Frank Iero: P.A.

The drive back to New York feels like it’s going a lot faster than the drive up to the mountains. We don’t talk much, but when we do it’s obvious that Gerard’s eager to put all previous boundaries back in place. He mentions some of the projects he’s been working on that I’ll have to send off tomorrow – he’s giving me today, Monday, off to recover – and the exhibitions coming up this week that we may have to attend. Everything is about work – he doesn’t even mention Mikey. I know it’s probably for the best that we return to a professional relationship, but part of me is disappointed... and I have no idea why. Actually, I think I do – but I’m not even going to start contemplating that impossible potentially possible possibility.

Gerard did as he promised and stopped at the local Wal-Mart on the way back to get my cough syrup. He also refused the money I offered to give him for it: “Frank, I pay your salary; therefore whatever money you give me was originally mine anyway.” There was no point trying to argue with him on that fact. Besides, my throat has already started to feel a little raspy.
We round the circular driveway of Gerard’s mansion just after one-thirty. I cast my eyes over the familiar grey masonry; it’s lovely to be back, but not as lovely as it should be. Maybe in a few hours this will change.

Gerard pulls up the handbrake and cuts the engine. He turns his head to me, a stoic expression firmly in place.

“Get your stuff, go upstairs, and keep warm, Frank,” he says sternly.

I swing open the door and go do as he says. He appears around the back of the car a few seconds later and starts retrieving his own things. No more words are spoken between us as we ascend the front steps and let ourselves into the mansion. Just as I shut the front door behind us Ellie comes charging into the hallways from the living room.

“Where have you been?!” she booms in a voice that you would not expect to be able to come out of a woman of her frame.

I look to Gerard and he looks to me but neither of us say anything. I feel as if we’re about to be reprimanded by a prison warden, or worse... our mother.

“Tu disparais sans une note ou un appel téléphonique! Ici, je suis à la recherche partout pour vous! Vous n'êtes pas dans votre chambre, et le bureau de Gérard avait été saccagé!” she yells at us, striking her arguments off on her long, thin fingers. “J'ai appelé Michael et Alicia - aucun d'eux ne savais où tu étais, ni fait l'un de vos vieux amis! J'ai même demandé à mes enfants, Gerard! Nous avons recherché l'ensemble de New York pour vous!”



Both Gerard and I drop our eyes to the floor and listen as Ellie keeps on yelling at us. She goes on for more than a minute, barely stopping to take a breath. I’m reasonably fluent in French, but at the speed she’s speaking, I’m struggling slightly to pick up every word; I can’t imagine how confused Gerard must be. During one of her few pauses, I unfortunately let out a loud sneeze.

“Et Frank est malade! Un rhume? La grippe? Pneumonie?” she says accusingly. She pushes herself between us and takes hold of our wrists like a mother in the grocery store. We get dragged toward the staircase. “Obtenez l'étage, vous deux!”



God, we’re in so much trouble. She lets us go and pushes us forward. We trudge up the stairs with our heads still lowered. It occurs to me how ridiculous this scene is – two grown men with no blood connection to this elderly woman who works as our housekeeper, getting in trouble for not telling her where we went. But even though I feel kind of bad, it also feels nice to have someone be concerned about me.

I stop on the fourth step from the top and call over the side of the banister softly, “Je t'aime, Ellie.”



She sighs angrily and storms up the steps. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut... When she reaches me she envelopes me in a big bear hug, muttering “Je t'aime, Frank” into my hair. I guess I made the right choice after all.

As she turns to go back down stairs I hear, to my absolute disbelief, Gerard say, “Où est mon étreinte, maman?”



Since when could Gerard Way speak French?

Ellie swings back around and glares at him with her blue eyes. “Les garçons qui mènent autres garçons égarés ne reçoivent pas de câlins.” She climbs the six steps between herself and Gerard, takes his cheeks in her hands and pulls him down to her so she can place a lingering kiss to his forehead. As she releases him, she says. “Je t'aime tellement, ne m'a jamais vous inquiétez pas comme ça. Maintenant, allez.”



I follow Gerard’s lead as he continues upstairs, this time with a small smile playing on his lips. It’s kind of cute, the delicate relationship that he and Ellie have. I guess, after all that went on between he and his parents, that Ellie really took over the role of his mother. You can tell by the way that she looks at him that she loves him as much as her own children.

Gerard and I part ways at the top of the staircase without speaking another word to each other. I kind of wanted to ask him more about his sudden ability to speak French, not to mention why the bastard had failed to tell me that no one knew we were gone nor did they have any way of contacting us and vice versa. But I guess asking him anything like that would break our unspoken agreement to keep things professional. I sigh in disappointment. The rest of the day will be spent in my room, alone, without even my guitar for entertainment – Ellie would surely slaughter me if I went back down to get it.

