Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Are you Frankie?” I ask.
She stops in her tracks, studying me, silent. “Fabian?”
It’s her.
On the drive here, I was certain this day couldn’t get any worse.
But I wasn’t expecting that it could actually get better.
The woman steps closer, and I catch a glimpse of the wiry grays streaking her dark hair and the deep lines embedded in her forehead, painting a picture of a hard fifty-two years.
“My god. I can’t believe it’s you.” She gets the door, ushering me in. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in.”
I step into a small living space with green shag carpet, wood paneled walls, and sagging furniture. To the right is a small kitchen table with three chairs, and on the back of one hangs a black waitress’ apron bearing the name FRANKIE C. in bold blue embroidery.
“I have to go to work soon.” She points to her apron. “But I’ve got a few minutes. If I’d have known you were coming, maybe I could’ve found someone to cover for me.”
“Sorry to show up unannounced. I tried calling a number I had for you, but it was disconnected.”
She swats a hand and ambles to the living room, the slightest limp in her gait. Mom had the same thing in her older years, chalked it up to a bad knee, but she refused to get it looked at. The thought of having surgery and being unable to walk for any period of time terrified her, so she chose to live with the pain and suffering.
“We can have a seat in there,” she nods toward the living room, which is a handful of steps away. I take a seat in a sunken-in La-Z-Boy, next to a coffee table littered with TV guides, overflowing ash trays, and empty cans of Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi. “Sorry the place is a mess. I’m … remodeling.”
It’s a lie, I’m sure.
But I’m not here to judge.
She takes a seat on the couch. “You want something to drink?”
I offer a polite smile. “I’m good, Frankie. Just wanted to come by and see if you were okay, if you needed anything.”
She laughs, raspy and wheezy and tinged with a smoker’s cough, and when she smiles, I spot a missing canine on the left side. “Haven’t bothered you for money yet, have I?”
No. No she hasn’t.
In this day and age, it wouldn’t be hard for someone to contact me through my email, website, agent, publicist, or one of my various social media channels.
But Frankie’s kept her distance.
My father always said it was for the best, and he made me promise that if she ever came around asking for money, I wouldn’t indulge her because it would only feed her demons. My whole life, my parents painted Frankie as something just short of terrifying, but the woman in front of me has kind brown eyes that match mine fleck-by-fleck and a face that softens when she smiles, despite her imperfections.
A basket of clothes rests unfolded on the edge of the couch and an old dinner plate lies abandoned on a side table. Reminds me of the way I used to keep my room as a teenager.
I don’t see a lost cause here.
I see a woman who maybe never quite grew up all the way.
“Frankie, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Mom and Dad passed last year. January and July,” I say.
Reaching for a pack of Marlboros, she taps one out and slips it between her fingertips. “You mind?”
“It’s your home.”
With the flick of a Bic lighter, she inhales until the tip glows orange-red, and then she blows a cloudy ring of smoke between wrinkled lips.
“I heard,” she says. “About Mom and Dad, I mean.”
She stares ahead at the muted TV, taking another drag.
“Was hoping I’d see you at their funerals,” I say. “Always looked for you at the burials. I was sure you were standing back, hiding behind a tree or something.”
She takes another drag before tapping the ashes into a jade-green tray. “They didn’t want me around when they were alive, why would they want me there when they’re dead?”
“I think they always hoped you’d come back around,” I say. “Mom kept a scrapbook of you. And every year, she’d bake brownies on your birthday. With rainbow sprinkles. It wasn’t until I got older that I figured out why. They missed you.”
She blows a ring of smoke through the side of her mouth. “Bullshit.”
“Mom prayed for you every night,” I say. “I always heard her from the next room. She’d get on her knees at the foot of her bed, ask God to watch over you—”
“—and what about Dad? Did he pray for me too?”
“You know how he was,” I say, head cocked. “But he worried, in his own way.”
She taps her cigarette once more before reaching for a soda can, swirling it around and taking a sip.