She stood still in her dark room, not noticing she was standing still in her dark room until the phone rang again. Leaning over the bed, she yanked the phone cord out of the wall. Probably it was Viv or Seamus. Are you okay? Are you upset to find out we’ve all been lying to you? Are you upset to find out that you haven’t known who you are for the past thirty years? Oh, and did you make it home safely?
Wasn’t it like Viv, the older sister, to make the executive decision that now was a perfect time for a life-changing revelation? Oh, sure, Viv had just had a baby, but she’d had three before. The same thing had happened—baby in, baby out. Three times before, someone had laid a baby on her chest, and three times before she could have decided to tell Miranda she was, in fact, an orphan. A changeling. Not who Miranda thought she was at all.
Viv could have thought about it between Summer and Jordie, finding a careful, concise way to bring up the matter, deciding on a quiet family meeting, Seamus and the kids away from home. June could have come over, armed with important, relevant information. There could have been space for Miranda to cry, to react, to get angry. Then the three of them could have looked through the Dad’s Stuff box, discussing, organizing, planning.
But no. Viv had to go all Grand Guignol and make it a wretched Hallmark moment, orchestrating everything. She’s the one who got to cry and moan and cathart all over the place. She hadn’t thought of anyone but herself and her feelings, her guilt, her need to spew the ugly story.
Walking out of the bedroom and into her office, Miranda turned on the light and then the computer, sitting down hard in her chair. She would write about everything: Her family, her adoption, Sariel, his betrayal. She would write a poem that explained it all, from the time she began running away from the men on the street and plunged into the Croyant meeting to now. She didn’t care anymore what she’d promised Sariel. After all, where was he? He wasn’t here to help her with her terrible news. He just up and disappeared. Miranda laughed, tears just behind the sound, seeing how for once the word disappeared wasn’t simply a metaphor.
Clicking on her word processing program, she put her fingers on the keyboard.
If 1 found myself running from you, I’d stop. I’d turn around, open my arms, fly back to where we started.
Closing her eyes, she sat back in her chair. She couldn’t write a thing. She wanted him so much, needed him now to help her figure out how to feel. Miranda had never felt like this about a man, not even trying to find jack after he left, despite Viv’s urging that she make a police report or hire a private detective to help search out her computer and the stolen poems. But not even now, now with Jack sharing a prize with her based on her words, would she try to find him. There was no one before Sariel worth seeking out.
Miranda breathed in, trying to stop her tears. Enough, she thought. There was no way to write about any of this and there was no way to think about it. Where would she start? If she did uncork her mind, she’d probably uncork a bottle of wine and keep trying to think until the bottle was empty. That wouldn’t help. She needed to sleep. To forget for a few hours. And then maybe she’d know what to do.
Miranda Stead stood up, realizing that she didn’t know who actually was standing up from her desk. Her name was Miranda, but what had her real mother called her? What name had her real mother given her in the womb? Or her real father? Had he decided on a name for her? Maybe it was Olivia who was turning off her computer or Dagmar who pushed in her chair. It could be Katie who walked to the door, turning to look back at her office. Or maybe it was really Sarah who sighed, found the light switch with her fingers, flicked off the light, and walked away in darkness.
The daylight streamed into her room, and Miranda pulled the blankets over her head. Her eyes felt gritty, as if each vein were a speed bump her lids were riding over. She’d been up almost the entire night, thinking, imagining, obsessing. She conjured forth her birth parents, this real mother and father who had given her away. She felt their hands passing her small body to her father, Steve. She watched them fade away from where they stood or sat, the picture fading as the car she was in took her away, to an airport or bus terminal or ferry landing.
After she played out that melodramatic scene about sixty times, she switched to Sariel. She saw him leaving, over and over again. One minute he was flat on her bed, the next, poof! Gone. After she made him disappear, she decided to relive every single one of their moments together, lingering especially on the pleasurable moments. His smile, his body, his kiss. In one taunting scene after the next, Sariel flashed through her mind: handsome magic guy in robe, handsome magic guy naked, handsome magic guy in Hawaii with drink. Her handsome magic guy. Once her handsome magic guy.
