LA SOÑADORA DE PARQUE OCHENTA (THE DREAMER OF 80TH STREET PARK)

Frankie placed her palm on the sacred eye and waited. Standing in silent communion with the scarred stump, she lost track of time. The park, brimming with activity—families barbecuing, kids on their bikes, volleyball and basketball games in full swing on the courts—shimmered and faded away. A sensation came over her, like a low level signal coming up from the roots buried deep in the layers of sparse grass, earth, and concrete.

Was this finally it? Would this be the moment she had been waiting for? One beat, then another, then . . . nothing happened. Just the scratchy, rough-cut texture where the Sycamore tree had been severed. Three trunks split at the base—triplets of a sort. Now only two of them soared skyward, while the stump lay exposed, or as Frankie thought of it, dormant. The dark, inky-looking rings at the stump’s center drew her to it, a Rorschach test only she recognized.

Traffic blared on Main Drive, the road alongside the path where Frankie stood, startling her out of her ritual. She tensed and turned as a sudden gust of wind whipped her lank, dark hair into her face. Her legs, bare in black cut‐off Levi shorts, prickled against the sudden chill. It crossed her mind that at forty-seven she was probably too old to be sporting cut‐offs anyway. C’est la vie, who’s going to stop me? she thought.

A quick glance upward showed clear, sun-dappled skies overhead with earnest gray clouds pushing in at the edges. It was cool for a summer day, especially in the more shaded spots of what was officially called James Braddock Park, named for the boxer in the movie Cinderella Man and the site of numerous UFO reports. Locally, it was known only as parque ochenta. “Maybe next time,” Frankie said, in a voice that strained to be upbeat as she traced the deep circles of the stump gently one more time. Bored, her dog Bogie yawned languidly, shook, and tugged towards home. Frankie stayed fixed in place. Despite the non-event, Frankie wasn’t disappointed. There had been other attempts, other objects even. But they had all fallen short. None of the moments lasted or seemed to be within her control. Like the time she clasped a shiny new gold Sacagawea coin in her hand as she boarded the city bus home from high school. In a blink, the viejita in the senior seats behind the driver vanished. There in her place sat Frankie’s abuela, dark glasses and kerchief firmly in place as she rummaged in her little black worn coin purse to make the rest of the fare. “Here, abuela, Frankie said, extending the coin, “aquí lo tengo.” Just as the coin left Frankie’s hand, her abuela was gone. Only the viejita remained, softly smiling as though all worldly wisdom flowed through her veins. “Gracias nena,” the viejita said with a sly smile about her lips.

Waking dreams. That was how Frankie thought of them. Triggered by touching the most mundane objects, she would walk through them. Flashes of the past, glimpses of the future, or alterations of the present. Like layers of gauzy fabric, they stretched over the length of her life all the way back to the one-bedroom apartment of her childhood. Even then Frankie was out of step with time. Which may have explained her inability to sleep. Although by all accounts, Frankie had been a quiet baby—who slept through the night and smiled often. By the time she was about five or six years old, her insomnia was so profound that her parents gave up on the idea of bedtime altogether.

Frankie’s inability to sleep wasn’t out of stubbornness or for lack of trying. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was just that she could never seem to get settled. Struggling to get comfortable in her narrow bed, she shifted like a contortionist, walking her legs up her bedside wall or hanging half off the edge of the bed so that her hands trailed along the yarny wisps of the old shag carpet. Then there were still her pajamas to contend with. Like straight jackets, the collars creeping around her throat, stifling, suffocating. Only her father’s cotton, v-neck, Fruit of the Loom shirts hanging loosely around her legs were vaguely tolerable. Blankets painstakingly tucked in were wildly thrown off. Often when her parents checked in on her, they’d find Frankie staring up at the ceiling in the darkness or sitting cross-legged in the hallway listening to them watching Hill Street Blues in the living room and soothed by the piano of the closing credits.

This time Frankie was sure. Of all the trees in the 167 acre park, this was the one. She just had to figure out how to activate it, how to unlock the magic of the sacred eye and get the portal to open to reveal her true destiny and just where she’d gone wrong. 

