When You Believe

by Jessica Barksdale Inclan

But then, as the months went by, she found herself being evasive, detached, distant, and placating, anything to keep him at bay. She’d made up white lies, exaggerated her continuing feelings for Jack, told Dan that she was so deep into her poetry that she didn’t dare interrupt her writing with other emotional concerns. She’s screened calls, pretended to be gone for the weekend, and even made up relatives who were suddenly in town and wanted to see Coit Tower, Chinatown, Stinson Beach, Napa and every single winery there. Miranda knew she’d been horrible to Dan. She’d done nothing that deserved his glowing feelings.

  “All right,” he said quietly.

  “Thanks so much for the ride,” she said quickly. “It was a great conference. We sold a lot of books, didn’t we? I think almost all of them.”

  He smiled, his color returning. “After that body talk, I sold your whole lot. Plus some of your backlist.”

  Miranda felt awash with gratitude, wishing she felt differently, wishing she could feel for Dan what she felt for someone who wasn’t really even there, someone who didn’t even want her to remember him. “That’s great. Look, I’ll call you later in the week, okay?”

  She stepped out of the car and leaned down to look in the window. “Thanks for everything, Dan. You’ve been so great to me. I don’t deserve it,” she said, hoping he understood what she was saying.

  But he didn’t. His sappy smile slipped back onto his face, his desire blinding him to what she meant.

  “It’s my pleasure, Miranda,” he said. “Always is.”

  Viv sat up in her bed, weeping.

  “She’s been like this since we got home from the hospital,” Seamus said, whispering to Miranda as they stood just outside the open bedroom door. He held the just-nursed, newly named baby Colin in his arms. Seamus was exhausted, bags under his eyes, his hair uncombed, a single, slightly wet Corn Chex stuck on a back strand just behind his ear. Miranda pulled it gently from his hair and handed it to him. He looked at it, turned it in his fingers, said, “Hazel,” and then ate it.

  “So what is going on?” Miranda whispered.

  “She was totally normal after the birth. You were there. She was fine. And then afterward in the room, she was laughing with the nurses. Everything was just fine. But on the way home, she sort of sat there, wouldn’t look at me. Then when we got to the house, she just lost it. Her friend Robin was here for a while, but that visit didn’t go well. Viv cried the entire time and kept asking for you.”

  Seamus rocked back and forth in a practiced father move. “It was never like this with the other three. But then, this was her first C-section. It’s major surgery, you know.”

  Miranda patted his shoulder, thinking about how she’d just told Dan the same thing. She took her hand away from Seamus and lightly rubbed her hand over Colin’s soft head. Major surgery was worth this baby, she thought. Worth anything.

  “I’ll talk with her. Put Colin down to sleep if you can. That should give me some time to find out what’s going on before he’s hungry again.”

  “Thanks, Randa,” he said. “I’m really worried. This isn’t like Viv at all. She’s so—”

  “In charge?” Miranda said, smiling. “Don’t worry. She’ll be back to her bossy self in no time. This is just anesthesia or postpartum blues or gas.”

  “Okay,” he said. “All right. Just yell if you need me.”

  Somehow still rocking the baby, Seamus walked down the hall toward the nursery. Miranda went into the bedroom and closed the door behind herself, walking over to Viv and sitting down on the bed. Her sister barely looked like the confident, collected woman she usually was. Her hair was combed but dirty, the blonde almost brown in the dim bedroom light, and her face seemed swollen, flushed, her eyes puffy red slits. Miranda didn’t expect anyone who’d just given birth to put on mascara, but Viv had an addiction to it, never leaving the house without a careful application or two. But Viv hadn’t even cried her makeup off, no telltale raccoon eyes, no streaks. Just her sad face.

  “Vivie,” she said softly, taking her sister’s hand. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Viv shook her head, the tears a slick wet shine on her face. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t what? Take care of a baby? Give me a break. You’ve been taking care of babies for years.”

  Viv didn’t say anything. She just shook her head again.

  “You are the best mother I’ve ever met,” Miranda said. “Including and far surpassing our own.”

  At those words, Viv sobbed, wiping her eyes, leaning back against her pillows.

