Frankie

by Shivaun Plozza

  And that’s when Steve showed up.

  That’s when I looked up and saw his mud-grey plimsolls a foot away, laces undone, black at the ends.

  He opened with ‘What’s up’ but it went downhill from there. He didn’t exactly ask me out – he didn’t have dinner and a movie on his mind – but he made a pass so I told him to shove it.

  His cheeks burnt red as he glared at me. ‘Who do you think you are?’ he said. ‘Some guy paid your mother for sex. So do I need to pay you? How about five bucks? No wonder she dumped you.’

  I’m not sure who I was hitting when I swung that book but it felt good. I think I was tired of taking punches; I wanted to hit back.

  I wanted someone other than me to be the one who was always hurting.

  __________

  The Tate McClelland Hospice is all clean lines, lots of white and a shade of grey/green that’s probably called Frost Ivy or Scandinavian Moss. The place is hushed; nothing but a stream of murmuring and faint beeps echoing off the shiny tiles. It smells like bleach mixed with vomit.

  My boots leave a trail of mud pellets as I thud toward reception, a set of inner doors sighing calmly as they close behind me.

  A woman with a tight bun and the face of a cat’s arse heads me off before I can reach the desk. Her soft-soled shoes squeak across the tiles.

  ‘Who are you?’ She holds a semi-transparent clipboard to her ample chest.

  It takes all of my strength not to punch her in the face.

  ‘I’m here to see Juliet Vega.’

  Cat-bum purses her lips as she checks her watch. Nine o’clock. On the dot. ‘You’re early. Visiting hours aren’t until ten.’

  Too early. How about that?

  ‘I’m her daughter.’

  She laughs – a single, throaty ‘ha!’ ‘She doesn’t have a daughter. She has a son.’

  Maybe it’s all the white, sighing doors and frosted glass having a calming effect on me, but I continue not to hit the woman, which is a huge surprise to me.

  ‘I don’t carry my birth certificate around but I am her daughter. And if you know Juliet Vega – which I’m assuming you do – then you’ll know that no one would admit to being related to her unless it was absolutely necessary.’

  She tilts her head and lightly raps the clipboard against her chest. Thinking music.

  Sure. Because I’ve got all the time in the world.

  I look over her shoulder at the TV in the waiting room behind her.

  It’s the news.

  On the screen four people are standing in front of a blue curtain. A grey-haired cop in uniform is looking proper and stern and like you’d be happy to leave your baby in his care. He’s standing next to Harrison Finnik-Hyde’s parents.

  The mum’s got her hair set. That’s what Vinnie calls it, when she puts rollers in her hair overnight and then in the morning she’s got these perfectly set waves. There’s more of a honey hue to her hair than last time she was on TV. Maybe she saw herself and didn’t like it. Sometimes you can’t tell until you see a photo of yourself. Harrison’s dad is looking unhappy and happy at the same time. Frowning and smiling. Lights are flashing. Cameras.

  Standing between them is Harrison Finnik-Hyde.

  Thinner, red-eyed, eyes down, nervous. Both his parents have their arms wrapped around him.

  His mum hasn’t taken her eyes off him. ‘We’re just so happy he’s come home. We’re not even mad,’ she says.

  ‘Kids make mistakes,’ says his dad. ‘I don’t think he even knows what running away has done, how much trouble he’s caused.’

  ‘We’re never going to fight again.’ The mother’s voice breaks.

  My nails dig into my palms.

  ‘Listen,’ says Cat-bum, ‘I can’t –’

  ‘Paula?’ A crisply white woman leans over the reception, crooking her finger at Cat-bum. ‘I.V. for Mr Rodriguez?’

  Cat-bum’s eyes roll back into her head, the most exaggerated eye roll I’ve seen outside of my own mirror. When they’re done rolling, her eyes settle back on me.

  ‘Room seventeen. Morning’s best for Her Majesty anyway.’

  She swivels on her heels and squeaks away.

  __________

  My mother sits in a chair by the window, her body bent to one side, her head jutting left. Her arms, fingers and legs are sort of curled, like they’re seized up. Like a dead bug, all crispy and hollow. Left out in the sun too long.

