You Were Meant For Me

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

“Bring him right in,” Miranda said. She’d been angling for this visit for months, and she wasn’t about to spoil it; she’d have to deal with her personal life later.

  Claudia opened the door and Alan Richardson came striding into Miranda’s office with a flourish. “Cupcakes!” he announced. “Ready for the unveiling?”

  “Of course!” Miranda moved aside some papers, and Alan set down the Tupperware cupcake holder. He and Miranda had been in steady communication about the exclusive cupcake he was creating for the Mother’s Day issue of Domestic Goddess. But he hadn’t wanted to share too many details, so she hadn’t actually seen the cupcakes before; today was the big reveal. “Let me just get a few other people in here too.” She buzzed Sallie and Marvin, and they all clustered around the desk as Alan took the lid off.

  There sat twelve perfect pink and red cupcakes, nestled in red paper liners. They were iced with creamy white frosting and each decorated with a rose that had been fashioned from fruit chews that had been cut, shaped, and dipped in decorating sugar. Tiny green leaves—also fruit chews—peeked out from the petals. Clustered appealingly together, they looked like an edible bouquet.

  “They’re gorgeous,” said Sallie. “Our readers will love them.”

  “We’re going to do a link to a video showing how to make the roses,” Miranda added. “And we’re going to roll out the click-through feature on the recipe.” The click through had been Miranda’s idea; it would allow the online readers to click to products used in creating the cupcake—a silicon frosting spreader, nesting mixing bowls, rolling pin—and order them on the spot. The retailers had loved this idea—naturally—and ad sales were up as a result.

  “I’m already imagining the layout,” added Marvin. “Lush!”

  “We’ll do another batch for the shoot,” Alan said. “I just wanted you to see them first. And taste them too.”

  “You don’t need to ask twice!” Sallie began handing out the cupcakes. Miranda brought one out to the receptionist at the front desk, who actually squealed when it was placed in front of her. When Miranda returned, Sallie was halfway through her cupcake. “Great work,” she said. “I think this is really going to be a hit.”

  Miranda reached for a cupcake and smiled. “Thanks. They’re even better than I had hoped.”

  “Keep up the good work.” Sallie finished eating and dabbed at her lips with the pink napkin Alan had brought. Then she turned to go back to her office. But Marvin, Claudia, and Alan were still enjoying the cupcakes—Marvin was in an atypically affable mood—and Miranda was tempted to take another; there were still three on the tray. It was a celebration, right? A small but satisfying professional triumph. Before she could reach for one, though, her cell phone buzzed. She hesitated; maybe she should let it go to voice mail. But what if Jared was calling?

  Instead it was Eunice, calling from the nursing home. “You’d better come quickly,” she said. “He’s had a massive stroke, and they don’t think he’ll last long.”

  Miranda endured the fifty-minute ride up to Westchester in tense, wretched silence. When a woman sat down next to her on the train, she jumped up like she’d been singed. Her dread of what faced her made the company of someone—anyone—else intolerable; she had to change her seat. Once she arrived, she climbed into a taxi and used the ten-minute ride to prepare herself. He may already be gone by the time you get there, she kept saying to herself. The words were an inoculation. It may already be over.

  But it wasn’t. Her father was in the hospital wing attached to the home. When she walked into his room, his eyes were closed and his skin so translucent it seemed to be dissolving right in front of her. Eunice was seated at his bedside, a balled-up wad of tissues in her fist. “You can talk to the doctor if you want, but they said there’s nothing they can do. His brain is too damaged. His heart too.” Miranda looked at her father. No tubes, no wires, nothing at all. “He signed a do not resuscitate order, you know,” Eunice added. Miranda nodded; she did know. There was another chair in the corner of the room, and she pulled it over toward the bed. Then she sat and waited.

