The Summer of Letting Go (9 page)

Monday morning, eight forty-five. I drag my old bike from the back of the garage and bike the short distance to Frankie's house. I lean it against the garage, walk up the steps, and ring the bell. I try to stay calm and focused, but I'm nervous, plus, all I keep thinking about is asking Frankie Sky when his birthday is.

Potato barks and there are rapid footsteps, then Mrs. Schyler's voice, muffled, as she yanks open the door. She's dressed in a black cap-sleeved dress, half-zipped, with white roses printed on it. She has one black pump on her foot, the other in her hand, and a black straw hat on her head. Her cell phone is pressed to her ear, and the dog is scooped under her arm like a pile of laundry.

“Oh, hey, Mrs. Schyler, am I early?”

“No, no, not at all, and it's Brooke, remember? No, you're not early, I'm running late. So sorry.” She closes the door behind me, lets Potato down, and slips the other shoe on her foot. “I'm so very glad that you're here. You have no idea.” She rushes toward the kitchen, still talking, but to me now, I think, not to whoever was on the phone a second ago.

“A dear friend of my father's has died unexpectedly. And, of course, I've only just heard about it this morning. My father, Frankie's Grandpa Harris, is always trying to spare me things. At any rate . . .” But she's lost her thoughts, rifling inside kitchen cabinets.

I look around for Frankie, but he's not here. Maybe he's still sleeping.

“Anyway, I've known the man all my life, and his poor wife, and well, he was like an uncle to me. It's too, too sad, and I simply cannot have my father go alone. Trust me, people can drop on you left and right like flies, and you still never get used to it. He's pretty broken up, as you can imagine.” She stops at the sink and pulls out a bottle of Advil. “Sit, sweetie,” she says.

I nod and sit at the table in the same chair I sat in the other day. Potato darts under and curls up at my feet. Mrs. Schyler pops a few pills, puts the bottle back, then pulls out an amber prescription bottle and taps out some pills onto the counter. I look away as she swallows them down. I feel like somehow I'm intruding.

“Headache,” she says, sighing. “So, now, where was I? Oh yes, good, I've nearly got everything together.”

She grabs a large box of Cheerios that's open on the counter and dumps some into a plastic snack baggie. Several pieces go skittering to the floor. I get up to clean them, but Potato beats me to it. “Good doggie,” Mrs. Schyler says, kicking a few toward him with the tip of her shoe. She tosses the baggie into a canvas beach bag that also sits on the counter. A pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and blue water wings with yellow inflation tabs are piled alongside that.

“Anyway, it's supposed to be a scorcher today, and I'll probably be gone for several hours. So I figured I'd drop you and Frankie at the club. Is that all right, Francesca? Better than being stuck here at home, yes? You do have a suit with you?”

I nod and tug at the bikini straps under my T-shirt to show her, but she doesn't turn around.

“At least you'll have access to the pool there, although be sure not to let Frankie dive, will you? But, goodness, listen to me. Telling you things you already know.” She finally turns and looks at me. “Good Lord, why is that child so completely convinced he can swim?”

She says it like she thinks I might have an answer. Images of souls, like translucent, stretched-out angels, float up through my brain, clouding any logical response. But Mrs. Schyler isn't waiting for one anyway; she's already dashed from the room.

Several minutes pass before she returns. “Goodness, some days . . .” she says, practically dragging Frankie behind her. He's working at the ties on his swim trunks. “We couldn't find the right ones, with the right frogs.” She rolls her eyes at me, lets go of Frankie, and starts scooping the stuff from the counter into the canvas bag.

“Needed these frogs,” Frankie says, “because they are the bestest ones!” He looks at me and flips a shy wave.

Mrs. Schyler winks now. “He wanted to look perfect for you.”

I can't help but smile. “Hi, Frankie Sky,” I say.

“Hi, Frankie Snell,” he giggles.

I reach over to help Mrs. Schyler. “No, no, I've got it,” she says, tossing the water wings in and sliding the bag onto her shoulder. A small pink pill, unstuck from the bag's bottom, drops to the floor. I pick it up and hold it out to her.

Mrs. Schyler looks at it in my palm and drops the bag back on the counter. “Oh shoot, I nearly forgot. Frankie, come. Right now.”

She grabs the pill from my hand, applesauce from the fridge, and a spoon from a drawer and buries the pill in the sauce. Frankie stays back, but Mrs. Schyler says, “Now, sweetheart, we really don't have time.” He walks forward, mouth open, and allows her to feed it to him. She tosses the spoon in the sink. “Good, let's go,” she says, returning the applesauce to the fridge.

