Be Frank With Me by Julia Claiborne Johnson Page B

handed her the phone. My hands were shaking as I put a soft pillow behind her back and covered her legs against the draft leaking in the taped-up door. I hustled off to the kitchen to scoop cubes from the ice machine into the ice pack Frank had found for me the night before. It was a pink plaidbag—tartan!—with a metal screw top that looked like something used to cure hangovers in a Doris Day movie. “Why do you even have this?” I’d asked him.
    â€œI requested it for my sixth birthday.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIt was so hot that year. I wore it to school tied to my head with a burgundy Hermès scarf that belonged to my grandmother. Shall I get the scarf?”
    â€œI think we can make do without it,” I said. “Thanks, anyway.”
    As I stood at the sink adding a little tap water to the bag so it would shape to Mimi’s face more easily, I stared out the window at Los Angeles in the first stages of its nocturnal twinkle. To the east I saw fireworks splayed across the sky, over by the Hollywood Bowl or maybe Dodger Stadium. I thought it might be a concert or a ball game, but then I noticed explosions down at the beach near Santa Monica, and then to the west, above the hills of Malibu. I realized then that it was the Fourth of July.
    By the time I was back in the living room Mimi was off the phone and tears were dribbling down her face. I put the ice pack down fast and rustled up a box of tissues.
    â€œWhere’s Frank?” she said.
    â€œSleeping,” I said. “Are you okay?”
    â€œSleeping? Still? How is that possible?”
    â€œI wrapped him up tight in a comforter, put him on the floor in the family room, piled couch cushions on top of him, and turned the TV to the Korean language channel. Is anything wrong? Does anything hurt?”
    â€œEverything hurts.”
    â€œHere’s your ice pack. I’ll check and see if it’s time for another pain pill.”
    â€œIt’s not that kind of pain.” Mimi pushed back the sweatshirt hood and tilted her less-swollen eye at the ice pack in her hands. “This isFrank’s,” she said. “He wanted it for his birthday. First I bought him one of those blue gel packs you keep in the freezer, and he was so disappointed. It took forever to find this one. I almost didn’t buy it. ‘What’s wrong with pink?’ Frank asked me when I told him how I’d hesitated. ‘Pink is the navy blue of India.’” She took a tissue from the box and mopped her face. “I can’t stop wondering what will happen to Frank if something happens to me.”
    â€œBut you’re fine,” I said. “The doctors said so. And I’m here.”
    â€œNow. I’m fine now. You’re here now.” She collapsed against the back of the couch. “When I had money, I didn’t worry so much about Frank. Someone will take in a rich kid, even if he’s weird.”
    â€œI’m not leaving. You’ll have money again. Frank’s not weird. He’s different.”
    She snorted, then winced and pressed the ice pack to her eyebrow. “At least you didn’t say ‘special.’ Isaac was so right about you. You’re quite the Pollyanna.” The way she said it didn’t sound flattering. Sometimes it was hard for me to fathom why Mr. Vargas was so fond of her.
    â€œHow did it go last night, anyway?” she asked. “I was too wrung out to ask you when I got home from the hospital.”
    â€œNo complaints.”
    For some reason that made her cry again. No leaking tears this time, though. Gut-wrenching sobs.
    â€œIs there anybody you want me to call?” I said. “Relatives? Frank’s dad?” Alice, I thought. Shut up already.
    She pulled herself together enough to say, “My relatives are all dead. Frank’s dad is not an option.” She put the pack in her lap, blew her nose gingerly, then stared, glassy-eyed,