The Search Angel

by Tish Cohen

  A pregnant woman approaches Pretty Baby and steps over a boy sprawled across Eleanor’s doormat.

  “Sorry,” Eleanor says to her customer, who looks unimpressed as she heads for the plush toys.

  Before these teenagers get into the habit of depositing themselves in front of her store, Eleanor decides to take action. She marches to the back and returns with an antique bench she painted periwinkle blue—the color of her logo and front door. It’s a valuable piece, but not nearly as valuable as the confidence of her customers. These kids need seating. Near Noel’s door.

  With the girls looking on, she bumps the bench through the door and sets it in front of Death by Vinyl, right beneath the window.

  Fully aware that the girls are giggling at her, she returns to the shop to find Ginny watching, an amused smile on her face. “You are so naive it almost hurts.”

  “What? I think it’s a brilliant idea. Now they know where to hang out.”

  One of the smoker girls snuffs out her cigarette and wanders over to the bench. The skateboarder stops his concrete-shattering tricks to follow them over to Noel’s. They stand around and observe this foreign object. So quaint. So pretty. The bench might as well have been dropped by aliens, the way they gawk. A tall boy, elbows threatening to pierce his sweatshirt, nudges the bench with the toe of his sneaker. They wait for it to move or fight back.

  The bench, of course, does nothing.

  “See?” says Eleanor. “They’re admiring it.”

  One of the boys, this one weighty enough that Eleanor feels concern for his skateboard, picks up the bench and drags it out onto the sidewalk in front of Pretty Baby. He kicks it onto its side.

  “What’s he doing?” Eleanor asks.

  Ginny laughs, shakes her head. “I don’t think you want to know.”

  They watch as the boys race up the sidewalk and, one after another, turn, leap onto their boards and shoot back, grinding their wheels across her beautiful bench. Paint chips and splinters scatter and right away the top begins to separate from its base. In seconds, the bench is a splintered pile of periwinkle kindling.

  Eleanor bursts out of the store, Ginny in her wake. “Excuse me! I didn’t put my bench out here for you to—”

  “Out of the way, dude!” The girl with blue hair takes a running jump onto her board and tries to sail over the remains of the bench. Her first attempt results in the board spinning backward and her stumbling toward the mailbox, looking embarrassed. She takes another leap, clearing the bench with the board seemingly taped to her soles, but lands hard on the board’s right side—sending her to the ground, and the board shooting like a missile straight into the passenger door of Noel’s car.

  Curled up on her side, she cradles her wrist, a twisted look of pain on her face.

  Though everyone, including Eleanor and Ginny, rushes to the girl, Noel, who has appeared from nowhere, reaches her first. But he runs straight past and drops to his knees at his car door.

  “Are you okay?” Eleanor bends over the girl and examines her wrist for swelling, signs of a broken bone. Her friends gather around, all making appropriate sounds of concern.

  “I’m fine,” she says, twirling her hand, the heel of which is skinned. “It’s just surface.”

  “Still. You need to clean it out. Disinfect,” says Eleanor. “I have a first aid kit in my store.”

  “Chill.” The girl laughs and climbs to her feet. “It happens, like, every week.”

  The kids thunder off down the sidewalk, shoving each other and laughing. Not halfway up the block, one of them tries to leap over a small bike chained to a tree.

  “Hi, Noel,” Ginny says, grinning and hiding her wedding ring finger behind her back. When he doesn’t react, she calls out louder, “HI, NOEL.”

  He nods his greeting without looking.

  “Your speakers sound … YOUR SPEAKERS SOUND TERRIFIC.”

  Something about the way his head is slumped so low, the way he sits almost crumpled into himself, makes Eleanor shoo Ginny back to work. She drops to the curb beside him. Shifts closer. Puts an arm on his back.

  “At least you’re going to have lots of customers. Once your speakers are all ready to go.”

  “Speakers are good.” He looks up and runs his finger along the dented car door. As Angus barks from the Pretty Baby window display, Noel’s eyes redden. “But now I have to deal with this.”

