For the first time I understand what Shelly meant when she said she was a prisoner. If she were alive, I think she’d appreciate the irony: how ultimately free she became. Now I’m the one trapped. I’m haunted by her every second of every day that I’m awake. I don’t know how it came to this. I never thought about her much before, and now I can’t clear my head of her. Day after day, I relive her sitting silently in the backseat of my mother’s car as we drove her to St. Mary’s, dancing with Pia and Keisha and Cynthia in her hospital gown, chain-smoking cigarettes on the roof, lying in a coma with a tube in her mouth. The mornings are the worst because I wake up and my first thought is that I have nothing else to think about. My only relief is to sleep. When I’m sleeping, I’m not sad, I’m not angry, I’m not lonely, I’m nothing. When I’m sleeping, I can make all my memories of Shelly disappear.
I pick up the phone again and dial Abby’s office. “Abby, please,” I say to Corrine, Abby’s new secretary. “It’s Frannie.”
There’s a long beat of silent. Oh, Frannie. How are you. I’m so sorry. Everyone is so fucking sorry. “Frannie, can you hold? Abby will be right with you.” She’s very polite and I hate her for being so nice. Lately everyone speaks to me like it was me, not Shelly, who has brain damage. As I wait for Abby, I am aggravated that Corrine didn’t tell me how sorry she is.
“Hey, Frannie. What’s up?” I mumble something I know is incoherent. “Are you doing anything?” I don’t answer. “Are you going to do anything?”
“No.” I roll over and tuck the phone under my chin. “I don’t have anything to do.”
“So why don’t you come into the city and meet me for lunch?”
I hang up the phone and just lie there. I do that lately—call someone then hang up. Part of me wants to talk and the other part of me just wants to hear a voice, the way all those anorexic girls at St. Mary’s want people to eat without having to do it themselves. I call Abby back, but she went into a meeting, so I roll over and try to fall asleep.
It isn’t easy, being alive. I hear people gossiping about me outside the 7-Eleven. They stop when I pass, but I know they’re doing it. I called St. Mary’s and asked for Shelly, but didn’t realize my mistake until the woman on the other end paused before responding. I see girls who look like Shelly from behind, and I race to tap their shoulders, but when they turn around, none of them is. But the worst moment I’ve had so far was when I walked into Shelly’s room a few months after she died. I got this eerie feeling like I wasn’t alone, and I rushed out, unable to breathe.
It’s my own fault. I wasn’t prepared. But now I prepare every day. I plan my route to Rascals so I won’t have to make a split-second decision when I’m driving. I won’t drink water in restaurants because it might be poisoned. When I blow-dry my hair, I stand in the hallway so I won’t accidentally drop it in the sink and electrocute myself. I have to protect myself. I have no choice. I may die in the end, but I won’t die unprepared.
I don’t know what it’s going to take to get me out of bed for real. Seems like my parents are content with the arrangement. I assume Johnny Bennet will leave his wife and marry my mother, and my father will find a new woman, and everyone will live happily ever after. As for me, I’m trapped between my childhood sheets, a hostage of my own obsessing. My parents say they want to sell the house, but I’m not going anywhere. Every time they mention it, I march upstairs, rearrange my furniture, and dig in for the long haul.
A long time ago, I saw a made-for-TV movie called Bad Ronald. In the movie, a mother and a father build an infrastructure inside their house where they keep their mentally ill son. The parents die and another family moves in, and no one realizes that Bad Ronald lives there too until he appears one day and assaults their daughter. When I come up to my room, I feel like Bad Ronald, like I’m this insane teenager lurking in the shadows of a house that isn’t mine. But once in my beloved bed, I can close my eyes and dream. In my dreams, a new family moves in and my new mother doesn’t run away, my new sister lives forever, and my new father teaches me to drive a golf ball so that it soars over the green like a bird in flight. In my dreams, I belong to a whole new family. In my dreams, I can live my life all over again.
