by Tish Cohen
“Why me? Why did you come out of exile for my case?”
“Because I know how it feels to be left by the man you love at the very worst time imaginable and I didn’t want you to lose a baby, like I did, as a result.”
Eleanor closes her eyes for a moment. She owes this woman everything. “Isabelle …”
“Don’t Isabelle me and don’t get sentimental. I have every right to wallow. My only child died not knowing how much his birth mother loved him.”
A small spider crawls up the wall above Isabelle’s headboard. It zigs to the right, resumes its upward journey, then zags to the left. Eleanor stares at the indecisive creature as if it’s personally responsible for the tragedy of Isabelle’s son never knowing her.
She can tell Isabelle that he knew she loved him. Those words can come out of her mouth. But the truth is he probably didn’t. Eleanor of all people knows how badly she needed affirmation of her own birth mother’s affection. She slides off the bed and leans over Isabelle, wraps her arms around this woman who has helped so many people out of their loneliness and guilt, only to be destroyed by her own.
Chapter 37
She felt the change before she saw it. The air in the apartment actually seemed thinner. As if there were less oxygen. It was hard to take in a deep breath—her lungs were unable to fill up. Even the door swung open too easily when she hauled her suitcase inside.
He had moved his things out while she was away. She dropped her keys on the hall table and wandered into the kitchen. His wood-handled knives were gone, the ones he bought two summers ago at a sidewalk sale in Brookline. The living room was more dramatic. Two-thirds of the bookshelves were empty. The black love seat was gone, as were the two turquoise leather cubes they used as a coffee table. Now, the candles that were perched upon them sit directly on the floor.
Empty patches of wall where his posters used to hang. A lamp here, a bowl there. The vintage Coke crate full of Popular Science magazines.
In the bedroom, his drawers were all empty except for an $89.99 Nordstrom price tag—knowing Jonathan he probably spent this on one T-shirt—a few buttons, and a pair of concert ticket stubs from when they saw Billy Joel in New York City a few years back.
The closet was all but empty on his side, nothing but wire hangers that chattered when she flung open the door. On the floor, an old pair of runners he long ago replaced. A sealed package of Odor-Eaters. She reached for the insoles and hurled them into the trash can. Leaving her with his garbage, the message in that, made her throat burn.
Angus. It hit her now that the dog didn’t greet her at the door, begging for his evening walk. Noel had said he’d leave him in the apartment for her return. Surely Jonathan didn’t take the dog too.
“Angus?” Eleanor rushed through the apartment again. “Angus?”
There. In the dining room. Four black feet, as big and knobby as those of an elephant calf, poked out from beneath the dining room table. Thwack thwack went the tip of his tail against a chair leg. She got down on the floor and draped herself over him.
Thwack thwack—but otherwise no movement from the Great Dane.
“But you love to hate squirrels. Let’s go.”
No movement.
An hour later, to stop her pacing, to give herself something to do other than stare at the holes Jonathan left behind, Eleanor filled the bathroom sink with icy cold water and splashed it on her face until her hair, her shirt, her forearms were soaked. Dripping, shivering, she reached for her toothbrush and looked around for the paste. Without question, she had put a fresh tube on the counter the morning she left.
Which meant he took it.
After finding a crumpled old tube of paste in the bathroom cabinet, she tried, unsuccessfully, to squeeze out the tiniest amount of paste onto the bristles. Furious now—how much more damage could he inflict upon her life?—she grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen, sliced the toothpaste tube up the middle, and splayed it open like a worm from tenth-grade biology class. It wasn’t until blood dripped into the sink that she realized she’d cut her finger on the tube’s edge.
Calmly, she wrapped the wound in toilet paper and sat on the bed. Here, she dialed Jonathan’s cell phone and waited for him to pick up.
A television on in the background. Then his voice. “Hello?”
Eleanor slammed the receiver down onto the nightstand three times.
That was one week ago.
She should have checked the forecast, Eleanor thinks. She could have gotten up earlier to warm the place before the home visit. Nancy’s been inside for half an hour and still hasn’t taken off her jacket. Ruth, who arrived much earlier, has pulled her chair up close to the radiators.
