Frankie: The True Story

Note

Note: I can't take credit for this comic strip or theory!

I'd like to dedicate this work to the memory of LTC Mark Williams, Ohio Military Reserve, who only saw the potential in people.

“I had lots of imaginary friends, Mac!” I scoffed at the brown-haired eight year old. “A lot…”

My grandmother’s voice shook me out of my daze. Blinking, I came back into the ornate library again. Staring down at my favorite object – a snowglobe enclosing an elaborate Victorian mansion – I gave it a shake and fascinated, I watched the snow fall around the glass sphere, coming to rest on the bottom of the globe.

“Oh George, I wish she would speak to me!” I heard my grandmother, Brigid Foster, say to her son, my dad. “She just sits there in her own little world, staring at that globe. I don’t understand this Autism thing, son. I mean, she’s my own granddaughter, and I don’t even know if she even understands me. She just sits there staring at that toy.”

I understand you, Grandma. I thought. I understand every word of what you say.

Grandma stepped over to me and gently pried the snowglobe away from my hands. “That’s enough, a stor,” she intoned in the slow, infantile voice that she always used when addressing me. Inside, I bristled. I love my grandma…but I’m seventeen years old. And just because I can’t speak, doesn’t mean I’m not intelligent. But how can I get people to realize that? It’s really not their fault. It’s our twisted society’s fault.

“Let’s go wash up for supper, okay?” Grandma asked, putting her hand in mine and pulling me up. I towered over my tiny grandmother.

After washing up, Grandma, Dad and I sat at the table. I sat rocking back and forth, ruminating on my usual thoughts. Suddenly the silence was broken by Dad.

“You know, mom, there are things now…they have special keyboards now that they’ve used with nonverbal autistics like Frankie. Apparently some of these kids have been able to communicate using them. What if we could get one for Frankie? What if we could see inside her head…her thoughts…”

Grandma chewed thoughtfully. After a moment she straightened up. “Oh, a ghile, we’ve tried everything with Frankie. Everything! What makes you think this keyboard will work?”

Dad looked her right in the eye. “Mom…why do I have a gut feeling that it will?”

“George, I don’t want to be disappointed-”

“And what if we’re not, Mom? Could it really hurt to try?”

Although my face remained blank, inside I was laughing. At first, people don’t take my grandma seriously because she’s 4’10. But the joke seems to be on them once they realize how formidable she is. So anyway, good on you, Da! Those were my thoughts. Again, just because I can’t talk, doesn’t mean I can’t think.

After dinner, I made my way back into the library. Humming to myself (you would have to listen closely, but if someone really did and they were paying enough attention, they would know that it was the Flogging Mollys) I wasted no time in pulling down my snowglobe again. Ah, slan abhaile, Frankie Foster. Safe home to Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends.

“Let me do the dishes, Mom,” I heard Dad saying.

“That would be grand, thank you lovey,” my grandmother replied. As she moved closer to the library, my sharp ears picked up something else out of her. “Hmmm…hmmm…hippity hoppity, my tail’s quite floppity…” She let out a sharp laugh. “Do it again! Oh you’re a funny bunny, Mr. Herriman!” Inside I was rolling. I’m the only one that knows that my eighty year old grandmother still talks to her childhood imaginary friend, a six foot tall rabbit named Mr. Herriman. Sometimes, in a sick way, it’s an advantage for no one to think you can understand them. I really do hear a lot of wicked great stuff.

But I digress…

Staring into the globe, I became immersed again…

“I like chocolate milk!” an annoying yellow imaginary friend named Cheese shouted. “I. LIKE. CHOCOLATE. MILK!”

“MAC! FRANKIE! Give him some chocolate milk already!” a blue gumdrop-shaped blob roared.

“Oh no! He’s totally lactose intolerant!” the small chestnut haired eight year old boy shouted.

Seeing Mac suddenly snapped me out of my world. I chuckled softly to myself, half annoyed, half frustrated. I couldn’t show it on the surface, but I adored my child genius nephew Mac, my older brother Brian’s son-and his imaginary friend Bloo, who I knew he still talked to at eight. And I wished that I could share the world that I’ve made him a part of with him. He’d laugh his ass off. I do indeed want one of those communication devices, Da, Grandma, I thought. I want you to see inside my world-Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends. I want you to know that I can and do think-and I’m highly intelligent, if I do say so myself!

Sometimes I wondered…if Mac knew the truth about me?

