The Search Angel

by Tish Cohen

  She should never have poked her head into the store. Now she’ll wind up getting caught up in flood talk when she should be heading to the restaurant to meet Jonathan. Cal leads her over to the wall, where his assistant scrubs cracked mortar from between the bricks. Cal tugs out a thick chunk of cement, as well as a few surrounding bricks, to reveal Noel on the other side.

  “Wow.” Noel stares at her. “You look fancy.”

  Eleanor looks at Cal. “Can we discuss this tomorrow? I’m really in a—”

  “What we have here,” he says as if she hasn’t spoken, “is a case of ancient masonry. Holes go clear through.” He points to gaps all over the wall, all of which offer tiny glimpses of Noel’s graffitied walls and posters. “You people ever have any problems with noise?”

  “HEY, NOEL,” Ginny says through the wall. She fluffs her hair and grins.

  “Yes,” says Eleanor. “All the time. But I just thought …”

  “See now, you squish all these holes into one and you’d have yourself a hole some five feet in diameter.”

  “I’m actually late for—”

  “YOUR GRAFFITI LOOKS GREAT. I’VE NEVER REALLY SEEN IT BEFORE.”

  Eleanor looks at Ginny and hisses, “He’s not hearing impaired!”

  “It’s true,” Noel says. “I can hear just fine.”

  Ginny peers closer at the hair covering his ears and frowns. Backs away. It’s possible she liked him better deaf.

  “But the drywall,” says Noel. “Both sides were drywalled floor to ceiling.”

  “Drywall doesn’t offer much of a sound barrier. If either of you did any cooking in these places, you’d likely have smells coming through the wall too. Good thing yous both get along. Some neighbors fight like the devil over sound coming through the walls.”

  Eleanor looks down and pretends to pick lint from her dress.

  “What about ceilings,” Noel says. “Think we had the same problem there?”

  “No brickwork in your ceiling or you might not’ve survived the flood.” Cal waits for Eleanor or Noel to join him in laughter, then grows serious. “You had zero insulation up above. Ever have any complaints from your upstairs neighbor?”

  “Said it was noisy once or twice. Didn’t seem like she was upset enough to do something this crazy.” Noel looks at Eleanor. “I saw her go into your store, kind of a granola type in those crazy skirts and mukluk boots. She ever complain to you?”

  Eleanor feels her cheeks heat up. “I don’t remember anyone by that description.”

  Chapter 32

  She struts across the restaurant in her little blue dress, confident in the knowledge that the crossover neckline knows instinctively which parts to hug tight and which parts to treat as total strangers. Turns out planning to arrive ten minutes late was a wasted scheme, as Jonathan’s seat faces away from the door. Her eyes caress the back of his head, his thinning black waves, shiny as ever, grazing his collar in a way they never did before. She forces herself to look away. Not good to show up reeking of desperation.

  “Hey. Wow.” He stands up to kiss her hello. She thinks he’s aiming for her lips, but the kiss lands on her cheek. Nerves, she decides. “I forgot how gorgeous you are when you dress up.”

  She can’t speak right away. That sweet almond soap smell from the hospital. Almost astringent. It’s Jonathan. Her eyes move to his left hand. He’s still wearing his ring.

  “You change your hair?”

  She touches her side ponytail. It took a half-dozen spritzes of hair spray and several bobby pins to keep the shorter pieces tucked in. “I just threw it in a clip, no big deal.”

  “People at work have been talking about this place. I’ve been meaning to come check it out.”

  Not good that he’s talking first person singular. “They had that great review in the Globe. I didn’t actually see it. But I heard about it,” she says.

  She can see his shoe now. It sticks out from beneath the tablecloth. It’s new. Dark brown leather, very long and pointed in the toe. He used to buy shoes for function only. Mainly for ER comfort. Now, it seems, he buys for elegance. Another bad sign.

  “I actually came straight from the hospital. Told them my dad had fallen.” His knee bounces up and down the way it does when he’s anxious. “Lied just to see you.”

  Eleanor tries to hide the thrill that inches up her core. He’s never backed out of his schedule. Not in the entire ten years he’s been working. Stop it, she chides herself. Stop keeping score.

