing him to the foot of my bed.

Maybe I should send Lisette a note, try to explain things. But I don't know what I could say that would possibly make anything right.

Hey, Lisette, real sorry I kissed your boyfriend, but you've had plenty of them, so what's one less, right? Plus, I think I'm in love with him, so could you maybe go easy on me?

Geez, who could blame her for hating me?

I turn on the light, walk to my closet, and slide out my old wooden step stool. On the high shelf is a small shoe box where I keep my most prized possessions. My baby-name bracelet strung with pink and white square letter beads. A ribbon I won for a poem I wrote in third grade. A piece of ruby beach glass I found before Simon died.

Only one last thing to do.

I carry the box over, place it on my bed, and find my half of our hot pink enamel heart pendant. They were a present to each other the first Christmas Simon was gone. Lisette's mother had taken us to the mall to go shopping.

“See? Our hearts are one together,” Lisette had said giddily, latching my half around my neck, still at the store counter.

“And broken if separated,” I had answered, latching the other around hers.

With them secured around our necks, she had moved so close to me that our breath mixed, so she could hold her half against mine. They fit together perfectly, like puzzle pieces.

“Let's always wear these, even when we're old, okay? And let's never fight or do anything mean to each other, like keep secrets, or break promises, or anything bad like that. If we do”—Lisette fake snapped them apart in a dramatic motion and stepped back—“each of us will have our hearts broken. So we have to promise, Beans, okay? We have to swear never to break the other person's heart.”

I had panicked. “But what if we do, Lisette? What if I hurt you and don't mean to? What if I can't be . . .” I had stopped, dumb tears filling my eyes, but we both knew the end of the sentence: What if I can't be trusted? And how could I be trusted when I had just let my own brother die?

“Don't be silly, Beans. Of course you can!” She pulled me back in and pushed our pendant halves together. “See, each of our pieces is nothing alone. But when you put them together, they're totally perfect, like we are.”

“But what if I do, Zette? What if I mess up? I have to know. I'm not keeping mine unless I know.”

She had dropped my half and rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. If you ever mess up—if either of us does—”

“Even by accident.”

“Even by accident, then we give our half back to the other person. That way we don't have their heart anymore, and they can give it to a new, better friend. How's that? It's a perfect solution.”

“Good,” I had said, but I'd made us pinkie swear before I could feel relaxed again.

Then, at the beginning of ninth grade, we decided to take them off, that they were juvenile, so we put them away for safekeeping.

“For our thirtieth birthdays, we'll take them out and wear them,” Lisette had said as we ceremoniously wrapped them and sealed them away.

Now the thought of sending my half back literally breaks my heart, but I know it's what I have to do. She'll know it's permission, and I owe her that. She'll know exactly what it means.

I walk to my desk with the pendant clutched so tightly, it leaves indents in my palm, and pull a piece of loose leaf from my drawer. I stick the pendant to the center with Scotch tape, then fold the paper around it and fasten the sides.

On the front I write, Lisette, please know that I am sorry, Beans. Then I leave it on my desk, turn out my lights, and pray I can sleep until morning.

I bike over to Lisette's house early, drop the package in her mailbox, and go home to wait for her to text or call. Better yet, for her to march on over, hands on hips, toss the package back at me in exasperation, and say, You know, Francesca Beans Schnell, you are so very stupid. Of course we are still friends. We have always been friends, and we will always be friends. Just because you made a mistake doesn't mean I'll never forgive you.

I check the mailbox fifty times.

I check my cell phone.

I check e-mail.

But there's no marching back.

Nothing from Lisette comes all day.

And why would it? I screwed up. I betrayed her. We're not little kids anymore.

Lisette is done with me, and has every right to be.

I've got no one to blame but myself.

• • •

By the next morning, I still haven't heard from her. Somehow, I need to go on with my day.

I call Mrs. Schyler, who says Frankie's fever is gone, so it's okay if I want to come over.

I do. I am desperate to see Frankie Sky.

Not to mention to get out of the house. Mom and Dad keep giving me endless concerned looks. But I don't know what to tell them. The truth is, I'm worried about me, too.

I'm heartbroken about Frankie and Lisette. Plus, Bradley keeps texting, and I'm trying (trying!), but I'm heartbroken about him, too. How can I want to be with a person so badly, even when I know that it's wrong?

Mostly, I've refrained, only texted back when he checked in about Frankie. And even that was hard to resist:

Him:
How's Frankie doing?

Me:
Better! Thanks.

Him:
Glad to hear.

Me:
Did u talk to Lisette?

Him:
Sort of.

Me:
Is she okay?

Him:
No. Mad.

Me:
I feel awful.

Him:
Me too. Btw, did u kno male fiddler crabs have a yellow love-claw they wave around to fight off other males?

