The Search Angel

by Tish Cohen

  “So,” says Nancy, sipping from a can of Nestea. A droplet lands on her sweatshirt and she frowns. “You’re feeling better?”

  Eleanor pulls her cardigan closer. “Yes.”

  “Good. And where’s Jonathan?”

  “He isn’t here.”

  Nancy’s laugh has an edge. “I can see that. He’s not well yet, I take it?”

  “No. Not really.”

  There’s no benefit to delaying the truth. There’s no way around it. The best thing is to just blurt it out and suffer the consequences.

  “Poor guy. I had a sinus infection once. Thought my face was going to explode.”

  “Nancy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “We weren’t really sick.”

  “I don’t understand.” The pop can returns to the desk.

  “Jonathan left me.”

  “What?”

  “He walked out.”

  “Oh shit.” Nancy’s chair squeaks as she slides closer. “Because of this?”

  Eleanor nods. She feels sobs coming on and digs her nails into her thighs. She cannot break down. She must appear strong. Fiercely maternal and capable. Able to raise cribloads of babies all on her own.

  Nancy reaches out and squeezes Eleanor’s hand. “Hey. It happens. It sucks, but something as huge as adoption can break a couple. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it.”

  “He’s all about the attachment problems, what might go wrong …” Her voice quivers and she stops talking rather than risk a sob.

  “I know. And he has a point. There is a higher likelihood for emotional problems with some of these kids. You don’t go into this halfway.”

  Eleanor reaches for a Kleenex on Nancy’s desk. “Last night, I actually begged him to lie to you. To pretend we were intact so you didn’t pull the adoption.” She presses a tissue into the corner of one eye and then the other. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  Nancy smiles. “Well, I’m glad we didn’t go that route. Not that I haven’t been there before too.” She watches Eleanor.

  “So. You’re here in front of me. It’s out in the open. What do you want to do?”

  Eleanor tucks her hair behind her ears. “I want to adopt her on my own.”

  Nancy pauses. Presses her lips together thoughtfully. “It’s not the ideal, but certainly adoption by single parents is a growing trend in many countries,” says Nancy. “I know of a single woman who had success in China. Russia and some of its former republics welcome singles. It’s not typical, singles adopting, but it’s happening more and more. Guatemala is another country accepting them.”

  Eleanor stares at the woman who’s been working with her for the better part of a year. What does Eleanor care about Russia or China? “Sylvie’s from the States.”

  “The problem, for single adoptive parents, doesn’t just lie in the agency or country’s approval. It can be difficult once you bring the baby home. Friends, family, sometimes they jump in with their own judgment. That’s something to consider.”

  “Yes. What about Cali—?”

  “Guatemala is really on the forefront. Same-sex couples qualify in Guatemala. Huge draw for gay couples.”

  “Okay, but—”

  Nancy sits forward in her seat and folds one hand over the other. “Sri Lanka doesn’t adopt out to singles.”

  “Nancy. I only want Sylvie. I want to go ahead with this adoption. Not another one.”

  “We’re cool with single parents adopting here. We’re good.”

  Eleanor falls back in her chair. She closes her eyes for a moment to process this, then leans forward on the desk. “So Sylvie’s still mine? That’s what you’re saying?”

  “Every agency has their own policy—some don’t accept singles at all. But here, we see it like this: Not every couple that adopts will remain a couple. And not every single parent will remain single. We look at a person’s strength and character. His or her parenting potential. You own the hottest baby store in the city. It’s not everything, but it gives us a certain amount of ease. There will be some new paperwork to fill out, satisfy us that your finances can support a child, that you have appropriate care for her while you’re at work, etcetera. But the real thing is: we need to see you have a strong support system—this becomes more important than ever for a single parent. This we do not waver on.”

  She can have Sylvie. Eleanor allows this to sink in a moment. “By support system you mean child care, that sort of thing?”

  “I mean friends and family. You need at least one dependable person who lives nearby, who is going to be there for you day or night. Are your parents close?”

  “My parents are dead.”

  “Siblings? Uncles or aunts? Cousins?”

