You Were Meant For Me

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “If you weren’t already telling me you’re about to leave, I would fire your ass right now.” She looked grim. “Though since you have a kid to support, I might have given you a second chance. Still, what a stupid thing to do! What the hell got into you?”

  Jared stared into his beer. He didn’t offer an explanation because he didn’t have one to give. “Speaking of Lily, I’m not sure it would be the best thing to bring her down there with me.”

  “Best thing for her? Or for you?” Athena was sparing him nothing tonight.

  “For me, I guess. And ultimately for her. Athena, I can’t do it—this dad thing. I didn’t know about her, didn’t plan for her, and I can’t deal with her. It’s not like I don’t care about her. But I can’t raise her. Not now. And not by myself. But I know who could.”

  “The subway woman.” Athena picked her glass up again. “Have you asked her?”

  “Not yet. But I have a hunch she’ll say yes.”

  “She might.”

  “Might? Are you kidding? She’s crazy about Lily. She’d do anything to be with her.”

  “Only if she knew it was for keeps. You can’t play with this woman’s life, Jared. She lost that baby once. She’s not going to take a chance on it happening again.”

  “It wouldn’t.” He finished the beer and signaled to the bartender for another.

  “She’d need that in writing. You’d have to give up all parental rights and waive your right to seek them again—ever.”

  “Hey, have you been talking to her or something?”

  “Of course not. I’ve never met her. I couldn’t even tell you what she looks like.”

  “So how do you know what she’d want?”

  Athena smiled. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a woman, Jared. And I know what I would want.”

  Jared took a handful of peanuts and chewed them slowly. He’d miss Athena if he left New York; she was hard on him and wouldn’t let him get away with a thing, but he respected her for that.

  “As long as we’re in full disclosure mode, I’ve got something I want to tell you,” she said. When he looked up, she said, “It’s about Gabe.”

  “You two are tying the knot?” He wasn’t actually sure how he felt about this.

  “Not yet.” She glanced away, a shy little smile forming on her face. “But we’re headed that way. We’re going to find a place together and see how that works.”

  “Hey, that’s great!” He clicked the neck of his beer bottle to her glass. “I’m really happy for you.” And, he realized, he was. Athena was a great catch; he hoped Gabe could see that.

  “Thanks.” She fiddled with the stem of her wineglass. “I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. I mean, I think you know I always had a thing for you.”

  “I do know. And I’m sorry I didn’t feel the same way.” There, he’d said it. “But Gabe—Gabe is a good man.”

  “So are you, Jared,” she said. “So are you.”

  On the way back to his apartment, Jared allowed himself to smoke a cigarette. The first puff felt great—a mini-high—and the second was pretty good too. But by the third, his lungs felt scorched and gross; he ground out the unfinished cigarette under his foot and threw away the pack he’d only just bought. Once at home, he went into Lily’s room again. The board books on shelves that Athena and some of his other pals had brought—he’d never even opened them. He didn’t really know which toys she liked best or which foods either. And he remembered, with mortification, the night he had left her in this very room by herself. He’d never fully forgiven himself for his act; he probably never would. Lily may have been his biologically, but in every other way that counted, she belonged to Miranda Berenzweig.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The next evening, Jared was sitting on Miranda’s sofa, willing himself to relax. He had not been here since that night he’d almost stayed over, and the memory was still fresh. And the fact that they had not mentioned it since gave it an even greater power. But how to introduce the subject? Maybe she didn’t want it mentioned; maybe she was eager to talk about it but was waiting for him to bring it up.

  He looked to her for cues but received none. She offered only iced tea or sparkling water, not wine. Nothing to eat. And she did not sit down. Jared opted for the water. Lily was already asleep; Supah had taken her to a baby music class at the local Y and Miranda said all that stimulation had tired her out. “I can probably get her into the car seat without waking her.” He noticed that when she finally did sit, it was not next to him but on a chair, several feet away. “And even if she wakes up, she’ll settle right back down again.”

  “Fine.” He was nervous and took a sip of water.

  “She ought to sleep the whole way home.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t planning on bringing her home.”

  “What are you talking about?” Miranda put her own untouched water glass down on the table.

  “You know the trip I took? To Louisiana? Well, I’ve been offered a job down there. It’s a really exciting opportunity, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to take it. But it’s going to demand a big commitment from me, and I thought Lily would be better off staying here with you.” She remained eerily still. “That is, if you want her.”

  “Want her? Of course I want her.” Miranda became animated again, getting up from the chair and pacing the room. “But how? On what terms?”

  “You could adopt her. She would be yours. She always has been, anyway.”

  “This isn’t just about the job, then, is it? It’s more than that.”

  “Way more.” He breathed in and then out again slowly. “I told you: Carrie was a complicated person. A troubled person. Even if she hadn’t died, we wouldn’t have stayed together. So being hit with this out of the blue—listen, I tried to step up and do the right thing. To claim my baby girl. To raise her. But I can’t. I’m not ready and I’m doing a shitty job of it.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. You’re being too hard on yourself.”

