Miranda began stacking the books in the closet. She could have used that bookcase she was about to jettison, but she needed the space for something even more essential—the crib that Lauren’s babies had used, rescued from its basement limbo, reassembled, and wiped down thoroughly with nontoxic cleanser. “I’ll give it back to you when she’s through with it,” Miranda had said.
“Not necessary. The shop is closed; I’m done.” Lauren patted her midsection for emphasis.
Everything else in what had been the tiny study was left pretty much intact: the small armchair she had used for reading would be perfect for feeding the baby; the pine cupboard that had contained recipes, clippings, and back issues of Domestic Goddess had been emptied in preparation for the baby’s clothes. The artwork on the walls—a poster of a still life by Matisse, another of musicians by Picasso, an oddball painting of an owl picked up at a local stoop sale—all seemed perfectly appropriate for the baby’s eyes.
The baby. My baby. Every time she said or thought those words, they did not seem real. How would it feel to move from a single state to a coupled one? For even though people talked about single moms so casually now, as if it were simply another lifestyle choice in an array of many possible choices, how could a mother ever be considered single? Didn’t having a child preclude all sense of singleness? Didn’t being a mother make you part of an indissoluble binary unit?
Her own mother had seemed to chafe at that connection; she was always urging Miranda to go and play. Her best friend in those years, Nancy Pace, had a mother who flopped down on the floor and embarked on marathon games of Candy Land, Monopoly, and Parcheesi with her daughter and her friends; they baked together and Mrs. Pace had taught Nancy to sew on a Singer machine she set up on the kitchen table. Miranda had longed for that mother.
The downstairs bell buzzed. “Pizza,” said Miranda.
“Good,” said the ever-hungry Bea. “I’m famished.”
But it wasn’t the delivery guy after all. It was Courtney, all artlessly-artfully tousled blond hair and chic black coat.
“Did you get the ring?” asked Lauren eagerly.
“I want to see it,” added Bea.
Courtney shook her head. “No. We didn’t find it today. But look what we did find.” She twisted her hair into an impromptu ponytail so that the small, flower-shaped earrings—diamonds and rubies from the look of them—that twinkled on her lobes were more visible.
“Nice!” said Bea.
“Are they real?” Lauren asked, getting closer.
Miranda stood back. She was ashamed of the small, hot rush of envy she suddenly felt. Courtney had been her roommate and best friend freshman year; Bea and Lauren joined them later. It was Courtney who had seen Miranda through numerous all-nighters, boyfriends, and breakups, dreary jobs, and her mother’s hideous death from colon cancer. But things had changed somehow, and she now seemed to regard Miranda with an annoying mixture of pity and disdain. The engagement had only made it worse. You’d think no one in the history of the world had ever planned a wedding before.
When Lauren and Bea finally stopped cooing over the earrings, Courtney looked around the apartment. “It looks great in here,” she said approvingly. “I love what you’ve done.”
“Thanks,” Miranda said, relaxing a little. Maybe she was as guilty of overreacting to Courtney’s comments as Courtney was guilty of obtuseness in making them. The two of them did go way back.
“You should bake something,” said Lauren, who had recently purchased an apartment and was the veteran of a dozen or more open houses. “Use apples and cinnamon. And don’t forget to have fresh flowers on the table, even if they’re only a six-dollar bunch of tulips from the corner store.”
“Are you staging Miranda’s apartment?” Bea asked.
“Why not? It works with prospective buyers; I’ll bet it will work with whoever they send tomorrow.”
“I don’t think you have to worry so much,” said Courtney. She let her hair fall down again; the earrings disappeared. “It’s just for a foster care placement. They won’t be scrutinizing you so carefully.”
There was an uncomfortable silence before Miranda spoke up. “Actually, that’s not true. The foster care placement comes first, of course, but Judge Waxman considers it just a temporary stop on the road to adoption. And so do I.”
