You Were Meant for Me

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

What do you do when you have to give up the person you love most?

Thirty-five-year-old Miranda is not an impulsive person. She’s been at Domestic Goddess magazine for eight years, she has great friends, and she’s finally moving on after a breakup. Having a baby isn’t even on her radar—until the day she discovers an abandoned newborn on the platform of a Brooklyn subway station. Rushing the little girl to the closest police station, Miranda hopes and prays she’ll be all right and that a loving family will step forward to take her.

Yet Miranda can’t seem to get the baby off her mind and keeps coming up with excuses to go check on her, until finally a family court judge asks whether she’d like to be the baby’s foster parent—maybe even adopt her. To her own surprise, Miranda jumps at the chance. But nothing could have prepared her for the ecstasy of new-mother love—or the heartbreak she faces when the baby’s father surfaces....

CONVERSATION GUIDE INCLUDED

Release date: October 7, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 400

Sample

ONE

The supposedly hip place in Midtown was exactly the sort of place Miranda Berenzweig hated: cavernous, dim, and ear-splittingly loud. On one side of the room was a long, sleek bar made of highly polished black marble; on the other, a massive wall of water that rose from the floor like a tsunami. But since Bea was not only a hostess here but also dating the owner, their girl group had been lured by the promise of free food and drink. And look, here was Bea coming toward her.

“Hey,” she said and kissed Miranda on each cheek. “You’re the last one to arrive; everyone else is already ensconced. Follow me.” Miranda was happy to do exactly that; she needed a guide in this latter-day Hades. The percussive beat from the music reverberated in the cavity of her chest and the crush of bodies thwarted her at every turn. But Bea seemed unfazed. Up a flight of black marble steps whose wrought-iron railing pulsated with clusters of tiny white lights and down a short hall to a dark paneled door, which Bea pulled open with a flourish. “The VIP lounge,” she said. “Welcome!”

“We were getting worried about you,” Courtney said. She was five-eleven, and her sleek blond head towered above everyone else’s at the table.

“I was stuck at the office,” Miranda said, shrugging off her coat and sliding into the tufted velvet banquette. “You didn’t start without me, did you?”

“Of course not,” said Lauren, who looked at Bea. “You’ll be able to join us too? Even though you’re working?”

“My shift is just about to end,” Bea said.

Miranda had known Bea, along with Courtney and Lauren, since they had been freshmen at Bennington, and they still met every month or so to catch up on one another’s lives. Tonight Miranda had a piece of good news to share—her first in a while—and when Bea sat down, a tray of pale green appletinis following in her wake, she dove right in.

“You’re looking at the new online food editor of Domestic Goddess,” she announced. “We’re revamping the Web site and I’ll be responsible for all the food-related content.”

“Does this mean you won’t be handling the print edition anymore?” asked Lauren.

“No. The new job is in addition to, not instead of. So it’s a bump up.” Miranda took a sip of her drink—it was perfectly rendered—and smiled.

“Does it come with a raise?” Trust Courtney to bring up the subject of money.

“It most certainly does.” Miranda took a celebratory sip. Ooh, it was good. “A generous one.”

“Well, it’s high time,” said Courtney, who didn’t so much sip as gulp from her glass. “You can finally stop living like a church mouse. Maybe you’ll even move to Manhattan. You’re not doing yourself any good out in the hinterlands.”

Miranda went still. That was not a very tactful—or accurate—thing to say. She was not poor; she was frugal, which was an entirely different thing. She was diligent about putting money away for the proverbial rainy day, a concept Courtney, with her penchant for Chanel and Christian Louboutin, did not understand. Of course, Courtney was the accessories editor at Soigné magazine; she would claim her indulgences were necessities. “I love Brooklyn,” she said.

“And you have such a great apartment, right near the park and all,” Bea, ever loyal, added.

“It is a nice apartment,” Courtney conceded. “But it’s just so far from everything.”

