You Were Meant For Me (6 page)

“I'd like that,” said Miranda. But because she didn't want to monopolize the conversation, she switched gears. “When did you discover Chaplin?”

“In high school.
The Gold Rush
was the first silent film I'd ever seen.” He dipped a piece of pound cake into the dark, molten chocolate and then popped it in his mouth. “How about you?”

“I was ten. My father loved old movies, and we used to go to see them together.”

“Did your mom go too?”

Miranda shook her head. “We did a lot of things without her. She always seemed kind of unhappy with my dad, especially after we left the city.”

“Did he treat her badly or something?”

“Not from what I could tell.” Miranda speared a hunk of pineapple with her fork and held it above the chocolate. “But it was always about his job—he was a lawyer—and it was a point of pride with him that his wife didn't have to work, which was sort of ironic because my mother really would have preferred working.”

“They sound kind of mismatched in that way.”

“I suppose. There were some good times too. But I think he turned to me more, and then she resented that. . . .” She helped herself to another hunk of pineapple. “How about your parents?”

“They squabbled a lot but stuck together. Now they're out in Arizona. My mom doesn't much like it there, but it was my father's dream.”

“Kind of like my mom in Larchmont. My father loved everything about it—his own house, a lawn, a backyard, eventually a pool. And my mom wanted none of it. She just saw it as oppressive; she never stopped talking about the apartment on West End Avenue where we used to live and how she wished we hadn't left. Suburbia was exile for her. Punishment even.”

“Do you think boomer parents were happier or unhappier than their own parents?”

“That's hard to say. Maybe they expected more and so they were less satisfied with what they ended up with. My grandmother told me that she didn't love my grandfather
when she married him but that she learned to love him. And she really did; they were very content.”

“And how about you? Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Miranda thought about her first meeting with Luke, at a party, and yes, she'd been immediately and powerfully drawn to him. She remembered their first kiss, shared that same night on the terrace where he'd stepped out to smoke, and then realized Evan was still waiting for an answer. “I'd like to. But that kind of fireworks? They don't always last. Maybe the incremental approach is better.”

Evan seemed to like that, because he smiled and impaled the last piece of fruit—a strawberry—on the plate, dipped it in the chocolate, and held out the fork so she could eat it. She leaned in and took a bite. But the strawberry was big and dropped off the fork, onto her mint green sweater—where it left a dark smear of chocolate—and landed on her plate. Miranda would have felt like a fool if Evan hadn't neatly speared it again and offered it to her. “Can't have you losing your berries,” he said.

“Definitely not.” She dabbed at her sweater with a wet napkin. She liked talking to Evan. Their conversation had an appealing reciprocity and elasticity; it was not exclusively about him.

When the check came, he insisted on paying it. And when his arm went casually around her shoulder on the walk back to her house, she welcomed its presence.

“That was fun,” she said in front of the stoop. “Let's do it again soon.”

“I'd really like that.” He leaned down to cup her face in his two hands, and she stood on tiptoe for the kiss—very light, very sweet—that felt like the most natural
move.

“D
o you have enough diapers? Formula? Baby wipes?” Bea asked.

“I'm set on supplies,” said Miranda. She patted the brand-new, quilted diaper bag that sat on her lap. “I've got two bottles in here—formula and sterilized water—and diapers, wipes, ointment, and a changing pad.”

“It sounds like you've thought of everything,” Bea said. They were on their way to pick up the baby; Bea, who owned a car, had offered to drive Miranda to the foster home where she had been placed until Miranda had been approved.

“Everything except what it's going to feel like when we're alone together for the first time. When it's just the two of us and she's really mine. I kept trying to imagine it, but I can't.” She had just started her vacation, so at least she would have a chance to bond with the baby before she turned her over to the nanny.

“You'll be great,” Bea said. “I know you will.” She rested her hands on the wheel. Traffic on Eastern Parkway was stalled, and they weren't going anywhere for a while.

