Barefoot Summer

by Denise Hunter

  He looked away, but not before she saw something else in his face. Something that sparked a flare of dread.

  “There’s something I need to talk to you about. Something long overdue.”

  “Okay . . . you can tell me anything. You know that.” After all, hadn’t she spilled her guts to him several days ago? Hadn’t he held her in his capable arms, spoken to her so tenderly?

  “Madison, it—it’s about Michael.”

  She looked at him. What could he have to say about her brother? “Michael?”

  “There’s something you don’t know. Something no one knows, about the day he . . . died.”

  She shook her head. “What?”

  He settled back against the door. He was distancing himself from her, and she let him go, feeling the need for some space herself. She watched his face, trying to get a read.

  His gaze swung over her shoulder, his expression changing. His eyes narrowed. She’d thought he was lost in thought, but then his lips pressed together.

  “Great,” he said.

  She followed his gaze and saw his dad leaving the bar. He wore a baseball cap, and a loose plaid shirt flapped over his jeans. There was a clumsy shuffle to his walk that made it obvious he’d had too much to drink.

  Madison frowned as he approached a red car. It was clear he was planning to drive home.

  Beckett was out of the truck before she could speak.

  His dad turned at Beckett’s approach. They had words, but Madison couldn’t hear through the windows. A minute later Beckett walked his dad to the truck, a hand on his elbow. Madison scooted over to make room as Beckett opened the door, her mind still on the conversation Beckett had started.

  “Hi, Mr. O’Reilly,” she said after Beckett shut the door.

  He frowned at her.

  “I’m Madison, remember?”

  Beckett got in and started the truck.

  “The ’Kinley girl.”

  “Right.”

  He frowned, then his brows popped up. “The twin,” he said too loudly.

  “Dad, why don’t you just lie back and rest.” Beckett’s voice was sharp.

  “My car,” Mr. O’Reilly said.

  “We’ll get it tomorrow.” Beckett’s jaw muscles twitched as he backed out onto Main Street. “We’ll have to come back for your grandpa,” he said to Madison.

  “That’s fine. We still have ten minutes.”

  Mr. O’Reilly tugged his cap down. “Usta work for your dad shometimes. The McKinleys.”

  “You did?”

  “Me ’n Beckett, in the shummertime.”

  “Can you put his seat belt on?” Beckett asked.

  Madison did as he asked, turning away from the stench of alcohol. “Where do you work now, Mr. O’Reilly?”

  “He’s sloshed, hon. Let’s just get him home.”

  As if on cue, Mr. O’Reilly slumped in the seat, his head conking the window.

  She could feel the waves of tension rolling off Beckett. He must be embarrassed, though he had no reason to be. He wasn’t responsible for his dad’s behavior. She wondered if Beckett had talked to him about rehab.

  A few minutes later Beckett turned onto his street, braking for a cat. It had gotten quiet in the car, and she thought Mr. O’Reilly had dozed off until he muttered something.

  Beckett pulled into his drive and put the truck in park.

  Mr. O’Reilly shot straight up. “Shhhhhhhhh!” His spittle hit Madison on the neck. “It’s a shecret!”

  “Dad! Wake up. We’re home.” Beckett got out, rushed around the truck.

  Madison unbuckled Mr. O’Reilly and held him steady until Beckett had him.

  “Need some help?”

  “I got him.”

  Beckett half carried his dad up the porch and into the house, struggling through the door. The lights came on, and their shadows passed in front of the window.

  Beckett returned a few minutes later, his jawline taut, his nose flaring. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  He started the truck and backed out. The night had gone downhill, and it wasn’t over yet. She wanted to ask Beckett about his dad, but his words about Michael teased her. She wondered now if he’d still want to talk about it. She hoped he wouldn’t leave her hanging.

  A few minutes later he pulled into the parallel slot in front of the town hall. The mood had shifted drastically. Now the air was thick with tension, and she wasn’t sure how to break it. Fortunately they didn’t have to wait long.

