In one of my other lifetimes, in the marriage before this, I had an extended family as colorful as an off-Broadway cast on opening night. Some are still here, many are gone, and still others reflect those that came before like a mirror image in a glassy pond. Of those no longer with us, the one I think about most often is Fran.
Fran was my ex-husband’s sister, eleven months older than him, with the two of them more than a decade younger than their other siblings. My ex-in-laws had two sets of children over a dozen years apart. I never really found out what the story was with that. Mid-life babies are certainly not uncommon, but having two of them less than a year apart in the late 1940’s seems either significantly bohemian or seriously insane.
Young Fran distinguished herself early on as a free thinker and energetic doer. Her accomplishments were so numerous and diverse that a family legend sprung up around their frequent occurrence. As a child, my ex was often questioned by his parents about the happenings in grade school and he regularly reported that Fran received yet another award at a school assembly. My ex-mother-in-law demanded of him, “And when are you going to make me proud?” To which he replied, “I just did. I told you about it.”
Fran married a man with two young daughters that she showered with as much love as the daughter she gave birth to at the age of 40. In a bizarre pairing of miscommunication and malpractice, Fran barely survived childbirth. We all rushed to the hospital when her husband called that she was in danger. Emerging from an unconscious state, she told us she dreamed about hearing two voices as she walked down a brightly lit path. The male voice kept repeating, “We’re losing her, we’re losing her,” as it became more and more distant. But the female voice said, “No, she’s coming back,” and Fran felt drawn forward. We told her it was probably the nurse she had heard through the fog of anesthesia. She said no, it was her daughter’s voice. No one had told her yet she’d had a girl.
Her little girl grew up happily with two big sisters and Daughter as a close cousin. The four girls were together every chance they had at Fran’s big Victorian house in Brooklyn. They knew all the hiding places under the stairs and behind the porch and in the trees. They put on musical shows and costume plays under the guidance of Fran, a high school English teacher and Theatre Arts director. They were never berated about spills on the rug or broken vases because these were only objects. A heart was the one thing you were never allowed to break at Fran’s.
My ex and I had recently divorced when he called to say Fran died suddenly at 52. Acute onset leukemia took her within weeks. The standing room only funeral chapel was overwhelmed with mourners wanting to speak and share their remembrances, and every story was warm and funny and special just like Fran. Her 12-year-old daughter added these stories to her own memories and grew up beautiful and talented just as her mother always knew she would.
Husband and I were away this past weekend or we would have accompanied Daughter and Fran’s stepdaughter to the college where Fran’s youngest studies and performs. We are very sorry to have missed it, but thrilled we were able to attend last year. It’s my pleasure to share with you some of the images Daughter captured that Fran would have loved.
Fresh Dance 2007 at SUNY New Paltz
