I realize that I still have the keys to Frankie's apartment in Williamsburg.
Frankie is gone now. She died twelve days ago at the Shirley Goodman and Himan Brown Hospice on East 95th Street, a very beautiful facility filled with a wonderful staff. In the final weeks, it was reassuring to know that she was being cared for so well. Her room was blue and always tidy, filled with light and flowers and the things that people either sent or left; these items were strange talismans from all aspects of Frankie's life: a book quotions from Bill W., an angel pressed into a silver coin, a Christmas tree ornament with her name on it, notes and cards from friends, an odd pillowed silk album with paintings of a house in wintertime. The room had a large balcony, which she would have loved to walk out on to had she ever been able to; through the window was the skyline of the Upper East Side of Manhattan, clouds, sunlight.
By the time Frankie was transferred here, she slept most of the time, or was in Oz, as I called it. It was hard to know where she was--merely in the land of dreams or in a morphine haze or just resting in preparation of the final journey from this mortal world. Sometimes, when I called out her name softly or would hold her hand or stroke her forearms, she would surface suddenly and briefly. "What time is it?!" she would say, her voice filled with urgency, as if she was late for an appointment and was stuck on the train. Usually, I was there late. "It's 9 p.m.," I'd say. I knew I was only confusing her more; late visitors probably only made her days even more perplexing. "Oh," she'd answer. "Don't you have to be at work?" And then, very often, she would slip away again. But in that brief period, she seemed to know who I was, or at least not be frightened. I think she knew that someone had come to see her, and that seemed to be of comfort.
My offerings to the room were decidedly unprofound. Two emery boards--because Jeff, her health care proxy, wanted to clip her nails but was afraid she would cut herself if he could not file down any sharp edges--and a small tube of medicated lip ointment. At the drug store, the lip ointment came in a small cardboard box with two tubes. I didn't know what to do. Should I leave both? How much lip balm does a dying person need? On my last visit with Frankie, I squeezed the ointment on her always-dry lips, and she surfaced for an instant, not really opening her eyes. "Hi, sweetheart," I said. "I hope this makes you more comfortable, ok? Can you press your lips together for me?" And she did, which seemed to be a miraculous act of coordination, given how little command she seemed to have over her movements. I smoothed lotion into her hands, arms and face, and wiped her eyes with a paper towel moistened with warm water. I was always amazed how small her hands were, and quite delicate. It was strange to see Frankie take on a certain gracefulness as she slept, her hands cupped on her chest, sometimes cradling the stuffed dog that I had brought her around Christmastime.
Frankie was admitted to the hospital sometime around Labor Day. I still have a series of messages from her on my answering machine, the first one high-pitched and desperate. The later ones were from calls she made in error. "Hi, it's me, the pest," she'd say. "I'm trying to find Jeff. There's something wrong with my phone. He says there's nothing wrong with my phone, but there is." It's really strange to listen to these voicemails from someone who is no longer alive. They really are these audio postcards from the past. I taped some of them with my iPhone and one night kept listening to them over and over again on my computer; even if Frankie's voice was weak, there was the unmistakable cadence that was hers. "Ok," she would say, "bye-bye."
After Frankie died, I hung up her keys on the bulletin board behind my desk. She had given them to me when I lived about ten minutes away from her in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. She wanted me to let myself in downstairs, because she was recovering from her chemotherapy and was too tired to walk down the two flights of stairs and then make her way back up. I still kept them after I moved away to Queens, to Astoria. Just in case, I suppose.
Our entire friendship was based on her illness, so it's strange that now Frankie is no longer ill, and I don't have the keys to where she is anymore. So often, I was angry about the decisions she made and the way she chose to spend her time. But they were her decisions, and it was her time so it was never for me to say. I will miss making those telephone calls to see how she is. Now, of course, I'd really like to make a call to see how it is wherever she might be. The mother of a graphic designer I work with died just a few hours before Frankie did. When I told this to a friend of mine, she said, "Oh, maybe Frankie and Linda's mother are on the train together." That made both of us smile. I hope their journey was a smooth one.
And, maybe one day, Frankie's keys will open an unexpected door.