“Not the things that matter to me,” Miranda said quietly. But the conversation was already moving on, and everyone was congratulating Bea, who’d announced that she was now one of two finalists vying for the part of Maggie in an out-of-town production ofCat on a Hot Tin Roof. Then Lauren told everyone how her youngest child, Max, had just been admitted to a highly regarded pre-K and they all toasted that with another round. Along with the drinks, platters of grilled shrimp, empanadas, and spicy, translucent noodles arrived.

“Here’s to finger painting!” sang out Bea.

Then it was Courtney’s turn. Miranda was seized with the small, petty hope that Courtney’s news did not involve her job; Courtney definitely had the more high-profile position—everyone knew Soigné—and she did not want her own promotion to be upstaged. There had always been a little thread of competition woven into her friendship with Courtney, something not present in her feelings for Bea or Lauren. But Courtney could also be her biggest booster, and it had been through a connection of Courtney’s that Miranda had landed atDomestic Goddess.

“Harris proposed!” Courtney sang out. “We’re getting married!”

“That’s wonderful!” Lauren and Bea started to clap.

“Mazel tov.” Miranda tried to sound genuine though she thought Harris, a pedantic lawyer with a receding hairline and a premature paunch, was hardly a prize.

“Now you’re the only one who’s unattached,” said Courtney to Miranda. “Girls, we have to find someone for Miranda. She’s too special to remain on the vine. Maybe Harris has a friend. I’m going to ask.”

Miranda, stung, said nothing. So what if she was single midway into her thirties? Was that a deficiency? A crime? “No Ivy League lawyers for me,” she said, striving to keep her tone light. Harris had gone to Harvard, a fact he managed to work into all conversations, even ones that were ostensibly about the weather.

“What’s wrong with lawyers?” Courtney said. They had moved on to White Russians—sprinkled with pulverized chocolate and dusted with nutmeg—which Bea said were the bar’s signature libation. “Harris says that the law is the most stimulating intellectual pursuit he can imagine.”

Then his imagination must be pretty small, thought Miranda.

“And that the people he met at Harvard—”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with lawyers,” Miranda interrupted. Now he has her doing it too! “I’m just looking for someone with, oh, I don’t know, a more artistic bent.”

“You mean some out-of-work painter who’ll sponge off you for months before he maxes out your credit cards and moves on to a twenty-five-year-old?” said Courtney.

“That,” said Bea in a gentle but reproving tone, “isn’t necessary. Or nice.”

Miranda pushed her glass away. Ordinarily she loved White Russians, but suddenly the sweetness was nauseating; she thought she might be sick. Did Courtney need to dredge all that up now? And anyway, she was exaggerating. When Luke had gotten fired from his carpentry job, Miranda had offered to stake his purchase of art supplies so that he could keep on painting. But he was still morose and moody and she’d encouraged him to treat himself: expensive lunches, a new Italian suit from Barneys. But he’d hardly maxed out her card. Anyway, she had paid off the sizable AmEx bill, and her heart, though still bruised, was nonetheless on the pitted and rubble-strewn road to recovery.

“God, you’re treating Miranda like she’s made of glass or something.” Courtney put a hand on Miranda’s arm. “You know that I’m just concerned about you. We all are.”

“Not necessary. I’m fine.” Miranda stood up and brushed at her dark skirt, as if to wipe the lie away. Thanks to Bea’s largesse, she was past her limit, and she swayed slightly on her feet. Better go home before she said something she’d regret.

Her standing up seemed to give the cue to Lauren and Courtney; the three women jostled their way through the still-crowded front room and out into the raw March night. Lauren and Courtney both lived uptown, and they headed off in the other direction. Bea and her manager boyfriend were still at the bar, which did not close until four a.m.

Miranda was alone. It was late, she was exhausted, and it had started to rain. To hell with being frugal; she was taking a taxi home. Raising her arm, she stepped off the curb to hail one.

But it seemed there was not a single available cab to be had in the entire city. After twenty minutes of watching taxi after taxi whoosh down the slick streets, she gave up and trudged toward the subway station on Forty-second Street. The platform was as full as if it had been the morning rush. Two musicians—a drummer and a guitarist—were at either end; the drummer, beating on several inverted plastic containers, was particularly good. A gaggle of teenage girls preened for the boys nearby. A large Hispanic family occupied an entire bench, and a couple leaning against a metal support kissed languorously.

