“They’re gorgeous; readers love them.” Miranda was not sure what the problem was; the chef was a boldface name, and it was a major coup that he’d agreed to the story.
“The cakes may be gorgeous, but he’s a nightmare to work with!” Marvin said.
And you’re not? Miranda wished she could snap back. Instead she said, “But this was all decided in the last staff meeting. Don’t you remember?” Why did Marvin have to pick this minute to have his hissy fit? Now, along with the shaking, her head had started to throb.
“I must have been out that day. I never would have agreed to work with him again,” Marvin huffed. “He is such a drama queen. And a control freak! He wants approval of every single photo—even the ones we’re not going to use!”
“Our readers swoon for him, our advertisers adore him, and our publisher worships him; I’d call that win-win-win, Marvin.”
“I guess I’m just the odd man out,” Marvin said bitterly; he practically snatched the photo from Miranda’s hands and turned to leave her office.
“Maybe he’ll have mellowed a little,” Miranda called out to his retreating back.
“And maybe hell will have frozen over.”
Miranda waited a few seconds before darting to the ladies’ room, where she locked herself into a stall. Pressing her hands against the gray, coated steel walls seemed to stop the shaking, but not the vile, sick feeling that rose up inside. Celeste’s father wanted to see her, meet her. He’d found out about her through Geneva’s story. . . . If only Miranda had not agreed to cooperate. If only!
The piece had garnered some nice attention, and just as Geneva had predicted, some offers of assistance too. A disposable diaper company sent her several free cases of their product, and a baby food company did the same. She’d received three substantial gift cards to baby stores, and the local Park Slope toy store had posted the article in the window—and sent a plush, stuffed kangaroo with its own baby tucked into the pocket. She wished she could give it all back.
But she was being selfish. If Celeste’s father was out there, he deserved to meet her. Not just to meet but to claim her. It was his right—even if it was going to crack her heart right in two.
She emerged from the stall and washed her hands in the hottest water she could stand. Then she returned to her desk and plowed through the work that awaited her. Articles to edit, layouts, e-mail—check, check, check. The office was nearly empty; she and Marvin were the only people left, and when he too called out a cranky “Night,” she was finally, blessedly alone. But now what? She wanted to get home to see Celeste as soon as possible, but she also had to make some plans for the meeting with Jared Masters. She’d told Geneva that she wanted a lawyer present, but it wasn’t exactly like she had an attorney on retainer; she needed a referral. Her mind flashed to Courtney and the tedious Harris, but then, just as quickly, she discarded the idea. Courtney would not be of help to her now; instead she would only deluge Miranda in a torrent of I-told-you-so’s.
Back home, she accepted Celeste from Supah’s arms without even putting down her handbag. “How’s my little sugar pop?” she crooned. “How’s my baby girl?” Celeste nestled her head into the place beneath Miranda’s chin as Miranda held her close and listened to Supah’s account of her day. They’d gone for a walk in the morning, then home for lunch and a long nap. Yes, the diaper rash was looking better and she’d actually eaten all of her pureed carrots and the applesauce too. They went to the playground after lunch, where Supah tried pushing her on one of the baby swings. “She love that,” she said, nodding for emphasis. “She no want to leave.”
“Has she had her bath?” Miranda said over the top of Celeste’s head.
Supah shook her head and reached for the baby. “I do it now.”
“That’s all right, Supah. I can handle it.” And she could; she was less anxious about the day-to-day care now. Miranda carried Celeste to the door, where she said good night to the babysitter. Then she gathered the things she would need, filled the baby tub, undressed her daughter, and lowered her into the tub.
Her daughter. The words still felt new, even miraculous. She had not given birth to this baby, but after three months of living with her, Celeste felt indisputably, undeniably, hers. Only now someone had stepped forth to both dispute and deny. Someone who might have a deeper, more abiding claim. Miranda found that tears were slowly trickling down her cheeks as she swaddled Celeste in a hooded towel and brought her into her room to diaper and dress her for the night—a onesie in a calico print with a pair of spurs on the front and the words WORLD’S LITTLEST COWGIRL embroidered on the back. Bea had sent it from Oklahoma.
