You Were Meant For Me (7 page)

Geneva Bales wrote a popular column, “Souls of a City,” for the weekly magazine
Metro
. She had profiled the ninety-six-year-old proprietor of New York City's last surviving doll hospital, a firefighter who had risked his life to save a
forty-pound boa constrictor trapped in a burning building, a young man who received his acceptance letter from Yale the day he buried his homeless, crack-addicted mother. She also weighed in on political figures, celebrities, and people in the news; you never quite knew what Geneva's take would be. You knew only that it would be quirky, interesting, and totally her own. And now she wanted to profile Miranda and Celeste.

She listened to the message in its entirety and then listened to it again. The accent was hard to place, the voice low and cultivated. Miranda got into bed and turned out the light. Even though Celeste was very close, the distance felt too great, and she carefully lifted her, still sleeping, out of the bassinet and positioned her into the comma of her own curled body.

It was flattering to be considered as the potential object of Geneva Bales's interest and gain, if only briefly, a moment in the sun. But once the story was made public, it would no longer be fully her own. And the attention might bring with it other, unintended consequences. She turned to the baby sleeping next to her. “What do
you
think we should do, Celeste?” she asked. Celeste took what seemed like an unusually deep breath, as if marshaling her thoughts. But all she did was exhale, her milky breath impossibly sweet on Miranda's cheek.

M
iranda sat across from Geneva Bales in the charming back garden of a little Gramercy Park restaurant that even she, hard-core foodie that she was, had never heard of. Celeste had been home for almost three weeks; luckily, Supah was available to watch her for a couple of hours today. Miranda had been loath to leave her, but she reasoned that it was good preparation for her imminent return to work.

“So how are you managing?” Geneva dove right in. “It must be a big change. And so sudden.”

“That's it!” Miranda leaned closer. “It's not just that I'm sleep deprived, that my life's been totally upended or all the other usual new-mother stuff; it's that there's been no time to prepare for any of it.”

“Most women get their nine months, right? And adoptive mothers might get even longer because the waiting period can stretch on and on.” Geneva's expression was warm and sympathetic.

“Exactly. I feel like I've been pushed onto a stage without having learned the lines or the blocking; I'm blinking into the footlights and hoping I can wing it.”

“That's a lot of stress to shoulder, especially for one person.”

“Well, yes, but it's worth it.” Miranda suddenly pulled back. She hadn't even formally agreed to the interview yet, and here she was telling Geneva things she hadn't even fully articulated to herself.

“Of course it is,” Geneva said. “But I'm sure you wonder where your old life has gone; it must be somewhat disorienting.”

“That's true,” Miranda conceded. “It's not only the taking care of her that's new and challenging; it's having to reconfigure everything else. No more stopping to see a movie on the way home from work, or meeting a friend for dinner without having made plans in advance. I used to be a member of a food co-op in Brooklyn; I'm putting that on hold for a while. Same with running in the park and my book club. Everything has narrowed down to a very fine point: Celeste. And once I go back to work, my job.”

Geneva looked down at her lap, and Miranda realized she was taking notes on her phone. Really? She still had not said yes. Then Geneva looked back at her, her gaze frank and intent. “After I saw that little bit on the news about your story, I was very intrigued.” She looked like she was in her early thirties, with brown hair cut into a crisp, chin-length bob and secured with a black velvet headband. Miranda thought it was a surprising choice; no one she knew wore headbands anymore—at least no one over the age of twelve.

“I'm flattered,” Miranda said. “But I'm not one hundred percent sure that letting you do the piece is the best idea.”

Their food had been served, and she took a bite of her
sandwich—roasted red pepper, feta cheese, and spinach on sourdough—and then another, because it was so good. The shrimp-studded corn chowder that preceded it had been equally outstanding. How had this place eluded her radar?

“What are your reservations?” Geneva asked. “I'd like to address them. And hopefully lay them to rest.”

“It's just that Celeste is still so new to me.” When they had first spoken on the phone, Miranda had told Geneva that the adoption still wasn't even finalized yet. “I feel like I might be violating her privacy—even though she is just a baby.” There was something else too, something she didn't want to tell Geneva. What if the story alerted someone to the baby, someone connected to her who had for some reason not yet stepped forward? Miranda knew she ought to want that for her—a reunion with her family. But she didn't.