  I stare at her. My mother.

  This place is a fifteen-minute walk from the Emporium. Fifteen minutes. I should have asked Cat-bum how long she’s been here, how long I’ve been fifteen minutes from her. I wish I could ask Xavier.

  Her head jerks toward me, her eyes rolling around to find me.

  ‘What do you want?’ She talks like there’s an egg in her mouth.

  I stay in the doorway. The room is small and painted Scandinavian Moss. There’s a photo of Xavier by her bedside; everything else in the room is medical – drips, silver trays, pill bottles, straps, monitors. It’s not like my mother was ever surrounded by personal things – she sold everything she could – but I remember her being surrounded by stuff – junk and men.

  My fingers stay pressed to the doorframe. ‘Do you know me?’

  Every part of her body seems to want to bend left; only her eyes remain straight on. They’re yellow-tinged and watery. ‘Should I?’

  I take a step in, but I keep one hand on the doorframe. Just the tips of my fingers. ‘Is that your son? In that picture?’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  She doesn’t remember. It’s the disease. Whatever the hell she has that’s killing her. Probably a cocktail of diseases. They’re eating her brain. She probably doesn’t know what day it is. It’s all the drugs she’s taken.

  ‘I’m Frankie.’ I drop both hands to my sides. ‘Francesca.’

  She tries to shift her body higher, her chest puffing out and her elbows digging into the back of the chair. I’m not going to feel sorry for her, just because she’s sick. My mother who used to show me how good a dancer she was in the middle of the street. She would pirouette, her leg knocking groceries from the hands of people stupid enough to walk close by her. She would say, ‘Look at me, Frankie Bean. Look how your mother dances.’ It’s a strange kind of dance she does now.

  ‘I had a daughter called that,’ she says. ‘She’s dead now.’ She collapses back into the chair, no higher, no straighter than before.

  I teeter on the spot and squeeze my hands into fists. I want to rub my eyes, try to rub away the red ink blots pooling there.

  ‘I’m not dead.’

  I have this dream, all the time. Sometimes it comes to me in the daytime. Sometimes I think about asking Daniel what it means but I don’t really believe in all that dream analysis bullshit. Or maybe I already know what it means.

  It’s dark. Then I see a sliver of her profile, a crescent moon of human flesh. I feel her hot, urgent breath on my neck and my over-sized nightie twists around my body. My mother’s hands reach for me but it’s as if I’m made of water. She slips through me and then I can’t see her, not even the sliver of moon. In my dream it’s dark and someone is sobbing but it’s not me.

  The armchair squeaks as her body jolts. ‘You want money? Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘I want Xavier.’

  When she laughs, spit dribbles down her chin. ‘Another disappointment,’ she says. ‘I was cursed.’

  Well, how about that, Nonna? Like mother, like daughter. I come from a long line of curses.

  I close my eyes and picture Daniel’s sleepy smile. How does that make you feel, Frankie? Did that hurt your feelings? You can’t bottle everything up, Frankie. How much room do you think you have in there?

  It makes me feel like shit, Daniel.

  ‘He’s missing,’ I say.

  When I open my eyes she’s not even trying to look at me anymore.

  ‘Haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Sunday. Two weeks ago. He cam
e here.’

  More dribble. This time she just kind of gurgles. If she’s trying to say something, I don’t hear it.

  I walk to the bedside and pull a tissue from the box there. I stop for a second to look at the photo. He’s younger. Thin. Too thin. He’s holding up a painting of the sun and three stick figures in front of a house.

  My mother’s eyes follow me as I walk to her side. She tries to jerk away but she has no control. She can’t run away from me now. How about that.

  I stand over her, wiping her chin clean.

  ‘Did he talk to you about the money?’

  ‘Money?’ She licks her lips.

  ‘He owed heaps. Thought he could get it back somehow.’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Sunday. Two weeks ago. What happened?’

  She pushes her back into the chair, head rolling to the side. ‘I didn’t take his money. He was waving it under my nose but I didn’t take it.’

  ‘Did he tell you where he got it from?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. He didn’t give me any. What do I care?’

