Falling for Summer (9 page)

I pull into one of the general store's parking spaces and turn off my car.  I hold the keys in my hand as I look up at the those wide front steps, the front steps that I used to sit on when I was a kid with my little sister, the both of us splitting the amount of penny candy that a dollar could buy us—which was a
lot
of candy. 

I take a deep breath, and then I'm out of the car.  I'm going to get some beer, some fresh corn on the cob, if they have it—I remember they used to—and some chips.  I'm up the stairs, and then the same general store bell rings out from the front door as I open it and cross the threshold, the exact same jingle that used to sound when Tiffany and I would come in for our candy. 

God, that takes me back.

Gramma Morrie was the already-ancient woman who ran the shop when I was a kid.  I'm a little shocked—and a little in awe—when I open the door and step inside, and she's still there, sitting behind the counter, looking not that much older than she did when I was little and in search of sweets.

She glances in my direction, and then her eyes widen, and she's getting up off her stool, smiling hugely, pushing her dentures back in her mouth as she pats down her crazy, every-which-way hair that always mesmerized me.

“Mandy?  Mandy Tedlock?” she asks me with a hoot, hobbling around the edge of the counter to throw her arms around me, not waiting for my response.  “Of
course
it's you!” she tells me then, giving me a little shake before she lets me go and takes a big step back to take me in.  “My, you're a woman now.  Damn, I'm old,” she tells me with a slight cackle, as she clicks her dentures in her mouth.  “But, hell, you look good!”

“Thanks, Morrie,” I tell her with a smile.  I'm a little embarrassed at the praise, but then it's Gramma Morrie.  She'd tell me if she thought I looked like shit, and she'd say it exactly like that, so it really is a compliment that she thinks I look good.  “I'm here for some junk food!” I tell her then, making a beeline for the back coolers and the beer beckoning me.  I'm hopeful that she's not going to bring up my sister, but I know better.  I just need to grab the things I want, and then I can pay her in cash and race for the door if she asks too many pressing questions.

But she starts in on those pressing questions pretty much immediately.

“Where are you staying?  Since your folks sold your house, which I always thought was a shame, you must be staying at...Lazy Days Campground?” she asks, one brow arched as she grins at me toothily. 

Gramma Morrie is sharp as a tack.  And she misses nothing.

“That Summer is a nice girl,” she says carefully, her brow still up.  She didn't wait for me to even answer her.  She glances at me now with her beady eyes, pinning me in place.  “How are you two getting on?” she asks, drawing out the words as she raises a gray brow.

“We're getting on really well,” I tell her quickly, grabbing a couple of six packs from the cooler.  I snatch two bags of chips off the rickety old shelves (the chips are covered in dust; this is not Gramma Morrie's busy season) and scoop up some unshucked ears of corn from the wooden bin by the door.  “Do you still have popsicles?” I ask her, hoping she'll let it go.

But of course she won't.

“You know Summer is one of those queers?” provides Gramma Morrie helpfully.  She's still grinning toothily, and the way she says the word
queers
bears no malice, so at least that's...good?  I set the beer on the counter in front of her, along with the chips and corn.

“I do,” I tell her with a smile.  “Where do you keep your popsicles?”

“My Ann turned out to be one of those bisexuals,” says Morrie thoughtfully, bringing up her granddaughter, who was another of Tiffany's friends.  Morrie sucks on her dentures.  “But she married Bob, so...”

We stare at one another thoughtfully over the mound of junk food and beer. 

“And you?” asks Gramma Morrie, waggling her eyebrows.  “Did you ever find a nice girl to settle down with?”

I stare at Gramma Morrie for a long moment that seems to drag on forever.  Then I just start to laugh.  Yes, it's true: Gramma Morrie is sharp as a tack, but so were a lot of other people in Lake George.  So how many people in town knew about me?  Dear God...  Maybe it
was
just Gramma Morrie. 

“Maybe,” I tell her, raising one of my eyebrows as I think about Summer.  My heart skips a beat as I give voice to that small word in relation to the possibility of my settling down with Summer.  Even though I'm just talking to Gramma Morrie, it feels very strange, and very real, to say it aloud. 