  Grandpa came out of the building, and Madison waved him over. His presence eased the tension as he regaled them with Bingo night stories. Before she knew it, he was getting out of the truck.

  “Thanks for the ride,” he said.

  “Good night, Grandpa.”

  “’Night, Mr. McKinley.”

  After watching him go inside, they drove to Madison’s house in silence. When Beckett pulled in the drive, she saw Lulu part the curtains with her nose. Madison reached for the handle, but Beckett stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  She looked at him in the darkness of the cab. The light from a streetlamp trickled in, lighting his face. Worry lines creased his forehead and separated his brows. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He met her eyes. “I have to tell you something, Madison.”

  Everything inside her went still. Frozen still. And for a minute she wanted to stop him. Because the look on his face promised she wouldn’t like it, whatever it was.

  “Something about Michael?”

  “Yes.”

  She drew a breath, tried to prepare herself for upsetting news. “Okay.”

  His thumb rubbed her arm, a nervous gesture, she thought.

  “Madison . . . I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you . . . I was there that day. The day he died.”

  Her heart raced, making her own breaths shallow. She shook her head. Michael had been swimming alone.

  “I was.” His hand had gone still. His eyes became more intense. He tightened his grip on her arm.

  She’d never understood how the accident had happened. Another person at the scene would explain everything, wouldn’t it? She had to know the truth, but she had a terrible feeling something worse was coming.

  She swallowed hard, gathered her courage. “What happened?” Even as the words slipped out, she wanted to pull them back.

  “I was swimming at the river. Michael showed up. We talked a little, joked around, and—” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  She recognized the look now. The one that had come over his face. Guilt. She recognized it because she’d lived with it herself for so long.

  Something welled up inside that crowded her lungs, made it hard to breathe. “What did you do?” Her voice had risen. Her eyes burned. “What did you do to him?”

  He turned to her, taking her hand. “Let’s go inside and talk.”

  She pulled her hand away. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”

  “Madison. Please.”

  “What did you do to him?”

  “I didn’t do anything to him. Let me explain.”

  She waited, all out of encouragement. She crossed her arms over her stomach, a barrier that couldn’t begin to keep out the hurt.

  “Michael started talking about the cliff there at Turner’s Bend. Wondering if it was true what they said—that it was too shallow to dive there. I told him I’d done it before. He didn’t believe me . . . so I did it right then.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He was looking out the front windshield now, his face inscrutable. “Afterward, we were messing around.” He stared out the window for a long time, his eyes fading away like he’d gone back to that day. Then he closed his eyes. “I told him it was his turn.”

  She shook her head. But the somber look on his face made denial difficult. Her heart squeezed painfully. She was almost afraid to ask, wasn’t sure she wanted to know
. “What happened next?”

  Beckett shook his head. “Nothing. He said no thanks or something. He didn’t want to risk it. I messed with him a little, then I left.” He turned to her. “It never occurred to me he’d do it after I left.”

  Madison looked away because she suddenly wanted to look anywhere but into Beckett’s guilty face.

  He took her arm. “I swear, it never occurred to me—”

  She jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Madison—”

  “All this time you knew . . . and you said nothing.”

  He winced, but she didn’t care. Beckett was still alive, and her brother was dead.

  All the ugly darkness from that day welled up inside, flooding through her. All this time, the wondering, the pain, the loss. All this time, it had been Beckett’s fault. She knew that wasn’t quite rational, but he’d been there. He’d teased her brother, and if he hadn’t been there, Michael never would’ve jumped. Never would’ve died.

  It was more than she could stand. She grabbed her purse and got out of the truck. She didn’t want to see his face anymore. Didn’t want to think about Michael being taunted by Beckett or feeling like he had something to prove. Some stupid, pointless act that led to his death.

  She hurried across the driveway and up her porch steps.