Then, for fun, she decided to think about Viv and Dan and June, saving Jack, the most torturous, for last. How he stole her computer and poems. How smug he would be on the Holitzer Prize stand. In her vision, she put them right next to each other, both dressed to the nines. Jack’s date would be at a front table, clapping loudly, her breasts jiggling with each smack. Jack would wave, clutch his prize money. As he spoke to the crowd, Miranda would feel his arm loop up and rest on her shoulder, as if they were the best of friends, close, intimate writing partners. “Aren’t we lucky,” he would whisper.
“Jerk!” Miranda said from under the covers, finally flinging them off. “Total jerk!”
She turned her alarm clock toward her, squinting at the red numbers. Eleven in the morning. Then she glanced at her phone machine. Nothing was blinking. No one had called. No one loved her anymore. She shook her head, feeling the tears coming again, when she saw the phone cord. Oh, yeah, she thought. Right. She’d unplugged it.
Leaning over, Miranda stuck the cord back in the wall, and immediately the phone began to ring. She watched the phone for a while, again wishing that Sariel would call. All he needed to say was one word, and she’d forgive him anything.
“Yeah, because you’re a wimp!” she said aloud.
The phone kept ringing, and finally Miranda grabbed it, pressing the receiver to her ear but not saying a word, waiting for the miracle. Then she realized that if Sariel were going to call, it would be through his mind and into hers.
“Miranda!” Viv said. “I know you’re there.”
“I’m here.”
Viv started to cry again, soft snorting sounds on the other end of the line. Miranda shook her head. “Look, I can’t talk about this now. I have to think.”
“When can you talk about it?” Viv asked.
“I don’t know.” Miranda looked out her window, the sunlight and warmth outside. Below her window, traffic moved on the street, and she could hear the drifting sounds of people talking coming up from the sidewalk below.
“Tomorrow? If you don’t talk to me tomorrow, I’m coming out there.”
What would Miranda know by tomorrow that she didn’t know now? Would she have gone through her father’s box? Would she have figured out who she was? Would giant answers fling themselves down from the heavens for her to pick up and examine? No. This would take years—maybe her whole life—to understand.
“Tomorrow,” Miranda said softly.
“Oh, Randa,” Viv said. “I’m sorry.”
In the background, Miranda could hear baby Colin cooing, and with that sound, she realized that what was bothering her the most was not being connected by blood to Viv. All her life, Viv had been her stability, her touchstone. How could Viv not really be her sister? How did that make any sense?
“How’s the baby?” Miranda asked.
“Good,” Viv said.
“How are you?”
“I’m—I’m better. But I need to see you.”
“Tomorrow,” Miranda said. “I’ll call, okay? I’ve got to go.”
“Miranda,” Viv said. “Don’t.”
“Bye.”
She hung up the phone and looked out the window again, hearing Viv’s sadness in her head. But she was sad, too, and the only thing Miranda knew was that she didn’t want to
sit inside today. She didn’t, under any circumstances, want to write. She wanted air, and sun, and absolutely a triple espresso. Looking back at the bed, she knew there was something else she wanted, someone else she wanted, but she needed to stay with what was possible right now. What was real. And she knew that she could get an espresso on any corner. She didn’t need any magic for that.
The white ceramic cup was warm in her palm, and Miranda closed her eyes, looking up toward the sun. She sat at an outside table, the light, cool wind in her hair, her sweater buttoned. She breathed in, trying to find a calm place in her body. Ignoring the people all around her, the hiss of the espresso machine inside the coffee shop, the smell of the bakery a few doors down, the cigarette smoke swirling toward her from a nearby table, she forced herself to relax. There had to be a spot somewhere inside her that wasn’t worried about something. She thought of the meditation class she’d taken with Clara Hempel the year before.
“Clear your mind. Let the thoughts come in, flow out,” crooned the teacher. “Name them and let them go.”
Miranda had counted her thoughts, one after the other. There’d been about 112, most of them named judgment, anger, fear, resentment, ambition, and Jack. Of course, lust and happiness and desire had shown up, but after the class, she realized that the only place she wanted to examine her thoughts was when she was writing.