  “How are your parents?”

  “The usual. Dad still with the cigars. Mom still spraying the place with her lime-basil deodorizers that smell worse than the cigars. How’s Angus doing?”

  The small talk is surreal. Torture. Nothing matters but why they are here. “He’s fine. I’m fine.”

  “Good. And the store?”

  She shuts out the vision of the flood damage, the holey wall, the lack of sales, Ginny’s pregnancy. “Never better. The ER?”

  “Same old. We had this borderline patient back in this morning. Miscarried three nights ago and came back in today with bleeding. Demanded to be released so she could OD on Tylenol. Which she did this aft. Came back by ambulance, screaming and carrying on. Unbelievable.” He shifts and the shoe vanishes from view.

  The last subject she wants to get stuck on is the atrocities of the ER. Jonathan could settle into that for an hour, if only to escape the tension.

  “Then we had the typical slew of after-school cases. Parents who think the school’s Band-Aids aren’t big enough, the Polysporin isn’t effective enough. They’re desperate to be able to march back into the school in the morning and inform the staff that little Greyson, in fact, needed eleven stitches, seven of which were internal, and could they promise to call the moment he falls from the playscape next time and refrain from making life and death decisions for children who aren’t their own.”

  “Yeah. I bet.”

  “Something about Tuesdays, I swear. Mondays, kids are still sluggish with denial the weekend is over. But by Tuesday, they’ve accepted it. Friday’s nowhere in sight and they’re pissed. Worst day of the week, in my opinion.” He raises the wine bottle and she nods. He fills both glasses and sips from his.

  “Maybe you could adjust your schedule.”

  “Six to seven p.m. That’s the witching hour for the nine-to-fivers.” The knee starts bouncing again. “They’ve spent all day wanting to spit in their boss’s coffee cup, because if they said they didn’t feel well and wanted to go home, he’d make a face. And that lack of control—you’d be surprised how that amps up the most minor symptoms.”

  “Sure …”

  A silence wraps itself around the table. Jonathan chews on his lip worriedly. Then brightens. “Then there was the swallower. Comes in last night and announces she’s just downed two nails and a Bic ballpoint pen. Not only that but I see from her chart she was in three weeks back with some more nails and a plastic butter knife and they sent her home. Of course the bowels were ruptured and now she’s septic. Only a matter of time, right?”

  Stop this, she wants to shout. Let’s get to something that matters. “I suppose so.”

  “I got her into the OR. That shit has to come out. Saddest thing. Twenty-eight and it’s going to kill her if we can’t lock her up. And we can’t.”

  She fakes a shiver. “I wasn’t sure what to wear to this place. How fancy it was.”

  “They say the red snapper’s outrageous here.”

  Eleanor doesn’t eat fish. Their entire relationship she’s never eaten fish. How hard is it to remember your wife doesn’t eat fish?

  “The other night, I was glad you came over.” She almost said came home. But it seemed presumptuous.

  “Me too.” They say nothing for a moment. His hand retracts. “The sex was always good.”

  Was? “Still is.”

  A waiter approaches to take their orders. After refilling their wineglasses, Jonathan sets his chin on his fists, focuses on her. “I’m aware
how unforgivable it was. What I did.”

  She lifts a shoulder in an effort to reward his self-censure.

  “Just all of a sudden like that. I just … work was crazy, I heard those stories. I freaked out.”

  “It’s okay.” You’re here. It’s all I care about.

  “No. You’re my wife. You deserve better.”

  A warmth starts in her breast and works its way up her neck. She tries to swallow. “I know your job’s insane. Or …”—she half smiles—“I can sort of imagine. My day at work is more: ‘Do you want the stroller in silver or red?’ And ‘Cloth diapers?’ ‘Yes, they’re a great idea if you have fulltime help.’”

  “Mine is: ‘Should I pull the Swiss Army knife out of your liver via your ear or your asshole?’” He sips from his wine. “You’re lucky to have a job that centers on a happy event. The birth of a baby.” Eleanor’s failure to conceive hangs over the table like a little raincloud she wishes she could blow away. “Sorry,” he says, making it worse.

