My daughter kicked her therapist in the face. It’s shameful that rushing to this woman’s aid makes me so damn happy. “I’m a doctor, let me take a look.” Christ Matt, you’re an idiot. She knows you’re a doctor. What I am is—pathetic. I grasp any chance to be close, catch her quiet citrus scent, touch the silky threads of copper coiling through her auburn hair. “Can you focus?” When I examine her eye it’s as if I’m looking at planet earth from outer space. How can anyone have lashes this long?
I’m invisible. She only sees my daughter’s thick little body crouched, her almond eyes spilling enormous tears. She soothes, “Don’t cry, Emma. Listen to the super ‘S’ sounds we made: Spinning somersaults sparked stars.”
Emma’s tongue ties when she’s upset. I apologize for her. “I’m so sorry, Frankie.”
The curve of her smile pulls like the moon. “I’m fine Matt. Today is ‘S’ day. They’re always suspenseful and surprising, eh, Emma?” Em’s flyaway hair rises with each stroke of Frankie’s hand. “Look, Emma, another ‘S’ word: static.”
I’m electrified just looking at her. “Where can I find some ice?”
“Upstairs.” It’s a noisy climb: Frankie’s dogs jingle and click as they scramble up. Emma’s corrective shoes clomp. What I hear is the soft kiss of Frankie’s bare feet on the steps. She often kicks off her shoes to play with the kids. They’re pretty feet, never polished.
Frankie’s a thirty-something flower child, living in an ancient hardware emporium. Her children’s clinic is downstairs, and upstairs is a loft as enchanting as her. It’s wide-open-free and overflowing-full in the same instant. Peculiar, eccentrically beautiful treasures that don’t belong together simply make themselves at home. Colour pulses everywhere, but in my eye it fades to a white gauzy-draped bed floating in the corner. Emma skips through the gate of a peeling picket fence and arranges a row of ebony elephants. “Emma, don’t touch!”
“Emma knows she can touch.” Frankie pauses until I’m in her eyes. “There’s nothing here not made more beautiful by a few cracks and scratches.”
I force my thoughts from the bed to the shocks of colour on the walls. “My son would love this place.” A floor to ceiling tribal dance makes me thirsty. “Who painted this?”
“Me. Is your son an artist?”
“Second year, UoT. The poor kid still lives at home, to help out with Emma. I’m determined he’ll live on campus next year.”
“Where’s Emma’s mom?”
I trace the grain flowing through a swirl of polished wood. “Traveling—for the past six years.”
Her hand joins mine in journeying the lines. “This piece is from Africa. Probably a thousand years old.”
“Do you travel a lot, Frankie?”
“My father wrote other people’s histories which landed us in some pretty interesting places. To be honest, I’ve had my fill of it.”
I can’t sleep. Her scent is in my head. When was the last time I lay awake, naked, hand busy under loose sheets? Usually, I’m just too tired. I feel a stupid fool, almost fifty, son in university, Emma—eight, still struggling to tie her shoes, and me dreaming about having this ethereal being.
I wake ahead of the alarm. This morning I don’t run a twenty-three minute, 5K circle. I ramble through the ravine. I think about a wife, lost somewhere finding herself. What were her last words?—Life’s too short for this shit. I don’t miss her anymore. I’m not so bloody pissed either, and I’ve stopped—almost stopped, being so damn scared all the time. I do, however, miss our housekeeper, Helma. What were her last words?—I’m getting too old for this shit. I especially miss her on mornings when there’s no clean underwear. Being an oncologist puts all the shit into perspective. The question I’m most asked is: “How much time do I have?”
Today. All any of us has is today.
I never expected on this day to drive home and find the woman I can’t get out of my head, in the tree on my front lawn, tying clocks to the branches. My son’s laughing, his eyes fixed on the tree. I worry, “Kevin, did you pick up Emma?”
“Yep. She’s at the Thompson’s borrowing clocks. I picked up someone else too.” He looks up. “No Frankie, more to the right—drop the bottom left an inch.”
Her head tilts around the branches. “Hi Matt, Emma invited me for dinner. Hope you don’t mind. She thought a black eye deserved more than ice.”
