The Summer of Letting Go

by Gae Polisner

  Lisette would mind it more, but it’s coed, at least, which usually means a chance to scope out new boys. Of course, this summer she won’t need that since she already has the most amazing boyfriend in the world.

  Which is when the full impact hits me: She’s leaving Bradley for two weeks, too. I could have him all to myself if I wanted.

  But I don’t want that, right? Because that would be totally wrong.

  I delete her texts and send one back. Sorry. Been busy with Frankie. If I don’t see u before u go, have a great time! Lame, I know, but it’s the best I can manage right now.

  I hit send, rub a kiss on Simon’s frog, and head inside before I get any more crazy ideas about Bradley or do anything else stupid to get myself in trouble.

  Except that the minute I reach my room and see my green sneakers on my bed, I know that it’s already too late.

  thirty-three

  Not only are my sneakers on my bed, but Fisher Frog is gone.

  A folded piece of Mom’s stationery sticks up out of one sneaker. I’m sure I don’t want to know what it says. I know it can’t be good, since the other sneaker is turned on its side, leaving a pile of sand released onto my bedspread.

  I pull out the note and unfold it, my hands shaking.

  You left these downstairs for days. I thought I’d be nice and clean up for you. Of course, unless the Hamlet Dunes Mall is now covered in sand, you’ll need to explain where you were last Saturday night. It clearly wasn’t the mall.

  —Mom

  I read her words again, growing angrier as I try to sort out the real reason why she’s mad. Because we both know it’s not because I left my sneakers out by the kitchen door, or even because I lied to her about where I went. She’s mad because she knows I went to the beach. And if that’s the reason, forget it. I don’t give a crap what she says. I’m done hiding from the water; I’m done standing safely on shore.

  Just because she chooses to spend the rest of her life in a dark basement of drowning, misery, and doom doesn’t mean everyone else around here has to. Simon is dead, for God’s sake. Simon is dead. Does she really want us to all die with him?

  I throw the note into the wastebasket and take my sneakers and pound them out over the wastebasket, too. I watch the sand spill, wishing I could click the heels together like Dorothy and make myself disappear. Wake up from some nightmare like she did to find myself elsewhere. Anywhere but this stupid, broken house.

  I slip the sneakers onto my feet, happy to still feel some grains press beneath my toes—proof of some other, carefree life—and lie on my rug, staring at the ceiling and holding my breath, counting longer and longer till I’m dizzy and tired, and barely even hear her come home.

  • • •

  I awaken, groggy, to the smell of onions cooking.

  For a second, I’m fine, and then it all comes back to me.

  I don’t want to go downstairs, but sooner or later I’ll have to face her. It might as well be now.

  Mom stands at the kitchen stove. Vegetables are spread across the counter. A box of pasta stands open next to a pot on the burner with steam rising from it. She has her back to me. She hasn’t heard me come in.

  I sit quietly at the table. Part of me is afraid of what she’s going to say, but, mostly, I don’t care. I already know she doesn’t like me. So what if she’s mad?

  I watch her thin shoulders move up and down as she chops celery and throws it into the sizzling pan. Finally, I clear my throat.

  She turns her head. Her eyes look watery, but maybe it’s just the onions sizzling.

  “I got your note,” I say, and pause for effect. “We went to the beach, not the mall. To the ocean where Simon drowned. Before the movies, I mean. We did go to the movies, that part is true. But first we went to the beach.”

  She whirls around and glares at me. “The beach?”

  “Yes. The beach. In fact, I go there all the time. With Frankie and Mrs. Schyler. I like it there, too. It makes me feel closer to Simon.”

  She cuts me off. “My God, Francesca, do you know what could have happened?”

  “No,” I say, rolling my eyes, “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me? Oh, wait, you mean what’s already happened? Because I doubt that’s happening again. Maybe something else, but not that one. Simon’s dead. He can’t re-drown now, can he?”

  I’m being mean. I’m trying to hurt her. I’m not sure why.