  She stares at him. Finally, she gets it. This delay isn’t about perfect sound systems or keeping a car pristine. Not at all.

  Chapter 27

  It’s called the Puppy Love NoBark 3000 and costs $79.95 at Woofers and Tweeters, over on Commonwealth. The collar is meant to administer a harmless but effective electric shock to the offending animal: vibration-sensor collars being preferable to sound-sensor collars because they reduce false alarms caused by external noise. The nylon collar—which has a black box attached to it—has three correction modes, low, medium, and high, and is meant to amp up the correction if the barking doesn’t abate at the previous level.

  She has no choice. Customers are too scared to come into the store. And now, if she leaves Angus upstairs like she did before Jonathan walked out and the dog became unglued, the neighbor above has said he’ll call Animal Control.

  Eleanor steps over Angus, lying beneath the cash register, his hind legs threaded through his front legs to form a large, knobby X. She can’t test the shock on the dog—what if the signal actually hurts him? Singes his neck?

  She adjusts the collar in the way the instructions suggest, holds the black box so the metal prods touch her own neck and clips it on herself. She’ll try it out. Say something loud enough to create a vibration and see if she can tolerate it.

  No one’s around.

  Though, a dog does have the advantage of at least a thin layer of fur between shock and skin. It would be far safer to test it out while wearing a turtleneck. Or at least having slipped a Kleenex beneath the metal.

  “Don’t wear that during your home visit.” Ginny lowers her sunglasses as she comes in. “Bondage slave collars don’t give off that maternal vibe adoption agencies hope for.”

  “It’s not—”

  The jolt hits Eleanor’s skin like a bad carpet shock on a dry winter day. Tears prick her eyes and she exclaims aloud, only to be zapped harder. Angus sets front legs atop the counter and starts baying deafeningly toward the ceiling, as Ginny watches, confused.

  Eleanor scrambles to unclick the collar and whips it to the ground. Leaning over, she blinks back tears. “Oh my God. That hurt so much.”

  Ginny picks it up and examines it. “Wait a sec. Do they make these for kids?”

  “I can’t do it to him.”

  They both turn to watch Angus as he backs up, taking with him the display of diaper creams set up as point-of-purchase temptations by the cash. In a bid to disguise his lack of elegance, he proceeds to sit atop the fallen items and howl.

  Then the bell above the door chimes and in walks Isabelle.

  She pauses a moment to take in the dog, the mess, and the collar on the ground, then sets her Chanel bag on the counter with an expensive clink. “I didn’t think it was legal in this country to keep horses as pets.” She braces herself, eyes clamped shut, as Angus charges her, heaving his weight into her legs. “Dear God, please tell me I’m not dead.”

  “He’s friendly, Isabelle. He wants you to pet him.”

  “I’ll indulge in no such thing.” She sidles away from Angus and glares at Eleanor. “You’re in terrible shape, Eleanor Sweet.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve never even been approached by someone with the name Smith who was actually named Smith. It is, as you can imagine, the single most common name used by women looking to give birth and vanish. And Kansas City. It’s as close to being an impossible case as I’ve ever seen.”

  “So, you’re saying it’s not worth trying?”

  “I’m saying you’re going to have a terrible time finding a search angel to help you.
We are human—we do consider the odds of success in taking on any new cases. Some people are simply unfindable. Surely you can see that.”

  Eleanor is terrified to speak lest she frighten the woman away. She hadn’t considered this. That her case is undesirable. “I guess. I hadn’t thought—”

  “You can’t just go to anybody.”

  “Right. Okay …”

  Isabelle pulls a plane ticket from her purse and slaps it on the counter. “I am going to Missouri in the morning. I have many reservations about it. Lately, I do not like planes or travel or other people for that matter. Every nerve in my soon-to-be corpse is shouting at me, but there you have it. I’m going to find this mother of yours if it kills me. And it may very well do so.” She takes her purse and heads to the door, turning back to add, “And next time you compose a note intended to tempt another to travel hither and yon on your behalf, take the time to make sure you haven’t done so on the flap of a tampon box.” With that, Isabelle is gone.

