So, I messed up with posting between here and A03 so am posting a MASSIVE chapter to catch you up with my apologies. Hoping I've managed to close the gap.
Do please let me know if people are reading here anymore or if interest has transferred mostly to the A03 site since I'm not sure whether to continue posting here. Drop a review and let me know your preference since I know many people use both platforms for reading.
Cheers! TLH
"War", the word drummed through her pounding head as she made her way home that evening. All her life had seemingly been battles, won, admittedly they had been won, one after the other, but never quite winning the war it seemed despite fierce, often ruthless, ambition and a scrappy sense of survival that didn't quite seem to fit the cool, elegant exterior that gave no clue as to her past. But she had used that to her advantage as she'd quickly ascended the ranks of Runway with little thought as to how the world chose to view her beyond the immaculate veneer.
But all thoughts of war and a good measure of the hopelessness that weighed down the slim shoulders slipped from her mind as Miranda entered her home later that evening, and immediately began investigating the sound of whatever abomination it sounded like was taking place in her kitchen. Her mouth had already opened in reprimand, but it stayed open in something like shock as she watched what was going on in front of her.
Some sort of 'hoedown' appeared to be going on in the kitchen, and Miranda watched the young woman shimmy across the kitchen floor, her eye automatically going to her denim-clad behind shaking and gyrating to the infectious beat of the music as she sang Shania Twain into a spatula, the twins attempting to follow in her Western boot-clad footsteps with a whisk and a potato masher respectively as their choice of 'microphone' each enthusiastically stating that 'Man, they felt like a woman'.
Miranda hadn't seen her girls so carefree in months, perhaps years, and she stood silently at the door, , drinking in the happiness of the scene in front of her. This was hers. And yet, even at this moment she felt she was standing in front of a window, looking in at what she could never have as had been the recurring theme of her childhood. Her memories took her back to the bitingly cold, wintry streets of a London preparing for Christmas. Suddenly, she was once more that little girl staring into the shop window at the beautifully made toys with newspaper stuffed in her shoes to keep out the snow and slush that seeped in anyways. Then a damp chill set into her feet with a painful lasting ache that she would stoically endure until she could warm them by the fire once she was home.
The soft, dun coloured velveteen rabbit with soft ears lined with pink satin to match its nose that she longed to stroke and hug to her, the floppy arms and the weight just enough for her to feel as though it were a 'real' hug, much as the story suggested.
She had read the book at school and identified with the shabby, worn toy who had been put aside, ridiculed for patches and signs of frequent mending. Although rather than her body, like the rabbit, it was her clothing that bore the telltale signs of poverty. She had thought that if one's shabbiness had been borne of love and affection, then it wouldn't be so bad. But that was where their stories differed.
Still, she looked at the stuffed rabbit in the window, at the shining black eyes that seemed to twinkle kindly through the store window as if sensing a kindred spirit.
She looked at the dolls with their perfectly painted porcelain faces, the fine silk and satin of their dresses trimmed with lace though one that caught her eye was in ice blue silk with intricate black piping embroidered on the jacket that was trimmed with soft white fur and even had a muff to match. Her eyes widened further as she saw the miniaturized ice skates on the doll's feet before she was jostled aside by other children who pointed out the toys they wanted to their parents, toys plural!
Without the distraction of the beautiful toys and the warm light that emanated through the window she was reminded of her sodden, frozen feet. The ache in her feet simply melted into the ache in her chest and throat as she tried to keep back tears. She wouldn't cry, she wouldn't grimace and shift her feet trying to get warmth back into them, she herself would be as ice, frozen and without feeling that, if left unchecked and noticed, would see her ridiculed or punished.
Besides, what good would dreaming do? She knew she would be lucky to get a new pair of shoes, or at least some in better condition and without holes, even if they were ugly, leather boys shoes that she could do little to hide from the other children at school.
And yet, if she was good which she tried so hard to be, she couldn't help imagining a Christmas day where a floppy eared friend made of soft velveteen and a doll with golden curls and a beautiful dress with a muff and skates.
Even with the music blaring, and in the middle of her dance, Andy felt the mood in the room change subtly, the atmospheric pressure shifted, and she grinned widely before she even turned around to see the source of the atmospheric change.
In the four inch stilettos that had made up part of her 'armour' for the meeting today, the questioning, cool blue gaze was nearly level with Andy's mischievous brown twinkle as she quickly rearranged her features as the memory faded.
"Nuh-uh", the denim clad brunette clicked her tongue and shook her head, long ponytail swinging. "Nope. No heels. Cowboy boots or bare feet only, which only leaves you with one option."
She wrapped her arms around Miranda's waist, partly in greeting and partly to subtly steady Miranda as she stepped out of the heels, her chin dipping to keep Miranda's gaze as the older woman 'shrank' before her eyes with the loss of her heels.
"What makes you think I don't own cowboy boots?"
"We are definitely revisiting that thought later." Andy muttered, thinking to herself that she'd very much like to see Miranda Priestly in cowboy boots, and preferably nothing else. Except a black Stetson, blue eyes shining underneath the brim with a certain knowing smirk. Lord, yes, she needed to make that fantasy a reality sooner rather than later.
"Since when are you a country music aficionado?"
Andy laughed, "It's an old love. I got it from my dad. We used to dance around like this when no one else was around, except I would try to dance with my little feet in his big leather cowboy boots. Even though he became a lawyer, he never forgot growing up on Nan and Pop's farm."
Andy smiled but Miranda heard the faint note of wistfulness that had infiltrated her tone and the spark in her eyes had dulled a little.
Miranda looked across the kitchen where Patricia lay in her bed, tongue lolling, too old to join in the rollicking fun but enjoying the scene immensely and raised her eyebrow, hoping to raise the mood as she saw the brown eyes she loved so much dim as she remembered her father – then, fondly, and now, with hurt.
"Toto, I do not believe we're in Kansas anymore."
"Dorothy," she nodded at Andy, "Munchkins," she nodded at the twins and her eyes twinkled slightly.
"And who does that make you?" Caroline questioned.
"Isn't it obvious?" Miranda gestured to the severe black outfit she was still wearing after her meeting with the Board. "The Wicked Witch of the West."
"Are you sure you guys aren't the flying monkeys?" Andy teased, looking at the twins who pretended to be offended.
Andy realized there was one thing she hadn't done yet though, since Miranda's entrace.
"Here's a twist Oz didn't see coming," Andy's grin was wicked as she moved towards Miranda and kissed her dramatically, bringing the older woman's face to hers while the 'munchkins' in the background covered their eyes.
"I do believe I'm melting," Miranda said as she let her body mold against the younger woman's, knowing she would hold her weight
"Ugh, come on Toto, let's let the Wicked Witch and Dorothy make out while dinner is cooking."
With an expression uncannily like her owner's, Patricia seemed to raise an eyebrow at being called 'Toto'.
"Allez, cherie," Miranda murmured to the St. Bernard, still wrapped in Andy's arms, and the pair of women watched them thunder up the stairs to the media room.
"Thank you for loving them." Miranda murmured into Andy's neck as she rested her head against the younger woman's shoulder, accepting the support of the embrace.
"Miranda, you never, ever, have to thank me for loving my own children. I'm just glad you forgive me for corrupting their English with an evening of country Western twang."
