The Search Angel

by Tish Cohen

  Quickly, she pulled down the blind and hopped onto the sofa, lying there with a cushion over her head, hoping her pounding heart wouldn’t give her away.

  “Ellie?” Her father—was he still her father even?—flicked on the overhead light. “What are you doing?”

  “Headache. Must be the weather.”

  It was the perfect ruse. He rolled his eyes and emptied his pockets into the desk drawer she’d just looked through. She hoped she’d placed the passports back the way they were. “Don’t get me started. Three spits of drizzle, God-damned marshal clears the course.”

  She climbed off the sofa and headed for the privacy of her room with the plastic wristband tucked inside her fist.

  The next time she went back to the drawer, the envelope was gone. It would be a whole year before she would get up the nerve to tell them she knew.

  Now, she drops into a chair in front of the computer and stares at the screen. Heart hammering in her chest, she types in searching for birth mother Kansas. A host of sites come up and she clicks on the first one: “Adoption Search and Connect.” A page comes up with options to search by name and location.

  Barely able to breathe, Eleanor scrolls down to “United States” and types in the only name she has to go on and possibly the least helpful name on earth: Smith.

  The screen floods with Smiths: 5,581 of them, to be exact, and they load ten per page.

  1. Smith: Leveque: I was adopted at birth out of Richmond, VA, March 28, 1978. My birth name was David Smith and my mother’s name was Jacqueline. Born in the evening, huge late-season blizzard. Birth mother came up from another state. Born with blond hair, blue eyes, please help.

  2. Smith: Balliol: My name is Heather Lynn Balliol and I am looking for my mother. She was between 23 and 25 when she gave me up at two yrs old in June ‘69. She was from Houston area and a teacher. Birth father’s last name was Cochrane, also from Houston but adoption took place in Vermont. If you want to talk that would be great.

  3. Smith: Straitman: Female searching for birth parents, Massachusetts. Adopted from hospital, January 4, 1976, adoptive parents present. Adoptive dad had personality of used car salesman, adoptive mom the hippie type with long graying hair. Birth mother had two other children adopted out and tattoo of a panther on right calf.

  4. Smith: Rudolph: At age of two days on November 3, 1953, I was left on the porch of 1649 Lincoln Street in Philadelphia by a young woman with short black hair. I was taken to Kingsbury Hospital and given the name Honor Smith. The hospital sent letters out to women who’d given birth around the 1st but no one …

  The list goes on and on. Eleanor sits back and stares into space. Finding her birth mother with a last name like Smith is going to be extremely challenging.

  The phone rings, the call display flashing a number and BACK BAY ADOPTION.

  Nancy.

  Reluctantly, Eleanor picks up. “Hey, Nancy.”

  “Hi, Eleanor. Listen. I don’t mean to pressure you, but my superior, Lorna, is breathing down my neck. She’s coming to the speaker event in four days specifically to meet you, talk to you. How are you doing with your support scenario?”

  Eleanor glances at the computer screen: 5,581 Smiths, each one as desperate as she is. “Terrific.”

  “You have someone in place?”

  “Yup. All set.”

  “Oh, thank God. I was so worried. I know what you’ve been through and how much you want this. To be perfectly honest, I think I want it as much as you do.” The sounds of a drawer opening and pens being pushed around. Then the drawer slams shut and she sighs. “So we’ll see you on Thursday. Bye-bye now.” Click.

  Eleanor hangs up the phone to pick it right back up again and dial. Four rings and a man’s voice.

  “Galileo Travel, how can I help you?”

  Chapter 14

  She sets a stack of folded, pressed T-shirts into a small suitcase and stops. Maybe Kansas City isn’t as balmy as she thinks. It has to be wrong to gauge the area’s probable temperature on what Dorothy wore in The Wizard of Oz. Though, with Lorna expecting a name from her in three days, a pair of ruby slippers is exactly what she needs.

  Eleanor checks the Weather Channel online and returns to the bedroom to add a pile of vintage cashmere cardigans, a light jacket, two vests, and, at the last minute, two scarves. A pair of gloves would be ridiculous. The temperature isn’t supposed to drop below sixty-five.

