The Summer of Letting Go (10 page)

His eyes are teary now, so I feel bad. “Okay, sorry, Frankie. I was only asking. I was trying to make sure you're safe and understand.”

He blows hard on his fork again, and most of the macaroni falls back in the bowl. He takes the ketchup and squeezes it into the bowl, then stirs until it turns the cheese sauce the color of lava. When he's done, he looks up at me. “Also, Frankie Sky can swim, too. Fly and swim. Both of those things, Beans.”

“No, you can't, Frankie. Not yet. So quit saying it. Okay?” I pick up my burger and put it back down. “But you will soon. I bet you'll learn fast how to swim.”

“Can too, Beans,” he says.

“Cannot, Frankie,” I say. “And seriously, do you have to say Beans every single sentence? It's kind of like a secret name, remember?”

“Yes, I remember, Beans.”

After that, we eat in silence. Periodically, he glances up and smiles and squeezes macaroni through his teeth at me. Which is gross, but also funny, and eventually it makes me laugh again. When the waiter comes, I sign the check 4285 like Mrs. Schyler told me to, which feels weird, like I think I'm royalty or something. Then we leave the dining room on the lobby side to head toward the playground.

Halfway through the lobby, Frankie stops. “Have to go to the potty, Beans.” He turns back and beelines toward the door with the word Gents on it.

“Do you want me to go with you, Frankie?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nope, is just for boys.”

“Do you want to go in mine instead, so I can go with you? You're allowed.”

“No. I can go alone. I always do it when Mommy is here.” So I push the door open and let him through.

“Take your time, okay?” I call as he disappears inside. “I'll wait for you out here.”

I walk to the big picture window in the hall that looks out over the pool. Peter Pintero is climbing down from the lifeguard stand. Maybe he's coming in to get lunch. As he walks past the window, he sees me, but barely nods, just keeps walking past toward the back door.

My eyes shift to Mrs. Merrill's cabana, second from the end. Cabana #2. The white shuttered door is closed. I'm about to walk away when I see something else, the one thing I couldn't see from where I was sitting at the pool. From this angle, I can see around the backs of the cabanas, and I can see there are doors on both sides. Front and back doors.

And then everything becomes clear. Mrs. Merrill isn't staying inside her cabana. She's leaving the club from the back. No wonder I keep losing her!

I race to the front of the club and out the main entrance to the parking lot. Because if Mrs. Merrill is leaving, where is she leaving to? And who is she leaving with?

But I'm wrong. She hasn't left. Her black Mercedes is right there. Right in the front where it always is.

Then something else occurs to me, something worse, something horrible, and I take a few more steps out toward the lot. My eyes scan it frantically and I almost miss it, way back, in the row nearest the street. Dad's car. Dad's car is in the lot.

I tell myself to breathe, to calm down.

Maybe it's like his car, but not his?

I take a few cautious steps to the edge of the curb, but at that moment, the car—my dad's Jeep—backs out and speeds away, and I can't tell from here who's inside.

The parking lot is still.

I stare at the empty spot where it was, trying to fight back tears. I have to stop kidding myself. I know my dad's car when I see it.

So, then, what if it was?

I try to wrap my frazzled brain around the possibilities, when I'm bumped from behind, stumble, and nearly fall flat off the curb.

“Oh goodness! Excuse us! Eliza, you have to watch where you're going.”

A mom and her child walk past. “It's okay,” I say absentmindedly, then snap back as I realize that I'm busy worrying out here, and I've left Frankie Sky inside.

I run back inside the club, my eyes darting around the lobby, but he's not there. Or in the pro shop, or the game room. I run down the hall to the bathroom. It hasn't been that long. He must still be in there.

I bang on the door. No answer. I push it open a bit.

“Frankie? You in there?”

No answer.

“Frankie!”

“Lose something?” I whirl around. It's Peter Pintero at my shoulder. I fight the panic that's erupted; I try to fight back more tears.

“Can you just see if Frankie is in there? He was going to the bathroom.”

“Sure,” he says. “Relax,” and disappears inside.

I wait for what seems like an eternity, a million horrible thoughts about pedophiles and kidnappers banging through my brain, before Peter reappears shaking his head. “Nope, empty,” he says, and instantly, I know where Frankie is. The same place Peter is not!

I run down the hall and tear out the back door, my heart threatening to rip a hole through my chest. I pray he won't be in there.

I stop short at the edge of the pool, still somehow dumbfounded that he is.

Everything stops.

The sky.

The air.

The world.

Frankie Sky is in there.

