The Summer of Letting Go

by Gae Polisner

  Has Mrs. Schyler been doing this since Mr. Schyler died?

  But somehow, Mrs. Schyler seems different from my mother. Like she has those same dark moments my mother does, but around them she’s cheerful and light. As opposed to my mother, who seems like she has no memory of how to be light.

  “I intended to have the whole day here. I’m sorry we got such a late start.” She takes my hair from my hands and releases it loosely around my shoulders. “Come, turn. I guess you can do the rest.” She hands the bottle to me and smiles in this friendly way that makes me feel warm inside. I lotion my legs, chest, and face and hand the bottle back to her.

  “There, that’s better.” She stretches out on the blanket while I keep an eye on Frankie. “Some days, Francesca,” she says, touching my arm, “I’m really so okay. Others, I’m literally too tired to move. Do you ever have that feeling, where your mind wants to be in motion but your body feels like it’s buried in quicksand?”

  I nod.

  “Frankie’s father and I, we were high school sweethearts. We started dating when I was fifteen. That’s your age, if you can imagine.” I close my eyes and Bradley flashes by, so, yes, I can imagine. “Anyway, I don’t know that I’d recommend that path to everyone, but for us, we were happy. Truly. I never dated another boy after Charlie, and I didn’t want to. I know that must sound crazy to you, but I loved him from the minute I set eyes on him.”

  “It doesn’t sound crazy,” I say. “It must be hard for you.”

  “It has been, though I’m so very lucky to have Frankie. Anyway, it’s the weirdest thing, but last night I got a call from an old army buddy of Charlie’s. He’s a good guy, a real nice guy. He and Charlie were in basic training together. He lives up in Cape Cod, and he calls once in a while to check up on me. But last night he mentioned me visiting. He was flirtatious, and fishing very sweetly, but still. Well, somehow, it just sent me spiraling. He was Charlie’s friend. Wouldn’t that be some sort of betrayal? Plus, there’s Frankie, and you know what a handful he is. And, well, listen to me burdening you.”

  I press my toes in the sand, wishing I were wiser and knew the right thing to say. “I should probably go play with Frankie,” I say instead.

  “Did Frankie tell you how his father died, Francesca?”

  “Yes, he did. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, I never told Frankie this—of course I didn’t, how could I? He’s way too young to understand. But when Charlie died, it was that very same night, nearly down to the minute, that Frankie stopped breathing. The night in his crib . . . the night the hole was found.”

  Her eyes meet mine. Mine fill with tears.

  “It was only six days after Frankie was born. Not even a week. I could never understand how God could do that. Take my baby’s father away before he even got a chance to know him. But the weird part was that it was as if Frankie knew something happened to Charlie, too. It was as if he felt it, experienced it firsthand, in the innermost depths of his heart.”

  Tears slip down my cheeks. Mrs. Schyler reaches over and brushes them away with her thumbs. “I believe that’s what happened, Francesca. I swear I do. I believe that when we love someone, we experience their pain as our own. And there are so many things we just don’t know or understand.” I nod. “I bet you do, too. Of course you do. Okay, go on, sweetie, don’t be sad. You go on and play with Frankie.”

  “Okay.” I walk toward Frankie, thinking about all those books Mrs. Schyler has, how she must want answers, something that makes logical sense. Or proof that the stuff that doesn’t make logical sense can possibly be true.

  I stop, turn, and walk back to her. “Mrs. Schy—Brooke?” I say.

  She cups her hands to her eyes and sits up. “Yes?”

  “I don’t know why exactly, but I think you should go. You should call that nice man back, Mr. Schyler’s friend, and go see him.”

  • • •

  Early the next week, I receive a cryptic text from Lisette.

  Double date! Saturday! Mystery man (trust me). Beach and movie. Alex will drive. Tell ur mom mall. Home by 11, promise.

  Mostly I want to say no, that if I can’t have Bradley, I don’t want anyone. But I know that’s melodramatic and wrong, and, besides, I need to take the advice I gave to Mrs. Schyler.

