Free You Were Meant For Me by Yona Zeldis McDonough Page B

and then listened to it again. The accent was hard to place, the voice low and cultivated. Miranda got into bed and turned out the light. Even though Celeste was very close, the distance felt too great, and she carefully lifted her, still sleeping, out of the bassinet and positioned her into the comma of her own curled body.
    It was flattering to be considered as the potential object of Geneva Bales’s interest and gain, if only briefly, a moment in the sun. But once the story was made public, it would no longer be fully her own. And the attention might bring with it other, unintended consequences. She turned to the baby sleeping next to her. “What do
you
think we should do, Celeste?” she asked. Celeste took what seemed like an unusually deep breath, as if marshaling her thoughts. But all she did was exhale, her milky breath impossibly sweet on Miranda’s cheek.

SIX
    M iranda sat across from Geneva Bales in the charming back garden of a little Gramercy Park restaurant that even she, hard-core foodie that she was, had never heard of. Celeste had been home for almost three weeks; luckily, Supah was available to watch her for a couple of hours today. Miranda had been loath to leave her, but she reasoned that it was good preparation for her imminent return to work.
    â€œSo how are you managing?” Geneva dove right in. “It must be a big change. And so sudden.”
    â€œThat’s it!” Miranda leaned closer. “It’s not just that I’m sleep deprived, that my life’s been totally upended or all the other usual new-mother stuff; it’s that there’s been no time to prepare for any of it.”
    â€œMost women get their nine months, right? And adoptive mothers might get even longer because the waiting period can stretch on and on.” Geneva’s expression was warm and sympathetic.
    â€œExactly. I feel like I’ve been pushed onto a stage without having learned the lines or the blocking; I’m blinking into the footlights and hoping I can wing it.”
    â€œThat’s a lot of stress to shoulder, especially for one person.”
    â€œWell, yes, but it’s worth it.” Miranda suddenly pulled back. She hadn’t even formally agreed to the interview yet, and here she was telling Geneva things she hadn’t even fully articulated to herself.
    â€œOf course it is,” Geneva said. “But I’m sure you wonder where your old life has gone; it must be somewhat disorienting.”
    â€œThat’s true,” Miranda conceded. “It’s not only the taking care of her that’s new and challenging; it’s having to reconfigure everything else. No more stopping to see a movie on the way home from work, or meeting a friend for dinner without having made plans in advance. I used to be a member of a food co-op in Brooklyn; I’m putting that on hold for a while. Same with running in the park and my book club. Everything has narrowed down to a very fine point: Celeste. And once I go back to work, my job.”
    Geneva looked down at her lap, and Miranda realized she was taking notes on her phone. Really? She still had not said yes. Then Geneva looked back at her, her gaze frank and intent. “After I saw that little bit on the news about your story, I was very intrigued.” She looked like she was in her early thirties, with brown hair cut into a crisp, chin-length bob and secured with a black velvet headband. Miranda thought it was a surprising choice; no one she knew wore headbands anymore—at least no one over the age of twelve.
    â€œI’m flattered,” Miranda said. “But I’m not one hundred percent sure that letting you do the piece is the best idea.”
    Their food had been served, and she took a bite of hersandwich—roasted red pepper, feta cheese, and spinach on sourdough—and then another, because it was so good. The shrimp-studded corn chowder that preceded it had been equally