You Were Meant For Me

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “I loved that book.” Miranda touched the gold-embossed cover. “I must have read it ten times. Thank you so much.”

  “A story about an orphaned girl who finds her true home seems especially apt, don’t you think?” Judge Waxman asked.

  “Yes.” Miranda clutched the book tightly. “It is.”

  By this time several of the other mothers with their own crying children in tow came over to say good-bye; Miranda asked Bea to bring Judge Waxman a cupcake—the last of the batch.

  “Do you want me to take her?” Evan had walked back over to Miranda. “So you can start cleaning up?”

  “I don’t know. She’s still kind of fussy.”

  “Fussy? Who’s fussy?” Evan reached for Celeste. “Are you a fussy girl?” He made a silly face, and after a moment, Celeste tilted back her head and laughed. “That’s what I thought. No fussy girls here. Not a one.”

  While Evan entertained Celeste, Miranda started gathering up the dirty paper plates. Lauren’s son, Max, was now sobbing because his sister had eaten the last bite of his cupcake; so she needed to get him home; Bea had left for a rehearsal. Finally, everything was done and Miranda went to retrieve Celeste. Evan was bouncing her on his knees; he had managed to untangle a white balloon from the cluster, and Celeste now held it in her hand.

  “Thank you for distracting her,” she said. “And for coming too. It was really nice of you.”

  “No problem.” He was looking at Celeste, not her, so his next words were a surprise. “I have my car; can I give you a lift?”

  “Sure.” She tried to act as nonchalant as he was. “That would be so nice.” And convenient too—she would not have to call a car service.

  They piled the gifts into the trunk and strapped Celeste, still clutching the balloon, into her car seat. She was asleep in about three minutes, and the balloon, untethered now, floated to the front seat, where Miranda snatched it before it could obscure Evan’s vision. They were quiet on the drive back, and when they got to Miranda’s house, Evan found a parking spot right out front. “You take her up and get her into bed. I’ll deal with everything down here.”

  “All right.” Miranda carried the sleeping child and her balloon upstairs into the apartment. Celeste’s head pressed against her shoulder, a solid, grounding weight. Miranda was able to ease her gently into her crib; then, propping the door open, she went down to help Evan with the gifts. “Thanks. For everything.” She was nervous, but so what? She wasn’t going to let that stop her from seeing this through. “Do you want to come in? For a glass of wine or something?”

  “Why not?” He followed her inside and sat down on the sofa. Miranda brought them each a glass of wine; he sipped his as he looked around. “What’s with the boxes? Are you moving?”

  “I am; the closing is at the end of the month.”

  “Good for you.” He took another sip of wine. “Where to?”

  She told him about the place on Eastern Parkway with its doorman and its big windows, its scarred floors and blistering paint; then they both lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. He was the first to break it. “So how come you invited me to the party?”

  “How come you decided to show up?”

  “Touché.” He set his wineglass down on the table and leaned back against the couch cushions. “I’ll just come out with it. I’ve been lonely and I missed you; I missed you a lot.”

  “I missed you too.” Miranda chose her words very carefully, not wanting—or daring—to give everything away all at once. “But I thought there was someone else.”

  “There was, but that’s been over for a while. And anyway, you can be lonely even with someone else—if she’s not the right someone else.”

  “This person, she wasn’t the right someone?”

  “No.” Evan held her gaze. “She wasn’t. But you, Miranda—you are.”

  “What about Jared?” She had to ask.

  He moved closer to her. “What about him?”

  “You accused me of cheating on you with him; you refused to believe me when I told you it wasn’t true.” The white balloon had drifted in from Celeste’s room and now bobbed overhead.

  “I should have had more faith in you, Miranda. I’m sorry.”

  She looked at him; he was utterly sincere, and she had to meet that sincerity in kind. “I can’t say that I wasn’t attracted to him because that would be a lie. And I don’t want to lie to you. But whatever I felt, it was—transitory. He was not the right one. He never was. No, the right one was you—is you: you were meant for me, Evan Zuckerbrot.” Then she waited, for several tense, awful seconds, until he pulled her close and kissed her. This was where she wanted to be. This was where she belonged. Why had it taken her so long to figure that out?

  EPILOGUE

  Geneva had started driving before it was actually dawn, and now she could see a thin silver line of light at the horizon that grew wider and brighter as she sped along. A container of coffee sat in the cup holder and next to that, a bran muffin, taken from the motel’s complimentary breakfast bar and wrapped in a paper napkin.

  Outside the car’s windows were the chalk and sugar maples, the yellow birch and the pig buckeye she recalled from her childhood; Geneva had spent eight years as a Girl Scout, and she’d learned to identify the flora and fauna of her native state. It was April, and everything was in lush, glorious leaf. The scenery was starting to look familiar now; she remembered this stretch of road. She drove up to the gates of the Eternal Springs Cemetery and parked in the adjacent lot. Then she picked up the bag that had been sitting on the seat beside her and pocketed the muffin; she might get hungry. From here, she remembered the way easily. Her father had been buried in this place, and her mother too, along with various other Highsmith relatives. The bag bumped awkwardly against her thigh as she walked, so she ignored the handle and cradled it in both arms.