  The trip will take three days. Two for travel and one to visit the Office of Vital Statistics in Topeka, Kansas. A shuttle will take her to the Empress Inn, not far from the airport, but to get to Topeka, she’ll have to rent a car. She will leave Boston as Eleanor of Unknown Origin. With any luck, she’ll return Eleanor of This or That. Or the Other.

  Most important, she’ll land at Logan at six o’clock Thursday evening and have one hour to get to Back Bay Adoption, where she will march straight up to Lorna to surrender her mother’s name.

  The problem is Angus. She took him to the vet for a quick checkup that afternoon and the dog flatly refused to get out of her Volkswagen. The vet, after Eleanor explained the situation, came out to the parking lot to examine him, ultimately agreeing with Eleanor that he is depressed but otherwise healthy. The prescription: lots of love and keep him far, far away from the vet clinic. In other words, do not board him.

  She yawns into her hand and glances at the clock. Nearly 1 a.m. Her flight leaves in ten hours. She’d love to sleep, but the problem of Angus needs to be solved. Jonathan is the only solution. He should care for Angus. Besides, it wouldn’t be a bad thing for him to be faced with a gigantic, shedding, drooling, depressed reminder of his inability to commit.

  Eleanor buttons up her coat and marches down to Mass General.

  She waits in a long row of plastic chairs in the ER, surrounded by sick and injured people slumped in seats and wheelchairs, lying on stretchers. Two men are asleep—one a young father whose two kids play on his iPhone, the other older and unshaven and wrapped in a blanket. A teen, being fussed over by his distressed mother, has a bloody towel wrapped around his head.

  The Triage nurses must have told Jonathan she’s here, but neither of them suggested Eleanor wait in his office like they used to. Instead, they looked at each other, and hesitatingly suggested the patient area. They know what’s happened.

  She doesn’t wait long. Double doors at the end of the hall swing open and there he is in faded hospital greens she’s washed, tumbled dry, and ironed hundreds of times for him. His Littmann stethoscope hangs from his neck; the familiarity of the stylized L on the scope’s diaphragm almost makes her cry. Such a stupid thing. He strides toward her with his legs wide the way he does, as if he’s stepping around something unsavory. When he catches sight of Eleanor he heads toward her, no change in his expression. A spent woman in a wheelchair, bone thin with shoes that appear too heavy for her legs to lift, reaches out to tug on his arm. He bends over and listens to her lengthy complaint, speaks softly to her, then waves over a nurse, who wheels the patient through a doorway.

  Now, Jonathan. Planted in front of her, hands pushed into pockets. Something about him is different. She can’t place what it is, exactly. She stands and he kisses her cheek. “This is a surprise. Not another fake sprain?”

  She has to look away or risk vomiting from nerves. If he would only come back, life would be perfect. She could still search for her mother. But not with a loaded gun at her temple. “No.”

  He checks his watch, revealing his left hand. His wedding ring. He’s still wearing it. “It’s so late.”

  “I know.”

  “Weird. I was going to come by the store later this morning.”

  “You were?”

  “I just thought, if you’re going ahead with things …” He stops, tilts his head to one side. “Okay, I’ll just spit it out. Remember I signed up for that Saturday class? To build the rocking horse?”

  How could she forget? It was a program run through Emerson High School. Three weekday evening
s to make your own heirloom-quality wooden rocking horse with leather saddle and a janitor’s mophead for a mane. Jonathan signed up as soon as they learned the adoption was approved.

  She’d imagined Sylvie riding it too many times to fathom.

  “The first class was last night,” he says.

  She waits, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m saying I went.”

  “You’re building the horse.”

  “I am.”

  “For Sylvie.”

  “Yes.”

  Her heart hammers so hard he can probably see it through her coat. “Jonathan, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I’m building the horse for Sylvie.”

  Her mind whirls with what this might mean. It’s a gallant gesture to show her he’s back in? Or it’s a self-serving final kiss-off intended to assure the world he’s a perfect gentleman? “Wow. I’m shocked.”

  “Anyway. I wanted to ask you what stain color you prefer. There’s a pale one called Yellow Oak, but I like American Walnut. It’s dark without being too dark.”

