Free Twenty Boy Summer by Sarah Ockler Page A

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