You Were Meant For Me (12 page)

Becky finally succeeded in pulling down what she needed: the long, wooden swab whose sterile tip was covered by a cellophane wrapper. It was an innocent-enough-looking thing, but to Miranda, it looked like a weapon—threatening and dangerous.

“This is what I'll use to take the swab,” Becky said. “But
first I'll need this.” She picked up a Polaroid camera. “Photo ID.” Then she snapped a picture of Celeste and had Miranda sign and date the bottom.

“Has the father—” Miranda swallowed. “I mean, the man who claims to be the father, been here yet?” she asked.

Swab in hand, Becky was approaching Celeste, who began to fuss in the car seat. “Oh, he wouldn't have to come to this collection site; he might go to any of the other sites in the city; there are four or five.”

“I see,” said Miranda.

Becky was inches from Celeste's face, swab in hand. “Open up, sweetheart.” Celeste squirmed and punched the air with her fists. “You won't even feel it.”

“Let me take her out of this.” Miranda fumbled as she unbuckled the strap and shifted Celeste into her arms. Celeste stopped fussing and promptly buried her face in Miranda's neck.

“She'll need to open her mouth,” Becky said.

“I know. I know. But I want it to be . . . gentle.” Miranda slid her finger under Celeste's chin and began to tickle her. There was no reaction at first, but then Celeste turned and opened her mouth in delight. Becky seized the moment to slip the swab in; it was out again before Celeste even had time to register what had happened.

“Okeydoke,” said Becky, who was busily wrapping the swab in a fresh covering.

“Is that all?” Miranda wanted desperately to be gone from this place.

“There's one more thing.” Becky produced a printed form and an ink pad. “I need to stamp her.”

Miranda watched while Becky pressed the sole of Celeste's
foot first to the ink pad and then to the paper; Celeste did not seem to mind.

“Now we're done here.” Becky waved the form in the air to dry the ink. “As soon as the father's results are in, you'll have a legal document establishing paternity in two days.”

“If he
is
the father,” Miranda said.

Becky looked up. “Oh, of course. If.”

The next two days moved with excruciating slowness. Miranda decided to call Geneva; she found out that Jared Masters had provided his sample and would soon have the results. “What about her mother?” Miranda asked. “Did he tell you about her?”

“I think it would be better if he discussed that with you himself,” said Geneva. “He's still asking to meet you; he thinks it might make things easier for you.”

Easier? There was no
easier
in this situation. “I can't,” she said.

“But if he turns out to be Celeste's father—”

“Then I'll meet him. I'll meet him because I'm going to fight him tooth and nail.”

Miranda got off the phone after that. Her last words to Geneva sounded just like what she knew them to be: desperate and hollow. Her words carried no weight, even to her. She could fight, but she highly doubted she would win. If it turned out that Jared Masters was Celeste's biological father, blood—his blood—would trump everything, even that impossible, miraculous moment in the subway station when Miranda had looked down and seen the tiny foot peeking out from under the hotel
blanket.

W
hen she got home from work on Friday evening, Miranda saw the FedEx envelope immediately. Supah had gathered the mail and put it on the kitchen table; the envelope, with its distinctive blue and orange stripes, was on top. Immediately, she was on alert and remained that way as she listened to Supah's account of Celeste's day—they had gone to the pond in the park and watched people feeding the ducks; she had eaten pureed string beans for the first time—and locked the door behind her.

It was only then that she deposited Celeste in the new playpen she'd set up in the living room and sat down with the envelope. She held it in her hands for a moment before pulling the tear strip along the top. The last time she'd been waiting for a letter, the news had been good; she'd been approved for the adoption. Maybe she'd be lucky again. Maybe.

Miranda pulled the tear strip in one decisive,
hope-against-hope movement. Inside, there was a letter and two genetic reports, one for Celeste and the other for Jared Masters. Sixteen markers had been tested for; sixteen opportunities to confirm or deny the biological connection. The numbers made no sense to Miranda; she turned to the letter instead. It was excruciatingly brief: the results of the DNA testing performed on the infant known as Celeste Berenzweig and Jared Masters
conclusively ascertained paternity.

The phrase jumped out at her, hissing and jeering, and she let the report slip from her fingers. Celeste was gurgling quietly; there was a mobile suspended above her head, and her attention was riveted by the gently revolving parts. The baby had bonded with her; Miranda was certain of that. She cried when Miranda left; her face lit up when Miranda returned. The separation would be hard on her. Traumatic even. And how could Miranda even imagine a life without her? She couldn't—and she wouldn't have to. No, instead she'd flee—the city, the state, the country. She'd fly down to Texas, get a car, and from there go to Mexico. Living was cheap in Mexico, and the weather was good. She'd change her name, get a job teaching English so she could support Celeste.

