Has somehow become sacred to my lips.
A name I won’t throw around lightheartedly
Or repeat without deep thought.
― Jamie Weise
If you believe my high school yearbook, Frankie was most likely to succeed. He was my younger brother and made his first million before thirty, proving, I guess, The Gryphon right and my career path wrong—or at least seriously rocky.
I was a high school English teacher by day, and a fledgling writer of novels by night. Frankie was an Internet marketer cum laude and inventor of multitudinous scams designed to hit the inboxes of the Great Unwary.
Argue the ethics if you will, one fact was indisputable—there was gold in them thar shills.
Mom had died soon after I began teaching and Dad—well, let’s just say Dad just coasted downhill after that. One day while visiting his apartment, I noticed he was unshaven—the next time I visited, in place of a belt, his pants were held up with a shoelace. Obviously, he had lost some weight and a great deal else as well. I phoned and mentioned it to Frankie.
“Yeah, that sounds peculiar all right—but then, Dad always was a bit eccentric.”
There were many things I could call my Dad, but eccentric was not one of them.
“C’mon Frankie—get serious. I’m worried about Dad. I think we should get him examined.”
“So, why don’t you—What’s stopping you?”
I wanted to reach through the phone and grab Frankie by his skinny little neck and shake him real good. Instead, I did what I always did—I sighed and bit my tongue.
“Okay, I’ll take him to see Doc Gray.”
I did and the diagnosis was grim—age-related Parkinson’s—it slowed Dad down, muddled his thoughts and eventually would lead to senility.
Dad took it all in stride, took his Prolopa and continued to decline. His balance and muscle control were affected and then finally he was incontinent and had to be institutionalized.
Throughout this time, Frankie was in and out of the picture. We’d occasionally cross paths at the nursing home, but gradually, Frankie’s visits became fewer and fewer until weeks would go by when I wouldn’t see him at all.
One Friday afternoon, I was dead tired from the week, but dropped by the nursing home on the drive home from work. I sat by Dad’s bedside.
“So, Dad, how have you been?”
“Oh, I’ve been fine. I was out riding on my bike today. I rode over to Paul Green’s house—he wasn’t home, but I spent the afternoon talking to his mother—she’s such a nice woman.”
I laughed inwardly. Both Paul Green and his mother had been dead for years and the prospect of my dad riding a bicycle anywhere was ludicrous.
Then, abruptly, Dad changed the topic.
“I was on Havelock Street as well—you know where I grew up?”
I looked at Dad. "No, I didn’t know that."
“I was looked after by a family there for quite a while—almost three years—the Stowes. They were planning on adopting me.”
I knew that my granddad had been a widower and a prison guard—obviously, he must have gone through a period when he wasn’t able to look after my dad.
“The Stowes were a nice couple—the husband was a stock-broker on Bay Street—used to take me there sometimes in his LaSalle car.”
“Really?”
“They wanted to adopt me and call me Ross, but my dad objected and took me back to live with him.”
I struggled to comprehend what childhood had been like for my dad—he never complained. Over the years I marveled at how loyal and devoted he had been to my Granddad. Now, a new light was thrown on the situation.
I heard a noise behind me and looked up to see Frankie come in.
“Who’s this?” Dad asked.
“Dad, don’t you remember? It’s me, Frankie.”
Dad flushed a little. “Oh, sure, I do. Hi Frankie.”
I got up and told Frankie I needed a washroom break. I really just wanted to go outside to the lounge and ponder what Dad had told me.
About ten minutes later, Frankie came out. “You coulda come back in.”
“I thought you’d want some alone time with Dad.”
“Yeah, alone time—that’s about it.”
What do you mean?”
“It’s kinda a waste of time don’t you think? —I mean, he doesn’t even know who we are. We might as well not even come for all he knows.”
I looked at Frankie with new eyes. I tried not to let my jaw drop, but I was surprised and maybe just a little sad.
After Frankie left, I went back to check on Dad. He was sleeping, a slight smile on his lips. I wondered if he pedaled back to see Paul Green or talk to his mother. I hoped he did.
Dad’s been dead about ten years now.
Sometimes I take out the old White Owl cigar box and go through his few meager things. He didn’t leave much, but the things he left that were precious weren’t in the box.
It wasn’t so much what I did for him, but what he did for me.
When his memory was gone, I remembered for him. And he remembered for me.
He knew my name.