Colleen Nelson - The Life and Deaths of Frankie D.

ALSO BY COLLEEN NELSON

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Sadia

Blood Brothers

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Colleen Nelson

Copyright Colleen Nelson, 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Publisher: Scott Fraser | Acquiring editor: Kathryn Lane | Editor: Jess Shulman

Cover design and illustration: Sophie Paas-Lang

Printer: Marquis Book Printing Inc.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: The life and deaths of Frankie D. / Colleen Nelson.

Names: Nelson, Colleen, author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200293249 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200293257 | ISBN 9781459747586 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459747593 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459747609 (EPUB) Classification: LCC PS8627.E555 L54 2021 | DDC jC813/.6dc23

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.

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For Isabella

T HE DREAMS STARTED the night of the break-in. Two weeks ago, my foster mom, Kris, and I had come home from a movie to find the front door open. Every room had been sifted through. My drawers had been dumped and the bed tossed. Kriss, too. Nothing was missing, but Kris was rattled. Break-ins were unusual in our quiet neighbourhood.

It took me a while to fall asleep that night. When I finally did, I had the dream for the first time. Since then, Id had the same one almost every night.

In my dream, I carried a candle as I walked across a wooden floor. Hello? I whispered into the darkness. Hello? Are you there? There was no answer. Heavy velvet curtains hung behind me. The planks creaked under my shoes. I was on a stage. A quick burst of air came from behind me. The flame died and I was pitched into darkness. I could hear someone breathing. I wasnt alone. Whos there?

I turned at the sound of a match being lit.

A mans face greeted me. He was handsome and wore a top hat and tails, like a circus ringmaster. But he looked worried. Has he found you? he asked.

Who? I wanted to know.

Before he could answer, the match went out.

That was it. That was the dream.

Id had it again last night and now I was hunched over my sketchbook trying to get it down on paper. Whats the deal with recurring dreams? I asked Kris. She stood beside the coffee maker, waiting for it to finish brewing. Her normally flat blond hair was frizzy with some serious bed-head.

She yawned. Why? Have you had any?

I nodded and shaded in the mans top hat. I keep dreaming about the same guy.

Kris arched an eyebrow, intrigued.

Ew. Thats not what I meant.

Is it a nightmare?

I shook my head. It wasnt scary more unsettling. He was worried about me, and I didnt know why.

I finished the sketch and angled my sketchbook toward Kris. She had no artistic talent herself, and she marvelled at what I could create before shed even had her first cup of coffee. The drawing wasnt perfect, but the concern was evident on the ringmasters face. I cant figure out if Im supposed to be scared of him or not. Is he there to hurt me, or help me? He always asks if someones found me yet.

Kris didnt say anything, but Id been in enough therapy to know what she was thinking. Trust issues, right? I guessed.

She smiled as she poured two cups of coffee, one for me and one for her. Could be. It might be your subconscious working through things. Youve manifested a person to represent your feelings.

That was a lot of psychobabble first thing in the morning. I stared at the picture, running my pencil along the contours of his face. It doesnt feel like a dream. It feels real, I said absently.

Kris gave me a long look. Youve been through hell a few times, Frankie. This might be stuff coming up that you need to deal with. Your minds way of saying its ready.

Talking about my past wasnt my thing. Nothing good ever came from it; it just stirred up a lot of bad Id rather not touch. I stuffed the sketchbook into my bag, ending the conversation.

Your dermatologist called yesterday.

What did he want?

Theres a support group he wants you to go to I shut her down before she could say anything else. Im not going to sit around with a bunch of people to talk about my skin.

Thats not what it is.

I snorted. Thats exactly what it is.

I got uncomfortable talking about my skin with Kris. How could I discuss it with strangers? The clinical name for what I had was lamellar ichthyosis, a rare genetic disorder that gave me skin so scaly, it looked reptilian. I shed, too layers of my skin peeling off like a snakes. I kept it hidden under thick foundation. People assumed the makeup was part of my goth look. It went with the black lipstick, long skirts, studded leather cuffs, and the heavy black eyeliner that ringed my eyes.

What happened to doctor-patient confidentiality, anyway? Dr. Singh should keep his frigging mouth shut. Jamming the rest of my stuff into my bag, I pushed the chair under the table.

Telling me about a support group has nothing to do with doctor-patient confidentiality, Kris said.

There were moments like this when I knew that two years ago, Id have been raging, kicking over chairs, screaming, punching holes in doors. Instead, I glared at Kris and took a deep breath, just like shed taught me. Use your words. I dont like feeling pressured to do something that scares me. I exhaled. Im not going.

Kris didnt look happy, but she didnt push it. Suit yourself.

I finished packing up my bag and slung it over my shoulder.

Want a ride? she asked.

I raised an eyebrow at her ratty bathrobe and bed-head. She looked like an extra from a zombie apocalypse movie. I shook my head. No, thanks.

Id put on clothes first, she called after me, laughing. And brush my hair. If she said anything else, it was lost as I yelled goodbye and shut the door.

The street was quiet when I left Kriss house. I still thought of it as her house, even though Id been living with her for almost two years. Shed done everything she could to make sure I knew it was my place, too, trusting me with a key, giving me privacy, and stocking the shelves with food I liked. But years of being shuttled between foster homes had left me with a sense of impermanence. At least, that was what Kris said. I was worried about getting too attached to a place in case it was taken away from me. Sometimes I liked that Kris could use her psychologist training with me. But other times, I didnt want things explained; it made them more real.