Page 94 of Lost Love on 6th Street

“I know! Like, who is Frank? And were they in love or was he just a friend or—"

I’m going to be sick.

Eleanor continues to posit her theories and guesses without any help from me. “I mean, I think based on the photos, that’s the photograph a lover would take. You know something I would take of you.” She elbows me in the ribs, then turns on her bar seat to watch the musician play. “I wonder if Frank is alive. I wonder if we can find him.”

No. We can’t.

“Because I wonder what kind of stories he might have. God, wouldn’t that be cool?”

“Yeah, it would be,” I say.

Eleanor’s smile is proud and triumphant.

My insides are withering. Dying.

She swigs her beer again and slides the empty bottle onto the bar. “You going to have another?”

“Yeah,” I say. I push myself up to my feet. “You order us another round. I gotta hit the bathroom.”

I don’t wait for her answer. I just let my feet do the work for me. I am on autopilot, wading through the crowd until I make it into the red lit hall with signatures peppering the walls around the restroom doors.

I shoulder my way into one of the restrooms and lock the door behind me.

My stomach heaves upward, threatening to expel everything inside it. I grab onto the edge of the sink and try to steady myself.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

She wasn’t supposed to find out more. The story was supposed to be finished. I could have lived with that guilt and shame.

Now, she’s exposed another thread. A thread that is just a curiosity to her, an exciting new path to follow.

Eleanor doesn’t know what pulling this thread will cost me.

Because, Frank . . .

My stomach heaves again. I gag, but nothing comes up. I turn on the water, the rusty faucet handles squeaking angrily. I splash the cold water onto my face. The shock to my system steadies me enough to get a grip.

Water drips from the front of my hair into the sink.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, muscling the sink, my temples pounding.

Time is not relevant.

When I finally get the gumption to lift my head, my eyes meet my reflection. Blue eyes. Exact copies of my father’s.

“Fuck,” I say, although it’s more like an exhale.

Frank isn’t just a name. Not just Diane’s friend or lover or some new piece to the puzzle that Eleanor wants to find in order to make the picture as clear as possible.

Frank is my father.

I guess I can’t be completely sure that it’s the same Frank. But the questions I had about Diane’s disappearance from my life have opened pockets of memories that I haven’t ever reached into. How Diane’s disappearance was also marked by Dad’s absence. His late nights at work and business trips. His empty chair at the dinner table. Mom’s caginess, and when pressured, her short temper.

One memory comes forward, the clearest of them all.

I wake up in the middle of the night at the sound of my father coming home. He lumbers into the kitchen as I tiptoe down, hoping he’d take pity on my sleeplessness and make us midnight snacks that we could share together in front of the television. He stands in the doorway to the kitchen, humming.

Oh, my fucking god.

---