Sinking to the bottom like a stone.

For a split second I stand unmoving, confused, the sun beating down, the smell of the ocean, the salt air, permeating my nose. It's as if I'm not here, but back there, four years ago, watching my own body freeze. But this time I tell myself to knock it off, that I can stand here lost and reminiscing and watch Frankie drown, or I can get my butt in the pool and try to help him.

I kick off my flip-flops, take one deep breath, and dive, not having any idea if I even remember how to swim. I hit the water, my body shocked, but my brain focused on one thing: not letting Frankie Sky drown.

I kick like mad. My shorts feel heavy and my T-shirt twists uncomfortably around my arms. It only takes a few seconds to get to where Frankie is, but as I reach down, already he's sinking lower, slipping out of reach. He looks up at me, eyes open, blond hair swirling, legs and arms moving to push upward. He still has his shorts and shoes on. They must add to his weight, because he's not making any progress.

I kick harder and stretch my arms, but I can't make it to him, and I can't stay under any longer. I need to go up and get some air.

I resurface, gasping for breath, then push myself under again.

Either I'm moving down faster, or Frankie is rising up now, because he's closer to me, his arms and legs pushing outward, scooping water and fanning it away. As if he's doing the breast stroke. I reach for him, but my fingers just miss, and I have to come up for air again.

I gasp—one, two huge breaths this time so I can stay down longer—and kick back toward him, but now he breaks through the surface. I kick after him, relieved to see his head lift, momentarily, out of the water.

He goes back under, and I flail after him, but this time he pops right up again, his legs and arms moving in unison. Rhythmically, in perfect, froglike motions.

He's swimming.

I copy him, relaxing a little. After several strokes, it comes naturally, from memory.

Because I'm bigger and stronger than he is, I could pass him, but I don't. I slow my pace, stay behind him, and watch, still winded from fear, as he moves steadily toward the steps of the shallow end.

When he reaches them, he stands and waits until I catch up, my chest heaving, my brain still having trouble fully comprehending.

Behind him, Peter Pintero stands in the sunlight, hands on his whistle, face looking mildly amused.

“You could have come in and helped,” I snap, wanting to be angry at someone. “Isn't that your job?”

“I was coming, I swear. But then it looked like you had it under control.”

I don't answer. I can't deal with Peter right now. I need to deal with Frankie. He needs to be scolded. He needs to listen to me.

I turn to him. He's smiling, huge.

“We is wet,” he says, laughing. “Even our clothes is all wet!”

“Frankie, I swear to you, it's not funny . . .” But I don't finish, because he's so happy and proud that I can't help but laugh also.

When Mrs. Schyler picks us up, Frankie tells her that I taught him how to swim. By then, the sun has dried our clothes, and Frankie is smart enough to leave out the rest of the shady details.

“How wonderful!” Mrs. Schyler says, but her voice doesn't sound like she means it.

She's still in her black-and-white dress, her hat gone, her hair pushed back in a headband. She looks like she's been sleeping. When I slide into the passenger seat, I see that she wears slippers on her feet.

I wonder vaguely if it's even legal to drive in house slippers, but then, who am I to talk? I nearly let Frankie drown because I was too busy playing Nancy Drew.

The more that I think about it now, the stupider it all seems—worrying about Dad and Mrs. Merrill. I can't be distracted anymore. I have to concentrate on Frankie. I have more important things to do.

I tell myself, that's the last of it. That I'm letting things go with Mrs. Merrill. Because even if I were to catch them at something, at anything, what would I actually do?

I have bigger problems just keeping Frankie safe. If the kid is going to kill himself, it's not going to happen on my watch. Provided he doesn't give me a heart attack first.

Speaking of which, I need some answers about Frankie's heart.

“Mrs. Schyler?” I say as she turns onto Sycamore Street and parks in her driveway.

“Brooke, sweetie, really, it's Brooke.” She unbuckles, slips out, and ducks down to look at me through the open door. “Francesca, would you mind terribly hanging around another hour or so? I have a splitting headache from the funeral and would very much like to lie down.”

She doesn't wait for an answer, or even get Frankie out of the back, so I guess she assumes my answer is yes. I watch as she shuffles up the stairs in her pretty black-and-white dress with the roses and her fuzzy pink bedroom slippers.

“Backyard, Beans?” Frankie smiles. “You push me, but I tired, so I promise you I not gonna fly.”

• • •

On Wednesday, Mrs. Schyler greets me in a hot pink dress with white paisley patterns and a pair of bright teal, open-toed shoes. Potato barks at her feet, but his tail wags ferociously when he sees me.