"As long as it's temporary," Miranda chuckled before letting one hand slip down from Andréa's back to rest against the ample curve of her bottom clad deliciously in skin tight blue jeans. I admit a lack of exposure in my history that I have willingly continued, but I will say this evening's events have given me a new appreciation for denim. Perhaps the fashion of the 90's wasn't so abhorrent."
Andy looked aghast. "The nineties were the best."
"Hmm," Miranda hummed lightly, soaking in Andy's warmth like she was that freezing little girl as she ignored the younger woman's ridiculous statement, "I will say, however, Andréa, that, any 'man' aside, you do very much feel like a woman to me."
Standing there, holding Miranda in the kitchen, Andy was able to put two and two together for the first time in all her years of listing to classic country music as to what the men meant when they sang about the softness of a woman in their arms and the feel of their hands on her waist. And somehow, no matter her size or how she grew over the last 9 months of childbearing, she had always fit in Andy's arms, the feeling no less sublime at any size.
Andy felt her body tighten with arousal, and she bit her lip, adjusting her gaze to the side as she tried to get control of herself, cursing the inseam of the painted on jeans as it pressed against her core, repressed from its long dormancy, already throbbing with heat, just from her lover walking though the damn door, looking, there was no other way to describe it, hot as fucking hell in head to toe black couture reminding her of the days of terror and arousal as second assistant to the Editor-in-Chief of Runway magazine...who now happened to be wearing Andy's ring on her finger.
"Darling, why aren't you looking at me?" Miranda's heart sank where a moment ago it had felt buoyant for the first time in months. She searched her mind quickly for anything, or any number of things she might have done to cause upset. "Is it…Are you very upset with me for going to the meeting today instead of staying at the hospital?"
Andy's head whipped around. "Huh? What? No, no, that's not it at all, Miranda, I promise.
"What then?"
"Urgh, this isn't going to come out right…"
An involuntary flush painted itself incarnadine across the younger woman's cheeks as she struggled to find the right words.
"I can't touch you right now, in the way I'm dying to, and I feel like an insensitive animal for wanting to bend you over that table and push your skirt up right over that beautiful, sexy ass you're hiding beneath that tight pencil skirt and take you so deeply that I'd swear I'd get you pregnant all over again.
Miranda swallowed convulsively; her mouth suddenly dry. "Ah…Well, we certainly wouldn't want that." Miranda said breathlessly, although her arousal shuddered to a halt at the knowledge that many women did find themselves pregnant only weeks or months after giving birth because they were so eager to give their husbands what they wanted, often to simply keep them from straying. She remembered how sore and unattractive she had felt even 3 months after giving birth to the girls, and reluctantly agreeing to sex because technically it had been 6 weeks plus a month. Never mind the fact that her body still felt wrecked.
Her memory brought her unwillingly back for the second time that evening to growing up in the poorer neighbourhoods of east London. Miranda remembered the flocks of children in each household that would have struggled to feed one. That gaunt, drained look of women who stood in their doorways, a baby balanced on their hips and the bulge of another unwanted child beneath their skirts. Their husbands came home, ate, fucked their sore, tired wives and went to sleep. Often women had had to seek out the horror and humiliation of a back alley termination of their pregnancies because it was the only way to ensure their other children were able to eat, and if not thrive, at least survive.
"Don't be so surprised, sweetheart. You must know, you have to know how beautiful I find you. Truly, Miranda, there is nobody, literally no body in the world I would want in place of yours. I want your breasts, always, in any shape or form. Right now so sensitive and so full that they can produce enough milk to feed our babies. I want your waist to wrap my arms around just like this, because you are still a perfect fit.
You have to believe me when I say I want to feel how deliciously soft the skin on your stomach is because I have only known it full and tight with pregnancy, and because of that it is a reminder that you carried two babies, four babies really, for 9 months under your heart. I want to fill my hands with the curve of your hips that has deepened and tells me the story of every one of our children that have grown in you and passed through you into the world, and into my life, making me a mother as well. I worship your body, Miranda. I swear to you I crave it; I dream of it, I revere it."
Miranda looked down and sucked in a breath as her suspicions were confirmed, her cheeks reddening. As she had listened to Andy' sensual census of her body, the heat that had started deep in her core had spread like wildfire and also caused her whole body to flush and her breasts to leak.
A shudder originating from her core rolled through her body and caused her to shiver as she clutched Andréa's arms as her knees weakened "Did I really almost make you come?"
"Do be quiet, Andréa. You realize this is the first La Perla i've worn in months, and you've ruined it."
"Hoo-eee, I'm good." Andy congratulated herself, slipping back into her Western persona.
Glancing up at the stairs quickly to make sure the girl weren't about to come down, Andy quickly sunk to her knees in front of Miranda and skimmed her fingers over the stockinged calves and over bare thighs to tug Miranda's underwear down from her hips, helping her to step out of it before bunching it up in her hand and stuffing it in the back pocket of her jeans. "Ruined? Hardly. I would say improved."
She pulled Miranda gently against her once more, loving the feel of their bodies molded into one entity. "And know this. I'm going to buy you the most beautiful cowboy boots you've ever seen, and then, wearing nothing but those boots I will ravish you until you are writhing on the bed, soaked and thrashing and begging me.
Miranda shuddered, her hand still pressed to her abdomen to control the muscles that spasmed at Andréa's words.
Even before she was showing, even when she was 8 months pregnant, and now, even with the remaining baby weight, Miranda fit perfectly in her arms whether they were standing like this or lying in bed at night with Andy as the big spoon, Miranda willingly almost wantonly pressed against her warmth.
"I still can't believe you find me desirable," came the soft murmur below her chin.
"That's not even close, Miranda. You are not just desirable…you are vital." Andy's voice cracked with emotion on the last word before shaking her head and smiling to get a hold of herself again.
"Before those beautiful blue eyes begin to narrow at me, I'm using Nate as a comparison only because prior to now he is the most serious relationship i've ever been in, and by far the longest. But even in the beginning when we were supposedly 'crazy about each other' – I could go an entire day without thinking about Nate until I went back to our place and saw him. But from the moment I stepped into your office in those what I will now admit were God awful though highly comfortable orthopedic loafers and that 'lumpy blue sweater', not an hour has passed that you didn't cross my mind, even after I didn't work for you anymore. You know, for a long time I thought that made me weak, but with you I am stronger than I ever believed I could be. More than I thought, more than my parents, or friends, or Nate…"
"Andréa, I assure you, even from the moment you stepped into my office in those 'God-awful but comfortable orthopedic loafers, you have always been the strong one…even in your choice to leave"
"Guys, is dinner ready yet or are you still being gross?" A voice rang down from upstairs and Andy snorted as Miranda rolled her eyes delicately towards the ceiling in mild exasperation.
"To take on all of this darling, there can be no doubt that in this pairing you are the strong one."
Andy glanced at the stairs to make sure no thundering feet were descending before taking Miranda's lips again. "Sweet talker."
Suddenly, the exhaustion returned to the older woman's face, weary beyond belief in mind, body and spirit. "Tell that to the Elias Clarke board."
"I'm having a hard time not doing it right now after seeing what they pulled today. But we'll save that for late - after the ravenous munchkins have been sated and we check in with Dr. Jansen for an update on Chris' status I want to hear aaa-ll about it."
