by Gae Polisner
Or maybe he gets that I’m the one who should be mad. He’s the one sneaking around. He’s the one betraying us.
Mom stands, too, arms clutched to her waist. Her eyes are puffy from crying. But the look on her face isn’t anger or hatred or disappointment. It’s something different this time.
I’m not sure what, but I can’t bear it. And I can’t talk about it, either. Not now. Maybe in the morning.
I turn away and veer toward the stairs. “I’m going to bed,” I say.
No one stops me. No one grounds me. No one yells.
I could just keep going, but I promised Mrs. Merrill.
A few steps up, I turn. “Mom?” Her head jerks up to look at me. “I was wrong,” I say, shifting my gaze away. “I’m sorry. I was wrong about everything I said. I was angry, so I made it up. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry I said such horrible things.” I try to look at her so she knows I’m sincere, but I can’t stand seeing her look so hurt and broken and small.
I start up the stairs again.
“Francesca!” she calls. I keep going, my back to her. I kept my promise to Mrs. Merrill. There’s nothing else I need to say right now. “Frankie, please!”
I stop. I stop because she calls me Frankie.
I turn and look at Dad. He’s nudging her forward. Holding her hand.
Her eyes meet mine and dart down. Dad nods. Finally, she speaks, her words slow with effort. “Frankie, listen. I was the one who was wrong. Who’s been wrong. I’m so, so sorry for that. You don’t know how sorry I am. We’re all hurting, yes. It’s been hell to try to get past the terrible thing that happened. But no one is hurting more than you. I should have known that. And I should have been there for you. I haven’t been here for you . . .” Her voice cracks, and her eyes fill with tears. “I haven’t done a very good job. And for that, I’m truly very sorry.”
My eyes well up, too, but for some reason I don’t cry. Maybe Mrs. Merrill’s right. Maybe I’m all cried out for now.
“Okay,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say, and I start again up the stairs.
“I want you to be happy, Frankie,” she calls up after me. “Please. I should have done a better job.”
• • •
I’m so tired, I don’t even take off my clothes or bother to get under the sheets, just lie on my bedspread and let my body tumble into sleep. As I drift off, the last thing that occurs to me is that the sand is gone. Mom has been in here and vacuumed. The room is straightened and clean.
And Fisher Frog is back on my bed.
thirty-six
I awaken with a start, feeling odd. The house is quiet and gray.
I roll over and glance at my clock—5:05 a.m. I sit up and stare around my room, but everything seems normal. It’s not, though. I remember.
Maybe Mom forgives me, but how will she forgive Dad? I may have tried to make things right, but she’s not stupid. I wonder what he told her about all the horrible things I said.
I slip out of bed and tiptoe down the hall past Simon’s door to their bedroom. Their door is ajar, like always. I peek in. For now, they’re together, sleeping.
I walk back down the hall, stop in the bathroom and brush my teeth, and stare at myself in the mirror. I’m a mess of tangled hair and smudged eyes. Not to mention in yesterday’s clothes. I wash my face and inspect again, brushing my fingers across my lips. I close my eyes and imagine Bradley’s fingers there instead, and then his mouth pressing down on top of mine.
Imagination and memory are all that I have left of that.
I turn off the lights and head back down the hall to my room. At Simon’s door, I stop. The door is open a little. I slip in, my heart racing, as my eyes scan the room. I quietly close the door behind me.
His bed looks sad and empty without Fisher Frog. I sit and it creaks softly. I lie back, resting my head on Simon’s pillow, and stare out his window at the top of the trees, remembering the spill of sunlight that filtered in that very first day I met Frankie Sky.
Frankie Sky and Simon. Is Simon Frankie Sky?
I close my eyes and try to sort out what is real and what is merely wishful thinking, then sit up with a start. I don’t know why, but I feel like something important is in here. Some clue. Some answer.
“Simon, what do you want to tell me?” I whisper, sitting perfectly still. I feel my brother in the room. The air smells of him, of peaches and sunshine and the ocean.