  ‘He’s in trouble. He’s . . .’

  Her yellow eyes roll to the side, to the little buzzer on the table beside her. ‘Get out,’ she says. ‘I don’t want no ghosts in here.’

  I drop the tissue and grab her arm. ‘I am not dead.’

  I grip her so tightly. Her skin is waxy and dry. It would be easy to break her arm. All I’d need to do is squeeze.

  ‘You ran away,’ she says. ‘I called the police but they said –’

  ‘You left me behind. You dumped me.’ I spit out each word and squeeze her arm tighter. I don’t think she could reach for the buzzer even if I let go of her. ‘Why did you leave me?’

  ‘You were holding us back. Bill said.’

  ‘Bill mattered more than me?’

  ‘I didn’t like the way you looked at him, you little tart.’

  ‘I was four.’

  ‘You were my daughter.’

  ‘And you were supposed to be my mum.’

  How does that make you feel, Frankie? Did that hurt your feelings? You can’t bottle everything up, Frankie. How much room do you think you have in there?

  I don’t have any room, Daniel. But I’ll have a clear out. Keep, donate, burn. I’ll burn Juliet, donate my anger to medical science and keep Cara and Vinnie. I’ll burn the pink shoes and keep a Vixen Rampage kiss on my cheek.

  ‘You were supposed to love me,’ I say.

  My nails dig into her flesh. I could break her: one bone for every time she broke my heart. One bone for every day she made me live without her.

  How does that make you feel, Frankie?

  Actually, Daniel, it makes me feel good. Grateful. Thankful for the feel of a silk blouse against my skin, for a pair of soft hands on my cheeks and the words, ‘Don’t you worry, baby, your Aunt Vinnie’s got you now.’ Thankful for all the bedtime stories about a raven-haired princess who stormed the castle and slayed the dragon. Thankful for so many ‘I forgive yous’ and the early morning raids to get me to school on time. Because every day my mother made me live without her was a day spent with Vinnie.

  I wasn’t dumped. I wasn’t lost. I was found. I was loved.

  I could break my mother.

  But I don’t.

  I drop that waxy, flaky arm and step back.

  ‘I’m not your daughter,’ I say. ‘You’re right. She’s dead.’

  She jerks her head to watch me. Her mouth opens but it’s only dribble that comes out.

  I look at the woman who gave birth to me. The hollow shell. The dried bug. She isn’t my mother; she’s an impostor. In the end it’s so easy to walk away.

  ‘Where are you going?’ The chair creaks; she gurgles and groans.

  I grip the doorframe. I’m walking away. I am.

  ‘He stole it.’ She swallows around her words. ‘The money. Some drug dealer. How stupid do you have to be?’ Her laughter turns into a coughing fit.

  I close my eyes. The realisation lands in my heart with a heavy, choking thump.

  Oh, Xavier. What did you do?

  I push off from the frame and run. It doesn’t matter that I hear my mother calling, ‘Don’t leave me alone.’

  I’m not walking away. I’m running.

  Beneath the overpass, the walls are covered in graffiti but only one piece belongs to Xavier and it’s unfinished.

  The whole area stinks. Stagnant river water, bird shit and years of drunks using the walls as urinals.

  I walk the narrow bike path running alongside the water; above me, the bridge yawns across the Yarra. The bridge foundations are on my right, forming a high, graffiti-covered wall; water drips down the pylons, little trails of green, brown and grey. Pigeons coo from the bridge beams above, daring me to look up.

  I hurry past Xavier’s unfinished piece, footsteps echoing.

  The path is clear. Nothing in the scrub alongside it.

  But this is the place. This is where I saw Dave, hiding under the overpass like a troll waiting for passing goats. This is where Steve saw Xavier.

  It’s still. Cold. Quiet.

  I walk out from under the bridge to where a thick carpet of green covers the bank; at the top, a narrow dirt road leads to the Children’s Farm.

  I wade uphill through the knotted undergrowth, keeping close to the side of the bridge. My boots rip a path through the creepers; I watch my feet but can’t stop thinking how nearby children are playing with guinea pigs, their parents looking on with dopey smiles, cameras flashing. Maybe if I close my eyes and breathe quietly I’ll hear their laughter, their squeals of delight.

