CHAPTER ONE
Once there were two sisters.
Cecilia was the elder, though you wouldn’t think it to look at her. She rarely washed her face; she never brushed her hair, which had once been pink, and which had once been orange, and which was now a brittle shade of blond. Her tights were usually ripped; her shirts smelled like sweat and cigarettes. She wore heels, invariably, even though she couldn’t walk in them, which meant that when Cecilia showed up anywhere, an hour late or else without notice altogether, you’d hear her tramping down the street before you saw her. Cecilia always sounded—Rose said—like a revolution.
God knows, if you met Cecilia, you wouldn’t think her an adult at all.
If you met Cecilia—at a bleary Berlin bar, say, or an astral projection workshop or a silent retreat run by nuns or any of the other places Cecilia was usually to be found—you would probably think she was sixteen or seventeen, an underdeveloped twenty at most. It wasn’t just her face, either. It was that angelic and infuriating way she had of looking up at you, with blue unblinking eyes, like you somehow had the answers to all the questions she had not yet figured out nobody in their right mind could answer: questions like what does living a good life look like, or why do we always want the wrong things, or how do we even know what we want in the first place. Cecilia was always asking people questions they didn’t know the answer to. If you got flustered she’d get confused. If you got annoyed—and of course you’d get annoyed, if a stranger tried to mine your life story for the secret to what to do with theirs—she’d give you this wide-eyed, wounded look, like she was a dog you’d struck. It might even make you feel sorry for her. Then you’d remember that Cecilia was thirty years old, and if you’re supposed to learn anything by thirty it’s that some questions aren’t worth asking.
It wasn’t that Cecilia didn’t mean well. Even on her bitterest days Rose had to admit Cecilia meant well. It was just that Cecilia was so extravagantly, so idiotically openhearted that you couldn’t leave her alone for a minute or two without her plunging them both into some charitable disaster. Tell Cecilia a story about the woman who had broken your heart, and she’d take the sapphire ring she’d inherited from their grandmother off her finger, clasp it into your palm, and beg you to take the next flight to Albuquerque to propose. Tell Cecilia about the seven-part epic poem you were composing, a poem that was going to revolutionize the modern world, but which not a single human being other than you had ever understood or even enjoyed, and Cecilia would open up her wallet and give you every bill she had, and insist that you use the money to get a hotel room quiet enough to grant you necessary repose, without even reading a line. Stand outside the Metropolitan Opera House, looking both bedraggled and receptive to the transcendent power of music, holding one of those signs saying seeking spare tickets, and Cecilia would give you the pair she had in her purse. Even if it was Rose’s sixteenth birthday. Even if Rose and Cecilia had saved up for them for three months.
“He needed it more than we did,” said Cecilia, when Rose protested. “He was in spiritual agony. I could just tell.
“Besides,” she’d added, with intoxicating certainty. “We’ll have an even more enchanted night tonight, because of our sacrifice. The city”—she drew in breath—“will provide.”
It did. That was the most infuriating part. New York had always been kind to them; at least, it had always been kind to Cecilia, and it tolerated Rose.
Still, when people asked Rose what it was like, having had her kind of childhood, she found it easiest to say that the city had been their real mother. It was like those
myths about the founders of Rome, abandoned brothers who had in their infancy been suckled by wolves. It was a convenient way to explain it without inviting pity. Rose hated pity.
Not that their childhood was a bad one. Their mother had been what people called an eccentric when they knew the girls were listening, and what they called a grifter when they thought they weren’t. To herself she was a professional muse.
She knew everybody, and was known by everybody; she’d been something of a model and something of an actress and something of an artist, and she’d been a regular at all those haunts of the seventies and eighties that New York magazine regularly lamented were always closing down and being replaced by banks and pharmacy chains, without ever being among the boldface names eulogized. Rose doubted she’d ever paid her own tab. She believed—sometimes Rose thought it was her only conviction—that childhood was an oppressive illusion thrust upon young people by the repressive bourgeoisie, and encouraged both sisters to grow out of it as quickly as possible.