The brunette's smile as she turned to reclaim her spatula-turned-microphone-turned-spatula now that it was needed to serve dinner was like the bells of the toy shop opening, the warmth enveloping her in a much-needed embrace, as much at 50 as at that 8 year-old letting the bitter cold claim her heart. That would not happen again, not so long as Andréa remained in her life.
Gracious, the young woman had said that she, Miranda, was vital. And perhaps, to her, and only her, it was true. But Andréa, her Andréa was so much more, she was every toy Miriam had ever dreamed of, every wish, prayer and desire she had ever had as an adult who could buy anything she wanted. Anyone, even. Little felt like a gift anymore, such was the curse of fortune. But her fortune by far was enriched by Andréa's presence
This girl, no, woman, was the Breath of Life itself with infinite love and patience abounding, for whoever lived with her would need it. An angel, a miracle, a resurrection...and she was hers, just as the converse was true.
War would wait - she was its commander, was she not? No decisions would be made tonight, no strategy or scheming. Today she would hold her children close, those she could, and give thanks for the miracles that were the two babies in the NICU, one having undergone another sort of miracle today and coming through it. Then she would celebrate life in a different way with Andréa once they had gone to bed even though little could happen but hold each other. It was enough
Besides, she thought, shaking her head with a gentle smile and a subtle roll of the eyes as she heard thunderous feet on the stairs, it was time for supper..
Lying in Wait
Andy's peripheral vision caught the older woman as she grimaced with one hand pressed against her stomach where it curved subtly under her ribcage and the other at the base of her back after she had reached for something on the counter.
"We'll get you into a hot bath and then into bed with a hot water bottle, after you eat something.
Miranda opened her eyes to glare at the younger woman.
Andy parried by returning the gaze with a variation of the other woman's signature raised eyebrow as she went back to setting the table. "If you get sick, youl won't be able to see Chcris." She pointed out for the umpteenth time. "They're starting him on the immunosuppressant right after surgery so his body doesn't reject the heart. He won't even be allowed in crowded places until he's 3 months old because the risk of infection."
Miranda ignored the panic that rose when she thought of what her newborns faced, refusing to think about it at that moment lest she fall apart…again.
"It's not so much my feet as my back and the muscles in my stomach."
"Your core probably got a workout it wasn't expecting, balancing on 4 inch heels after several months' hiatus. Your abdominal muscles separate during pregnancy and it takes a while for them to build up strength. The Spanx you've been wearing offer some abdominal support, but they also make postpartum girdles"
Exhaustion and discomfort caused her to snap as the younger woman spouted facts that reminded her of how weak and human she really was; and for the sake of her family, she couldn't be; not now, not yet, not until they were safe and the threats to their happiness gone. That knowledge and the reminder of her infirmities and age turned her response into something more worthy of the Dragon Lady rather than fiancée to Andy, something which hadn't happened to this particularly barbed extent in a very long time, surprising both of them as Miranda finally snapped.
"Must you constantly and tiresomely sound like an automated recording of the Harvard Medical enyclopaedia, Andréa?" Miranda all but hissed in Andy's direction, her exhaustion momentarily ebbing in favour of vitriol.
The young woman started slightly at the familiar tone that had become unfamiliar over time and all but disappeared from their relationship. But she wasn't the timid ingenue in a lumpy cerulean sweater, though she still owned it, and her eyes narrowed slightly as the wide, doe-eyed look of shock faded.
"Were I emulating a medical journal, Miranda, I should hope you would have more faith in my skill as a journalist to know that I would have used the correct term for the condition which is 'diastasis recti'. My interest however, doesn't lie in gynaecology, although there are plenty of lesbian jokes I could derive from that. My interest lies in you, or your personal gynaecology if I were to look for a crude joke. My reading material for the last 9 months hasn't been Steinbeck, Miranda, It's been Bombeck and before you accuse me of standing here being a martyr for lost reading time, don't think for one second I don't know that anything I have given up, like reading material or nights out, is minimal compared to what you have. That's not what this is about. This isn't a contest, or a fight or a power struggle. It's a partnership.
The young woman looked and sounded older than her almost thirty years and despite it not being her intention, Miranda was reminded at what Andréa had given up. And she was wrong. She may have given her body, her reputation in some ways, but the woman in front of her had given up her youth, years of life she could have spent exploring the world, herself, her dreams and instead stepped up to take care of the Dragon Lady at the most difficult time she could have chosen and become a parent to four children nearly overnight.
Andy was running her fingers through her hair as she tried to make Miranda understand.
"Do you hear me? Will you believe me? That I'm not out for your blood or job or fortune like so many have? This is about what I promised you long ago – that I would always do whatever I could to make your life easier. There's not a manual, Miranda…God, that I wish there was, it would have saved myself and a million other girls a lot of grief, though none of them had the privilege of standing in my shoes. And despite the fact that I'm wearing an old pair of cowboy boots, they would still kill to be in my shoes because I'm standing in your kitchen, in your home, which has become my home. and I'm not about to run away from home…not again. I did so once and it nearly killed me."
There was no riposte, no retaliation, or rejoinder. Instead, the older woman simply looked lost after the emotional toll of the day's events. God there were so many… News of Jason's death, of their son's second chance at life should the surgery be successful, the board meeting, Irv…all of it.
Then there was the toll of the emotions themselves having experienced them in such dizzying heights and lows in rapids succession over the last 12 hours– not least combined with the ever-present exhaustion of new parenthood had rendered her all but dumb and mute it seemed, save for the expression in the blue eyes that told Andy everything she needed to know in that moment, and her own closed for a second as she gathered herself and shook her head, ponytail swinging against her shoulders, and sounding much older than her 29 years once more as she put aside any remaining thoughts of anger or stinging pride.
"Let's not do this. Not now. There's been too much that's happened today and neither of us have decompressed or even absorbed it all. Let's just let it lie for now, and we'll pick it back up in the morning when it's not so fresh and we're not so raw. Food and sleep and our girls, that's all that's left to tackle for today."
Miranda gave a small nod, not meeting her eyes directly and moved silently to the table as the clatter of footsteps on the stairs announced her, their, daughters' arrival. They made up for most of the shattered silence that lingered in the wake of the women's fatigue.
Had her silverware always been so heavy? The older woman wondered idly as her hand trembled.
She managed some dinner, wanting to be an example for her girls, but the enormity of the day's events were quickly catching up with the editor and she managed perhaps half. She couldn't even remember how much there had been to begin with or what the meal had even consisted of.
There was no talking when they got into bed that evening. Both women were too tired, too overwhelmed.
A bath would have helped Miranda's mind and muscles wind down, but God help them, in this state, Andy was sure they would both drown. Instead, she headed downstairs one last time, checking in on the girls quickly and returning with something wrapped in a towel that she brought into the bed.
Oh…that was better. Miranda closed her eyes and hugged the hot water bottle to her abdomen as she lay with her back to Andy who had slipped a second water bottle between herself and Miranda so that it pressed against her lower back while she held one to her abdomen.
When the water bottle had lost its heat, Andy moved to rise since Miranda wasn't asleep yet, but a hand reached back to keep her there and it was obvious Miranda didn't want her to move from the bed so Andy replaced the heating aid with her hand, letting the warmth seep through so that the period of pain relief was extended.