  “Seriously?” asks Ginny, staring at her boss. “A tampon box?”

  Eleanor leans over to pick up the shock collar. “What? It got her here, didn’t it?”

  Chapter 28

  Can you read the inscription in the picture?” Isabelle shouts into the phone. In the background, from the comfort of her kitchen, Eleanor can hear the wind and rain pounding against Isabelle’s jacket. “Can you make out the name?”

  It’s the eleventh cemetery Isabelle has visited this week. This is her favorite part of a search, she’d said. The stillness. The stories. She told Eleanor that sometimes she plays games with herself. Looks at the names of family members, especially the husbands and wives. Looks at who died first. Imagines the circumstance, whether sudden or ongoing. The surviving spouse’s feelings. Agony or relief?

  The first place Isabelle went after getting off the plane on Tuesday was Women’s Hospital, where Eleanor was born. The usual procedure for obtaining birth records this old is to submit your request to the Medical Records department and wait three or four weeks to hear whether or not the desired record is still on file. But Isabelle’s years of sleuthing have earned her special status. A young man named Dwight Mason, thin and serious in his wire-framed glasses, agreed to drive out to offsite record storage some fifteen miles away, in the sleepy suburb of Lansing, while Isabelle waited in the motel room. The file was over thirty years old. The chances of it being found, the chances of it even existing anymore, were slim.

  But without it, the search couldn’t get started. They needed to find out if Ruth Smith was or wasn’t Eleanor’s mother’s name before any more work could be done. The answer, Isabelle told Eleanor, came Thursday morning at 8:37 when the phone in her motel room woke her.

  “I think I’ve found what you’re looking for,” Dwight Mason said at the other end of the line.

  Now, Eleanor stares down at the photo Isabelle has just texted her. The stony grave marker, soaked with rain. The inscription: Woolsey. Beneath that, Estelle Jane. She presses the phone to her ear and can hear the roar of wind. “Is this my mother? Her real name?”

  “Her grandmother, I believe,” Isabelle shouts over the weather. “Can you read what it says below?”

  Eleanor looks again. “Just Beloved Wife of …” She peers closer. “Below that it gets blurry.”

  “I’ll try to take another.” There’s a pause, some crackling, then Isabelle is back. “Too rainy just now. I can’t do it without soaking my phone.”

  At the kitchen table, Eleanor reaches for Angus, pulls his head onto her lap. “What does it say?”

  “Says 1905–1979. Beloved wife of Herbert John Woolsey. She’s too old to be your mother. Could be your mother’s mother or grandmother.”

  Her great-grandmother. “What else does it say?”

  “It says, Loving mother to Brian.” Isabelle pauses. “And Janet.”

  “So Janet could be my mother?”

  “More likely your grandmother. Most women gave birth young back then.”

  Eleanor looks at the photo again. “I’ve only ever thought of myself as adopted. Never as having been … born. Makes no sense, I know.”

  “That’s common. Don’t go thinking you’re so special, buttercup.”

  “What about my mom?”

  “We don’t have her name confirmed yet.”

  “But Woolsey. How did you learn this?”

  “A friend of mine got hold of your hospital records. Apparently your mother came into ER because you were breach. Very lucky she did so because the girls’ home had a terrible record for live births from breach deliveries. The hospital was full. They didn’t want to admit your mother and were calling her a cab to go back to the home for girls. But your mom was scared enough, I guess, to call a family member. A woman named Estelle Woolsey. It shows in your file she paid for your birth, as well as a private room for your mom to recover in. My guess is Estelle wasn’t your mother’s mother. Her mother put her in the girls’ home. My guess it was an aunt or a grandmother. You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  Isabelle pauses a moment. “Our search has narrowed dramatically.”

  Chapter 29

  The light pouring through Isabelle’s curtains stretches across the wall like fingers. While Angus stares through the window looking for excuses to woof and growl, Eleanor sits on the floor beside the coffee table and twists the corner of her sweater around a finger.

