The Summer of Letting Go

by Gae Polisner

  “We’re gonna give it a go, Francesca.” That’s how she says it, like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t mean I’m losing Frankie Sky.

  My body drains of every ounce of enthusiasm.

  “I know, sweetie.” She touches my cheek and keeps her hand there. “You have no idea how very much we’re going to miss you.”

  I wrap my arms around myself and stare at the floor, but I don’t know if I can keep from crying.

  “I wanted to give you a heads up, let you know first, but you do need to keep quiet a few more days. Until I iron out plans for sure. Then I’ll tell my father and Frankie. Which I haven’t quite found the nerve to do.”

  “You haven’t told Frankie?” My eyes dart beyond the kitchen, wondering where he is, why he hasn’t made his usual appearance. But neither Potato nor Frankie seems to be around.

  “No, I was up at the Cape all weekend. My father took Frankie and the dog to his place. He should be bringing him back here any minute. I know it’s sudden, Francesca, but trust me, Frankie will love Joey. He needs a father figure, and Joey is a wonderful man. Frankie is going to be so happy there. And, well, anyway, I wanted you to know first.”

  I blink back tears. I don’t know what to say.

  “Francesca, please be happy for us. If it weren’t for you . . . Well, just know that you’ve made all the difference in the world. Without you . . .” Her eyes move away, then back to mine. “Without you, I don’t know if I would have made it through this summer. You’re a very special girl.”

  She squeezes my arm and I nod, sick to my stomach. I don’t want to have helped her be happier if it means she’s leaving and taking Frankie Sky.

  “We won’t go until the beginning of September,” she says. “Who knows if the plans will even hold until then? But he’s asked me to go be with him, and I want to try.” She laughs nervously. “We can always come back, right? Besides, with school starting, you’ll be so busy, you won’t even have time to help me in the fall.”

  “Yes, I would,” I say.

  She pulls me in and strokes my hair, then holds me back and stares straight into my teary eyes. “Sweet, sweet, Francesca, don’t you worry. With my father here, we’ll be visiting all the time. All the time. And in the summer, you could even come up and stay with us. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” She tips my chin up and makes her voice stern and sincere. “All the time, Francesca. We’ll find a way to get together all the time.”

  “Okay,” I say, but I can actually feel my heart breaking.

  • • •

  After that, it’s hard to be with Frankie because it hurts too much to think about being without him. I know I’ll get to see him when he visits, but that’s just not the same.

  Still, I do my best to be happy and to have fun with him, and keep my word to Mrs. Schyler by not saying anything to him yet. Sometimes I think I should, like when we’re at the club and Frankie is suddenly talking about winter out of the blue. I swear, it’s like he senses something is changing, and he wants to make plans that might stop it.

  “And when it snows,” he says, watching me through his cobalt sunglasses, “we can sit on the sled and slide all the way down the hill. I do that all the time with Potato in the winter, and he likes it!”

  I can picture poor Potato, dog lips peeled back in the wind, as he and Frankie go whooshing down the hillside, so I laugh, even though I really want to cry.

  “I bet, Frankie,” I say. “Maybe we’ll do that. It sounds like fun.”

  “Not maybe,” Frankie says. “We will definitely, definitely do that, Beans.”

  “Okay, Frankie, we will definitely do that,” I say.

  I study Peter Pintero up on the lifeguard stand, thinking about the day he first let me into the club. Today, he wears orange board shorts and a navy T-shirt with one of those old Wacky Packages graphics on it. A Cracker Jack sailor guy smiles from the old-fashioned red-and-white-striped box, but with greasy long hair and no teeth, a skateboard in his hands. The box reads Slacker Jacks. Peter nods at me like he always does, and I half wish I really liked him, because that would make life easier around here.

  I think about Lisette, who should be coming home tomorrow, and how hard it will be to see her with Bradley again. Especially once school starts up. Especially with Frankie gone.

  “Beans is blue again?” Frankie says.

  “Blue and blue,” I say. “Come on. Let’s blow this Popsicle stand and go to the playground.”

