The Summer of Letting Go (7 page)

Saturday.

All morning long, snaps and bottle caps pop like gunshots, making me jump in my skin. Or maybe I'm just jumpy anyway.

I call Lisette early, hoping I might still have a fighting chance for her attention.

“Hey, Zette, wanna go to the beach with me?” I say when she answers. There's dead silence on the other end.

I don't blame her. My question surprises me, too.

I don't know what possesses me. I'm feeling a bit reckless, maybe. Lisette and I both know I haven't been to the ocean since Simon died. I never wanted to go back, and Lisette was good enough not to push me. Despite her own sun-worshipper status, she's always worked around me, choosing her beach days when I wasn't available.

But for some reason, the urge has come over me. I laugh self-consciously and wait for her answer, which is understandably limited.

“Um, Beans?”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing. It's just that . . .”

“What? It's nice out.” I know I sound defensive, so I brighten my tone. “It just seems like a good day for the beach.”

“Yeah, sure, okay, but . . . are you sure?”

“Yes, Zette, sure.” I walk over and glance at myself in my closet mirror. “Well, pretty sure that I'm sure.”

She laughs a little. “Ohh-kay then.”

She waits, giving me time to change my mind, or maybe waiting for me to explain. But I can't explain why the urge has come over me. “What time?” I say, plowing forward.

“Noon?”

“Perfect. No plans with Bradley, then?” I quickly regret it. I'm not trying to make her feel bad, plus I know it just sounds like I'm jealous.

“No. He's away for the weekend with his family. At his cousins' at some lake. He says they always go there for the Fourth of July.”

“Oh, bummer. Well, sucks for you, but works for me.” I mean it, too. I miss Lisette, although part of me was maybe hoping that I'd get to see Bradley, too. Of course, the other part was terrified that I would. Anyway, except for the noise, I'd forgotten all about the holiday weekend. Or, at least the point. It's not like my family ever celebrates anymore. “I'm really glad you're around, Zette,” I say, pulling my focus back to our sudden plans. “Do you think Alex can give us a ride?”

“Yeah. I think he was actually planning to go anyway, with a friend.”

“Okay, cool. Call me back if he can't. Otherwise, see you here at noon.”

“Okay,” Lisette says, then there's silence again. Finally, “Beans, does your mother know?”

“I'm allowed to go to the beach, Lisette.”

“I know you are, but, well, are you?” And, she's right. I'm sure that I'm actually not. Which is to say, my mother would go ballistic. Or weepy. Or weepy and ballistic, both.

“No. Probably not. I'll tell her we're going to the mall.”

• • •

Downstairs, my mother and father are sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper, Dad with coffee and a bagel, Mom with her same old cup of tea.

“I'm going to the mall with Lisette. Alex will take us,” I say.

Mom nods, but Dad looks up, concern on his face. “Is everything okay, Beans?”

“Yes, sure.” I stare out the window, across to Mrs. Merrill's house. “How about with you?”

He raises an eyebrow at me, his eyes darting to Mom. He's right; I'm being a wise-ass. “Sure, with me. Beautiful Saturday out and I'm sitting here drinking coffee with your mom. What could be better? You going soon?”

“Yeah, noon.”

“Well, keep in touch. I may make a pit stop into the office for a bit this morning, some unfinished business with a closing. Been crazy at work, which is a good thing. But if I'm not here, your mother will be. So text if you're going to be late.”

“I will,” I say, my eyes laser-beamed to Mrs. Merrill's empty driveway. I don't say the other stuff I want to, about it being a Saturday and not a work day and all.

• • •

At noon, as promised, I hear Alex honking out front. I should feel worse for the lie, but I don't. We all seem to be lying around here. Plus, I'm happy to get out of the house, to get my mind off of things.

I take one last look in my mirror. I need to do this. What kind of teenager doesn't go to the beach? I make sure my bathing suit doesn't show under my clothes, then dash downstairs before Mom tries to talk to Lisette. I know Zette will cover for me, but I don't need her getting grilled by my mother. Not to mention, who knows what she might be wearing.

“I'm leaving. I'll check in later,” I call, and pull the door quickly closed behind me.

