The Summer of Letting Go (3 page)

I wander Lisette's neighborhood for a bit, then cut across the field to the elementary school and toward the playground. Except for a few preteen boys on the basketball court, the place is deserted. I sit on the swings and pump my legs. These are the same swings Lisette and I spent hundreds of recesses on, swinging so high we made the metal poles bump in and out of the foundation.

I swing low, dragging my toes through the worn sand trench beneath me. When I tire of that, I walk back and forth across the wood beam that Lisette and I used to pretend was a modeling runway.

“Eyes closed, back straight,” Lisette would instruct, patting my butt with a long stick she found to use as a pointer. “Keep your toes forward. Perfectly lined up.” It seemed so hard back then, to copy her and traverse the beam without falling. Now it seems stupidly easy.

I swallow back a lump in my throat. I miss Lisette. I miss us. I know I was just at her house, but we're not quite us anymore. Something is off between us. There's a crack turning into a chasm. It keeps stretching wider and wider.

My hand moves reflexively to my throat, to where my half of our shared heart pendant used to be. But, of course, it's not there anymore. At the start of high school, we agreed they were babyish and put them away for safekeeping. Now, the empty spot makes me nostalgic for how we used to be.

A particular day pops into my head that I haven't thought about in a long time. It's a few months after Simon died and we're having a sleepover. It's a long weekend, and I'm there at the Sutters' house for the third night in a row, so it almost feels like I live there. I remember this, how I keep thinking I can pretend to be a Sutter, pretend I live with them and have two older brothers who love me, and not a baby brother who drowned.

Anyway, for most of the day we've been playing this dumb game we always play even if we're getting too old to play it. We're grown-ups, married, with jobs and make-believe husbands. After “work,” we come home and make out with them, and Lisette even pretends to have sex. Then we clean and cook dinner and all sit around the table to eat.

Lisette's husband is always named Roger, and mine is always named Dan. Even though we know it doesn't make sense that we live together, we don't care, because that's what makes the game so much fun.

We're eating dinner and everything's going fine, until Lisette looks up from her plate over lit candles and her fake grape-juice wine.

“Oh my God! Roger!” she yells, and runs to where Roger sits—well, now seems to be keeled over. She pulls at him and starts to cry.

Turns out, Roger is having a heart attack. Turns out, Roger has died. “Oh, dear God, just like that?” Lisette wails. “Right here at our kitchen table?”

For the next several hours, we weep, write eulogies, and have a big, sad funeral for which we dress in black, which her mother has plenty of, since her father does all the local ceremonies. It takes us all night. Most of the time we're giggling, but partly I'm secretly overcome with this terrible sense of loss, this feeling that Lisette is ending things and moving on without my permission.

Later that night in bed, I ask, “So, why did you do it, Zette?”

“Do what?”

“Kill Roger. You know.”

She laughs. “I didn't kill him, Beans, he died. Didn't you see it? He fell right down on the table and died. I'm sure it was his heart. It just gave out. Must've been all the crappy food he ate. I begged him, you know . . . I can't help it if he died.” I give her a look. “What? He should have eaten better then, right?” She smiles.

“Zette!”

“What? It's been, like, years, Beans. I got bored of him. He was a very boring man.”

“You did? He was?” This information worries me. I'd never thought of Lisette as the type to get bored of someone, to just be done with them, especially when I didn't see it coming. “I mean, you made him up, Zette! If he was boring you, couldn't you have fixed him? Or divorced him? Marry some new guy? I mean, what are we going to do now?”

Lisette must sense that at any minute I might cry, because she grabs the brush from her nightstand and pulls me over so that I'm sitting between her legs. She always does this when I'm upset, brushes my hair with her special abalone-shell brush.

Lisette says she loves my hair because it's straight like silk, instead of crazy and wavy like hers. But her hair is pretty, blond, and full of body, while mine is plain and brown. Still, it works, and the teary feeling passes.

The brush is precious because it's a part of a set her grandmother gave her for her birthday. An antique that comes with a mirror and comb. The shell mosaics on the handles are iridescent purples and blues and greens.

I always love when she brushes my hair because it makes me feel cared for without words. In the weeks after Simon died, it was one of the things that saved me.

“I told you, Beans,” she says again as she strokes, “I didn't kill Roger. He died.”

“Well, what if you get bored with me?”

“Don't be silly. I never would.”

“But what if you do? What if you have a real boyfriend, or a real husband, and they're more important to you? Or what if you find a new friend? A better friend? A friend who doesn't have so many problems, like I do?

“You don't have problems, Beans.” I twist and look at her. She rolls her eyes and turns me back around. “You don't. I mean, your brother died, so of course that's hard for you. But you're fine. Besides, your hair is straight and silky and fun to brush, so how could I ever get bored with you?” She taps me on the shoulder, letting me know it's my turn.