I...like it, even though my heart is now thundering in my chest. 

“Do you have any popsicles?” I ask her then plaintively, with a little laugh.

“By the door, honey,” she says, crooking a finger toward the small freezer that I didn't notice holding open the front door.  I lift the freezer door and grab a few ice-encrusted popsicles from the bottom of it, scooping them out of the block of ice.

“I'm happy for you, honey.  We all need someone, right?” says Gramma Morrie, pinning me in place with her bird-black eyes again.  And then she sniffs.  “You know, that Summer,” says Morrie, shaking her head.  She sounds sad as she trails off, but she lifts her gaze to my eyes again, the intensity in them unwavering.  “She's never stopped swimming.  Have you seen?  She's in the water as often as a fish.” 

“Yeah,” I tell her, taking my wallet out of my purse.  “She swims a lot—”

Gramma Morrie cuts me off like I didn't even speak.  “And it's good, too, because she saved our Ann a few years back,” she tells me then, her eyes flashing.  My brow furrows.  “Ann never learned how to swim, and she was out on a boat...  Well, she went over,” Morrie explains, “and Summer saw it from the shore.  Well, that girl was out in the middle of the lake before anyone could blink, dragging Ann back.  She saved her life.”

I stare at her.  “Never stopped swimming,” I repeat, my mouth suddenly dry as I realize what she meant.

Gramma Morrie nods.  “Yeah, you know, she's never stopped swimming since that night.  Since Tiffany...well, you know, poor dear,” she tells me, watching me closely.  “Summer was in the water every day that summer Tiffany drowned, and every day since, 'cept when it's too ice-covered for even a polar bear.  And sometimes, even then.  I thought she was training for the Olympics, but I don't think so anymore.  I think she just wanted to be the best.  Because she couldn't...”  Gramma Morrie trails off.  “Everyone wanted to save your poor sister that night, you know, dear,” she says quietly.  “But no one could.  Not even Summer.”

“Thank you...for everything,” I murmur, laying two twenty dollar bills onto the counter with a shaking hand.  “Please keep the change.”  I take everything up in my arms, and then I'm bolting and halfway across the room, aiming for the front door before Morrie says anything else.

“Be good to Summer, dear,” she calls to me. 

For a long moment, I wonder if I heard her correctly, but when I turn around, she's smiling beatifically, her hands clasped over her stomach. 

“Have a safe drive back,” she tells me.

“Thanks,” I manage, and then I'm out the door, chucking the food and beer into the backseat of my car and peeling out of the driveway so hard that gravel sprays up from my back tires.

Okay, so that was...weird.  And upsetting.  I wish, so much, that Morrie hadn't brought up Tiffany, but of course she was going to.  Morrie is the town gossip, and that's what town gossips do.  They keep the stories of the town alive. 

Summer's never stopped swimming...

I take a deep breath as I roll down my window and turn off the AC.  I just want to smell the lake, have the beautiful scent of all that fresh water permeate my skin and consume me.  I missed it so much, moving down to the city.  I guess I never realized how much.

I exhale loudly through my nose.  That unsettled me, to hear how Tiffany's death affected Summer.  Again, I'm pushed outside of my comfort zone.  I was so wrapped up in how Summer's death changed
my
life, changed myself as a person, that I failed to see what it was doing to other people. 

I don't remember much about that night, or the police reports that followed.  I do remember that the police said at the time that several of the girls had tried to save Tiffany, had tried to swim out into that dark water to reach her, only to turn back because it was too deep, too far, too frightening. 

Summer had been one of those girls. 

I don't know what that was like for her, but as I sit in the car, I try to imagine what it
might
have been like.  Summer, then just a little girl, had waded into the cold water of a summer night, pushing through the darkness and her own fear of the black water, to attempt to swim out to where Tiffany was flailing, drowning...

My stomach turns inside of me as I think about that moment from her perspective. 

When I return to Lazy Days, Summer is waiting for me on the front steps of the main office.  She has her hands clasped, her elbows on her knees, her head bent as if deep in thought, her shiny braid slipping over her shoulder and draped over her arm.

