The Summer of Letting Go

by Gae Polisner

  Lisette pulls me up, pushes an errant strand of hair from my face, and loops it behind my ear. “Come on, girly,” she says. “I have faith in you.”

  fifteen

  As Lisette wades into the water, my legs turn leaden. I will them to push forward, but there’s only so much I can do.

  Lisette stops waist-deep and turns back. I nod her on, stepping sideways over the small swells that flop harmlessly in, leaving their foamy surf on the shore. Still, Lisette waits. “Go ahead!” I yell. “I’m not coming in!”

  I dig my toes in the sand and fold my arms across my chest. Whatever I thought I could do, swimming in after Lisette I cannot. Truthfully, I can hardly bear it as she swims out, disappearing under each new wave, the water closing up, filling the void where her body just was, leaving nothing but empty horizon.

  Each time, after a few breathtaking seconds, she resurfaces, shouting happily, and everything is okay. But first, my heart free-falls in panic mode.

  • • •

  “On shore . . . Yes, ma’am . . . down by the Neck, on the shore.” The officer’s voice drifts up to me where I sit at the top of the stairs.

  He’s talking about Simon’s body.

  I had run to get Mom, told her about the officer, and she had put on her bathrobe and come down to let him in. She was groggy, her hair a mess, but she didn’t seem to care.

  The officer was polite, apologized for interrupting, stood stiffly in the foyer.

  There was a yellow envelope clutched in his hand. I knew the photograph was in there. We walked to the kitchen, and he put the envelope on the table. “You’d best have a seat, ma’am,” he’d said.

  “Francesca, go to your room.”

  Mom sat, and the officer sat, but I didn’t want to go to my room. I wanted to crawl into Mom’s lap and stay there with her. I wanted to see the photograph. I wanted to see Simon. To see proof he was there. Anything was better than going upstairs alone to imagine him chewed up by sea monsters and sharks.

  If Dad had been home, he would have held me, but Mom didn’t look at me anymore.

  I’d climbed the stairs and sat, listening to the man’s hushed voice, mumbles that floated up to me in broken, sorrowful bits.

  “Yes, yesterday afternoon . . . No, no, right there, down on the Neck . . . One of my officers found the body.”

  Now the sound of Mom’s choked tears and, “Not my baby . . . not my baby . . .”

  I listen to her hiccups and wails until it finally turns quiet again. The chairs scrape the floor, and I hear her thank him and close and lock the door.

  • • •

  “Francesca! Francesca!”

  For a second I’m lost in the cold sweat of memories, but someone is calling me. I turn in the direction of the voice. The landscape has changed; I’ve wandered much farther than I realized.

  Up near the dunes, Mrs. Schyler is waving enthusiastically. Next to her is Frankie Sky.

  “I thought that was you!” she says as I veer up toward her. I feel off balance. The summer air seems to swim all around me.

  I focus not on Mrs. Schyler, but on Frankie Sky, who drives a yellow Tonka truck in the sand.

  “What are you guys doing here?” I drop to my knees next to Frankie.

  “Beep, beep!” He backs the bulldozer onto my leg before plowing it forward to scoop more sand from a nice little hole he’s got going.

  “This right here is only our favorite spot in the whole wide world, right, Frankie? We practically live here in the summer, when we’re not stuck at Grandpa Harris’s stuffy old club.”

  “Right!” Frankie answers. “When we’re not stuffed at the club.”

  Mrs. Schyler laughs. “Frankie sure loves the water. Well, look at me telling you things you already know. That’s half the reason we found you, isn’t it?” She winks when she says this last part, making me wonder vaguely what the other half of the reason is. “I try to be a good mother, spend the days with him when I can . . . When I have the right kind of energy for the job.” She looks at the water and sighs. “I used to have a lot more energy.”

  “She needs lots of energy because I am a water rat!” Frankie says proudly.

  Mrs. Schyler looks at him. “You, my love, are a Tasmanian devil. Anyway, we were about to have a snack. Would you like to join us, Francesca?” She unzips a cooler and takes out a juice box and a bag of pretzels, revealing a narrow green bottle underneath. The label has a pretty drawing of a black swan. Her eyes dart to mine, then away.