14
Far off in the deep recesses of my dream, I hear the phone ringing, but I don’t have the energy to roll over. Something white floats by, something of my grandmother’s, and I reach for it. I hear Johnny Bennet’s laugh. He has his feet propped up on my mother’s desk and he’s playing with a paperweight. On the microwave, there’s a picture of Shelly. Johnny makes believe he doesn’t see me, but I know he knows I’m here. Just as I’m about to move the picture, I realize that Shelly is standing behind me. “It just takes discipline, Frannie,” she says in a witchy voice. She’s a Halloween skeleton, and I reach out to touch her to see if she’s real. “Get your hands off! Don’t touch me.” Just as I’m about to tell her that I want to make her feel better, I do, just give me another chance, I hear my mother’s voice.
“Frannie! Get up!” She’s shaking me. Her voice is high-pitched and tinny like she just heard bad news. “It’s noon.”
I refuse to roll over and she shakes me again, but she’s not nervous anymore. “I’ve been calling all morning,” she says angrily. “It’s time to get out of bed. Enough is enough.”
I cover my head with my arm, but she yanks back the blanket. I’m wearing my favorite nightgown. I’ve cut the bands around the arms so it will be more comfortable, and I’ve bleached out the stains. It fits me really well now, almost the way it did when I was in high school, especially since I’ve lost weight. It’s not like I’m trying to lose weight. It just takes too much fucking energy to eat. Maybe this is how it happened with Shelly. Maybe living became too exhausting for her. Personally, I find suicide a comforting idea. Whenever I’m feeling overwhelmed, I remind myself that I can always kill myself and I start to feel better. These days, I don’t have the energy to do it, but it helps me to remember that it’s always an option.
“Frannie,” my mother is saying. “You have to face this. If your father isn’t going to involve himself, then I am. You’re coming to live with me.” She hovers over the bed.
“For Christ’s sake, Mom. I’m just tired. Sometimes people get tired.”
My mother opens the blinds. The intensity of the sunlight hurts my head. “Frannie, you have to get on with your life. I’m seeing Marilyn at four and you’re coming.”
“I’m meeting Abby at the gym. We have plans.”
My mother sits on the edge of the bed. She tells me that she knows I’m lying, that Abby called her this morning, and she’s very worried.
“I can’t believe you’re talking about me behind my back. Especially with Abby.”
“Frannie, she cares about you. Now get up, get dressed, and we’ll go see Marilyn. And I want to stop by Grandpa’s place. He misses you, Frannie. He wants to see you.”
Oh God no, I groan. I can’t deal with my grandfather and his constant jabbering. Jabber jabber jabber. “Mom, I can’t see Grandpa. I’ll meet you at Chubby’s. I want to remind her that she ruined this family.”
“Fine. You can tell her anything you want. By the way, a woman named Vicky Tayborn called you. Who’s she?” I shrug. “Well she left a message on the machine. Didn’t Daddy tell you?” When I shake my head, she rolls her eyes. “Figures.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap. “Leave Daddy alone. And don’t listen to his messages. You don’t live here anymore. You’re single and free now, remember?”
“Oh stop it, you’re twenty-six years old.”
“I’m almost twenty-seven,” I remind her.
“Then act like it.” She stops before walking out of my room. “Did it ever occur to you that I might be in pain, too?” As I look at her, I see Johnny Bennet propelling her out of her office in their matching maroon jackets, his hand resting on the small of her back. “Not really,” I say, snotty. “Not lately.”
“Well, just because
you don’t care about me doesn’t mean that I don’t care about you. Four o’clock. You better show up. Frannie! Look up. Promise me.”
I look at her, then turn away. “I promise, Mom. Cross my heart.”
I start to get dressed, but stop and get back under the covers. With the tip of my finger, I cross my heart again, but this time, hope to die.
I find a pair of jeans, smell them and wince, but put them on anyway. Downstairs, I listen to the answering machine. “Hello, this is Vicky Tayborn. I’m looking for Frannie Hunter. I’m with Cuisine America, and want to talk to Frannie about employment opportunities. Could you please have her call me at 212-555-2322?” I get a rush of excitement until I remember that Cuisine America owns several restaurants, one of which is Rascals. I hit the erase button and make Vicky Tayborn go away.