For Andy, it was bittersweet because it reminded her so much of the way they had slept together during the pregnancy when Miranda would lie with her back against Andy for support and the younger woman would soothe her to sleep as she ran her hands over Miranda's stomach. Even now, with her touch, Miranda had fallen to sleep nearly instantly, her features had smoothed out, and she looked more at rest. Andy just wished she would allow herself this easy, available reprieve from the pain when she was awake, but there was still some part of Miranda locked away deep inside that told her she, by herself when not expecting, didn't deserve comfort. Andy thought the babies might have been the key to allowing Miranda to accept that kind of care and comfort more easily, but it would appear as though their birth had instead cemented the mental stronghold of whatever internalized insecurities Miranda had about her body the moment the drugs wore off from delivery.
She wondered if she might…
In the midst of her musing, Andy's brain shut off completely, much in the way a computer would having long been warned it was losing power and required recharging. But acting normal for the girls, trying to support Miranda it could just be the drain was too large for any night's sleep to fix. Andy knew this, she accepted it. That was having a family, that was love. Yours powered others, and in turn they power yours in a mutually symbiotic fashion. The realities of life however, no matter how much of your life was directed by love, didn't always support that balance. Something, someone had to give, eventually...but eventually, there was nothing left of someone to give, that was the balancing act, and there was rarely a net to be found.
Stand By
Neither dreamed, or if they did, they slept so deeply they didn't remember. But both woke to the same nightmare come the next morning in the form of Page Six.
Miranda had called an emergency meeting at Runway following the events of the board meeting, where they would take the morning to determine how far Irv's machinations truly went and if there was any other sensitive information he was accessing or passing along. Miranda had already put in a call to her personal lawyer, knowing they couldn't confront Irv or reach out to the Elias Clarke legal department without proof they too weren't in Irv's pocket. She had also requested, or rather, demanded, a copy of the full NDA to include with their initial statements, and another copy for herself which she would go over with a fine-toothed comb to see if any loopholes existed, or if there was any ambiguity in the phrasing that could be interpreted in a way that meant the NDA was only binding to the individual Runway publications, rather than the conglomerate, as her suspicions were nudging her towards believing in the wake of Irv's suggestions for her removal.
As daunting as the legal documentations' thick piles of paper appeared, the thinner pages of newsprint proved a worse foe – their empty, bitter commentary almost designed to hurt the editor in one of the only ways possible, through her children.
'Did the Dragon Lady donate HER heart to her son? It would seem so, with the heartless abandonment of her newborn son who underwent a very serious surgery today as the recipient of a heart transplant.
Instead of remaining at the preemies' side, we've heard several reports of Miranda Priestly looking every inch her usual self, walking down the halls of Runway only hours after her son's surgery in true glacial goddess form. Talk about ice, ice, baby!"
(Is it any wonder those poor kids wanted out early? – or maybe it was on purpose on the part of the Dragon Lady, less time to get back in those designer duds?)
"They're right," Miranda said, dropping the thick stack of newsprint, which fell with a loud thwack on the desk in her office where they had stopped for the morning before seeing Chris at the hospital. She couldn't focus on that though, it hardly mattered what they said about her. If they had gone into more detail about Christopher's condition however she would have been forced to take action to remind them that her offspring were off limits to the press, regardless of how newly 'spawned' from the Devil.
Irritably, she reached for one of the other magazines spread on her desk that Andy assumed must be exchanged daily for the latest issues by the assistants even when Miranda wasn't in the office based on the samples from today's date staring up at her in a variety of vapid, glossy expressions.
She had walked into the office, down the same halls she had a thousand times before, wondering if the steps she was taking now would be some of her last before mentally shaking herself out of the pathetic melancholy she'd fallen into. This was Runway, and she had work to do, just like any other day. Except today, the work was not like any other she had had to do before, though she was determined to be no less successful in it. Too much depended on it, on too many peoples' livelihoods on her for her to lose sight of her goal in favour of wallowing.
The staccato of her heels faltered slightly as one of the framed magazines caught her eye and she was nearly certain as to what had happened.
"Emily, get me the last 8 issues of French Runway," she said quietly to the red haired woman who had appeared at her side smoothly and silently, falling into her old position easily.
She ran her tongue over her teeth lightly as she placed her coffee down on the glass table and raised her gaze to those of her most faithful employees and friends thirty minutes later. She hadn't needed a quarter of the time to figure out what had happened having the benefit of seeing things side by side, but she had been too angry, too livid to speak at that point and even Andréa's companionship had fallen quoet quiet as she let Miranda's ire grow, knowing she needed to feel it before she could get rid of the toxic emotion and think clearly.
Andréa stood near the side of her desk, close enough to provide support but clearly indicating that this was Miranda's show to run. Emily stood as though awaiting orders like in her assistant days while Nigel and Serena took the two chairs Miranda had gestured to when they entered the office.
"During the board meeting yesterday, comparative figures were shared that would indicate American Runway has seen its prime and is approaching obsolescence under my influence, and indeed absence over the last months…"
The others looked on in quiet horror as they had been the ones in charge for the issues in question, but she continued, needing to speak it all at once. "You know as well as I do what our numbers were in the months I was gone, and while KPIs fell beneath our usual standards and predictions it was no further than I myself had predicted and planned for, less even, in many cases, and for that, I could wonder whether the obsolescence is indeed my own." Her voice, already dangerously soft, warmed slightly. "I hope you will take me at my word when I saw I am truly grateful for the effort you put in while I was unable to be present or otherwise involved. The fact remains however, not why we were under such scrutiny in the meeting, but how. Not least how we were blindsided when we had predicted this outcome in our calculations. It was then revealed with much quiet gloating from Irv, that our nemesis was indeed our sister."
Through pursed lips she uttered three words in a tone that left none unaware that she thought the very opposite… "une belle surprise". The words rung a bell instantly.
"Jacqueline?" Nigel got it first having been exposed to the frenchwoman's brand of sycophantic charm.
"French Runway to be exact, but yes, Jacqueline"
Miranda began to pace behind her desk cagily, thinking out loud. "Their numbers are suspiciously inflated, except…that should be impossible given that its the magazine's purchase and circulation that creates those numbers, and makes them equally easy to quantify and prove, disabling any mechanism to lie, or so one would think. They can't force people to read the magazine, so it's an 'honest' win on their part in the eyes of the Board, save for the dishonourable way they got their content, which is what they have yet to be enlightened about.
"This sleight of underhandedness is despicable because he is using, by all appearances, a legitimate, quantifiable means to try and sink American Runway in my absence, and by that I mean Runway has had subpar content, she nodded in Emily and Nigel's direction to let them know her words weren't said in anger, only truth before continuing on in another long breath that carried with it more unpleasant truths.
"Our so-called decline is in comparison to French Runway's numbers and is a direct result of someone sharing the initial ideas for the editions published while I was away. It would seem the draft editorial calendar with preliminary mock ups was sent directly to French Runway who, of course, publishes their issues ahead of ours in order to stagger sales and market exposure for Runway's enterprise globally as well as giving advertisers additional opportunities to buy space in multiple magazines to increase viewership. That has never hurt us before purely for the fact that our content was superior, and it mattered little what French Runway had planned."