  I call Lisette back—at least let me find out who it is—but no one answers. I text, Are you kidding? Tell who! and wait, but I don’t get any response.

  At dinner, I mention to Mom and Dad that I may be going out with Lisette on Saturday.

  “You’ve been busy lately, getting out a bit more. I like to see that,” Dad says. He gives Mom a look, like she should chime in with some support, but she keeps her eyes averted. He smiles at me, and, as always, there’s something so apologetic about it. Like he knows that I know that my own mother hates me, and he feels pretty bad about it.

  Suddenly, I want to tell Dad everything. About how I’ve been swimming again, first with Frankie at the pool, and then even in the ocean. Not very deep, but still. I waded in with him, nearly up to my waist. I want to tell him that Mrs. Schyler thinks that I am useful, and trustworthy, and good. I want to tell him that this Saturday, Lisette and I are going on a double date, and that maybe, just maybe, some guy as great as Bradley Stephenson will kiss me.

  I want to tell him about how Frankie Sky reminds me of Simon in every single happy way there is. That, yes, sure, he makes me miss Simon, too, but most of all, he makes me feel like Simon is near me again.

  With all my might, I want to blurt these things out loud, not only to Dad, but to Mom. And I want them to be happy and sad and surprised and concerned, and for us to all hash things out, in a real discussion, with tears and laughing and arguing and making up, like other normal families do.

  But I don’t. I don’t say a word. Because we are not a normal family, and probably never will be again.

  twenty-four

  Up in my room, I try Lisette again, but no answer. I text her instead and tell her to please stop torturing me and tell me the name of my mystery date.

  I lie around for a while trying to think of what to do next, but my mind is preoccupied with all the same questions about reincarnation and Frankie’s connection to Simon. Like, what Mrs. Schyler meant that day in her kitchen when she wondered aloud to me why Frankie was convinced that he could swim.

  This thought jars something in my brain. I run to my closet and dig way in the back for my box of old school projects and reports. There are piles of stuff: construction-paper drawings, dumb poems mounted on oak tag, composition notebooks filled with ridiculous short stories about friends and animals and sea life. I scoop it all out until I come to what I’m looking for: a paper I wrote the year before Simon died.

  Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart; The Musician and the Man, by Francesca M. Schnell

  It was Mr. Brenner’s class, some silly ten-year-old’s research paper. It meant nothing to me back then.

  Biographical Background: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born in 1756. His father was Leopold Mozart. His mother was Anna Maria Pertl Mozart. He was born in Salzburg, which is now Austria. He was a classical composer who composed over six hundred works during his career, and is one of the most well-known of all the famous composers. He started composing at the age of five.

  I remember that when Mr. Brenner had given the class our list of choices, I had picked Amadeus because my mom had been watching a movie about him. I had no idea he was actually the same person as Mozart until I read the book from the library on him.

  But I’m looking for something else. I flip pages of my kid-like print until I see it, under its own heading, in the middle of a page:

  Was Mozart A Prodigy or Something More? By the time he was five, Mozart had already written a piano concerto, a sonata, and several minuets. His compositions were not simple, and they were technically accurate. How could he know how to do this?

  Because Mozart was so young, people called him a prodigy. But could that alone really explain how amazing he was?


  By the age of eleven, Mozart had completed a full-length opera. People began to think it was more than genetics or good DNA. Maybe Mozart had been reincarnated with the soul of a great composer. Maybe only that could explain how he played so well.

  Good Lord, why is that child so completely convinced he can swim?

  Had Simon’s soul swum into Frankie Sky? Did the ocean have something to do with it?

  Mrs. Schyler had been in the ocean with Frankie on the day he was born. Frankie hadn’t been born until later that night, but if that was the same day Simon died, maybe Simon’s soul transferred then and there, and that’s why Frankie thought he could swim. Maybe Simon couldn’t swim yet, but his soul could, and did. Maybe his soul swam into Frankie Sky.