  She rips open the pretzel bag and several brown knots go flying onto the sand. “Is okay, right?” Frankie says quickly, his eyes searching his mother’s to make sure. “Because we have much more pretzels than we need.” Frankie pushes the truck through the sand, using the digger to scoop the fallen pieces. “In the summer, we come here lots of days,” he says, “even before I was born. Lots and lots of days. Because I liked to come here even when I was still in Mommy’s tummy. Then I would kick so hard to come out so I could meet my daddy and swim.” He looks at Mrs. Schyler for approval.

  “It’s true. He loves that story.” She pushes a pretzel closer to Frankie with her toe. He scoops it and drops it into the hole. “How, when my due date got close, I’d come here and walk and walk and walk, trying to make Frankie drop down.”

  “Really?” I ask, confused.

  “Not literally drop down, but into the birth canal, you understand? I was huge by then, and a few days overdue, and he would go crazy the minute we reached the salt air. As if he could feel it from all the way inside here.” She pats her stomach, and Frankie nods in agreement. “You could see him, like some strange alien, poking his elbows and knees out everywhere, big lumps protruding from my belly.” She’s smiling, but her voice turns sad. “Of course, his daddy was home on leave, and, boy, how my lumpy belly would keep him entertained.”

  Frankie drives his truck up onto my leg and parks it there. “Because they letted him come home to see me get born, right, Mama? Out on special distance station.”

  “Dispensation.” Mrs. Schyler laughs. “Not distance station, Frankie. Anyway, yes, right.”

  “And so my daddy was here, and I liked how we all comed here to swim. Right on the day I was born! And both of you swimmed, and I was still in your belly, so I swimmed, too, so the water would help rush me out to my daddy before he had to go back to his work. And it did, right? Because that was the night I was born!” Frankie throws his arms in the air in a big finish.

  Mrs. Schyler says, “I swear, Francesca, he always remembers the details. He must really love the whole idea,” but I’m barely listening anymore, because I’m stuck on what Frankie said, about being on this beach, in this water, on the same exact day he was born. Which must have been right around the same time Simon died.

  Was Frankie born the day that Simon died? Were they both in the water together?

  Transmigrate. To be reborn at death in another body.

  Did Simon’s soul jump? Is his soul inside Frankie Sky?

  Has Simon somehow come back to me?

  I stand up, my whole body shaking, and mumble that I have to go, that I forgot that my friends were waiting and that I’ll see them Monday morning. Then I start walking as fast as I can, away from all of it, back toward Lisette, where it’s safe.

  Except that nothing feels safe anymore.

  sixteen

  “Beans, where’d you go? You scared me half to death.”

  Lisette’s combing her hair on the blanket, not looking all that scared. I drop down next to her. The walk back has calmed me a little, too, so at least my mind isn’t spiraling out of control.

  I couldn’t have been gone that long. Lisette’s hair is still wet from the ocean, and Alex and Jared are still skimboarding in the surf.

  She rakes the comb through the salt-encrusted knots. I take it from her and work at the hard-to-reach spots in back.

  “Sorry,” I say, trying to decide what information to impart. “I just went for a walk and lost track. Went farther
than I meant to.”

  I don’t know why I don’t tell her about Mrs. Schyler and Frankie Sky. It’s right there on my tongue, but then I keep it curled up instead. Maybe I just don’t want her to think I’m too weird—or worse, that I’m losing it, like my mother.

  Lisette takes the comb from me and puts some shine conditioner in her hair. We sit for a while in silence, watching Alex and Jared crash in on their boards at the shore.

  “So what do you think of Alex’s bubblehead friend?” Lisette asks finally, nodding toward the surf.

  “He’s okay.” I scrape at the sand with a shell. “I’m not really one to say.”

  “Cut it out, Beans,” she says. “And, by the way, my boyfriend says you’re cute, so you don’t have to just take my word for it.”

  I lift my eyes, surprised, and open my mouth to ask, but she says, “What? I keep telling you that, Frankie, you just won’t believe me.” She squeezes my bare arm, and I gently move it away, hoping she doesn’t feel the goose bumps that appeared at the thought of what Bradley said.