  She blinks to show him he’s forgiven. Everything is forgiven. When are you moving back in? she is dying to ask. How soon can the smell of your Pert Plus drift up from your pillowcase, your scrubs fill the laundry basket, your keys clank on the front hall table? She gulps down her entire glass of wine and feels her head swim.

  “I miss you.”

  “Me too. I miss us.” He looks up, tilts his head, his brows pressed lower as if he might cry. “And I’ve been giving you mixed signals. It’s not fair.”

  “You were just … you were going through something.”

  “You’re an exceptional woman. I’ve always known that, but now even more. You’re brave. You’re strong.”

  She waits, fingering her wedding band.

  “I’m behind you in this. I want you to know that.”

  “Behind me,” she repeats stupidly, her heart thumping a warning. “What does that mean?”

  “I get it. I do. You chose the baby over me, over us. I respect that. I could never do what you’re doing, taking on a baby by yourself, but I get it.”

  For a moment she thinks she’s misunderstood. That the wine has muddied her thinking. But no, he said it. “So … this dinner.” She waves at the wine. “Tonight. The other night. The rocking horse. You don’t want to get back together? That’s not what’s going on?”

  He grips the armrests and tenses. As if, more than anything on earth, he’d like to bolt. “Uh …”

  She dumps wine into her glass. Fills it to the top. Swigs.

  “I really wanted to apologize in person for the way I handled things. Tell you I think you’re just incredible. I wanted you to know that if you need anything, even money …”

  Her empty glass bangs on the table. The candlelight, the other diners, the fireplace, all swirl around her as she reaches for her purse and stands up. “I’m incredible. So incredible that you’re leaving me.”

  “Are you drunk?” He reaches across the table and takes her arm, which she tugs from his grasp. “Sit down.”

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “El.”

  “And don’t El me.” She hugs her bag to her chest like a bulletproof vest. She wishes she had a sweater, a coat. A sack. She’d wrap herself in anything right now. “You’re such a sweetheart of a man, aren’t you. Lucky, lucky me.”

  The couple at the next table try not to stare. She can see Jonathan getting nervous about what she might do. There is no predicting this outcome. He hisses, “Lower your voice. And sit down. You’re causing a scene.”

  “That’s the thing about breaking up, Jonathan. It’s like trying to get pregnant. You can’t always control the outcome.”

  Eleanor sits in her car and tries to massage what feels like a bullet hole in her left shoulder. She has no idea how she got out of the restaurant. She found the car, the steering wheel in her hands is proof of that. Someone asked if she was okay, back by the front doors. Someone else—maybe the hostess, maybe a diner—followed her out, stood watching as she fumbled with her keys in the rain.

  Her phone rings and she picks it up, hoping it’s him. Apologizing. Begging her to return.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m standing, in a bone-chilling fog no less, on the sidewalk with the riffraff, in front of a purple door that refuses to open. Please explain.”

  Isabelle.

  “I texted you earlier,” Eleanor says. “I told you I needed a rain check.”

  “Rule number two. The search angel doesn’t read texts and she doesn’t take rain checks.”

  “It’s just that my ex got in touch and I thought maybe he wanted to get back—”

  “Do you know what I’m doing right now, Eleanor Sweet?”

  “Yes, you said, standing with the riffraff …”

  “I’m playing the world’s tiniest violin between index finger and thumb. Be here within ten minutes or I shall return to the splendor of my twelve-foot ceilings, my heated limestone floors, and the leisurely retirement I richly deserve.”

  Chapter 33

  Isabelle sits at Eleanor’s linoleum table and fingers a red leather address book so weathered the edges have turned seashell pink. “I’m not accustomed to being locked out of any establishment, least of all one as shabby as this. Living above a store—are you certain it’s legal?”

  Eleanor sets two mugs on the counter, one of them Jonathan’s green Starbucks mug. After careful consideration, she stomps on the pedal of the trash can and drops the mug into the garbage with a muffled smash.

  Isabelle clutches her chest. “Was that a gunshot?”

  “I’m so stupid.” Eleanor reaches for a Dunkin’ Donuts mug and pours steeped tea into both. She brings them to the table and sets them beside the milk carton, sugar bowl, and spoons. “I actually thought he wanted to reconcile.”