  I toss the report into the box and shove it all back into my closet. At my desk, I flip on my computer and type in the term transmigration, then click on the Wikipedia entry, which directs me with an arrow back to Reincarnation:

  The word “reincarnation” derives from Latin, literally meaning “entering the flesh again.” The Greek equivalent metempsychosis (υετευψυ´χωσΙς) roughly corresponds to the common English phrase “transmigration of the soul” and also usually connotes reincarnation after death, as either human or animal, though emphasizing the continuity of the soul, not the flesh.

  I scroll down, passing information on Buddhism, Jainism, and Hinduism, until I get to the names of famous philosophers I’ve at least heard of or learned about in school.

  In Phaedo, Plato makes his teacher Socrates, prior to his death, state: “I am confident that there truly is such a thing as living again, and that the living spring from the dead.”

  I ex out the screen and walk quietly down the hall and open the door to Simon’s room. I switch on the light and walk over and sit on Simon’s bed.

  Fisher Frog tips over when I do, yellow-green legs poking up in the air. Mom’s gift to Simon from me when he was born. I’d forgotten all about him. He was Simon’s favorite, a soft, plush terry, with his white shirt and black jacket and shoes. When he got bigger he named him after Jeremy Fisher from the Beatrix Potter books.

  I pick him up and hug him to my chest. He still smells of Simon, of powder and peaches, the smell of his baby shampoo. Is it just in my head, or is it possible for things to hold his scent for so long?

  On the nightstand is the little table lamp with the frog engineer. I flip the toggle and the train starts up, clicking its circle around the base. It startles me. I didn’t expect it to work after all this time, as if I believed that all the parts of Simon’s world stopped the very same moment that he did.

  I switch it off again and stare at the glider chair across the room, with its tweedy flecks of ice-cream colors. Mom had nursed Simon there for what seemed like forever. I remember feeling jealous, whining for her to finish, to stop paying so much attention to him.

  “Five minutes, Francesca. He’s just a baby. You and I will have plenty of time.” The memory of her words makes my heart tighten.

  Beyond the glider is a bookshelf still filled with Simon’s books, many of which had been mine before his. I put Fisher Frog down on his pillow, walk to the shelf, and run my fingers along them—The Tale of Peter Rabbit, The Tale of Mr. Jeremy Fisher, Where the Wild Things Are, In the Night Kitchen, Sylvester and the Magic Pebble—until I find the one I want.

  I slip it out and study the cover. Frog and Toad Are Friends. Two frogs, one yellowish, one green, sit in the mushrooms and leaves, the yellow one reading a book to the green one. I never knew which one was Frog and which was Toad, but Simon did, and he’d correct me when I mixed them up.

  I open to the table of contents:

  SPRING

  THE STORY

  A LOST BUTTON

  A SWIM

  THE LETTER

  The titles flood back like the names of favorite toys.

  I close the book and pull two others in the series, Frog and Toad All Year and Frog and Toad Together, then run my finger along the shelves. There is no dust. In fact, every inch of the room is perfectly clean. I think of my mother coming in here every week to vacuum and wipe off all of Simon’s old things, and it makes me sad. It makes me feel sorry for her. Who is she keeping it clean for? It’s not as if Simon is coming back. I wish she’d raze the room, empty his things, turn it into something new and cheerful and productive.

  I run my finger along the shelf again, wishing it were thick with dust, that I could write Francesca Schnell Was Here in gray-white fuzz so that she’d find it the next time she came in here to clean.

  I write it anyway, invisible letters that slip across the pristine wood.

  I turn to leave, the three books in hand, but my mother is there, staring at me through the crack in the door.

  “Francesca?” She pushes the door open. The look on her face is wild, furious. As if I’ve betrayed her.

  My eyes dart to Simon’s bed, where I left Fisher Frog lying faceup on his pillow. I was going to fix him before I left. Leave everything the way I found it.

  But my hands, they still cling to his books. Frog and Toad.

  “What?”

  I hear it in my tone, in that one word, how it is laden with attitude and anger. I want to suck it back, but I can’t. It’s already out there in the air.

  One defiant little word, What?

  She glares, her eyes filled with disbelief, then tears. Why is she so angry at me? Have I done something so wrong? I mean, back then, yes, I did everything wrong. I left my baby brother unattended. But here, now? I have done nothing wrong. And yet, I will never be forgiven.