"Oh my God," Emily's manicured hand covered her mouth and she looked as though she didn't know whether to cry or erupt in rage as she looked at the spectacled man opposite her.
Nigel took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, as he sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking older than he ever had, Miranda noted. She was sure the last 9 months had helped to age him. She knew how hard the group had been working in her absence, the fact that Runway's numbers had remained only on the lower side of average was incredible to her, and slightly worrisome if her own value was to be put in question.
"One of the meeting rooms has been turned into a sort of coworking space where multiple groups can meet and collaborate with all the material being in one place for the sake of easy review later. Irv has insisted on being at every meeting since you stepped away." Serena spoke first, the stunning features dark and stormy in contrast to the paleness of the Englishwoman shifting between anger and horror. Her voice was calm and steady, her body language however was anything but
"He never seemed to pay much attention though which was surprising. He simply came in and sat, usually working on his phone until the meeting had adjourned," Nigel added.
"He was taking pictures," Emily realized, the clipped voice sounding hollow.
"You know I do not repeat myself, and yet I will for the sake of how important it is you hear, and understand this. This is not your fault…I am not being kind, my magazine, my career, my reputation is at stake, I would not say this only to soothe egos and dull any determination to right an error." Miranda's voice once more lost the hard, brittle edge. "I am proud of what you accomplished in my absence and should there be fault, it lies solely and heavily with me."
"No," the brunette began firmly, stepping forward, but a raised hand stopped her progress and Andy was highly aware that she was facing Miranda Priestly the editor, in battle mode no less and she would not come out of that fight unscathed should she challenge her now in front of her employees. This would be yet another conversation that would take place in private when she wasn't feeling threatened and facing loss of control.
"It's still my fault, Andréa. If they had been supervised correctly this wouldn't have happened and the onus of that is on me, no one else."
There was a long pause and no one spoke, but Andy heard the nearly silent exhalation and subtle slump of her shoulders. "I said I would be present, involved…I thought I could do it and I let you down," she turned to look at the three others standing in her office.
"It was suggested to me in the meeting with the Board yesterday that Jacqueline Follet be made editor-in-chief of American Runway for the duration of my maternity leave, and." She paused, not so much as for dramatic silence as trying to ensure her voice didn't shake as she finished the thought… "potentially after as well."
All four other mouths in the room dropped open, including Andy's. That detail had not been shared at home and her reaction told Miranda that it should have as eyes that were usually a warm, rich brown, muddied and flashed with anger, darkening to a flat, almost coal black.
Before the young woman could explode, she continued on in a more businesslike tone, attempting to regain her equilibrium which had slipped, in her domain, her office, no less.
"In sum it would seem that American Runway is, in fact, losing sales by a seemingly legitimate means. However, it is our content, our creative and intellectual property that is being stolen and passed over to French Runway, who announces a theme just similar enough to leave us scrambling to find an alternative and therefore leaves us coming in second best…which is to say the least…unacceptable."
The look of pain she'd seen break through several times already that day returned to her features momentarily and Andy made yet another mental note to make sure Miranda took some of the ibuprofen Andy was carrying, given her regular migraine medication was off-limits as long as she was breastfeeding. Today, hopefully, Chris would be stable enough for them to hold him and Andy knew Miranda would want to feed him as she reassured herself he was alright.
She was pulled away from her musing as Miranda rounded her desk. Watching Miranda's brain work was almost as sexy as watching the curve of her ass sway as she paced behind her desk in agitation.
Typically, women were given the all clear to resume sexual relations 6 weeks after giving birth. But even without consulting with a doctor, Andy knew it would be much longer until Miranda's body was healed and strong enough to make love again. And that was her body, nothing to speak of her mental readiness. Because of the restrictions placed on Miranda during the risky pregnancy, Andy had become an expert at bringing the older woman to intense orgasm without deep penetration, but while happy to have any opportunity to bring the editor pleasure, her fingers itched to be deep inside Miranda again, feeling her walls clench around her hand, soaking her nearly to the wrist as she drew yells and gasps and groans from the typically quiet, coolly reserved editor. The corporeal version chose to speak at that moment and Andy had to push aside her thoughts and libido, rolling her eyes at herself internally for losing focus on a sex daydream.
"We make the theme ambiguous," she said softly as the plan formed in her mind, growing in form and structure as they watched. "Just enough to allow for different interpretations of the same idea. An actual change in theme prior to publishing or setting the budget must be run by the Board, and, as CFO of Elias Clarke, Irv so we would lose our advantage."
The older woman kept pacing as she spoke, reminding Andy of a jungle cat sleekly stalking prey. Not only was she admiring Miranda's physical assets, but she truly was captivated by her mind. Miranda was hers, in all varying forms, but this, this was the Miranda she had first met and fell in love with but hadn't seen in a long time. She was a loving partners and consummate mother, but here, she was in her element and at her most lethal – her protective instinct only outmatched by threat to her family. Andy sensed a kill was not far off and the smell of blood and custom Givenchy perfume was in the air as a warning to those who would heed it.
As she thought, Miranda's eyes fell on a piece of pyrite glittering under the office lights. Cassidy had given the small chunk of mineral to her after a class trip to the Museum of Natural History where her class had 'mined' for gems and identified the results, proudly taking home a specimen of 'Fool's Gold' that Miranda knew meant more to her than the real thing., which is why it was displayed in a place of honour in her office after her daughter had given it to her despite it being her most prized possession at the time.
The stubborn little redhead had even tried to convince her to take a family vacation to the 'Mineral Capital of the World'.
She had chuckled when she saw 'Bancroft' was a small town in Northern Ontario in Canada which was surrounded by admittedly beautiful scenery, but was otherwise rather unremarkable for its glittering title that had so captivated her seven year old at the time.
That same seven year old also took it upon herself to 'mine' through Miranda's jewelry box in search of diamonds so she could test their hardness and durability. The finer points Miranda had tried to convey likely went unheard as she tried to explain that the 18k gold setting was decided not anywhere near ranking on the Mohr hardness scale. Nor was the hardwood floor an appropriate way to test, she explained a little louder, having discovered several floorboards very noticeably scratched to high heavens to where she wasn't sure even a professional waxer and buffer could take the gouges out given they had been made with a cut diamond.
Miranda looked over at the woman she intended to spend the rest of her life with, and the wheels began turning once more as an idea formed while looking at the glittering mineral specimen.
"Fool's Gold…" That was it. An eye that lacked discernment couldn't tell the difference.
Irv and Jacqueline…fools the both of them. Fools to think they could make a fool of her and her magazine. They, unlike she, simply could not see past what people wanted or needed and choose for themselves – at least not in a way that indicated any level of higher thinking or strategy as was patently obvious given the fact that they had conspired to steal the creative property of Runway for lack of their own original thought.
"This needs to be big, expensive…or at least appear so in our delivery of the theme as though I desire some sort of extravagant comeback. I want their overinflated egos to go overbudget on a tone deaf theme that doesn't resonate with the readers and appears gaudy and out of touch. Think the Romanovs in their prime, Marie Antoinette in the 21st century, opulence, excess, splendour an embarrassment of riches…quite literally."
"What the court of Versailles would look like in 21st century couture," added Nigel, slipping on the glasses he'd just polished as he thought about what the older woman was describing.