I glare at Kevin. “The house is a disaster.”
“Frankie says its art, people art, and ours is a masterpiece. I’ve ordered Chinese. I’ll pick it up. I’m going to Jason’s to get more clocks. Hey, Frankie, get dad’s watch.”
Frankie sits on a branch. “Hurry Kevin, you don’t want to miss the best light.” She reaches out to me. “So, are you going to help me down or what?” Suddenly it matters way too much that I haven’t shaved or had time for a haircut. I feel compelled to find a photo and show her I clean up okay. She tumbles into my arms and I can’t let go. Helma’s fiercely pressed shirts used to stand on their own. I need one. Christ, now all I can think about is the scorch mark on the bed sheets from ironing Emma’s uniform this morning and that my boxers are turned inside out.
Emma struggles home with a wagon full of clocks and Frankie places each one in the autumn branches. Kevin returns and directs the placing of more. Then, sweet Jesus, Frankie’s hand slips into mine as she surveys the tree. “It’s perfect, don’t you think?”
My bewildered whisper falls on her hair. “Yes, perfect.”
“Okay Kevin, here’s my camera, shoot away while your dad and I get supper out.”
Tonight, time flies too quickly when tidying up and putting Emma to bed. I envy Kevin’s ease at hugging her. “Thanks Frankie, Jason’s going to help me take them down before we all lose track of time.”
She searches my face. “Guess I should go.”
It takes ten minutes to get, “Please stay” out of my mouth. Sadly, she left five minutes ago.
Time moves slower on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I watch my watch, waiting for 5:15 so I can pick Emma up from her group. My hopes plummet when Kevin shows up. “Hey dad, I’m going to get Emma. I have a present for Frankie.” Up the back of my neck the horrible realization creeps. Kevin is glowing. Who could meet Frankie and not fall in love? “Will you come with me and ask if I can see her paintings?” Stomach clamps. Acid’s rising and I can’t get oxygen past the constriction in my throat.
Kevin laughs when he sees her. “Hey Frankie, nice suit. You look hot.”
“Thanks. It’s ‘F’ day. The frog, flower and fairy just left.”
Emma stands in a white cardboard box. “Hey Sis, what are you?”
“Fridge.” She opens the door. “See: figs, fish and feet.”
“Feet?”
Emma grins. “Frosty feet.’”
Frankie’s eyes connect with mine. “Matt, you okay?” I barely nod. Peppermint lingers on her breath. “Can you help me out this getup? I’m feeling feverish. How do firemen stand wearing this gear?”
My fingers fumble with the toggles. It’s frightening how much I want what’s underneath. I want her.
Kevin plucks off her red helmet. “Hurry up, I have a present.” He reveals his gift. “My professor said it’s good enough to hang in a gallery.”
“Kevin, it’s incredible. I have the perfect spot.” We go upstairs and I watch my children dancing in this space, with this woman. Emma whirls in the openness. Kevin circles from painting to sculpture. Frankie comes to me, leans into my rock stillness staring into Kevin’s photograph. The clocks in the tree are in flight, full of motion and life. The sun might be rising or setting. Time Flies. Yes, it does, whether you’re having fun or not. Kevin joins us, resting his chin on Frankie’s shoulder and Emma slips under her arms. Frankie kisses Kevin’s cheek. “You’re good—really good. How about supper? There’s fondue, French stick and fruit.”
Kevin says, “Hey Em, what say you and I go get fajitas and leave Father and Frankie to see how many ‘F’ words they can find.” He winks like I’m the twenty-year-old. “Night dad. We won’t wait up.”
Now, I feel an awkward fifteen. I can hardly fathom her hand floating the length of my chest, her face opening, inviting—her fingers tracing my mouth. Mine caressing the fading bruise on her cheek. A ticking over my shoulder counts the seconds till her lips reach mine and I discover no matter where in time I stand, a first kiss is always sweet, fevered kisses are better at fifty, and a forever kiss from Frankie makes time stand still.
Time Flies was the winner of the 2007 WCDR Short Fiction Contest.