What this meant in practice was that the girls fended for themselves, when it came to meals more elaborate than soup cans or cereal; that Rose was allowed to paint murals on the bedroom wall, and Cecilia was allowed to carve her initials into the old tuneless wall piano in the living room; that they spent a lot of time amusing themselves in cocktail party corners; and that they rarely if ever attended school more than a few weeks in row.
The identity of the girls’ father (fathers, Rose always assumed) was a pleasant mystery: like the existence of God. Their mother always said Cecilia and Rose had been born through parthenogenesis. They never challenged her. There was a parade of stepfathers—some feckless, some avuncular—from whom Cecilia and Rose gleaned odd bits of trivia, occasional periods of discipline, and a taste for Armagnac. It wasn’t—Rose told a college roommate once—traumatic or anything. Only one of the stepfathers had ever been handsy; and even that, she’d say, was innocent, more or less. After all, he was Italian.
But New York had raised them. Whenever their mother was out or asleep or abroad, Cecilia would march Rose out into the city, convinced that among its munificent strangers the girls would find whatever it was they needed. And whether because Cecilia was charming, or because Cecilia was beautiful, or because the world really was as abundant and glorious a place as Cecilia believed it was, they usually did.
They had protectors in every neighborhood. In Alphabet City they befriended a jazz guitarist with three fingers on his left hand who told them he’d cut off the last two himself in imitation of Django Reinhardt and who let Cecilia practice sonatas on his piano in preparation for her Juilliard audition, which Cecilia aced as splendidly and as effortlessly as everything else she’d ever done. In Bay Ridge they came to know an artist who specialized in
self-portraits of himself as various animals—cats, mostly, but also zebras and stags—and who kept his refrigerator stocked with fresh produce and cured meats and hunks of creamy cheese, and who taught Rose how to scramble eggs and also how to shade the contours of a human face.
In their own neighborhood of Tudor City, a little neo-Gothic cul-de-sac between the United Nations and the Upper East Side, they spent evenings at the home of a meticulously dressed old woman from the Balkans they always called the Countess. She lived in the penthouse apartment, at the top of this fantastic faux-medieval tower the girls had spent hours trying to spy on with binoculars, until she had at last called down to the doorman and instructed him to let them in. They never did work out whether she was wildly wealthy or whether she—like their mother—had lucked her way into a rent-regulated apartment; they decided, largely on the basis of her furs, that she must be some kind of European aristocrat in romantic exile. Their grasp of world history—as of most school subjects—was at this point still tenuous, but when Cecilia asked her if she had personally fled the fall of the Ottoman Empire, the Countess took it upon herself to correct the gaps in their education. She checked their homework, lectured them over schnapps and Ferrero Rocher chocolates, let Rose copy sketches out of her coffee-table books from various museums, and once lent the girls a copy of the collected poetry of T. S. Eliot, informing them that they would know they had left childhood behind only when they found themselves preferring “The Waste Land” to “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
Rose never ended up making sense of either poem. In any case, she never needed to. As far as Rose was concerned her childhood ended six months later, on the morning of Cecilia’s eighteenth birthday, which was the day that Cecilia left for school, without a word to anybody, and then did not return for three years.
Cecilia tried to explain it, later on. There had been this poet—well, she faltered, he thought of himself as a poet. They’d met on a LiveJournal forum for people who wished they lived in a different century from the one in which they’d been born. He’d written her love letters. (Well, emails, but—) He lived out in Montana, working part-time at a rehabilitation center for injured falcons. He’d promised her open sky and the ability to find the beauty in the dirt under her fingernails. His grandfather was going to teach her to play old folk songs on the fiddle. They were going to sit nightly by the fire, and Cecilia was going to learn to recognize every constellation there was, which Cecilia thought was a more robust way of learning about the hidden connection between all things than spending three years at Juilliard. He was thirty-nine.