  “Francesca. Why are you in here?”

  Why should I not be?

  Have I trespassed? Am I a criminal? A thief? Isn’t this my house, too?

  He was also my brother.

  But, of course, I have no rights here anymore. I am—and will always be—the person who let Simon drown.

  “Francesca, I’m speaking to you.”

  I set my contaminated feet upon Simon’s sacred ground.

  “I don’t know why I came in,” I whisper. “I just needed to. I wasn’t doing anything, I promise. Just being here with . . .” My eyes go to Fisher Frog, then to my hands. I’m holding out the books. “I wanted to bring some to read to Frankie Sky.”

  “Who?” She shifts. Her anger crackles. Every move is stilted with the effort to contain herself. To not lash out at me like she wants to.

  “Frankie Schyler. The boy I watch?” Does she not hear one single thing that I say? Does she not pay me one iota of notice? “He likes frogs, so I wanted to read them to him. I promise I’ll return them.” My voice shakes. I want to get past her and leave.

  “Don’t,” she says. “Put them back. All of them. I need them to stay there like they were.” She blocks the door, her arms wrapped to her chest, against me.

  “Seriously? I can’t . . .” But I don’t finish. It’s not worth it. It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing to argue about anymore.

  I walk back to the shelf and slip the books in their places, each spine perfectly flush, as they were. My eyes dart to the spot where I wrote my name, but of course I can’t see anything there.

  I turn back to her. “Done. See?”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  She walks to the bed and takes Fisher Frog and props him at the end where he was, then looks around to see what else I’ve moved out of place. When she’s satisfied, she ushers me out the door. But she doesn’t need to worry. I’m gone.

  twenty-five

  Friday morning and it’s raining. I pray tomorrow will be sunny. I’m excited, if terrified, for my big double date with Lisette.

  We’ve been exchanging texts, but all she will say is Trust me, or When have I steered u wrong? And I do, and she hasn’t, so I stop pestering her.

  Still, I run through the names of all the guys I can think of who are on the baseball team with Bradley. The truth is I don’t know most of them. Bradley has one friend I’ve met who’s kind of
cute. Michael Peach. I could probably be happy with him. Nice smile, dark hair, dimples.

  “You taste like Peach,” I will say after we kiss.

  “And now you do,” he will answer, leaning back in to taste me some more . . .

  I look over my choice of outfit again, the one I think I’ve settled on. A three-tiered black-and-white polka-dot miniskirt and white hoodie over a green burnout T-shirt and my green no-lace Converse sneakers. I hold the skirt up against me in the mirror and twirl, checking both sides. Bradley’s face keeps popping into my head. I try to replace him with Michael Peach, but my brain isn’t having that at all.

  I flop down on my bed and imagine us together here, Bradley beside me, our fingers linked, just talking about baseball and pelicans and things. But Lisette’s mad face keeps horning in, her gorgeous, blond, Barbie-doll locks blocking him from my view.

  I give up and think about Frankie Sky instead. I’d better get dressed and get over there. So what if my boyfriend is a four-year-old? At least he loves me back.

  I laugh at the thought, but the truth is I already love Frankie Sky, I do. And I’m grateful for whatever weird, crazy karma brought me to him.

  • • •

  Downstairs, evidence of Mom still sits on the counter: half-eaten toast, a teacup with the paper tag dangling. I toss the toast in the garbage, rinse the plate and cup, and put them in the dishwasher.

  I wander down the hall to Dad’s study. He’s at his computer, dressed for work in khaki pants, a sports coat, and a tie. When I knock, he looks up, his eyes shooting back to the screen. Does he look guilty? Hard to say.

  “Hang on a sec, Beans.” His fingers move fast across the keyboard.

  “What are you doing?”

  “This?” He looks up, then back down to finish whatever he’s typing. “Nothing much. Just some prep work for a big closing next week.” He shuts the computer and walks over to me, smiling. “You still here, then, eh? You need a ride to work? I’m on my way.”