The Search Angel

by Tish Cohen

  She flies out of bed to pull on a pair of jeans and a baggy sweater. There’s no time to wash even. It’s 9:49 and Sylvie’s plane lands at 10:30. Angus looks at her, wagging his tail and panting expectantly by the door. There’s no time to take him down, wait for him to do his business, and bring him back up, so bringing him in the car it is. Even if it does mean stuffing him into the front seat so he doesn’t drool on Sylvie the entire way home. He races out leash-free to water the tree out front as she unlocks the Beetle.

  “Angus, let’s go!”

  Once he’s finally bundled in, the car seat and diaper bag loaded, and Eleanor buckled, she turns the key in the ignition—to be met with a limp sputter.

  Again, she turns the key and waits while, this time, the engine groans and actually makes a choking sound. It’s 10:03 and the car won’t start. Sylvie’s plane lands in twenty-seven minutes. Angus sits unconcerned with his rump on the passenger seat, feet on the floor, and head over the dashboard, hot breath fogging up the window.

  She turns the key again. This time, nothing at all.

  No cabs in sight. Not one.

  Panicked, she looks around to see Noel has come outside to clean the store windows.

  She climbs across to open the passenger door. “Noel?” When he doesn’t react, she calls louder, “Noel!” This time he turns around and squints at her, Windex bottle dangling from one finger. “My car’s dead.”

  He turns away, squirts the window, and starts polishing. “You have Triple A?”

  “No …” She struggles to unbuckle and climbs out of the car. “I just … I was wondering if you could give us a ride real quick.”

  He stands upon a splintered chunk of Eleanor’s antique bench to spray the upper half of the window. Then winds paper towel around one hand and wipes. Sprays again. Wipes. Works a tiny bit of the towel into the corners, then leans close to assess the window from the side view. Scrubs at the odd smear. “No can do.”

  “I can’t be late.”

  “I don’t drive that car. I will never drive that car.”

  “I’m desperate. You have to help me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Please.”

  He scrubs the same spot on the window now, over and over. “Can’t do it.”

  Eleanor crosses the sidewalk. “Noel, I get that it’s hers but you can’t bring her back by refusing to drive it. It doesn’t change the fact that she’s gone.”

  He stops scrubbing. Stares at the glass. “I said no, okay? You can take a bus. You can call a cab.”

  “What good does it do to make it a shrine to her?” Her voice grows more shrill with each passing second. “How is that going to help?”

  He turns. Stares at the Audi for a moment, then swipes at his eyes with a wrist because his hands are full. Runs his hands through his hair. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Noel, I’m desperate. I have to get to Logan in twenty-two minutes—”

  “Logan?”

  “Today’s the day, remember? November twenty-fourth, 10:30. American Airlines.”

  “Sylvie,” he says.

  “Sylvie.”

  It takes him a moment to react. Then, with a tilt of his head, he pats his pockets, pulls out a set of keys, and heads toward the always gleaming black Audi. “I can’t promise it’ll start.”

  It does. As the engine warms up—it’s likely been some time since the car has been turned on—Noel roots through the glove box and pulls out a CD. First thing he does, before buckling up even, is slide it into the CD player.

  It sounds like all dialogue. Like an audio book. First crickets, then two Twilight-type teenagers discuss whether they’re all alone, then a familiar-sounding voice launches into none other than “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

  Eleanor looks at him. Noel nods, flips on a pair of dusty aviators, and roars into traffic. The entire way to the Callahan Tunnel, they listen to William Shatner walk through “Bohemian Rhapsody.” She supposes she had it coming.

  Once they leave daylight behind and descend into the quiet hum of the tunnel, he speaks. “It was my fault.”

  “What was your fault?”

  “I insisted that morning that we switch vehicles. I had a little Smart car and was planning to drive up to Marblehead to pick up this guy’s dead father’s record collection. He had a ton of cool rock—from Elvis to The Doors to Hendrix. Victoria was going to take my car to her mom’s down near Quincy. I hadn’t even left the house yet when I got the call. It was an SUV, the driver was texting. It was instant.”

  Eleanor puts her hand on his arm. “Oh God. I’m sorry.”

  “The records could’ve fit. I could’ve made them fit. I was just being lazy. The Audi has the bigger trunk.”