Cecilia was there five months before she found out about his ex-wife, who was a horse trainer in Missoula, and the two children they shared; she’d thought about returning then, or at the very least writing something longer than a postcard, only by then there was this Austrian concert pianist named Berghardt she’d been emailing after watching his videos, and he lived in this
little seaside Slovenian village, and his villa had a piano in it, and it wasn’t about true love, exactly, and it wasn’t about music, either, and it wasn’t about the light of the moon on the Adriatic, either, but it was a little bit about all of those things, and also about something else, something wondrous and indescribable, like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow or the Holy Grail in the King Arthur stories, and oh, Rosie? Cecilia threw up her hands—I’m no good at putting things into words—and Rose didn’t have the heart to tell her that the first thing you learn when you grow up is that the Holy Grail doesn’t exist.
But that was the thing about Cecilia. She never had grown up. She barreled from lover to lover, from continent to continent, from ashram to monastery, in search of the invisible and unnameable thing she could not and would not understand. She was perpetually broke—what little money she earned from odd music gigs she inevitably gave away to causes or communes. She was often sick—once, when she was twenty-six, she got scurvy, which Rose didn’t even know was something you could even still get. Whenever Cecilia came home—when she ran out of money; when a lover hit her or left her; when the political activist she’d met on a Transcaucasian railway snuck out of a Yerevan train station with the entire contents of Cecilia’s suitcase—she’d show up, white-faced and hollow-checked, on the doorstep of the apartment in Tudor City, with a backpack of filthy clothes and Falstaff, her one-eyed stuffed rabbit, and throw herself once more into Rose’s arms. She’d stay for a week or for a month or for three, leaving muddy scuffs on Rose’s carpet and festering dishes in Rose’s sink; she’d keep Rose up until three in the morning, working out chords on their mother’s tuneless piano; then one day Cecilia would vanish like the first breeze of spring, and Rose’s life would go on as it had before.
Not that Rose’s life
wasn’t a good one. It was—you couldn’t deny this—a success. Rose was proud of it. She had built it up for herself. It was the sort of life a person could point to as evidence of great personal discipline, of self-control, of seriousness. Being serious, Rose felt, meant you were the kind of person who chose clear and attainable goals for yourself and worked steadily and methodically toward them until you had accomplished exactly what you set out to do, without being waylaid by self-indulgent narratives about quests or grails or true love. It meant that you made the kind of promises a person could be reasonably expected to keep and that you kept them. It meant being the kind of person other people could rely on. You could always rely on Rose.
Their mother had gotten sick two years after Cecilia’s first disappearance, which was the summer after Rose had graduated high school. Cecilia had not been called. Even if Rose had known where she was, she knew better than to ask. Cecilia would have been useless with a bedpan, an IV drip, hospital gowns. She would have spilled pill bottles, confused doctors’ addresses, wept at inopportune times. She would have asked her mother, point-blank, whether it was frightening, knowing you were going to die, and whether you believed more or less in life after death, at the razor’s edge, and what it felt like to know how your story ended.
Besides, their mother wouldn’t have wanted her there. Once, she’d wanted a beautiful life for herself; dying, she wanted it for Cecilia. Cecilia was her favorite. Their mother had taken pleasure in the fact that Cecilia—easily the more beautiful sister—resembled her; better, their mother once said, that she remember me as I was.
So it was. Rose read Cecilia’s postcards out loud. She invented happy outcomes for every love affair. She postponed the start of college in California first one year, then two, and then at last reapplied to college in New York, where she could at least study while living at home.
Rose made up ferociously for lost time.
She double majored in math and computer science; graduated close to the top of her class. She mastered several programming languages. She took a job at a start-up called OptiMyze that helped people make better life choices by encouraging them to input their chosen values into an app and then producing gamified road maps for how to live them out, and then at another start-up called MBody that tracked your health data and told you whenever something about your heart rate or step count or weight gain was sufficiently out of the ordinary that you might want to see a doctor. Now she worked at My.th, which produced a bespoke series of meditation and mindfulness audio tracks to help you focus on the different areas of your life that needed specialized attention, and which customized the specifics of what you heard based on changes in your heart rate.
