The Summer of Letting Go (6 page)

“Hello,” she says, like it's no big surprise to see me. Still, I'm panicked wondering if she was watching, if she saw Frankie plummet from the tree. If she did, she doesn't let on. She's not concerned. She doesn't even turn to look at me.

She wears yellow rubber gloves in her short shorts and halter top and scrubs at a pan, normal as daylight, as if she weren't just comatose a mere half hour ago.

“Hello,” I say. “I hope it's okay that I came here.”

She turns and smiles now. Her face is so pretty with her blond curls pressed back in a headband. She looks younger than I remembered.

“It's Francesca, right?” she says. Even though she's smiling, I get butterflies. I've never just shown up in someone's house without permission before.

“Yes. I called, but then Frankie answered and . . .” I stop. What am I going to say? But then Frankie answered and you were drunk and he told me he was trying to fly? So I came here to stop him, so he didn't break his neck while you were sleeping? Besides, I was barely successful in thwarting that disaster, so what was the point, anyway? “Oh, and he kind of hurt his arm a little, I think.” I nod at Frankie to show her, and he holds his elbow up. “He fell from the tree,” I whisper.

She laughs a little, shuts off the faucet, pulls off a glove, and ruffles his hair. “Of course he did,” she says.

“I flied, not fell,” Frankie says. He twists his arm and inspects it. The bleeding has stopped. It's really not a bad scrape at all. “I barely gotted hurt,” he adds.

“Right. What else is new?” Mrs. Schyler takes my arm and guides me toward the table. “Come, sit, sweetheart,” she says. “I'm thrilled you came. Would you like anything? A grilled cheese? Some lemonade? You're a skinny thing, you know. Pretty like a flower. But skinny like a reed.”

“No, thank you. I ate before I got here.” I blush. No one has ever compared me to a flower before.

The table is the kind with a built-in bench on one side and chairs on the other. Frankie slides in on the bench side in front of the window, and I sit opposite him in a chair. Mrs. Schyler slips in next to Frankie, and Potato darts under the table and lies down by Frankie's feet. Mrs. Schyler touches Frankie's cheek, says, “Oops, I forgot a Band-Aid,” and slips back out again. She disappears, returning a minute later with a Band-Aid with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle on it.

“Don't like the turtle ones,” Frankie says.

“I know,” Mrs. Schyler sighs. “But I couldn't find a frog one, I told you that. It's only a Band-Aid. Just wear it.”

“But the frogs make me better faster, right, Frankie?”

Mrs. Schyler looks at him, then me, bewildered.

“Francesca is my real name,” I clarify, trying not to obsess on Frankie's frog thing, “but most people call me Frankie. It's a nickname for Francesca.”

“Well, of course, I remember that now, but it's a bit confusing, isn't it? Would you mind if I stick with Francesca?”

“No, sure, that's fine.”

“But Frankie is good because it's Frankie and Frankie!” Frankie says.

Mrs. Schyler laughs. “Well, then, welcome aboard, Frankie-Francesca. I assume this means you've taken me up on my offer. I'm sure a lovely girl like you is busy-busy in the summer, but . . . How old are you again?” She presses the turtle Band-Aid to Frankie's elbow, then looks at me, waiting for me to answer. Frankie immediately pulls the Band-Aid off. He frowns at it and sticks it under the table. I have to fight not to smile.

“Fifteen,” I say, keeping my eyes glued to Mrs. Schyler. “Almost sixteen. I turn sixteen the first week of September.”

“Well, of course you do, because almost-sixteen is the most perfect age for a girl. I almost remember it myself.” She laughs again, but this time in a sad way. “Anyway, I'd like to have you as much as humanly possible. A mother's helper kind of a thing, you know? Have you done this before?” I open my mouth to answer, but she's not waiting for one. “It's been a rough time around here, and Frankie's grandpa has been bugging me to do this for ages. As you've seen, Frankie isn't the easiest child, and, well, I'm afraid I'm a bit permissive. It's very hard . . . Anyway, he's a good boy, and it seemed like fate when he asked for you, so I figured I couldn't go wrong.” She turns to Frankie. “You asked specifically for Francesca, didn't you, my little angel?”

Frankie nods, but he's busy tapping on Potato with his foot, somewhat un-angel-like. I push away the thoughts about fate that are trying to worm their way into my brain.

Mrs. Schyler continues, oblivious. “So, as you've seen, he can be a bit of a handful. I'm not going to lie. Will ten dollars an hour do?”

My resolve to leave and never return melts like a Popsicle on a hot summer day. Because, seriously? Ten dollars an hour is good money.