“Miranda,” said Courtney. “How do you think you’re going to pull this off? I mean, your place is cute and all, but you can’t seriously believe you can raise a child here.” The patronizing tone was back at full blast.
“People do it with a lot less,” said Bea.
“And Miranda could eventually move,” Lauren pointed out. “Remember—promotion? Raise?”
“That’s another thing,” Courtney said. “How are you going to deal with all the pressure of a new job and a new baby? Even women who are married have trouble managing—”
“Maybe women who are married aren’t as motivated as I am. I’m thirty-five, and I just broke up with my boyfriend. This may be my last chance to have a baby.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit self-dramatizing? Irresponsible even?” Courtney pushed her hair back, and the earrings twinkled anew. “Maybe this is all a reaction to Luke and you need to slow down a little to think it over. Adopting a baby is a huge deal.” She turned to Lauren. “Back me up here, would you? I mean, didn’t we just have this conversation last night? You agreed with me then.”
Miranda stared at Lauren, whose face had turned a damning shade of pink. So Courtney and Lauren had together decided that she was self-dramatizing and irresponsible.
“I’m sorry,” Lauren said. “I do think Courtney has a point, but I’m behind you one hundred percent. We all are.”
“Strange way to show it,” said Miranda. Before Lauren could respond, the bell rang again. This time it was the pizza delivery, and Miranda spent several silent minutes putting the slices on plates and passing them around. They ate in awkward silence until Bea brought up some utterly lame-sounding new play she had seen. It was a transparent, if touching, diversionary ploy, but Miranda wanted Courtney—and all of them really—out of there now. Still, she managed to get through the next half hour, mechanically munching her pizza and even making comments about the play, which she had no intention of seeing. Finally, they all got up to leave. “Let us know how it goes,” Bea said.
“We should talk,” added Lauren, glancing at Courtney.
“Talk,” Miranda said, averting her gaze. “Right.”
The door closed behind them, and finally she was alone. She attacked the dirty plates and glasses and reduced the empty pizza box into a mangled but compact hunk of cardboard before depositing it in the trash. Only then did she permit herself to sink down into her sofa and succumb to the wretchedness she felt. She hadn’t touched the edges of her own desperation about having a baby before; she hadn’t let herself. But here it was; no escaping or looking away now. What she had said to Courtney was true: she might not get another chance.
Her phone sounded, and she reached for it; maybe Courtney or Lauren was calling to apologize; they certainly owed her an apology. But it was Evan Zuckerbrot, who had been more than understanding about the fact that she kept postponing their meeting.
“I’m so sorry I haven’t gotten back to you,” she said.
“No worries,” he told her. “I wanted to wish you luck. Tomorrow’s the day that your place is being inspected, right?”
“Right,” she said. How had he even remembered that?
“Are you nervous?”
“Very,” she admitted.
“I would be too. If I were in your shoes, that is.”
She was tempted to ask if he wanted kids, but since they hadn’t even met yet, the question seemed presumptuous. “As soon as I get this over with, we’ll make a date,” she said.
“I’m looking forward to that,” he sa
id.
After they said good-bye, Miranda sat with the phone in hand. Luke had never been so up front or so open—not when they’d first met, not after they’d become lovers, not when they’d parted. She had liked that elusive quality of his—at first, anyway. But maybe it would be nice to date someone who just put himself out there and didn’t feel the need to hide.
The next morning, Miranda woke at six o’clock even though the inspection was not scheduled until nine. She had taken a personal day, though she had not told Sallie Scott, the editor of Domestic Goddess, why. What if she was turned down? No point in bringing Sallie and possibly the rest of the staff in on her private life—at least not yet.
Miranda used the time to luxuriate in both her shower and her immaculate apartment. She knew that the brownstone itself would present well; her landlady, Mrs. Castiglione, spent an hour every morning polishing the banister and vacuuming and mopping the hallway and stairs. She even swept the stoop and the sidewalk out front; not a leaf or piece of trash escaped her vigilant broom.
