Frank

by Fred Petrovsky

  As we walked back to the hotel, I felt that everything was going to be okay and that we were stepping into a bright future.

  If only I’d been more concerned with Madame Sonja’s warning about water.

  2: Catherine Lavery

  Sometimes I wonder if the staff at the hospital is confused about who the real patient is. At times, they seem to be spending just as much time with me as with Howard. I know this is only something I perceive. It can’t be so.

  After all, Howard is the one hooked up to all those wires and tubes and machines. He’s the one with a new body, not me. But I’m not stupid. I know that Dr. Bernstein believes I am an important piece of the psychological puzzle.

  They’ve told me that. It’s similar to when a person suffers a heart attack and is required to implement complex lifestyle changes. He has to change his eating habits. He needs to institute a comprehensive exercise program. And, as I know from my friends who have gone through it, it’s the spouse who bears much of the responsibility for making these changes happen.

  Dr. Bernstein uses a different example. He likes to mention people who have gone through one of those various twelve-step programs for alcohol or drug addiction. Their families are always involved, and they often are the difference between success and relapse.

  “He needs your support and love,” Dr. Bernstein has said to me over and over. It’s his mantra, and he’s very purposeful at it.

  This morning, when I went to visit Howard, Dr. Bernstein was just coming out of the unit.

  “Ah, Catherine,” he said and opened his arms to hold me. “How are you today? I’m glad you’ve come. He’s in good spirits today. He says he’s experiencing some external sensation.”

  I looked into the doctor’s small gray eyes and smiled. But I purposely didn’t say anything. I wanted to bask in his confidence and see if he had a hidden agenda.

  “He needs your support and love,” he said. “That’s the best thing you can give him.”

  “My support and love,” I parroted.

  “That’s right. It must be real and genuine. I’m sure he can tell if we patronize him. Let’s sit down for a moment.”

  He led the way to a small couch just outside Howard’s unit and motioned for me to have a seat. Then he sat next to me.

  “Catherine,” he said in a tone that encouraged attentiveness, “Howard’s making great progress. I think we’re getting close to going public.”

  “Already?” I immediately thought of one of those hospital press conferences packed with science and news reporters. I saw myself being interviewed by national magazines and television news shows. My world would change again. Had we made the wrong decision?

  Dr. Bernstein took my hand and held it gently. “We’ve talked about this, Catherine. You knew this time would come. But there’s an urgency about it now. Every day that passes means another chance that something can leak out. We’ve already been fending off rumors. I’m afraid it might be out already, to tell you the truth, and that’s not good for Howard and the others who might come after him.”

  “I don’t think I’m ready for that,” I said and felt my emotions rising to the surface. I could feel my eyes growing watery, and I held my breath and tried not to cry.

  “Catherine, if we don’t have you with us during this it won’t work. We need you standing tall. It can too easily go bad. For us. For Howard. For your family.” Then he paused and added, “For me.”

  I held tight to the doctor’s hand, closed my eyes and reminded myself that it didn’t start out this way when Neil called me that afternoon from that horrible small clinic by the lake.

  I remember Neil’s voice like it happened ten minutes ago. His sadness, urgency, and guilt are emblazoned on my mind.

  “Mom,” he said. “It’s me. It’s Dad. There’s been an accident.”

  There’s been an accident.

  It’s funny what your mind does in an instant. I continued to talk with Neil to find out what happened and was already searching for my keys with the cordless phone pressed to my ear, and I understood everything my son was saying. I was even calm. But in that second after the word accident and before he continued on, thoughts and questions were flooding around me. I knew something like this would happen one day. I feared this phone call. What had happened? Was Howard dead? Was it a car accident or did something go wrong on the boat? Just how bad was it? Was Neil hurt? Where were they now? How long would it take to drive there? Or maybe a helicopter would evacuate him to a hospital in the city. What would it be like to be a widow? Was this a turning point? Would I be strong? Who would I have to be strong for? How much money did we have in our savings? Where did we keep the life insurance policies and will? Oh God, don’t cry. Keep yourself together. Where are the keys? Was there enough gas in the car?

  Then that second passed and logic took over, and I found myself driving two hours to the hospital where Howard was being treated for the boating accident. I kept thinking about those cold words—“There’s been an accident”—and the warm words that came from Neil just a moment later: “He’s going to be okay.”

  But now Dr. Bernstein squeezed my hand again and said, “There’s no turning back. We’ve talked about this. You know what this means. Much of this will revolve around you.”

  “I don’t want anything to revolve,” I said, my voice breaking. “I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough.”

  “Not strong enough?” countered Dr. Bernstein. “That’s not the Catherine I know. All the hard decisions have been made. Now it’s just one step at a time. And I won’t be behind you; I’ll be next to you. In front of you, if you like. But with you. What you and Howard have done is without question the most phenomenal medical accomplishment ever. Ever.” With his last word repeated for emphasis, I looked at him and felt pity. Not for him. Not for me. But for Howard. Here we were, two people, one troubled and the other guiding, talking, weighing. And Howard? He was in another room. Probably by himself. Cold and motionless. What was he thinking? What problems did he face? I thought of Howard and wiped my eyes with a tissue offered by Dr. Bernstein.