But she kept her eyes closed, loosening her grip on her cup. What was in there now? She focused, and then she saw it. Her heart rate leapt, her nerves firing. There it was again, the rolling gray, the house, a dark room. My God, she was close enough to touch it.
“Miranda!”
With the sound of his voice, the gray, the house, the room were sucked out of her view, and Miranda opened her eyes, thinking, I’ll call this thought irritation.
“Dan,” she said.
Dan was standing over her, his hands in his tweed jacket pockets. “I’ve been looking for you. I called a couple times. Went to your apartment.”
“I guess you figured I wasn’t home,” she said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She sipped her espresso, and then put down her cup. “Have a seat.”
Dan pulled out the bistro chair and sat at the table. “Viv called me.”
Miranda shook her head, looking into her cup. “And?”
“She said you and she had some words. She was worried.”
“Doesn’t anyone think I can take care of myself around here?” She put the cup down hard onto its saucer, the little lemon rind and chocolate bouncing off and onto the table. Dan picked up the chocolate, peeled away the foil and ate it, chewing carefully.
I hate the way he chews, she thought, knowing that she also hated the way he would carefully fold the square of foil.
Dan began to carefully fold the square of foil, sucking on the chocolate as he did. Miranda tried not to shiver.
“Of course you can take care of yourself.” Dan put the folded foil on her saucer.
“Then why are you always checking up on me? You’re like Viv’s search-and-rescue squad.”
“We care about you.” He watched her carefully as he said this, and Miranda forced herself to match his gaze. The breeze picked up locks of his brown hair, the early-afternoon sun made his skin glow bronze. Dan was a good-looking man. He was a nice man. A very nice man. She could hear Viv say, “He’s great. You deserve him. He won’t hurt you, ever.”
Maybe this was true. After Jack, Miranda knew she deserved something better. But after being with Sariel for only a few days, she didn’t just want great. She wanted wonderful.
Miranda rubbed her forehead. What was she supposed to do? And how could she expect to have anyone when she didn’t even know who she was herself?
“Look,” she said, pushing her chair back. “I’m fine. Viv and I have things to work out. But you don’t have to worry. I promise.”
She stood up, Dan staring at her. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Turning away, Miranda walked up the street, ignoring the surprised sound Dan made as she left, ignoring his intense, relentless stare that she could feel even when she turned the corner.
As always, books saved her. She spent the day at the Ferry Building, riffling through the self-help section at Book Passage. She found some of the following: I’m Adopted, Now What?, Adopted Daughters, Birth Mothers, The Separated Family, Finding Your Family. Sitting on a chair that looked out toward the Bay Bridge and Treasure Island, she read about people who discovered that they’d been adopted and then managed to find their birth parents, everything in their lives suddenly coming together like a miraculously completed Rubik’s Cube.
As she walked home, Miranda knew that she had to open the box her father had left for her and look through the contents. She shouldn’t be afraid of what she would find. Finally, she would know why she’d always felt different, left out, unable to catch up. She’d finally know why June never really liked her.
When she got home, the phone was ringing. She picked it up in the kitchen, breathing hard from having unlocked the door quickly and run to answer it before the machine did. As she picked up the phone, she realized that she was concerned about Viv. Sure, Miranda was angry, but Viv had just undergone surgery and delivered a baby. Miranda should have checked in during the day.
“Viv?”
“No, it’s not Viv,” said June. “It’s your mother.”
Miranda leaned against the wall, thinking for a second about the word mother. “Hi. What’s wrong? Is it Viv?”
“Yes, it most certainly is Viv,” June said, her voice sharp and stinging. “I can’t believe you aren’t over there. Seamus said something about you leaving after only being with Viv for half an hour last night. A half hour when she had surgery. You know it’s major surgery, don’t you?”
“I’ve heard. I—”
“I. That’s right. I. Miranda, when are you going to start thinking about other people?”
“What are you talking about, Mom? I was with you all at the hospital. I went back to visit. She and I—”
“There you go again. You are so absorbed in your writing that you don’t go much farther than your own nose.”
Miranda blinked, her mouth open, searching for words she couldn’t find.
“So, I want you to go back there this instant. I know Viv called you earlier. She’s your sister. She needs you.”