We switch positions, and I hold her thick, gorgeous locks in my hands. “Well, promise me anyway that you won't.”

“I promise. Plus, we have our hearts, remember?”

I grasp the half heart locket that rests beneath my nightgown. “Yes, I remember,” I say.

• • •

I step off the beam and take the shortcut out of the playground, leaving our old kid ghosts behind. When I reach our block, I see Dad's car in the driveway. Two weeks ago, this would have made me happy. Now, it only worries me.

I slow my pace, my eyes shifting from our driveway to Mrs. Merrill's. Her black Mercedes is there, alone.

No big deal. Dad came home early. He's in our house. And Mrs. Merrill's in hers. He knows school is out. He wouldn't do something so stupid.

As I approach our house, relief floods me. Our front door is open. Dad's inside like I knew he was.

I head slowly up our stoop like my feet are stuck in molasses, stopping to kiss my fingers and touch them to Simon's frog, who's now covered by a periwinkle sea of forget-me-nots that shoot up around him each spring. I open the screen door and call for Dad, but no answer. A glass pitcher of Mom's unsweetened iced tea sweats on the kitchen counter. A few bloated lemon slices drift atop the weak brown mixture. Next to it, a glass of nearly melted ice.

I yell for Dad again. No answer. I turn and stare out the window.

I know like snow that he's in there.

I pour some tea into the glass of melted ice (still cold, so that's good—he couldn't have been gone long) and drink it down, trying to decide what to do. Then I head back out, my heart pounding so hard it hurts.

I cross the lawn. More molasses. When I reach our curb, I stop dead.

Mrs. Merrill's front door has opened. I can see Dad standing inside through the screen.

He's turned sideways, talking. He swings the screen open and waves at me. A stupid, casual wave.

My chest seizes with panic, my pulse banging inside my own ears.

The sun beats down hard. Dad smiles and starts walking, Mrs. Merrill's door closing behind him.

My life is falling apart.

Dad walks toward me, whistling some perky tune. He's still in his work clothes, a jar raised in his hand. I stare at the jar, all sorts of rants racing through my brain. Breathe, Frankie, breathe. It's no big deal that Dad was inside Mrs. Merrill's house. Just don't let there be some dumb alibi.

He crosses the street to our side, holds the jar out to me, and gives me a cheesy smile. The fake Cheshire cat kind I hate. The one he uses to sell houses.

“Hey, Beans.” He shakes the jar. White crystals shimmer in the sunshine. “I didn't realize you were back.”

“What were you doing in there?” My voice is accusatory.

“We needed sugar. I borrowed some,” he says, like I'm naive. He ruffles my hair.

My breath stops completely.

Maybe this will be the moment I finally fade away.

The sun seeps through the leaves, baking me where I sit in the far corner at the Hamlet Dunes Country Club pool.

I'm here for one reason only, which is that there's a full box of Domino sugar in our cereal cabinet where it always is, in all its bright yellow glory.

I mean, borrowing sugar must be the lamest alibi ever.

In fact, in the four years that Mrs. Merrill has lived across from us, we have never once borrowed a thing from her. Not sugar, not cinnamon, not cooking oil, not eggs. Not even toilet paper. We're just not the borrowing type of neighbors.

Not to mention, Dad left for work late again this morning, in singularly unbusinesslike clothes. Right after which, Mrs. Merrill took off in her black Mercedes-Benz.

And there she sits, in her sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat, occasionally looking at the clock. But absolutely no sign of my dad. Which I wish I could read into, except I can't because it took me so long to get here. Because when I went downstairs this morning, my mother was sitting in the kitchen.

Now, why my mom—who should have been long gone to the Foundation—was still home at ten a.m. on a weekday was beyond me. But there she was, reading the paper, a mug of hot tea pressed in her hands despite the ninety-degree day.

I tucked my bikini straps under my T-shirt and prayed the green top wouldn't show through. I had no good explanation for where I was going.

“Morning.” I skirted past her.

“Francesca, good morning.” She looked up and smiled, but not fast enough to cover the flash of disappointment that's always there when she realizes it's me.

It might bother me less if I couldn't remember the way she was before, but I can.

I remember how she'd sit on the floor and play jacks and board games with me. We'd bake muffins and eat them hot from the oven, snuggled up watching Saturday-morning cartoons.

I can still remember the feeling of us squished together on the couch while Simon marched around us with his plastic vacuum toy with the brightly colored popping beads. I try hard not to notice that we never do that anymore, not since Simon died. I tell myself I've gotten too old for such things, and it isn't because my own mother can't love me anymore. Or even call me Frankie, like she used to.

Anyway. I grabbed the English muffins from the fridge, popped one in the toaster, and sat down across from her.

