Cleopatra and Frankenstein(34)

“Sorry I haven’t been that nice to you,” she said quietly.

Cleo looked back at her and smiled faintly. Zoe thought she might try to pretend not to have noticed, but when she did speak, her voice was direct.

“Thank you for apologizing,” she said.

“I was protective of Frank, I guess,” Zoe said. “… And an idiot.”

Cleo shook her head softly. “You’re not an idiot, Zoe,” she said. “You’re lovely.”

Zoe wanted to hug her, but felt that would be awkward, so she reached over and put her hand on top of Cleo’s. This was also awkward, she realized afterward, but less so. Then Cleo did something Zoe didn’t expect; she lifted her hand and kissed the center of her palm. Zoe had never been kissed there by anyone. It was so tender, she thought. The tenderest part of her. Cleo released her hand and placed it gently back down between them.

“I’m exhausted,” she said. “Shall we sleep a little?”

They left the Popsicles melting on the balcony and clambered back through the window. Zoe and Audrey could have slept on the sofas, but Cleo insisted they all get in her and Frank’s bed. Zoe was squeezed in the middle, curled between Cleo’s back and Audrey’s shoulder. She’d never slept so well.





CHAPTER SIX


Early September


They were on the subway hurtling north toward Grand Central, where Cleo and Frank had arranged to meet her father and stepmother for lunch. It was midday on a weekday, and the subway car was cool and quiet after the din of the street. An elderly man rattling a coffee cup of coins shuffled past them.

“Who will help me?” he repeated in a high, querulous voice.

Frank dropped a crumpled dollar in his cup, then turned back to Cleo.

“So, what are their names again?” he asked.

“You can just call them Peter and Miriam, that’s what I do.”

“Not Dad?”

She shook her head.

“He’s my father, but he’s not my dad, you know?”

Frank nodded. He did.

“Peter calls her Mimi, which I think is—” Cleo mimed sticking her fingers down her throat.

Peter and Miriam were only passing through town for a couple of hours and had asked Cleo to meet them in midtown before they took a train up to New Haven, where Miriam, a healer and psychologist, was leading an inner child workshop as part of some corporate retreat.

It was Frank who had suggested they go to Grand Central Oyster Bar and insisted on taking a long lunch so he could join. He privately thought it was absurd that they couldn’t spare more than a few hours for Cleo, but he recognized that each family functioned with its own impenetrable logic, so he resisted the urge to say anything. By contrast, Cleo was surprised that they had made arrangements to see her at all. Most of the time her father was so wrapped up in his new family, he didn’t seem to remember he had a daughter at all.

“Our stop’s next,” Frank said. “Anything else I should know?”

“Let me think,” she said. “Peter says Humphrey is his son, but he’s not really. He was eight when my dad met Miriam, but he adopted him later. Humphrey won’t be there, but you’ll hear about him. He’s going to Cambridge next year and is amazing at sport. Everyone just loves Humphrey.”

She rolled her eyes and attempted a smile. Frank recognized within the forced casualness of the gesture a familiar attempt to dismiss years of resentment and hurt. He took her hand and looked earnestly into her eyes.

“I just have one question,” he said. “What kind of a person looks at a newborn baby and names him … Humphrey?”

Cleo laughed and shook her head.

“You haven’t met Miriam,” she said.

Cleo and Frank climbed the stairs from the subway’s fetid platform and emerged into the airy expanse of the station’s main concourse. They looked up at its famed celestial mural and smiled at each other in wordless recognition of their good fortune to live in this city. For even the most jaded New Yorker, it is hard to stand beneath the soaring robin’s-egg-blue ceiling of Grand Central, to tilt one’s face toward the golden constellations inscribed upon its vaulted dome, without feeling a tug of awe. On top of the information booth, the golden clock that had borne witness to so many millions of reunions and departures glowed warmly. Beside it, dressed in a tuxedo and a frothy white dress, a Japanese bride and groom were having their photos taken.

“You know,” said Frank. “We don’t have a single picture from our wedding.”

“Except the aura photos,” said Cleo.

“True.” He nodded. “You ever wish we’d done something like that?”

He gestured toward the couple. The groom had picked up the bride and was carrying her in his arms like an unwieldy baby, her voluminous tulle skirts partially eclipsing his face. Clenched between his teeth was a single red rose.

“I wouldn’t change a thing about what we did,” said Cleo.

Frank took her hand. “Me neither. But I was thinking we should do one traditional thing.”

“What?”

“Take a little honeymoon. You and me sunbathing in the South of France … What do you think?”

Cleo did a little skip beside him, swinging his hand in hers.

“I think, c’est cool mais c’est fous!” she said, and beamed at him.