  Frankie follows obediently, but slowly, shuffling his feet. I’ve noticed these last few days that he’s been perfectly behaved, like he’s trying to make things easier on me. But today he seems quiet and subdued. Like when we reach the playground, and I yell “Race you!” and take off toward the merry-go-round, Frankie just drags behind.

  “You okay, dude?” I call, stopping to wait for him. He takes my hand.

  “Yeah. Just tired. Dumb Potato bugged me all night in my bed.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah. And my head hurts.”

  “It does? Do you want me to call your mom to take us home?”

  “No. Is okay,” he says, “and somebody is here for you again.”

  Frankie turns and points to the entrance. I look up to see Bradley walking toward me. My heart goes berserk like always. Frankie lets go of my hand and says, “Yep, Frankie will play in the sandbox.”

  I wait, trying to calm my breath. “Hey,” I say when he reaches me, “you got some new important crab part for me?”

  He smiles sheepishly, shoves his hands in his pockets, and we head automatically to our tree. “No crabs,” he says as we walk. “I just wanted to talk. Can we talk for five minutes, or do you want me to leave?”

  “No,” I say. “Well, yes. I want to want you to leave, but I don’t.”

  “I know. Me too.” He laughs uncomfortably. “Which more?”

  Don’t, my brain screams. “It’s just that we really shouldn’t . . .” I say.

  Still, when he presses me up against the tree, it’s pretty clear I’m not going to stop him. His lips on mine are sunshine and sparklers and everything good about summer. Let me have this one last time, just to hold on to the taste of him.

  “Honestly, I can’t stand it, Frankie.” He stops kissing me and stares hard into my eyes. “I want to be with you. I’ll break up with Zette. I was planning to, actually. I just couldn’t do it when she was leaving—” But I don’t wait for the rest because I’m already kissing him again.

  And how can I not—how will I ever be strong and bring myself to stop—if I can’t keep my knees from buckling when I’m around him?

  Eventually, somehow, I manage to pull back. “Gimme a second,” I say. “I need to check on Frankie Sky.”

  I lean out from behind the tree and take a step toward the sandbox before I register that someone is walking in our direction.

  Lisette.

  Lisette is headed through the playground gate in our direction.

  She walks head down, texting.

  Is she texting Bradley, or me?

  “Shit!” I whisper, shoving Bradley behind the tree. “Please don’t move. Lisette is here. Oh God, please don’t move.” Panic surges in my throat. I try to walk calmly toward her, fast, but like normal.

  I need to get there before she gets too close.

  “Hey, Beans!”

  She waves, happy to see me. I force a smile, fake and stupid, on my face. How can I smile when I’m about to destroy our friendship? Because this I know: she will never, ever forgive me.

  I twist back toward the tree. I can see the edge of Bradley’s shirt sticking out from the side, but otherwise, he’s pretty well hidden. Please just let me get out of this.

  I jog the rest of the way to catch up, keeping her at a safe distance. Geez, she’s practically skipping to me.

  How could I do this? How could I cheat on my best friend?

  Tears creep into my eyes, but I fight them. I need to get a grip. I need to stay calm and get Lisette to leave wit
hout seeing Bradley. Then I’ll make him go home, and I’ll never ever talk to him again.

  If I can just get through the next few minutes, I swear I’ll never kiss Bradley Stephenson again.

  “Hey, missy miss! When did you get back? And what are you doing here? I thought you were back tomorrow?” My knees shake. I hope my voice doesn’t betray me.

  “Aren’t you happy to see me? I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

  She has? I try to get my brain to focus. Did I miss texts from her? Did I ignore them? Did she try to call? With everything that’s gone down with Mom and Dad and Mrs. Merrill and Frankie Sky, I don’t even know what day it is.

  “Earth to Beans! I said, what have you been up to?”

  I force my eyes back to her. Ask her about Bible Camp. Make small talk. Get Frankie Sky, and get us the heck out of here!

  “Nothing much, just working. How was camp?”

  “Good! Well, great! Well, actually, amazing! I’ve been trying to tell you about that.”

  I fight every bone in my body not to turn around, not to look behind me toward the tree. I have to trust that Bradley will stay put. Or, better yet, maybe he found a back way out.