  “Where do we start?” I asked.

  “A news conference of some sort.”

  “When?”

  “That,” he answered, raising his eyebrows, “I don’t know. I’ve got to seek advice about that. In a few days. Maybe next week. I’m not sure.”

  Dr. Bernstein stood and helped me up, too. Then he did me a favor and let loose with some honesty. “I won’t kid you, Catherine. This is going to be difficult. It might even get nasty. I can just hear the politicians and pundits. Prepare yourself. Some people will call him a monster.”

  * * * *

  My monster was lying quiet in his room, the hum of the equipment and the constant beeping of the monitors droning in their familiar, monotonous way.

  The technology surrounding Howard did everything for him. Fed him. Breathed for him. Removed his body waste. But the morning light that came through the window bathed him in a human glow that lent him dignity.

  That morning, though I came to see my husband, I thought more about the person we knew only as Frank. The body in the bed was his, not Howard’s. The lungs and heart and hands and feet, all Frank’s. Even the handsome face. But he was more than just a “beautiful human specimen,” as Dr. Bernstein frequently referred to him. He had a past and small bits about him that made him real. The quarter-sized birthmark on his neck. The scar under his chin.

  But mostly I found myself drawn to the small tattoo of a comet on his right shoulder. The head of the comet was no larger than a dime, but it was bright and orange with fury and loosely outlined in scarlet. The tail was lemon yellow, thick and flat, with no definite outline but trailed up close to the top of his shoulder.

  It reminded me of a moment aboard an airplane in 1997, nearly fifteen years ago. Howard and I were flying to San Francisco. He had some business, and I was tagging along. We held hands and tried to solve a crossword puzzle, sipping our bottled water, when the
pilot announced that he was about to turn the plane a little to give us the opportunity to see the Hale-Bopp comet.

  “It’s a beautiful sight,” said the pilot. “You’ll be able to see it from the right side of the aircraft.”

  I was sitting next to the window but couldn’t see anything. I pressed my nose against the cold windowpane, my breath fogging it up a bit, and I cupped my hands around the sides of my face to block out the glare. Howard leaned close to me and squeezed in his head.

  “I can’t see it,” I said.

  “Wait for it,” said Howard. “They’re still turning the plane.”

  And then, suddenly there it was. At first, it looked like a bright star by the wing.

  “There it is,” said Howard, “Do you see it? Wow.”

  “That star there? It’s just a star.”

  “Don’t look right at it. Look just to the left or right of it. Let your eyes kind of roam the sky around it.”

  That did it. As soon as I stopped concentrating the comet came alive. The tail bled from it like watercolor. I could almost see it move. I moved closer to the window and allowed the comet and the moment to become important.

  Howard put his arm around me and said, “That’s something.”

  And now that comet looked up at me from Frank’s arm. Howard’s arm. And I wondered how it came to be there. I’ve always thought that the decision to get a tattoo is rather momentous because of its permanence and the waiting for the pain of the needle.

  That tattoo brought Frank into focus for me. Frank had been a real person with a life of his own. How I wish I could wash him from my mind instead of almost wanting to know him. If only Howard had needed nothing more than someone else’s heart or liver or lung. Not an entire body!

  But when I thought of Frank and looked at his face and his closed eyes, I saw Howard inside and knew that it was his brain. His feelings. His memories. How I loved that man.

  I stepped closer to the bed and sat down so he could hear me.

  “How are you feeling today?” I asked, speaking slowly and loudly.

  The droning, tinny voice of the computer said, “Good.”

  It’s not Howard’s voice, but it’s his thoughts and it’s everything to me. It means he’s alive. His brain is intact and his love for me still exists.

  “That was a fast response, darling. That was very good. Can I get you anything?” I asked, expecting a list of music CDs or the spoken-word tapes that I’d been bringing him from the Library for the Blind. And I wondered, as he lay there, not answering right away, if this would be the best we could expect. Some yes-or-no questions. Him asking for some sounds. Me reading him the paper.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. He wanted to know what I saw emotionally. What I felt inside. To lend him my eyes. I had to open the world for him, to live, in a sense, for both of us. And looking at it that way, wasn’t it I who was the organ donor now?

  I held back my emotions and simply said, “I’m sorry. I was just sitting here and looking at you and missing you, and thinking how much I love you and how I can’t stand this. It’s hard.” I bit my upper lip and said, again, “I’m sorry,” and thought that I was blowing it and that I wasn’t providing the support and love commanded by Dr. Bernstein.

  Then he wanted to know what was new. But in my flush I could barely say, “Oh, nothing, honey. Really nothing new since yesterday.”

  Sadly, I think my brevity inflamed him and he said, “Tell me everything.” I couldn’t blame him. How he must suffer inside his darkness, just his thoughts to dance with. And how selfish I was for not being more prepared to inspire him and take him new places. Wasn’t it my task to put aside my haunts and fears and comfort him? Why was I unable to do my job?

