The Summer of Letting Go (5 page)

I sit on our stoop next to Simon's stone frog and clutch Frankie's crayon drawing in my hand.

Has something mystical conspired to lead me to Frankie Sky? Does it have something to do with my brother? Or is all of this nothing but coincidence?

I look across the street to Mrs. Merrill's. Was I meant to follow her to the club even if she has nothing to do with my dad? Because that's what I hope: that she has nothing to do with my father.

I mean, sure, I saw a car go by that looked like Dad's and a man who resembled him in her house. But I couldn't really see clearly, so there's a very good chance I was wrong. And, sure, he borrowed sugar from her even though there was plenty of sugar in the house. And, sure, I've seen her leave the house right after him when he just happened to be casually dressed. But there's been no sign of him at the club. In fact, as far as I can tell, my father has been nowhere near the Hamlet Dunes Country Club pool, or Mrs. Merrill's vacuum-vortex of a cabana.

So why do I keep being led there, if not for the boy named Frankie Sky?

I stare at the drawing again. It seems as if the little frog winks at me. But, no, that's just me going crazy. Or maybe the sunshine playing tricks. I fold the paper and put it in my pocket. Simon is dead. Simon is gone. Anything else is just tricks.

I try to think of something—anything but Simon, or questions with no answers—but only come up with more thoughts that drag me down. Like Lisette, who I barely see anymore, and Bradley Stephenson, who isn't my boyfriend and won't ever be kissing me or feeling me up under a pretty flower-carved cross. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

Which reminds me. I slip out my cell phone and send Lisette a text, trying to keep it casual before she truly worries I've actually gone out of my mind.

Hey, btw, did u ever ask B about reincarnation?

I wait a few minutes, but no response. I kiss my hand and pat the stone frog's head, letting my fingers linger on his rough, cool back, then I pull out the note with Mrs. Schyler's number and head inside to make the call. At least I'll have something to keep me busy this summer.

At first, I chicken out. Partly because I'm wondering if I should check with Mom before I call. But I can't bring myself to call her at the Drowning Foundation to tell her some stranger wants me to watch her little boy. Besides, she's told me a hundred times to get a summer job. “We're not made of money, Francesca. It's not like it used to be.”

As if she needs to tell me.

Still, I don't know this woman, Brooke Schyler, at all. Maybe I'll try Lisette one more time. But, of course, her voice mail answers.

“Hey, this is Lisette. Leave a message at the sound of the . . . beeeeep.”

Right.

“Hey, Zette, it's Beans. I left you a text. But, well, I had the weirdest day, so, well, and some other stuff. Anyway, just wanted to call and say hi and ask you something if you have a chance. So, call me back when you get this, okay?”

I stare at the note from Frankie Sky again—
Frankie play with me
—and before I can think better of it, quickly dial the number Mrs. Schyler gave me. The phone rings immediately, sending butterflies flitting wildly through my stomach. It rings five more times, but nobody answers, not even a machine.

I hang up, make a sandwich, and sit at the table. When I'm done, I call again.

It rings a few times, then a voice answers.

“Hello?”

“Frankie?”

“This is Frankie Sky. Who that?”

I smile. “This is Frankie, too. Francesca, Francesca Schnell, remember? From the pool?”

“Frankie Snell! Yes, I remember!” He giggles. “I dived for you, Frankie Snell!”

“You did. You need to be careful . . .” I stop because I can hear it, how much I sound like my mother. “First you need to learn to swim, I mean, that's all. Then you can dive in the water.”

“I swimmed!” he says defiantly. “I swimmed and I dived!”

I can't help it and giggle, despite my nerves. “Okay, Frankie, you did. You dove and you swam. But maybe someone can help you work on your swimming a little.”

“Frankie Snell come and teach me?”

Me, teach swimming? Now there's a cosmic joke if I ever heard one.

“Maybe not me, but I'll watch you, okay? Anyway, Frankie, is your mom there?”

“Yep, she here. She asleep.” I glance at the clock. It's two in the afternoon.

“Asleep?”

“Yeah. On the couch.”

“Is she sick?”

“I don't wake her,” he says.

“Well good, don't wake her if she's sick.”

“She not sick. She tired.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Well, can you tell her I called?”

“When I'm done flying,” he says.

“Okay, thanks.” I start to hang up, then press the phone back to my ear. “Wait, Frankie, what? What did you say you are doing?”

“Frankie is flying,” he says.

My stomach twists. I'm afraid to ask more, but I do. “Flying where? How are you flying, Frankie?”

“From my big tree in the backyard. Frankie can fly from there.”