The weather outside has turned frigid and the radiators lining the living room window hiss and tick with effort to warm the place up in the morning. The apartment grew cold enough overnight that Angus came out from beneath the dining room table to sleep on the throw rug in the living room. Eleanor carries a tea tray into the living room, remembering too late that the leather cubes are gone. The tray will have to go on the floor.
“Coffee tables are so dangerous.” She hands each woman a cup of tea. “Sharp corners. I was thinking of getting a leather ottoman.”
“I love that look,” says Ruth, as Nancy nods her approval.
From the floor, Noel’s song whines and sputters like a broken buzz saw. He’s trying to fix his now-damaged speakers and, with construction having temporarily opened up the wall between the stores, the music is louder than ever.
From the slipper chair, Nancy wraps her hands around her teacup. “So, Ruth, will Sylvie be your first grandchild?”
“Our first granddaughter. My daughter Ronnie has a three-year-old son, Robbie.” She grins at Eleanor. “Quite the personality that one. He’s very excited to meet his new cousin.”
Nancy writes something in a small pad, then cocks her head. “Ruth, Ronnie, Robbie. All Rs.”
Eleanor watches her mother, the way she keeps massaging her fingertips to calm herself down. It irritates her that Ruth is nervous. She and Richard were the ones who inadvertently set up a little club of R names that Eleanor will always be excluded from.
“And my husband is Richard, and Roz is my second daughter.” Quickly, Ruth looks at Eleanor. “Third!”
This doesn’t look good. Quickly, Eleanor says, “Can you believe how the weather changed? Went from autumn to winter overnight?”
“I didn’t pack a warm enough coat. Wasn’t thinking.” Ruth glances at Eleanor as if asking for forgiveness. “As usual.”
“So when did the two of you find each other? And who found whom?” Nancy leans over her knees, seemingly undisturbed by the exchange. “I’m so busy arranging for these adoptions, I rarely get to see people come together later.”
Eleanor debated, when she took Angus out earlier, whether Nancy should be told the truth. That she and Ruth have only just reconnected. Or perhaps reconnected isn’t the right word. Does connecting count when you’re being pulled out of someone’s uterus and bustled off into another room? Connected for the first time is more accurate. It might be safer to pretend they’ve lived a normal life as mother and daughter. Or, if not normal, that they were reunited—united—some time ago. That they aren’t nearly complete strangers.
Nancy is not here hoping to find more change in Eleanor’s life. She wants to see some nice, boring consistency. Which doesn’t exactly come with having found your birth mother seven days ago.
Still. Eleanor watches Ruth squeezing her palms now. She doesn’t have it in her to give the woman such a victory. Not after the “third daughter” slip. “I contacted Ruth through a search angel recently. Until then, I didn’t even know if she was alive.” She smiles. “I’m glad she is.”
Ruth cocks her head. “I’m so proud of my daughter for reaching out. It’s a difficult thing to do.”
“I wanted my daughter to have grandparents, a real family. That made it easy. And now I’ve found the Rs.”
Ruth bu
sies herself with her knees now.
Nancy looks at Eleanor with concern. “And then there’s our little E and S wing of the family.”
Before Eleanor can respond, there’s a long jagged screech from Noel’s speakers below, followed by the rat-a-tat-tat sound of a nail gun. Angus jumps up and barks, unsure where to aim his efforts.
“Angus!” Eleanor says sharply, rushing to settle him before he gives Nancy the impression he’s a threat.
“You can’t say it isn’t lively around here,” says Ruth.
“I won’t argue that. So, Ruth, obviously Eleanor has told me about Jonathan leaving. How do you feel about the situation—your daughter adopting on her own?”
Ruth looks at her daughter. “Eleanor is strong. I couldn’t be more proud of her. Her store. Her life. She can handle this without him or any other man. I’m behind her one hundred percent. Anything she needs, anytime she needs it.”