  “Beans, I have so much to tell you! I tried texting you last night, on the way home, and again this morning. I was worried you were ignoring me. I know you’ve been mad. And I’ve said that I’m sorry. Anyway, I went by the club, and Peter said you were probably here.”

  Ah, Peter. “Nice of him,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. “I get that you don’t like him, and I’m sorry. But he’s not a bad guy, Frankie. And I think he’s cute. Although he was sort of acting kind of weird.” I shift my feet, fight the urge to twist around again. “Anyway, who cares about Peter, right? I have so much to tell you, Beans! Camp was awesome. I hope you’re not still mad at me. You’ll never believe—”

  She stops. Her face changes. She’s looking past me, right at the tree.

  My heart is about to explode.

  “Hey, isn’t that Frankie Sky?” she says. “What’s wrong with him, Beans?”

  For a split second I’m confused, because in my concern about Bradley, I’ve forgotten all about Frankie Sky. I whip my head around to the sandbox where I left him.

  “What’s wrong with him, Beans?” she says again, her voice frightened. “Is he hurt or something?”

  I race to the sandbox where Frankie lies, curled up and moaning in a fetal position.

  “Frankie?” I drop next to him in the sand. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks hot and red. “Frankie, what happened? Why didn’t you tell me?” I stroke his forehead. He’s burning up, his breath rapid and shallow. “It could be his heart!” I tell Lisette, who’s now next to me in the sand. “Frankie, breathe, please!” I say, but his eyes are rolled back into his head.

  “I need to do something, Zette. I need to get him to the hospital!” I glance over at the entrance, which now seems miles away, then back to the tree where Bradley is, then back at Frankie again.

  I need Bradley’s help. I know it. It will be too hard for me to carry Frankie like this all the way back to the club.

  “Take my phone, Zette. Call 911. Please. Tell them to get us at the club. Then call his mother. Mrs. Schyler. In my contacts under S-c-h-y.”

  I shove my phone at her and scoop my arms under Frankie, trying once to lift him on my own. He’s too heavy. My eyes dart to the tree again.

  “Ow, Beans,” Frankie whimpers.

  “It’s okay, Frankie. I promise. We’re going to get you to the hospital.” I brush the curls from his face. They’re drenched in a feverish sweat. I look at Lisette, but she’s dialing, her back to me. The only one not doing anything is me.

  “Bradley!” I yell. “I need you. I need you to come out right now. Frankie is sick. I need you to help me right now!”

  He steps out, confused, and walks toward us, tentatively at first, then faster. Lisette jerks her head around, her eyes darting from Bradley to me and back again.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really, really sorry. I’ll explain later.”

  She looks at me in disbelief, and she’s right. I mean, how will I ever explain?

  “Yes,” she says into the phone, “we need an ambulance, please. No, not hurt, sick. A little boy. At the Hamlet Dunes Country Club, please.” Her voice breaks. “I don’t know. His heart, maybe? Just this second. We’ll wait for you there.”

  I look at her, my eyes pleading, as Bradley gathers Frankie. But she won’t look up at me. It doesn’t matter. I need to help Frankie. I can’t worry about anything else right now.

  Bradley stands and starts to move, Frankie cradled in his arms. Frankie’s head falls back, his body limp, like a rag doll. No way I could have managed him alone.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Bradley asks as I run alongside him.

  “I don’t know. He has a hole in his heart . . .” But I’m winded and scared, and I can’t even find words to explain.

  At the entrance, I swing open the gate. As it closes behind us, I glance back and look for Lisette. She stands where I left her, at the sandbox, too far to make out whatever heartbreaking expression is on her face.

  As we cross the street to the club, I grab hold of Frankie’s hand. I lean in close and whisper, “Frankie, non vel ocean mos somniculous nostrum animus. Saint Florian will protect you.”

  He whimpers and squeezes my fingers.

  thirty-nine

  The ambulance comes in five minutes.

  I insist that I ride with Frankie, but the paramedics won’t let me. “Immediate family only, hon,” the EMT says, whisking Frankie, now strapped to a stretcher, into the back. “Don’t you worry, though, we’ll take good care of him, I promise.” He jumps in and pulls the doors closed along with him.