See? How do I resist that?

Yet, somehow, I do. Since then, we haven't texted at all.

So, then, I'm turning over a new leaf.

Doing the right thing.

No more cookies for me. No matter how delicious they are.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

So why do I feel so awful?

• • •

I walk up the Schylers' driveway. Frankie watches me from the window.

I can see from his face that he's feeling better, but also that Mrs. Schyler has told him that they're moving away. Don't ask me how I can tell such things from the window like that. It's just how it is between Frankie Sky and me.

Still, I'm glad he knows, because I feel too sad about everything to keep faking it.

I walk slowly up the front steps, feeling the weight of the fact that there will only be a few more times I get to see him.

He opens the door, but doesn't let me in, rather steps out and shuts it quickly, squishing Potato in half. The dog yelps. “I said no, Tato!” he says, opening the door again so Potato can squeeze back inside.

Frankie stands on the stoop in his bare feet, blue Batman underwear, and no shirt, looking a lot like the first day I came here. Only today he has no towel cape, which I guess means he won't try to fly.

He puts his hands on his hips and looks at me. There's a tattoo on his stomach—one of those press-on kinds— Superman, arms raised in the air. And a second on his arm of the Incredible Hulk or the Green Hornet, or some other superhero who is green.

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

“I seed you seeing me, Frankie.”

He nods approvingly and sits on the steps with a loud sigh. I sit down next to him.

“Frankie Sky is moving,” he says.

“Yeah. I heard. It makes me pretty sad. But also, I'm happy for you, too, you know? Because you'll like Joey a lot, and your mom likes him so much, and that makes her happy, which is good.”

“Yep,” he says. “But I is blue. And Beans is blue. And not the glasses kind.”

“A little,” I say, leaning against him.

He rests his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands and he thinks like that for a while. “Don't be blue, Beans,” he says finally, “because Frankie Sky knows how to swim. And Beans teached him just like she said.”

“Taught,” I say. “I taught you how to swim.” Even though, as I say it, I doubt that it's true, that I had anything to do with Frankie knowing how to swim.

“Taught, right! Beans taughted me.”

I giggle. “Well, I think you pretty much taught yourself how to swim, Frankie.” He nods, but doesn't say anything.

I look out across the street and think of the first day I met him, and the day at the club when he dove in and nearly drowned. How I dove in after him without even knowing if I remembered how to swim. I think of the way the sun sparkled down on us as he moved through the water like a frog, and how he smiled at me.

It's only been a few weeks of summer. How can it feel like I've known Frankie Sky forever if he doesn't hold a piece of my brother?

“And I doesn't have a hole in my heart anymore, Beans,” he is saying, “because it was just a fever sick, but not a scary heart sick. So Grandpa Harris says I don't need to know how to fly. Well, only in a plane to Cape Cod, but also we can drive in the car if we want to.”

“Well, that is the best news, Frankie, because it scares me when you try to fly.”

“I won't. Only if Beans is there, ready.”

“Okay, good.” I reach out and poke the tattoo on his belly, and he giggles. The superhero wrinkles and disappears into the folds. “Want to hold my hand, Frankie?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says. “Yep, I do.”

• • •

On my way home, I run into Mrs. Merrill. Okay, lie. I walk into her backyard to find her.

I'm not sure why. I just feel like I need to talk to her.

Maybe it's because I haven't seen her at the club, or even leave the driveway much, for that matter, so I'm guessing she also lost a friend.

She kneels in front of a yellow rosebush, pruning off dead buds. I take a deep breath and cross the grass to talk to her.

“Hello, Francesca!” she says before I realize she's seen me. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” And I can't help but smile, because I've been a thief, a cheat, a liar, and, worse than all of that, a snitch, and yet somehow she actually seems genuinely happy to see me. Which makes me feel a little bit like a traitor.

I sit on the ground next to her, kick off my flip-flops, and run my toes through the grass. “Your flowers are so pretty,” I say.

She sits back and pushes a wisp of hair from her eyes. “Thank you. I try. It's a lot of work, but they make me happy.” She sighs, which makes me wonder how happy she really is. “So, how are you, Francesca? I haven't seen you for a few days. Everything okay at home?”

“I think so,” I say.

“Well, good then.” She looks at me hard. “You don't look so happy.”

“No,” I say. “Frankie Sky is moving. And Lisette found out about things.”

“I see,” she says gently. “That's tough.” She leans away and snips a few more blossoms, then turns to me and slips one behind my ear. “So, what are you going to do?”

I pull the rose out and look at it. It's a perfect chiffon yellow. Fragile, but so very fragrant. I hold it to my nose and breathe in its scent, which is less sweet and more lemony than I'm expecting. I slip it back behind my ear and stand up.

“I'm going to try to fix things, I suppose.”