“I understand,” Geneva was saying. “But I see this piece as a celebration, not a violation. I'd want to celebrate her survival—and your role in it. After all, not only did you find her and bring her to the police, now you're about to adopt her. Not every Good Samaritan would go so far. In fact, I'd say almost none.”

Miranda thought about that. She did like Geneva—both in print and in person. With her schoolgirl coif and quaintly old-fashioned clothes—prim white blouse, dirndl skirt, and flats—she exuded a refreshingly wholesome sincerity.

“You said you've read my column; you know how I do things. No one has ever complained about the way they've appeared in print.”

“Well, I am a fan,” said Miranda. By this time, the remains of their lunch had been cleared, replaced by a pot of tea, two bone china cups with matching saucers, and a plate of pastel-colored macarons.

“A little exposure could be a good thing,” Geneva continued. “You'd be surprised how generous people can be when approached the right way.”

“I wouldn't be doing it for that reason.” Miranda reached for one of the macarons, and the feathery sweetness—coconut with a hint of lime—exploded on her tongue. “I have enough money to raise her.” Though financial help would certainly be nice.

“I'm sure you do,” Geneva said. “But everything is so expensive—schools, camps, lessons—and you'll want her to have opportunities, exposure to all kinds of things. It would be good to have some outside help if you can get it.”

“That's all true,” Miranda said. She was trying to make the macaron last, but knew she would succumb to at least
one
more. “You can do the piece without my cooperation, you know; it might not be the same, but enough of the facts are out there to make it feasible.”

“I could but I won't,” said Geneva. “That's just not who I am. If I don't earn your trust, then I won't go ahead with it.” She lowered her eyes and sipped her tea.

Miranda raised her own cup to her lips. She was an odd one, this Geneva Bales. Charming. Intelligent. Low-key when it counted. But Miranda wasn't ready to commit—not yet anyway. “I appreciate that. And I'll keep all that in mind. I just need to think it over, that's all.”

“Of course.” Geneva signaled for the check. If she was disappointed not to have obtained Miranda's consent, she did not show it. “I'll be here. Just let me know.”

Miranda was still on the fence about the profile the next day when she collected her mail from the hall table where Mrs. Castiglione had left it. She had stopped in the
supermarket on the way home from work, and she put her bags down on her kitchen table while she sorted through the envelopes. There was one from the firm that managed her father's money; he'd given her power of attorney, so the statements now came to her. One of the bags contained a pint of ice cream, and she put it in the freezer before opening the letter. He'd lost money—again. It was the third time this year. She'd have to talk to his financial adviser to see about making some changes.

Miranda set the letter aside and began to put the rest of her groceries away. The nursing home where her father lived was expensive; he could easily go through his entire nest egg. She had never worried about this before, but now that she was poised on the cusp of adopting a baby, that fact had new and potentially alarming resonance. Maybe she would be wise to accept Geneva's offer—she might be glad of the help.

The next day, she called the number on Geneva's card. “I'm going to do it,” she told her. “When do we start?”

“That's wonderful.” Geneva had a low, controlled voice, but Miranda could still hear the pleasure that ran through it. “You won't be sorry,” she said. “You have my word.”

*   *   *

Later
that same night, Miranda flopped down on her sofa, exhausted. Celeste just would not settle down, and Miranda had spent a solid hour trying to calm her; she'd fallen into a restless sleep. Silence reigned, but for how long?

She hadn't been here even a month, but already Miranda felt the enormity of the job she'd—willingly! eagerly!—signed on for. Yes, she wanted her. Yes, she was still in the throes of baby love. But it was hard—harder than anyone had told her it would be. Harder than she'd imagined.

What Miranda had described to Geneva Bales were only the most superficial aspects of how her world had shifted. She felt as if she'd fallen, Alice-like, right down the rabbit hole. Way up there was the life she used to lead; she saw it as if from a vast distance. Down here, in new-mommy-land, everything was different. Taking a shower, eating a meal, making a phone call, all things she had taken for granted, now had to be planned for, negotiated, and, if necessary, postponed. Or even abandoned. She, who had been the most avid of readers, had not even opened one of the new novels that sat in a pile near her bed. She could not even get through a newspaper, let alone the cooking and decorating magazines she subscribed to in order to remain current for her job. Her job. That was another thing. Here she was, struggling when she hadn't even gone back to work yet. How would she manage when she did?

