5
Cleo
At some point, deep into the evening, Cleo found herself in the bar car with Florence and Rashid. Cleo had met them both at Alexander’s funeral, but barely remembered Sylvie’s best friends from those hazy days. “Isn’t this trainstupendous?” said Florence, refilling her glass of champagne.
“Flo, you are very tipsy,” said Rashid, beaming. He was tall and pudgy, with hair long enough to tuck behind his ears but not long enough for a ponytail. His smile was goofy and sweet, and he had a hoop in one ear.
“This is kind of our honeymoon,” said Florence.
“Oh,” said Cleo. “But I thought you were…”
“We’ve been married for twelve years,” said Rashid. “What she means is that we could never afford a…”
“We went camping the weekend after our ceremony,” said Florence. “But now we’re headed to a castle!”
Cleo smiled. Florence’s enthusiasm was infectious.
“So, your Danny’s a novelist?” said Florence.
“Yes,” said Cleo. “I mean, he’s working on a novel.”
“Rashid tried to write a novel,” said Florence.
“Yeah,” said Rashid. “But it just never ended. And then I started hating it.”
Florence nodded. “Remember, hon? You set up the whole table in the hallway? It made me so sad to see you there, staring at the coatrack.”
“Yeah,” said Rashid. “I hated it so much.” He sipped his champagne. “I wanted to, like,bea novelist, you know? I wanted an author photo and a book tour. But actually just typing all day—wow, that sucked.”
They both laughed ruefully. Florence hugged her husband. Cleo watched them as if they were strange animals in a zoo: partners and friends who supported each other, not seeming to have anything to prove. Cleo could not imagine saying to Danny (or anyone) that she regretted her choices. She wondered for a moment if Danny, too, hated trying to write a novel…and just didn’t know how to tell her.
Later, next to Danny in their suite, Cleo closed her eyes and listened to the train as it made its way toward the Lake District—a place made famous by Wordsworth and Beatrix Potter. She was soothed by the low clattering, the sound of wheels against the tracks. She wished she was home, but when she thought of the wordhome,it was Isaac’s apartment she envisioned. His mismatched dishes and thick, carpeted floor, and the spicy candles his mother bought him at Bed Bath & Beyond.
It was strange to think of her sisters asleep in adjoining suites. They had shared one room until she had gone to college—Emma and Sylvie in bunk beds and Cleo in a twin bed by the door. Oftentimes (especially when her parents fought in the living room) her sisters would end up in Cleo’s bed, where the two older sisters would sleep on either side of baby Sylvie, who loved to have her head scratched.
Cleo had been so homesick during her first days at NYU. She had shared a dorm room with three other girls, two fromManhattan and one from a New York suburb. (Cleo would learn the names of the suburbs and sections of Manhattan quickly, as well as what they meant about a person’s past and future prospects: A “bridge and tunnel girl” felt deeply inferior to a “Nightingale-Bamford girl”; a “boarding school girl” was more likely to smoke pot than a “Maidstone Club girl,” who might dabble in gin, cocaine, or both.)
“Scholarship girls” like Cleo inspired prurient interest (how poorwasshe?) and begrudging respect, but Cleo worked valiantly to obfuscate her status.
She had painstakingly prepared for her arrival in New York with a chic bob and expensive clothes she’d begged her mother to buy her. Within a day, though, she understood that the most popular girls dressed as if they madenoeffort: long hair and baseball caps, flannel shirts and loose, tattered pants, Birkenstock sandals that made Cleo’s leopard-print booties look absurd.
Cleo had copied wealthy tourists who came through Missoula on their way to ski vacations, who paired fur vests with slim pants and leather boots. But she had not noticed that the rich women’s kids dressed like (as her mother would call them) hoboes.
Cleo had arrived late to her NYU dorm after taking a bus from Newark, and all that had been left was one of the least-desired bottom bunk beds. Late into the night, the girls complained about other people. Like Cleo, her roommates hated their parents, their siblings, and everything about the places they’d come from.
Eventually, her roommates fell asleep, and Cleo was surprised to feel an unbearable sadness welling inside her. She bit her lip to stay quiet. Then she heard a shuddering exhalation. She turned to see that Cecily, the suburban roommate, was crying. Cleo almost got out of bed to comfort Cecily, but felt paralyzed.
In the morning, one of the Manhattan roommates said, “Oh my God, who wascryinglast night? I felt like I was in a fucking daycare!”
“Right?” said the other top-bunk girl.
Cleo had looked at Cecily. Her eyes were wide and terrified. “I don’t know,” Cecily whispered.
Cleo thought of her weak sisters, so scared of their mother and of the world. Cleo had taken care of them and she would always take care of them. They needed her to be strong. Cleo, too, had yearned for comfort during her first night away from home, but she wanted to banish the part of herself that was needy. She would do whatever it took to become invincible. And what it took was shutting down the defenseless little girl inside her. The last vestiges of needy Cleo almost reached across to Cecily to take her hand. Instead, she balled her fist and dug her nails into her palm until it hurt.
“It was Cecily,” she said, trying on the East Coast girl drawl, a flatness that sounded stoned whether or not you were high. “Pathetic,” she’d added.
Cleo and her new friends laughed.