Miranda turned away. It was just over eight months since Luke had packed up the toothbrush, the sketchbooks, the paint-flecked flannels, and the jeans bleached to that enviable state of softened whiteness he had left in her apartment. Over eight months since he’d told her that he’d decided to leave New York entirely and move to Berlin. “It’s got a totally happening art scene,” he’d said. “Really stimulating.” She hadn’t known until after he’d gone that some of the stimulation was being provided by an adorable, twentysomething German girl he’d picked up at a gallery in Chelsea and had been seeing behind Miranda’s back.

The lovers were still kissing; the man’s fingers wound through his girlfriend’s hair in an intimate, caressing gesture. Miranda did not want to see any more, so she walked down the platform. At the far end, under the stairs, was a huddled mass. At first glance, it looked like a pile of old blankets, but the bare foot sticking out from one corner—dark, with thick, overgrown nails and leatherlike heels—made it clear that someone was sleeping underneath. Reaching into her wallet, she extracted a five and tucked it at the edge of the pile. She also set down the doggie bag of shrimp and noodles that Bea had sent her off with. Then the train pulled in—finally—and Miranda turned from the foot and the blankets. She found a seat and sank down gratefully.

Ordinarily, she was happy with her job, but today there’d been nothing but stress. The managing editor had gotten into a fight with the decorating editor during the weekly staff meeting, which seemed to put the entire office in a foul mood. Two of her writers had failed to deliver promised copy, and a very labor-intensive banana malted milk torte was knocked to the floor during a photo shoot. It had to be made all over again, which completely threw off the schedule, and Marvin, the art director, had one of his hissy fits when he found out.

Miranda had been looking forward to an evening with her friends. But Courtney’s tactless comment had kind of ruined it for her; she felt flung right back in the misery that had been Luke. At least she could sleep in tomorrow. Her only commitment was not until four o’clock, when she’d agreed to meet Evan Zuckerbrot, the latest dish served up by eHarmony, for coffee. She had resisted signing up for eHarmony, but both Courtney and Lauren had been pestering her to just do it.

Miranda had succumbed, and even though she did not think Evan was that “someone special,” she reasoned that an afternoon latte would not be all that much of a risk. The rocking of the train was making her sleepy; she rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Just for a minute, she thought. Just one little minute. When she opened her eyes, she was still sitting in the subway car, entirely alone and freezing. She leaped up in a panic. Clearly, she had slept right past her stop, and several stops after that; she’d come to the end of the line. The doors were open and the platform was elevated; that’s why she was so cold. But where was she? Coney Island–Stillwell Avenue, that’s where—at least according to the sign.

Well, she’d just have to get a train going back; she could forget about finding a cab out here.

Miranda stepped onto the platform. Even from up here, she could smell the sharp, salt-laced wind coming from the ocean. It was a good smell, actually—clean and bracing. But she had to get home. She felt nervous being out so late by herself, a feeling that intensified when she went down the stairs. There were no longer any token booths, of course; she could see the phantom spot where the booth had been, its ghostly perimeter still outlined on the floor, like something from a crime scene. There was not a soul in the station, and she was just about to sprint up the stairs to the other side when her attention was snagged by a neat, cream-colored bundle that sat right by the banister.

She paused. It looked harmless enough—a folded blanket or something—but in the post-9/11 world, she had to wonder. Could a bomb be concealed in those folds? How would she know, anyway? Did she even have a clue as to what a bomb looked like? While she was debating this, she saw something else even more startling: a tiny foot peeking out from one corner of the blanket. It flitted through her mind that this was the second bare foot she’d seen tonight. Only this one belonged to a doll.

A doll. Not too likely there was a bomb in there. Miranda could see the little toes, all five of them, lined up like tiny brown nuts. What a well-made thing.