“Thanks for driving me,” Miranda said; she'd said it before, but she thought it was worth repeating.

“You know I'm happy to do it.”

They were quiet. Miranda wondered what, if anything, Bea had told Courtney and Lauren about this expedition. She was not speaking to either of them at the moment; in their last conversation, Courtney had said she was “too busy planning her wedding” to deal with Miranda's
Sturm und Drang
. But that was okay—Miranda did not want to deal with the bridezilla that seemed to have swallowed Courtney whole, so she supposed that made them even. Lauren was much more apologetic, but she too confessed that she had serious doubts about what Miranda was doing; Miranda resented her for siding with Courtney behind her back instead of being honest at the outset. It was all so junior high school, but Miranda couldn't help herself—she was just that vulnerable. This left her with Bea, who was staring at the back of the large truck in front of them as if the force of her gaze could make it move.

When the light finally changed and the truck veered off in a different direction, they continued on until they reached the address in Crown Heights. Bea waited in the car rather than try to find a parking space, and since Miranda had already filled out the paperwork the day before, all she had to do was go up to the apartment—402, she had it memorized—to fetch the baby.

“She's had breakfast and is just waking up from her nap,” said Mrs. Johnson, ushering her into the small but immaculate apartment. “I'll just go get her for you.” Miranda nodded and looked around. The walls and all the surfaces were covered or
crammed with framed photos of children at every stage of development: toddlers holding balloons and teddy bears nestled against grinning teens holding basketballs and diplomas. Surely all these children couldn't belong to Mrs. Johnson.

She appeared again, holding a bundle of pink fluffy cloth with a small face peeking out of the center. “Here she is,” she said. “What a little love.”

Reaching for the baby, Miranda was suddenly stricken. “Did you want to petition for adoption?” she asked. Mrs. Johnson appeared to be past sixty and so maybe not the best candidate, but she couldn't be sure.

“No,” said Mrs. Johnson. “I've raised five of my own and fostered, oh, about twenty-five over the years.” So that explained all the photos. “I'm just glad to see this one go to a good woman—and I can tell you're that woman.” Miranda said nothing, but stared down at the tiny face. “Have you decided on a name?” Mrs. Johnson asked.

“Celeste.” She'd decided to name the baby after her father's mother, hoping it might ignite a tiny flicker of memory in his mind, but so far that had not happened. Her father just mumbled the name a few times and then burst out, “I need an umbrella! Where's my umbrella?” That didn't matter now, though. Not with the pink-clad baby held tight against her chest. Celeste reached up from her cocoon and tugged a lock of Miranda's hair. Miranda inclined her head into the gesture.

“You'll be hearing from that case worker, Ms. Watkins, about the adoption proceedings,” said Mrs. Johnson.

“Thank you,” said Miranda, tearing up. She wanted to hug her, but it seemed logistically impossible with Celeste in her arms, so she settled for grasping the other woman's hand and bringing it to her cheek. “I'm more grateful than I can say.” Mrs. Johnson briefly pressed her hand on top of Miranda's. Celeste
swiveled her head around to take them in—her eyes, Miranda noticed, were darker now—and then Miranda was down the hall, in the elevator, and out the door, to where Bea sat waiting.

“Let me see her,” said Bea, setting aside the script she'd been studying. She got out to have a better look. Miranda was still clutching the baby, who had not yet made a sound. But the slam of the car door startled her and she uttered a short, urgent bleat.

“You scared her,” Miranda said. She began a little jiggling motion in an effort to soothe her.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Celeste!” said Bea. Celeste quieted and looked up at Bea. But it was only the calm before the storm because she screwed up her face and opened her mouth to emit a series of staccato cries that seemed to ricochet off the surrounding buildings. “Jesus, did I do that?” said Bea, her hands fluttering uselessly in front of her.

