Chapter 7 #2
“So, you’re predicting the future?” Cece said excitedly. She was holed up in a cubical on the second floor of the library where normal speaking voices were allowed but frowned upon.
Donald gave a titter. “I wouldn’t say predict. Maybe forecast is a better way to phrase it.”
That was all Cece needed to hear. She thanked Donald profusely and promised to keep him updated on her career trajectory.
He told Cece he’d be happy to help her in any way he could, which struck Cece as about the nicest thing a stranger had offered to do for her, and she chalked it up to his Midwestern roots.
Mitigating risk, determining outcomes through preparation and statistics—what could be more appealing? It was swimming all over again, except the world was her pool, and all Cece needed to do was dive in.
“Are you hungover? You sound hungover.” Wynonna’s voice is obscene and accusatory, especially for—Cece checks the time with one eye—6:00 a.m. on the weekend.
“I’m not remotely hungover,” Cece croaks, “and what’s with the early-morning wake-up?”
“This is the only time I have to myself, Cece. The kids will be up in thirty minutes, an hour if I’m lucky, and then it’s go, go, go.”
Cece keeps her eyes closed, refusing to accept the daylight. She’s still aspiring to fall back asleep. “Don’t waste it on me, then.”
A blender whines in the background. “Don’t be crabby. Have you talked to Mom recently? I just got off the phone with her, and she sounded weird.”
“Weird how?”
“I don’t know. Just off. She wouldn’t stop complaining about Dad. Something about him leaving his dirty socks around the house.”
Cece hasn’t had her coffee yet and is ill-equipped to assuage Wynonna’s trivial concerns. “She’s always complaining about him.”
“This was different. She was going on and on.”
There’s a long silence, and Cece imagines her sister sucking her green smoothie through a comically large straw with determination and focus.
“I don’t know,” Cece says, “sounds like their usual bickering.”
“Well, I just thought you should know.”
Cece can feel the lethargy lifting, wakefulness intruding. “And I appreciate it.”
There’s a commotion on the other end of the line. The kids are awake, it seems.
“I’m going back to sleep,” Cece says before hanging up.
The late-morning sun pries through the shades.
Cece picks the crust from the corners of her eyes.
Insomnia. The call from Wynonna feels like lifetimes ago.
She’d tossed and turned so much Bernard had lost patience and retired to the floor.
In the late-night hours, worries consumed Cece: her impending dismissal from Rayburn, looming financial ruin, and ruminations on her family’s advice, urging her to grow up and recognize life for the compromise it is.
There was another moment, too, one of weakness, one she’d neglected to tell Wynonna.
In bed, she stared at Jonathan’s text message: Just checking in.
I know you said we shouldn’t talk, but I’m worried about you.
Is this really what you want? Fingers ghostly, she’d typed and erased, typed and erased.
What could she say? She had no right. Why did he insist on still caring, even after she’d jilted him?
Why did he insist on being so good? Was Jonathan really worried about her, or was this all ego, disbelief that anyone might be uninterested in the comfortable life he could offer?
The time is 11:30. Cece’s come to dread weekends when she’s not working, when her idle mind can wander and double in on itself.
These are the slivers of time when she misses her old job, the murmurs of a thousand commuters in Grand Central Station, the jockeying, shoulder to shoulder in a crowded subway, the sense of importance, no matter how manufactured.
Outside, the splash of water. Bernard’s ears perk up.
Lorraine’s skimming the pool. An aggressively friendly ping from her phone.
An email—her latest credit card statement.
The urge to simply flip her phone over and go about her day is strong, overpowering almost. Cece has a vague sense that she’s spent more than she has.
Usually responsible and manically frugal about her finances, she’s let herself go recently, spending here and there, nothing ostentatious or excessive: takeout a few nights a week, drinks at the Whaler, and a few items (a bathing suit, sandals, and a sundress she found flattering) from the outlets in Clinton.
True, the clothes weren’t exactly a necessity, but everything had been on sale!
And what good was trying to start over without any new clothes?