Rose liked the work. At least, she liked the feeling of being good at her work, and the more general sense that her work was useful, at least to the kind of people who cared about being useful in the first place. Rose always liked to be good at things. She liked when people noticed.
Rose liked, too, the settled calm that came over her when she produced a particularly efficient piece of code; she liked sitting straight-backed at a desk with her earphones in thinking of nothing but what was right in front of her. She liked biking to her office in DUMBO, liked eating salads for lunch, liked dropping by kickboxing on her way home. She liked making money; more, she liked saving it, portioning percentages for retirement and percentages toward an eventual down payment on an apartment and percentages for charitable giving and percentages for scented candles, or else the occasional vacation abroad. A college boyfriend had once told her, not entirely unkindly, that she reacted to spreadsheets the way ordinary girls reacted to sex.
Rose didn’t know if this was true. All she knew was that the feeling of serenity that came over her, when she looked at her well-ordered desk, or a well-crafted line of code, was part of the feeling of building a life: something clean and complete and self-contained. It was, Rose felt, what serious people did,
people who knew enough to know that out of every ten-thousand-odd girls like her who had dreamed of painting for a living, only one is ever talented enough to make it work.
Besides, Rose reminded herself, on the rare occasions her conviction wavered, it was self-indulgent to live your life for beauty. It was barely better than being one of those people (their final stepfather had been one) who lived only for good food or fine wine. Beauty was just something—like cognac, like heartbreak—a person consumed.
Rose was twenty-eight the year Cecilia found the Avalon and vanished for the final time.
That year, Rose was still living in their mother’s Tudor City apartment. She didn’t particularly like it—it was dated and cramped; the bathtub grout was even more prone to mold than it had been when she and Cecilia were children, and there was always a draft coming from the fireplace—but she knew you didn’t give up a rent-stabilized two-bedroom in the middle of Manhattan, no matter how often the boiler gave out. Besides, Cecilia needed a place to come home to, on the rarer and rarer occasions she came home.
In any case, Rose spent most nights at Caleb’s.
Caleb was thirty-four. He and Rose had been together for five years. He was the smartest person Rose had ever known. They had met working at OptiMyze, which Caleb had founded, because Caleb was one of those people who dedicates his life to things that matter, and what mattered most to Caleb was helping people make better choices. People aren’t rational, Caleb always said. Give them a set of options, and they’ll inevitably pick the worst one. Like how the same people who were afraid of flying regularly underestimated their risk of dying in a car crash. Caleb lived in an expansive one-bedroom apartment on the Lower East Side, with floor-to-ceiling windows and clean marble countertops and blank walls. Caleb liked open spaces. He hated waste. He’d converted one of his bedroom walls into a whiteboard, so that he could write out his to-do list before bed—work tasks, but also exercise, and time carved out for activities, and also the values he most wanted to focus on in the day ahead—so that it would be the first thing he saw waking up in the morning. Rose found this endearing.
Rose and Caleb were happy. They shared the same values, like honesty and frank conversation and solving conflicts by counting silently to fifteen before speaking. They cared about the same things. They were both runners. They both wanted two children. Caleb wanted to one day move somewhere warmer—San Diego, say, or Austin, where a lot of people were working remotely these days—because God knows you couldn’t raise one child in this city, let alone two. Rose reminded herself that she liked the Pacific.