  “The water is safe, I presume.”

  “I mean, I actually thought he wanted to come back.”

  “Who?”

  “Jonathan. That’s where I was. At Blue Water Grill making a fool of myself.”

  Isabelle stares at her. “Eleanor Sweet, I did not risk life and limb coming here to discuss your war-torn love life. Do you realize how quickly the traffic moves along Beacon? Where are all those people heading at this hour?”

  Battersea Road meets Beacon. The intersection is two blocks from Isabelle’s house. Eleanor thinks back to the delivery cartons in Isabelle’s foyer. The books that arrive by mail. “You coming to my store the other day. Coming here. Is that rare for you? Getting out of the house like that?”

  Isabelle pushes the address book across the table toward Eleanor. “Let’s just keep our focus, shall we?”

  Eleanor obeys. She stares at the little book. It has no doubt squatted atop many, many tables, waiting for connections to be made. Some healing. Some not. The anticipation the book has witnessed—the moment before that initial phone call is made. The second thoughts. The dreams made. The dreams crushed. “You don’t think it’s too late to call?”

  Isabelle glances at the clock. Eight forty. “Anyone who’s turned in for the night at this hour doesn’t deserve our notice. If your mother is in bed, she’s dead to us. We’ll find you another one.”

  Beside them, Angus yawns, revealing rows of ominous white stalactites and stalagmites and a long tongue stained with a black birthmark on one side. The yawn ends with a high-pitched yowl.

  “Must the animal sit so close?”

  “He likes to be part of things.”

  “I’d like not to be part of him, thank you very much.”

  Eleanor runs her fingers over the cover of the little red book. She put Sylvie’s arrival at risk, ditching Isabelle to meet with Jonathan. What if Isabelle had walked? Dropped out of the search? Things would be looking a lot worse right now.

  “It isn’t going to go as you’re likely imagining,” Isabelle says, shifting her chair away from Angus. “I don’t like to approach directly. It’s a huge piece of information for the searched-for relative, and rather than to blurt it out
, I prefer to just give a hint of news and see if the person wants to move forward with the discovery. Some people are flatly against contact. As much as it hurts, we have to be prepared for that.”

  Eleanor’s fingers find the velvety comfort of Angus’s ears. She doesn’t take her eyes off him. He doesn’t take his eyes off Isabelle.

  “Why does he look at me like that?”

  “He’s curious.”

  “But he’s been fed?”

  “What if my mother isn’t interested?”

  “He doesn’t have a pen we can lock him in? A stall?”

  “What about my mother?”

  Isabelle sighs. “If she isn’t interested, you won’t take it as final. She may think about it and change her mind. Which would be perfectly reasonable.” She touches Eleanor’s chin and tilts her face up until their eyes meet. “Are you ready?”

  Eleanor can’t answer.

  Isabelle opens her book and reaches for the phone. Dials the number Eleanor has already memorized.

  The phone is on speaker. One ring. Two, three. On the fifth ring, the line clicks and a machine, a man’s voice, says: You’ve reached Ruth and Richard. Leave us a message and we’ll get right back to you.

  Isabelle clears her throat before speaking. “This message is for Ruth Woolsey. My name is Isabelle Santos and I have some information about a family member of hers.” She gives Eleanor’s cell number.

  “Why not a family member of his?”

  “We don’t know for sure that he’s your father.” She reaches for an overloaded canvas bag and sets it with a bang on the table.

  “What’s this?”

  Out of the sac comes blue plastic Tupperware ranging from the size of a tangerine to that of a cooked chicken. “Ingredients for lemon squares. So you don’t drive me to drink while we wait.” She stands and ties a rumpled linen apron around her hips, then roots through the kitchen drawers, pulling out a package of plastic spoons and making a face.

  “Where on earth do you keep your whisk?”

  “Is that one of those little brushes?”

  Isabelle closes her eyes in frustration. “I always suspected it, but now I know for sure.” She tosses the plastic cutlery back in the drawer. “Being outside of Beacon Hill is exactly like camping.”