“Is he sick?” I ask, following them through the living room.

“Potato, stay!” She uses a foot to keep him back as Frankie and I squeeze out the front door. “What, dear?” she asks, struggling to open the car door.

I help to load stuff and buckle Frankie into his booster seat. Mrs. Schyler backs out of the driveway and pulls into the street. I wait for her to answer my question now, but she's focused on the road as she maneuvers us toward the club.

“Is Frankie sick, Mrs. Schyler?” I finally ask again. “I mean, if he's sick, I think I should know.” She turns and looks at me, confused. “The pink pill,” I clarify.

“Oh no. Not sick, not at all. Well, not exactly. The pill is purely prophylactic. For protection, that is. Frankie was born with a condition. Well, we think he was . . . It's called an atrial septal defect.”

“A what defect?” I think of Frankie that day, standing in the tree, saying even my grandpa can't fix me, and suddenly I'm not sure I really want more information.

“A hole in his heart,” she says, pulling into the club parking lot. “But I promise you, it sounds way worse than it is.”

Mrs. Schyler chatters happily, rushing us through the lobby of the club, but I can't focus. I mean, how can having a hole in your heart sound worse than it is?

“I'm sorry to leave you on your own like this your very first day, but I know you'll be fine. And, of course, Henry—well, that's Mr. Habberstaad—is my father's good friend. Did Frankie mention that? So don't let his cranky self fool you. You have any trouble, you go to him. He's just a mushy old teddy bear inside.” She winks at me and keeps walking.

The club's lobby is at the other end from Mr. Habberstaad's office. There are red leather couches and chandeliers, a few big-screen TVs scattered around the walls, all showing the same golf game, and there's a pro shop across the way. I know I've been here before, but it feels fuzzy and different, like in a dream. Then again, everything feels like that from the time before my brother died.

Mrs. Schyler points out the bathrooms, the members-only dining hall, and a large library with another big television and fancy board game tables in case it rains. Frankie heads toward the TV, but Mrs. Schyler yanks him back. “Not now, Frankie, we're going outside to the pool! Where was I? Oh yes, Mr. Forrester, my father, has a tab here. So when you're hungry, you and Frankie can simply head to the dining room and eat, then sign for it at the end. Just write the number 4285 on the check. Well, trust me, Frankie knows how to do it. Plus, you're officially on my member guest list here, so you should have no problems at all.”

We've reached the hallway that runs past Mr. Habberstaad's office and out through the back door to the pool. “Oh, and if Frankie gets bored, there's a wonderful playground just across the street. You know it?” I nod. “Yes, of course. So feel free to take him there.” She glances around as if to see if she's forgetting something. “Well, then, I'm sure you have it all under control.” She kneels in front of Frankie and holds his shoulders. “Now listen to me, Frankie, you be good, you promise?” She kisses his cheek and stands, then rushes back down the hall.

I look at the closed door to Mr. Habberstaad's office, where I was summoned just a few days ago, wondering what I have gotten myself into.

Well, at least this time I'm not trespassing.

“Let's go to the pool, Frankie Snell,” Frankie says, not seeming to mind that his mother has gone. He grabs my hand and pushes his whole body against the door.

“You can just call me Frankie,” I say, helping him to open it. “You don't have to keep saying my last name.”

“Two Frankies is too confusing,” he says. “We can't both be Frankies, right?”

“Well, if you want, you can call me Beans.” I say it without thinking, and the minute I have, I'm sorry. That's all I need is Frankie calling me Beans around here, especially with Peter Pintero listening.

I'm about to retract it, but Frankie looks up at me, his eyes wide and smiling. “Really? Beans is your nother name? Because I like it so much!” So there's no way I can take it back now.

“Okay, fine, but only you, Frankie.” I squat to his level and hold my fingers to my lips. “It's a private name. So don't go telling other people.”

“Why?”

“Because it's special. Only my dad calls me Beans. Well, and also my friend Lisette.”

“And me!” he says delightedly.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. “And you.”

• • •

The pool is quiet after the holiday weekend. Only a handful of people fill the lounge chairs. But, of course, it's still early.

I look around quickly, wondering if Mrs. Merrill is here, but I didn't see her car in the lot, and the back section of the pool where she usually sits is empty. I tell myself I should stop worrying about it anyway, since even if Dad is fooling around with her, he's clearly not doing it here.