  “Sweetie!” Miranda leaned closer to Viv, rubbing her sister’s arm. “All you need is a little sleep, and then you’ll feel great. This was major surgery. Everyone says so. It’s takes a lot out of you. You’ll be just as wonderful a mother with Colin as you were with the other three. Look at them. They’re all fabulous. Maybe Hazel had a strange idea about potty-training, but that’s nothing. They’re great kids.”

  Now Viv was almost wailing, so Miranda pulled Viv to her, hugging her tightly, sympathetic tears pricking her eyes. What was wrong? She’d never seen Viv this upset, ever. Maybe her sister was having that reaction, that depression that makes mothers go crazy. Not just depression. Postpartum whatever. As she hugged her sister, Miranda decided she would stay for as long as it took, keeping an eye on Viv, Colin, Seamus, the kids. She’d move in if she had to.

  “That’s not…” Viv began, her voice muffled and full of tears.

  “That’s not what? What?”

  “I’m not upset about the baby,” Viv finally got out, clutching Miranda as she spoke. “Maybe it’s because of the baby, but I’m thinking about something else.”

  Viv began to cry again, and Miranda plucked two tissues from the box by the bed and wiped her sister’s cheeks and nose. “What, Vivie? What are you thinking about?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, yes, you can,” Miranda said softly. “Of course you can. You can tell me anything.”

  Viv snuffled, took the tissue from Miranda, blew her nose. She looked up, her eyes full of tears, red, so sad.

  “Tell me,” Miranda said, handing Viv a fresh tissue.

  “Okay.” Viv took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t plan on it. But when I woke up from the surgery, I saw so clearly what I had to do. I felt it, and the thought kept getting bigger and bigger until I just couldn’t hold it inside anymore. Like I finally had to pay attention.”

  “What is it?” Miranda pulled away, still holding onto Viv’s shoulders. “Is it Seamus? Did he do something? What did he do?”

  “No. No.” Viv hiccupped, wiped her eyes on her nightgown sleeve, moaning slightly. Now her breasts were leaking, large, round wet patches on flannel.

  “Wait. Just hold on.” Miranda stood up and went to the dresser, digging around until she found a clean nursing bra and nightgown.

  Returning to Viv, she helped her sister change, noticing how slowly her sister moved, careful of the bandaged incision on her belly.

  “Does it hurt?” Miranda asked, smoothing down the nightgown and adjusting the collar. “Do you need some pain pills? Should I call Mom?”

  “No!” Viv said loudly. “Don’t call Mom.”

  Viv started to cry again but quietly this time. She grabbed onto Miranda’s hand.

  “What is it?” Miranda stared into Viv’s bloodshot eyes. “What is going on?”

  “I feel—I feel…”

  Miranda nodded. “I know. You feel tired. You feel like you need a shower. Let me wash your hair. I’ll get a basin. You’ll feel so much better.”

  “It’s not my hair,” Viv wailed. “It’s you.”

  Breathing in, Miranda sat back. “It’s me?”

  Viv nodded. “When I came out of the anesthesia, I realized something. I have to tell you. I can’t keep it a secret anymore. I’ve kept it in way too long.”

  Miranda relaxed, her body sinking down in relief. Thank God. Nothing had happened with Seamus and Vivian wasn’t f
ollowing Miranda’s lead and going completely nuts. All this weeping was simply hormones and anesthesia and the stress of the surgery. She’d heard about people grabbing nurses when they awoke from surgery, telling them they were related to Queen Elizabeth or had been reincarnated from a prior life as a Nubian princess. Clara Hempell told her that when Roy went in for his hernia operation, he regaled the entire surgical team with lewd jokes and limericks before he went under and gave them more as soon as he woke up. Viv’s experience had obviously not been that gleeful, but whatever had happened, it was just like a bad dream that would pass as soon as she calmed down and had a good sleep.

  “Listen,” Miranda began, ignoring her sudden thought that she’d initially believed Sariel was a dream. “Anesthesia does terrible things to your brain. It really messes—”

  “No.” She sniffed, pushing her hair back. “It’s about knowing where you came from. Knowing who you are. Even though I was drugged, I felt them tug Colin out of me, and I kept wondering who felt you being born. When they brought Colin to me, I felt the grief for that mother and for you. Maybe I should have felt that way when I had the other three, but I didn’t until now. I kept thinking, Did you get to see her face? Did anyone hold you? And why didn’t anyone tell you? It’s not fair. You need to know.”