Miranda sat down in the rocking chair while Celeste had her last bottle of the night. How she had filled out since the first time Miranda saw her; her limbs were rounded and smooth, and her face was cherubic. The pediatrician said that any developmental issues they might have worried about looked nonexistent now. “You’re doing a great job,” she had told Miranda. “A splendid job.” Miranda’s tears, which she had not bothered wiping, were dripping down onto the front of the T-shirt she’d changed into; some of them landed on Celeste’s head, creating a small, gleaming patch in the dark hair. Smoothing it away, Miranda continued to rock her until her eyes closed, her head lolled, and the nipple of the bottle slipped from between her lips. Gently, she placed the baby in her crib and then allowed herself to go into the bathroom, close the door, and give in to the hot onrush of sobs she had been fighting ever since Geneva had called. But the sobs, though ravaging, were over soon. She didn’t have time for them. A quick splash of cold water on her puffy face, an even quicker blot dry with a terry towel. Then she went in search of her phone.
Once it was in her hands, though, she was stumped. Who was it she planned to call? Not Courtney and not Lauren either. Bea was just too busy to be of any help. Forget about her father; she’d tried to explain that she was adopting a baby, but he kept getting the baby confused with a puppy he’d surprised her with for her seventh birthday. And when she’d brought Celeste for a visit, her father started shaking and shouting as soon as they walked into the room. He kept saying she was an alien sent to take over his brain; Miranda had had to leave within ten minutes of her arrival. No, her father was definitely out.
Evan? But weren’t they a little too new for her to turn to him in a crisis? Besides, they weren’t officially a couple. She hadn’t even slept with him. Miranda scrolled through the contacts on her phone, looking for inspiration.
She found it too: Judge Waxman, whose courtroom she’d sat in and who had helped expedite the adoption proceedings. The judge had given Miranda her cell phone number, and Miranda did not hesitate to use it. And to her relief, Judge Waxman actually answered. There were voices in the background. Music too. The judge must have been out for the evening, but she patiently listened while Miranda told her about Jared Masters.
“He’ll need to do the DNA test,” the judge said. “Otherwise, there is absolutely no basis for his claim.”
“Do I have to agree to that?” Miranda said.
“It’s not your decision,” answered Judge Waxman. “The court will insist.”
Miranda knew that. Knew it and felt crushed by the knowledge. “Should I have a lawyer present when he comes to see me?”
“Only if the test establishes paternity and you plan to contest his claim on the child.”
Miranda thanked her profusely for her time and said good night. If paternity was established and Jared Masters did turn out to be Celeste’s father, she would fight like a tiger to keep her. What was his connection to her mother? Who was her mother? How was it that he hadn’t known about her birth? She was four months old; why had he waited so long to come forward? Wasn’t it in Celeste’s best interests to remain with her? Miranda was determined to find out the answers to these questions, and she would use them to keep her baby, her darling girl.
On impulse, sh
e picked up the phone again and punched in Evan’s number. So what if they were new to each other? He was a good person; she could trust him. “Hey, how’s it going?” He was clearly delighted to hear from her.
“Terrible,” she said, and then told him the story.
“What a shock. No wonder you feel terrible.”
“Terrible, awful, horrible . . .” She began to cry again, but softly; she did not want to wake Celeste.
“It’s possible he’s not her father, right?” Evan said.
“Right, but—”
“You won’t know that until the test is done.”
“No, I won’t—”
“Don’t see him.” Evan’s tone was decisive.
“What do you mean?”
“The guy who’s come forward. Jared Masters?”
“But why not?”
“You’ll just get upset before you need to get upset. Let them do the test; if he’s really her dad, you can meet him then. Why put yourself through it beforehand?”