"Precisely...down to the location itself."
"Permits for Versaille? On a French Runway budget?" Emily scoffed, having had to procure photograpy and shoot permits for locations on almost every continent and therefore knowing the expense and the hoops one had to jump through to bring equipment in. Not to mention disrupting the tourist traffic which was their main source of income.
"Irv will find the extra funding somewhere, from our budget most likely, and with our luck it won't be an above board transaction. It could backfire, but we'll take the chance that it wont. Frankly at this point we have little to lose given we have..." She paused briefly, but closed her eyes for just a little longer than could be considered a blink and spoke what was a hard truth, given all she had sacrificed for the magazine which proved much less secure than any had thought. "Given there is everything to lose."
"And how do you propose we sell this notion to Irv as we pitch it for American Runway?"
Miranda smiled a fake, cold smile. Charming perhaps to those who weren't privy to her mannerisms, but terrifying to any who knew or worked for her. It was the kind of smile used to placate important persons she needed professionally but had no respect for or interest in, frequently seen at parties and shows.
When she spoke her voice was a low hum, almost musical in its softness and seductive lilt as she wove a web around unsuspecting prey. "My dear Nigel…" The man in question shivered, glad her ire wasn't truly on him as she spoke for an as-yet unsuspecting foe she was setting a careful trap for. "Such an issue will cause readers to spend more on the clothes with maximalism and capitalism preached through the garments on every page. And when advertisers see the response, we'll more than recoup any losses from producing the issue. I can't think of a better way to come back from leave…" she spoke to the group again instead of her invisible adversary for whom her bell-like tone tolled.
"He will want to take this 'coup' away from me, to slight me and cut me off at the knees by interrupting this concept and presenting it, on a golden platter, no doubt, to Jacqueline.
Andy spoke up, her tone thoughtful as she listened to the vituperative, vitriolic velvet of her lover's voice but wanting to play Devil's advocate so that they had every angle covered. Similarly, she took her role as this particular devil's advocate seriously and would protect her and what she loved at all costs.
"So if this is the editorial calendar that will be 'gifted' to French Runway and taken away from us, what then do we put in its place that is still within the realms of likeness to the theme?"
"The picture of wealth. To men like Irv, wealth…worth is placed only on whatever already has value… market value, that is. He cannot see past the gilded blinders of his own self-importance to interpret the meaning of the word as anything else, to his detriment, and now our gain.
"He doesn't need to be at the editorial meetings now that I'm back and attending once more. I have no doubt, however, that he'll try to weasel his way in which in this case is what we want, so that he doesn't suspect anything as we hold a decoy meeting with him and his video recorder in attendance.
Our interpretation of the overall theme, as it were, would follow something along the lines of legacy and wealth, of immortality. To them, it will be pitched as truly worshipping at the altar of Runway and the necessary expenditure of wealth and acquisition of luxury and opulence that lends itself to an elite status for those who can afford it and pull it off. Let them make fools of themselves as they posture themselves as gods, their Olympus, their magazine a representation of their ill-gotten gains and lack of original thought and creativity. Wealth, expense cannot replace or hide an utter lack of style and taste, look at Jacqueline, Irv, their clothing undoubtedly designer but doing nothing to elevate their beauty, if any should exist, or hide the ugliness of their personalities which are felt regardless.
Few of them had ever heard Miranda give such a detailed explanation of her plans and it was spellbinding as she used nuance and wit to explain her point, proving beyond a doubt she was more than able to captain the helm of Runway if not more. There was fire in her eyes, burning bright as a blue flame and purpose in her voice, both of which had nearly been extinguished by the events of the last year, beginning with the divorce, then the attack, the tumultuous and fraught pregnancy and birth, yesterday's tragedy and miracle and now Irv's ill timed takeover.
"We want to expose more than their deception," the journalist in andy muttered aloud as she thought. "Not only that we need to show American Runway juxtaposed in the most flattering light.
"So we shift . Where they will portray immortality as something only those with the status of gods can achieve, or those with means of wealth, our interpretation will be as guardians, cultivators of life and beauty, the source of its creation and longevity. It's a fresh take, different certainly than anything we've done before and a message which has not totally been embraced by most top design houses."
While they were speaking, Emily's mind went back to something she had seen on Project Runway while watching with Serena. Admittedly, not much of the episode got watched as they became more entangled on the couch, but she remembered the general idea of the assignment.
"What…" she took a breath, rolling her eyes at her own shaky voice and steeled herself to speak again more loudly. "What if we reached out to a subset of designers loyal to Miranda, have them play along so Irv and Jacqueline wouldn't catch on if they approached them for information. Have them design for both interpretations.
A small, not entirely pleasant glint appeared in the steely blue eyes and a smirk graced the feminine bow of the editor's mouth that otherwise belied her sharp tongue. "Allude, perhaps, to what has been happening in my absence? And of course, the disrespect to our beloved art and craft itself by means of Irv and Jacqueline's inherently abhorrent practices? Hmm, worth considering, Emily, I must admit I am pleasantly surprised."
"Andy, why don't you do an essay on the evocative power of clothing, why thrift and vintage are so popular and not only for reasons of frugality or environmentalism?" Nigel mused, the hand running over his head a familiar sign of creative process at work.
"We do this all the way or not at all," Miranda decided. If theirs is to be a gross excess, let ours be the opposite of what they expect. We portray the theme of immortality and wealth with a more altruistic tone – something to educate the audience on sustainable fashion and practices in the industry. Looking at ways of reducing carbon footprints in manufacturing and shipping, environmentally friendly and biodegradable dyes and fabrics. By prolonging life, guarding it, protecting it, rather than using it up or for our own selfish purposes – that is how we create immortality. How we protect beauty and life, understanding the wealth we have in it rather than trying to gather it and use it as quickly as we can to fuel individual pursuits of immortality."
The editor nodded, looking up as she came back to the room where only moments before she had been utterly lost in thought. "This is a start. Nigel, Emily call the next editorial meeting, 'reluctantly' invite Irv and sell the theme in a way he will interpret it as we wish him to and take it back to Jacqueline and French Runway. I won't attend, as I'll be at the hospital this afternoon, and I don't want to distract Irv from the little game he thinks he's playing. Serena, spread the word please, quietly. Discretion is of the utmost importance at this stage.
"of course, Miranda" the tawny haired Amazon murmured submissively, though the glint in her eyes that answered Miranda's wasn't missed by the occupants of the room, a spark that turned into a flame as her gaze met that of the fiery redhead's hungry looking expression and Serena knew it wasn't for a nice hunk of Cheddar.
"How are you feeling so far?" a loaded question, but Andy asked anyway as they rode down in the elevator, hoping the older woman's mood wasn't geared towards volatility at the moment, but she needn't have worried.
"Better, although I believe yesterday was an effective test of how soon i'll be back in heels"
"You'll make flats the new trend just like you did peplum skirts and blouses when you were trying to hide the fact that your belly was growing with not one, but two beautiful babies."
"That didn't last as long as I had hoped it would."
"Still, doesn't exempt the fact that by the time you revealed your pregnancy, Emily had 5 peplum skirts because Miranda Priestly, La Grande Dame of Fashion had started a new trend."
"McQueen and Westwood did a serviceable job at providing suitable pieces in this case."
