Twenty Boy Summer (6 page)

Shhh, ahhh. Shhh, ahhh.

"Lots of places, I guess," Frankie says, crouching to pick up a smooth, plum-sized rock. "The ocean has a never-ending supply of cool stuff. In the morning, you find shells and glass, too. Check this out." She holds the rock in front of me. "You can see bands of color from other rocks and sand that were pressed together over millions of -- what are you staring at?"

I smile. "You know, Miss Perino, for someone who almost failed earth science, you sure know a lot about the oceanic ecosystem."

"That's not science, Anna. It's nature. Big difference."

I open my mouth to argue, but she's kind of right. Science: a construct created by man to explain away all of life's mysteries. Nature: its own creation, its own mystery, existing long before we took our first breaths and long after we take our last.

Shhh, ahhh. Shhh, ahhh.

"Frankie, thanks for bringing me here."

She looks at me and smiles softly. Her body is here with me, her feet leaving wet imprints in the sand, but her eyes are a million years away, swimming with some prehistoric creatures as sand and stones and tiny bones press together and grind apart, nature moving slowly onward, unaffected by the insignificant comings and goings of human life. I suddenly feel very small, smaller and less important than the grains of sand under our feet, and I'm simultaneously comforted and humbled.

"Here, keep it." Frankie smiles again, pressing her striped stone into my hand. "It's the first official souvenir from the A.B.S.E."

We walk up and down the shore for another half hour, stopping every few feet to scoop up an empty shell or a square of green glass. My fingers and toes pucker and my hair blows into my eyes and mouth, but I want to spend the whole trip out here, with the ocean replenishing her treasures like an old shopkeeper as I sleep alongside her in the sand.

Frankie is still quiet, digging in the sand for her own treasures. The last time she was on this beach, she was helping Matt unearth glass for his jewelry creations. They were throwing each other in the water. Making dinner plans. Talking about how you could ride a wave all the way to shore with just your body if you caught it right.

Sometimes I think if she knew about Matt and me, it would bring us closer. If I could just make her understand how much I cared about him, she'd let me into the exclusive club where all the members have a right to be irrevocably sad. Instead, I'm an intruder. I look into the windows and see them crying, but I'm on the outside in the dark, and they can't see me.

"Frankie, can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Do you remember my birthday party last year? When I turned fifteen?" I ignore the sound of Matt's voice whispering over the waves.
Shhh. It's our secret, Anna. You promised.

"Sure, I guess." She rinses her hands and wipes them on her hips. "Hey, you ready to head back up? We can unpack and set up our room. Hopefully Mom and Dad are done unloading the car."

"Okay." I throw a handful of stones into the water and watch them fall like rain.

"So what were you gonna say about your birthday?" She smiles, and I don't want her to stop.

"Oh, never mind." I grab her hand. "I forget."

I don't say anything about him.

I just swallow hard.

Nod and smile.

One foot in front of the other.

I'm fine, thanks for not asking.

As I cross into the house from the deck, sand grinds beneath my bare feet, making a soft, scratching sound against the floor. I try not to track it inside, but Frankie assures me that sand on the floor is just part of the Zanzibar experience.

"It's like a moving decorative accent," Jayne says. "You know, bring a little outside in."

"Hon, you're not allowed to redecorate on vacation," Red says. "We didn't pack your fabric swatches and paint chips."

"Don't you worry." She laughs. "I'll find a way, if the mood strikes."

There is no sign of emotional tumult -- no mascara-stained cheeks, no slammed doors, no long sighs or faraway faces. They've already put all of our bags in their appropriate rooms, unpacked their own luggage, opened all the windows, and confirmed that we have enough towels, dishes, and other essentials. Whatever ghosts of memory tried to hit them as they walked through the front door rushed right on outside, down the street, and out of sight, for Red and Jayne are the perfect eight-by-ten glossy of
normal.

I allow myself a tiny sliver of hope that maybe this vacation is exactly what the family needs. Then, another ray of possibility sneaks into my thoughts. If the California sunshine can fix them, maybe, just
maybe,
it can fix me and Frankie, too.

I hold my breath as Aunt Jayne sets the table for dinner, knowing that if the slightest feather falls on this thin mist of peace, everything will shatter. Sometimes I think we all feel guilty for being happy, and as soon as we catch ourselves acting like everything is okay, someone remembers it's not.