“It doesn't matter,” Miranda said nervously. “I've just got to get her to calm down. Mrs. Johnson said she ate, but maybe she's hungry. Or thirsty.” She remembered how Celeste had eagerly accepted that water when she'd first found her. “Would you get me those bottles from the bag?”

But Celeste twisted away from both the formula and the water and continued to scream. Miranda's stomach coiled into a tight knot of fear. She didn't even have the baby home yet and already she'd run into her first crisis. Courtney was right—she wasn't equal to this. She knew nothing about infants. She was insane to have taken this on. She could feel herself starting to sweat, armpits pooling, blouse plastering itself to her skin like Saran Wrap. Someone in an apartment above opened a window and yelled, “Tell that kid to shut the hell up!”

“Now, that's helpful,” said Bea. “Like you have a switch or something.”

But the comment—and the string of curses that followed it—propelled Miranda into action. She hoisted Celeste, still screaming, a little higher on her chest and started walking away.

“Where are you going?” asked Bea.

“I'm going to walk her around the block.” Miranda stopped. “Does that sound like a good idea?”

Bea considered. “Maybe you want to ask that foster mom for help. What's her name again?”

“Mrs. Johnson,” said Miranda. “But I have to be able to figure this out on my own. I can't come over here every time the baby cries.” She started walking again, picking up her pace.

“I'll follow you,” said Bea, getting back in the car.

Miranda rounded the corner with the wailing baby in her arms. She'd heard that Crown Heights was beginning to gentrify, but she saw no evidence of that. Buildings, mostly small and brick or brownstone, were dilapidated, and graffiti ran riot over their facades. The trees all seemed stunted; amber and green beer bottles, many broken, lay in the gutter and strewn alongside doorways; and the one trash can she passed was overturned and lolling on its side. Throughout the walk, Celeste continued to scream.

“Don't cry,” Miranda said. “Please,
please
don't cry.” She could feel the heat emanating from the small body, and she loosened the blanket to give her more air. Bea honked the horn, and Miranda looked over. Thank God she was here—in her distress over Celeste, she'd almost forgotten about her.

“Do you want to get in?” Bea called over the sound of the crying. She stopped the car at the corner, and Miranda, who was fresh out of options, yanked open the door with a desperate gesture. Her hands shook a little, and she strapped Celeste into the car seat before sliding in next to her.

“There's something wrong with her.” Miranda stroked Celeste's head. The baby's scalp was moist with exertion, and her black hair gleamed. “I should take her to a doctor. No—to the ER.”

“Right. We'll go to Methodist,” Bea said. “That's the closest.”

Miranda fished a baby wipe out of the diaper bag and dabbed at Celeste's face, which was wet and mottled. There was much less traffic now and the car sped along Eastern Parkway. As it did, Celeste's cries began to soften and then diminish. By the time they passed the Brooklyn Museum, they had stopped entirely, and when Bea pulled up to the hospital on Seventh Avenue, Celeste was asleep.

“Look at that,” said Bea. “Who knew that all it took was a little joy ride?”

“Who knew?” Miranda said weakly. Even though Celeste was now calmed, she still felt shaky. They drove back to President Street, where Miranda got out and carefully unstrapped the car seat, not wanting to wake Celeste. Then she hugged Bea good-bye.

“Call me later?” said Bea. “I want to hear how it's going.”

“I will,” Miranda said. Right now, she could not wait to get upstairs to her apartment and
relax.
As she put the key in the lock, Mrs. Castiglione poked her head out of her door and then stepped out in the hallway to greet them. Thank God the baby was quiet now; she would have hated her landlady's introduction to her new daughter to have occurred thirty minutes ago.

“So here she is,” said Mrs. Castiglione, peering down at the car seat that held the sleeping infant. “She's very small, isn't she?”

“The doctor says she's fine; she wasn't a preemie,” Miranda said.

“My godson, Anthony, he was very small too. We called him Peanut. You'd never know it now, though.”

Miranda had never met Anthony, but she'd seen his photograph in her landlady's apartment; he had the wide, powerful build of a linebacker.