A satisfied smile creases Nancy’s face. She sets her teacup on the tray and stands. “I think I’ve got all I need.” From her briefcase she pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to Eleanor. “We prefer that she travel here with Luiz, because the travel itself is a stressor and she knows him. We were making an exception for you and … anyway. You’ll pick her up at Logan.”
Eleanor stares down at the note, which reads:
American Airlines Flight 943 Palm Springs—Boston
Arrives November 24th 10:30 a.m.
Eleanor looks up at Nancy. “Sylvie’s mine?”
“All yours.”
She didn’t expect the front doors to be open after work that evening. It’s after six o’clock; you’d think all the parents would have picked up their kids by now. Inside, the big house that is Sunnyside Day Care echoes with her own footsteps. No sounds of chairs scraping or children chattering to muffle her arrival. Eleanor stops, listens for audible signs of life. When she hears the swish of shuffling papers, she follows it to a photocopy room near the back of the building.
“The doors were unlocked,” she says to a ponytailed young woman in green glasses and an oversized sweater. “I hope it’s okay I came right in.”
“Oh!” The girl starts, slapping a file folder to her chest. “You scared me!”
“Is Wendy around? I just need to add something to my application.”
“She’s gone home.” She waves for Eleanor to follow her. “I’m Bree. Come. The applications are on her desk; we’ll dig yours up.” She heads into the next room and picks through a tidy stack of papers.
“Eleanor Sweet. My daughter’s name is Sylvie.”
“Sylvie. Yup. Here it is.” Bree motions to the pens in a melted-looking clay mug obviously made by tiny hands. “Grab a pen and have at it.”
Eleanor scans the sheet and stops at the line “Next of Kin.”
On the line, which is now blank, she writes Ruth Pantera.
Chapter 38
While Cal’s assistant rolls a fresh coat of white paint over the now-repaired-and-soundproofed wall to the sound of Vivaldi’s gloriously soothing cello music, Eleanor goes through the morning mail. Among the usual collection of bills and flyers is a note from her insurance agent. The entire renovation will be covered, through Noel’s insurance company.
A huge relief with Sylvie coming.
The last piece of mail is a square envelope with the name Pantera in the upper left corner. She tears it open to find a thick white invitation.
Miss Roxanne Lynne Pantera
and
Mr. Peter Matheson McGrath
request the honor of your presence
at their marriage
on November 20th
Liberty Suites Ballroom
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Roxie had mentioned being engaged, but not that the wedding was so soon. She’d barely spoken about it the other day and her fiancé hadn’t been there—he is a philosophy professor at Harvard. Eleanor had assumed the ceremony was in the spring.
But … she’s included. She’s part of the family. Finally, she’ll be in a family photo. It’ll go on the mantel. She’ll get a copy and put it on her windowsill. When Sylvie arrives, she’ll show her. “This is me at your aunt’s wedding.” Eleanor hugs herself.
Not only that, but it will be Eleanor’s inadvertent coming-out party. She has no idea how large the Liberty Suites Ballroom is, but there have to be a couple of hundred extended family members, neighbors, friends. She’ll meet others. Aunts, uncles, cousins, old friends of the family.
It’s a dream come true.
The invitation is addressed to Eleanor Sweet plus one. She slips the invitation into the drawer and puts her family—and where Jonathan will be November twentieth—out of her mind.
Ginny wanders up from the back, a Baby Bjorn strapped across her chest. She looks around the store. “Almost feels smaller in here now. I’d gotten sort of used to seeing through to the record store.”
“Maybe it’s Noel you miss seeing,” Eleanor says.
Ginny shrugs and turns to examine the carrier in the mirror. “I find him weirdly unappealing now.”
Eleanor hides her smile.
“Hey, do these things come with twin pouches?”
“You strap the fussiest one into the carrier. That’s what the women tell me.”
“Want to know my biggest fear? What if I can’t tell them apart?”
“They’re never that alike, are they?”
“In the OB’s office, I heard one mother say she dressed her twins differently from birth and that was the only way she knew. Then one day she went out for eggs and her husband changed them. Guy didn’t know which was which. She panicked. What if she never figured it out? Then she remembered one had a scratch on his wrist. From then on she kept a dot of nail polish on that kid’s toe.”