Clean too. Why would someone have thrown it away? Then the foot moved. Miranda stopped, not sure she saw what she thought she saw. She was exhausted, disoriented, and possibly a little drunk. The foot was an exquisite creation, crafted from something so smooth and pliant that she could not guess what it might have been. But when it moved again—this time causing the blanket on top to stir ever so slightly—she knew that it was no mere simulation. The cold she had been feeling ever since she woke up seemed to gather speed and force; it shot right through her, like a bullet. Carefully, she lifted a corner of the blanket away.

There, wrapped in a surprisingly clean white towel and cushioned by the bottom part of the blanket, was an infant. No, not an infant, anewborn, with cocoa-colored skin, black hair plastered to its tiny skull, and eyes that were tightly shut against the harsh light of the subway station. Oh. My. God. Was it even alive? Should she touch it? She remained that way for several seconds until the infant opened its mouth in a yawn that seemed to devour its entire face. The eyelids fluttered briefly before closing again. Definitely alive!

The yawn propelled Miranda into action. She lifted up the tiny creature. Under the towel the infant was naked; the umbilical cord, tied in a crude, red knot, looked as if it had been sawed off, and there were reddish streaks on her body. Was the umbilical cord infected or was it supposed to be that way? Miranda had no idea but wished she had some antibiotic ointment. Avoiding the red protuberance, she shifted the baby gingerly in her arms. Around one wrist was a bracelet; the small pink glass beads were interspersed with white ones whose black letters spelled out BABY GIRL. Someone had cared enough to place that bracelet on her wrist; was it the same person who had left her here in the station? Miranda wrapped the blanket around the infant’s body. But that didn’t seem sufficient, so she opened her coat and positioned her close to her own body. That ought to keep her warm. Or at least warmer.

The station was still empty. What should she do? There was an app on her phone that would help her locate a police station. But she did not want to be walking around here in this strange neighborhood by herself. No, she’d rather head for the station house back in Park Slope. She waited downstairs for the train; it would be warmer than the windy platform. When she heard it arriving, she hurried up the stairs and got in as soon as the doors parted.

As the train chugged along, it occurred to her that the infant might be hungry or thirsty. Hungry she could not fix. But she had a bottle of water in her bag; also hand sanitizer, which she wished she had thought to use earlier. Damn! Gripping the tiny body under one arm, she managed to squirt the green gel over both hands and rub furiously. Then she wet her fingers with the water and held them to the infant’s lips. She opened her mouth and began to suck. Tears welled in Miranda’s eyes. She was thirsty, poor little thing. Naked, abandoned in a subway station, and thirsty too—the final and crowning indignity in a brand-new life that so far seemed comprised of nothing but.

When they reached their stop, Miranda made her way through the dark streets toward the police station. At least the rain had tapered off. Against her body, the infant felt warm and animate. Miranda was keenly aware of her breath, in and out, in and out. The rhythm calmed her.

Yanking open the heavy doors to the station house, she stepped inside. A bored-looking officer behind a bulletproof shield was leafing through a copy of the New York Post; two other officers—one pale and seemingly squeezed into a uniform that was a size or two too small, the other as brown as the baby Miranda held close to her heart—were chatting in low voices. Above, the fluorescent light buzzed like a frantic insect. The cop reading the paper finally glanced up. He looked not at Miranda, but straight through her. “Can I help you?” he said in a tone that suggested he would sooner endure a colonoscopy, a root canal, and a tax audit—simultaneously.

“Look,” she said urgently, opening her coat to reveal the infant in its makeshift swaddling. “Look what I just found!”

TWO

“You thought it was a doll?” Courtney leaned over to reach for one of the cookies Miranda had baked—there were snickerdoodles, gingersnaps, and chocolate chip. The three of them were gathered in Miranda’s apartment on President Street. Bea would be here any minute; she promised to come in time for the local news broadcast that would be airing at five o’clock.

“The most lifelike doll I had ever seen,” Miranda said. She had canceled—well, all right, postponed—her meeting with Evan; she had been up most of the night and had slept virtually all day to compensate. Now her friends had come over to hear the story directly from her and to watch the news clip. “Also, I was still a bit looped and I wasn’t sure what I was looking at.”