  “Noel. You can’t blame yourself for something like that. It’s shitty and wrong and terrible. But it’s not your fault.”

  He doesn’t answer. Just points at the clock, 10:22, and hits the gas.

  After a further fifteen minutes of no conversation, three episodes of Angus barking at other dogs, and a near collision with a city bus that would have proved fatal to Eleanor’s timeline, the Audi lurches to a stop in front of the American Airlines gate and Noel cuts the engine. He looks at her.

  “You’re seven minutes late. I’ll wait here. Go!”

  Eleanor grabs the diaper bag and jumps out of the car. She slams the door and starts to run, then races back to the window, which he lowers. “I know what this meant to you. I know how hard it was. Just … thank you.”

  “What kind of parent stands here and makes small talk?” He waves her away. “Get going!”

  Standing in front of the domestic flights arrivals gate, Eleanor is aware she looks like not only an unfit mother, but an unfit citizen. She needs a shower. Her sweater won’t stay on her shoulders, and her sneakers are untied. Not that Sylvie will care. The important thing is she arrived on time. Though, as she stands here alone, a welcoming committee of one, the moment feels a bit ordinary and sad. Not much of a pack, Ginny would say.

  Passengers from the flight begin to trickle out, looking dazed and rumpled from the cross-country flight. A white-haired man in a floral shirt, carrying a bag of duty-free liquor, a newspaper, and a laptop, looks surprised to find himself in an airport. He smiles and makes for an older man—a shrunken, more hairless version of himself—and gives him a hearty hug. They talk, laugh. Walk out toward the parking garage.

  A businessman in square glasses comes out next, fresh and full of purpose. Heads straight for the taxi stand. Three girls in their early twenties are met by someone’s brother or boyfriend.

  A black woman in a long dress and braids leads a gaggle of young children through the crowd. They hang onto her jacket and scuttle along to keep pace.

  Eleanor sets the diaper bag on the floor and stands up taller as if this might bolster her presence. A few more people, most of them tired-looking and in pairs, find waiting loved ones or leave on their own.

  Suddenly, her knees are bumped from behind and Angus dances around her, his tongue lolling and his leash dragging. She looks around to find Noel has fixed his iPhone on her. “It’s November twenty-fourth and Eleanor Sweet is here at Logan waiting for a most special arrival.” He pauses, swings the car seat from the crook of his arm onto the floor. Attached to the handle is a bundle of pink helium balloons he must have picked up just now at the gift shop. To her, Noel says, “Angus and I decided you need a videographer to chronicle the moment.”

  She reaches down to scrub Angus’s sides and hide the tears brimming in her eyes. When she stands, she leans close enough to kiss Noel’s cheek. “Thank you.”

  It isn’t until Flight 943 appears to have emptied out that the doors slide open one more time. A young man, burly and gentle-looking, dressed in dark green Dockers and very new sneakers, long brown hair in a tidy ponytail, steps out. Luiz. In his hands is an infant carrier that has likely seen many trips to many states. Luiz looks around, sees Eleanor, and asks the question with his eyes.

  Holding he
r breath, Eleanor nods.

  He comes toward Eleanor, huge smile on his face, the carrier bumping against his knees. Then the infant carrier turns. Pudgy fists rise up to bat at the handle. Feet kick out in black lace-up shoes. Every step or two, a quick flash of Sylvie’s face. So much smaller than Eleanor expected. Like a doll.

  The escort no longer exists. The carrier is placed on the floor.

  “Eleanor Sweet?”

  Eleanor is already on her knees. She nods.

  “I’m Luiz and I’m not going to bore you with small talk. This is your beautiful daughter.” He steps back and gives her her moment.

  Sylvie stills. Green eyes heavily fringed with sandy lashes blink up at Eleanor, enormous and astonished. Her caramel skin, it glows with near iridescence. Her lips part in a smile to reveal two perfect front teeth, separated by a devilish gap. Her foot kicks out in excitement and Eleanor takes it in her hand.

  Noel squats down beside them, iPhone covering part of his face.

  Angus’s nose digs deep into Sylvie’s abdomen. “Whoa there!” Luiz dives down to unbuckle her.

  “It’s okay.” Eleanor laughs. “Angus is just saying hello.”