I flip the switch on his table lamp, my heart beating hard as the train with the little frog engineer circles the base. I switch it off quickly, before it circles again and lets out its faint, hollow whistle. The sound of distance and longing.
My hand drops to the night table drawer. I know beyond a doubt something’s in here.
I tug at the knob. The drawer sticks in its track. Objects rattle inside.
I kneel down and work the drawer out slowly, then remove items one by one: Simon’s baby book. A tube of half-used diaper-rash cream. A Raffi CD. A piece of cardboard with his first lock of blond hair taped to it.
I place them carefully on the bed, but there’s nothing unexpected in there.
I slide the drawer closed, but as I do, something rattles, so I yank it open again further, reach in, and feel around with my fingers.
My heart nearly bursts when I feel the smooth round disk in the back. Even before I pull it out, I know.
A sand dollar. God’s fingerprint in a lowly little shell.
I stare at it in my hand. It looks exactly like the one that Bradley gave me.
I put everything else back the way I found it and straighten up Simon’s bed. When I’m sure it looks the same, I close the door and tiptoe back to my room.
Sunlight creeps in through my bedroom window. I study the sand dollar. A perfect, white, five-pointed flower. I turn it over and look at the base. Pinprick holes that stretch toward the edges like a starburst.
I glance at the clock again. It’s still hours before I’m due over at Frankie’s. An hour or two before Dad will get up and leave for work, before Mom will leave for the Foundation.
Was the shell always there, or is it some weird sign from Simon?
I flip the shell to the front again, to the five white petals, and try to remember the words to the song. The part about the petals like white doves.
Now break the center open
And here you will see. . .
No, not see. Release.
Now break the center open
And here you will release
The five white doves awaiting
To spread good will and peace.
I close my hand around it and wonder, but I won’t break it open. I can’t.
I walk to my desk, open the secret drawer, and take out the sand dollar from Bradley. I place them side by side on the desk in front of me.
There’s no way it’s just a coincidence. There’s no way it isn’t a sign.
But a sign of what? That Frankie is Simon? Or that I’m meant to be with Bradley? Of course, both are nothing more than wishful thinking.
And yet.
I press Simon’s sand dollar to my cheek. I swear I can feel his breath.
My cell phone buzzes and startles me. A text from Lisette.
Hey, Beans! Sure ur sleeping. Just saying good-bye at this UNGODLY (hah!) hour. Wish me luck, I just used a real toilet for the last time till I get back. Will try to sneak texts but if not c u soon. Luv u, Zette.
Ungodly.
I stare at the sand dollars again and wonder if Pastor Sutter knows something I don’t. If it is possible that life isn’t ungodly. That there are things unseeable—powers, miracles, karma, souls, God—bigger than we are, orchestrating how everything unfolds.
I press ignore on Lisette’s text, reminding myself to respond later. If I do it now, she’ll ask why I’m up so early. Instead, I turn on my computer.
My phone buzzes again. I almost don’t bother to look, but it’s not from Lisette. It’s from a number I don’t recognize.
Hey, Beans LOL! Was doing some research and found out that fewer crabs died on Xmas Island this year than last. Seems like a good thing, so I wanted u to kno. Bradley.
I stare at the note in disbelief, my heart going crazy. He’s texting me at the crack of dawn. I shouldn’t respond, but there’s no way I can ignore it completely.
Good to know. Thanks, I type back. In three seconds, a “” appears.
I press the phone to my heart. I should leave it at that.
No Bradley.
No cookies.
No more betrayals.
I put my phone down, push it away from my needy, disobeying fingers, and do what I was about to do anyway: type Christmas Island crabs into the search bar.
I turn the volume low and click on some video from a nature channel. Classical music plays as a sea of red crabs crawls across the screen, just like Bradley described to me. A British guy narrates how, every year, over one hundred and twenty million crabs migrate to the ocean to breed even though they don’t know how to swim. He explains that they lay their eggs in the water, but then have to return to where they came from. And that, even though they try to close roads and put up roadblocks, over a million red crabs get killed every year.