  Eleanor searches her life for middle-of-the-night support. Jonathan, really. He was her support, has been since her adoptive parents died two years ago. There are no siblings. No cousins, but for her dad’s second-cousin Jeremy who runs a whale-spotting boat tour out in Maine.

  “No siblings. Aunts and uncles and cousins aren’t around here. But I do have a friend who works for me. Ginny.”

  “Okay. She’s good with kids?”

  “Well, she has three of her own … so.”

  “Is she the kind of person you can call at three in the morning to pick up Pedialyte at the drugstore? That kind of thing?”

  “Well, her husband does shift work, but some nights would work, I’m sure.”

  Nancy frowns and leans over her desk. “You seem to be a bit isolated, Eleanor. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned.”

  “No, I’m not isolated.” Eleanor laughs too shrilly. “I’m surrounded by people all day long.”

  “We had a similar case a few months back: single woman adopting from Indiana. She was a little fuzzy on who, exactly, would be there for her in a pinch, but she was such a doll and worked as a teacher. Anyway, she convinced us. Four months into the adoption, she lost her job. Had to miss work one too many times because of colds, unreliable child care, a bout of chicken pox. Then she had a huge financial struggle, had to go on government assistance, what have you. Wasn’t a great situation. My superior is fanatical now. We do not support single-parent adoptions unless the individual has a reliable support network.”

  Eleanor shifts in her chair. “So where does that leave me?”

  “I can’t in good conscience approve you adopting Sylvie on your own if you don’t have more support, Eleanor. I’m sorry.” Nancy opens a file on her desk and shuffles through the papers. “I know you’ve already had a home visit, but I’m going to book you in for another now, with this change in your situation.” She looks up, her expression grim. “I’d like you to have at least one key support person there. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Eleanor stands, slings her purse over one shoulder. “No. No problem at all.”

  “Oh, and Eleanor?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a guest speaker coming next week. Get the details from Miles. I’d like you to attend.”

  Chapter 9

  The package in her mailbox is from El Centro, postmarked two weeks prior. She knows exactly what it is—it’s a DVD from the agency in California. Part of the deal through the agency is a video of your child, though Nancy warned them that some of these videos arrive after the child does. On the envelope, above the address, Mommy has been written in black marker, obviously by a caregiver. Eleanor races up the gritty stairs to the second floor and into her apartment.

  She kneels in front of the DVD player and fumbles to get the plastic disk free while Angus watches from beneath the dining room table. “Angus, come sit with me.”

  With a forlorn groan, he drops his chin onto his paws and stays put.

  She slides the disk into the machine and waits. Nothing happens at first, then the crooked chaos of the camera being held at someone’s side, turned on, pointed at the ground. Children shouting, a baby crying, a TV blaring can all be heard in the background. A woman speaks, her voice deep
in tone, almost masculine, but it’s impossible to hear what she’s saying over the din. Then the camera swings up. There.

  Sylvie.

  Moving. Babbling. Looking around.

  Eleanor laughs out loud, her eyes stinging with tears. It’s magic to see her in motion. To see her come to life.

  That smooth caramel skin with freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. Those eyes! They glow as if lit from behind. Her wild hair defies gravity. With adult hands cupping her underarms, she stands stunned and wobbly in a too-tight sleeper on what is likely her foster mother’s lap. Eleanor’s breath sticks in her throat as Sylvie looks off to the side, drooling as she sucks on a set of plastic keys.

  To see her live like this. It’s almost like having her in the room.

  The camera pans back and more of Cathy can be seen. She’s long-faced and tired in leggings, a big T-shirt, and pastel Keds. From her neck hangs a silver cross. The furniture behind her, it all seems to have been taken from an office. If not for the playpen to one side with two toddlers in it, and the TV blaring, you wouldn’t know it was a home. Cathy smiles stiffly—clearly she’s not comfortable in front of the camera, but the baby she handles with ease. A bird chirps from somewhere in the house. A lawn mower whines. Children race past and shout. The cameraman, likely Luiz, keeps saying, “Sylvie.”