“I would have been frightened,” Lauren said.

“Of what?” Miranda was about to reach for a cookie too but then stopped. She had three cake recipes she had to bake—and taste—this week; winter pounds were so easy to pack on, so hard to take off. Besides, it was the baking as much as the eating that appealed to her. She loved the visual and at times almost sensual interplay of ingredients, colors, and textures: the dense, golden clay of batter punctuated by the dark bits of chocolate, the pungent, earthy drip of molasses, the powdery loft of flour hitting the bowl.

“That something would happen to the baby while you were holding it. What if she had died while you were carrying her on the subway? The police might have charged you.”

“I never even thought of that,” Miranda said. She was still remembering the feeling of the infant pressed so close to her; they seemed to fit, like puzzle pieces, so neatly together. Is this what new mothers experienced when their babies were handed to them? Well, not thatinfant’s mother; clearly she had not felt that sense of completion when holding her baby. But Miranda was more sympathetic—and even curious—than judgmental. What could have driven her to do such a thing? What impossible place—all other options exhausted, rejected, used up—had she reached to make her decision? The blanket and the bracelet showed she had made some effort. Though leaving the baby in a subway station . . . well, it was pretty hard to put any positive spin on that.

The bell rang, and there was Bea, corkscrew curls massing around her face, running up the stairs. “Hell-o!” she said, plopping down on Miranda’s rug with a big shopping bag from Duane Reade. “I brought provisions!”

“Let me see,” said Courtney, peering into the bag. “Chips, pretzels, macadamia nuts, chocolate . . .” She looked up at Bea. “Is there anything you didn’t buy?”

“Well, we’re going to watch the news; I figured we’d need fortification.”

“Bea, the clip is going to last, like, three minutes,” Courtney said. “This isn’t exactly a double feature.”

“And I made cookies,” Miranda added.

“You always make cookies!” said Bea. “But doesn’t watching TV make you hungry?” She reached for a bag of chips and opened it in a single, deft stroke.

“Look, it’s going to start!” Lauren said, squeezing Miranda’s arm. “Turn the sound on.”

The reporter, a tall, glib guy who resembled a Ken doll, shoved the microphone in her face. “We’re here, live in Brooklyn at the Seventy-eighth Precinct with Amanda Berenzweig—”

“Miranda,” her on-air incarnation corrected.

“Excuse me?” Patter interrupted, Ken looked baffled.

“Miranda, the name is Miranda Berenzweig.”

“Of course it is,” he said with his dazzling smile. “Now, can you tell us what happened, Ms. Berenzwig? Right from the beginning?”

“You didn’t correct him that time,” Courtney noted.

“I thought he might cry if I did.”

“Shh,” said Bea. “I can’t hear.”

The talking stopped, and Miranda settled back to watch her televised self explaining what had happened: falling asleep in the subway, waking in an unfamiliar station, the doll-that-turned-out-be-a-baby. Then the camera cut away to the baby herself—now cleaned up and wearing a little cap over her head. If anyone has any information, please call . . . flashed along the bottom of the screen. Then some more blather from Ken and the segment was over. A commercial for a new breakfast cereal chirped across the airwaves until Bea clicked the remote to mute it.

“So what’s going to happen to her now?” Lauren asked. Of the four friends, she was the only one with children.

“Foster care, I guess. Until someone claims her. If someone claims her,” said Miranda.

“Someone will claim her,” Lauren said as she buttoned her coat. “You wait.”

The rest of them sat around discussing it after she had left. Bea had been right: they polished off the cookies, the chips, the nuts, the pretzels, and almost all the chocolate. “Who wants the last square?” Bea said. Miranda wavered and was glad when Courtney spoke up. When she and Bea got up to leave, Miranda gave them each a hug. She had even forgiven Courtney—sort of. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “I was so glad you were here.”

“Of course we were here,” Bea said. “Where else would we be?”

* * *

Over the next couple of days, Miranda found herself thinking about the baby. She thought about her as she baked those three cakes and while she edited the two late articles that finally showed up days past their respective deadlines. She thought about the baby in the shower, when she went out for a run in Prospect Park, and when she worked her shift at the food co-op on Union Street.