To Frankie’s mind, late love and early menopause had conspired against her. The “spare room” that was to have been a nursery was now superfluous—an  unnecessary appendage, like tonsils or an appendix. Was it that she’d gone against all practicality and common sense in marrying her husband, Lee? How could it be? They were kindred. A lack of confidence at some critical juncture? Could she have climbed the corporate ladder faster? Or perhaps the answer was easier than she dared to admit. It was a punishment for not having the child she’d been given too early on. 

That summer Frankie visited the stump almost daily, with Bogie in tow. It had become their lunchtime loop. Starting on the Bergenline Avenue side of the park gave him plenty of time to do his dog business before they took the turn at the bocce court to arrive at the stump. Now it was fall. The trees were draped in orange and gold. Crisp leaves floated down, crunched underfoot, or stood in tall piles for Bogie to jump and roll in. It was a Tuesday and, despite her devotion, Frankie’s hope was waning. Tears slid down her face as she pressed her palm gently to the stump’s center. “Please open,” she whispered softly to the stump. “Please, tell me the answer.”

A light pitter-patter of rain began to fall. Bogie whined impatiently. A kid shouted, “Watch out!” as he and his friends whizzed by on their scooters. “Ok, big dog,” Frankie said, sniffling with resignation, “you win, let’s go.” Just as she was about to pull her hand away she felt it. A rumble and shift traveled from her fingertips up the length of her arm and deep into her chest. The world pulsed with her heartbeat.

Thump.   Thump.   Thump. 

She had arrived.

With a feeling of nausea and euphoria, Frankie felt herself flickering in space/time as she watched the forgotten yet familiar scene unfold. It was her and Lee, just a few years after they married, newlyweds on a sunny day. They held hands and talked as they walked down Frank Sinatra Drive in Hoboken. Lee was saying something about old friends, an old flame, they were all starting families. Newlywed Frankie stopped short under the part of the road that passed under Elysian Park and turned to him sharply. “Sure,” she said sarcastically, “with what money? Do you even know how much it costs to keep a baby in diapers?” Both Frankies watched the light leave Lee’s face, they reached for his hand, but it was too late. Frankie was swept away again. 

A metal stairwell in the grungy concrete hallway of a building in Tribeca. Twenty-year-old Frankie sat a few steps below the older woman, who was talking to her like a mother. “It’s what’s best for you, it will be okay,”' the woman said. “There’ll be a next time.” Twenty-year-old Frankie buried her head in the woman’s lap. “But I wanted the baby,” she sobbed hoarsely. There was a ringing in Frankie’s ears that grew louder as the scene dissolved and faded to white.

This time it wasn’t a memory she recognized at all. It was a different place, a different her completely. Clad in a loose-fitting robe tied at the waist, her head wrapped in a turban, this Frankie was a warrior, grizzled and sunbaked like clay. A barren desert stretched into the horizon. Warrior Frankie rode on horseback, galloping at high speed. Three babes were strapped to her chest, swaddled against her in white, red, and black. She was running, but from what? And to where? Warrior Frankie cast a look behind her, and for an instant Frankie swore their eyes locked . . . and then she was back in the park.

Frankie lay on the ground against the stump. One hand was tangled in Bogie’s leash, the other had slipped down beside her. She propped herself up on one elbow and looked around to see if anyone had noticed her trip. As far as she could tell, no one had. Unsurprising, given the rotating cast of characters who regularly passed out or slept in the park. Frankie’s mouth had a metallic taste and her head throbbed. Slowly, she got to her feet. 

“It worked,” she said to Bogie, who licked his lips and rolled his eyes nervously in response. “But I don’t understand, what does it mean?” 

There was a vibration in her pocket. The spell was broken. It was her phone. Lee had been texting her. He was worried. She’d have to try again tomorrow.

Spanish translations in order of appearance:

Parque Ochenta: 80th Street Park

Abuela: Grandma

Viejita: Little old woman

Aquí lo tengo: Here, I have it

Gracias nena: Thank you child