Mr. Sutter's prized 1995 Chrysler LeBaron GTC convertible idles at the curb in the sunshine, Alex in the driver's seat, top down, summer music blaring from the stereo. A college friend is next to him, and Lisette is in the backseat. She's dressed in a bikini top, like we're going to the beach.

I stand frozen on our stoop.

I told her I'd go to the beach.

Lisette waves, and Alex hits the horn again for good measure. “Come on, Frankie, put a move on!” So there's nothing to do but walk forward.

“Hey, Frankie!”

I reach the car. Lisette wears cut-off shorts and a bikini top, no T-shirt. Her chest barely fits in the cups. Either she got bigger or it shrunk. Good thing my mother didn't see her. She must register my concern, because she slouches down low in the car.

“Hey,” I say, standing there. I don't make any move to get in.

“Dude.” Alex punches his friend in the arm. The guy realizes, opens the door, and jumps out to let me in. He's tan, tall, blond. A total surfer look. I'd bet anything he's from California.

I slide silently in next to Lisette, slip off my flip-flops, and slouch down like she is, feet up. Her toenails are a perfect watermelon red. Mine are pale pink. I wish I'd picked a braver color.

Alex says, “All set back there?” and takes off without waiting for an answer.

And just like that, after four dry years, I am headed to the beach and the ocean.

• • •

As we weave our way through town and eventually onto the expressway, I relax a little. Alex blasts the radio and sings at the top of his lungs, some old song from the seventies: “Ooh, my little pretty one, my pretty one, when you gonna give me some time, Sharona? Ooh, you make my motor run, my motor run, Gun it coming off of the line, Sharona . . .” Soon Lisette joins in, and the surfer dude drums on the dashboard, and the noise and the music and the wind are all so happy and loud and crazy that they finally start to drown out my nerves.

I put my head back and close my eyes as we fly down the highway. It feels overwhelming, but in a good way, to be here like this with Lisette. In this car full of friends, barefooted, with the top down and the music blaring, our bodies drenched in sunshine, the wind whipping our hair in our faces. I can't remember the last time I felt so weightless and carefree.

Then Alex signals and shifts to the right lane and eases our way off the exit ramp.

The smell of salt air fills my nose.

My breath grows rapid and shallow. A wave of nausea blankets me.

I can feel the blood drain from my face.

“You okay, Beans?” Lisette whispers. She looks at me with concern, as if to say, What were you thinking?

I don't know, Zette. I don't know what I was thinking.

She reaches out and squeezes my hand as the car crawls across the small bridge that traverses the inlet and leads to the beach where my baby brother died.

I try to focus on the music, the sunshine, the breeze, but everything's grown quieter and heavy. Alex takes a ticket from the toll machine, and the gate lifts.

The lot is crowded. Alex drives in and out of rows looking for spots. He finally finds one and maneuvers the car in. He puts the hardtop up.

Everything moves in slow motion.

I slip my flip-flops on, a huge lump caught somewhere in my throat. I fidget with my bathing suit straps and try not to cry. Lisette watches me, worried. Alex's friend opens his door, oblivious, steps out, leaving it gaping wide open for me.

Lisette squeezes me again. “You okay, Beans?” I nod. “We don't have to go if you don't want to.”

“I'm okay,” I say, but I have no idea if it's true.

Alex and his friend—Jared, he called him Jared— unload the trunk of towels, a small cooler, skimboards, then head for the dunes, lugging it all with them.

I step out, close the door, and lean up against the warm metal, let it support me. Lisette gets out the other side, closes her door. Watches me. The day is blazing hot. Heat rises from the pavement in lot B.

Is that where we parked that day?

Lisette stands next to me, quiet, not forcing. Waiting to see what I'll do.

I lift my eyes, stare at the dunes, at the steps that cross over them, and begin to propel myself forward.

• • •

“We go to the water, Beans!” Simon grasps my fingers. He keeps tripping in his new sandals. I practically drag him up the steps, keeping him from the grasses and weeds that poke through the sides because I know there's poison ivy there.

“Slow down, Pie Man! We've got to wait for Mom and Dad.”