I follow Frankie toward the pool, where he stakes out two chairs up front. Great. My eyes dart to the lifeguard chair. Peter Pintero is staring at me.

I give a little wave, slightly pleased that he's probably wondering how the heck I got in here through the main entrance. Then again, I guess it's clear that I'm here with Frankie Sky. Still, it feels like a victory, so I smile a bit to myself. Peter nods back at me, but doesn't give anything away.

I drop the heavy canvas bag near my chair, slip off my shorts and my T-shirt, and adjust my bikini while Frankie runs off to get towels. He has to stand on tippy toes to reach the counter where the towels are folded and he knocks a few down, so I rush over to help him gather them.

“Good work, Frankie,” I say when we've returned and laid them out on our chairs. I lie back and let the sun's warmth soak into me.

“Let's go, Beans!” Frankie tugs my arm.

“Shhh.” I open an eye at him, but can't make out his features against the bright sun. “You can't just yell Beans out like that, I told you. It's a private name, remember? And anyway, Frankie, we just got here. Let's warm up for a bit.”

“Don't wanna warm, Beans. Wanna swim! You said you will teach me.”

Shoot. Not exactly. My eyes shift to Peter again. I guess I could try. There's a lifeguard here, at least, and I knew how to before. “Okay, fine, Frankie. Give me a second.”

I sit up and dig through the bag for the water wings that Mrs. Schyler packed. One of them has slid down to the bottom, and by the time I fish it out, Frankie is running toward the pool.

“Hey, mister!” I yell. “Get back here now! You need to put on the wings.”

“I don't like wings!” he calls, charging for the deep end. I run after him, shouting, and grab his arm hard.

“You'd better not touch that pool unless I'm with you, do you hear me? Don't you dare touch that water alone!” My body shakes, and I know it comes out harsher than I mean. Frankie's lip quivers. I let go of his arm. “Don't cry, Frankie,” I say, kneeling to eye level. “You just need to put on your water wings. And stay in the shallow end. I'm not the best swimmer, and I don't want you ever to get hurt.”

“Frankie won't get hurt. And those are not wings. Wings are to fly. Those are tighty things that pinch me when you blow them on.”

I laugh because, well, because he's ridiculous, but also because, technically, he makes a point. They're not wings. I have no idea why they call them that. He laughs, too, and wraps his hands around my neck, bringing his face right up to mine. “I is funny?” he says, breathing his Cheerio breath up my nose.

I move him back a little so we can see straight into each other's eyes, so he can see how serious I am. “Yes, you are funny, but you still need to wear the floaty things.”

He shakes his head. “Frankie Sky knows how to swim. I tolded you that already, so please can we go in now?”

“Okay,” I say, “but no wings means we stay on the steps.” I'm a little relieved to have an excuse not to go in.

He pouts a little, but takes my hand and pulls me toward the shallow end. I leave the water wings deflated by our chairs, take a deep breath, and wade in with him onto the first step.

The water is cool and crisp, a perfect sparkling teal. The red-and-white peppermint inner tube bobs along the opposite edge. My eyes keep darting up to Peter, but he's got his head tipped back like he's sleeping.

Frankie tugs me and we wade down a second step. I fight the dizziness that washes over me and keep my grasp on Frankie, who I can feel is trying to break free.

“Let go, Beans, I can stand here by myself.” And I do let go, because he's pulling me in farther than I'm ready to go.

“Frankie . . .”

He stops on the second to last step, the waterline up to his chin. He turns around slowly and smiles at me. “Hurry, Beans, what is taking you?”

“Come up one more step where you can stand better, and I'll tell you.” I reach out and he shakes his head, but then catches the look on my face and takes my hand. “You want to have a contest, Frankie? See who can hold their breath the longest? We'll put our faces in and count. You can go first, then I will. That's important to do, to work on our breath, before we keep learning to swim.”

“Yep, I do,” he says.

“Okay then, stand right here with me. You put your face in and I'll count until you come up again.”

He takes a giant breath and puffs his cheeks out and ducks his face under. He pops back up, huffing and puffing, about two seconds later.

“Five!” I say anyway. “Pretty good, Frankie.”

“Now it's your turn, Beans!” He grabs the railing and swings from it, his feet off the steps but in water. My heart lurches. I glance up. Peter is paying absolutely no attention.

“Okay, but while I go you have to hold on and put your feet down.” He drops them, and with my heart still racing, I hold my breath and force my face under.

Everything grows quiet. I can hear Frankie's voice in the distance. “Four, five, six . . .”

I slowly open my eyes.