“No, Frankie, you hear me? You can't do that alone! Okay? Don't do that alone!” I'm too loud, frantic, like I'm yelling. He makes a whimpering sound on the other end. “Frankie, I'm not mad.”

Quiet.

“Frankie?”

“Yep.”

“I'm really not mad, I promise. I just don't want you to get hurt. And you can't practice flying alone. You need help for that kind of thing. Like diving. Those things need someone bigger to help. So, no climbing trees and no diving. Okay?”

“No flying,” he says, “right?”

“Right,” I say, relieved. “Okay, good.”

“And no diving. And no climbing trees.”

“Exactly! Perfect.” I feel better, like maybe I've actually done something good. Because, seriously, where is this boy's mother? He seems constantly left on his own. I think of Mr. Habberstaad saying, Do us all a favor . . . before that child gets himself killed.

“Frankie, you still there?”

“Yep.”

“Is your mom still sleeping?”

“Yep.” I hear him moving, breathing on the other end. Things rustling. Then he says, “Sometimes she sleeps very long.”

“Really? Do you want me to come over?”

“Yep,” he says, “want you to. Want Frankie Snell to come play.”

I smile. “Okay, Frankie. I'll come over now. Do you know your address? Where you live?”

“Yep. Sycamore Street. Frankie Sky lives on Sycamore Street.”

“Oh good! I know Sycamore. It's not too far from here.”

“Nope. Not too far. Frankie Snell will come!”

I smile more. “What number, Frankie?”

“I lives at number two. Number two Sycamore Street, Hamlet Dunes, New York. Frankie Snell come here to play with me.”

“Okay, I'm coming, Frankie. No flying till I get there, you promise?”

“No flying. I promise. No flying until you come.”

As I'm about to knock on the Schylers' front door, it opens.

Frankie stands there in blue Batman underpants and a Superman T-shirt with a red towel wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. For a second I'm shaken because his face is more my brother's than I remember. But then he smiles and it makes me feel happy inside, as if a piece of Simon is right here in front of me.

I'm about to tell him he shouldn't open the door for strangers, but he says, “Is okay, Frankie, I seed you from the window.” Then he pulls me in and quickly closes the door. Like he's afraid that, otherwise, I might leave.

Outside, the house is fancy and nice, like there's a crew of gardeners that landscape and take care of things, and inside, it's also nice, fancy-ish, but worn-down and messy, too, as if it's not been straightened in weeks. There's clothing everywhere, and towels and shoes. In laundry baskets. Strewn over the two large floral chairs and glossy banisters. All over the thickly carpeted floor. Not to mention toys and piles of magazines and such. People. Entertainment Weekly. And Martha Stewart Living.

Frankie pulls me to a couch across which Mrs. Schyler is sprawled, facedown, in a pair of very short jean shorts and a red polka dot halter top. One arm dangles off the side, a big, glittery ring sparkling from a finger. Her purse and the strappy red high-heeled shoes she had on the day I met her are next to the couch, as if she'd just come in—or was about to go out—when she realized she was too tired to make another move.

Frankie watches me study her. “See? I told you she was sleeping.”

“You did.” I pat his head and walk cautiously toward the sofa, but am stopped by a toy-sized Tonka-truck of a dog, black and white with pointy ears, that barrels at me from nowhere at full speed, yipping ferociously.

“No, Potato! Shhhhh! Stop! Dumb! I thoughted you were outside!” Frankie dives, nearly crushing the dog, losing his cape-towel in the process. The poor little thing lies captured, but wags his tail. Frankie scoops him up and stands with effort, the dog cradled awkwardly in his arms. “This is Potato,” he says. “Go ahead and pet him. He won't bite you, really.”

I scratch the dog between his ears, which he seems to like. “Potato's a good name. Did you pick it?” I ask quietly, even though noise clearly isn't waking Mrs. Schyler.

Frankie nods, squeezes the dog up to his face, and blows on its belly, making a raspberry sound. The animal yelps now and twists free, dropping to the floor and scampering up onto the couch where Mrs. Schyler sleeps. He circles about ten times before settling between her legs. She stirs a little, but just barely. In front of her on the coffee table I notice an empty wine bottle and half-filled (or half-empty) glass of pale yellow liquid.

“Yep,” Frankie says, tugging at me, “I said I did named him with the really good name of Potato.”

“It is good, Frankie,” I say, laughing.

The dog puts his head down and closes his eyes. Mrs. Schyler doesn't stir any further. Within seconds, their breaths move in unison, a light snore coming from either Mrs. Schyler or the dog.