  Her mouth open, Miranda stared at Viv, suddenly scared about what was going on in her sister’s head. This wasn’t just the surgery. She needed to go get Seamus. June, too. Robin. Maybe they should call the doctor. Call 911. Go back to the hospital right now.

  “Calm down, Viv,” Miranda said. “It’s going to be—”

  “You’re adopted, Randa,” Viv said quickly. “I knew I had to tell you. You had to know.”

  Miranda felt like her ears weren’t working, Viv’s words irritating noise she needed to shut out. She almost put her hands over her ears, thinking maybe she could drown out the sound. Viv stopped talking, watching her, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

  “Viv?” Miranda said slowly, trying to stay composed. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Randa. It was time you knew. You’re adopted. Mom couldn’t tell you, ever. Dad wanted to, but then he was gone.”

  With her secret out in the universe, Viv seemed calmer, sitting up straighter against the headboard, her eyes more focused. Miranda stared at her sister, trying to find the real world where Viv’s words could be made sensical.

  “Viv, I’m not adopted. If Mom wouldn’t have told me, Dad would have. We talked about everything. You’re just not feeling well. Let me go get—”

  Vivian grabbed Miranda’s arm, keeping her still. “I know I sound crazy, but I remember when you came home. I was almost four, Randa. Dad was gone again on one of his trips and then he came home. A trip somewhere. Far away. And then he walked into our room and put you in the crib. A couple of days before, Mom had had some handyman come and assemble it. I remember wanting to sleep in it because it’d been mine. Then he shows up with you and they both tell me that you are my new sister and said, ‘Isn’t your new baby the prettiest thing?’”

  Through her tears, Viv smiled. “You weren’t, though. I wanted to tell them that. You were ugly, a little pale ghost baby with a giant shock of flame-colored hair. Now I’d guess you were about three months old or so. Maybe four.”

  Miranda couldn’t speak, so she closed her eyes. Somewhere, in a vision, in a dream, in a deep memory, she could remember the taut cradle of her father’s arms, the clean smell of his cotton shirt. He was carrying her, taking her somewhere, carrying her away from another smell, another person. Then there was June, leaning close, but Miranda wanted her father’s face, and more than his face, she wanted the other face. But that was it.

  Viv grabbed her hands. “Don’t be upset. I love you. Ever since that first day, I’ve loved you. I used to watch you sleep in your crib, and I really thought you were mine. I still do. I always will.”

  Shaking her head, Miranda couldn’t look up. She wanted to argue all of this away, but her memory and her body told her Viv was telling the truth. Viv had never lied to her, not once, not ever. But why did Viv have to tell her now? Every world Miranda had known was gone. No parents, no ordinary universe where people took airplanes to Hawaii, no Sariel.

  “Randa, look at me,” Viv said. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t keep it in. When he was sick, near the end, Dad made me promise I’d tell you, but the time never seemed right. I didn’t know how to just say it. And I didn’t want to upset Mom even more. But it’s time. I always thought that if I told you, it would answer questions you seem to have about yourself. I know you feel different. Alone. Unable to find someone like you. I thought knowing you were adopted would help you find someone to be with. To love. It’s stupid, but that’s what I thought.”

  Viv began to cry again, and Miranda breathed out and looked up. Viv tried to smile, but she couldn’t, hormones and sadness coursing through her body.

  “Don’t,” Miranda said quietly. “It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

  “Oh, Randa. Oh.”

  “Shhh. Stop.”

  “There’s one more thing. In my garage. In the grandpa’s old army trunk. There’s a box labeled Dad’s Stuff. It’s for you. I never looked in it, not once.”

  Viv fell back against the pillows, pressing a hand to her belly. Miranda sat there, watching Viv quietly. After a moment, Viv opened her mouth as if to say something, but in a few seconds, Miranda realized her sister had fallen asleep, mid-thought, exhausted by birth of her baby and the huge truth she’d just delivered to Miranda.

