Frank

by Fred Petrovsky

  “What do you think can fill that emptiness, Janelle?” she asked.

  I answered, “Hope,” but should have said love.

  “Tomorrow always brings hope,” said Helen.

  * * * *

  I thought that Helen was only speaking figuratively when she had said, “Tomorrow.” She was not. The next day, as I joined Helen in her office, there were two other people in the room, a man and a woman.

  The man I knew right away. Dr. Bernstein. He came over to me as soon as I stepped into the room. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know this was happening to you. Your mother called me. Then I talked with Dr. Jarvis. Everything’s going to be fine. I promise. You’re in good hands.”

  He nodded to Helen and left the room, closing the door and leaving me to take notice of the woman. She was a beautiful lady, probably in her fifties. My first impression was that she was very dignified, but as I got closer to her and looked in her eyes I saw how vulnerable and troubled she was. I searched my brain for her but didn’t find her. Was I meant to know her? Did she have something to do with Dr. Bernstein? Perhaps it was a test to see if my mind was healing? I didn’t know, I concluded. She must be another therapist. They were teaming up to work on me.

  I turned to Helen and, with my eyes, asked who the woman was.

  “Good afternoon, Janelle,” Helen said. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Better,” I said truthfully.

  “Janelle, this is Catherine Lavery. I don’t think you know her.”

  I looked at the woman again. She smiled at me and held out a trembling hand. I think she was frightened of me.

  “Hello, Janelle,” she said in a slight voice. “I’m so glad to meet you.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Your mother is really the one who made this happen,” said Helen. “She’s incredibly persistent. She contacted Dr. Bernstein.”

  That’s when Catherine embraced me. She said, “Thank you,” and began to cry. I stood there woodenly and let her hold me, then I felt her honesty enveloping me and I fell into the moment and began to tear up myself without knowing why. I raised my arms and tried to comfort her. I looked to Helen for answers.

  “Catherine’s husband is the donor recipient.”

  That didn’t hit me right away. Donor recipient. Maybe it was that word: recipient. Such a cold and formal word. Then the realization of who Catherine and her husband were began to sink in, and I hugged her back.

  Helen seemed to disappear, leaving Catherine and me in a shaft of light on a pillar that soared into the sky. I felt my world swirling, not in confusion but in some kind of rapture.

  Catherine didn’t let go for a long time. She said, “Thank you,” again through her tears. I lost myself as well but didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to do. I don’t know who held the other the tightest.

  After a long while, we released each other slowly at the same time, as if on cue. We each took a step back and were, I think, embarrassed to look at each other for a moment. Helen sensed our awkwardness and she stepped in to lighten things.

  “Let’s sit down,” she said. She motioned for us to sit in two rocking chairs that were angled close to each other, the ends of the armrests almost touching.

  We sat down and, almost immediately, Catherine touched my hand and said, “Tell me about him.”

  “About Frank?” I asked, knowing who she was talking about but unwilling or unready to simply give an answer.

  “Yes,” said Catherine. “I want so much to know him. To know everything about him.”

  “But it’s not really him,” I said, not completely understanding why she wanted to know about Frank. She possessed his body now, not his soul.

  “I know,” she said gently. “But still, I want to know about him. It makes a difference to me.”

  Helen said, “Like what? What do you want to know exactly?”

  “Oh, God, I don’t know,” said Catherine, closing her eyes. “There are so many things.”

  “Pick one,” said Helen.

  “His tattoo,” said Catherine. “What is it and when did he get it?”

  A question.

  I hadn’t thought about Frank’s tattoo since, well, I don’t know how long. And in just that second when she mentioned it I missed it greatly. I used to lay my face against its yellow shape at night. I enjoyed touching it, trying to feel a difference between the tattoo and his uncolored skin. It was a bright, moving icon that was with us when we made love. I would hold on to him there and feel its heat through him.

  “Is it a comet?” Catherine asked.

  I shook my head. “It’s supposed to be a sperm cell. I don’t blame you for not recognizing it. He had it done in high school. I didn’t know him them. He and a bunch of his buddies on the basketball team all got them. It was some silly rite. Proved they were macho. Proof that they weren’t virgins or something like that.” I couldn’t help but smile.

  “A sperm cell?” said Catherine, who also found it funny. All three of us started chuckling at the stupidity of young men and their bravado.

  When there was silence again she took my hand and looked inside me.

  “You must miss him deeply,” said Catherine. “I’m so sorry for you. A day hasn’t passed that I haven’t thought about you. I’ve put myself in your shoes every imaginable way. How terrible it must be for you.”

  I tried not to cry. How sincere she was. How big her heart was. I squeezed her hand back and said, “It has been hard. My world is ... gone.”

  “You’re the bravest person I know,” she said back at me. “I don’t even know you, but I love you and what you’ve done for me ... for Howard ... for everyone, I guess.”

  I swallowed and looked at Helen. Tears were on her cheeks.

  “How is he?” I managed to ask.