  “Go ahead and pick her up,” Luiz says. “You’ve waited long enough.”

  Eleanor hesitates, then lifts the girl onto her hip—she’s so light!—and takes her hand. Bounces her softly and whispers hello over and over. Hesitatingly, she kisses Sylvie on the cheek, but the child pulls away. Looks to Luiz and stretches out her arms.

  Luiz looks unconcerned, points at Eleanor. “No, Sylvie. You go to Mommy now.”

  “It’s okay,” Eleanor says. “It’s all scary and new for her.”

  “She’s a laid-back kid. She’ll do great.” Luiz checks her ID and holds out agency forms so she can sign with Sylvie in her arms.

  “Do you need anything else from me?” Eleanor gives him back the pen.

  “Just a picture of the two of you to give to Cathy?”

  Eleanor poses with Sylvie while Luiz snaps a quick shot with his phone. He leans forward and squeezes Sylvie’s hand. “That’s it, then. Goodbye, baby girl. Be good for your mommy.”

  Sylvie watches as her travel partner walks away. A bead of drool gathers on her lower lip. Eleanor rocks her softly. As much as it wouldn’t mean anything, as much as it would be natural, Eleanor doesn’t want the baby to cry for him.

  She doesn’t. Sylvie raises a finger and touches Eleanor’s jaw, making Eleanor laugh.

  “This is Sylvie,” she says, turning to Noel, still filming. “My daughter.”

  Chapter 45

  Eleanor and Ginny kneel on the bathroom floor while Sylvie sits perfectly still in a safety ring obliterated by bubbles. They hadn’t started with suds clear up to the baby’s chin, but when Eleanor poured in a capful of baby wash, Sylvie giggled so hard that she poured more and more while Ginny filmed it. Now the child holds her hands above the foam and pats it with her palms.

  Shielding Sylvie’s eyes, Eleanor shampoos her massive headful of ringlets, which seem to come in every shade from deep brown at the back to sandy blond at the hairline. Wait till this grows longer, Eleanor thinks. Her hair will likely be stunning, but, oh, the tangles.

  She thought she knew, before Sylvie’s arrival, what it would be to love her own child. She runs a baby store, for God’s sake. But nothing could have prepared her for this feeling. That full-body melt that comes with watching your baby toddle toward you with a book, try to ride the dog, or sit in your lap and play with your collar. Nothing.

  Angus is besotted. The way he stares down at her, his face a curious mix of helplessness and amusement. Eleanor is fairly certain he’d wolf down dry kibble if he thought Sylvie had poured it into his bowl.

  Ginny cleans out an ice cream container with her finger and licks the digit. “When you consider it’s her first night, new climate, new parent, no other kids like in the foster home, she’s doing very well.”

  “She’s probably just so stunned by it all.” Eleanor turns on the faucet, fills a plastic cup, and rinses Sylvie’s hair while she dunks a rubber duck under the water and holds it there. Eleanor watches as Sylvie brings the duck up for air. Sylvie grins and drowns it again.

  “They all have a cruel streak; don’t get freaked out by it. It’s a survival thing. Wait’ll my two are born. My house will be so Lord of the Flies.”

  “I’m not freaked out.” Again, Eleanor saves the duck. “But I’d like to keep her out of juvie as long as possible.” To Sylvie, she holds out both hands as if to pick her up. “Time to come out now, Miss Sylvie Sweet.”

  Sylvie plunks her hands underwater in refusal.

  “Sylvie, it’s bedtime now.”

  Ginny laughs. “Bedtime. Love that concept. Doesn’t work in reality but you can’t tell a new parent that. They’d effing bolt.”

  “Sylvie, let’s go now.”

  Sylvie licks a handful of bubbles and grimaces.

  A noise from the front hall, then Isabelle’s voice. “Who leaves their door unlocked in such a building? I’m liable to stumble upon blood-soaked bodies and ruin my good shoes.” She pokes her face into the room and lets her eyes rest on the bubble-covered child. “Well,” she snorts. “I see you’re messing her up already.” Isabelle drops her handbag in the hallway and rolls up a sleeve. “Thank heaven I happened by. The two of you don’t know ankle from sternum.” She plunges a hand into the water and unplugs the tub. “Rule number one with girls. No bubbles in the bathwater.” She eyes Ginny’s swollen belly. “You of all people should know this.”