Once Andy and Miranda had left Runway for the hospital, the group of three that were left standing in the editor's office quickly went to work saving the other thing the editor, and they, loved the most.
…
Meanwhile, part way across town, the car ride over to the hospital was one of heavy silence. Not despair, but a tense, fragile hop, resulting in a frustrating lack of equilibrium that didn't sit well with Miranda's internal monologue or anxieties. Looking over the tense lines of the editor's body, Andy could only reach out for a hand, simply holding the unresponsive fingers, warming them, letting that warmth tell the woman she was there.
The younger woman knew, even as a writer, that there were no words left to say. Only the sight and feel of their son's chest rising and falling could fix the stuttering palpitations of their own hearts. It was a bittersweet rminder that she had in fact, heard her son's heart beat one last time and how she wished now that she could have reembered that moment in time.
The last time they had passed through these doors, their world and future had changed in an instant. With one life ended far, far, too early, another was saved, and it was difficult to reconcile their joy with the loss they felt on behalf of Julie and John , having felt its spectre so keenly with the health risks the babies faced. They were fighters, Andy assured Miranda, but memories of the empty bassinet that so recently had held a warm, living body made her question whether that was enough. After all, one may be a fighter and yet, every fighter has faced a battle they did not win, no matter how positive or sure the prediction of its outcome. There was no surety in life and so she had no choice but to cede control to a higher power and live on hope, knowing both the futility and yet painful desire to 'rage, rage against the dying of the light', which of course no human could command, not even she.
Every ounce of power she had attained, fought for and won, couldn't buy the next breath of her child. It was a truth that stole her breath more and more often as their son's condition had become more dire, and she found herself trembling, numb and terrified all at once as they entered the NICU to be met by Dr. Jansen and several nurses from the team that blocked her view of the baby in the bassinet they stood by.
Borne
"Miranda," Dr. Jansen's voice was calm, even; the lines in her forehead not as pronounced as they had been the last several times they'd spoken regarding the older twin's condition; but the panic squeezing Miranda's chest prevented her from picking up on this nuance she normally would not have missed as the blue eyes sought out their prize the moment the door to the high stakes unit opened.
"They've just brought him back from Recovery following the surgery. All markers are pointing towards a successful transfer, but I know you're aware the first 24-48 hours are critical to test for rejection of a transplant or risk of infection."
For a mind that so effortlessly transmuted thought and speech and action and wove it into an empire of her own making, Miranda was single minded in this moment; instincts borne of evolution and millennia of mothers guiding her thoughts.
"Where is he?" The words were abrupt, cold to the ear, but her eyes and the tenseness of her body betrayed the desperation of a mother denied access to her child, a feral glint barely held back by good breeding and etiquette.
Dr. Jansen wasn't a mother herself, but the echoes of that same evolutionary need flowed deep in her veins, the 'maternal instinct' that she knew intimately exists similarly in all women with or without children, but in those without is labelled as protectiveness. This instinct often likened to the ferocity of a lioness, is possessed in seemingly greater measure than man could boast. The ability of women to channel that ferocity of spirit into empathy rather than aggression, to channel it outwards by affirmative action that, in sharing, multiplies its power, rather than divides as lesser minds would see it, is a strength; a hidden one no doubt, empathy seen as shameful or weak.
She often went down this train of thought in her line of work, in dealing with mothers and those to be. Her line of work and profession was also one that often forced her mind to draw this parallel, seeing, living, even in this day and age, the inequality women faced when they were so bold as to make footsteps of their own in medicine, rather than following in tracks that led them nowhere but the backs of the men determined, it often seemed, to block their progress.
Of course she worked side by side with men whom she held in great regard and for who the admiration was returned, resulting in results better by far than were achieved by taking sides. But it was the primality that flashed through the eyes of even the most genteel and well-bred women that took her back thousands of years, to the first instincts of the first mothers to protect their own.
Moving her mind back into present day, she moved towards the back of the room, where a series of incubators resided in isolation from the greater area of the NICU.
The larger of the two, he was still so very small and looked so fragile in the stark, climate controlled environment of the bassinet. Manoeuvring around the awkward, bulky bassinet, Dr. Jansen disconnected the various tubes and wires order to bring out their son and place him in arms that had ached since he had been taken out of them.
Miranda sighed as she felt the warm weight of her child's body in her arms and pressed him against her own heart, tears running into the crook of his neck as she choked back a sob at hearing his heartbeat, for the first time again, though he was outside of her body.
Her beautiful, beautiful baby boy. Her son
She vaguely registered the warm hand that settled on her back, guiding her gently to one of the rocking chairs.
Andy felt her heart breaking and healing, then repeating the process in a way she wasn't sure spoke of catharsis or torture as she watched Miranda breathe in their son, letting the warmth of the tiny body, the little chest rising and falling with every beat of his borrowed heart.
No, not borrowed, she corrected herself, sadness and relief warring with guilt and gratitude as she thought of the ceremony she and Miranda were due to attend in a few hours. Not borrowed, but gifted, miraculously due to the generosity of near strangers who found a way to continue life after death, following the tragedy of losing their own precious newborn who was taken too soon from the world he had been barely acquainted with. The only physical mark he left would be a small cross, the etching of lamb confirming what the small size of the grave marker suggested, of an innocent life gone too soon.
She knew Miranda was drained from the dramatic unfolding of events at Runway that required her full attention, something she couldn't give no matter how she stretched herself with everything that was going on with the babies, the girls, the press, her own health and mental state.
Before now, the Ice Queen wouldn't have left the building until a solution had been hammered out and the wheels set in motion. But while she knew Andrea understood where her career came in her life, her need for the pursuit of perfection when it came to the magazine, the young woman and the grace and gracelessness she had brought into the life of herself and her girls had changed her, not meaning to, and in not meaning to, changed her irrevocably. Where she once would have resented that sort of interruption and intrusion she now found she couldn't live without it, was as terrified of losing it as she once was of losing momentum and focus.
She was more grateful than ever as she once again felt the younger woman's hand reach for hers in the car as they drove towards a finality she was not prepared to face and parallels to her own circumstances that continued to be the stuff of nightmares.
That same hand slipped unobtrusively into hers as they entered the building, innocuous in its outwards appearance as though it were any other shopfront or business dealing in goods rather than death.
In the hospital there was at least an air of hope, of the potential to get better and to live. This building held no such hope. Instead it felt hopelessly empty even as the room was a sea of moving black, mourners gathering for the infant's service. The emptiness seemed to echo inside her, making her chest feel hollow and her self-control brittle as again and again her imagination placed her son inside that box, or her daughter.
Although she knew the funeral was for an infant, the sight of the tiny coffin at the front of the room stole the breath from Miranda's lungs, and she heard the hitch of breath from her partner whose eyes too, couldn't tear themselves away from the wooden box they knew all too well could have easily contained their son, and still might, if the tiny, fragile body rejected the heart.
Miranda faintly registered Andréa's thumb brushing over her knuckles reassuringly, and she focused on that sensation as she fought the painful lump in her throat and the swirling nausea in her gut that was a result of the combination of guilt and grief.
Closing her eyes briefly, Miranda shelved her emotions to be dealt with, or not, at a later time; although Andrea was more than likely to insist. For now, she had to be strong for her girls, though in truth at this moment, it was her girls who gave her strength, her twin touchstones who had arrived just after them.