As I lie beneath the covers of my queen size bed – a vast improvement on the single bed and the floor I slept on while we were away – I listen to the sounds buzzing around me. Soft rock music hovers down the corridor from Gerard’s studio, not quite loud enough for me to identify the song, but loud enough to get my knee bouncing along to the tune. Ellie’s angered French echos throughout the house as discovers my soaked clothing: “Wet! Tout mouillé!” (“Wet! Everything wet!”). The branches of the tree outside my window scratch against the glass in the breeze. There’s a quiet electrical buzz from all the technology in my room. All these little sounds, things I wouldn’t ordinarily notice, yet right now they keep me company.

Gradually, my eyelids become heavy and I find myself struggling to stay awake. Just when I feel like I can no longer fight the urge to sleep, the music from the studio softens its tune, resonating like a lullaby, and becomes more audible. My ears, despite every other body part failing my right now, prick up to take in the sound. I hum along with the tune... it’s something I recognise.

“A whole cup full of nothing for him to indulge...” I find myself drowsily singing along. “Since the voice of ambition has long since been shut up...”

Poetic Tragedy - The Used.

Gerard listens to The Used? Well, I guess he has good taste.

“A singer, a writer, he’s not dreaming now of going nowhere...”



A knock on my door rouses me from my apparent slumber; I hadn’t even realised I’d drifted off. I call out a ‘come in’ while I look about the room until I locate the clock. Can four hours still be counted as a nap?

The white door swings open and Ellie appears, a food laden tray in her hands. She doesn’t smile at me like you’d expect her to as she comes toward me, but I guess if I’d been put through what Gerard and I put her through over the past couple of days then I’d be annoyed, too. When she reaches the side of the bed she places the tray over my blanket clad legs (it’s one of those fancy ones with legs), then gently pushes me into a seated position and fluffs my pillows for me.

“Soupe chaude, fruits frais, jus d'orange et du café,” she tells me, referring to the tray before me.



“Merci, Ellie,” I thank her appreciatively.

“Ne me remerciez pas encore, je vous ai apporté la médecine ainsi,” she says, producing a small medicine cup full of cough syrup out of fucking nowhere.



I take the cough syrup from her outstretched hand and down it like a shot of tequila, complete with the ‘God, that’s disgusting’ head shake. Unfortunately, three full gulps of OJ do absolutely nothing to rid me of the terrible taste. At my reaction, Ellie cracks a smile. She is one evil, evil old woman. I fix her with a glare and she turns to leave, humming a pleased tune to herself as she goes.

My stomach rumbles emphatically as I peruse the food Ellie has left for me. I select a grape from the small bowl of fruit and toss it in the air, catching it in my mouth like a pro. I throw up another grape and it also lands in my mouth. Have you ever noticed how you can only catch food in your mouth when you’re on your own, and then when you go to show someone it never goes in? As I go to do it again with the last grape on the pile of fruit there’s a knock on the door, which of course fucks with my concentration and leads to the grape bouncing off my nose and landing God knows where.

“Ellie!” I shout. “You screwed up my grape catching!”

“I don’t recall that skill being listed on your resume,” Gerard says, materialising in my room.

I almost send the tray flying across the room when I see Gerard. Seriously, I thought it was Ellie. Gerard doesn’t exactly have a history of knocking before entering a room. I compose myself and try to think of something intelligent to say.

“I don’t recall giving you a resume.”

He shrugs casually. “You didn’t. I sourced one from one of your previous places of employment.”

Previous places of employment? Does he mean that one time – and I do mean one time – that I worked at Chuck E. Cheese? You’d think they’d be more explicit in telling their employees that ‘the ball pit is not where you take your break’.

I scan his face, hoping his comment was sarcastic, but I don’t think it was. “That’s very stalker-ish of you.”

To this he says nothing. I watch as he looks about my room; his eyes fall to my lap. He comes over to me and takes a chunk of rockmelon from the bowl of fruit.

“So,” he says, muffled slightly by the sound of his chewing. He swallows. “I’ve been informed by Ellie that I need to apologise to you for dragging you into my mess.” I cock my eyebrow at him. “But I won’t be doing that.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask sarcastically.

He shakes his head. “Apologising would imply that I regret going to the cottage, and I don’t regret it. It was a good distraction, we had fun for the most past; there’s no need to apologise for that.” He grabs out another chunk of rockmelon. “However, I will thank you for coming along. So, thank you, Frank.”

Gerard pops the fruit into his mouth, nods his head once at me, and retreats from the room.

I don’t know how to feel about this exchange.