Chapter 22
Cal
Three days.
That’s how long I resist Junie’s nonstop questions about when Frankie’s coming back during our twenty-minute drive to and from her preschool.
On the fourth day, the questions start before she’s even buckled in her booster, and it doesn’t seem fair that I’ve already watched Frankie’s video half a dozen times when it was meant for Junie.
Once she’s in her seat, I hand her my phone and press play on Frankie’s video.
What other choice do I have? Junie’s not forgetting her any quicker than I am.
She watches the video over and over, at full volume, so Frankie’s voice and her message for Junie accompany me all the way back to the ranch. I don’t mind. I like to think Frankie’s words were meant for me too.
I suffer through another two days of Junie rewatching the video close to a million times before I break down and text Frankie. As a friend. Nothing more.
It’s mid-afternoon, and I don’t have any calls to go out on, so the office is pretty slow. Of course I could find other things to do, but impulse takes over. I’ve typed and sent the message to Frankie before I can stop myself.
Hey, just checking in. You okay?
I sit at my desk and flip on my computer to update some patient files, preparing myself to wait for her answer. I won’t get my hopes up that she’ll text back any time soon. Or ever.
But then my phone rings and Frankie’s number appears, bringing a stupid grin to my face.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey. Hope it’s all right I rang. I’m sorry I haven’t sooner.” Her voice wavers, leaving me feeling unsteady. She feels so far away.
“Nothing to be sorry about. You’ve got bigger things to worry about. Have you talked to your dad?” I press the phone to my ear and hold as still as possible, like I might frighten her, even though she can’t see me.
“Yeah,” she says on a sigh. “He’s got cancer, stage four. I’m staying with him.”
“With Malcolm?”
“Bit of a shock. I know,” she laughs without any humor. “It’s terminal. Figured this may be my last chance to have any kind of relationship with him, so I moved in to help with his care.”
I'm not sure how to respond. I pushed her to see her dad, but I never imagined she’d move in with him, let alone play nurse to him on his deathbed.
He doesn’t deserve that from her. After everything she’s told me about Malcolm, I don’t trust him.
She could be caught in his manipulation tactics again without even knowing it.
“But you’re okay?” I ask again. “You can leave if you want to? You don’t feel obligated to take care of him, do you?”
She coughs out another laugh. “I knew I’d give you one more thing to worry about if I told you. I promise, I’m good. This is hard, but you’re the one who said I could face hard things.”
“Yeah, I didn’t mean you should make things harder on yourself.” I grab a stress ball from my desk and squeeze, but the motion doesn’t release any of the guilt I feel for urging her back to LA.
“The funny thing is, being here with him while he’s dying is easier than hiding from him. We’re sorting things out, Cal. I doubt we have enough time to fix everything, but I hope I’ll be ready to tell him goodbye without any regrets or bitterness.”
I take a breath, picturing Frankie facing this challenge the same way I’ve seen her do in the competition videos I’ve watched. She read the wave with patience, choosing the right set with confidence before conquering it.
“Sounds like you’re navigating the situation like a pro.”
“Maybe not a pro, but I’m not running from it.”
I nod to myself. “You know you can call if things get rough.”
Frankie’s quiet for too long, and I almost say goodbye, but then she blurts. “How’s Junie? Did she watch the video?” She pauses, then lets out a soft huff. “Not sure if I want the answer to that to be honest.”
“She loved it.”
I don’t have the heart to tell Frankie how many times Junie’s watched it. She’s trying to fix things with her dying dad. That’s enough burden to carry. She doesn’t need to be told how much Junie’s missing her.
“Good. I’m glad. Tell her I miss her.”
“Of course.”
A quiet settles over us again, but I’m not ready to end the call.
“I got an audition for a part in an Alison Fisher film,” she says quick enough to hit me with the force of a surprise left hook.
I don't have any idea who Alison Fisher is. I don’t really care either. Whoever she is, she’s luring Frankie back to a life even further from me.
But Frankie doesn’t need to know how much I’m missing her either.
“Wow. Are you nervous?”
“My stomach’s doing laps. I’ve never had to audition before. Read, yeah, but Malcolm hooked me up with all my parts. I had the part before I read.”
“You’ll do great. Tell me how it goes.” I can’t muster any more enthusiasm than that. “Listen, I’ve got to pick up Junie, so I should run.”
“Yeah, alright.”
