Something’s Up With
Frankie
by Heidi Lee
We were boxing up the Christmas
tree decorations when I held up his
snowflake, “Remember this, Frankie?”
He glanced at it, “Nope.”
Clear as day, I saw him
running in from school in third grade.
“Look Ma, I made a
snowflake for you.”
I’d hung it on every
Christmas tree for the past 50 years.
I stopped and looked at
him. His pot belly, greasy lank hair, fat
maggoty fingers. He had zero interest in
me or what we were doing. All the pieces
fell into place. My Frankie had been abducted, replaced with this impostor. I
didn’t know who was behind it, but I knew it was true.
I tried to tell Melissa
when she came a week later to drive me for
my doctor’s appointment.
“I know he looks the
same, but that’s not Frankie. Poor Lucy tried to warn me, growling at
him. She knew he smelled wrong. That’s
why he killed her.”
“What do you mean?”
“The vet said Lucy
must have eaten something toxic, maybe a plant,
or a dead critter. She was 10 years old,
Melissa, there’s no way she accidentally ate something poisonous.”
“Blaming Frank? That’s
a bit of a stretch.”
“This man is not my Frankie.”
She did nothing. Since their
father cut her out of the will, leaving everything to Frank, she barely spoke
to him. She blamed him for fueling the conflict
with her father, and blamed me too. She said I should have stood up for her.
This Fake Frank moved in
last summer after his marriage broke up. Melissa said there was a barring order. My Frankie would never lay a hand on a woman
so I was suspicious. The Christmas snowflake confirmed it.
Before Frank came back Melissa
helped me keep up with the house and
bills. Now she said she was too busy, and
Frank needed to step up.
I called her Easter week
when I got a letter from the bank saying a
couple of my checks bounced. She started
fussing as soon as she walked in the door.
I was in the kitchen drinking my morning coffee, about to cut into my fried
egg.
“This place is a mess. Are you
holding on to every piece of junk that comes in the door?”
She sat at the table and
looked at me. “You’ve been wearing the same outfit since
Christmas.”
“Mind your own business. I
can’t be deciding what to put on. These go together and they’re comfortable.”
She didn’t know that
the bending and twisting involved in getting dressed
was painful. It was easier to stay in my day clothes. I just lay down on the
bed at night and pulled the covers up if I was cold.
Melissa poured herself a
mug of coffee and looked for milk in the
fridge.
“You won’t find
any, I take it black now.”
She grimaced, then started
emptying the fridge into a black trash
bag.
“There’s an
inch of mold on this cheese and fur on the bacon.”
Then the pantry.
“This is all out of
date.”
“You don’t have to throw out
the cans, they’re still good long after the sell-by date.”
“What’s this—rat poison on
the shelf beside the dog food? Why do
you still have dog food? Come on, Ma.
You have to get Frank to help you cleanup.”
“Melissa, I keep telling
you, this man is mean, he’s not my son.”
“Come on, Frank’s
exactly the same.
He’s a curmudgeon, always was, always will be.”
Melissa did get me to add
him to my bank account and he started doing
the mail and bills. I read the statements when they came in and the numbers
didn’t always add up. There was nothing I
could do about it.
The last time I saw Melissa
was Memorial Day. My nosy neighbor panicked and called her,
saying she smelled gas. Frank was out on
one of his jaunts, and not answering his phone.
Melissa came in mad and
rushing saying she had to get back in time
to bring the kids to a barbecue.
“You left the stove
on again.”
“I smell nothing.”
“Your smeller hasn’t
worked in years.”
True that.
I tried again, “Melissa,
I’m serious. My Frankie’s been replaced.
Why would they do that?”
“There’s no
they, Ma, and you better be nice to this Frank because
no one else will put up with you. The
doctor says you can’t live on your own.”
“What do you mean
I can’t live on my own?”
“You have early-onset
dementia, though I’m not so sure about the
early part. Either Frank lives with you
or you go into a nursing home.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t have
to say anything. Your crazy lady side-eye says it
all.”
“I wish they’d
replaced you.
You’re the same bossy cow you’ve always been.”
She walked out and didn’t
come back.
I understood, I had to take
care of this myself.
Summer came in hot. I slept
downstairs in the back bedroom, and Fake Frank was back in his little boy
bedroom upstairs. He was out all day and
we rarely saw each other.
He wouldn’t eat with
me but late at night I heard him, huffing and
puffing his way downstairs to raid the fridge for leftovers.
After Labor Day, Fake Frank
didn’t appear for a week. Climbing the stairs, I sneaked a peek. He was sprawled across the bed, hand on
chest, mouth open, still as stone. Drawing the curtains closed, I turned off
the bedside light, and shut the door tight, keeping the flies in.
I can get to the corner store and keep the mail box empty. The empty
rat poison box went out in the trash. No one bothers me. My Frankie will sort it out when he gets
home.