  From time to time, someone came in—a nurse, a doctor, an elderly rabbi who offered to sit with them—but Miranda remained focused on her father and only her father. Not this shrunken shell of a father though. No, she reached inside and brought out the memories, laying them all out before her like playing cards—a royal flush’s worth. “Do you remember that summer on Cape Cod, Dad?” she said. “The waves were so big and gray; I asked you if they were dirty. You thought that was hilarious. And we ate fried clams at the little place we found—the one with the striped awnings and the lawn chairs? Mom didn’t like it. She said it was tacky and she wouldn’t go in. But we loved it. Remember? You do remember, don’t you?”

  Her father remained silent, breathing lightly. She tried again. “And what about when the skunk got into the cottage and we all ran out in our pajamas? Mom had that green goop all over her face and didn’t want to go outside at first, so you carried her. She was laughing so hard you nearly dropped her.” Miranda reached for her father’s hand and squeezed it. He did not squeeze back. But he did not withdraw his hand either. Then his eyes opened and he saw her—really saw her. She could tell by the way he was looking at her. It was the way he used to look at her before . . . before all this. “Miranda,” he said clearly. “Girl of mine.” His lips moved in a strange grimace; Miranda gasped softly when she realized it was a smile.

  “Daddy!”

  His hand tightened around hers and his eyes closed again. He began to move, shaking and twisting that grew more and more agitated, almost violent. “What’s happening?” she said to Eunice in a panicked voice. But she knew. Eunice hurried out to get a doctor.

  Miranda was alone with her father—this father, the aged, ruined man, not the adored and adoring father of her girlhood. For a terrible few seconds his back arched, thrusting his chest forward and his hand, still in hers, squeezed tighter and tighter until he was hurting her. She did not remove her hand, but let it remain in that avid grip. Then all at once he let her go. His body sank back and his breathing grew slower and slower—until it stopped. By the time Eunice returned, a white-coated doctor hurrying in her wake, Miranda’s father was dead.

  * * *

  They came, her good friends, cooing, tending, organizing. Bea, back from her out-of-town gig, Lauren, kids consigned to her husband’s care, Courtney, wedding dresses and seating charts set temporarily aside. They helped her choose a funeral home, pack up what remained of her father’s earthly possessions; they were there when the plain pine box was lowered into the ground and stood nearby when she let the first shovelful of dirt cascade down onto the casket, the sound unnaturally loud in her ears. They rode back with her in the black town car, set out the sandwiches and pastries she had ordered for the shivah. There was one large white box whose origin no one could figure out; inside were three dozen cupcakes, half covered in simple, dark chocolate swirls, the other half, vanilla, and a note from Alan Richardson: So sorry for your loss.

  “At first I thought they might be from Evan,” Courtney said. “In fact, where is Evan? I was frankly kind of shocked that he wasn’t at the cemetery.”

  “Evan and I are taking a little break.” Miranda looked at the cupcakes, which Courtney had arranged on a tray; sending them was such a tasteful, thoughtful thing to have done. In fact, Evan didn’t know about her father’s death because she had not reached out to tell him.

  “What are you talking about? You didn’t tell me!”

  It was true; Miranda had not told anyone about her night with Jared and the breakup with Evan; she was too ashamed. “I can’t go into it now.”

  Courtney gave her that what-bullshit-story-are-you-trying-to-put-over-on-me look. “Does he know about your dad?” Miranda shook her head. “Because if he did, that might change things.”

  “No, it won’t. He doesn’t want to hear from me right now.”<
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  And then Courtney had to drop it because Miranda would not say anything more.

  By Sunday evening, it was all over. Her father had been buried and she’d finished sitting shivah—she’d opted for an abbreviated, three-day version of the ritual. Bea and Courtney packed up what remained of the food, and Lauren cleaned the kitchen. They all hugged as they said good night in Miranda’s doorway.

  “Wait—forgot something,” said Courtney, who darted back toward Miranda’s bedroom. She stayed there for several minutes and emerged only after the others had gone.

  “What did you forget?”

  “Nothing. That was a ruse.”

  “A ruse?” asked Miranda.

  “You’re stonewalling me!” Courtney looked exasperated. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “There’s a lot I’m not telling you,” said Miranda. “Pull up a chair and settle in.” Courtney was right. She had been stonewalling her, but now she needed to unburden herself. She poured them each a glass of white and told Courtney about Geneva’s relationship to Lily and then moved on to her unexpected encounter with Jared and Evan’s subsequent discovery of it.

