Cleopatra and Frankenstein(100)

“But you must talk about it,” said Santiago. “It’s the only way to heal.”

Zoe had, in fact, never seen Frank cry. He often joked that their mother was so disgusted by tears, she had purged him of the habit by the tender age of five.

“Will you stay married?” asked Santiago. “For her visa?”

“If she wants to,” said Frank. “Honestly, I don’t know. Last I heard she was staying with Quentin. Who I’m sure is doing a good job of turning her against me.”

“Last you heard?” exclaimed Santiago. “Why don’t you call her, man? I remember the food I made for your wedding like it was yesterday. It was yesterday. She still loves you, I feel it. A girl like Cleo loves forever.”

“I’m not sure that’s true of anyone,” said Frank.

“Pssh.” Santiago made to cover Zoe’s ears from this unromantic opinion. “I’ve been trying to call her,” he continued. “The hospital would not let me give her my rice pudding. I wanted to make it for her again.”

“Hospital?” asked Zoe.

Frank gave Santiago a furious look. Zoe noticed him immediately color.

“Not hospital!” he exclaimed. “Sorry, my English gets confused. I meant … hospitality team! My team would not let me give her my secret rice pudding recipe. They can be very strict.”

“That’s weird,” said Zoe. “It’s your recipe.”

Zoe looked at Frank, who was shrinking in his chair, holding his chest again. She could feel in her gut that Santiago was lying. Her first instinct was to badger Frank relentlessly until he had no choice but to tell her—she was a theater kid, after all, and treated secrets as a vital source of sustenance—but she stopped herself. Suddenly she could see exactly what Frank had looked like as a child. That hopeful, fearful expression as he peered at the world from behind his glasses. She wanted to reach over the table and cup his skull in her hands. She wanted him to know that she would always choose him, always take his side, and that even if he never told her what happened to Cleo, she would understand. Because he was her brother and she was his sister. It was that simple and that complicated.

“Santiago, these eggs look amazing,” she said instead.

She sensed that the greatest act of kindness she could do for Frank right now was to get Santiago off the subject of Cleo, and this would be most easily achieved by talking about food. She took another bite.

“Is that paprika?”

“You have to talk to her, man,” said Santiago.

“Best eggs in the city,” said Frank, forking what looked like half his plate into his mouth.

“I added a little ají panca too,” Santiago said, relenting.

“I can tell,” said Frank, choking into his napkin.

“Let’s talk about Zoe then.” Santiago turned and wrapped his arm around the back of her chair. “Tell me, how is it possible that a girl like you does not have a boyfriend? We need to find you a nice boy. Don’t you know anyone, Frank?”

“As far as I’m concerned, Zoe’s dying a virgin.”

“Don’t worry, mi amor.” Santiago winked at her. “I’ll find you a nice guy.”

Zoe hated talk like this, in part because of a growing fear that she was not a nice girl. Nice girls blushed and got giggly when they drank, could order wine and leave a half-moon of liquid still in the glass. Nice girls went to spin class and had savings accounts. They did not have seizures. They did not have debt. They did not let old guys have sex with them in hotel rooms and leave before they woke up. They did not only see their brother because they needed money.

“I don’t think I want a boyfriend,” said Zoe.

“Good,” said Frank. “Focus on your schoolwork.”

“Of course, focus,” said Santiago. “But youth and beauty are terrible things to waste.”

Frank began to say something, thought better of it, and continued plowing through his eggs.

“Well, it’s a beautiful day, and I’m happy to see you both.” Santiago rested his hand on the table between them. “What is this beer you’re drinking?” He shook his head and called to the server, who was anxiously wiping down the gleaming bar top. “A bottle of prosecco for my friends!” He turned and grinned at them. “What else are Saturdays for, eh?”



The day was already ending by the time Zoe opened the door to her apartment. Tali was out, and the place smelled like incense and cigarettes and trash. She needed to rest. If she went to sleep early, she could still have a whole day tomorrow, maybe check out a museum, then go to school on Monday refreshed for once. She lay down on her bed and listened to the Saturday crowd outside her window.

But her mind refused to settle. It kept reaching, instead, to fill the gaps from last night. She remembered opening a bottle from the minibar with her teeth, scattering M&Ms on the carpeted floor, being on her hands and knees … She kicked off her shoes with a violent shudder. She needed to think about something else. She opened her laptop, and the screen brightened onto her bank statement. She closed her eyes. She had not asked Frank for the money. She would not.

She was sinking into a fitful sleep when the sound of her phone chirping in her bag startled her awake. It was a message from her mother, asking how the internship was going. Mother messages were worse than no messages at all. She threw her phone back in her bag, then opened her desk drawer and inspected Portia’s card. It was not the first time she’d considered using it since meeting her at the Climaxing to Consciousness group, but it was the first time she’d felt desperate enough to act on it. She plucked it out of its hiding place and carried it and her laptop to the kitchen. There was no wine or beer left, so she grabbed the half-empty bottle of spiced rum from above the fridge and sloshed some into her blue Tisch mug. Then she slid with her back against the cabinets to the floor and typed in the website address.