“Frankie, now, let's go!” She rushes off toward the kitchen.

As I follow, she rattles off the details of our day: She's got a charity luncheon, something for wounded soldiers. She forgot all about it until the last minute, or would have given me more warning. She'll drop us at the club again; she hopes I won't mind. And she'll pay me on Friday for the week.

“Come here, Francesca, sit,” she says, motioning to the table. I watch her at the sink as she takes out the Advil and the other two bottles of pills. The yellow pill she swallows, the pink one she puts on the counter.

“Frankie!” she yells again, then, “Potato! Go on. Go and get Frankie, would you?” But the dog just curls up under the table and looks at her.

“Mrs. Schy—Brooke,” I blurt, uncomfortably, “what is the pink pill for again?”

She nods apologetically, as if she realizes she never answered my question. “Oh, yes, sorry. To prevent fluid buildup. Because of the hole in Frankie's heart.”

“What kind of hole?”

In my mind, I try to picture the blue-and-red plastic heart model our science teacher, Mr. Antonucci, used to have on his desk, the kind you could take apart in sections like a gory 3-D puzzle. I try to picture it with a giant hole in the center and imagine what that might mean for Frankie Sky.

“Well, that's a good question. We've never been quite exactly sure.” She sits down next to me and places her hand over mine. “Not to worry, sweetheart. You've seen him. He's a happy, healthy, energetic little boy.” She laughs, but I'm not sure she sounds convincing.

“Then how did you find it?”

She gets up now, walks to the window, and looks out over the sprawling backyard.

“He had an episode. Just once. A few days after we brought him home. Charles—that's his father—had just gone back to Iraq. He was only given a few days' dispensation, and Frankie arrived late, so he had just one day with him, with us, after Frankie was born.”

I watch Mrs. Schyler as she speaks. Even though she's so curvy from the front, from the back she's narrow and thin. In some ways, she reminds me of my mother.

“Anyway, it was the middle of the night, later than that actually, like four thirty in the morning, and Frankie starts to cough from his crib. Loud enough to wake me, though every little thing in those days did. So I go to the crib, and by now he's coughing and crying, but it's an odd cry, choked, like he's struggling for breath.” She shakes her head and wraps her arms across her chest. “I call 911, but don't want to stand there and wait. His color is odd, and we're not far from Northside General, and I figure there are no cars on the road.

“So I throw him in the car seat—by now he's purplish and wheezing, really, really struggling—and I'm terrified, so I fly there. The whole trip must have taken three minutes. And the whole time—it seems crazy now—but I'm praying, I'm praying out loud.” She turns and looks at me. “I'm not a very religious person, you understand? My father is God-fearing, but my mother was an atheist, and she was the one who ruled the roost, so I never really learned how to pray.”

I nod because I understand.

“But I do. For some reason, I pray. So I'm driving and I'm praying, to whatever I can think of, which in the end is the most frivolous, ridiculous thing.”

“What thing?” I croak the words out, caught up in the story.

Her eyes flash to mine. “Oh, it's so silly, Francesca, really! In my grandmother's house on the tub—this was my father's mother—was this ugly little plastic statue of a saint. I used to play with it in the tub when she bathed me there. So, of all things, his name comes to me at that moment. Saint Florian. Some obscure little patron saint of Lord knows what.

“So that's who I pray to. After all those years. Some ugly plastic saint on my grandmother's tub.” She laughs.

“Oh.”

“Anyway, my child is choking, and I'm praying to Saint Florian, Patron saint of drowning, that's what it was, I remember now. Drowning, because of the tub. Of course, I only learned this later, looked it up at some point because, well, I guess because it seemed to work and I was still scared, and I think I wanted to thank him.” She shakes her head. “I know it's silly, but I was curious about his true derivation. Saint Florian. Patron saint of battles and harvests and drowning. That was it. It was such an odd combination.”

I swallow hard, my mind spinning. Because what are the chances that a prayer to that saint—the patron saint of drowning—kept Frankie Sky from dying from a hole in his heart?

“Francesca . . . ?” She sits down next to me.

“Tell me,” I say, my voice shaking. “Tell me what happened with Frankie after that.”

She touches my hand. “I assumed it was clear. By the time we reached the emergency room, his breath had returned to normal and he was cooing happily. Not pale, not coughing, not gasping. It was a bit embarrassing, actually.”

“And then?”