  Sylvie is much smaller than Eleanor imagined, her hair longer and bushier, this time pulled back in a pink headband. No pom-poms. She’s at Eleanor’s favorite stage, just leaving infancy and bumping against that deliciously sweaty, drooling-puppy state of toddlerhood.

  Eleanor cannot decipher what the foster mother is saying over all the background noise, but the woman points excitedly toward the camera lens to encourage Sylvie to look. The child does, but only as she reaches out to touch the lens in wonder. It’s obvious Cathy feels some sort of responsibility or pressure to make the girl smile. She’s been fostering for fifteen years. She knows what the adoptive parents want to see. She jostles and cajoles, then looks up at the camera as if to say it’s impossible. Sylvie will not smile.

  “Sylvie, say Mama,” says Luiz, off-camera. “Say Mama.”

  Suddenly Cathy lifts the baby up in the air and bops her up and down. The keys jangle against Sylvie’s wet chin, her red mouth exploring the plastic chain. Eleanor, still on her knees, shuffles right up to the screen, stares, barely able to breathe.

  Then Cathy changes her tactic. She moves her face close to the baby’s, then buries her mouth in Sylvie’s abdomen, giving the child a raspberry kiss. Now, with the keys still in her mouth, Sylvie tucks one knee up to her belly, then the other, and a wide grin opens her face. Sylvie’s laughing face fills the screen. Eleanor freezes the frame. A tingle spreads down her arms.

  Nothing will stop her from having this child. Nothing.

  Chapter 10

  The way to accomplish the impossible is to break it down into steps. First you tackle the most doable. This way you get your bearings, you build your confidence. With any luck, by the time you reach the impossible, you’re stupid enough to believe you can do it.

  When Jonathan was onside with the adoption, the plan had been for Eleanor to oversee the store from upstairs for a month or so while Sylvie got adjusted. During this time, she would interview nannies to find one that was not only the most loving and capable nanny since Mary Poppins, but one that formed a quick and tight connection with Sylvie.

  Again, that was then. Eleanor can no longer afford a nanny. It’s time to arrange the next best thing.

  Sunnyside Day Care was recently written up in the Globe as the best child-care facility in the downtown core. Located in an historic redbrick house with a wraparound porch, it has walls painted every color of the rainbow. There’s a play station, an art station, a food station, a reading nook, and a closet full of rollaway mats for sleepy-time. Through the window, you can see the playground, complete with plastic climber, tricycles, and a grassy island upon which several young boys toss around a ball covered in stars. Bouncy music charges the air with enough fun that little ones are meant to forget about their parents for eight to ten hours, five days a week. The staff appear to be appropriately attentive and nurturing, and the children seem content.

  All snacks and meals are locally grown and organic. When a new child joins, she is assigned a Sunny-buddy—an older child whose job it is to make the newcomer feel welcome. Most of the staff have been there since the day they opened their doors. Continuity. That will be especially important for a child like Sylvie.

  The owner, Wendy Nicholls, a substantial woman with a friendly red tinge to her skin, pushes a clipboard across her desk to where Eleanor sits perched on a wooden chair. “We have a three-month wait list, but fill it out anyway. You just never know who’ll move away, or whose mother decides to quit work and stay home full time. Your daughter could wind up with a spot in the next few weeks.”

  Your daughter.

  Eleanor stifles what will surely appear to be a goofy smile and picks up the pen attached by a long string. The wait list isn’t good news. Sunnyside is located within walking distance of the store—Nancy will like that. Being that she’ll be raising Sylvie on her own, a farther day care isn’t a great option. The form wants the child’s name first. Eleanor enjoys printing Sylvie Sweet. Allergies, the form wants to know. Eleanor doesn’t know this. She writes: to follow.

  “How many on the list ahead of us?”

  “Let’s see now.” Wendy reaches for a pad nearby and flips it open. “One … three … no, four. Four kids ahead of your Sylvie. But what often happens is a spot opens up and the parents have made other arrangements, the child gets nicely settled elsewhere and Mom and Dad don’t want to disrupt things. So you could just as easily be next in line.”