“Yes, ma'am,” I say. “Sure, that'd be great.”

Mrs. Schyler chuckles. “Goodness, Francesca, that ma'am makes me sound like I'm a hundred years old. I may be battered and broken, but I hope I'm not that old.”

“No, no, not at all; you're beautiful,” I stammer, but she holds up a hand.

“No worries. How about you just call me Brooke. Would that be all right?” I nod. “And I assume Frankie has shown you around.” She pauses and turns to him. “Hey, now that I think of it, there may be some Kermit Band-Aids in the bathroom drawer. How about you go and check there? Do that for me, would you?”

Frankie pads off down the hall with Potato, and Mrs. Schyler pulls out the chair next to me and sits.

“I take it Frankie told you that there is no Mr. Schyler?” A flash of terrible sadness crosses her face, just for a moment, before she forces a smile again.

“Yes. He told me. I'm so, so sorry about that.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry about. At any rate, that's pretty much all you need to know, at least for now.” She thinks for a moment and laughs. “Well, there's plenty of other stuff you should probably know, but we can save that for another time. Is there anything we need to know about you?”

I freeze. How do I answer that? Well, nothing except that I was responsible for my own brother's death. He drowned while I was supposed to be watching him. Like you're asking me to do with Frankie Sky. I should get up and leave right now and never come back here again. What made me think I could be responsible for somebody's little boy?

Mrs. Schyler places her hand on my arm. “Children aren't responsible for themselves, Francesca, let alone anyone else. You know that already, don't you? For Pete's sake, eleven-year-olds are barely big enough to tie their own shoes. Now, almost sixteen, that's a different story. Almost-sixteen is a very responsible age. In any event, my Frankie likes you and trusts you, and that's all that matters to me.”

My breath catches. Because it's clear that she's talking specifically about me and my brother. But how does she seem to have the details of what happened, because nobody knows about that? Well, except Lisette. I'd told her the ugly truth.

Sure, plenty of people know about Simon's death. It was plastered all over the local papers at the time. And, of course, there's Mom's morbid Foundation, so it's not like people don't know that my baby brother drowned. But one thing my parents had done, and had done well, was protect me from the world knowing that I was the one responsible. In that one way my mother had looked out for me and spared me the public shame.

She may hate me, but she doesn't want other people to.

I know I look surprised, but Mrs. Schyler doesn't offer any explanation. She just squeezes my arm as Frankie returns waving a new Band-Aid.

“Is Big Bird only, not Kermit,” he says, ripping the wrapper off.

“Well, that's too bad. But we like Big Bird all right, yes?” Mrs. Schyler presses the new Band-Aid on, then walks back to the sink. She pulls the rubber gloves on and runs the water, as if to make it clear that this part of the conversation has been settled.

“No sense in keeping you anymore today,” she says. “I've got a second wind and plenty to do around here. And Frankie can help me, won't you, Frankie?” She pulls a plastic step stool out from under the cabinet. “How about we start you officially on Monday, Francesca? Is nine until three, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays okay? At least to start. We'll see how it goes from there.”

“Yes, sure,” I say, standing. I nearly trip over Potato, who now blankets one of my feet. He rolls onto his back, tail wagging, his dog lips sliding back into a definite doggish smile.

On the way home, I get a text from Lisette.

Bradley says he totally believes in reincarnation. Don't tell my dad. :\ He says look up transmigration. Not typing more here. That's between u guys. (Ok, fine, he explained it & I still don't understand. ;P If u want more info he said call him.) p.s. WHY r u asking again?!

By the time I reach our house, my heart's pounding, though I'm not sure it's at the thought of calling Bradley (which I will obviously never ever bring myself to do) or at his thinking that reincarnation exists.

I kiss Simon's frog and run inside. Mom and Dad still aren't home, which is good, but they probably will be soon.

In Dad's study, I drag out the huge beige Random House Dictionary of the English Language that looks like it dates back to the Dark Ages. I turn bricks of pages from B to G to L to R, until I reach S, then T, then TH, and finally TR. The pages are thin, so it's hard to turn them without ripping, but, finally, there it is. Under transmethylation and transmigrant.

trans·mi·grate

(trans mi'grat, tranz -)
v.
, -grated, -grating

-
v.i.
1.
to move or pass from one place to another in order to settle there.
2.
to migrate from one country to another.
3.
(of the soul) to be reborn at death in another body; metempsychosis.

To be reborn at death in another body.