She also thought about the baby’s mother. She first pictured her as a teenager, petrified to tell her parents she was pregnant. Or maybe she was a drug addict or an alcoholic. Miranda remembered the blanket, the towel. Whoever she was, the mother had tried, sort of. But why the subway station and not a hospital or a police station?

There were no answers to these questions. But she might be able to find out more about the baby. She returned to the police station where she’d first brought her. The once-bored cop now greeted her like a long-lost cousin. “You!” he said, smile wide and welcoming. “You’re the one who found the baby!”

She nodded, oddly pleased. “I am. And I was wondering what happened to her since then.”

The officer was only too glad to fill her in. She got the address of family court and the name of the judge assigned to the case. The building, at 330 Jay Street, was not all that far from her office in downtown Manhattan. The next day, she made the trip and, after a few inquiries, found the courtroom she’d been looking for. The metal benches just outside were packed, and the waiting sea of faces looked sad, angry, embittered, or a ravaged combination of all three. Miranda stepped inside the courtroom and slid into a seat at the back. Up front, Judge Deborah Waxman was presiding. She looked to be in her sixties, with frosted blond hair, frosted pink lip gloss, and frosted white nails—it was like she was sugarcoated. But nothing about her manner or voice was even remotely sweet. She cut through the whiny excuses, the meandering stories, the bluster and the rationalizations made by deadbeat dads and criminally negligent moms with the same brisk, impartial efficiency in a way that Miranda found intimidating but admirable. When she called a ten-minute recess, Miranda asked a court officer if she could approach the bench. The officer looked at the judge who looked at Miranda. She felt herself being intensely scrutinized and was relieved when the judge inclined her head in a small nod. She had passed.

“What can I do for you?” asked the judge.

Miranda knew she did not have much time. “I’ve come about the baby,” she said. “The one who was found in the subway at Stillwell Avenue.”

“Stable condition at a city hospital,” the judge said succinctly. “When she’s been thoroughly checked out, she’ll be released.”

“Where to?”

“Family services is arranging for a foster care placement. No one has claimed her, so she’ll be put up for adoption.” Judge Waxman looked down as if assessing the condition of her iridescent manicure. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m the one who found her that night,” Miranda said. “I brought her to the police.”

“You did.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“That was a very kind thing to do.” The judge brought her gaze up from her nails. Her small but intensely blue eyes seemed to be taking Miranda’s measure.

“No, it wasn’t,” said Miranda, meeting that gaze full-on.

“You think it was unkind?” Judge Waxman sounded surprised.

“It was no more than decent,” Miranda said. “And decent is not the same as kind. Decent is what anyone would have done.”

“Not her mother,” said the judge.

“No, well, I’m sure there’s a story behind that. . . .”

“Isn’t there always?” The judge glanced at her watch. “Recess is over,” she said. “Thank you for coming, Ms. . . .”

“Berenzweig.”

“Ms. Berenzweig. I’ll see that the mayor’s office sends you a citation or something.”

“I don’t want a citation,” Miranda said.

“No? Then what do you want?” It was a challenge.

Miranda felt flustered. Did she even know? “Just to know that she’s all right,” she said.

As it turned out, that was not enough. Now that she knew the baby was being cared for, Miranda craved more information. She was such a thirsty baby. Would someone make sure she drank enough? What about a name? Names were so important; Miranda hoped she wasn’t given one that was silly or demeaning.

Over the next week, Miranda returned to Judge Waxman’s courtroom three more times. Each time, she waited patiently for a recess or a break and would listen to the update that Judge Waxman delivered in the same clipped tone. The baby was drinking formula. The baby had gained an ounce. There was some evidence of drugs—she would not specify—in her system, but they were minimal; it did not appear that her mother had been an addict. Miranda warmed to the woman, frosting and all. How would the judge have known these details unless she too had taken a special interest in the baby?

Then Judge Waxman told her that a foster care placement had been found for the baby; she would be leaving the hospit