“So, how come you're home?”

“Not sure. I overslept.” Her eyes registered a speck of hurt, as if I'd accused her of something, which, I guess, maybe I had. It's just that she was never home after Dad left for work in the mornings. “Maybe it's the weather, the change of pace with summer. The Foundation's been quiet. I guess people don't like to deal with such issues in the summer, which, of course, is the most important time.”

I looked away at the clock. I hated this part about the pools and drowning and the Foundation.

“Or maybe I needed a break,” she added. “It's nice out. I thought I'd have breakfast with your father.” I must've made some noise because her eyes took me in with surprise, as if she'd forgotten I was there. “It's just that I thought he was staying home, but apparently he had some business in the office this morning.”

My heart sank deep, weighted by a steel anchor. It was as if Mom sensed something was wrong, too, and had stayed home to try to prevent it.

A tee-off-time page comes over the club's loudspeaker, pulling me back to the present. I glance at the clock. Eleven forty a.m. In ten more minutes, I'll give up this pointless Nancy Drew charade and go home.

I lie back down and let thoughts of Frankie Sky drift through my brain. Why do I wish he was here?

I stare over at the picture window of the clubhouse. The dining room tables have begun to fill, and I catch glimpses of waiters, of the hostess seating slow-moving old men in their plaid pants and polo shirts. I've been in there before—sleepy buffet breakfasts with my family during summers before Simon died. Now it's hard to remember. As if that were someone else, as if my life's been split in two. A reverse makeover. The Frankie before and after her brother died.

Across the pool, Mrs. Merrill stands. I cover my face again, my pulse ramping up for a change. One of these times, I'm going to give myself a real heart attack.

She puts on her hat and sandals and loads her belongings into her big straw bag as if she's getting ready to leave. I slouch lower, though I'm not sure she'd even know who I am.

She checks her cell phone and tosses that into the bag, too. Is she waiting for someone? Is that someone my father? If it is, and he comes here, what will I do then?

I concoct a vague alibi in my brain about this girl in my grade named Michelle Greenhut. I'm pretty sure her family belongs here. I'll say Michelle invited me but got sick and went home, and I was about to leave. It's not great, but Mrs. Merrill's in motion, so it's going to have to do.

I slink lower and watch her tap, tap across the brick patio, weaving her way between lounge chairs, cutting a path around the pool toward the cabanas.

I study her. Her cover-up is braided tan macramé, with glittery gold flecks that shimmer in the sunlight. A chocolate brown one-piece with gold and turquoise medallions peeks through. The medallions jangle softly when she walks. Her legs are long and shapely. Her toenails are painted pomegranate red.

Everything about her is sophisticated.

She reminds me of an actress, and I wonder if she's ever been one. Maybe when she was younger, before she moved here with her husband. For the first time, I find myself really considering her—why she lives here in the suburbs of Long Island instead of somewhere exciting like Los Angeles or, at least, Manhattan.

She has no children. No dogs. Why would she choose to move here?

I watch as she slips a key from her purse and quickly disappears inside.

I count out the minutes waiting for her to reemerge. Five full minutes pass, but the door to the cabana stays closed.

Six minutes.

The sun bakes down.

I slide to the edge of my chaise and stare out over the pool. Where's Frankie Sky? Why isn't he here? Maybe his mother's been banned.

I let my eyes skim across the pool's blue surface. In the shallow end, a round white inner tube with red stripes bobs along like a giant peppermint, bumping against the sides. The water calls to me, calm and inviting. I wish I could just walk over to the deep end like Frankie Sky had done, reach up my arms, and dive in.

Simon slips past like a shadow, but I ignore it, willing him to go away. I used to know how to swim. One of these days I should force myself back in.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peter stand up and slither down from the lifeguard stand. It's 11:52. He walks across the deck to the back door of the club and goes inside. I glance toward the cabanas. Mrs. Merrill's door is still closed.

I stand up and walk nonchalantly toward it, stopping at the far end of the pool, as if I could hear anything from here. I don't want to look too suspicious, so I step closer to the edge of the pool and bend my knee just enough to dunk a toe in. The water sends a chill through my body.

I glance at the cabanas.

Nothing.

Which means my work here at the Hamlet Dunes Country Club pool is done.

I head back to my chair to gather my things to leave, but change my mind and walk decisively to the pool's edge and sit, knees bent to my chest. What do I have to rush home to?

I dunk one leg in, then the other.

Breathe.

I move my feet in small circles, making the water spin inward like liquid tornados. I could get caught in them, let them suck me under. One more chance to disappear.

I lean forward and sink my arms in, nearly up to my elbows. At least a third of me is technically in the water. I close my eyes and hold them there, letting the goose bumps prickle and the memories of my baby brother slip in.