Tonight, when Frankie sits at the table and innocently knocks over her glass of Diet Coke, Aunt Jayne starts to cry, and the translucent veil of general okayness evaporates to reveal the honest, ugly parts underneath.

nine

"It's okay, Mom," Frankie says, jumping up to grab a sponge. "I got it."

"We haven't even been in this house one night and already you're making a mess!" She grabs the sponge from Frankie's hand and kneels below the table, blotting spilled soda with one hand and her tears with the other.

"I'll get that, Jayne." Red jumps to his feet, eager to prevent a complete meltdown.

Aunt Jayne waves his hand away. "Can't we just have
one
normal dinner together as a family,
please
?"

She's still unpredictable. Some days she clings to the word
normal
like it's the big orange life raft that will save the family from despair. "Normal" people go on summer vacations. "Normal" people eat dinner together. "Normal" people do
not
spill soda on the floor or have dead children.

Other days, it's like now. Like Matt just died all over again. Jayne took it harder than anyone, and right after the funeral, she basically locked herself in her room for weeks, barely eating, not talking. Mom and I were over there all the time last summer waiting for the day she'd finally come out of her room. After a while, she did. She went as far as Matt's room, where she sat on his bed and smelled the clothes he'd left there on his last day, never washing them or changing anything in there. A few months later, we were all having dinner when Uncle Red suggested they donate some of Matt's books and clothes. I tried to imagine what it would be like to see someone else in his clothes, like we'd be standing in line at the grocery store and suddenly,
Hey, isn't that Matt? No, it's just the neighbor who bought Matt's shirt, buying applesauce and English muffins for his mother.
I couldn't bear it. Apparently, neither could Aunt Jayne. Without answering, she got up from the table and retreated to her room. She didn't speak again for days, not even to my mom, her best friend. It was like Matt's death was about to swallow them all up like a big, sad whale, leaving behind a house full of sympathy flowers, chicken casseroles, and ghosts.

"Sorry, Mom," Frankie says. Her voice is a whisper. "It was an accident."

Jayne sighs, mopping up a spill that's no longer there. "It's fine, Frankie. Just try to be careful. This trip is hard enough without --"

"Hard
enough
?" Frankie suddenly finds her voice, shouting at her mother below the table. "I'm not the one who planned this -- this -- prepottemous vacation!"

Preposterous, Frankie. Preposterous.

Jayne is stunned as she rises from the floor, but she presses on, tears in her eyes as well as her voice. "I'm sorry, Frank, but you're not the only one hurting here."

Uncle Red seems frozen at the end of the table, powerless to stop the mother-daughter breakdown happening before us. I'm afraid to look anywhere but my empty plate.

Frankie slams her chair against the table and stomps out of the kitchen. Never leaving the last word to chance, she tosses a casual "Bitch!" over her shoulder and disappears upstairs.

"
That
went well." Aunt Jayne wipes her hands on a dish towel and takes the same route as Frankie, slamming her bedroom door.

After a few moments of silence, me still looking at my plate, Uncle Red moves to clear the table and apologizes.

"This trip, we just thought -- ah, forget it. I don't know what to say, Anna. I'm sorry." He crinkles his eyebrows to keep his own tears back. It's really bad when dads cry. My whole life I've only seen my dad cry twice -- once in the hospital and then at Matt's funeral. No matter what Matt and my dad said --
dads
are supposed to be the strong ones. That's probably why Red has so many lines on his forehead. All the hurt goes up there to hide.

He apologizes again and excuses himself upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the big, sad whale.

What are you cryin' about?
the whale asks.
He wasn't
your
brother.

I wait until there's no sound coming from upstairs before heading up with my best-friend face to find Frankie. When I don't see her in the yellow room with the twin beds -- the room she always had as a kid and would be sharing with me on this trip -- I know there's only one place she can be. I walk to the end of the hall farthest from Red and Jayne's room and open the old oak door that Jayne asked us not to disturb, heading up the narrow stairs to the attic room.

Frankie is facedown on the double bed, crying quietly into the soft white pillows where her brother slept every summer but the last. Hours earlier, she was at Breeze, larger than life with her virgin piña colada and freshly applied mascara. Now, hiding in the blue-gray room with its dusty ocean view, she's a pale, broken flower that makes my heart hurt.

I wish more than anything that Matt was here, that he was laughing with us in his old attic room, that it was all some big mix-up at the hospital like when they give people the wrong babies.

"Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Perino? This is Peg over at Mercy General. I was shredding some old files and found some discrepancies. Yes, you know how these things happen. In any case, about a year ago, due to a paperwork snafu, we inadvertently gave you someone else's bad news. Turns out Phillip was the one who died, not Matt. Matt's been living with a family in Toledo. Yes, I've called them, too. They are flying Matt home tomorrow. No hard feelings, right? You know how these things happen. Buh-bye."

I put my hand on Frankie's back until the sobs go quiet and her breathing becomes long and even.

An hour later, we hear Red and Jayne head downstairs and out the front door, closing themselves in the car and setting out down the long driveway. Certain the house is empty, Frankie and I scrounge the kitchen for something to eat.

"I can't believe she just freaked out like that," Frankie says, pulling a fresh Diet Coke from the fridge. "And Dad didn't even say anything!"

"I don't think he knew
what
to say, Frank."

"I think they're gonna split."

"What do you mean?" I ask. "Like, tonight?"

"No. I mean split
up.
Divorce."

"What are you talking about? Your parents are fine. They're just adjusting to the first night back since -- well, it's just hard for them."
And you.

"Please,"
she says above the
shhhhhp
of her soda can opening. "At home, they don't even sleep in the same room anymore."

"But I've
seen
them."

Frankie shakes her head. "They say good night and close the door, but Dad sneaks down to the den when he thinks we're asleep. As if I can't see what's going on."

Fear and sadness squeeze my insides as I replay my recent overnights with the Perinos like a movie, scrutinizing every frame in slow motion for a hole in the plot. Red put his hand on Jayne's knee the night they told us about going back to California.
Did she wince?
I've seen them close the bedroom door as they wished us good night. Now I imagine them getting into their fake bed together. Lying next to each other, backs turned, careful not to let a pinky toe touch the other's leg, waiting for us to fall asleep so they can stop the show.

I shake the image from my mind, feeling like I've barged into a room of adults engaged in Serious Conversation Not Meant for Young Ears.

There
was
a time when I thought Red and Jayne wouldn't make it -- right after Matt died. They'd been married for twenty years, but in just two days they forgot why. They barely spoke to each other -- even when my parents and I were around. An all-out fight would have been better than the silence that engulfed them, but it didn't come -- not then. Quiet tension settled into the Perino house like drying cement.

A month passed, and they stayed together. Three months. Then six. His birthday. Christmas. Mother's Day. Father's Day. The first anniversary, just a couple of months ago. Talking. Eating together. Laughing sometimes. Every smile or joke starting a tiny crack in the concrete encasing them.

"But your parents are different, Frankie. I thought they -- I mean, how come you never --" I can't find the words to complete my sentence. Frankie sighs and traces the lip of her soda can, broken eyebrow hunkered protectively over her left eye, holding back the tears.

"The last time we were all in Zanzibar," she says, "I didn't get it." Her voice is far away and thin, like a ghost howling from another dimension. It doesn't matter that I'm right next to her -- I could walk away and she'd keep talking.

"He was older," she says, playing with her bracelet. "I didn't see the things he saw. I didn't love the things he loved. I just didn't get it, Anna. I thought I'd have more time. I thought he'd --"

Frankie has her reasons for not talking about Matt, and forgetting about them -- even momentarily -- is too much. She folds her arms around herself and sobs. I move closer, put my arms around her, and let go. Together we weep like we did in the weeks following the accident -- big, shuddering sobs that claw their way out from the places inside where the light went out over a year ago.

I don't know how much time passes, me and Frankie sitting without words, heads pressed together, short and synchronized breaths, but when we come out of our sad-trance, the soda is warm.

Frankie lifts her head slowly and wipes her eyes. I push her matted hair from her face.

"Hi." She exhales. Her face is pale, eyes puffy, but that voodoo magic smile is waking up around the corners of her mouth.

"How I Spent My Summer Vacation," I say.

Frankie laughs. "Eating and crying. What's not to love?"

"Exactly." I squeeze her hand.

Outside, headlights roll across the lawn, announcing Red and Jayne's ascent up the long driveway. Frankie and I drop our soda cans into the sink and head upstairs before her parents get inside, anxious to put this evening behind us. We change quickly, crawl into our matching twin beds, turn off the bedside lamps, and pull the sheets up to our chins.

Once Frankie's asleep, my best-friend superstrength disappears. My breathing shatters, tears blur the stars in the overhead skylight, and all the old ghosts I tried to leave home float like dandelion seed wishes into our room.