Miranda changed three times before settling on something to wear. She wanted to seem grown-up but approachable, professional yet relaxed. Finally, she decided on black jeans—they were new and were especially well fitting—and a soft black sweater. Around her neck she wore a necklace of amber beads. She wanted something to liven up all that black, and she imagined the warm, golden color would be perceived as baby friendly.
Then she baked an apple cake from the Domestic Goddess archives. It was a dense, moist cake with chunks of fruit and a glaze made from reduced apple cider. Carefully, she dripped the warm liquid over the cake until it pooled in perfect puddles around the perimeter, and then she wiped away the excess with a moistened paper towel. This cake was ready for its close-up; even Marvin, as picky as they came, would have approved.
She had just set the cake on the table, next to the vase of purple tulips, when the bell rang. Showtime: the inspector was here. Instead of just buzzing her in, Miranda went downstairs to usher her up; she saw Mrs. Castiglione’s head retreat back behind the double doors to her parlor floor. The landlady was well aware of Miranda’s schedule and probably thought it odd that she would be at home and having visitors on a Monday morning. If the inspection went well and the baby actually came to live here, she would tell Mrs. Castiglione everything.
“Ms. Berenzweig?” A young black woman in a trim gray suit extended her hand. “I’m Joy Watkins.” Miranda was disappointed; maybe Joy Watkins would not want to place the nonwhite baby in a white woman’s care. Then she was ashamed of the racist thought; why should she have made any assumptions about how Joy Watkins would perceive or judge her?
“Please come upstairs,” Miranda said, and together, they climbed to the third floor.
“No elevator,” said Joy, who took out a notebook as soon as they got to the apartment.
“These old row houses don’t have elevators. I’m used to it.” Did she sound defensive? Hostile? Both?
“It might be hard for a child to climb all these stairs,” Joy said.
“It’s good exercise,” Miranda offered hopefully. “Exercise is important.”
“Very,” said Joy, “especially given the alarming rise of childhood obesity.”
“Oh, I’m just steps from Prospect Park,” Miranda said, seizing the opportunity and running with it. “There are two playgrounds right nearby and a third over at Ninth Street. Lots of playground options in the neighborhood. Lots.” Oh, the babbling again!
“I’d like to look around,” Joy said, notebook at the ready. “Where should we start?”
Miranda took her around the apartment, trying to see it through her eyes. There were books—lots of them—on the shelves. A small flat-screen television. An upright piano that had been her mother’s. “Do you play?” Joy wanted to know.
“I did,” Miranda said truthfully. “I keep it more out of sentimental value. My mother loved to play.” It was a sweet memory—her mother, leaning in toward the keys, a small private smile on her face. Miranda had always wished for greater musical aptitude, but the lessons were torture, the practicing almost as bad, and she had been so relieved when her mother finally agreed that she could stop.
Joy moved on, taking note of the soft rugs, the abundance of light and air. She made a cursory tour of Miranda’s bedroom and spent more time in the baby’s room, walking to the window and peering outside at the yard below. “Southern exposure,” she said. Miranda nodded eagerly—wasn’t this a real estate buzzword?—until she heard Joy’s next words: “This room could get very hot. Do you have air-conditioning?”
“I have a ceiling fan,” Miranda said lamely. “But I could easily put in a window unit here.”
“And window guards too—you’ll need them everywhere.” Joy was busily writing in her notebook.
“Of course. I can have it done immediately.”
They spent a few minutes in the bathroom; as Bea had predicted, Joy checked the medicine cabinet, where nothing more potent than Advil—in a childproof bottle!—was present. The kitchen too seemed to pass muster, though Joy declined an offer of apple cake with a curt little shake of her head. Miranda ardently hoped she did not think she was being bribed. Then Joy extended her hand and thanked Miranda for her time. “You’ll be hearing from us,” she said.