“No waiting, Beans! We makin' a castle. You said so!”

“The beach isn't going anywhere, Simon. If we don't wait up, Mom will get mad and yell. Do you want her to yell at us, Simon?”

But he doesn't listen. He just keeps running, tugging me impatiently with him.

• • •

“Beans, you okay?”

I blink and look up. I've stopped at the top of the wooden stairs that will take us over the dunes to the water. Lisette stands in front of me, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Because I can just tell Alex . . . I can tell him you need to go home.”

“No. Just walk.”

I stare at my feet and think of this photograph I once saw of grains of sand magnified under a microscope, each grain its own tiny but perfect full-blown shell. I try to picture this now, how, under my feet, a whole miniature world exists—pink coral shaped like antlers, translucent raindrop hearts, amber spirals, each grain a complete miracle, too small for the naked eye to see.

“How about here, Beans?” I lift my eyes to where Lisette stands, watching me.

I've made it to the beach. She holds the blanket out.

The ocean that claimed my brother is only a few measly yards away.

• • •

“Hello? Anyone here?” More soft knocking, then the doorbell rings.

I stand on tippy toes. I can see the policeman through the small peephole, the deep, official blue of his uniform.

The door is closed, which is why he rings, and why I only see him through the peephole.

For days, the door was open, people flooding in and out, carrying foil-covered platters like worker ants. Lasagna, casseroles, cellophaned trays of sprinkle cookies shaped like half-moons with coagulated red jam inside.

Then it got quiet again, and Mom went back to her bedroom, groggy on some sort of medicine. And Dad went back to work because he had to, because “We're still alive here, and someone has to make a living,” or at least that's what I heard him tell Mom the night before.

So now, when the doorbell rings, I'm the only one to answer it. I stare through the small circle at the officer. He leans closer, which distorts his face through the glass like a fun house mirror. The bell dings again, but I can't open it.

I can't open it.

He's holding an envelope in his hand.

• • •

“Beans, can you grab the corner?” Lisette's voice jolts me back. She's struggling to lay out the blanket.

I pull the corner nearest me down flat, helping her to smooth things. My motions are distant, robotic. I'm here, but I don't feel like me.

Still, I am here, doing this thing, smoothing down our blanket at the ocean on a hot summer day. It's something. At least it's something.

Lisette wriggles out of her shorts and squints up at me where I stand, wooden. “You did it, Beans,” she says, but her face is a question.

“I'm okay,” I whisper, but she knows, waits patiently as I breathe in the salt air. After a minute or so, I feel better, like the tiniest bit of calm has washed over me.

I sit on the blanket next to her, willing my body to relax into the warm give of the sand. Lisette reaches over, rubs my shoulder, then tugs at the straps of my bikini top, the one that belongs to her old green bikini.

“Hey, this looks familiar. A little small, maybe. You think? You could really use a new one.” I give her a look, like I know she's trying to cheer me up. “What? You look great, Beans. You don't give yourself enough credit. I'm sure I have a sexier one you can have.”

We lotion each other up and lie down. I close my eyes and feel the sun on my face, then turn my head to look at Lisette. She rolls on her side and smiles at me.

“So, what's up with you, anyway? You've been totally MIA. Don't make me beg for information.”

“Me? You! You're always with Bradley.” I stop because I know how jealous I sound. “And, really, nothing is going on. Well, not nothing, I guess, but nothing exciting.” I roll on my side to face her. “Well, except I did get a job.”

She sits up and stares at me. “A job, seriously? Doing what?”

“Mother's helper.” I swallow through the dread that hits me when I say the words aloud. The irony's too obvious even for me. “Three days a week. Ten dollars an hour to start.”

“Get out! That's amazing, Frankie. How did you swing that?”

And without knowing I'm going to, I tell her, let it all spill out about how I thought I saw Dad with Mrs. Merrill, and how I went to the club, and about Peter Pintero and Mr. Habberstaad. And, of course, about Frankie Sky, and how he looks like Simon, although I absolutely don't tell her the part where I think I was somehow destined to find him and how he may be my brother's reincarnation.