“It appears for these small creatures, at least, an innate sense of purpose, a higher calling, if you will, overrides logic or good sense.”
I watch amazed as the mass of tiny red crabs crosses streets to the music, crawling up the sides of curbs, through drainage tunnels, over bridges. Bradley wasn’t exaggerating; it’s freaky, but mesmerizing. A moving red carpet of crabs.
When it’s over, I’m still not sure what to do with myself. It’s not even six thirty, and everything feels upside down. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to deal, though. And I’m hungry, so I head downstairs.
As I walk into the kitchen, I see the note folded on the table. Propped like a greeting card, my name—Frankie—on the front in Mom’s tight, perfect script.
I sit down and slide it over, even though I don’t know if I really want to read what’s inside. What if it’s a good-bye? Or worse, what if she explains how, now that she knows about Mrs. Merrill, she just can’t let Dad live here anymore?
My beautiful Frankie,
1. I just wanted to tell you that you were right. I have buried myself in the Foundation and the past and all that was lost, instead of all that I still have to live for, including you, my bold and beautiful daughter.
I’m sorry that it’s taken me so long to realize this, and that I haven’t been a better mother when you needed your mother the most.
Please know that I’m not angry with you, nor do I blame you for Simon’s death. Nor have I blamed you, ever. Your brother’s death was MY fault, Frankie, and your dad’s fault, but certainly it was never, ever yours. You were the best big sister that Simon could have had. He loved you very much, and I do, too. You make me proud every day, and I’ve done a horrible job of letting you know. But it’s the truth, and I’m going to try harder to show it.
2. If you ever lie to me again about where you are, or where you are going, you will be grounded for life. Seriously.
—Mom
I sit for a long time, staring at her words, and at my name like that—the good way, Frankie, like she used to call me. Then I walk to the window and stare out across the street to Mrs. Merrill’s house like I did that last day of school. The day I saw my father drive by. The house is quiet and still, her black Mercedes and the silver Maserati asleep, side by side, in the driveway.
I think about how Mrs. Merrill has lived here for years, and I never even knew her before. Is it really just a coincidence that all this happened? That, for better or worse, she suddenly came into our lives?
I skip the food, take the note, and tiptoe back up to my room. I fold it in half again, slip it in my desk drawer, and take out the silver key instead. I pad back downstairs and out the front door and return the key to the console in Dad’s car.
There are just some things you don’t need to know for sure.
thirty-seven
With Lisette away and the drama with Mrs. Merrill seemingly over, it feels like everything slows down. I focus on Frankie and my job and try hard not to pine like a fool for Bradley.
It doesn’t help that he keeps texting me, things like Did u kno Xmas Island crabs aren’t edible? or According to Wikipedia, an accidental introduction of the yellow crazy ant to Xmas Island recently killed 15-20 million crabs , which make me totally melt with desire.
I try to use willpower like Frog did, and respond only with things that don’t invite conversation, like Thanks, I didn’t kno or That’s sad about the crazy ants, but I can’t bring myself to tell him to stop, so he keeps sending cute and heartbreaking messages.
Mrs. Schyler, at least, is happy. Thanks to her new boyfriend.
On one of our beach days during the second week Lisette is gone, she tells me about Joey while Frankie is busy driving trucks in the sand.
“He owns a woodworking shop. You should see his stuff, Francesca. It’s beautiful. He made me this,” she says, all dreamy, slipping a pendant from her neck. She hands it to me. It’s a solid wood heart the color of coffee beans, with lighter, golden lines that spiral in toward the center.
“He calls it Love Infinity,” she says.
“It’s so pretty,” I say, hoping one day someone will give me something as beautiful—not that a crab leg isn’t special.
I hand the heart back to Mrs. Schyler and get up to go play with Frankie. He’s been calling me for ten minutes. I’ve been stalling here with Mrs. Schyler because I can see from here what he’s doing.
Which is, making a sand castle.