  “You didn’t actually sleep with him, did you?”

  “I wanted to, but no, I didn’t. Still, Evan doesn’t believe me.”

  “What does he want—forensic proof?”

  Miranda smiled. “Is that Harris talking?”

  “I guess it is. I still think Evan would come around if he knew about your dad.” Courtney finished her wine and poured herself a refill.

  “I’m not so sure. And anyway, telling him about my father would be manipulative.” Miranda paused. “Wouldn’t it?”

  “Not if you love him.”

  Miranda thought about that. “I do love him but maybe not quite in the way he loves me.”

  “Maybe he thinks whether you did or didn’t go all the way with Jared is beside the point. Maybe what he feels—knows—is that this guy floats your boat in a way that he doesn’t. And it hurts.”

  “You could be right. . . .”

  “Listen, I believe that Jared Masters is gorgeous, sexy, and makes your little heart go pitter-patter. But do you think he’s up for being a part of your fantasy family?”

  “I don’t know. But Evan is.” Miranda contemplated the pale gold liquid in her glass. “Of course, now I don’t even have Lily—at least not on a full-time basis.”

  “Would Evan care?” When Miranda shook her head, Courtney said, “Call him. Soon.”

  “I’ll think about it, okay? It’s been a long day.”

  Courtney got up from the table. “Of course it has. You just lost your father. But don’t let Evan get lost too.”

  When she had gone, Miranda peeled off her clothes and left them in a trail as she made her way to the bathroom. She’d pick them up later, of course. But right now, she needed to immerse herself in a steaming tub, with the rest of that wineglass and a verbena-scented candle for company. Her breasts rose and bobbed on the water’s surface. Oh, the heat felt so good, so comforting. “Here’s to you, Daddy.” She raised the glass. “Rest in peace.”

  Later, she wrapped herself in an ancient plaid robe she had plucked from his possessions. She’d also taken his Waterman fountain pen, a pair of silver cuff links, a green silk tie with a pattern of leaping fish, a box of his important papers, including his will, and the white, gold-embossed album that held her parents’ wedding photos. She put it on the coffee table next to the linen-covered album Evan had made for her. He really had been attached to Lily; she might not find a man like that again so soon. Or ever. Maybe Courtney was right and she should try to contact him again. But she had tried reaching him. More than once. Wasn’t it time for him to take a step in her direction now?

  Seated on the sofa, she reached not for the wedding album, but the other one, which held pictures of Lily. Yet instead of focusing on the baby in the pictures, Miranda was more aware of what she could not see: Evan, invisible behind the lens, absorbed in his task of seeing, of recording. What had she said to Courtney about never having yearned for him? Well, she was yearning now. Before she could change her mind, she reached for her phone and punched in his number. She waited tensely for a few seconds while it rang and then the call went to voice mail; Miranda hesitated but did not leave a message. If he wanted to talk to her, he’d call her back.

  She put the phone down, trying to find some way, any way, to comfort herself. In the closet, she pawed around until she found her tattered copy of The Best-Loved Doll. How many times had she read this book or had it read to her? One hundred? Two hundred? More? The spine was fragile and some of the pages loose. But the story of the plain little doll who trumps all the others—even those who walk, talk, or had the most exquisite clothes—had an inevitable sense of rightness, and she read the words out loud as if Lily were in the room to hear them. Soon she would be.