  “Don’t take me down, Grandma. I have boys!”

  “Why no bubbles?” asks Eleanor.

  “It’s a urinary tract thing,” says Isabelle as she coos to Sylvie and offers her hands in the same way Eleanor did. This time, Sylvie grins and bops up and down in excitement. She lifts her arms and opens and closes her tiny fists. “There, there, love,” Isabelle says as she lifts the child up and into a towel Eleanor has waiting. “Isabelle is here to save you from these uneducated louts, don’t you worry.”

  Sylvie blinks at Ginny and Eleanor as Isabelle pats her dry and wiggles her into a diaper and zippered sleeper.

  An hour later, with Ginny gone in search of one pizza to take home for Ted and the kids and another for herself, Eleanor stands at the door with Isabelle and watches her search her bag for her keys.

  She was wonderful with Sylvie, even coaxing the child to suck from the strange new silicone nipple on her bottle—first soak the tip in formula, then touch it to her lower lip, let her smell it. Taste it. The girl darted her tongue out, hungry for more. Worked like a charm. Sylvie fell asleep while still sucking on the bottle and stayed out as Isabelle placed her into her crib.

  They stay a minute, watching Sylvie in the near darkness. Finally, Eleanor thinks, she’s in her bed where she should be. At long last.

  “You have a wonderful daughter, Eleanor Sweet.” Isabelle starts out of the room and toward the front hall. “You look very happy.”

  “I am.”

  Isabelle turns away from Eleanor and fusses with her scarf, getting involved in a far-too-complicated procedure of twisting and tucking that is in very real danger of going on all night. She’s thinking about Ethan. Eleanor can tell by the angle of her head. Tilted upward as if to see above and beyond anything that might hurt her.

  “Isabelle. I have some information for you.”

  “I do not wish to hear it.”

  “But you don’t know what it’s about.”

  When the woman finishes buttoning up her coat, the rims of her eyes are pink. “Try your best to keep that poor child alive until I see you again. The national adoption industry has enough to deal with without you mucking it up.”

  Chapter 46

  At first she thinks raccoons are fighting out in the back alley again. Or there’s a cat in heat. It takes a moment of blinking in the dark to realize what’s going on. Eleanor sits up and kicks off the covers. Her daughter is in the next room and from t
he sounds of it, she’s spitting mad.

  Angus has already posted himself next to the crib, backlit from the moon-shaped nightlight behind him. On his face is that look dogs get when they’re willing someone with opposable thumbs to take care of a problem they’re unable to solve on their own. At his side, hanging onto the crib rail with one hand is Sylvie, the other hand feeling for Angus’s ear, her face shiny and swollen with tears.

  Sylvie catches sight of Eleanor and lifts her arms in the air to be taken out of her linen-clad prison. “Ma ma ma ma.”

  Eleanor knows this is a developmental stage. She knows better than to be romanced by it, to read into it. But her chest swells anyway. “Shush, shush, baby girl.” She lifts the child up and holds her close so she can inhale her. Instead of settling down, Sylvie stiffens and arches her back in defiance. She is not going to be placated that easily.

  “Is it your diaper?” Eleanor lays her on the change table and unsnaps the legs of the sleeper, then removes the wet diaper. Sylvie is having none of this either and tries to roll off the change table as Eleanor re-diapers her. Then, with Angus at her heels, Eleanor carries Sylvie into the kitchen to prepare a bottle—which interests the child not in the least.

  After spending the next twenty minutes trotting out stuffed animals and dolls, shaking rattles that tinkle, buzz, and giggle, after turning over the cow box that moos, after reading and rereading Goodnight Moon, Eleanor carries Sylvie from room to room, bouncing her on her hip. But nothing can appease the infant for more than a few seconds. Finally, if only to give her aching arms a break, Eleanor straps the child into the as-yet-unused stroller and wheels her in laps through living room, hallway, and kitchen.

  The motion doesn’t help at all.

  The phone rings. Eleanor glances at the clock. It’s after midnight.

  With Sylvie howling in the background, she picks up. “Yes?”

  “I’m so sorry, Eleanor.” Ruth. “I wanted to hear about Sylvie’s first day and just realized how late … What’s all that ruckus … She’s upset?”