I get into Shelly’s car. My parents put a new battery in it and now expect me to drive the car as if it’s my own. It’s creepy and weird and when they brought it back from the mechanic, I told them I couldn’t. My father had looked at my mother, then quietly asked me why not. “Because I don’t feel right,” I told him. “It’s Shelly’s.” I bent over the steering wheel and started to cry. I kept expecting one of them to reach over and stroke my hair, but neither of them did. After a while, they walked back into the house and no one brought up the car again.
Today, too tired to deal with a cab and a train and a subway, I’m forced to drive. The car starts perfectly. I strap my seatbelt tightly across my chest and hunch over the wheel. I drive slowly and stall a few times before I get going. By the time I’m on the highway, I’m panicked, imagining the 16-wheelers hooking onto my fender and dragging me to my death. I pull over twice to slow my heartbeat. I feel unprotected and foolish. I didn’t prepare at all for the highway.
Deciding it might be nice to visit Abby, I pull into a parking garage by her office. Abby’s firm takes up two floors of a Park Avenue skyscraper. The lobby has marble floors, cathedral ceilings, and a beautiful mural on the wall. As I wander through, trying to look as though I have somewhere to go, I get knocked in the arm with a briefcase.
The receptionist smiles at me sympathetically when I ask for Abby. Then she tries to act busy. I know she really wants to ask me things like how much Shelly weighed when she died, but she won’t because it’s inappropriate. I glare at her. Just ask me, you fucking bimbo. Just ask me.
Corrine walks into the reception area. “Abby’s been in a deposition all day, Frannie,” she says, extending her hand. “But I’ll take you back to her office.”
I haven’t been to Abby’s office since she started. The few times I walked through the gorgeous hallways where huge oil portraits and oak bookcases lined the walls, I felt like such a loser, I never came back. It didn’t matter that Smitty, Forrest & Greenman’s clients are the daily headliners in the National Enquirer. All that mattered was that Abby worked in a beautiful office, was on her way to being rich, and I was going nowhere.
Back then, she had a cubicle where she’d hung all her diplomas, a picture of her parents, and a small picture of me. Her father had taken it one summer when we were on his boat. When I saw it, it made me laugh to see myself, wind-tousled hair, my face sunburned. In the picture, I looked happy.
I wait in Abby’s office, which now has four walls, a window, and a couch. Finally, she rushes in. “Frannie, I’m so sorry. I’ve been in a deposition all fucking day.” She stops. “How could you wear those jeans? They look like they haven’t been washed in two months.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize I was going to take the stand today, Counselor.”
Abby flips through a stack of papers on her desk. She’s wearing a double-breasted navy suit that I haven’t seen before, navy stockings, and high heels. Underneath the suit, she’s got on a crisp white blouse with tiny blue polka dots. Her hair is clipped back and she’s wearing granny glasses that I know are fake because she has perfect vision. She looks really good, all put-together and professional. I try to rub out a ketchup spot on my jeans. I realize I haven’t washed these jeans in six months. The last time I wore them, I was eating a Big Mac from my lap. The thought of a Big Mac reminds me of Shelly. I start to well up.
“To what do I owe the honor?” She peers over her glasses and picks up the phone.
“I thought it was a good time to draw up my will. You know a good attorney?”
“Very funny.”
Corrine sticks her head in. “Abby, they’re calling for you.”
“I have to go back into this meeting,” Abby tells me. “Can you wait here for me?”
“No.” I start to get up, but it takes a few seconds because I don’t feel any bones in my arms or legs. “I have to go.”
“Where?” she asks sharply. “Where are you going?”
“I have things to do today, believe it or not. You’re not the only person with things. Or are you suddenly so great you can’t imagine anyone else having a life?” A tear slips out, but I don’t have enough energy to cry so I just wait for her to say something.
“Frannie, please. You’re acting crazy. I can’t deal with you when you’re like this.”
I lower myself to the couch. “Okay, I’ll wait here. I won’t bother anyone.” I lie back. “I’m invisible.”
She thrusts a magazine at me. “Here,” she says. “Read this. I’ll be back in a half-hour.”