  Her entire body could curl into a smile. “The American Walnut sounds nice.” That didn’t sound enthusiastic enough. “Sounds perfect, actually.”

  “Good.” He nods. “That’s the one I thought you’d like. You’re always so smart with that kind of thing.”

  A nurse pushes past with an old man on a stretcher, rolling the IV bag on a stand. In their wake a nervous silence floats between them. Eleanor fills it with “I was thinking of giving her a middle name. Once she’s here. Marion.”

  “After your mom.”

  “Plus …”

  “Plus what?”

  “I kind of need to know what you’re doing. Now. With this rocking horse. If you’re coming back, she’ll keep the name we submitted. Sylvie Sweet. But if not, I may go back to Prue. There are these personalized mobiles this artist makes for the store. I was going to have one done up for her. Even if Sylvie’s paperwork needs to be changed, she’ll use a mobile for such a short time, I want to know.”

  “That’s why you want to know my plans? For a mobile?”

  She searches all reason for what is wrong with wanting to know his intentions and comes up blank. “Yes.”

  “I shaved my beard.” He rubs his jawline, which is, of course, smooth now. “First time since you’ve known me.”

  He looks younger. Somehow, less married. She hates it. He was desirable enough before with his dark curls, his long legs. But the stubble hid him a bit. Kept him beneath a layer. Now he’s vulnerable, open. Now she’s going to lose him. “Yes. I mean, I saw. I noticed.”

  He shakes his head sorrowfully and starts toward the elevators. “This is what I’m talking about, Eleanor. You’re gone. You’re no longer here for me.”

  The memory of what was. It comes to her amid the blare of PA messages, the soft bongs of hospital machinery, the distant chatter. A low groan from behind a closed door. It started out just the two of them. The deal wasn’t baby. It was Eleanor and Jonathan, Eleanor and Jonathan. She was insane to walk away from that. Before the baby talk, they were great. They could be great with a baby. He just needs to see it.

  “Jonathan, wait.”

  He stops, turns around.

  “You’re wrong. I am here for you.”

  “Only if I’m here for her.”

  She doesn’t breathe until the elevator doors slide shut.

  Chapter 15

  The cab is due to arrive in thirty minutes. Eleanor bumps her yellow suitcase out the door and into the hall with a glance back at Angus, who sits behind her, his ears flattened against his skull. He doesn’t take his eyes off her bag. Once again, his enemy has reared its battered leather head. But this week is worse than last. He’s down to one human.

  Eleanor clips on his leash. “It’s good you look sad. Perfect timing.”

  Ginny has taken care of Angus before. She didn’t actually take him home—her youngest once had a dream Angus had two heads—but Ginny fed and walked him and let him sleep in the shop all day while she worked, so Angus was only alone at night. She didn’t do it for money or to offer a helping hand. She did it for extra time off work.

  Hauling a suitcase and the dog who despises it down the narrow flight of stairs to the street is no easy task. As long as the bag is in Eleanor’s hand, Angus won’t budge from the top step. Which means she has to make two trips down and nearly trips over Ginny, who is sitting cross-legged on the Pretty Baby welcome mat. From the look on her face and her all-black attire, it’s as if someone died.

  It’s a terrible time for someone to have died. The cab will be here in—Eleanor checks her watch—twenty-three minutes.

  “Hey, Gin.” Eleanor puts on a bright face as she unlocks the shop door and ushers Ginny, whose abdomen is already bulging, and Angus, and the despised suitcase inside. Already, Queen thumps through the walls. “You look fantastic. So slender!”

  Ginny slumps on the counter stool. “Can you hire a hit man to off yourself? Is that even possible?”

  Okay, so no one is dead. Yet. “I suppose. He may insist you pay him up front though.”

  She motions toward her midsection. “I can’t do this. Someone needs to snuff me out.”

  It happens every time. Ginny’s fears multiply with every week of pregnancy. Worries that she’ll lose the baby she swore she didn’t want consume her throughout the first trimester. During the second trimester, she becomes terrified about birth defects. And closer to her due date, she fears the nurse administering the epidural will sneeze and paralyze her for life. But accidental dural puncture is averted, baby is born healthy, and fear is replaced with exhaustion.

  “You can do this, Gin. You’ve done it three times before.”