  “No, I’m not. You don’t know the half of it.” And to his own astonishment, he began to cry, hot, copious tears that felt as if they were being wrenched from him. Jesus. When was the last time he’d cried? His mother’s funeral? He pressed his fingers to his eyes, as if he could make them stop. He couldn’t.

  “It’s all right.” Miranda was right beside him on the sofa, hand on his arm. “Really, it’s all right.”

  “You know what I said before? About not knowing the half of it?” She nodded. “I want to tell you what I meant by that. I need to tell you.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re saying.” She moved away again, leaving an empty expanse of couch cushion between them. “Did you hurt Lily in some way?”

  “Not intentionally. It was a sin of omission, not commission.”

  “Are you sure you want to share this with me? Because you don’t have to, you know. We can leave it right here.”

  “I think it’s better if you know the whole story.” He used his fingers to wipe what remained of the tears on his face. “And I want you to hear it from me.” Jared then told her about the much-anticipated date, the phone conversation with Olivia, the night in the hotel, the frantic messages the next day, the way he’d been upbraided—by the pediatrician, Supah, and Athena—and his ongoing remorse. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

  “That was pretty terrible.” She spoke in a low, controlled voice. “Selfish, irresponsible, and, if anything had happened to her, criminal.”

  “I know,” he said. “Believe me, I know.”

  “But nothing serious did happen to her. She was fine, right? She is fine.”

  “Totally and completely fine. But it did something to me—kind of like a wake-up call. I’m not ready for her, Miranda. Not ready to be the parent she needs and deserves. At least not full-time. But you—you are.”

  Miranda was quiet for a m
oment before she replied. “Thank you for saying that.”

  “And there’s one more thing. I owe you an apology for that night I was here before. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  “I kissed you back.” She kept her gaze locked steadily on his. “We both wanted it. There’s no one to blame.”

  “No.” His respect for her was growing by the second. “I guess there isn’t.”

  “But what about Lily? Did you mean what you said?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I did.”

  “What if you change your mind? I don’t know if I can trust you.”

  “You can. I’m going to call a lawyer and start getting the papers drawn up. We’ll have things to work out. I want to contribute to her support. And to see her on a regular basis. Maybe even some kind of joint custody arrangement?”

  Miranda paused, and he waited while she thought it over. “I couldn’t accept that,” she said finally. “We could talk about visitation rights. But custody? No. I’ve already had my heart broken once; I won’t risk that again. Either she’s mine or she isn’t.”

  Jared looked at her. She was so sure of herself. So steady. And she was right. “All right,” he said at last. “I can understand that. Until it’s all hammered out, Lily can stay here with you. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  The radiant smile that came to her face made any doubts he might have had evaporate. “More than anything in the world.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Miranda carried Celeste—even though the papers had not been signed, she was calling her that now—by the handle of the car seat as she walked into the lobby of the small Upper West Side building. She clutched the handle tightly, as if someone might snatch it away; Miranda still could not believe that her daughter had come back to her. But Jared had honored his word, and her initial wariness changed into pure, undiluted happiness; she’d been flooded with it. Cascaded. Miracles did happen. She was living one.

  But once the adoption was made official and the ink on the paperwork had dried, she realized there was something that had not been resolved, something that continued to eat at her. Geneva Highsmith Bales. Evan—who had not, to her great sorrow, returned her call—had given her the rudiments of the connection, but she still needed to fill in the blanks. Why had Geneva chosen such a devious, convoluted path instead of coming out directly with whatever suspicion or knowledge she had? She had to find out.

  “Miranda!” Geneva had been surprised but not unfriendly. “It’s nice to hear from you.”

  “Is it?”

  “I heard the baby—Celeste—is back with you now.” Geneva ignored the question. “It sounds like it’s working out well for everyone.”

  “You could say that.” Miranda was not sure how to best frame her request. “But I still had some questions. I was wondering if we could meet.”

  “Meet?” Geneva’s smooth surface had been ruffled.

  “Yes, meet. It would mean a lot to me.” She paused, wanting to play her trump card to maximum advantage. “And in the long run, to Celeste.”

  * * *

  The doorman called up while Miranda waited. When the doorman gave her the nod, she pressed the button for the elevator and waited. Was there anything that Geneva could say that would exonerate her in Miranda’s eyes? Doubtful. But here she was anyway.

  Geneva stood in the open doorway; she must have been listening for the elevator. Dressed simply in an oversized white shirt, black leggings, and black ballet flats, she exuded the austerity of a nun. “I was afraid to see you at first. But now that you’re here, I’m glad.” She addressed Miranda but was staring at Celeste.

  “Why were you afraid?”

  Geneva shifted her gaze to Miranda. “Jared told me that he knew about my relationship to Caroline—and that you know too.”

  “I know,” Miranda said. “I know, but I don’t understand.”

  “Come in.” Geneva stepped aside so she could pass. “We can talk more comfortably inside.”