The bell above the door tinkles and a very familiar, very pregnant woman walks in and stares at the missing ceiling tiles. The painter dipping his roller into a tray of paint. She turns to Eleanor. “This can’t be good.”
“We had a bit of a flood,” Eleanor explains. “We weren’t hit nearly as hard as the place next door.”
The woman motions toward Noel’s wall and Eleanor realizes who she is. It’s Ali McGraw, sister to Auntie Faith from above Death by Vinyl. “Oh my God. When did this happen?”
The day your sister moved out, Eleanor doesn’t say. “Last week sometime.”
Ali glances at the exposed pipes overhead. She knows her sister is responsible. “Oh God. Oh God.”
“Are you back for the bassinet?”
“Yes. And a few other …” She pauses to survey the destruction again. The dusty Rubbermaid cans filled with crumbled drywall and crown molding. The drop sheets laid out along the floor. The racks of baby wear crowded to the center of the store. “Has it cost you a fortune?”
“No, no. The neighbor’s insurance company has been great. Here, come with me.” Eleanor emerges from behind the counter and guides her to the back corner—an area untouched by water damage. The massive bassinet she’d looked at before—the Badger Basket, dark cherry, round with eyelet canopy—is still waiting. Eleanor scoops out the stuffed animals that Ginny tossed in for safekeeping the night the rains came down, and adjusted the duvet. “It’s still here. All is well. Did you drive?”
She nods. “An SUV, it’ll fit. It’s just that I can’t really do any lifting … I’m so sorry about this mess. What can I do? Tell me there’s something I can do.”
“You can take this thing out of the store today. As you can see I have very little space.”
The bassinet is easy to wheel to the front of the store, but with its width, with the way the door doesn’t fully open, it’s nearly impossible to wiggle through the doorway alone. It arrived unassembled, Eleanor realizes now. Jonathan helped her build it in the shop. Ali McGraw is of no use, not with the size of her belly; she can’t get her hands far enough around the crib to pull while Eleanor pushes.
“I think you’re stuck.”
“I think y
ou’re right.”
Ali bends down and squints at the cherry dowels. “It’s possible one of these just cracked.”
“It’s not cracked. It’s just a bit bent.”
“I don’t know. It looks like a crack.”
Eleanor sighs louder than intended. “Can you pull it from your end?”
The woman gives a feeble tug. “If it wasn’t on such an angle.”
Worried her customer might go into labor or, worse, get fed up and walk away from the sale, Eleanor climbs over the bassinet and tries to pull from the outside. She only succeeds in jamming the bassinet in at a worse angle than before. Finally, she pokes her head into Death by Vinyl and waves to Noel.
He grins. “Good news. I’ve fixed the speakers. Listen.” He hits a button on the remote control and the warbled sound grows louder, but sounds no better.” His face falls. “Damn.”
“Could we borrow you for just a sec?”
“We don’t want to disturb you,” Ali McGraw shouts from behind Eleanor. “If it’s too much bother, I can come another day. The baby’ll probably be late anyway.”
Noel stands on the sidewalk, scratching his stubbled chin. Next door he’s left his music on, or what’s left of it. A loud hissing thump comes through the wall. Eleanor doesn’t feel it in her best interest to point out the obvious: that he needs new speakers.
“How’d you get it jammed so tight like that?”
“If you could just help us give it enough of a jiggle,” Eleanor says.
The three customers inside Pretty Baby are waiting to exit. “Can we just squeeze past?”
“Might be a while,” Noel says.
“Go out the back door,” Eleanor says to her customers. “The alley leads to a walkway to the street.” When they look doubtful, she adds, “It’s perfectly safe!”
From Death by Vinyl, the music turns into a flat buzz. Ali closes her eyes in horror.
“Thing’s on an angle,” Noel says. “That’s what went wrong, Eleanor. If you’d kept it straight.”
“I realize that!” Eleanor snaps. A young couple now stand outside, waiting to get in. “Can we just wiggle it straight again?”