  Catherine smiled vaguely and said, “He’s doing better every day. His life support is going well. He can hear fine. And he’s getting some feeling back in his arm. I’m afraid that’s about all the progress he’s likely to make, to be honest. But at least it’s something. He’s alive. I can ask him questions and he’ll answer.”

  Helen cleared her throat. “Catherine, you told me that you very much wanted to meet Janelle. Why? It’s not the tattoo.”

  “No,” she said, “it isn’t. I don’t know really. I know that inside he’s my Howard. All his memories and feelings and opinions. It’s Howard. I know that. But he’s changed somehow.”

  “Maybe it’s you who’ve changed,” said Helen.

  “Maybe,” said Catherine. “Who am I to be given Frank’s body in the first place? I mean, think about it—who’s to say who the donor is? Just because Howard retains his thought process, does that justify Frank being given to him? I can see it the other way around. I really can. Maybe Howard’s brain was donated to Frank. It’s the same thing either way. I’m confused about it. And in a way, I feel I have no connection to him anymore. He’s someone else. I feel different about him. Ambivalent. I just had a crazy notion that if I could talk to Frank’s wife I would learn something that would help me.”

  “Help you do what?” asked Helen.

  “Cope? I don’t know. I can’t even put it in words.”

  I wondered what I could tell her that would be meaningful. What was it that she really wanted? I don’t even think she knew. Did she want to know his habits? His favorite foods? How he made love? She said she wanted to know him, to understand him. Would she want to know about his homosexual encounter and about how I’d caught him and how, in its way, his betrayal had cost him his life? How badly did she want to get inside his head? And what spiritual price would she pay for the knowledge?

  “He was a good man,” I finally said. “That’s all you really need to know. He was a good father. And I loved him.” I wasn’t avoiding unpleasant memories. I hadn’t really lied. I chose to let Frank rest. It would not have served any useful purpose for her to know the dirty secret about Frank. But as I said it, I believed it. Frank became a tiny bit cle
arer in my mind and I missed him a little more. Unexpectedly, Frank came into focus, and I came closer to a peaceful moment of clarity than I had in quite some time.

  “Hold him,” I said, leaning forward in the rocker. “That’s what Frank liked most. He liked to be held and touched and caressed. He liked to sleep up against me. He didn’t like to be alone.”

  The word “alone” seemed to have an effect on Catherine. She looked down at her feet and crossed them in a way I’d seen my daughters do when they were ashamed to admit to something they shouldn’t have done.

  “What are you feeling?” Helen asked her.

  “Confused,” she said. “I’ve been experiencing emotions that I thought were gone. Please don’t hate me, Janelle, but I’m attracted to your husband’s body. His youth and strength overwhelm me. I’m blushing, aren’t I?”

  It was something I had thought about, of course. She possessed him. I knew that. But so had that golf pro. And who knew how many others, for that matter.

  “It’s all right,” I said.

  * * * *

  We talked longer, about this and that. I told her more about Frank. About how we met and about our children. I shared the plans we had for the future. She asked funny questions about his body, his scars and things like that. I didn’t mind answering them. She told me about her husband, too, as if she thought she had to justify his worthiness.

  It was a glorious afternoon. When it was over and my mother picked me up, I went straight to my room and returned Frank’s picture to its place on my nightstand.

  15: Evelyn Meadows

  I was ironing a few things when a hurried knock came on my apartment door. I stood the iron on its bottom and walked to the door, peering through the peephole. I don’t know who I expected to see. Maybe a youngster selling candy bars for his school or one of those cleanly pressed religious boys offering one of their free pamphlets.

  It was Dave Hueger. His round face seemed to be very close to the door. The peephole made his nose appear large and round. His hands were in his pockets and he took little sideways steps as if he were cold or needed to go to the bathroom. He knocked again and said, “Evelyn, it’s me. I need to talk with you.”

  I wondered if he knew I was home. I took a quick mental check of the apartment and its sounds—no TV or radio was on, but the lights were on in the front room and in windows that were easily seen from the sidewalk. Had I been humming while ironing or walked loudly to the door? Had he been listening at the door before knocking the first time?

  I thought about pretending not to be home. I would slip off my shoes and tiptoe to the back of the apartment and sit quietly until he went away. I looked again through the peephole and gazed upon him. He looked pitiful and frail. I kept my eye on him and watched him for a while. I knew he had come because I had purposely pretended to not know what he was talking about when he had called earlier. I had hated to do it. It was not part of my habit to be rude or dishonest with people. I always treated people with respect until they gave me reason to be otherwise.

  This time he rang the bell. “Evelyn, I need to see you. I know you’re home.”

  I spread myself flat against the door, pressed my ear to the wood and tried to wait him out. As long as I didn’t answer there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. I could wait as long as he could.

  After a few minutes I didn’t hear anything. Hoping he’d gone away, I looked out the peephole again to see that he was sitting on the doorstep, his back against the door. His head was in his hands.

  I was afraid to move. Maybe he was, too.

  I waited and waited and held my breath and tried counting silently to a hundred using only prime numbers until I gave up and let him in.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to sound indignant.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home, Evelyn. Didn’t you hear me out here? I’ve been sitting here forever. Can I come in?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” I said, and I closed the door an inch, hoping he’d take a hint.