“You have a point.” Miranda actually felt the anxiety, binding her chest like a vise, begin to ease. Evan was right. Why did she have to meet Jared at this point? She would cooperate fully by having Celeste’s DNA tested, and then she would wait for the results before moving ahead. “I really don’t want to meet him unless I have to,” she said.
“So don’t. Tell this Geneva person no.”
“You know what? I will.” Miranda heard Celeste whimpering in the next room. “Listen, I hear her, okay? I have to go. But thank you, Evan. Thank you so much.” And she clicked off before he could reply.
Miranda hurried into the baby’s room. The whimpering was sometimes, though not always, a prelude to those crying jags of hers; Miranda hoped she wasn’t about to descend into one now. She scooped her baby up and flew her around in the air. Celeste’s whimpers subsided. Then Miranda felt her diaper, noted it was wet, and brought her to the changing table she’d bought not long ago. Celeste kicked halfheartedly as she was diapered, but by the time Miranda brought her back to the rocking chair, she had fallen back to sleep. This time, Miranda did not transfer her to the crib. She felt she could not endure any separation at all; she brought Celeste into her own bed and spent the night in a light, hazy, half sleep, never entirely unaware of the baby by her side.
The lab was somewhere on Church Avenue, a neighborhood Miranda never frequented. But she was here today, sitting rigidly next to Evan—he’d insisted on coming with her—as he guided his car into a spot in front of a place offering Haitian jerk chicken and meat pies; any other time, she would have gone in to sample the cuisine and scope out possible story ideas. Instead, she glanced nervously at Celeste, who had reached down and managed to pull off one of her lace-trimmed white socks.
“They told me it wouldn’t hurt,” Miranda said. “I only asked about twenty times.”
“I’m sure they were telling the truth,” Evan said. “The swab, it’s like a long Q-tip, right? And all they have to do is collect a tiny specimen from inside her cheek?”
Miranda didn’t answer. Celeste had peeled off the other sock; she looked extremely pleased with herself.
“Come on,” Evan said. “We should go in.”
The lab was up a flight of stairs, and the waiting room was empty. “Why isn’t anyone here?” Miranda said. “Maybe it has a bad reputation. We should go somewhere else.”
“Miranda.” Evan put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re here; you have an appointment. You just need to get this over with, okay?”
He was right. And she found his presence comforting; she was grateful he had offered to come. Miranda went up to the desk to sign in: name, procedure sought, photo ID. The woman behind the desk glanced at the sheet and said, “I’ll need the baby’s birth certificate, as well.”
Miranda was prepared for this and gave the woman the birth certificate Celeste had been issued in the hospital.
“There are no parents indicated here,” the woman pointed out. “Who are her mother and father?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.”
After she’d finished signing in, she sat down and waited. When her name was called, she left Evan with a stack of ancient People magazines while she took Celeste, still in her car seat, into the examination room. A perky, lab-coated nurse—she looked so young—followed them in. “I’m Becky,” she said, touching the tag pinned to her chest. “And I’ll be collecting the sample.” She opened a cupboard and stretched up to get something off a shelf; Miranda resisted her impulse to offer to reach it for her.
Becky finally succeeded in pulling down what she needed: the long, wooden swab whose sterile tip was covered by a cellophane wrapper. It was an innocent-enough-looking thing, but to Miranda, it looked like a weapon—threatening and dangerous.
“This is what I’ll use to take the swab,” Becky said. “But first I’ll need this.” She picked up a Polaroid camera. “Photo ID.” Then she snapped a picture of Celeste and had Miranda sign and date the bottom.
“Has the father—” Miranda swallowed. “I mean, the man who claims to be the father, been here yet?” she asked.
Swab in hand, Becky was approaching Celeste, who began to fuss in the car seat. “Oh, he wouldn’t have to come to this collection site; he might go to any of the other sites in the city; there are four or five.”
“I see,” said Miranda.
Becky was inches from Celeste’s face, swab in hand. “Open up, sweetheart.” Celeste squirmed and punched the air with her fists. “You won’t even feel it.”