I push the book away, lie back on the floor, and stare up at the faraway ceiling, my mind, for the millionth time in just a few days, turned to a frenzied mush of questions. Simon died four years ago, right around the time that Frankie was born. And Frankie looks like Simon. I mean, his eyes and his hair match my little brother's exactly. Not to mention they were both obsessed with frogs. And Frankie said he knew that Simon had died. How would he know that? Surely his mother wouldn't have told him?

Could it really just be a coincidence that I found myself at the Hamlet Dunes Country Club on the day of Frankie's dive? Or was it some sort of weird kismet at work that Mrs. Merrill lured me there? I mean, not that she lured me, exactly.

Still, it wasn't like me to sneak into places I didn't belong or tail people I didn't know. In fact, it was the opposite of me. I was the hider, the fader, the disappearer-into-the-woodwork. I was not the trespasser-into-places-I-don't-belong. Maybe whatever I thought was going on with my father was only intended to lead me to Frankie Sky.

The front door opens. Dad. I can tell from the heavy footsteps that it's him. Better him than my mother, but still. I sit up, close the dictionary, and heave it back up onto its shelf.

“Frankie? You home?”

“In here!” I jump up and fling myself into his desk chair and try to look casual. Dad stops in the doorway and gives me a quizzical look. He pales a little, and his eyes dart to his computer. What is he worried I've seen? Lucky for him, it's turned off.

He quickly smiles and says, “Whatcha doin' in here?” But it's too late to cover. I saw the guilty look on his face.

He walks over, stands behind me, and kisses the top of my head.

“Beans?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing in here? Did you need my help with something?” His voice stays cheerful, but edgy.

I stand up and pull Mrs. Schyler's note from my pocket, checking to make sure it's hers and not the one from Frankie Sky. I unfold it and hold it out to him.

“I got a mother's helper job today.” It's not exactly an answer to his question, but no way I'm offering more information, or trying to explain that I think Simon's soul may have transmigrated into Frankie Sky. If I did, he would only give me that look, the one that says we all need to keep healing and moving on. The one he gives Mom when he's worried she's so fragile she'll collapse or shatter into a million broken pieces.

“You did?”

“Did what?”

“Get a job.” He laughs. “You just said you got a job.” He wraps his strong arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “You seem a little distracted there, kid.”

He should talk. He's the one acting all weird lately.

“Oh. Right. Yeah. I did. For a woman named Mrs. Schyler. She hired me to watch her son, Frankie Sky. They live on Sycamore Street, so I can walk or bike there, no problem. I met her through Lisette,” I add quickly, hoping to avoid questions I can't answer about what I was doing at the club.

“Frankie Sky? Are you sure that's a real name?”

“Oh, ha, yeah. Well, no. It's Schyler, really, but the kid says Sky. He's four. Schyler is hard for him, so he shortens it to Sky.”

Simon is like the sky . . . But I force the thought away. I'm not dumb. I'm leaving out the lunatic details.

“Ah, cute.” Dad nudges me out of his space and sits at his desk. “Okay, I've got to catch up on some work. Let me have some peace here.” He turns his computer on, and, after a few seconds, his fingers start to move around the keyboard hunt-and-peck style. I stand at the front of his desk and watch him, but I can't read much from his face.

“Okay then.” I back away, my eyes returning to the bookshelf where I left the dictionary sticking out at an odd angle. Transmigrate. To be reborn at death in another body. I close my eyes, feeling overwhelmed by all the hard questions. About Simon. About Frankie. About Dad.

I could go upstairs and call Bradley and talk to him about it. I bet he'd understand. And, oh, how I want to, but I'd have to ask Lisette for his number, and even though she told me to call him, I'd feel wrong about it. As if I'd ever have the courage to call.

But he said that I should. Okay, maybe not should, but could.

What if he wants me to call?

At the door I stop again and watch my father, and it hits me. I need to quit acting stupid, just like I need him to stop acting stupid. I need to stop thinking about Bradley and things I shouldn't want. Maybe he will, too, and then things can go back to normal.

“You know, we have sugar,” I blurt.

“What?” His eyes dart up, annoyed, as if he doesn't know what I'm talking about. But I saw him flinch. I'm sure I saw him flinch.

“Sugar,” I say, standing my ground. “You said you were borrowing some. But we have plenty. A whole box, actually, in the cereal cabinet.”

He raises his eyebrows. I can't tell exactly what the look means, but I'm guessing it means I shouldn't keep pressing things.

“Huh. My bad, then,” he says, nodding me out of his room. “I thought I looked, but I guess I didn't look too well. I'm on overload these days.” He goes back to staring at whatever is on his computer.

I wait another second or two for him to change his mind and come clean to me, to promise me he won't do anything to hurt me or Mom or our family. But he just keeps looking at the screen.