  “It’s kinda cold out here,” he said.

  “Really, I wish you’d go away.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because it’s late. I’m getting ready for bed.”

  “Why did you act that way on the phone today? Pretending not to know what I was talking about.”

  “Dave, I—”

  “This is important, Evelyn. More important than I think either of us really understands. Can I please come in?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Just for a minute?”

  “Dave, really, I don’t think it would be a good—”

  “Please?”

  I opened the door wider and stepped aside to let him in.

  “Thanks, Evelyn. I appreciate it.”

  “What do you want?” I asked, closing the door behind him.

  “You have a very nice place,” he said. “Did you decorate it yourself?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He walked straight into my apartment, took off his jacket and sat on the couch.

  “Don’t make yourself so comfortable,” I said. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave in a second.”

  “Evelyn, sit down,” he said. “We need to talk. This is serious.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. I folded my arms and scolded myself. If I hadn’t let him in there wouldn’t have been anything he could have done about it. I sat in the chair.

  “Evelyn, I know you don’t want to talk to me about this,” he said, sitting forward on the couch and looking serious. “I don’t blame you. They’ve mixed you up in this and now you don’t know what to do about it.”

  I started to say something but he stopped me.

  “Let me talk first,” he said, “before you try to lie to me again. Because, Evelyn, you’re one of the most honest, sincere people I know. And I’m a reporter. I’m trained to listen to people and figure out what they are really saying. Like this afternoon when we talked on the phone, you were lying to me. I know it. You know it. But even if I didn’t know for certain you were hiding something, I could tell from the sound of your voice. You sounded worried, Evelyn. Troubled. You were doing something that went completely against every bone in your body. Please understand. You don’t have anything to fear. Not from me. And you know what else? I might be the only friend you have.”

  The more he talked the more I felt myself sinking into the chair. Because everything he was saying was the truth.

  “Dave,” I said, “it’s not what you think at all. Please just go home. Forget this whole thing.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll get up off this couch this very second and walk out that door and you’ll never hear from me again if,” he said, talking slower, looking first to the floor then back up to my eyes, “... if you explain to me where you got the ten thousand dollars that was deposited into your bank account yesterday.”

  At the hospital, I’m the one with all the answers. I am organized and always one step ahead of everyone. People come to me with problems that need to be solved. I was firm and comfortable and in charge. But now, with Dave knowing about the money, I felt panicky and weak.

  “They gave it to me!” I blurted out. “They said if I—”

  “Wait,” said Dave, and he reached over and placed his hand on my arm. “It’s okay.” Like magic, his demeanor suddenly changed. No longer harried or worried, he now seemed very calm and serene. “Evelyn, before you go on, you need to understand something—you don’t have to worry. You don’t have anything or anyone to fear. Because this is just between us now. Your name isn’t going to appear in the paper. No one will know that we’ve spoken.”

  “Why do you have to be involved in this?” I cried. “Why do you have to know?”

  “Asking why I have to know things is like asking why I have to breathe. Being a journalist is part of me. I can’t help it. I’m curious. Been that way my whole life, Evelyn. And it goes deeper than that, too. I wouldn’t go as far as say
ing that my job’s on the line with this, but it might as well be. Morally, I feel wrapped up in this now. Besides, if I wasn’t working on this story I’d have to be trashing a fine Chinese restaurant.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t concern you. Now, before you explain about the money, tell me about the patient,” he said. He took a small notebook from his back pocket and began taking notes.

  I smiled when he said that because it made me think of Howard.

  “I miss him,” I said. “He’s a very good man. Thoughtful. He always takes me into consideration. He asks about me and what I do on my days off. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. That bothers me a lot.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to him. I promise. What’s his name?”

  “Howard Lavery.”

  “Why is he in the hospital?”

  “Well he’s not anymore, and that’s part of what’s going on, too. But he was being cared for because he had a severe brain aneurysm that paralyzed him. They were treating him with experimental drugs that were helping. And here’s the amazing part—even though he couldn’t talk or move hardly a muscle, they hooked him up with a wire in his brain. Simply thinking, he can communicate through a computer that talks for him.”

  I went on to tell him about Howard’s daily routine. I told him about his wife and the time his ex-wife came to visit and how Howard had used the word or name “Frank” so strangely. Then I told him about Howard’s primary physician, Dr. Bernstein.

  “I’ve met him,” Dave said.

  “Well then you know how he is,” I said. “He’s a troubled man. He’s visited by demons and devils, I can tell you that. He’s not a bad man. Just misguided, I think. But I’m absolutely certain he hasn’t been truthful with me. He keeps lots of secrets. Half of Howard’s file was missing when he came to me. I just knew that something else was going on there.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I’ve been a nurse there too long for any wool to be pulled over my eyes, that’s for sure. I know the routine. Some things just don’t change. There’s a protocol that makes things work. But with Howard and Dr. Bernstein, everything went out the window.”