  “Madison, wait.”

  Her sight blurred with the sting of tears. Her lungs couldn’t seem to keep up with her heart. Her heart. If felt as if it had gone through a combine; had been reaped, threshed, and winnowed in the space of five minutes. Just when she thought she was starting in the right direction, this. It’s more than I can handle, God. Beckett of all people. I was starting to think I—

  She’d managed to fit the key in the knob when he took her shoulders, turned her. “Please, Madison, I know I should’ve admitted this long ago. I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry I am. If I could go back and do it over—”

  She pushed him away. “Well, you can’t! He’s gone. He’s gone because of you.”

  She thought of all the suffering his foolishness had cost. Not only hers, but her parents’, her siblings’. She saw her mom weeping at the graveside, her dad crumpled on the floor of the barn when he’d thought he was alone.

  She remembered her own grief, the dark days afterward when she couldn’t crawl out of bed. The years of nightmares, the lack of sleep, and worst of all, the terrible emptiness inside from missing her brother.

  Beckett was the cause of it all. And instead of coming forward, he’d left them wondering. He’d seen her suffering firsthand. Had held her in his arms as she’d wept. He knew exactly what he’d done. “You of all people . . .”

  “I’m telling you now . . .”

  She wiped the tears from her face in a jerky motion. “You should’ve told me sooner. You owed me that much. I thought you—” Loved me. She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Couldn’t bear to think it now, because his silence had been a betrayal.

  “What can I do? What can I do, honey?”

  She looked at him, telling herself she was immune to the endearment. Immune to the tears swimming in his eyes. Immune to the defeat in his slumped shoulders.

  She swallowed hard and blinked back the tears. “You can go away, Beckett, that’s what you can do. You can just go away and leave me alone.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE NEXT DAY DRAGGED LIKE A BOAT RUN AGROUND. MADISON had too many hours to fill, too many unwanted thoughts. She ignored a voice mail from Beckett asking her to call.

  Instead she cleaned her house from top to bottom, and when she finished she cleaned out the pantry and refrigerator. Still the clock ticked slowly. While tidying the living room, she found the prayer journal under a stack of medical journals. She picked it up, her mom’s words from two days ago ringing in her ears.

  What did she have to lose? She set down the dust rag and, heart in her throat, she retrieved a pen. The words came slowly, awkwardly at first as she edited her thoughts. But the longer she wrote, the faster the words came and the more honestly she expressed herself.

  By the fourth page, tears streaked her face and kept coming as she articulated her anger at her loss and the pain of missing Michael. At the injustice of his death, of being cheated of years together. She wrote of her anger at Beckett for his role in the death.

  She knew God was real. Knew He was omnipotent, ever-present, all that. Of course He knew her thoughts. Spilling them onto the page didn’t make them any more real, but somehow doing so was a release.

  You see all this, God? I’m a wreck, You know.

  But He knew that too, of course. After writing almost an hour, she rested her hand on the journal. Her fingers hurt from clutching the pen, her eyes ached. Her heart felt bruised and battered.

  I’m at the bottom here, God. I can’t sleep, I can barely function, I’m losing my job. What do You want from me?

  Just you.

  The words fell quietly, a feather lighting softly upon her heart. Her eyes burned. I’m not sure You want me, God. I haven’t been very . . .

  A thought niggled in her mind until the memory surfaced. She’d been in the ninth grade, and Michael had found her after school, stretched facedown across her bed, crying.

  The mattress sank as he perched on the edge. “What’s wrong, Madders?”

  She sat up, wiping her face. She could tell Michael anything. Even this, and he wouldn’t feel any differently about her. That was the best thing about having him for a brother.

  Nonetheless, heat filled her cheeks. “I got caught cheating today in biology.”

  He tilted his head. “You’re the smartest girl in the class.”

  “I was helping Tricia Blevins cheat.” Tricia was the It Girl, and Madison had only wanted her friendship. “I got a detention! Mom and Dad are going to find out, and they’ll be so disappointed.”