  “Jesus, Francesca, don’t say another word! You know better than anyone . . . And I wouldn’t even have known where you were! You think that’s smart? You think that’s a good idea?” She’s screaming now, her voice shrill, her lips trembling. Tears fall, but they’re not about me. As always, they’re for Simon.

  Still, her anger frightens me a little. I’m suddenly afraid of what she’ll really say. What she hasn’t said, but has wanted to, since the day that Simon died. What she’s always thought. That it’s all my fault that Simon died.

  Why doesn’t she just come out and say it? Blame me. Get it over with. Tell me what I’ve already known for years.

  I bite my lip to stop from crying. I won’t give her the satisfaction.

  The sharp smell of burnt garlic and onions singes the air.

  Still, I goad her more, willing her to say it already. “In fact, guess what, Mom? People swim all the time. Every single day, people are out there swimming. And not everyone drowns. Do you hear me? Not everyone drowns! In fact, almost nobody drowns!”

  I shift gears, making my tone formal and singsong, as if I’m delivering information for a public-service announcement: “Did you know that less than one in one hundred thousand people drown in the United States every year?” I’d enjoy it more—the horrified look on her face—except my voice breaks, and the tears betray me and start to fall. “That is a very, very small percentage. Safer than, well, pretty much everything there is. But go on! Keep devoting your life to . . . ” I stop, totally choked up.

  “To what, Francesca? To what? Trying to make some good come from your brother’s death?”

  I shove my chair back and stand. She’s hurting now, I can see it, but I don’t want to stop. It’s like I want to enrage her. I want to push her to say what I need to hear.

  “Make good come? You spend your whole life in some dark basement trying to keep people out of the water. Me, out of the water! You don’t want me to swim. You don’t want me to drown. But we all know the one person you cared about has already drowned!

  “And, still, you want me to be afraid. Of everything. To stay frozen in that day. Well, guess what, Mom? I’m not! I’m sad and I’m sorry, but I’m not afraid anymore, and I don’t want to be. I don’t ever want to be like that again! I love the water. I love to swim. Can you believe it? I swim practically every day. With Frankie at the club. And in the ocean! But you’re right. I don’t tell you. I can’t tell you. Because you’ll give me that look, that scared, pathetic look, like it takes all your effort to get up out of bed in the morning and just breathe.

  “Well, here’s the thing: I don’t want to be like that, like you. And just because Simon died doesn’t mean everyone else is going to. So I don’t care if you give me that look anymore, that look like you hate me. I’m used to it by now. I know you hate me. I know you do. For everything. For letting Simon drown.”

  “Francesca, my God—”

  “God, what? There is no God, remember? There’s no nothing for you. No faith, no love, no Simon, no me, no Dad. No nothing! Oh, right, wait. Nothing but your stupid Drowning Foundation. So nobody ever, in the history of mankind, drowns again! Good luck with that.”

  I’ve said enough. I should stop. But I can’t. I can’t stop myself from crashing.

  “So go ahead! Keep walking around here in your miserable, sad, ghost bubble until no one can take it anymore. But trust me, I’m done. And Dad is done, too. Not even Dad can take you anymore!” My eyes shift to the window, and I feel myself tumble over the last cliff, the one from which I can never return. “No wonder he’s a
lways with Mrs. Merrill! No wonder he’s cheating on you! Even Dad can’t stand you anymore!”

  Mom drops the wooden spoon she was holding and walks over and slaps me across the face.

  Which, at least, shuts me up.

  I don’t move. The air between us buzzes with the silence. My cheek stings where her fingers struck.

  “Francesca?”

  I turn. Dad stands in the doorway. I have no idea how long he’s been there.

  But I can guess. Because I’ve never seen him look so hurt and upset. Not since the day that Simon died.

  I didn’t mean to hurt my father.

  “Great, you can both hate me now,” I say, and storm out, slamming the door so hard, it echoes.

  thirty-four

  I’ve walked around our neighborhood for at least an hour, but I don’t want to go home. I don’t know what I’ll say if I do.