“Well, they are both asleeped now,” Frankie says.

He takes my hand and starts to pull me through the room, past a baby grand piano and a long ornate end table with carvings of cranes, or maybe herons. The table is covered with framed photographs. I stop to look at them.

In the largest photo, a handsome man in an army uniform with lots of medals pinned to it holds a tiny, blanket-wrapped baby I assume is Frankie. In another, the same man in the same uniform, only fancier now with a white cap and gloves, stands next to Mrs. Schyler in a wedding gown. She looks happy and perfect, like she belongs on the cover of a magazine.

“That is my daddy,” Frankie says, “but he isn't here anymore.”

“No?” I put my hand on his head full of blond curls. “What happened to him, Frankie?”

“He gotted killed in his truck in Iraq.”

“Oh, that's so sad. I'm sorry.”

“Is okay,” he says. “He still loves me, but I don't get to seed him anymore.”

“I get it, Frankie. I do.” I kneel in front of him. “I have a brother who died, too. Now I don't get to see him, either.”

He puts his hands on my cheeks and looks into my eyes. “Yeah, I knowed that already,” he says. “Now can we go outside and fly?”

As he zooms through the kitchen, I feel light-headed. I need to ask what he meant, but he's moving too fast to answer my questions anyway.

“Frankie,” I try as he slips out the back door that leads to a large deck with a sprawling backyard below, “what do you mean you know about Simon?”

“Who?” But then he whirls away and shouts, “Hey! Not again, Tato!” because the dog has rushed out through the closing screen door and darts between Frankie's legs, nearly knocking him to the ground.

“But you said—”

“I said stop, Potato! You stop!” And that's utterly hopeless, too, because the dog is already down the stairs and tearing across the grass like a maniac, Frankie racing behind him.

I stare, my brain trying to puzzle the pieces together. How could Frankie know about Simon? Nobody would tell a toddler a sad thing like that. Probably I'm just reading into things, so I try to shrug it off as I chase down the stairs after them.

The Schylers' yard is seriously huge. A rolling green hillside ends in a flat open stretch big enough to be a small baseball field. To one tree-lined side is a huge wooden jungle gym with bridges, a swing set, two slides, and a fort at the top with a blue and yellow canvas roof. Opposite that is a rose garden with trellises and pathways and a big pond with a waterfall rushing down. The kid could hurt himself any number of places here.

“There are big fat fishes inside that pond!” Frankie points out when I catch up, then takes my hand and pulls me right back up the hillside with him.

Here, at the top, a tire swing hangs from a giant old tree. Parked next to that is a kid-sized ride-on electric tractor, still with its key in the ignition. More injuries waiting to happen.

“Wow, you've got a lot of cool big-boy things here,” I say, thinking of Mr. Habberstaad's words again.

“Yep.” He lets go of my hand and races down the hillside, then back up, Potato charging after him, nearly tripping him with every step. At the top, panting, he climbs up on the tire swing and yells, “Push me, Frankie Snell!” and I do, Potato barking and jumping beneath him.

When he slows down a bit, I kick off my flip-flops, letting my toes sink into the cool, soft grass, and grab hold of two ropes of the swing. I walk backward, pulling it in a widening arc, then after several go-rounds let go. It swings out in dizzying circles over the hillside. Frankie squeals with delight, so when it slows, I do it again, letting it fly out in wider and wider rings. When I run out of steam and it finally slows to a near-halt, Frankie stands up and, using the ropes, pulls himself toward the branch above his head.

“Frankie, don't do that,” I say.

“Is good,” he says. “I does it all the time.”

He works hard, straddling, pulling, twisting, and grunting, until he's hauled himself onto the branch, then stands on it, using the one above it for support. He looks down at me through the branches like Tarzan, a goofy, satisfied grin on his face.

“Seriously, Frankie, you're freaking me out. Get down.”

“Is okay, really,” he says. “I always do this up here.”

“Really? You're like a monkey, you know that? So, how old are you, anyway?”

“Four. I just turned four the other week.” My pulse quickens. Simon died in mid-June, right after his own fourth birthday. Which means Frankie is the same age as Simon was. “That is big, right?” he's asking. “Four is a really big age?”

I look at him peering down at me and try to keep my mind steady, instead of flitting to crazy places. “Yes, four is very big. But not big enough to fly, Frankie. You need to come down now. Please.” I twist toward the house, to the Schyler's back door. “Hey, who takes care of you here, anyway? When your mom isn't feeling well, I mean?”

“She is feeling well,” he says. “She is just sleepy and tired.”