I don't know why, but the somber sight of her gives me a bad feeling, adding to the anxiety that started when I began wondering about that night...

It looks like Summer has something to tell me.  But when she lifts her face as I turn into the driveway, Summer's pensive look is gone, and she's smiling at me, a smile so huge, warmth spreads through me, bringing with it a small measure of peace.

“Hey, I got some beers.  And some popsicles,” I tell her, as I climb out of the car, shutting the door behind me.  “And Gramma Morrie knows you're gay?” I ask her, my head tilted to the side as I give her a teasing smile.

“Yeah, well,” says Summer, spreading her hands, “you can't hide a thing from that old fox.  She knew you were gay, too,” she tells me then, her brows up as she chuckles a little.  “Morrie's really accepting for a crotchety old lady.  I know it's crazy,” she says, lifting a hand as I shake my head and chuckle, too, “but she is.  Hey, listen,” she says then, sliding her hands into her pockets and hunching her shoulders forward, “are you ready for that swim?”  She looks up at me through her long lashes inquiringly, and my heart skips a beat again.

“Yeah, I am,” I tell her, grabbing the food and beers out of the back seat, shutting the car door with my hip.  “Just let me get this stuff inside.”

“Get swimsuited up,” says Summer with a little chuckle.  “And meet me at the lake, okay?”  She looks at me thoughtfully, as if she's about to tell me something more, but she stops herself.

“Sure,” I say, but as she turns, I can see that her smile is already fading away into a thin, hard line.

My stomach does flip flops.  What's wrong?  It really feels like
something's
wrong.  I deposit the food into Summer's little fridge and peel off my clothes, draping them over the foot of the bed.  I dig my wet swimsuit out of the bottom of my wet suitcase and wrinkle my nose as I try to squeeze most of the water out of it. 

It's only after I get the suit on, only after I redo my loosened ponytail, preparing for the swim, only after I glance at Summer's calendar tacked to the wall, that I realize exactly what day it is.

This day is why I booked the trip in the first place.

Because, twenty years ago today, Lake George took my sister's life.

I'm cold for a moment as I stand, barefoot, on the floorboards of Summer's home.  I feel a chill arc through me, slow at first, but then it's insistent and freezing as I shake a little. 

I cross to the suitcase, rummaging around in the wet clothes that are already starting to mildew.  My hands come across a rectangle shape in plastic, and I draw out the plastic bag that holds my eReader...and my sister's diary. 

I press my hand to the top of the diary, through the plastic bag.  The diary itself is covered in unicorns, which isn't surprising, considering the decade that produced it. The diary looks faded now.  Well, it's over twenty years old; it should look faded.  As I trace the main unicorn right above the word “diary,” I draw in a deep breath, my heart thudding inside of my chest. 

“Hey, Mandy?” Summer calls from somewhere outside.  “Are you coming?”

“Yeah, I'll be right there!” I call out to her, and then I push the diary back inside my suitcase and shut the lid.  And a resolve fills me in that moment.

I want to swim where Tiffany did, the night that she died. 

That night (can it really be twenty years already?  Sometimes, it feels just like yesterday...), the detective asked all of the girls at the party where Tiffany swam, her trajectory, and the police were then able to recreate the swim so that they could find her body faster.  Several of the girls—Summer included—had tried to swim out when they realized that Tiffany was in danger and bring her back, but she had gone under, and they couldn't find her. 

Summer will remember, will know where it happened, the route Tiffany took, swimming through the dark waters of her last summer night.

My heart is thrumming through me, my blood pulsing so fast I feel a little faint as I leave the main office.  I get out onto the porch, and I push my thumbs under the hem of the bikini bottom, trying to tug it down to cover my rear more, but it's sopping wet and not cooperating with the gravity on land.  It should be more pliable under water.  I take a deep breath, and then I walk across the gravel in my flip flops until I reach the beach and Summer, who's sunning herself, sprawling on the sand, her head bent back, her neck graceful as she worships the sun.