  He gave a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, that’ll stink.” He nudged her shoulder. “But they’ll know you’re sorry.”

  “I can’t believe I did that. For stupid Tricia Blevins!” She dashed the tears away.

  Michael was quiet for a minute. “Everybody makes mistakes, Madders. But they’ll forgive you, and so will God.”

  “What good’ll that do? I’ll still get grounded.”

  “Yeah, probably. But He’ll take the guilt away. That’s the worst part, I think.”

  He had a point. The guilt had eaten at her all afternoon. Her stomach was in knots. Michael wasn’t like her though. He never would’ve done something so foolish.

  “I don’t think God wants to hear from me. I’m not like you, Michael.”

  “God takes us just like we are. He wants a relationship with us. Isn’t that cool?”

  Madison didn’t know what that meant. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but how did a person have a relationship with an invisible God? He wasn’t here to hold her, to talk to her, to laugh or cry with her. Sometimes she didn’t understand Michael at all.

  Now the mantel clock chimed the hour, drawing Madison from the memory. Did God really want a relationship with her? What did that look like, exactly? She thought of her parents. They led ordinary lives, but she couldn’t deny they had something she lacked. Was that the kind of relationship Michael had meant?

  Madison began writing again. I don’t understand all this, God, but I want what they have. I’ve made a mess of everything, and I can’t do this alone anymore. Take my anger, and help me through this. Forgive my sins and come into my life and show me what to do.

  Something began loosening inside of her, working free from a tight, tangled knot. She began writing again. By the time she set down the pen, pages of the journal were filled with words, and her heart was filled with a quiet peace.

  The smell of garlic and oregano turned Beckett’s stomach. Cappy’s was almost full, chairs turned toward the various TVs, blaring the Reds and Cubs pregame. In the billiard room, a noisy game of pool was under way.

  Beckett ordered drinks and settled into his
seat. What a terrible day. He hadn’t heard from Madison—not that he’d expected to. He felt like a jerk for telling her, felt like a jerk for waiting to tell her.

  He’d thought it was the right thing. He should’ve done it long ago, but it was too late to fix that. Too late to fix a lot of things.

  Across the restaurant, Layla was entering, her long-legged stride eating up the distance. She greeted friends on the way, then slid into the booth, the smile dropping from her face as she looked at him.

  “Have you been watching Old Yeller again? ’Cause you can’t say I didn’t warn you about that.”

  He looked away, toward the TV, where a commentator was waxing eloquent about tonight’s pitching lineup.

  She touched his arm. “Hey, you okay? Is it Dad? Grandpa?”

  “No.”

  “You and Madison have a fight?”

  He had no desire to get into it. “Something like that.” His thoughts went back to the night before. He remembered the look in Madison’s eyes, couldn’t seem to scour it from his mind. She’d felt betrayed, and could he blame her?

  Layla tilted her head, studying him. “You really love her. It’s written all over your face—and that’s saying a lot.”

  He met her gaze, the truth of her words hitting him hard. He clenched his jaw. He did love her. So much. For so long. And yet look what he’d done. He’d hurt her. The weight of it pressed on his shoulders.

  “Does she feel the same?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know.” They hadn’t gotten that far yet, and maybe that was for the best. Bad enough his own heart was broken.

  He pictured the look on Madison’s face, the hurt in her eyes. No, he wasn’t the only one nursing a broken heart.

  “I’m no good for her, Layla.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He shook his head. He’d only hurt her. He’d been the cause of her greatest pain. She would never look at him again without remembering he was to blame for Michael’s death. That he’d kept it to himself all these years.

  Her family wouldn’t forget either. Mr. McKinley would realize he’d been right about Beckett all along. He could see it now at the next family barbecue. “What did I tell you? That O’Reilly boy is bad news. You’re better off without him, Madison.”