  I slowed down and tried to soothe my mind. “Everything’s okay, really. It’s quiet around the house. Neil came by with Emily and the kids. You should see how big Jacob is getting. He’s a handful. And Joshua? They’re potty training him now. He ran around the house naked waving his diaper over his head. Then he peed on the carpet. Neil wasn’t happy, but I didn’t care. He and Emily asked about you. They’re worried. Neil said he was going to come by later today. Says he has a surprise for you. I really think he’s going to come this time. Emily took me aside and said that Neil is doing better with this thing but that he misses you. So do I.” My heart burned. I wanted to be somewhere else. “I miss you so much. I hurt for you.”

  Somehow, I think he understood. I’m sure he knew the things I left unsaid. I tried to minimize the situation with Neil and his refusal to see his father. We all understood why. I held his hand tightly and bowed my head over him and released my tears onto the sheets covering Frank who held Howard deep inside him.

  Howard asked me to touch him and describe his body, a task I had performed previously. Only now I didn’t mind it because, to be truthful, I needed to touch him. Not just Howard, but Frank and his youthful body that captivated me.

  “You have a strong jaw and a proud nose,” I said, running my fingers lightly over his face. “Very good looking. Your lips are generous. Your hair is growing back.”

  Howard asked me to kiss him and I consented, touching my lips to those full, inviting lips that were Frank’s. If there had only been motion or passion in his lips, even an exploring tongue, it would have been better. I lingered over him, tasted him, wanted him. His body was warm. Where Howard’s torso was admittedly white and hairy, Frank’s was tanned and smooth. I lay my hand on his chest and felt his heat. The contours of his body ran under my touch and I took in all of him.

  * * * *

  When I left his room I walked past the nurses and doctors and out into one of the small, empty waiting areas where, on the TV, Dr. Smith was erasing the memory banks of the robot and calling him a “blithering booby.”

  I sat down in one of the hard plastic chairs and felt myself falling away inside myself. It was at that moment that I wondered if I was having a nervous breakdown, but figured that was my saving grace. The questioning, I mean.

  What had I, and what would I, become?

  I sat there and allowed myself to think terrible, selfish thoughts. I cursed Howard and what we had done because I was the one left to pick up the pieces and face the consequences.

  I remember that my father, who was a very spiritual person, had only one lesson he thought important enough to teach his children.

  “Your life is a series of decisions and their consequences. Nothing more.”

  He never preached about responsibility or being right and wrong. He shunned lectures about morality. He never judged his children. But decisions and consequences? That was his center. It was a family joke, of course. But he was right. The moment you’re living in is only possible by the moment that came just before it. Every action leads to the next action. Each decision molds the next one. My father used to say that we make hundreds of decisions a day. I know this isn’t a profound philosophy. It’s probably not even original. But I think about it every day of my life.

  My own experience leaves my father’s sage advice untarnished. But I’ve added my own twist to his exhortation. Yes, life is indeed a series of decisions and their consequences. But it’s often the small decisions and the unexpected consequences that make the most profound difference.

  That is, after all, how I met Howard.

  My sister’s wedding was to have been a dark day. She was younger than me by four years, and here she was getting married first while I had no prospects in sight. Ever since she announced her engagement, I had been nominated to be a spinster. My mother’s friends enjoyed nothing more than the harmless fun of saying, “What about you, Catherine? When are you going to find yourself a man?” What was worse, I wasn’t presently involved with anyone, nor did I have a date for the festivities. Is there anything more humiliating than being the maid of honor to a younger sister?

  The wedding was rather tortuous. So was the reception afterward, though I made it more bearable by conveniently disappearing for long chunks of t
ime. But I could not escape the tossing of the bridal bouquet. I knew all eyes were on me, especially my mother’s. And my sister’s. And all my mother’s friends. And just about everyone who knew how I was related to the bride. I moved toward the back of the unmarried pack and stared at my shoes.

  But in the instant that my sister tossed the bouquet over her head, I decided I wanted it. I don’t know why. I suppose it was my response to the embarrassment. Sort of a reverse reaction. In a way, I didn’t really know I was doing it. But as the bouquet rose in slow motion over our heads I pushed people out of the way and made it my mission to grab the bouquet.

  And I did.

  Howard was at the wedding, too. I didn’t know him. But when my brother-in-law flung my sister’s garter at the single men it came to rest at Howard’s feet. I saw it happen. With a shrug and sheepish smile, he reached down to retrieve it.

  The four of us posed for a photograph—my sister, my new brother-in-law, Howard, and I. After the photographer left, Howard and I were introduced, and we laughed because we knew how the other felt. We sat down and had a drink. Then Howard asked me to dance “for the hell of it.” And so it went.

  We were married eight months later in the same hotel.

  I think there’s a way station where decisions and their consequences exist, waiting to be called upon. It’s up there beyond the clouds somewhere. They enjoy mingling together, laughing at us when they’re invited down. I truly believe that.

  I watched a bit of the Lost in Space rerun and after a while felt better. As I stood up to leave I saw Dr. Bernstein in the doorway. He was looking at me. I don’t know how long he had been standing there. But he looked different. There was trouble, I could tell. He appeared tired and world-weary.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “It’s Howard, isn’t it?”