Falling for Summer

by Bridget Essex

  “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 star
ting 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.

  Summer's wearing her black bikini from yesterday, and for a moment, I let my eyes travel along her lean body, trying to memorize all of these little details of a day twenty years in the making.

  I feel strange. I never would have come back here, even on the twentieth anniversary, if something hadn't compelled me to do it. I felt that I had to come.

  Did I come back for Tiffany...or for Summer?

  Sometimes I think about what so many people told me after Tiffany's death. That she wouldn't have wanted me to be sad forever, that she would want me to go on and live my life, to make the most out of my life. But I was never capable of that. The oppressive weight of my grief pressed me down. I felt undeserving of a happy life since my sister was cheated out of hers.

  But now here we are, the two of us—Summer and me. Impossibly, we found each other, are connecting...

  This feels so right.

  Summer glances up at me, and her smile is brighter than the sun as she stands, as she brushes the sand off of her front. She smiles at me, yeah, but her eyes are darkened. “Ready to go?” she asks quietly.

  “Um...” I tell her, not exactly certain how to say this. I take a deep breath, try to relax my rising shoulders—and fail. “I was actually wanting to...to swim where Tiffany did. That night,” I manage to squeak out miserably.

  But Summer doesn't miss a beat. “Good. That's where I was going to take you,” she tells me quietly, lifting her chin. “Are you sure you're okay with this, Mandy? Today's the day...” She trails off, gesturing with her hand. We're both highly aware of what day this is, and I nod, draw in another deep breath.

  “Yeah. I think I'll be okay,” I tell her.

  And then Summer nods, her warm, brown eyes softening. “Let's go then, shall we?” She inclines her head, and the two of us step forward, striding across the rest of the beach and into the water.

  And, my God, the water is cold. I remember thinking, as a kid, that people from out of town always made such a big deal about how cold Lake George could be... But, as a kid, I was used to the freezing lake. Now, twenty years later, my teeth are instantly chattering, my skin is completely goose-pimpled, and I almost let out a little shriek as I keep going, as I don't allow time for my body to acclimate.

  Summer dives right in instantly, from the height of mid-thigh. She's moving through the water with her strong breaststroke, and I have no choice but to follow behind her. So I do. I inhale deeply, and I dive in, my head slipping under the water, the sensation as familiar as a memory.

  But if I thought standing and walking through the water was cold, I couldn't imagine how cold the water would feel when it encompassed my entire body. The cold is like a punch, and—almost instantly—all of the breath is knocked out of my chest. I surface, spluttering, wiping the stray hairs out of my face, as I tread water, looking ahead for Summer. And she is ahead—far ahead. I slide into a breaststroke as my body shakes, and after a few strokes, I find my rhythm.

  Don't get me wrong: the water's still cold as hell, but once it gets over the initial shock, my body begins to warm up to the icy water of the lake. I pull forward with my arms, kicking the water in even strokes, and I move quickly toward Summer.

  A million memories flood me as I glide through the lake. Of my first swim with Tiffany, of all of the swims I took with Monica. The moment that my mother taught me how to swim, holding up my little body in the bright blue water, the water that I'd known since my very first day on Earth. I'd felt so held by that water as I stared up at the brilliant sky...and I'd felt so peaceful. I never could have known that that water would take my sister away from me. I'd only ever loved Lake George.

  I slice through the gentle waves, and I glance ahead, surprised that Summer has stopped. She's treading water quite a ways out, and as I slow down in my swim, I lift my chin, work the water out of my eyes and stop, too.

  Summer turns to look back at me, and her face is stricken.

  “What's wrong?” I ask her, carefully clamping down on the panic that begins to rise inside of me. It's okay; she's probably not hurt. Probably. Summer is as much at ease in the water as a mermaid would be. Surely she's okay...

  But she isn't.

  “Amanda, I have to tell you something,” she whispers then, her voice oddly hushed and quiet over the water. I'm only about two feet from her, but she whispers the words so softly that I hardly hear her. My blood begins to pound through me again, and I carefully tread water, waiting.

  “I know... I know you blame yourself for Tiffany's death,” she murmurs to me, her warm, brown eyes clouded with pain. She ducks her chin under the water, the lake lapping at her lips as she closes her eyes, searching for the right words. When she lifts her chin again, her lips are as wet and as shining as her eyes; tears cascade over her cheek. “But I understand,” she tells me softly, “because I blame myself, too.”

  “Summer...” I begin, my heart constricting inside of me, “what do you mean?”

  She shakes her head, the tears beginning to pour out now, one after the other, dripping from her chin and into the lake. “At Tiffany's slumber party,” says Summer then, softly, slowly, like she's reciting a litany she's practiced many times, “I was bragging that I was the best swimmer. I was pretty good. But I was a kid,” she whispers, looking at me now, holding my gaze. “You remember Tiffany,” she says, her voice catching. “How she had to be the best at everything.”

  I nod, kicking my legs, feeling the chill of the water begin to permeate my body. And my heart.

  “She told me she was better than me,” says Summer finally, her eyes filled with tears. “And I dared her to prove it. I dared her to prove she was better, and then she set off into the lake. And...and she died, Amanda,” says Summer softly. “She went out into the water that night because of me.”

  I stare at Summer. I can't remember how to breathe. All of those nights of my life crying into my pillow, all those nights that I wanted to go back in time...

  “If I could go back in time,” says Summer, holding my gaze, startling me, “I would do anything to fix it. I have relived that night a million times in my life. I wish it had never ha
ppened,” she whispers.

  “I...” I don't know what to say, what to do. My heart is breaking all over again inside of me. I remember, well, everything in that moment. I'm flooded with memory, feeling and pain. Mostly pain, just as fresh and new as when it first happened, twenty years ago.

  I reach out, and I brush my fingertips over Summer's arm. “I...I'm sorry,” I whisper to her, shaking my head. “Um.” I swallow hard. “I...I really need to think,” I manage to say, and then I'm turning, and I'm swimming back to shore. I put one arm in front of the other, kicking with all my might as tears stream down my cheeks, mirroring the ones that I know Summer sheds behind me.

  I have blamed myself every moment of every day for my sister's death. Every day that I got up, I would look out the window at the rising sun or the overcast day, and this truth would follow me: If it weren't for me, my sister would still be alive. It would haunt me at night, always the last thing I thought of before I fell asleep: If it weren't for me, my sister would still be alive.

  But, logically, I knew I shouldn't be blaming myself for Tiffany's death.

  Kids are kids. Kids say and do stupid things.

  I stagger out of the water at the edge of the shore, and I put my hands on my knees, inhaling deeply, trying to take deep breaths as the water from the lake runs down my body. I'm shivering and shaking in the air that seems, suddenly, colder than the lake was.

  Kids are kids.

  As I'm moving toward the cabin now, brushing the water off of my arms, running my hands over my hair, my eyes so blurred by tears, I try to imagine what it might have been like that night for Summer. The horror as Tiffany took her up on a dare that she probably made thinking that Tiffany would never do it. The horror as Tiffany began to move through the dark waters of that lake. The horror as Tiffany swam farther and farther away from shore, finally too far to reach, to touch...to save.