  I feel sick about everything. Not just about what I said to Mom and Dad, but about telling on Dad, and even ratting out Mrs. Merrill. Part of me thinks she deserves it, but part of me feels bad because there’s something that seems sad about her, too.

  Anyway, how could I have told Mom about Mrs. Merrill when I don’t even know if it’s true?

  How could I tell her if it is?

  It occurs to me that maybe I want it to be true. Maybe I want Dad to have done something terrible and wrong like that, because even if he did, I’d still love him and I’d still want him to be my father. Even if he screwed up, I’d still think he was a good person.

  Maybe that’s what I’m secretly hoping for. Because if Dad could make such a huge, horrible mistake and still be a good person, then that would mean, technically, I could be, too. I could still be worthy of loving, even if I let my brother drown.

  I stop shy of the front of our house. Mom’s and Dad’s cars are both in the driveway, so at least they’re not driving around looking for me.

  Maybe nobody cares if I’m gone.

  My eyes shift across the street to Mrs. Merrill’s house. Her car is there. And her husband’s Maserati.

  I take a deep breath and, without thinking more, move in that direction.

  I slip around the house to the deck stairs and knock quietly on the back door. Through the window I can see Mrs. Merrill in the kitchen. I knock a little harder and she turns around, a look of alarm crossing her face. She holds up a finger—one minute—and disappears around the corner.

  She returns with a box of tissues and a light sweater and comes out onto the deck. She wraps the sweater around my bare shoulders and says, “Let’s go sit over here.”

  I follow her down the steps and into the garden. There’s a bench by the roses in the back corner. She glances nervously up toward the house, to the window that looks in on the living room. I can see the TV’s blue glow from here.

  “Now,” she says, putting her hand on my shoulder, “tell me what on earth has happened.”

  “I told her,” I say. “I told my mother about you.”

  The alarm returns to her face, but she works hard to hide it. She scratches at a speck of thread on her linen slacks and waits.

  “It’s just that we got in a fight, and this afternoon when I was at the club with Frankie, I saw it. I saw where the key goes.” My heart starts up when I say this, but she gives me a puzzled look, and I remember that the last time I was here, I never actually showed her that I have her key.

  “Oh, I have it,” I say. “I have your key. I mean, my dad had it in his car, and I thought it was yours and, well, that’s why I came here that day. But it doesn’t go to your house, because it’s too small, but it goes there, to your cabana at the club. And, well, I’m not an idiot, you know.”

  She closes her eyes for a moment and squeezes my shoulder, then leaves her hand there. I want to shake it off, but I don’t.

  “I see. Of course not,” she says. “Nobody thinks that you are.”

  She rubs my back, which only makes it worse. I don’t want to feel comforted by her. I want to hate her. And I don’t want her to be kind. I don’t deserve it.

  “So,” she says quietly, “tell me, what exactly happened with your mother?”

  “We got in a fight. Because I went to the beach and didn’t tell her. Because she wouldn’t have let me go if I had. Because of how my brother drowned.”

  “Ah, yes, Simon. That must be so incredibly hard. For both you and your mother.”

  My breath catches when she mentions my brother by name. As if his name is sacred and not hers to say. Then again, there’s something soothing about her knowing it, too, and wanting to talk about him. She makes it seem okay to talk, instead of it feeling taboo.

  “I know it’s hard for her,” I say, “but it’s hard for me, too. And she blames me. She’s always blamed me. Like all of it was my fault. And maybe she’s right. I mean, it is my fault that Simon died . . . ” But I can’t talk anymore because I’m crying too hard.

  She pulls me in and hugs me now, rocks me, and says, “Oh, you poor, poor dear,” and holds me there until I’m all cried out and exhausted.

  When I finally calm down, I pull away, a little embarrassed, and look past her at the roses, now shadowy in the twilight. Her whole backyard smells of them.