Standing up, I walked over to the bookcase and placed the snowglobe down. I made my way down the hall, still humming the Flogging Mollys to myself. I walked past the living room to find on the TV…ugh. The Red Sox were getting totally creamed.

It practically took blood, sweat, and tears…but the day I finally was handed my first communication device was one of the most special days of my life.

Is this really it? I thought. Is it too good to be true? Can I really let others see into my head…and show that I’m not retarded? Can I finally share Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends with them?

“Frankie?” I heard Grandma’s voice say slowly, as ever. “Do…we…know…what…this…is?”

She took my hand and moved it to the keyboard. “There. Can…we…type? Can…we…say…hi?”  She didn’t sound like she had a lot of hope.

That’s it, Grandma! My mind was screaming. I love ya dearly…but it’s time for you to learn!

Instantly, I hit the D key. Then the I. Then the A. Dia dhuit grandma and da.

I didn’t look up, but I know that her and my dad’s jaws were practically on the floor.

“Mom…! Not only can she communicate…but she can speak your Gaelic?” My father’s voice was shocked.

Oh, I wasn’t finished. I decided to go to town. Im not retarded I can understand everything that I hear and frankly Im pretty pissed to tell you the truth. I dared to look out of the corner of my eye – I could see that they both looked like they had eaten something bad.

“George! Are you recording this?” Grandma asked, placing the digital camera in my father’s hands. “I can’t work that contraption…” she said. Dad’s hands fumbled, but he finally got the record button pressed.

So i am live now, I typed. This was fun. Sooner or later, when I had cooled off, I wanted to tell them about Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends, but right now I felt like fucking with them.

So I decided to walk away. I stood up and stormed off in search of my favorite comfort item. Echoing behind me was “I think you got enough good footage of her, dear…they won’t believe it!”

Entering the library, I found my snowglobe. Settling myself on the floor, I stared into the swirling snow and lost myself again, to instantly find myself being vomited upon by Cheese.

“I AM STILL NAKED!” A large purple minotaur named Eduardo roared.

“COCO! COCO!” a bird/plant/airplane thing shouted.

What a day.

Suddenly I heard footsteps. I didn’t look up from my snowglobe, but I knew it was my dad.

“Frankie?” his voice came from the doorway.

I heard his footsteps, then out of the corner of my eye I saw him kneel down next to me.

“Hey, baby girl,” he said softly.

I looked up from my snowglobe…just a little bit. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Da cracking a small smile. He reached out and brushed a lock of my long, red hair behind my ear.

“Frankie…I’ve always suspected that you could understand us,” he said.

“Hmmph…” I grumped softly.

“What was that?” he asked. I knew that his smile was becoming somewhat bigger. Look, I was starting to cool down a bit, but I was still somewhat pissed.

I knew what I wanted to do. So I pulled myself to my feet, and headed out of the room. I wanted my device back. So I made my way back to the sitting room. I heard my grandmother muttering something to Funny Bunny in there, but she shut up when she saw me at the threshold.

“Frankie! Dear-” she said, but she still seemed somewhat tongue-tied. Wow. Finding out that I actually could THINK really did change her perspective of me, huh?

I saw my device. Picking it up, I went and took a seat on the sofa. I heard footsteps and knew that my dad had entered the room.

Hi grandma, I typed. Dont think I dont know about Mr Herriman.

I looked up to see Grandma trying to keep a straight face. “Mr. Herriman? Oh-oh my, dear.” I heard her cough into her handkerchief, but something told me she was actually attempting to stifle a laugh.     

Yes, I typed. Your six foot tall rabbit imaginary friend. Or as you like to call him, Funny Bunny.

“Oh! Frankie” –and with that she burst out laughing. I wasn’t done yet.

Hippity hippity hoppity hoppity my tail is quite floppity. Said Funny Bunny to sweet little girl, I typed. You think I don’t hear that? Jesus mary and joseph.

My dad was in hysterics. “Mom – a six foot tall rabbit imaginary friend? Why have I never heard of this?” he teased.

Don’t worry grandma, he’s part of my world.

Grandma stopped giggling and looked over my shoulder. “What world, a stor?”

Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends, I typed out feeling a sense of pride.

“Foster’s Home For Imaginary Friends, huh? You named it after us?” I heard Da chuckle.

My hands were going to hurt like hell from this…but damn. It was so damn worth it to finally let my loved ones into my world.

Two days later:

Well, after my day of explanation, let’s just say everyone was still reeling – in a good way.