  Shortly after Caroline’s death, Geneva had claimed the body and had it cremated. The ashes had remained in an urn on the top shelf of her closet; she had been waiting for spring. Now that it was here, she had brought the ashes down to be buried in the family plot. It was the right thing to do.

  The cemetery was impeccably kept—the winding paths swept regularly, the trees and shrubs neatly trimmed. The sky was fully light now, and there was a soft mist over everything. Geneva continued down the path, making a right turn and then a left. There was her father’s stone, and next to it, her mother’s. Caroline’s, newly raised, was right beside them. In front of it was a freshly dug hole, perhaps two feet wide, and leaning against it was a shovel, just as she had requested. Good.

  The director, Mr. Emberly, had not wanted to do this at first. But he knew her, and he knew her family; eventually, he relented. “It’s not at all regular policy,” he’d said several times during their conversation. “Please don’t tell anyone I made an exception for you. And please, get an early start; I’d rather you kept this between us.”

  Geneva walked up to the stone and laid her hand on the marble surface. The inscription was simple: name, dates of birth and death, and these words: daughter, sister, mother. She sat down and pulled out the muffin. Birds twittered nearby, and she recalled the litany of names she’d memorized as a Girl Scout. Some of these birds were probably in the trees right above her though she was not sure she could identify them any longer.

  She took a bite of the muffin. Gluey, cold, and stale. The birds wouldn’t mind though; she began breaking it into bits and sprinkling it on the ground. Instantly, they began swooping down, first one and then a bevy, pecking and hunting in the grass for the crumbs. Most were brown and gray, but then a cardinal appeared, and, being so much bigger than the others, scared them off. But when Geneva reached into the bag that held the urn, even the cardinal fluttered away.

  The etched brass vessel, ordered from Stardust Memorials, gleamed in the soft morning light. She had peeked at the ashes when they first
arrived; they were not ashlike at all, but gritty and coarse—more like broken crockery. And they were surprisingly heavy. Their weight, added to the not-insubstantial weight of the urn, made it hard to handle, and it landed at the bottom of the hole with a small thud. “I’m sorry,” she said aloud. Was she talking to Carrie? Her mother? Miranda Berenzweig? It could have been any of the above because in some way, she owed each of them an apology.

  Then she picked up the shovel and began to fill in the hole. Not a difficult job, but she still worked up a slight sweat while completing it. Next she unwrapped the seashells that were also in the bag and began setting them in front of the tombstone, the largest, the pearly nautilus, right in the center. Next to the nautilus she placed the conch, then all the rest: nacreous, striped, whorled, beaded, and studded. The shells were part of the collection she rotated in her apartment; Caroline had always been drawn to them, and Geneva could remember her picking up a shell, running her fingers along the surface, pressing it against her ear. The shells Geneva was leaving behind today were her most beautiful, most unusual, most arresting. They were an offering. Or a penance.

  Once she had finished, she sat on the grass as the mist slowly burned away. The birds returned, only this time the pack of mostly brown, gray, and whites was joined by another more vivid specimen: the Eastern bluebird. She identified him—she knew it was a male—in an instant, not only because of the Girl Scouts, but also because she had helped Caroline do a project on Eastern bluebirds for a grade-school science project. Her sister had been largely indifferent to the discipline of doing the research or assembling the facts. But Caroline had drawn a meticulous and haunting rendition of the bird, bearing down on the colored pencils until she’d complained that her fingers ached from the pressure and she’d snapped the points of the pencils. Underneath the drawing she had lettered the words The Bluebird of Happiness. Geneva had tried to get her to change it.

  “That’s not a scientific designation,” she’d said. “The teacher will take points off.”

  “But it is the bluebird of happiness,” Caroline insisted. The lettering remained.

  Geneva held very still as she watched the bird, the feathers on its breast a rusty red, the head and wings an impossible, vivid cerulean. Delicately, the bird searched for the crumbs; for a moment, it regarded her with a bright, black eye. Then it flew away. She got up, dusted off the seat of her pants, and headed toward the car. It had grown considerably warmer, even hot, and she peeled off her cardigan, tied it around her waist, and reached into the bag, now empty except for a crushable straw hat that she set on her head.

  On the way out of the gates, she saw a family—mother, father, boy, and towheaded little girl. Carrie had been that kind of blond. Geneva thought of their summers at the beach, Caroline growing more sun-kissed by the week, hair gone nearly white from the long, bright days. How she’d loved the beach, the water; what an irony that she, who had been such a good swimmer, had drowned.

  When she reached the car, Geneva got in and switched on the ignition. Something made her look up, and there it was again: the bluebird, perched on the overhanging branch of a maple tree. It was only when the bird flew off a second and final time that she turned on the air conditioner and put her foot to the pedal.