They bickered about this, sometimes, because whenever Caleb brought up moving, Rose
would bring up the Tudor City apartment, for which she alone was on the lease, and for which she alone paid rent. She wanted to keep the apartment for Cecilia’s sake. Caleb would remind her that Cecilia was thirty years old by now, and if fewer people enabled people like Cecilia, there would be fewer people like Cecilia in the world, and then Rose would argue that there was nobody quite like Cecilia in the world. Although Caleb was right about most things and most people and was almost certainly right about Cecilia, Cecilia was still Rose’s sister, and there were just some things you didn’t do, in this life, and giving up the only apartment your sister could ever afford to live in was one. Caleb said this was deontology, which as far as he was concerned was just a high-level version of operating on emotional impulse. Caleb was probably right about this, too. (Most of what Rose knew about philosophy she’d learned from the Countess, who didn’t believe in anything that happened after the Enlightenment.)
Plus, Caleb insisted, it’s not like Cecilia would be coming home anytime soon, anyhow. Cecilia had gotten married.
Rose had gotten the letter around Easter. Cecilia’s handwriting was so disastrous Rose had to read it three times over to be sure she understood.
His name was Paul Byrd. He was half-English—he’d grown up, Cecilia spent four or five lines explaining, in the same Yorkshire town where the Brontë sisters had once lived. He was an English teacher at a boarding school in coastal Maine. Cecilia had gotten a part-time job teaching piano and violin at their music center, which was well-regarded. They’d met in town, at a bookstore called the Manifest. Right away they knew it was the kind of love people write eight-part poems about. They’d gotten engaged the night they met. Three weeks later the school chaplain married them on the quadrangle, under a trellis of cherry blossoms, because the chapel had burned down three years prior.
Finally, Cecilia wrote, I’ve found my grail.
She apologized for not inviting Rose. They hadn’t invited anyone. They’d been too in love to wait.
Rose folded the letter, neatly, in two. Then she crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.
“I don’t see why you’re so upset,” Caleb said. “I mean, it’s a good thing for her, right? I mean, she is thirty.”
Rose didn’t know why she was so upset, either. It’s not like she and Cecilia spoke often—they hadn’t seen each other since six months before the pandemic, when Cecilia was living with a once-well-regarded female artist two decades her senior on a Thames houseboat-slash–art gallery that smelled like a sewer and later sank. Rose had been in London for a conference on technology and society. Cecilia had served her weak tea with curdled milk, and asked her whether she’d made it to the Victoria and Albert Museum, or the Soane’s house to see the Hogarths, and Rose had to explain the way you would to a toddler that no, of course she hadn’t, because
the conference went through dinner, nightly, and then after dinner you still had to linger in the bar to talk to your colleagues, and no, a person couldn’t just duck out during a lunch break, just to see an old painting, and besides, it wasn’t like Rose thought that much about painting these days anyway, but the injured look on Cecilia’s face when Rose said this made Rose feel like quitting painting had been some kind of betrayal, instead of just something that happens to everyone who grows up.
“It’s just the principle,” Rose said to Caleb. “You invite your sister to your wedding. It’s just what you do.” She knew this was probably deontology, too, but she was too annoyed to care.
“On the bright side,” Caleb said, and kissed Rose on the forehead. “She’s somebody else’s problem, now.”
Cecilia came home on the first cold day of September.
Summer had lingered late that year. The garden boxes that lined the streets of the Upper East Side were still overgrown with daffodils; the trees in Central Park remained defiantly green. The air was still sticky. Rose and Caleb and Grant and Lydia still spent Saturday afternoons in the Rockaways, drinking weak margaritas—except for Caleb, who almost never drank. But there was an amber chill in the air, on the morning that Cecilia came home, and a few russet leaves blew past Rose’s face as she made her way to Tudor City.
Rose had not been home in five days. She’d lingered at Caleb’s for more nights than usual; she had grown comfortable there, curled up against his shoulder underneath his weighted blanket, on his butter-white sofa, listening to podcasts on surround sound. But Rose had run out of clean clothes, and was also expecting this cashmere sweater she’d impulsively ordered from The RealReal, and so she’d put in her earphones and jogged all the way uptown along the East River.
As soon as Rose opened the door, ...
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