As these plans tumbled around her mind, she got up and hurried to the closet in search of her suitcase. Yanking it down from the shelf, she set it on her bed and began tossing her clothes in randomly—panties, bras, a couple of pairs of jeans, some tops, the dress with the ladybugs on it—then she stopped. Stopped and bent over double, convulsed with both grief and the sheer, maddening futility of her plan. She could not give up her job and her home for a life on the run; she couldn't leave her father, her friends, the secure little world she had created for herself.

When she straightened up again, she shoved the suitcase
out of the way. She had to mobilize. There were calls to make: Geneva, Bea, Evan, and maybe even Lauren. Not Courtney; she was not ready to go there yet. But the first three calls went straight to voice mail; Lauren was the only one who picked up.

“You mean he surfaced because of the article in that magazine?” Lauren said when Miranda had finished telling the story. “You must be so upset.”

“Upset doesn't even begin to describe it,” Miranda said. “But I'm not giving her up without a fight. No, not a fight. A full-blown war. I found her, I love her, and no matter who her biological parents might be, she is really and truly mine.” Lauren was silent. “Why aren't you saying anything? You don't think I should fight to keep her?”

“It's not that,” Lauren said. “I'm thinking that you should call Courtney and have her talk to Harris. He'll know the right person to help you—and God knows, Miranda, you are going to need all the help you can get.”

Miranda did not reply. But she knew Lauren was right. She had not talked to Courtney in weeks. Or was it months? It didn't matter. She would call her as soon as she said good-bye to Lauren. She almost—
almost
—hoped Courtney would not answer; she would leave a message, Courtney would enlist Harris's help, and no words between them would need to be exchanged. Instead, Courtney answered immediately. Before any of the why-haven't-you-been-in-touch awkwardness could take hold, Miranda launched into her story, hardly giving Courtney a chance to say a word. All right, she was rude. She was desperate too, and desperation could do that to a person.

Courtney listened quietly. “Harris will know someone,” she said when Miranda paused. “The
right
someone. One of his classmates from Harvard.”

“I appreciate that,” Miranda said. Of course the
H
word
had been lobbed in her direction; what did she expect? “Thank you.”

“How are you holding up, anyway? You never call.”

“I was doing fine until this happened,” said Miranda. “And you know why I haven't been in touch.”

There was a freighted silence on the other end. Then Courtney said, “Look, I know you're still mad, but I was just being honest with you; that's what friends,
real friends
, do for each other. You don't want honesty, though. You just want unqualified validation for what any sane person would say was a totally impractical—if not flat-out crazy—idea. Rah, rah, rah. A cheerleader.”

“I wanted your support,” Miranda said. “In fact, I was counting on it.”

“You've always had that! But you want it on your terms.”

“Isn't that what all of us want, Courtney? Are you any different?”

“I'd want you to tell me if you thought I was making a big mistake. And look—I was right.”

“How can you say that?” The indignant tone of Miranda's voice must have alarmed Celeste because she started whimpering. “Celeste is the single best thing that's ever happened to me.” She scooped the baby up and began to walk her around the room.

“And if you lose her? Won't that be the worst?”

Miranda said nothing; the hot, stinging pain of those words rendered her momentarily incapable of a reply.

“Look, Miranda, I'm sorry. I don't want to fight with you, especially now—”

“Then don't,” said Miranda, fighting the urge to weep. “Just ask Harris for a name. Please.”

*   *   *

At
6:59 the next morning, Miranda called the child custody attorney whose name Harris had provided; Harris had primed him, so he took her call. “It doesn't look good,” he told her. “In fact, it looks terrible. This is going to be a tough case, and frankly, I don't think I can win it.”

“Would you be willing to try?” asked Miranda. She was holding the phone so tightly her hand cramped. Is this what she wanted, though? A bitter and contentious court battle? Could she stand it? Could she even afford it? This initial consultation was free—again, thanks to Harvard Harris—but the rest of the countless billable hours would not be.

“If you really want to go ahead with it—yes. But you have to think about Celeste. The longer she's with you, the harder the separation will be for her. That's what I tell all my clients: think about the kid. Because, bottom line, that's who it's about.” Although she didn't want to hear it, Miranda knew he was right.

“Well, what if I can prove I'm the more fit parent? I mean, where was he while the mother was giving birth and then
abandoning
their baby?”

“I don't think that's going to work. Unless there's some big, surprising skeleton in his closet. When Harris told me you'd be calling, I asked my assistant to do a little digging. Nothing extensive. Yet. But I wanted to get a sense of the legal landscape, so I'd know what we're up against. Masters—he checks out pretty well.”

“He does?” Miranda's hopes were shrinking to a tiny little pinpoint.

“Good education, good job, nice apartment. He's demonstrated his interest in his community; he's a regular supporter
of a few local charities. His paternity is undisputed. And he wants the baby.”

So do I,
Miranda wanted to say. The suitcase she'd pulled down last night was still on the floor, her clothes a riotous jumble inside.