A bright, late summer afternoon found the whole crew sitting on the porch of the huge Victorian house – not unlike that in my beloved snowglobe. Grandma, Dad, my older brother Brian, his son who was my nephew Mac, and I. The sights and sound of the outskirts of Boston hummed around us, and I daresay I could already feel a hint of fall in the air.

And that’s how Bloo became the cannibal ghost, I typed out, while Mac watched me, shaking his head and chuckling.

“I can’t believe it, Frankie! Your stories of Bloo and I – your world is so cool!” my nephew exclaimed.

But his expression suddenly sobered up and he lowered his voice, so that only I could hear him. His blue eyes, wise beyond his eight years, gazed into my emerald ones – and I didn’t look away.

“I always knew you were smart. I always knew you could understand us.”   

I nodded softly. I always had a feeling you knew I was there, I typed.

But I was distracted. My sensitive ears picked up on something else.

“I mean, really, Grandma. If I hadn’t seen Frankie typing all this out, I’d think you were screwing with us. Seriously – she’s bloody brilliant.” Brian was talking. “Really, Grandma, this ‘Foster’s Home For Imaginary Friends?’ Really, this could be a children’s book…or a cartoon.”

Da’s voice chimed in. “You know bud…now that you say it, I know someone whose friend works for Cartoon Network. If we could get ‘Foster’s Home For Imaginary Friends’ sent to them? If this world of Frankie’s can be made into a cartoon? That could be a monumental turning point for nonverbal autistics.”

I snorted. The others turned just in time to see me type out: nonverbal my ass Im not nonverbal I just don’t communicate the way the world thinks everyone should.

Mac was rolling. And even though I didn’t have my globe with me, I could still hear Wilt, my red ten foot basketball-playing imaginary friend. “Frankie – of all the things that are not okay, that was really not okay!” With my thoughts of Wilt, my scowl changed to a giggle. He was my favorite friend.  Everyone else relaxed, but hey, I still wanted to screw with them and make them think I was still mad.

May the cat eat ya and may the cat be eaten by the devil, I typed. My hands were tired, and Wilt had just given me an idea. I wanted to show them something else that I could do.

I got to my feet and glanced over at Mac for a second. He got my message – that he should follow. I could see the others were getting to their feet as well – do they seriously still not trust me to not do anything stupid? But they stayed put and watched.

Brian’s old basketball hoop was still up, and the shed was still full of old basketballs. He still liked to shoot hoops once in a while, and Mac liked to try to join in lately as well, although Mac could still use some more practice. I was never able to communicate how much I wanted to play. My dear Wilt was born out of that longing. Stumbling into the shed, I found a basketball. Carrying it out to the hoop, I backed up several feet away. I dribbled a few times, then I raised the ball, took aim and…

The ball made it through the hoop on my very first shot.

Yeah! Another thing I’ve always wanted to do…and another thing no one thought I ever could do!

The reaction was not dissimilar to me typing out my first ever sentence a week ago. Everyone’s jaws were on the feckin’ ground.

“Frankie! Wow – you’re better than I am!” Mac exclaimed. His tone was a mixture of awe and jealousy.

“Nice shot, alanna!” I heard Dad call.

“She’s just full of surprises, Mom, isn’t she…”

Thanks, Wilt! I thanked my favorite imaginary friend in my head. I grabbed the ball, and dribbled it back to where Mac was standing, looking at me in amazement.

I leaned down and put the ball in his hands. My precocious eight year old nephew looked up at me. While I knew that tech stuff would always have his heart, he also had always wanted to be good at sports like his dad. 

Come on Mac, I urged him. Take a shot!

It’s like he understood my urging. Without hesitation, Mac aimed the ball at the hoop – and it bounced off the rim.

 Mac’s a great kid, but he beats himself up too often. His problem is, he’s too damn smart – and that gets him bullied.

But to my surprise, he didn’t slink away dejected when he didn’t make the basket, like he normally would have. Instead he grabbed the ball again. He held it in his hands, backed up several paces, aimed again…

And the ball went in!

Happily, I clapped my hands and jumped up and down. He did it! He did it! Mac has the makings of an athlete!

He spun around. “Did you guys see that? Did you see it? I made a basket!”

“We sure did! Way to go, Mac!” my dad cried at his grandson.

Mac’s brief display of vivacity over, he made his way back over to me, and took my hand in his, returning back to his usual sober self. “I did that because of you, Frankie. You helped me!”

And I smiled down at him. There’s still a long way to go…but this week I’ve been able to get my family to realize that I am a sentient – not to mention athletic – individual!

And in my head, I could hear all of my imaginary friends cheering.