Tears burn in my eyes. “I’m sorry, Ab,” I start to say, but I don’t have a chance to finish. When I sit down, I realize that she handed me the American Bar Journal, which I stare at for a few minutes and then begin to pull apart, one page at a time.
I feel someone shaking me and I slowly rouse myself. There’s drool on my hand. Magazine pages are all over the floor. A few cover my body. One is pasted to my cheek.
“Frannie, what are you doing here? Where’s Abby?”
I look up. Standing over me is Baldwin Kendall, the Pilgrim with a last name for a first name who passed out on our blind date. Like Abby, he’s all duded up in a navy suit and starched white shirt. And to think Abby took this job so she’d never have to wear a uniform again. I giggle, but make myself cough so I don’t become hysterical.
I tell him that Abby’s doing a deposition and I was reading. I sit up and cross my legs. “Why do you ask?”
Baldwin tugs on his tie. “I’ll be right back,” he says. I shrug, collect the loose pages around me, and try to fit them back into the magazine.
Someone else, a short guy I don’t know, sticks his head into Abby’s office and stares at me as though I’m inside a cage. “Oh sorry,” he says. “I’m looking for Abby.”
“She’ll be right back. Had I known Abby was so popular, I would have brushed my hair.”
“You must be Frannie.” He extends his hand. “I’m Randy.” He smiles broadly. “Abby told me all about you.” I twirl a lock of hair around my finger and study him. Abby wasn’t kidding. This guy is short. He almost looks like a regular person, but his small legs don’t really fit his muscular torso. He’s so top-heavy, you expect him to topple over. I can’t stop staring at him. Maybe if his upper body was less filled out, he wouldn’t look so dwarflike.
I try to fluff my hair, but my fingers get snared in the nest on my head. “Did Abby happen to mention that my sister died?” I ask Randy. Startled, he sucks in his breath. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “Don’t look so horrified. Everyone knows.” I sit down. “It’s unfortunate we haven’t met before this, but Abby was nervous that I’d steal you away. Since I am so pretty.” I pause because I’ve caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look pasty-pale and shrunken, my eyes are bloodshot, and my nose is running. My hair is matted against my head. “Well, I’m usually much prettier than this.”
Randy doesn’t know what to do and I love his discomfort. “I know what you look like,” he says, “I’ve seen your picture.” He points to where my picture should have been, where it must have been at one point, but isn’t anymore. In its place is a headshot of him. We both stare at it. “Fortunate
ly,” I tell him, “I don’t look anything like that. My head is much smaller.” I cackle loudly, which makes him wince.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” he says quietly. “It must be very difficult.”
I nod. “I guess. I’m suddenly an only child. Only lonely, lonely me. But I’ve been keeping a journal, writing some stories, you know, expressing my grief.”
“That’s great,” he says with enthusiasm I know is fake. “What kinds of stories are you writing?”
I glance at the picture of his big ugly head. I turn and stare him down. “Short ones.” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and hold it out to him. Since he doesn’t take it, it just hangs in the air between us. He thinks I’m insane, I realize as he walks into the hallway. The thought just makes me laugh.
I walk down to the parking lot to retrieve Shelly’s car. I watch the traffic whizzing up and down Park Avenue and decide to leave the Subaru in the lot. It’s expensive, but I’ve dug myself into such a hole, I don’t even care. In fact, I treat myself to a cab up to Chubby’s office on 87th Street.
“I’m going to my sister’s therapist,” I tell the driver. “The one who had the bright idea of stashing her in a mental hospital. My sister is dead now.” He just nods and sweats. His stink is all over the cab, and I breathe deeply. I lie back on the seat and let the smell seep into my pores. I give him a big-ass tip.
“You could thank me, you know,” I sneer. “It’s not like everyone in this country is rich.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Go fuck yourself,” I tell him, slamming the door. For a second, I think he’s going to take out an Uzi and shoot me. I stand next to the cab. “Do it, fucker,” I mutter. “Just do it.” But he squeals off, and leaves me screaming, “You PUSSY. SUCK MY CUNT, you PUSSY.”
I turn around. A woman is staring at me. “What?” I ask her. “You can suck my cunt, too, you prissy bitch.”
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