“Let me take her out of this.” Miranda fumbled as she unbuckled the strap and shifted Celeste into her arms. Celeste stopped fussing and promptly buried her face in Miranda’s neck.
“She’ll need to open her mouth,” Becky said.
“I know. I know. But I want it to be . . . gentle.” Miranda slid her finger under Celeste’s chin and began to tickle her. There was no reaction at first, but then Celeste turned and opened her mouth in delight. Becky seized the moment to slip the swab in; it was out again before Celeste even had time to register what had happened.
“Okeydoke,” said Becky, who was busily wrapping the swab in a fresh covering.
“Is that all?” Miranda wanted desperately to be gone from this place.
“There’s one more thing.” Becky produced a printed form and an ink pad. “I need to stamp her.”
Miranda watched while Becky pressed the sole of Celeste’s foot first to the ink pad and then to the paper; Celeste did not seem to mind.
“Now we’re done here.” Becky waved the form in the air to dry the ink. “As soon as the father’s results are in, you’ll have a legal document establishing paternity in two days.”
“If he is the father,” Miranda said.
Becky looked up. “Oh, of course. If.”
The next two days moved with excruciating slowness. Miranda decided to call Geneva; she found out that Jared Masters had provided his sample and would soon have the results. “What about her mother?” Miranda asked. “Did he tell you about her?”
“I think it would be better if he discussed that with you himself,” said Geneva. “He’s still asking to meet you; he thinks it might make things easier for you.”
Easier? There was no easier in this situation. “I can’t,” she said.
“But if he turns out to be Celeste’s father—”
“Then I’ll meet him. I’ll meet him because I’m going to fight him tooth and nail.”
Miranda got off the phone after that. Her last words to Geneva sounded just like what she knew them to be: desperate and hollow. Her words carried no weight, even to her. She could fight, but she highly doubted she would win. If it turned out that Jared Masters was Celeste’s biological father, blood—his blood—would trump everything, even that impossible, miraculous moment in the subway station when Miranda had l
ooked down and seen the tiny foot peeking out from under the hotel blanket.
ELEVEN
When she got home from work on Friday evening, Miranda saw the FedEx envelope immediately. Supah had gathered the mail and put it on the kitchen table; the envelope, with its distinctive blue and orange stripes, was on top. Immediately, she was on alert and remained that way as she listened to Supah’s account of Celeste’s day—they had gone to the pond in the park and watched people feeding the ducks; she had eaten pureed string beans for the first time—and locked the door behind her.
It was only then that she deposited Celeste in the new playpen she’d set up in the living room and sat down with the envelope. She held it in her hands for a moment before pulling the tear strip along the top. The last time she’d been waiting for a letter, the news had been good; she’d been approved for the adoption. Maybe she’d be lucky again. Maybe.
Miranda pulled the tear strip in one decisive, hope-against-hope movement. Inside, there was a letter and two genetic reports, one for Celeste and the other for Jared Masters. Sixteen markers had been tested for; sixteen opportunities to confirm or deny the biological connection. The numbers made no sense to Miranda; she turned to the letter instead. It was excruciatingly brief: the results of the DNA testing performed on the infant known as Celeste Berenzweig and Jared Masters conclusively ascertained paternity.
The phrase jumped out at her, hissing and jeering, and she let the report slip from her fingers. Celeste was gurgling quietly; there was a mobile suspended above her head, and her attention was riveted by the gently revolving parts. The baby had bonded with her; Miranda was certain of that. She cried when Miranda left; her face lit up when Miranda returned. The separation would be hard on her. Traumatic even. And how could Miranda even imagine a life without her? She couldn’t—and she wouldn’t have to. No, instead she’d flee—the city, the state, the country. She’d fly down to Texas, get a car, and from there go to Mexico. Living was cheap in Mexico, and the weather was good. She’d change her name, get a job teaching English so she could support Celeste.
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