“And you're calling her . . . ?”

“Celeste,” Miranda said. “That was my grandmother's name.”

“A lovely name,” Mrs. Castiglione said. “And a lovely gesture. Your grandmother, may she rest in peace, would have been happy.”

“I'd like to think so.” Miranda's paternal grandmother had doted on her in the way her own mother had not.

“I know so,” said Mrs. Castiglione firmly. She stepped back to allow Miranda to pass. “Please let me know if I can help in any way. I may not have raised any of my own, but I remember a thing or two from Anthony. Oh, he was a handful!”

“Thanks, Mrs. Castiglione,” said Miranda. “I appreciate that.” It was so clear she would have liked children of her own.

Although Miranda had wanted nothing more than to kick off her shoes and unwind in her apartment, Celeste wasn't having it. She woke up as soon as Miranda carried the car seat inside, and Miranda needed to change and feed her before she could even think of having any lunch herself. And when she did, it was just an apple, hastily devoured while she held Celeste tucked in the crook of her other arm; Celeste fussed when
Miranda sat down with her, and the only way to keep her quiet was to remain standing. Miranda thought back to how calm Celeste had been in the hospital; what was different now?

Around four o'clock, Bea called to get an update, and at around five, there was a tap on the door. Miranda opened it to find Mrs. Castiglione with a casserole dish of what appeared to be baked ziti and meatballs. “It's hard to cook anything for yourself in the beginning,” she explained. “I thought you might appreciate this.”

“Thank you so much,” Miranda said. Apart from that apple, she had not eaten since breakfast and was starved. Could she put the ziti on the counter and eat it, straight from the casserole dish, standing up? The aroma alone was making her swoon. If the ziti tasted anything like it smelled, she was going to get the recipe from Mrs. Castiglione and publish it in
Domestic Goddess
.

“Maybe you'd like me to hold her for you while you eat,” Mrs. Castiglione offered.

“Would you? That would be great.”

Mrs. Castiglione took Celeste in her arms and stood in the kitchen while Miranda tried not to wolf the food down too greedily. “This is so good; is there fennel seed in here along with oregano?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Castiglione looked so pleased. “My nona's recipe.” And she hadn't lost her touch with babies; every time Celeste looked cranky or was about to cry, Mrs. Castiglione made some subtle shift in position that seemed to forestall another outburst.

After she had eaten and Mrs. Castiglione left, Miranda felt confident enough to attempt giving Celeste a bath. She'd
actually watched a YouTube video on the subject and had all the supplies on hand: ergonomically designed plastic baby tub, organically sourced baby wash, hooded towel, and non-talc powder. Miranda undressed her—the stump of the umbilical cord had healed by now—and held the naked baby in her arms before immersing her. Celeste's tiny lips formed a circle, like a Cheerio, when her body was submerged. Miranda tensed; the O looked like it might open wide, into a scream, but though Miranda braced herself for the storm, it did not come. Instead Celeste actually uttered a soft cooing sound and kicked her legs, froglike, in the water. The rest—the actual washing, drying, dressing—was relatively easy, and when Miranda finally put Celeste in her bassinet, strategically placed just inches from her own bed, she felt a sense of accomplishment that was nothing less than magnificent.

Although it was not even nine o'clock, she decided to go to sleep; it had been an exhausting day. Tomorrow Supah, the Thai nanny she'd hired, was coming over to meet Celeste and spend a little time with her. Miranda would not need her yet, but she thought it would be a good idea to introduce her into Celeste's life as soon as she could. It was only when she plugged her phone into the charger that she saw the two missed messages. One was from Evan.
Can't wait to meet the new baby,
he said.
Call me.
The other was an unfamiliar voice with a very familiar name
. Ms. Berenzweig, this is Geneva Bales. I saw the news bit about the baby you found on the subway and I
was very taken with your story. I am wondering if we might meet. . . .