It occurs to Cece that it’s not a matter of whether her checking account will be in the negative after paying this credit card bill, but by how much.
“Eat your vegetables,” her father always used to say.
“They aren’t pleasant, but they are necessary.
” He was a stickler, especially when Cece started swimming competitively, about her nutrition.
“There are things in life you just need to do, no matter how unpleasant. Drinking broccoli water is one of them,” he’d say with a grin.
And what could she say? He would always drink it with her, a playful scowl on his face.
Eat your vegetables, Cece thinks, eyeing the damage on the credit card statement and then logging on to her bank’s website.
If she pays the bill today, she’ll be in the red, not by a lot, but that isn’t really the point.
Cece Downing doesn’t exist in the red; Cece Downing’s entire existence has been about avoiding this exact situation.
She hasn’t been in the negative since she invested fifteen dollars in a lemonade stand with her sister in sixth grade that went belly-up.
This isn’t supposed to happen to people like her, Cece thinks while she moves money over from her dwindling savings account so she can pay the bill.
It’s not very much fun, worrying about money.
There is a fatiguing quality to it, a dull, benign but bothersome headache, ever present but somehow hidden.
Cece regrets splurging on the pastries for Davi and Santiago.
They hadn’t achieved what she’d hoped, and worse, they’d been purchased on credit.
Maybe it’s about time Cece tried some of Lorraine’s home brew after all.
Three hard kombuchas later, sprawled on a lounge chair, bathing suit straps dangling around her shoulders in an effort to combat her egregious farmer’s tan, Cece gazes through smudged sunglasses at the placid pool water.
A yellow Walkman Velcroed to her wrist, straw hat darkening her face, Lorraine rests on a bright pink inflatable donut.
Whether she is awake under the wide brim remains unclear.
The world feels softer here, rough edges buffed, colors dulled to a pleasant hue.
Cece sprays some SPF 35, just enough to discourage potential skin cancer while still getting a tan (hopefully), and skims her other emails.
Save Democracy, Donate Now; 30% Off J.Crew Summer Swimwear; $0 Intro Balance Transfer Fee Offer Inside—Cece is particularly thankful for Lorraine’s fermentation skills as she confronts the deluge of junk mail and solicitations.
There is a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment from deleting them with a flick of a fingertip.
It feels good to declutter, even if it’s only digital junk.
There are other emails, unread, automatically siphoned to a different folder so Cece won’t have to confront them head-on.
Given the current financial circumstances, Cece finds herself more amenable to her mother’s help, maybe even a better-paying job.
She has no right, but she’s still angry at Santiago for not being nicer to her.
Kim’s emails are plentiful; it’s her preferred mode of communication.
“I like being able to organize my thoughts,” she always says.
Cece plods from one email to the next without any clear sense of direction.
She doesn’t know what she’s looking for.
How does her mother know so many people?
For the briefest of moments, Cece finds herself in awe of Kim…
the sheer number of people in her network.
How many professional connections does Cece currently have?
And why stop there—how about personal connections?
Cece doesn’t dwell too long on that last question, lest it torpedo the remaining day.
Drinking and feeling sorry for yourself—never a good combination.
Of the many jobs—retirement readiness, claims analytics, and embedded value—nothing piques Cece’s interest, at least not enough to pull her from her midday torpor.
Then she sees it: catastrophe and disaster modeling.
Sure, it’s still just reinsurance (insurance for insurers), but Cece likes the idea of using data (historical and scientific) to predict the likelihood of future occurrences.
She knows it’s the three hard kombuchas talking, but she lets herself imagine, daydream.
This company would be different—humane and professional. They would value her.
While Lorraine drifts into the far end of the pool, Cece rings up her mother, who’s ecstatic to hear from her. “Let me give Tina a call,” she says, the sound of a scribbling pen and tearing paper filling the background. “She’s not in that division, but she’s a big deal at the firm.”
“It’s a Saturday,” Cece says, doing her best to enunciate her words.
“It’s no big deal. Tina and I go way back. I did some pro bono work for her a few years ago. She owes me big-time! I’ll get back to you ASAP.”