“Okay, who takes care of you when she's sleeping?”

“Frankie Snell does,” he says, and smiles. I can't help it, I smile back at him. “And Grandpa Harris, too. Grandpa Harris takes care of me.”

“Oh yeah? Does your grandpa live near here?”

He shrugs. “He comes to play with me, but lots of times he has work to do. And he buys me lots of toys. He buyed me my yellow tractor.”

My eyes go to the tractor parked next to the tree. Those ride-on things are expensive. I wonder what else Frankie's grandpa paid for around here, especially since Mrs. Schyler doesn't seem to have much of a job.

“What about your grandma?” I ask.

“Don't gotted one of those.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“Is okay. I don't need a grandma because I love Grandpa Harris lots and lots, even if he can't fix me, either.” He lifts his feet so that he's hanging by only his hands.

“Frankie, do not do that!” I yell, my heart banging so frantically it hurts. He laughs but puts his feet down.

“Frankie is ready to fly now, Frankie Snell. You said you will teach me.”

“Wait. Seriously, Frankie. I meant we would play. You can play-fly. You can't really fly, only pretend. You need to get down now. And, anyway, fix you from what?”

But he doesn't answer because he's let go of the branch, and his body is now hurtling through the air.

I stand helplessly transfixed as he sails, arms outstretched like a bird.

He stays airborne longer than I expect, and for one split second I have the ridiculous thought that maybe he can actually fly. But then he crashes to the ground and goes rolling down the hillside, finally stopping in a fetal position near the bottom.

“Frankie!” Potato and I chase after him, the dog's stubby tail wagging as if he thinks it's a game. When he reaches Frankie, he jumps on him, but Frankie doesn't move. Potato backs off, pawing gently at him, whimpering. Terror seizes my chest. How could I come here and let this happen? Potato nudges him with his nose, tail down, then looks at me as if to say, I think you'd better do something.

I kneel down next to him. His eyes are open. He makes them bigger and lets out a laugh. “Ow, that hurted,” he says, trying to sit up, but Potato pounces on him, knocks him down again. “Stop it, Potato! Stop. It! Did you see how far I flied, Frankie Snell? Not pretend! Real! I flied really, really far!”

Despite myself, I laugh. Potato starts licking me now. Frankie, then me, then Frankie again.

“Ew, quit it, Potato. No licking!” Frankie shoves the dog away and stands, leaning into me for protection. He bends his arm up for inspection, and I can see now that his elbow is bleeding. Other than that, he looks like he's okay.

“Frankie, seriously, you scared me. It's not funny.You can't do stuff like that anymore. You could've gotten seriously hurt.”

“Is funny, and Frankie Sky never gets hurt.” He inspects the scrape some more and blows on it.

“Well, what's that, then?” I say. “You're bleeding. That seems kind of hurt to me. And it could have been worse. I'm not kidding.” My voice is shaking now, the humor lost as the whole day catches up to me. I'm in way over my head. “You can't just dive into pools and fly out of trees like you're Superman. Do you understand? Not if you want me to come play with you. I mean it, Frankie. I'm serious. Okay?”

He looks at me, his lower lip quivering. “Okay,” he says. “I want you to. I want you to stay and play. But you said you would teach me to fly.”

“I know, Frankie, I know. I told you I'd help. But I meant from . . .” I turn and search around the yard. “Like, from the slide. Not from a freaking tree. That's too high up. And you can't really fly.” I sound mad, and his eyes fill with tears, his whole mouth collapsing in a frown. I feel bad that I'm making him sad, but I'm not about to have him killed on my watch. “Besides,” I say, trying to soften things, “I wasn't ready yet. You needed to give me a warning.” I take his hand and start toward the house. “I'm glad you're okay, but you can't do that anymore. Come on now. We'll go inside and wash that off and find you a Band-Aid.”

He's quiet as we trudge up the hillside, and I'm grateful for it. The kid is unnerving me. Maybe I should just go home. Maybe I bit off more than I can chew.

“Okay,” he finally says when we've reached the steps to the deck. “But I did told you. I said I was ready to fly, and I can fly, because Grandpa Harris tolded me so. He says Frankie Sky is an angel, so I don't need to worry about my boo-boo or dying or anything. And angels can fly, because angels always fly, so, see?”

I turn and stare at him. I have no idea anymore what he's talking about. “What boo-boo, Frankie? And why would you worry about . . . ?” But I stop. Because we've reached the back door, and when I open it, Mrs. Schyler is standing right in front of me in the kitchen.

At the sink, upright, washing dishes.

As if she's been there all along.