“When?” Miranda pinned all her hopes on that single word.
“It usually takes a month or so, but we’ve been told to expedite this placement, so you’ll be hearing within a week.”
Miranda said nothing. Judge Waxman had been telling the truth.
“We were looking at an April eighth placement, correct?”
Miranda nodded vigorously. She had filled out all the paperwork describing her child-care plans for the next few months. The baby’s arrival would coincide with the start of her three-week vacation, time that had to be taken before the Web site launch. After that she would hire a nanny from a well-regarded agency whose name Lauren had given her; she already had three potential candidates.
Miranda accompanied Joy down the stairs and waited on the stoop until she had gone up the street and turned the corner. As soon as she stepped back inside the house, Mrs. Castiglione was there to meet her in the hall. She must have been listening. “Is everything all right, Miranda?” she asked.
“Everything’s fine,” Miranda assured her. She liked her landlady, but she was not ready to confide in her just yet; what if Joy Watkins decided this wasn’t a suitable home for the baby? Sharing the story now would only amplify the disappointment later. No. She would keep her own counsel, at least for now.
But looking into Mrs. Castiglione’s creased and worried face, she felt compelled to offer her something. “How about a piece of apple cake?” she said. “Just baked this morning. Wait here.” And without waiting for a reply, she darted up the stairs to her kitchen, cut a generous slice, and eased it onto a plate before returning to the hallway.
Mrs. Castiglione looked down at the cake and back up at Miranda. “You’re a nice girl,” Mrs. Castiglione declared, as if she’d been pondering the issue for some time and had only just now come to her conclusion. “And nice things should happen to nice girls.” Then she turned and went back into her own apartment.
Miranda watched her go, a slight, stooped figure with an impeccably shellacked silver beehive. Did becoming a mother to an abandoned infant found on a subway platform fall into Mrs. Castiglione’s rubric of nice things?
FOUR
Miranda stood outside the Swedish coffee bar, looking through the big window. Evan Zuckerbrot—she recognized him from his online photo—was sitting at a small wooden table, waiting for her. Or maybe the table wasn’t small; it was that Evan was so big. The photo had managed to conceal that he was a beanpole of a guy, tall and somewhat gangly; his hands, wrapped around the white mug he held, were enormous. Other than that, he seemed attractive enough, at least from here. Was it his he
ight that was somehow off-putting, or was she still not over Luke? She had an urge to turn and head for home; it would be easy enough to text him with some excuse. But she simply couldn’t be that unkind to someone whose only fault, thus far, was being excessively tall. Forcing herself to smile like she meant it, she walked through the door.
“Miranda.” He stood. “So nice to meet you in person.” He was easily six foot three. Or maybe four. In his huge hands, he held a bunch of daffodils and offered them to her.
“They’re lovely; thank you,” she said. She took them and tilted her head to look up at him. He had nice eyes, she decided—large and an unusual shade of deep bluish green. Nice smile too. “And thanks for coming to Park Slope.”
“No problem.” He sat down and she did the same; then he politely asked the waitress if he could have an extra glass of water for the flowers. “So they don’t wilt before you get home.” The waitress, no doubt charmed by his request, produced a vase rather than a glass, and as Miranda slipped the daffodils in, it occurred to her that in all their time together, Luke had never brought her flowers; he’d always assumed the cosseted role in their relationship—the sensitive artist whose talent needed nurturing and whose ego, bolstering. But Luke also had a lean, sinewy body that fit so perfectly against her own and a slow, maddening way of kissing that had left her breathless every time.
“You’re even prettier than the picture you posted,” Evan said after they had ordered.
What could she say to that? You’re even taller than yours? She glanced across the room, and fortunately their coffees arrived at that very moment so she could occupy herself with depositing a couple of sugar cubes—brown, grainy, and oh so rustic, as was the trend these days—in her cup. “I don’t take very good pictures,” she finally said.
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