Sister. Mother. Miranda saw the words in her mind and knew they didn’t make as much sense as they used to. They never would. “Look, Mom. Why don’t you go over there? Ask Aunt Bell to go. I—I’ll go tomorrow. I told Viv I’d call her tomorrow.”
“That’s just fine,” June said stiffly.
“Mom,” Miranda started.
“No. Don’t say any more. I can see how you feel. Just like when you were a little girl. Selfish to the core. I won’t mention to Viv that I talked to you. She couldn’t bear to know that you were free but couldn’t quite manage to get out to visit.”
June hung up abruptly, but Miranda pressed the phone against her ear, thinking that if she waited just a bit longer, June would come back on the line, sigh, apologize, and say, “You know, I’m just anxious about Viv. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
But June didn’t come back on, and the phone stayed dead.
Selfish to the core. Can’t go farther than her own nose.
Miranda hung up, tears pricking her eyes. As she stood in her kitchen, she began to realize that she couldn’t stand being in the city for one more second. She wanted to jump in her car and drive to—to where? Anywhere. Even LA. She’d check into a hotel under an assumed name and eat Hostess cupcakes in bed and watch HBO for a week. No. She’d drive to Napa and check into a spa. Have a massage every day until her money ran out. She’d be scrubbed with apricot pits, massaged with warmed stones, drenched in soothing oils. No. No. That wouldn’t do. Driving would only give her more time to think about all the things she wished she could forget. She began to pace, crying. She wanted to jus
t go. Now. She wanted Sariel.
Miranda knew she had to find Sariel, if just for a moment, even if he’d wished she’d go away for good. She just wanted to feel his arms go around her and hold her close and make her feel better. If only she could fly, even if it were for a tiny amount of time, like she did when she was little. If only she could just do what Sariel did, moving through all those waves and particles into space and time. If she could, she would be able to escape everything.
She breathed in, suddenly remembering what had happened at the auditorium and then later at the book signing and even today at the coffee shop. Opening her eyes, she stared out the window, reliving the moments when the gray appeared, hung there, open and inviting. How had she done that? Or had she? But if she had, she could find Sariel. What had he said before? All I have to do is think myself—and you— into the part of the energy I want to go.
But didn’t you have to be Croyant to do that? This gray just didn’t appear to ordinary, average people like Miranda. Nothing magic happened to Moyenne. But it had. Three times. And she’d seen a house and a dark room. Maybe that’s where Sariel was right now. Maybe he was calling to her through his thoughts.
The least she could do was try.
Miranda took a glass from the cupboard and filled it at the sink, drinking it down. Then she left the kitchen and went into her bathroom and quickly brushed her teeth, washed her face, and combed her hair. In the bedroom, she grabbed her coat and her purse, making sure she had money and what? A passport? She didn’t need it for this kind of flight, but if she found herself stuck in Istanbul or Tibet or Micronesia, she might need it to get home. What else? Searching through her bedside drawer, she grabbed her Swiss Army knife, mints, a pen, and some paper, stuffing them into her purse.
Miranda was almost laughing, giddy, feeling like someone who actually believed in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. But she didn’t stop, gathering essentials, putting on a sturdier pair of shoes, and then she went to the living room, turned off the lights, and stood still.
How to do it? Sariel hadn’t seemed to perform any rituals. Basically, he’d asked her if she were ready and then they’d gone. Pressing a hand to her chest, Miranda took a deep breath and then exhaled. She folded her arms and then relaxed. She took her purse off her shoulder and then put it back. Shifting back and forth on her feet, Miranda wanted to laugh or cry or just go to bed. Her thoughts kept coming, and they were named thrill, excitement, fear, sorrow, and hope. But finally, after a few minutes, her body went still and then so did her mind, her thoughts shrinking, falling away, her mind full of nothing but a hum. From memory then, she pulled forth the gray as it had appeared to her the three times. She pictured it as it had been at the back of the large room, in the lobby as she signed books, today as she was trying to relax at the coffee shop. Slowly, like a bank of incredibly thick fog, it came to her, rolling, roiling, full of nothing, full of everything. It pressed around her, her body seeming to expand into it.
When You Believe Page 14