  Miranda followed her into a living room whose walls were painted dove gray and whose floor was mostly hidden by a thick Persian rug that glowed with jewel-bright arabesques. Gingerly, she lowered herself onto the love seat, covered in pale yellow raw silk. She placed Celeste, still in the car seat, on the floor beside her. Poking at her back was a small army of obscenely stuffed pillows: tufted, tasseled, and embroidered, they seemed designed to prevent anyone from getting too comfortable.

  “So here you are. Both of you.” Miranda said nothing, but Celeste struggled to get out of the car seat so Miranda removed her and gathered the baby onto her lap. “Can I get you something?” Geneva was still standing, eager, it seemed, to dart off to the kitchen. Miranda shook her head. “Not even a glass of water?”

  “Nothing,” said Miranda. “I just want to talk. And then leave.”

  Geneva sat down on the chair right across from Miranda. “It’s Caroline,” she said. “You want to know about her. About us, really.” Miranda nodded. “All right, then,” Geneva said. “I’m going to tell you. But don’t blame me if you don’t like what you hear.”

  “I just need to hear it.” Miranda looked down at Celeste. “Please.”

  “She was always different,” Geneva said. “Even when we were little, I knew. Knew that something was, well, not wrong exactly. But not right.”

  “She was younger than you?”

  “Three years.”

  “And what was ‘not right’ about her?”

  “So many things. She was so pretty. And smart too—they skipped her a grade in school. But she was what my mother used to call ‘high-strung.’ That was a nice, Southern-lady way to put it. But it was more than that. She had these rages; she would throw things, scream, and threaten to hurt herself. Or one of us. My mother would take me into the bedroom and lock the door until she wore herself out. Our father had died when she was a baby, so she didn’t have much help; she really didn’t know how to cope.”

  “How sad,” said Miranda. She shifted Celeste in her lap.

  “Sad?” Geneva looked as if she were surprised to see Miranda sitting there. “It was horrible; that’s what it was. She was horrible. And it only got worse.”

  “But why didn’t your mother get her into some kind of therapy? It seems so obvious she was disturbed.”

  “My mother was ashamed at first. She didn’t want anyone to know. Which was absurd because of course people knew. In first grade Caroline cut up the living room drapes in her best friend’s house to make a princess costume. When she was eight, she hacked off all her hair. That same year, on a dare from some boy, she walked into her class at Sunday school naked. Naked! Imagine my mother showing up at the church supper after that.”

  “But those were all signs of how troubled she was. Didn’t she see that?”

  “She thought it was her fault, something she’d done. Or not done. Or because our father had died. Did you know he drowned too? In a boating accident? Anyway, she did try to get help for her. From our pastor, and when that didn’t work, she consulted with doctors all over the state. And then other states too: she took her to Atlanta to see one specialist and to Charleston to see another.” Geneva picked up a large nautilus shell, one of a grouping that was arranged on the glass-topped coffee table, and began rubbing its smooth, pearlized surface.

  “And there was nothing that helped?” Miranda was very aware that their roles had reversed; now she was the one asking the questions.

  “Not consistently. By the time she was a teenager, she was on so much medication my mother had to type out a chart to keep track of it all. One day Caroline crumpled up the chart and refused to take it anymore. Said she couldn’t bear the side effects: nausea, bloating, headaches, double vision—and those are what I can remember. ‘I’d like to see you swallowing those pills,’ she said to me. And do you know what I said?” Geneva’s eyes filled with tears. “‘If I lived with the k
ind of pain you live with, of course I’d take the pills! That’s what they’re for.’” She pressed her palms together hard, in furious prayer. “‘I don’t know who I’d be without my pain,’ is what she said back to me. ‘I wouldn’t know myself anymore.’”

  Miranda was silent. This was Celeste’s mother Geneva was talking about, the troubled, tortured woman who had given birth to her alone and then left her in a subway station. What if this illness had been transmitted to Celeste? What if she grew up to suffer in the way that Caroline had? Miranda felt physically assaulted by the thought; her head throbbed like she’d been hit and her mouth was suddenly parched. “If you don’t mind, I think I will have that glass of water.”

  “Of course.” Geneva put the shell back in its place before getting up and heading for the kitchen. Miranda stood too, and with Celeste in her arms, began moving around the room. There on the wall next to the window was an oil painting she had not paid attention to before. Two young girls in high-waisted dresses, one blond, the other brunette. The taller of the two had her arm around the shoulders of the smaller girl; the gesture did not seem affectionate or casual, but grim and even desperate.

  “You have her picture hanging here,” Miranda said when Geneva had returned with the water. “Why?”

  “She’s still a part of me,” Geneva said. “She always will be.”

  “I would have thought you wouldn’t want to be reminded of her.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether the picture is here or not. She’s with me all the time anyway.”

  “Even though you shunned her?” She drank the water greedily.

  “I know it seems awful,” Geneva said. “Heartless.” She walked over to the love seat and sat down. Miranda followed. “But I just got tired. Tired of trying to help, again and again, and to have my help spurned. She couldn’t take the hand that was being offered to her. She didn’t know how.”

  “When did you cut her off?”

  “It wasn’t all at once. After I graduated from college, I came to New York, but we stayed in touch. By that time, she had dropped out of college and was living in different places, but always down South.”