Cassidy and Caroline had insisted on attending, intent on paying their respects and saying thank you and good bye to the little boy who had saved their brother's life. It hurt and helped to have them near, to remind her that her children were whole and well, all four of them. It seemed an embarrassment of riches when John and Julie had lost their only child and she had four.
Miranda had long since mastered herself, the ability to disguise or suppress her emotions as natural as breathing. The girls took after their mother, but hadn't yet perfected the same self control for which both women were grateful, knowing the burden for what it was and the toll it took on mind and body.
Caroline's eyes were dry but rimmed in red, her lips thin as she stared at the pale wood of the tiny coffin. Cassidy was equally silent, but tears ran down her cheeks. Knowing Cassidy would be more receptive to touch and take comfort in it, Andy ran her hands through Caroline's hair in acknowledgement as she pulled the younger twin close.
"He's not in that box, baby," Andy murmured, kissing the ginger head beneath her chin, lifting her eyes to meet Miranda's as she spoke, sending a silent communication that went beyond her words.
"He's in a much, much better place, sweetheart. I promise you. I believe that wholeheartedly. He's not hurting anymore, like he would be if he was still with us. They couldn't find a way to make him better soon enough, and his body was too little to keep going with that much stress.
She felt, rather than saw, Miranda step away from them, and Andy ushered the girls to their seats before going through the same door of the small chapel.
Miranda was in the hall, her hand flat against the wall as she bent slightly at the waist, hand over her mouth, eyes closed, though Andy could see the fine tremors running through her body
She lifted her head at the sound of the younger woman's heels. "I'm alright…I'm fine, I simply needed,"
"You're allowed," Andy murmured, not knowing if the older woman would welcome touch at the moment if it was the beginnings of a panic attack she was witnessing. But her moment of 'weakness' only lasted for another several seconds before she drew her emotions inwards in another display of impeccable self control, turning abruptly before she could be made to talk through her feelings and rejoining the congregants as Julie stepped up to the altar, her gaze lingering on the wooden box that held the body that had contained her hopes and dreams. As of yet, she didn't know how she was going to move forward and create new ones, but she had promised her son as she had held the still body that she would try.
"Every mother dreams of their child's future, their accomplishments and the impact they will have on the complicated world they have been brought into. For many of us, it takes years to figure out our passion, our purpose, and what and how it is we can make the world better in our own small way.
One thing I struggled with after Jason's death was that his life was of no consequence to the world, only to us. Those of you here today have been instrumental in showing us that Jason and his life, his story, touched people beyond ourselves and the NICU walls. He will be remembered and his memory kept alive in our conduct after today and all days after.
Slow silent tears tracked down the younger woman's face as she listened to the eulogy. Miranda's eyes were dry but red rimmed, her expression solemn and serene but for the fast rise and fall of her chest that belied her internal struggle.
As the grieving mother's words lingered in the air after she finished, Andy watched as Miranda closed her eyes, her posture shifting and changing the way she held herself so that it almost seemed as though she had donned armour, a defense against the onslaught of emotion and the vulnerability she was about to show.
Not knowing how she would react to physical contact, Andy made a quick judgement call and reached out for Miranda's hand in the moments before she moved to rise from the pew. Miranda squeezed back gratefully, a shaky sigh escaping her lips before she remembered herself and rallied, replacing her 'mask' as it were though it couldn't hide the redness of her eyes as she took her place at the front of the room. She didn't look their way and Andy understood. She couldn't. She couldn't look at her children, at her family and keep the composure necessary to get through her speech.
The girls were subdued, sniffling softly as they shared the little pack of Kleenex Andy had found in her purse, unable, in their youth to school their emotions with the same discipline as their mother for which Andy was grateful.
"All life ends, some before it has barely begun and there is no greater agony than losing a child. There is no fairness or reason, only the grim realization of the reality that life goes on even as it seems as though it's ending. But every life has a chance to mean something, no matter how short or long. In some way, all life has an effect, though it may not be clear to us at the time or ever. Some lives amount to very little over a lifetime, and some do more than any of us standing here may do with the years given to us.
Many of you know my son was a recipient of Jason's heart through organ donation. I do not know if this was luck, grace, divine providence or coincidence, and regardless of optics or perception, I do not care to know. All I know, and all I care about is that my son was given back to me, to my family and there are no words or wealth that could express the magnitude of my thanks. Wealth and power couldn't have saved him. The kindness and presence of mind of choosing to help others even in the midst of immense grief of losing a child is the kind of individual I believe Jason would have grown to be. Instead, he accomplished more with his three months of life than many do in their lifetimes. Indeed, he has not only irrevocably changed the course of my son's life, he has done so for every member of my family.
I realized in recent months, that miracles require humility. One cannot claim something to be miraculous if they do not first accept their own powerlessness. Powerlessness is not something I often accept, however the last 11 months held a greater need for miracles than ever, no amount of wealth or power would have saved my son. A child's suffering is enough to bring any parent to their knees, in exhaustion, in prayer, ceding control they never had in the first place to a higher power they may or may not believe in in exchange for the impossible.
The story of Jason's life is short, but I hope you carry it with you as you leave here today, remember his legacy as you organize your affairs and choose whether or not to sign the card that allows these miracles to occur through choosing to be an organ donor – and in doing so, keep his story and him alive in your hearts and honor his memory by showing some small kindness when and where you can.
My family will experience this by seeing m-our son grow up. His unfailing heartbeat forever a sign of our unfailing gratitude and the unfailing kindness of strangers, now friends, and now by blood, family.
She didn't reach for Miranda but let her hand rest on the wooden pew so that it was nearly touching the older woman's white knuckled grip on her speech notes. As the sermon began, Andy felt a finger brush her own and reciprocated by letting her pinky run over Miranda's, adding another finger and another until Andy was gently moving the platinum band on Miranda's finger back and forth gently with her thumb pressing against the centre stone.
She was so tired. A morning of intrigue and the discovery of betrayal and treason, leading to the emotional reunion of mothers and son following the newborn's serious surgery would have been enough to drop the average person. But of course Miranda was anything but average. She did have to remind her of that though, and she herself needed the occasional reminder that her goddess was human – fragile in areas others thought to be invincible.
Her heels may be Prada rather than Achille's, but she was no less able to fall when cowed by life's ample unfairness and attacked where she was most vulnerable.
As she watched the older woman sleep later that day, replaying the day's events in her mind, she let her head fall back against the wooden headboard, closing her eyes and directing her thoughts upwards.
She renewed her vow in that moment to always be there to catch Miranda's when those unfairnesses and atrocities caused her to stumble, and she would never let her fall.
"I promise you, Miranda. I swear to you I will not let you fall. And if it happens that I'm not strong enough, I promise to fall with you. I'll keep my word that I will never leave you.
Feeling the drain of the day's events herself, Andy shut her laptop, not caring whether she had saved her work. It likely wasn't her best anyway given her state of mind, and slipped underneath the covers, hardly needing to seek the older woman's warmth before Miranda's body was pressed against hers, together, Andy thought as Morpheus pulled the thoughts from her head in blissful respite as she was able to escape her worries, for a little while at least. When she woke, she would face them with Miranda at her side, together, as they were meant to be, forever.