  For a few minutes, I don’t say anything or ask anything else. Because at this moment, everything feels normal between us. I soak it all in and let it wash over me, along with what Bradley said, while the sun bakes down warm and happy and cooks all the harder questions away.

  • • •

  By late afternoon, we’re starving and decide to drive to a local seafood shack to get some burgers and fried clams, agreeing we’ll head back to the beach after to see if we can catch some early fireworks. The Fourth isn’t until tomorrow, but there’s usually stuff going off all weekend.

  I call Mom to tell her we’re having dinner at the mall and going to a movie with Alex and his friend after. She doesn’t question me, even though I don’t know the last time I went out like this for hours on end. Maybe she trusts Lisette and Alex, or maybe these are the freedoms that come with being almost sixteen.

  Or maybe she doesn’t care where I am.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask, mostly as an afterthought as she’s about to hang up the phone.

  “Not sure.” She pauses as if she’s just now considered it herself. “He went out to run errands a few hours ago. I guess he hasn’t come back yet.” It’s Saturday evening, and Dad’s out running errands? My mind goes to Mrs. Merrill’s driveway. I wonder if her car is parked there.

  “Okay, then,” I say. “Have a good night. I love you.”

  “Okay, Francesca.” The phone clicks, and she’s gone.

  • • •

  By the time we get back to the beach, the sky is a deep plum and the air has begun to erupt with the whiz and pop of early fireworks. Alex drops us at the steps to the dunes, says he and Jared will be back in a few, and returns twenty minutes later with two shopping bags full of soda, cookies, and a six-pack of beer.

  Alex is almost legal and usually pretty responsible, and there’s only the one six-pack, so I don’t really worry about it. What surprises me, though, is that he takes the first one out, pops the cap off, takes a swig, and then holds it out to Lisette.

  “You know the deal, two sips and that’s all. Dad would kill me if he found out.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” She salutes him and takes a long sip, then hands the bottle to me. I stare for a second, then close my fingers around it. It’s freezing cold in my hands. I have never had a sip of alcohol in my life and didn’t know Lisette had, either. I give her a look like she’s gone mad, but she nods to let me know I should go ahead and try. I take a sip and force it down. It tastes awful, like shoe leather with lime, and I wince as its cold trail winds its way down my throat. Lisette laughs and takes the bottle back.

  “Look at you, Beans! You’re a pro now.” She takes a second sip and another really long third. Alex gives her a stern look, and she says, “Okay, okay, last one, I swear,” making bug eyes at him as she takes one last swig. She hands the bottle back to me, almost empty, and Alex gives up and opens himself another.

  This time, I take a slow, careful sip, then finish what’s left.

  “Not bad, right?” Lisette asks, getting up. She walks back toward the bags, and I smile, giddy and rosy-cheeked, because already, after those few sips, a nice heady warmth has washed over me. “Oh my God, you rock, Alex!” she shouts, heading back toward us. For a second, I’m worried she has another beer, but then I see two narrow boxes in her hand. “Where on earth did you get these?”

  “I have my sources,” Alex says.

  She turns and waves them at me. Old-fashioned sparkler sticks. Lisette and I both love sparklers, although I haven’t touched one in years. I have so many memories of being in Lisette’s backyard, twirling with sparklers like they’re mini batons, and writing our names in script in the air, the sparks trailing their neon glow in the darkness.

  Lisette drops to her knees, lights two, and hands one to me. The tip flames and sputters and sends electric-white bits flying everywhere.

  “Careful, come on!” she says, breathless. “Our names in double-script, remember?” And of course I do, so we wave them like that, in tall, wild curlicues going in opposite directions from the middle out. She spells out Lisette Annabelle Sutter and I write Francesca Mia Schnell magically across the black sky. “God, I love these things,” she says, dropping to pull out two more. We run to the water’s edge with them, white light fairies dispersing in the air behind us. When they’re nearly out, we stand and watch the red-orange ends burn down.

  “What does it feel like, Zette, seriously,” I ask, letting the last little ember singe the tips of my fingers, “to kiss a guy that way?”