“Well, at that point, I felt downright silly—a hysterical new mom and all that. It was hard without Charles . . . I figured he had probably just choked on his own saliva in his sleep. I had half a mind to turn around and take him home.”

“But you didn't?”

“No. I was already there. And he was only a few days old. They said I should have him checked out. Better safe than sorry.”

“And that's when they found the hole?”

“Yes, on an echo test and EKG.” Mrs. Schyler stands and walks to the fridge, her eyes darting to the clock over the stove. “Goodness, look at the time. I really must pull us together.”

She grabs the applesauce from the fridge, yells for Frankie again, and buries the pill in a spoonful. “The hole was between the two upper chambers, difficult to get to. The doctors were dumbfounded, because such a large opening should have affected him at birth. He should have been weak, lethargic. There should have been other symptoms. But there hadn't been. Which made them doubt the results. We took him home just fine, and then . . .” Her voice trails off. She takes the amber prescription bottle down from the sink, uncaps it, drops out another pill. “Well, it was as if it just appeared. They said they'd never seen that happen before.”

“So what did you do?”

“As I said, by then, he was fine, so I didn't know what to do. One of the specialists wanted to operate, but that was risky, so we weren't sure.”

“But how could you just leave it there?” It comes out like an accusation, and I blush.

“We didn't just leave it, sweetheart. We thought long and hard on it, Frankie's grandpa Harris and me. By then, Charles was gone . . . so much had happened by then, so we decided to wait a bit, since he wasn't showing any more symptoms. Two weeks later, he was still fine, and when we scanned him again, there was almost no sign of abnormal activity. Little evidence of a tear on EKG. As if the hole had come that night, and then disappeared. As if . . . Well, never mind. That's a whole other story, and we really do have to go.” She turns toward the hallway. “Where is that child? Come, I bet you haven't even seen his room.”

I follow her out of the kitchen and down a long hallway, my head swimming with questions. Potato practically trips me as I walk, following way too close underfoot.

As we reach the end of the hall, I can't help myself and say, “But aren't you worried? What do I do if . . . I mean, what if it happens again?”

She turns around and holds a finger to her lips and whispers, “We can't just sit around worrying, now can we? And it hasn't happened since. So, knock wood, Francesca, the child seems perfectly fine, doesn't he? And he takes the medication, so there's that. But, just in case, I did something silly.” She giggles, almost embarrassedly. “Wait till you see. I went out and bought a statue of Saint Florian. I had to search high and low for one, but I found it and I put it next to his crib. It's been in his room ever since.” She shrugs and turns the knob to Frankie's closed bedroom door. “Maybe my grandmother knew something.”

She opens the door, and Potato rushes in and jumps up onto Frankie's bed. “Frankie,” she says, “you know you're not supposed to close the door.”

The room is big and messy, but meticulously decorated in deep blues, greens, yellows, and oranges. Frogs are everywhere, tree frogs and bullfrogs and tropical frogs, painted on walls, printed across borders, stuffed on his bed and on chairs. It takes my breath away.

“Frankie?” Mrs. Schyler says. He's nowhere to be seen.

She rolls her eyes and nods at the dog, who jumps down from the bed and runs to the far corner, to a small fort made from blankets and sheets pulled over the top of some chairs. Potato stands nose to blanket, tail wagging.

“Frankie, I said we need to go! I told you an hour ago to get ready.”

The blankets rustle.

“Frankie!”

Potato dashes under now, taking the blanket with him, unveiling Frankie crunched in a ball, like Toto unveiling the Wizard. Frankie shoves him away. “Hey, dumb Tato! No fair!” He starts to pull the blanket back over himself, but stops when he sees me. He stands up. “What taked you so long, Beans?”

“I've been here, Frankie,” I say.

“Beans?” Mrs. Schyler raises her eyebrows.

Now I roll my eyes. “A nickname my dad gave me.”

Frankie walks over and sits on his bed, and Potato jumps back up with him. He pats the dog's head. Mrs. Schyler walks to a laundry basket in the corner and retrieves some clothes.

“Would you mind getting him dressed, Francesca?” She hands me the pile and glances at her watch. “I really need to get you kids off to the club.”

I nod and she wanders out. I sit on the bed next to Frankie.

And that's when I see it, the little ivory statue of Saint Florian. He's ugly, wears a long flowing robe and a pointed hat, and holds a bucket and a flag with a cross on it. The patron saint of harvests, fires, and drowning.

My heart nearly stops, because I've seen him before. A bigger version, the first and only time that I went there.

On my mother's desk. At the Drowning Foundation.

Next to a photograph of Simon.