Everything is liquid and blue. And, like riding a bike, it suddenly all comes back to me. How to hold my nose closed from the inside and just let myself be submerged. As if everything underwater settles down.

I move my head from side to side and watch strands of my hair sway like brown seaweed. The sunlight filters down through the surface in rays, and particles drift through them like silvery glitter. Beyond me, Frankie's chubby legs dance on the steps as he counts.

“Eleven and twelve and thirteen . . . !”

When he reaches twenty, I come up even though I don't need to, because I don't want Frankie to feel bad.

“Twenty!” he yells. “You gotted twenty, Beans!” He's got this huge grin on his face, which fills me completely with happiness. “My turn again!” he says, then barely takes time for a breath and goes under. I count super fast this time, making it to fifteen before he comes up panting.

We play this game for what feels like another fifty rounds before I notice that Mrs. Merrill has arrived. She sits in her usual chair, talking on her cell phone in the corner. I glance at the giant white clock on the clubhouse. It's almost eleven thirty already.

“Come on, Frankie. Enough water. Let's dry off and maybe get some lunch and hit the playground.”

“Okay,” he says. “Lunch, yep. And then we can go on the merry-go-round.”

“Yep,” I say, the way he does. “Then we can go on the merry-go-round. But first dry off and get lunch.”

I try to stall things a bit so I can keep an eye on Mrs. Merrill. Which isn't too hard, since Frankie doesn't want to get dressed until the sun dries every drop of water off his body. Finally, I help him peel off his swim trunks and switch to his shorts and sneakers. As we're about to go inside, I sit back down and tell Frankie we need to wait. Because at eleven forty-five, like clockwork, Mrs. Merrill stands up and heads toward her cabana. I watch discreetly as she taps past us, disappearing behind the white-shuttered door.

“Come on, Beans. We're hungry. Let's go get lunch.”

“Hold on, Frankie. I've got to stay here for one more minute.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm watching someone.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to.”

“Okay.”

He sits down next to me and looks in the direction I'm looking. “Where is the person?”

“She went in her cabana.”

“Oh. Where is her banana?”

I laugh. “Not banana, cabana. Those doors, over there.” I nod with my chin.

“Oh, yep, right,” he says, and slips his hand in mine and squeezes.

One minute passes, then another, then it must be close to ten. Frankie gets antsy, kicks his feet against the chair, plays with the seafoam green vinyl bands stretched across them. I can't say I blame him. There's nothing to see. How long am I going to sit here once again, waiting for Mrs. Merrill to emerge?

“Never mind,” I say. “We can go. Come on.”

“Okay.” He takes my hand and pulls me toward the club entrance.

In the dining room, the waiter comes to take our order right away. Frankie says, “Hi, mister. We are Forrester, 4285. Please put it on our tab.”

The waiter laughs and says, “You got it, Frankie.”

He brings a bread basket and pours us water, and Frankie orders mac and cheese with apple juice while I get a burger with fries.

“You're good, Frankie,” I say when the waiter leaves. “How do you know how to do all this stuff?”

“I am special,” he says. “My Grandpa Harris tolded me that.”

All of a sudden, I remember the pink pill and the hole in Frankie's heart.

“Special how, Frankie?”

“Because I have a boo-boo in my heart.” He shrugs. “But it only hurted me once, so we don't need to worry. Also, because I knowed how to fly, because Grandpa Harris says I is an angel and magic.”

“You can't really fly, Frankie.” I don't mean to sound mad, but I know I do. I'm not sure why. The conversation is making me anxious.

Frankie touches my hand with his fingers and gives me a serious look. “Yes, I can, Beans.”

I look hard at him. “Frankie, do you think that maybe your grandpa just meant that one day, when you're really, really old and you die, that maybe then you'll be an angel and fly up to heaven, but not now?”

“No. Not then. Now, Beans. Because Grandpa said if Frankie got dead from the heart booboo, then it's okay, because Daddy is in heaven and Frankie is an angel and will fly up there. Because angels have wings and can fly. Well, also, birds can fly.” I roll my eyes, but Frankie says, “Is true, Beans, angels and birds can fly. Oh, and airplanes.”

“Fine, Frankie, I know. Whatever.” And thankfully, the waiter brings our food, because I don't want to talk about this anymore.

Frankie tucks his napkin in his shirt and forks a mouthful of macaroni up to his mouth, then stops and blows. “Can't eat it yet 'cause it's hot,” he says. I nod. “And Beans is wrong. Frankie can fly, and that is true, so no more talk about that.”