With a big, fat moat around it.
All kids make sand castles, right? Still, I feel queasy.
“Get some shells to decorate, Beans!” he says when he sees me coming.
I wander in the area, kicking at sand, bending to pick up an occasional shell, but no way I’m walking away or taking my eyes off of him. The jingles are out like crazy this summer, so it’s easy to gather a bunch right here.
Every few seconds I glance over at him, head down, blond curls lit by the sun.
I was gathering shells just like this the moment that Simon disappeared.
“Here you go.” I drop to my knees and hand him the small supply of jingles. He nods. My breath feels rapid and shallow. A trickle of sweat slides down between my shoulder blades. “That’s a good castle, Frankie,” I say. It looks just like the one I was building with Simon. I have to get a grip on myself.
He squints up at me in the sunshine. “Yep, I builded it myself,” he says proudly.
“You did, Frankie,” I say, thinking of Simon and wondering if it’s exactly true.
We press shells around the castle until it looks festive and beautiful. When we finish, Frankie says, “Is really a good castle, Beans, right?”
“Yes, Frankie. It’s a really good castle.” Another bead of sweat slips down my back.
“Good,” he says, taking my hand with his and lifting a pail with another. “We need to fill the moat up with water.”
“What?” I whisper, my throat dry.
He pulls me to stand. “Yes, Beans. We have to. We have to get water and fill the moat.”
I stare at his face, but everything slips out of focus. I can’t hold on to his features. I think there’s something wrong with me. I glance back at Mrs. Schyler to see if she’ll help, but she’s facedown on her blanket, asleep.
“Beans, we have to get water.”
“We can’t, Simon! We can’t get water!”
“We can, Beans. Is really okay.”
He lets go of my hand and picks up a second pail and places it in my grip, then holds my free hand again. “Let’s go, Beans. Let’s go now and get the water. We have to.”
“But it won’t fill up the moat!”
“It will. We need to.”
My legs tremble as he pulls me toward the water. My breakfast sloshes in my sto
mach, rises bitterly in my throat. I don’t know why I let him take me, or why I follow.
It’s as if I can’t stop myself. As if I can’t stop him.
“Come on, Beans. Is okay,” he says.
At the water’s edge, sunlight glints gold off the slick sand. The water, calm a minute ago, has kicked up. Larger waves break against the shore.
I clutch Frankie’s arm as he scoops, filling his pail, then mine. We walk back to the moat and dump them both in.
The water holds for a second, then bubbles and sinks down, disappearing into the earth.
“See?” I say. “The water doesn’t stay. It gets absorbed by the sand. It won’t work. I told you. No more of that now, okay?”
“We have to. We have to go back, Beans.” He tugs my arm, making me.
Back at the sand castle, he dumps his pail, then mine. The water holds, burbles, sinks, and starts to disappear. Relief washes over me. “I told you, Frankie. I told you—” But he points, because the water has stopped draining two-thirds of the way down. I stare, waiting for the rest to leak away, but it sits there at the base of the moat.
“See?” He grabs my arm and drags us back down to the water.
I clutch his arm tighter. By the third trip, the water is halfway up, and by the fourth, it’s almost all the way full.
By the fifth, the water swirls at the top.
“I tolded you, Beans. I tolded you.”
We drop to our knees, and Frankie gives the water a splash with his fingers, and then we watch as it circles, as if pulled by an invisible current, an eddy that shimmers and sparkles in the sunlight.
Frankie leans across and picks up the few remaining jingle shells, drops them in, and stirs them with a piece of driftwood. They float and spin at the top, like little pastel petals of impossible hope.
He tosses the driftwood away and leans against me. “Is magic, Beans, right?”
“Yes, Frankie,” I say, leaning back on him. “I think that maybe it is.”
Part V
thirty-eight
The following Monday, Mrs. Schyler answers when I ring the bell.
She ushers me in, sits me down, and tells me they’re moving to Cape Cod. To give it a go with her boyfriend. The one I stupidly told her to go out with.