  Tomorrow she would see the baby girl she’d found in that subway station, the girl who was, against all odds, meant for her. Supah had phoned earlier and would be bringing her in the morning. Miranda had asked for the day off, so they would be able to spend it together. And it was this thought she carried with her, like a precious vessel, as she lay down—fatherless as well as motherless now—and surrendered herself to sleep.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The vast studio in Queens where Evan was shooting the pet supply catalog resembled Noah’s ark: there were pairs of Siamese, Angora, and calico cats, along with pairs of Dalmatians, dachshunds, Scotties, poodles, and Pekinese. There were also several rodent duos: gerbils, hamsters, and black, lop-eared rabbits. There was even a pair of parrots, their feathers a blazing mix of teal blue, green, and red, squawking and spitting nutshells onto the floor of their cage. The only exceptions were a trio of affable mutts (“mixed breed” was the term of choice around here) and a single, sixty-pound bulldog, all jowls and wrinkles. “Can you bring the lights over here?” Nat, the art director, gestured to a spot near the windows. Evan picked up the light stands, each clamped to a tripod and tucked into its own soft box to better diffuse the light, and began arranging them in a loose circle. The last tripod was wobbly, and when he attempted to adjust it, the bulb fell clean out of the socket and crashed onto the floor. The bulldog barked, a deep, gruff sound that muted the string of curses Evan let loose. Fuck. Shit. How had that happened? He surveyed the wreckage—four hundred bucks’ worth of glinting shards—before hurrying off to find a broom.

  He managed to cut himself—twice—while sweeping the glass and smeared blood on the white no-seam paper he was using to shoot the animals. But so what? One of the Dalmatians peed on it, so he tore off the soiled part and rolled down the paper—it hung on a roll suspended by two hooks like a giant toilet paper dispenser—and started again. This time the other Dalmatian began to chew on the edge of the no-seam, which resulted in his vomiting up the chewed paper in a frothy white puddle. Another swath torn off and tossed.

  “I thought you said this dog was well trained.” Nat turned to Bobbi, the animal handler.

  “The agent swore up and down he was perfect.” Bobbi was busy cleaning up the mess the Dalmatian had made; Evan felt for her.

  “Perfect pain in the ass,” sniffed Nat. He looked back at Evan. “Let’s try it again.”

  Six miserable hours later, Evan packed up his lights—now minus a bulb he’d have to replace—and the rest of his equipment. He couldn’t wait to get out of there. True, he’d have to return tomorrow, but it would be without the animals. He would be shooting kibble and the rawhide chews, birdseed and catnip—a veritable piece of cake when compared with today. He’d have to leave early though. He needed to stop off at B&H Photo for that bulb.

  Traffic was terrible getting back to Red Hook—of course; why wouldn’t it be?—and he broke one of his cardinal rules about answering his phone while behind the wheel. It was not like he was driving; he was
sitting. As soon as he started to move, he would hang up.

  He recognized the number. “Hi, Mom.”

  “How are you? You didn’t sound so good last time we talked. You had me worried.”

  “I’m fine. Really. Don’t worry so much.”

  “Mothers worry,” she said. “It’s part of our job.”

  “How’s Dad?” Evan tried to redirect the conversation.

  “On the golf course. As usual.”

  “That’s good. Isn’t it?” Evan’s parents had retired to Scottsdale, Arizona, a few years ago. Golf was a big part of the equation.

  “If you call chasing a tiny ball with a skinny stick around a lawn good, then yes, I suppose so.”

  Evan waited a beat. The first two gambits had failed; what else could he trot out?

  “How are you, Mom?” The traffic remained stagnant.

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “You. A Jewish mother is only as happy—”

  “As her least happy child.” It was easy to finish the sentence; he’d heard it about a thousand times.

  “Look, Evan, honey, I know you’re disappointed about that girl you were dating, Melinda—”

  “Miranda, and she’s thirty-five, Mom. She’s not a girl; she’s a woman.”

  “Girl, woman—whatever. You don’t have to jump down my throat; I’m just trying to help. Now, have you called Thea?”

  Thea was the New York–based daughter of one of his mother’s Scottsdale friends. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “And?” Her voice scaled up several decibels.

  “And we’re going out tonight. Okay? Are you happy now?”

  “I’m happy if you’re happy, darling. She’s a wonderful girl. Woman. Tall—like you! Pretty. Whip smart. Oh, Evan, you’ll love her.”

  Suddenly the car in front of him surged ahead, and Evan had to focus on driving. “Can’t talk now, Mom. I’ll call you soon.”