  “No. You don’t understand. I can’t.”

  Eleanor turns on the computer behind the cash. Twenty-one minutes until the cab arrives. “Listen, hon. I was wondering—” A gnawing sound behind her makes her turn around. There’s Angus, lying on the floor, working diligently to chew off the handle of the suitcase. “Angus!” She drags the bag away from him. He rests his chin on his paws in obedience but doesn’t take his gaze off the hated luggage.

  Turning back to Ginny, Eleanor smiles. “I need a little favor.”

  “I went to the doctor, Eleanor. I’m not having a baby.”

  “What?”

  A huge crash of bass as “Bohemian Rhapsody” builds to the chorus. Ginny starts to sob without tears. “I’m having two babies.” She grabs her belly. “It’s two people I’ve got in here!”

  “Okay, that’s a bit of a shock, no question. But lots of women come in carrying twins. It’s certainly doable.”

  “But they don’t already have three boys under the age of five.”

  Nineteen minutes left. “You’ll do a great job. Listen—”

  “Two heartbeats I heard on the ultrasound this morning. You know what that means? It means two hearts. And that means two heads to delouse. Which means four more hands—that’s twenty fingers! And twenty extra nails I have to clip on top of the sixty I’m already clipping! Do you know what it’s going to be like to keep five kids under the age of five still, long enough to trim one hundred nails? And, here’s the real trouble … those nails? They just keep growing. You think, because you survive the ordeal on a Saturday—an entire Saturday—that you’re good for a bit, like with a haircut. But no! By the next Saturday, one kid grabs your wrist and you’re bleeding. The nails have already grown in—you understand how quickly it happens? And do you have any idea how many weeks there are in a year? Fifty-two. Every single year! That’s …”—Ginny, her chest heaving now, two spots of color on her cheeks—“five thousand two hundred clippings per year.” She wipes tears from her cheeks and blinks at Eleanor. “And Jamie’s toenails are thick.” Her voice cracks. “Ted calls them hooves.”

  “But you’ll finally have your girl. For sure out of five kids at least one is a girl, right?”

  Out front, a cab pulls t
o the curb and the driver gets out, stares at the building. He’s early.

  “No.” Ginny pushes matted hair behind her ears. Eleanor doesn’t have the heart to point out she has food in her bangs. “That’s the thing. I’m having two more boys. I’m going to have five boys, Eleanor. Do you know what that is in girl equivalency? It’s like having fifteen girls.”

  Eleanor opens the door and signals to the driver that she’s coming. “Ginny, I’m going away for a few days. I need you to watch—”

  Ginny pulls her close and sobs onto her cashmere sweater. “What am I going to do? I’ll never survive five boys that young. Never. Do you know how many sandwiches I’ll be making every morning? And don’t get me started on the LEGO.”

  Eleanor pats her back. It’s peanut butter in her hair; the smell is unmistakable now. There’s no way she can leave Angus with Ginny. In her state, she might forget the dog exists.

  Through the window, Eleanor sees Noel climbing into the Audi. Eleanor pulls back from Ginny. “Quick. What have you got in your lunch?”

  With the nail of his index finger pressed into a white rag, he extricates the dust from the decorative trim surrounding the odometer. Once he’s swiped all the way around, twice, he shifts the rag to a clean spot and spritzes it with an eco-friendly surface cleaner that smells like grapefruit. Then repeats the procedure around the gas and temperature gauge.

  Eleanor sits in the seat beside him and watches. The look on his face is either enthusiastic or maniacal, she can’t decide which. Holding up Ginny’s crushed box of raisins, she flashes him a smile. “Raisins are surprisingly high in vitamin C. I thought, since it’s cold and flu season, you might like—”

  “The thing is—and people don’t know this—you have to use a gentle cleaner. These chemical-based sprays, they dry out the dashboard. You combine that kind of harsh formulation with the constant glare of the sun and the heat and cold and, man. You’ve got yourself a recipe for premature desiccation and fading and cracking. Dashboard’s never gonna look the same.” In and out of the vent slats, along the crevice surrounding the stereo and A/C system goes his rag-covered finger. A slight shift of the hand to find a clean spot on the cloth, then over to the glove box.