  A knock at the door. A smiling woman in a painting smock and clogs leads in a young boy—no more than three—with bouncy yellow curls. His round cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy. “Sheldon isn’t feeling so well, Wendy.” She lifts him up and sets him on a chair beside the desk and his legs dangle listlessly over the edge. He starts to slip his thumb into his mouth and the woman—her nametag says Laurie—stops him and wipes his hand with a disposable cloth from a package on Wendy’s desk. Eleanor approves of the precaution. Laurie motions that it’s okay now and the thumb disappears into his mouth. “We’re thinking maybe a call to Mom is a good idea.”

  Wendy places the back of her hand on his forehead and nods. “You’ve got yourself a bit of a fever, sweetheart. Would you feel better at home with your mom?”

  Sheldon nods, a big, springy curl falling over his cheek.

  Eleanor continues to fill out the form—occupation, address, and phone number of mother’s workplace—while Wendy attempts to contact the little boy’s mother. She’s not in the office and isn’t picking up her cell phone. “Your mommy’s out right now, but that’s no problem at all.” She dials another number. “Let’s talk to Daddy, okay?”

  Sheldon nods again and mumbles “Daddy” through his wet thumb.

  “Oh, hello, Mike. This is Wendy from the day care—everything is fine—I don’t want you to worry. But Sheldon isn’t feeling all that great right now and we’re thinking he’d probably rather be at home with Mom or Dad.”

  Laurie runs a hand over the boy’s head. Father’s name, workplace, contact info, Eleanor’s form wants to know. She stares at the “Father” box, pen hovering above it.

  “Okay, I’ll tell him. Sorry to disturb.” Wendy hangs up and smiles at Sheldon, giving his knee a loving squeeze. “He’s already on his way, honey. Should be here in about ten minutes. Would you like a Freezie to keep you cool while you wait for Daddy?”

  Sheldon’s eyes widen. He gives a garbled and wet-sounding yes. His Velcro’d shoes bang together in excitement for Daddy or frozen treat. Likely both.

  Sylvie would have to make do with the treat.

  When Laurie leaves the room, Eleanor looks up at Wendy. Her words come out in a near whisper. “What if there’s no father a
nd you can’t find the mother? Who do you call then?”

  Laurie is back. The thumb is replaced with a Freezie.

  “No worries at all.” Wendy points toward the form. “We’ll just call whoever’s next in line. It’s right there in the next box, see it? ‘Next of Kin.’ Your parents. Sister, friend. Aunts, uncles. A grandmother. Put down as many as you like.”

  Eleanor stares at the form. She has no one to offer her daughter but a Great Dane with a penchant for eating ice cream when no one is looking. She can’t exactly put that on the form.

  There was a fantasy Eleanor had the year she learned she was adopted. The movie Annie Hall had been on TV and Eleanor convinced herself Diane Keaton and Woody Allen were her parents. To imagine you sprang from the loins of famous people is common among adoptees, Eleanor would learn later. There’s a certain comfort in the belief that in order to give you up, your parents must have been extraordinarily important.

  Woody and Diane made perfect sense. They were together from 1972 to 1977, the timing was perfect. In fact, when Diane accepted her Oscar in March of 1978 wearing a shirt and tie, two voluminous skirts over a pair of pants, and her sister’s socks, she could very well have been hiding post-pregnancy baby weight. Eleanor was born in ‘75, but still. Diane is a busy woman. She mightn’t have had time to hit the gym.

  It explained everything. The crooked nose her adoptive mother called charming. Pale skin that refused to even freckle. A tendency to overdress. Très Diane, she convinced herself. From Woody, her diminutive frame maybe? Her poor eyesight? Definitely insecurity.

  She made it a point to look up every movie they made together. There was Play It Again Sam filmed in ‘72, Sleeper in ‘73, Love and Death in ‘75, and then Annie Hall. The way Eleanor sees it, she was conceived during the pre-production phase of Love and Death.

  It had to be. Especially when you consider Diane went on to adopt her daughter in ‘96, her son in 2001. She must have felt at least some guilt for giving up Eleanor …