  “Get yourself up onto the sofa,” Isabelle says as she pours two cups of coffee from a silver urn. “Like one of the grownups.”

  The yearbook lies on the table, navy leather faded to powder blue at the edges, gold embossing barely legible: Trent Falls High School, 1973–74.

  Eleanor shakes her head. “I need to be on the ground for this.”

  “You’re like my old spaniel. Anyplace higher than sea level and he threw up his boiled liver. Speaking of which, why does that animal of yours insist on making so much noise?”

  “Can we open the book now?”

  She points toward the window, massive twists of beige linen hanging over like bangs in need of a good trim. “What do you think of these curtains? Too fussy? I can never decide.”

  “Isabelle!”

  “Okay.” She shifts forward in her seat. “It shouldn’t come as any surprise that I was right about Janet being your mother’s mother and Estelle being your mother’s grandmother. Who better to save a pregnant girl from the shame of her overly conventional parents than her adoring and, judging from the fact that she upgraded the two of you to a private room, wealthy grandma? You likely owe Great-Granny your life.”

  “Thank you, Estelle.”

  “All right, then. Ready to see your mother?”

  “I’ve waited thirty-five years. I couldn’t be more ready.”

  Isabelle sets the yearbook on her lap and opens it to where a neon green Post-it marks a page. She turns the yearbook around and sets it on Eleanor’s lap. The page is filled with tiny black and white headshots. Isabelle points to one at the bottom right corner.

  A girl. Longish blond hair. Shadows under the eyes, wide downturned mouth on a narrow face. The resemblance to Eleanor is unmistakable. She’s staring at a young version of herself. But the expression in this girl’s eyes—it’s as if she has control of the entire world and she knows it. As if she’s certain that every day after this one will unfold however she tells it to and she’s amused by the very thought of it.

  Eleanor continues to stare, desperate to know this girl—what makes her laugh, what makes her cry, what amuses her, bores her, makes her want to scream. But the more she examines her, the more convinced Eleanor is that her mother is unknowable.

  “Her name is Ruth. Ruth Woolsey.”

  Eleanor stands, walks across the room to Angus and reaches for the comfort of his velvety ears.

  Isabelle says nothing. She gets up, opens a cabinet and fills a shot glass with Johnnie Walker Blue. Hands it to Eleanor. “All in one gulp. Come on.”

  E
leanor swallows, holds the glass out for Isabelle to refill. Swallows again. It isn’t until the burning stops and the blurred feeling starts that she speaks. “Ruth. Her name really is Ruth.”

  “It really is. The Smith part was fictitious.”

  “Are there any more pictures of her?”

  Isabelle shows her two more photos, one a photography club group shot and the other a random one of campus life: Ruth perched on a brick wall, eating a sandwich by herself. She doesn’t appear lonely or self-conscious. She’s just fine on her own.

  “Do we know where she is now?”

  Isabelle flips to the Homecoming Royalty. The queen and king. Ruth, trying not to smile too wide in a cheap-looking tiara. And a boy named Daniel Leland.

  “My father?”

  She drains her coffee cup and reaches for her purse. “Many adoptions stem from teen pregnancies, so Daniel Leland is exactly where I plan to start.”

  “Back to Kansas City?”

  “Our Homecoming king lives on the Cape now.”

  Eleanor gets up and trots after Isabelle, who is already through the front door. “Wait, you’re just going to show up? No calling first or whatever?”

  Isabelle tilts her chin skyward and the light catches the tiny blond hairs on her skin. “See this face? It’s impossible to ignore.” She swings her purse over her shoulder and folds her arms. “Now, Eleanor Sweet. Are you coming or not? I despise driving my antediluvian car.”

  The floor of Isabelle’s old Mercedes rumbles like a subway train under their feet as they stare at the ramshackle cottage. The peeling picket fence has fallen into the garden and one section of the house’s faded green siding has been ripped off by a storm. And what appears to have been an enclosed backroom has burned away and been left to tough out the elements. Out front, a rusted claw-foot tub boasts only sickly, yellow-legged geraniums covered with dead leaves.