  “If my dad leaves us, I’ll have no one,” I whisper. “My mother doesn’t love me anymore.”

  She laughs gently, but not in a funny way. “Your dad isn’t leaving you, honey. I told you that already. I promise you that. I do.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We’re friends, Francesca. That’s all. We talk. That’s all I’m going to say. I’m not going to go into further details with you, because it’s not your business, or at least it’s not mine with you. That’s between you and your dad. You have every right to ask him if you want.” She pauses and smoothes her slacks. “Suffice it to say we’re friends, we’ve become friends—well, good friends—perhaps better friends than we should have. We’ll have to be more careful about that.” Her eyes dart away to the house again, to the window with the blue glow of the TV.

  “Life is hard, Francesca; you of all people know that. It’s full of tragedies. Some big, some small. People hurt, they get lonely, they make mistakes. Even grown people. That’s not an excuse. I’m just telling you how it is. I’m not saying it makes it all okay. Understand that. I’m not making any excuses. For anyone.”

  She stops because she’s getting choked up. We both sit quietly until she can talk again.

  “Your dad and I are friends, that’s all, and I need to work harder to keep it that way. Because our friendship matters to me. He’s a good man.”

  She tips my chin up so that I’m looking at her and makes her voice brighter, but somehow still stern. “People make mistakes, Francesca, but if they’re lucky, they figure it out before it’s too late. Maybe you and I have that in common.” She brushes back a strand of my hair. “Do you understand?”

  I nod, even though I’m not sure whether she’s talking about her and Dad or me and Lisette and Bradley. Either way, it doesn’t matter.

  “Good. Now, about you and your mother.” My heart sinks. My mother. God, what was I thinking? I’ve told my mother all sorts of stupid, horrible things. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes to stop new tears from coming, but Mrs. Merrill pulls them away and says, “Sometimes we just need a good cry. If you let them all out, maybe they’ll stay away for a long while.”

  So I do. I give in and let them flow again. When I’m finished, she pats my knee. “See? That’s better. Now, let’s get a few things straight. It is not your fault that Simon died, Francesca. Your mother knows this, and your father knows this. The whole wide world knows this. You were not the grown-up there. You were not responsible. Do you understand?”

  I nod, even though I’m not sure my mother would agree with her.

  “And one more thing: I know your dad loves you. And I’m sure your mother does, too. She’s just not as strong as you and your father are. Is that possible, to view her as not as strong?”
>
  I shrug, and she smiles.

  “So, then, here’s what I think. You go home and trust me that everything will be okay. Maybe messy for a while, but sometimes messy is okay. You apologize to your mother and tell her that, from now on, you will speak only the truths that you know. No more rumors or gossip. No more half pieces of information. And you do your best to right things between the two of you. Okay?”

  I nod, and she stands up, letting me know that we’re finished. I stand up, too, and we walk together across her backyard.

  When we reach the deck stairs, she stops. “It’s hard, I know, but you try anyway, Francesca, you promise me? You keep on trying the best you can. And you know what? Sometimes life surprises you and rewards you for it more than you know. You never actually know what life will bring.” I nod. “Okay, then. Go on home and do what you need to do.”

  I watch her walk up the stairs, back straight, head high. She’s poised, but now I see how sad she is underneath.

  I walk slowly across the street. At the curb, I stop and stare at our kitchen window. The lights are on, but I don’t see Mom or Dad. They’re in the house somewhere. I’ll have to find them and talk. But I don’t know what I’ll say.

  I cross our lawn toward the stoop. Nothing to do but push forward.

  thirty-five

  The kitchen is empty and clean.

  Dad’s voice drifts in from the living room, low and soft, but he stops talking when I walk in. They’re both in there. Mom and Dad. Maybe not for long, but for now.

  “Hey,” I say softly, careful not to look at her.

  Dad jumps up from the couch and walks toward me. “Beans, are you okay? Where the heck did you go?” I can tell he’s mad but trying to control it; that, for the moment, his anger is overshadowed by concern.