  Numb after leaving the bedroom, Miranda found herself walking straight into the kitchen, a fake smile on her face.

  “Oh, she’s going to be fine,” she said to Seamus and Robin. “She’s just exhausted. Let her sleep for as long as possible.”

  Seamus tried to get her to stay for dinner, but she made an excuse about needing to meet Dan for an early meeting in the morning. Saying her good-byes, she left through the kitchen door, the door that led into the garage.

  Miranda flicked on the overhead light and looked at the shelving that held tidy rows of plastic storage boxes full of Christmas tree ornaments, Halloween costumes, records from prior tax years, and old computer cords and wires and keyboards and mouse pads. On the bottom row, she found her grandfather’s trunk, and she opened it, holding the lid with one hand. Right on the top—as if waiting for her—was a box that was, as Viv had said, labeled Dad’s Stuff. For a second, she thought of sitting right down on the cold cement floor and open it, discovering the truth right there and then. If she had to, she could go back into Viv’s room and shake her sister awake, demand answers to the questions that the box would provide.

  But Miranda didn’t want to wake Viv; she didn’t really want to see Viv again tonight or even for a while. So she left through the garage door and got in her car. Miranda drove down the darkened freeways, through the Caldecott Tunnel, past Oakland and Berkeley, and over the Bay Bridge. She didn’t feel at all a part of her body. Her hands gripped the steering wheel and managed to keep her clear of other cars, but she felt her mind floating somewhere in the car, bouncing between doors, the headliner, and the floor. Sometimes, she swore she saw the flicker of gray in her peripheral vision, but when she turned to look, it was gone.

  How could this be true? she thought. Why didn’t June and Viv tell her earlier? Why didn’t her dad tell her before he died? Most people her age who had been adopted had been told before entering school, armed with the information other kids might tease them about. Some had pictures of birth mothers and stories about adoptive parents flying across the world to pick them specially. And if they hadn’t known their birth mothers then, they met them later, arranging meetings at local restaurants or in living rooms with generations of relatives desperate to meet the missing family member. Eventually, they all reached some kind of agreement or shared tidbits of health information. But they knew. They all knew. The entire extended family knew. No one had kept the secret for thirty years. This
entire tale was so Victorian, Miranda couldn’t believe it was a modern story. Her modern story.

  How could they have done this to her? How could they all have lied?

  Back at her apartment, Miranda flicked on the living room light and stared into the room. There were all her things, but whose things were they? Miranda Stead’s? Or Miranda Who’s? Who was the poet? The Miranda who grew up with June and Steve? Or the Miranda who was torn from her real parents? Or given up gladly by her real parents? Who made the decisions that led her to this point? And why did her father seem to be the one with all the answers? What about her mother? From this minute on, Miranda would walk into this very living room as two people, the pretend Miranda and the real Miranda, and she didn’t know who was who.

  Walking into the bedroom, she put down her dad’s box on the bed and stared at it for a moment. The desire she’d had in Viv’s garage had died inside her, and she had no interest in opening the box. She wasn’t ready to deal with what was inside, probably just more bad news, more information she didn’t want. She sighed, throwing her coat on top of it, covering Viv’s written Dad’s Stuff, and then noticed the message machine blinking four. Probably all Dan. Dan making sure she got home. Dan hoping she was home safely and, oh, how’s the baby? Dan wishing she would call with an update. Dan pretending to call about business. Some galleys she had to proof or a reading for next month. Dan, Dan, Dan, Dan.

  Sariel wouldn’t call, wondering if she’d made it home safely. If he’d wanted to find out about her, he would have just shown up in her apartment or at the conference or at Viv’s house. Or he would have just read her mind from afar. But she hadn’t felt a thing since the morning, when she heard him call, Miranda. I’m sorry. Miranda!

  And anyway, he didn’t want her to remember him at all. Now, she knew that the ropes she’d clung to in her sweaty dream that night had been her thoughts, her memories, her images of Sariel. She fought him. She wanted him more than he wanted her, fighting to keep what she’d earned. He’d left her, but she’d fought for him, keeping the only thing she could—her thoughts.