  Photo by Keith Price

  Yona Zeldis McDonough is the author of five previous novels and the editor of two essay collections. Her fiction, essays, and articles have appeared in Bride’s, Cosmopolitan, Family Circle, Harper’s Bazaar, Lilith, Metropolitan Home, More, the New York Times, O, the Oprah Magazine, the Paris Review, and Redbook. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and two children.

  A CONVERSATION WITH YONA ZELDIS McDONOUGH

  Q. Was there any factual basis for this story?

  A. Yes. My good friend Patty Grossman told me about a man who had found a newborn on a subway platform, brought the infant to the police, and then continued to follow the case. No one claimed the infant and the family court judge suggested that he foster the child with the goal of adoption. He did, and now the baby is a teenager and happily living with his two dads in New York City. Here is an instance in which so much could have gone wrong—resulting in another ruined, wasted life—and yet, instead, everything went right. I loved the hopeful aspect of this story and wanted to turn it into a story of my own. I am by nature an optimist and love to find stories that affirm my optimism.

  Q. Did this novel tap into any fantasies of your own?

  A. Absolutely! I’d always wanted a third child, and would occasionally allow myself what I called the “found baby fantasy.” What would I do? How would I respond? I think I would have reacted very much as Miranda did.

  Q. Do you feel women are your core audience?

  A. I do and I love writing for them. Yet since I often include strong male characters and male points of view, I would love to be able to reach a wider audience that included more men as well.

  Q. You’ve chosen two male protagonists along with one female voice. Why did you choose this structure?

  A. Having those three voices creates a triangle, and triangles are essentially unstable shapes. From a dramatic standpoint, that instability is interesting and potentially exciting because of the tension it creates. Miranda’s affection and attraction hovers between two men; which one will she choose?

  Q. How do you choose the professions of your characters?

  A. I like to select professions that I either have some familiarity with (so the work lives of my characters will seem believable) or that interest me enough to do the necessary research. In Evan’s case, I drew on the experiences and insights shared with me by my husband, Paul McDonough, who is a photographer and has used a Leica—the same camera Evan uses—for years. I love and admire my husband’s work, so Evan’s profession is a kind of homage to him. I chose real estate for Jared because it’s a field that has always held a certain appeal for me. The buying of a home is so deeply personal, and says so much about who we are and what we long for. It’s also an area that allowed Jared’s particular qualities—his easy charm, his affability—to shine, so I thought it would suit him. In Miranda’s case, I felt comfortable with the world of publishing and magazines; I made her a food editor to give it a slight twist and because it gave me the chance to write extensively about cupcakes!

  Q. Can you talk about Geneva? She is an important character but an elusive one.

  A. She was a challenging character to write because much of what she does is devious and deceptive. And yet I understand her and her motivations. Having a family member with mental illness can be very draining and exhausting. Geneva’s feelings about her sister are not necessarily nice but I believe they are accurate.

  Q. What does a typical writing day look like for you?

  A. When I am in the zone, I might start work before breakfast, cup of coffee by my side. I break for a late breakfast/early lunch around eleven o’clock and then it’s back to work. I have to stop to make dinner, and often go to the gym late in the day or in the evening. Now that my children are older and I don’t have to be up early to get them off to school, I can stay up very late and work if I want. I like those evening hours best; fewer interruptions and the night like a long, deep pool I can dive right into.

  Q. In addition to fiction, you write nonfiction and you write for children too; how do you balance those three different kinds of ­writing?

  A. I actually find it works out very well because each kind of writing taps into a different part of my heart, soul, or brain. If I am stuck or stalled on one manuscript, I can turn to another. Hopefully I will have better luck with that, and if I do, the confidence that success inspires spills over into the other project and gets the process going again.

  Q. What’s next on your horizon?

  A. I am working on something now that is a bit more challenging for me. It involves an interesting—and tragic—bit of New Hampshire history and will contain bits of a novel within a novel. Also, there is something i
n the plot that requires me to write a poem or two. I love poetry and, like Wallace Stevens, believe that “poetry is the supreme fiction,” but apart from some rather pedestrian attempts in college, I have not written in the form. I’m excited to try it; fortunately, the character who’s a poet is not all that skilled, so my amateur efforts will suffice just fine.

  QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  1. Do you think Miranda’s decision to adopt Celeste was impulsive and ill considered? Why or why not?

  2. What do you think of Jared’s decision to give up his child? Was it for her sake or for his own?

  3. Has anything happened in your life that you believe was “meant to be”?

  4. Have you ever done something that a friend did not support? If so, what happened? Was the friendship made stronger as a result or was it damaged?

  5. What do you think about Miranda’s attraction to Jared? Should she have succumbed? Why or why not?

  6. Why do you think it takes Miranda so long to appreciate what Evan has to offer?

  7. How do you view Geneva’s behavior? Are her actions reprehensible or comprehensible?

  8. What are some of the differences and similarities in Miranda’s relationships to the four men in the novel: Luke, Evan, Jared, and her father?

  9. How much sympathy did you feel for Carrie?

  10. Does Miranda change and grow in the course of the novel? If so, how does that come about?

  11. What makes someone a good parent? Is Miranda a good parent? Is Jared?