“There's something else I think you should know.”

“What's that?” The tone of his voice put her on alert.

“What I'm about to share is confidential information.
Very
confidential. You can't tell anyone. And if you do, I'll be forced to deny everything.” He paused, letting that sink in. “I can't give you her name; that would jeopardize my source. But I can tell you the baby's mother had some . . . issues.”

“Issues?”

“She used drugs and alcohol, though not excessively. But there was mental instability. And her death may even have been a suicide.”

“How could you find all this out?” Miranda was horrified. “And—so quickly?”

“Masters had to undergo a background check before the baby can be released to him; even though he's the biological father, that's standard procedure. There were questions about the identity of the baby's mother, and he was forthcoming. I have a contact in Children's Services; we go way back, and he was willing to do me a favor. A big favor.”

“But—doesn't that help my case? Even a little? Isn't he guilty by association or something?” Miranda was frantically trying to process this information as well as figure out how it might affect the outcome.

“Not really. Because as detached as it sounds, that unstable mother is out of the picture.” The lawyer paused as if to let Miranda speak, but she had nothing to say. “Let me know what you want to do.”

“How long?”

“Excuse me?”

“How long do I have to decide?” Miranda knew she had to get moving; Supah would be here in an hour and she was due at the office. Reaching into the suitcase, she plucked out clean underwear and a floral-printed linen blouse, the latter not
too
badly wrinkled.

“Have you heard from the father yet?”

“Not directly,” she said, thinking of her own unwillingness to meet him.

“Well, you will,” he said. “Take the weekend to think it over and let me know first thing Monday morning. Once they're set in motion, these cases tend to move pretty quickly.”

“Monday morning,” she repeated woodenly. Then she said good-bye. For a few seconds she did not move. The enormity of what he had told her was devastating. But in some way, it was not surprising. This unknown woman had somehow met and made a child with Jared Masters; she gave birth
and
then left her infant in a subway station.
What had she expected the backstory to have been?

Then she snapped out of it. Although Celeste, miraculously, was still asleep—had she ever slept so late?—Miranda had to get moving. How she would get through the day with this decision weighing on her was anyone's guess.

She made it only until five o'clock, the strain of holding herself together was so intolerable. Heading down into the subway station, she thought about the evening and then the weekend with Celeste; what if it was their last one together? Miranda's eyes welled at the thought; she swiped at them impatiently. She had to focus, not wallow.

There was a long delay on the train, and by the time Miranda walked through the door, Celeste had been fed, bathed,
and dressed in pink striped pajamas. She waved her arms in the air as if she were conducting a symphony; was she always so glad to see Miranda, or did she sense something was wrong?

“Hello, baby girl,” Miranda cooed, taking the baby in her arms. Celeste uttered a few soft, snuffling sounds of content.

“She roll over today,” Supah reported proudly. “First time.”

“Oh!” said Miranda, gazing into Celeste's face. “Who's a big girl now?” She was rewarded with Celeste's wet, gummy grin. But wait—was that tiny bump the beginning of her first tooth, pushing its bony way to the surface?

When Supah left, Miranda washed her hands and gently rubbed a finger over the protrusion on Celeste's gum. It was hard and just the slightest bit sharp: yes, a tooth. Would Celeste even be here when it finally broke through? Oh God, if she were to lose her now, she couldn't bear it; she really couldn't. But she would not let herself think this way; she would
not
. Instead, she spent the next hour getting Celeste ready for bed: changing, final bottle, rocking, before setting her gently down in her crib. Miranda waited to see if she was really asleep; Celeste's tiny snore let her know she was.

Then she sat down at her laptop and began to write. She began with the story of finding Celeste, the trip to the police, the subsequent visits to Judge Waxman's courtroom. What began slowly, haltingly, soon turned into an avalanche of words, the words she hoped would plead her case so convincingly and eloquently that everyone would see that of course Celeste belonged with her.

But once she had finished, the urgency that had propelled her suddenly drained, sucked cleanly away. Even if she could convince a judge to let her keep Celeste, should she? This was her
father
who had come to claim her; why did she think her
claim trumped his? It was hubris on her part, monumental and ugly.

And what would happen to Celeste during a court battle? Miranda doubted she'd be allowed to keep her. Maybe Celeste would go into foster care until the case was decided—another disruption to her brand-new life.

The sound of her phone startled her, and she regarded it with a kind of primal suspicion, as if the caller might say he was on the way now, this minute, to come and get Celeste. But no; it was Evan's number she recognized. When she answered, tears of relief were coating her cheeks.

“I'm sorry I took so long to get back to you,” he said. “I had this insane shoot in Connecticut that ran over, and then I left my phone at the studio and they had to messenger it to me.” Miranda could not speak; the tears were dripping down her face, onto the keyboard. “Hey,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she said. “I'm not.”