  I stare as the ambulance speeds Frankie away.

  “You come with me, child,” Mr. Habberstaad says. He nods toward his fancy red sports car that’s parked right up front. “I used to do some racing in my time. We’ll be there before the ambulance. You watch me. You’ve called Brooke, yes? I’m sure she’ll meet us there.”

  I turn to Bradley, though it pains me to look at him.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” he asks.

  I shake my head and look away. “Go check on Lisette. And thank you for helping me.”

  He reaches out as if he’s going to grab my hand or something, but I say, “Please, Bradley, just go,” and I slip into Mr. Habberstaad’s car.

  • • •

  As promised, Mr. Habberstaad drives like a lunatic. The ambulance beats us there, but not by much. When we pull into the emergency parking area, it’s still at the entrance, siren silent, back doors open, lights flashing.

  I feel frozen, unable to face it if anything bad has happened.

  Frankie is inside, being helped by doctors and nurses, I tell myself. He’ll be okay. Please, God, let him be okay.

  As we enter, I swipe at the tears. I don’t want Mr. Habberstaad to see me cry. I don’t want to explain to him how, one way or another, I make everyone I love leave me or die.

  “Francesca! Here!” I whirl around to where Mrs. Schyler runs toward us, teary-eyed and small.

  Mr. Habberstaad puts an arm around her and says, “Now, now, Brooke, don’t you worry, my dear, you know how resilient that boy of yours is.”

  “I prayed to Saint Florian,” I whisper to her, “even the Latin. I prayed to him the whole entire way.”

  “Thank you, Francesca.” She smiles sadly and takes my hand, and we head into the hospital together.

  At the nurses’ station, a doctor walks toward us, a look of concern on his face. “Mrs. Schyler?” he says. “The boy’s mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come, let’s speak over here.”

  My chest tightens. I can tell something terrible has happened, that Frankie Sky is gone. “Your son came in here with a high fever . . .” the doctor says, steering her away. I can’t bring myself to listen to the rest.

/>   I close my eyes and repeat the words at the base of the statue over and over in my brain: Non vel ocean mos somniculous nostrum animus, non vel ocean mos somniculous nostrum animus, until the hospital room sways and constricts and everything swirls and falls away.

  forty

  “Francesca?”

  “Francesca!”

  One voice soft, girly. The other deep, louder.

  “Francesca!”

  The deep one again.

  I blink and raise my arm to my forehead. There’s a wet cold weight on it.

  Not a weight. A cloth. There’s a washcloth on my head.

  I open my eyes. Fluorescent lights widen in a blurry halo above me. Mrs. Schyler’s blond curls bob there, too. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  A man in the corner. My father? No, not my father. Mr. Habberstaad.

  I’m in the hospital, but why?

  Frankie Sky! Oh, God, please don’t let Frankie Sky be dead.

  “Francesca.” Mrs. Schyler touches my forehead. She’s smiling. But it feels hard to trust what I see. “You frightened us! Did you hear the doctor? He said Frankie is doing just fine.”

  I sit up dizzily. Mrs. Schyler puts a hand on my shoulder to steady me. She brushes the hair from my forehead. My body is drenched in cold sweat.

  “You fainted, sweetie,” she says.

  I search my brain, trying to make sure I’m not dreaming or hallucinating.

  “Frankie’s okay, then?” She nods. “But what about his heart?”

  She shakes her head. “It isn’t his heart. Just a fever. A run-of-the-mill old virus. He spiked a high temp and got dehydrated. They’ve got fluids in him now, and he’s resting comfortably in triage. Come, I’ll show you.”

  I stand up, but Mrs. Schyler holds tight to my arm. A nurse brings a plastic cup of orange juice and places it in my hands. “Drink this, doll,” she says. “Let’s get some sugar in you.”

  I drink it as Mrs. Schyler leads us down the hall.

  As we walk, she explains more how Frankie has a virus that they think was exacerbated by sunstroke. “Add to that some minor dehydration and we ended up here. Once he gets hydrated, they say he’ll be feeling much better.”