I don’t miss the disappointment in her voice, but what else is there to say besides goodbye? I can’t tell her I’m worried Malcolm’s drawing her back into a life she doesn’t want, and Hollywood will make friendship impossible for us.
If Frankie wants to start acting again, I’ll support her.
And if she’s made the choice to stay with Malcolm, I’ll trust that she knows what she’s doing.
It sounds like, for the first time, she’s walking into this conflict with her dad instead of running from it.
And she’s not running from the spotlight either.
She’s moving forward.
I just wish forward didn’t feel like further away from me.
Over the next week, Junie asks less about Frankie, but she hasn’t forgotten her. A day will pass where she doesn’t ask to watch the video of Frankie, and I think maybe we’ve moved on. Forgotten her. But then she’ll ask to “watch Frankie,” and I’m as anxious to watch the video as she is.
And it’s ridiculous to think I’m going to forget her when I’m supplementing her personalized thirty-second video with every episode of Surf City High and every movie she’s been in—no matter how small her part.
I don’t mention that in any of our texts.
I tell her things are fine and ask about her dad.
My job is to be supportive, not needy. And definitely not manipulative, which is what telling her how much Junie still misses her would be.
More weeks pass, and our texts grow less frequent, even if my thoughts about Frankie don’t.
I force myself not to rewatch The Video or check in every time I think about her—which would be about a million times a day.
The one thing I can’t make myself do is quit checking to see if she’s called or texted, then answering right away if she has.
But our messages are short, surface-level things.
She’s fine.
I’m fine.
Junie’s good. Turning four and insisting on a Bluey party.
I leave the party planning to Mom who volunteers after I ask her if I have to invite Junie’s entire preschool class and if cake and decorations are really necessary.
I may have played up my cluelessness, but Mom does love to entertain.
She always put on the best birthday parties for us, so I figure it’s best to leave the really hard parenting stuff to the expert.
On Junie’s actual birthday, I take off work to spend the whole day with her.
“Anything you want to do today, birthday girl, that’s what we’ll do!” I say while braiding her hair as she sits on the bathroom counter.
“Can we visit Frankie?” she asks.
I flinch. “Sorry, Bug. No.”
Sooo, maybe not anything she wants.
She purses her lips then sticks up her pointer finger. “I know! We can go to Fingo’s, then to the beach.”
I draw in a breath and force a smile. We haven’t been to the beach once this summer—so that’s a fair ask. But we haven’t been back to Flamingo’s since Frankie left, and I hadn’t really planned to go back. At least not until I can sit there without wishing Frankie were there the whole time.
So… never. Probably.
But I can’t say no to Junie. Who knows how many birthdays I have left where she’ll be satisfied with a plate of pancakes and a day at the beach with me?
“Sounds like a plan! Put on your swimsuit while I pack the beach bag!” I lift her off the counter, and she darts to her bedroom.
Five seconds later she’s back, blocking the door. “And we can go shopping for my own four-wheeler, too?”
So, zero birthdays left before she starts asking for expensive gifts.
“Absolutely not.” I turn her back around, nudge her back toward her room, cursing Bennett at the same time.
An hour later, Flamingo’s is even busier than it was the last time I came in. The whole place is crowded with tourists. When we have to wait for a spot at the counter, I take Junie’s hand and turn to leave.
“We’ll come back later when it’s not so busy, Bug.”
The words aren’t out of my mouth before she’s wrung her hand from mine and runs toward a waitress, wearing a blonde beehive wig with her back to us.
“Frankie!” Junie yells.
From behind, the woman looks like Frankie, and not just because of the wig.
She’s tall and slim, and for a second, I’m fooled too.
But even before Junie reaches her, I realize she’s not Frankie.
Nobody’s eyes are drawn to her. There’s no soft buzz of electricity surrounding her. No invisible magnet pulling me to her.
And a second after that realization comes another. Junie’s about to get her heart broken.
She throws her arms around the back of the waitress who startles and spills the coffee she’s pouring. She sets the pot down and flips around, looking down at my kid like Junie’s an alien who’s attached herself like a bad virus. Junie lifts her head.
“Where’s your parents, kid?” the waitress asks without any of Frankie’s gentleness.
Too late, I rush to Junie. By the time I start toward her, she’s already running to me. I pick her up, and she wraps her arms around my neck and buries her head in my shoulder. She clutches me so tight, my apology to the waitress comes out as a squeak.
“She got you confused with someone else.”