  I kick something. Something black, square, about the size of my hand.

  I bend, pick it up – a wallet, gritty with dirt and leaves. My heart beats hard, pulsing in my ears. I stay crouched, trembling hands as I flip it open. No money, no ID. A couple of receipts, damp and hard to read – a milk bar, an ATM statement, something . . . I don’t know.

  I can only make out one word.

  Galaxy.

  I drop the wallet and shoot to standing, body tense. Rigid.

  All I do is breathe.

  In.

  Out.

  I stare at the wallet. Galaxy, galaxy, galaxy . . .

  And then I move. So fast. Everything’s a rush. I swipe at the undergrowth, vines pull tight against my forearms. I don’t stop, I can’t stop. I have to find him.

  There has to be more. Some sign. Some hope.

  My jeans are wet through, heavy and damp. Uphill. Tangled. Stumbling.

  I have to find him.

  I have to tell him I get it. The kind of person who steals four and a half grand just to buy a gift so he’ll be liked is someone who doesn’t know what it means to be loved.

  That kind of person is lonely.

  Is crying out for help.

  Is lost.

  I get it.

  I reach the top, knee deep in a tangle of green. Where the bridge meets the road there’s a gap, a concrete cave about two metres high, five metres deep, a floor of dirt. A troll’s cave.

  It’s dark inside.

  But I can see. The smallest hint beneath the dirt. Not quite covered. Not deep enough.

  I fall to my knees, choking off a cry, my hand covering my mouth.

  It’s not possible.

  It can’t happen like this.

  I end up on all fours, clawing at the dirt. I don’t have to dig deep.

  Brown hair, grey hoodie, high-tops. That’s what I find.

  Bright-blue high-tops so I know it’s him.

  __________

  I call Vinnie.

  Dirt catches in the cracks of my busted screen as I search for the number, shaking.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say when she answers.

  There’s silence. I breathe loudly. Rasps in every intake of breath.

  ‘I waited,’ she says, voice cold and flat. ‘Waited at home, waited when I got to the school. I waited –’

  ‘He’s dead.’
r />   Silence again. Different this time. How many kinds of silence are there?

  ‘Dead. I found him. I found . . .’

  I look at him; I can’t stop looking at him. There are splashes of paint on his bright-blue trainers. Yellow, purple, white, red. Lots of red.

  I shove my fist in my mouth and drop to my knees.

  She doesn’t ask me to explain, doesn’t ask who, just where: ‘Where are you?’

  I force an answer and then I wait. I sit at his feet and wait. I can’t leave him because he’s been alone for too long and I’m not going to do that to him now.

  I listen to birds.

  I hear the river.

  Traffic in the distance; a gentle hum.

  It’s peaceful. But it’s wrong.

  Nothing can be right until she gets here.

  When she does, she scoops me up and hugs me tighter than she ever has, tighter even than thirteen years ago when the silk of her blouse against my cheek made me shudder with relief. She doesn’t say anything and I’m glad for it. In her arms, my edges feel defined again. For a moment I am contained, real and whole. Almost whole.

  She tries to lead me away. I tell her I can’t but she says it’s going to be okay, that we’re not leaving him.

  I let her guide me to the edge of the river where we wait, me in her arms. It’s not right – nothing’s right – but it’s better. It’s better because she’s here.

  That’s how we are when the cops arrive.

  ‘Goddamn mess,’ says Marzoli. He points, starts barking instructions.

  My arse is wet from the damp grass; dirt so far under my nails it’ll stick around for days. I cling to Vinnie and she makes gentle noises. Ducks surf the river current, pushed downstream toward the Children’s Farm.

  Behind us there’s a glow of red and blue from the police cruiser parked on the grass. Someone says something about a stretcher.

  I bury my head in Vinnie’s shoulder and tell her I’m sorry I missed the meeting. She says not to worry, it’s nothing – but it doesn’t stop the shame. The reality of what I’ve done – what I’ve missed – hits me hard all at once. I missed The Most Important Meeting of My Life. The Your Future Is Decided Today Meeting.