Celeste had been asleep for about twenty minutes; how long before she was awake again? Miranda got up. She wanted just a brief distraction, a foray into the terrain she used to inhabit so thoughtlessly. She went over to her bookshelf and pulled out a thin, worn paperback. Yes. This was it.

Returning to the sofa, she sat down and propped her feet up on an ottoman she had recently purchased. The ottoman may have been new, but the hand-woven kilim that covered it was something Miranda had owned for years. She'd bought it in Turkey, on a trip she and Courtney had taken right after graduation. What fun they'd had, the two of them so young and clueless; how had they ever been that young? They'd explored the beaches and the temples, the markets and the cafés; they'd eagerly sampled the food, the wine. There had been fresh figs plucked from a tree in the courtyard of one restaurant, goat cheese made in the cellar of another.

The kilim had come from one of those dense, jostling marketplaces where animal carcasses hung from crude hooks, salt was sold from glittering heaps, and mounds of tarnished silver jewelry were piled right on the ground, waiting to be pawed through. Miranda had spied the kilim draped over the back of a donkey, and though it was torn and shredded in places, she had been drawn to its intense colors—vermilion, ochre, cobalt, forest green—and the almost geometric formality of its pattern. Courtney had urged her to buy it.

“What will I do with it?” Miranda had asked.

“Don't worry about that. You love it; that's the main thing. You'll figure out how to use it later.”

Courtney had been right. The kilim was the perfect thing with which to cover an ottoman. But she and Courtney were barely speaking now, and Miranda did not want to think about that trip.

Instead, she opened
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
, the same play Bea was starring in and the same copy she'd owned in college, bought for her Modern Dramatic Literature course. That was the course in which she'd met Bea; they had read Ibsen and Chekhov, Strindberg and Ionesco. But Miranda's favorite playwright that semester had been Tennessee Williams, and she felt a deep and familiar connection as she turned the yellowed pages, several of them stained with what looked to be raspberry jam.

Had she not had Celeste, she would have flown to Oklahoma to see Bea play Maggie; right now, she couldn't even imagine getting into the city to see a New York production. Not that she wanted to change anything. But still. She smiled as she read the opening dialogue—Williams could be so funny.

Maggie was the Williams heroine she liked best. Unlike Blanche or Laura—fragile, broken creatures—Maggie was scrappy, a fighter and survivor. How interesting that she wanted to be pregnant with Brick's child when she disliked children so intensely.
No-neck monsters
was what she called her little nieces and nephews. And yet, how she pined. What did having a child mean to her? Was it proof of Brick's love? Was it a confirmation of her own womanhood? Or just the only way to secure her place in a family that did not fully accept her?

Miranda looked up. There were sounds—first rustling, then crying—coming from the other room. She put the book down. So much for parsing the meaning of the symbolic child; the real, live infant she had committed herself to needed her.

Celeste was crying, her fists clenched in tiny, tight balls. Her diaper was dry, so Miranda picked her up and began the pacing that often did the trick. When that failed, she tried rocking her. Celeste cried harder and twisted her face away from the bottle Miranda offered. Now what? It was late; she didn't want to take the baby out for a stroll at this hour. She touched the little cheek. Damp with tears and perspiration. Miranda felt sticky and hot too.

Suddenly, she knew what they both needed. She put Celeste back in the crib while she turned on the tap in the shower and shed her clothes. Then she undressed Celeste and stepped under the steady stream with the baby pressed against her naked skin. She kept her back to the spray and used her own body to shield Celeste. The warm, pulsating water created a fine mist on Celeste's hands and arms; she was intrigued and brought her hand to her mouth for an experimental lick. The crying stopped, and Miranda exhaled audibly. They remained
under the water for a while, and when they stepped out, Miranda wrapped her baby in the large towel hanging on the back of the door. Celeste was calmer now. The crying, the fussiness—all gone. Miranda settled her back in the crib and then returned to her own bed. They both slept peacefully that
night.