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.