  She looks out over the water, her face illuminated by moonlight, and holds her burnt-out sparkler in front of her.

  “Like this, Beans. It feels just like this. All electric and sparkly. Like your entire heart is on fire. And when it’s over, you can’t wait to do it again.” And though I promised not to be, I’m filled with envy. “Soon enough, it will be you, too, I just know it,” she says. “Hey, I have an idea! Come on!”

  She pulls me up the beach to our stash. “This time, let’s write our wishes in the air. Anything you want. The name of who you love, or want to kiss, or it doesn’t even have to be about a boy. Anything you want to come true, okay?”

  I’m still light-headed and agreeable, whether from the beer or the day in the sun, I don’t know, but I happily go along. Maybe because there’s a part of me that’s actually starting to believe in things I didn’t before, at least in some minuscule, incalculable way. I mean, I’m standing here on the beach, at the ocean, and that alone feels like a magical thing.

  With the first stick I write, Give me answers about Simon and Frankie, but decide that’s stupid and morbid and melodramatic, so I write, Let a cute guy ask me out. After that, I write, Let my dad NOT be in love with Mrs. Merrill and with the next one, Let me look like Lisette, three whole times before the sparkler burns all the way down. And with my last stick, my head abuzz with beer and sea air and sparklers, I scribble the outline of a huge heart and write, Let me kiss Bradley Stephenson before summer is over.

  I stop spinning. My face prickles hot and panicked in the dark. I scribble my burnt-out sparkler over where I can almost still see the words linger. I turn to Lisette, horrified, but she’s oblivious, dashing off her own sparkler wishes in the air.

  When her last one dies out, she says, “Not yet, Beans, okay? I’m so not ready to go,” so we sit side by side again, watching the waves lap up on the dark shore.

  Lisette rests her head on my shoulder, and I stare off, feeling quiet and tired as the effects of the beer wear away. In the distance, an occasional firework explodes and rains down in a shimmer of green, red, and purple. Beyond us, the ocean is gentle and calm, defying me to believe that it took my baby brother.

  Finally, I tap Lisette’s arm. “We’d better go,” I say. We hunt down Alex and Jared, gather our stuff, and head back to the car. On the way over the dunes, Lisette leans into me and says, “So, Beans, what did you sparkler-wish for?”
And for the third or fourth time in a few short days, I lie.

  seventeen

  Monday morning, eight forty-five. I drag my old bike from the back of the garage and bike the short distance to Frankie’s house. I lean it against the garage, walk up the steps, and ring the bell. I try to stay calm and focused, but I’m nervous, plus, all I keep thinking about is asking Frankie Sky when his birthday is.

  Potato barks and there are rapid footsteps, then Mrs. Schyler’s voice, muffled, as she yanks open the door. She’s dressed in a black cap-sleeved dress, half-zipped, with white roses printed on it. She has one black pump on her foot, the other in her hand, and a black straw hat on her head. Her cell phone is pressed to her ear, and the dog is scooped under her arm like a pile of laundry.

  “Oh, hey, Mrs. Schyler, am I early?”

  “No, no, not at all, and it’s Brooke, remember? No, you’re not early, I’m running late. So sorry.” She closes the door behind me, lets Potato down, and slips the other shoe on her foot. “I’m so very glad that you’re here. You have no idea.” She rushes toward the kitchen, still talking, but to me now, I think, not to whoever was on the phone a second ago.

  “A dear friend of my father’s has died unexpectedly. And, of course, I’ve only just heard about it this morning. My father, Frankie’s Grandpa Harris, is always trying to spare me things. At any rate . . .” But she’s lost her thoughts, rifling inside kitchen cabinets.

  I look around for Frankie, but he’s not here. Maybe he’s still sleeping.

  “Anyway, I’ve known the man all my life, and his poor wife, and well, he was like an uncle to me. It’s too, too sad, and I simply cannot have my father go alone. Trust me, people can drop on you left and right like flies, and you still never get used to it. He’s pretty broken up, as you can imagine.” She stops at the sink and pulls out a bottle of Advil. “Sit, sweetie,” she says.