Zoe threw herself back onto the waiting room chair and stared dolefully ahead, occasionally emitting a dramatic sigh. Moments later a nurse with floppy brown hair appeared beside them, clutching a clipboard.
“Well, you seem recovered,” he said.
“This is my big brother,” said Zoe, tilting her chin toward Frank.
Frank saw the familiar flicker of surprise that crossed the nurse’s face. He had been expecting a caramel-skinned brother brother, not a bespectacled, vaguely Jewish-looking white guy.
“Frank, will you ask them why I have to do this stupid test?” Zoe whined.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get all the information,” said Frank, checking his phone to see if Cleo had texted how far away she was. “I’m sure it’s the best thing for you.”
“It is.” The nurse nodded eagerly. “It’s called an electroencephalogram, or EEG, and it allows us to see the activity in your brain using electrodes placed around the head. We map it on a computer, and then we will hopefully be able to figure out what’s causing your seizures.”
“They have to put fucking glue in my hair,” said Zoe.
“Yes,” the nurse said with a look of such genuine concern that Frank wondered how long he could possibly last in this job. “We use a pretty strong adhesive on the scalp to make sure the electrodes stay put. But it comes out in a couple of washes, or so I’ve heard from other patients.”
“Yeah, white patients maybe,” said Zoe, shaking her head of thick curls. “Do you have any idea how hard this is to maintain?”
Frank put his arm around her narrow shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “Is that really the only way?” he asked.
“Oh, there’s another way,” said the nurse brightly, handing him the clipboard. “We just don’t know it yet.”
By the time Cleo arrived, Zoe was settled on a hospital bed like a supine Medusa, a dozen electrodes sprouting in coils from her head. The nurse had used something called an abrasion gel to exfoliate her scalp before attaching the discs, a process that looked to Frank about as comfortable as having your skull massaged by a belt sander. Zoe had gripped his hand through the whole process, her face flickering from resignation to pure rage.
Frank saw Cleo before she saw him. She stood for a moment, anxiously looking up and down the hall. He was struck, once again, by how young she was. She still looked like somebody’s daughter. She caught sight of them and rushed over. Frank remained seated sheepishly. He tried to catch her eye, but her attention was on Zoe. He searched her face for traces of anger or disappointment, but it was calm. Cleo leaned down to greet Zoe, her hair falling forward in a golden curtain that left Frank offstage.
Maybe it was the sensation of relief, then unease, he felt seeing Cleo, but he was reminded of being with his mother. This shame was how he used to feel when she arrived to pick him up from school. She was always late, always annoyed, as though his life was something he’d conceived of to inconvenience her. She did not greet him with hugs or questions about his day as the other mothers and nannies did. It was only when they returned home and the first cubes of ice were in the glass and doused with gin, once she’d sent him to light her cigarette on the stove and carry it to her, that she’d finally listen to his stories about his day, her whole face softening as the gin made its way into her bloodstream.
“Only you could make a hospital gown look so good,” Cleo said. She offered Zoe a tissue for the tear that was sliding down her cheek.
“I’m fine,” Zoe said, ignoring it.
Had Zoe been crying before Cleo arrived? Frank had been trying not to make her feel worse by staring at her. He was so bad at this stuff.
“I brought you a couple of scarves so we can wrap your hair up afterward,” said Cleo. “And I picked up a bottle of witch hazel. I read it will get the glue out gently.”
Frank had never particularly prized kindness in people. His mother hadn’t taught him to, he supposed. He’d always been drawn to characters, people with talent or ambition or a taste for fun. The kind of people who, like Frank, tended to put themselves first. Even with Cleo, it was her intelligence and sexual charge he’d been drawn to; he’d never once considered whether she was a good person. Now, watching her pull scarves from her bag like a magician flourishing handkerchiefs from a hat, he realized he’d been wrong. Fun was fine when you were young, but as you got older it was kindness that counted, kindness that showed up.
“They’re just old samples I did for work,” Cleo said.