The Search Angel

by Tish Cohen

  She’s here to give the parents-to-be a glimpse into the adoptee’s experience. She is also meant to share what she wishes had been done differently, what she wouldn’t change. How it’s important not to take it personally if your child is sad about his start in life from time to time.

  The room has the humid, yeasty smell of nervous energy, and the floor almost vibrates with the audience’s determination to do everything right.

  It was short-sighted not to have arrived earlier, Eleanor quickly realizes. She wasted precious minutes soaking Angus’s kibble in canned chicken broth, which of course didn’t interest him in the least. Now most of the seats in the meeting room are taken. With whispered apologies, Eleanor works her way along a row to an empty chair in the center. Just as she lowers herself into it, a soft hand lands on her arm.

  “Sorry. I’m saving that seat for my husband.”

  Eventually, Eleanor locates a seat in the back row, in the far left corner beside a couple dressed like they just came from running sprints, in matching Saucony shoes, nylon pants, and hooded sweatshirts. The woman, her dark head as sleek as an otter’s with its smooth ponytail, twists to one side to allow her to pass.

  Miles from Reception lowers the lights and yanks down a projection screen. The high-spirited chatter in the room falls to a respectful hush, but Donna doesn’t seem to be in the room.

  Eleanor can feel someone’s stare and finds the runners focused on her. The man, as bony and gristled as a grapevine, holds out his hand.

  “Jim Faust. This is my wife, Bev. What country are you adopting from?”

  Eleanor takes his hand and introduces herself. “My daughter’s here. Well, California.”

  “Hyun-Ki is coming from Korea. From National Boys. Yours an infant?”

  Eleanor nods and they exchange photos. The Fausts’ son is older, they explain, nearly three and recently separated from his younger brother, who was adopted to a couple in the U.K. They’d been after a younger child, but seeing Hyun-Ki crying, alone in his crib, broke their hearts.

  “Arrives in January,” says Jim. He looks at his wife. “What day is it?”

  “Like I don’t have it etched into my brain? The ninth. At 11:37. Flight 1833 from Seoul.”

  Eleanor says, “The cold will be a shock.”

  Jim laughs. “We’ve already picked up a snowsuit. Warmest we could find.”

  Bev turns in her chair to survey the room. “Is your husband coming tonight? I see there are a few chairs stacked; we could pull one over and squeeze it into our row.”

  It had been Jonathan who, upon hearing they’d been approved, ran out and bought Sylvie every classic children’s book he could find. The Beatrix Potter stories, Goodnight Moon, Dr. Seuss, Maurice Sendak. He arranged them on her windowsill beside the gliding rocker so he could read to her the night they arrived home. It was important to her adjustment, he’d said, that they establish routines right away.

  “He’s not here,” Eleanor says.

  “How’d he manage to sneak past Nancy’s ‘both spouses attend’ rule?” says Jim.

  “We’re sort of … separated at the moment.”

  “I don’t understand. You’re going to adopt alone?” asks Bev.

  Eleanor nods.

  “Oh,” says Jim, his expression less chummy now. “Well. I’ve heard more women are doing that now. Men, too, I would guess.”

  “The agency doesn’t … I mean, is this allowed?” Bev asks, one hand on her throat.

  “My husband and I split post-approval, so I have to go through a few more hoops, but yes, from some countries. As Nancy said, ‘Not every couple will remain a couple.’”

  “I’m sorry,” says Bev, leaning across her husband’s lap. “I don’t see bringing a baby into your life with no father. I understand it can happen, but to do it on purpose?” She shakes her head.

  “Bev.”

  “I get that you want a baby, but there are times, situations where you put the interest of the child ahead of your own needs—”

  “Bev. That’s enough.”

  “So sue me. Someone has to speak up for the children. They have no control over where they end up. They’re completely in the hands of those who—”

  Eleanor stands up. She cannot bear the thought of climbing across this woman’s unforgiving lap, so straddles her chair back, knocking it down and falling to her knees in the process. Embarrassed now, on top of being humiliated, her left knee paining, she charges down the hall to the ladies’ room, willing herself not to limp.

  Checking her lipstick in the mirror is Donna Devon. She looks up, her features softened from the halogen spotlight over her head. Up close, she is extraordinarily beautiful, with skin so smooth it doesn’t seem real. She smiles hello when Eleanor stumbles into the room.

  Quickly, Eleanor rearranges her face to wipe off Bev Faust’s disapproval. “I ordered your book,” she says. “I’m so curious how it’s been for you as an adoptee, adopting. I’m looking for someone to relate to, I guess.”

  “I hope you don’t relate to all of my stories. At least not the heroin smoothies. Or being chased down Canal Street in New York by the police.” Donna touches up her lips and grins devilishly.

  “My story is pretty vanilla in comparison.”

  “Everyone’s is.”

  Eleanor opens the stall door, then turns around. “I’m adopting on my own. My husband is gone. Or … might be gone.” Her throat tightens up with emotion. “I’m sorry. Not sure why I’m blathering. I’m just …” She lets out a sigh so hard she shudders. “I’m all alone.”

  Donna takes Eleanor’s shoulders. “Hey. Having a husband doesn’t guarantee anything. I was raised by a couple in Saratoga. My adoptive mom worked two jobs to put me and my adopted sister through private school and pay the mortgage. My adoptive dad? He spent his days at the Cat Call, a strip bar around the corner. Came home every night wrapped in the smell of cheap whisky and nasty perfume. You can do this, you hear me?”

  Eleanor nods with far more conviction than she feels. “Thank you.”

  Donna checks her watch. “We’d better get me in there before Nancy starts without me.”

  Eleanor follows Donna out. “Can I ask you something? Did your mother raise you two all on her own, then? No help at all?”

  “Oh God, no.” They march back toward the board room. “My grandmother lived upstairs. It wasn’t until I was five that I realized she wasn’t my second mother, that she was my grandmother.”

  A door flies open and Nancy catches sight of Donna. “There you are, Missy. You’re on in ten.”

  Donna squeezes Eleanor’s arm and heads to the front of the room where Miles is adjusting her podium. Nancy approaches Eleanor.

  “You look tired. Everything okay?”

  I’m perfect. I’m strong and independent and capable of raising a whole army of babies on my own, not just one. “My dog’s been keeping me up.”

  “And Jonathan?”

  “It’s not looking good.”

  They both pause as a heavyset woman with spiked hair and dangly earrings walks toward them.

  The woman holds out her hand to shake Eleanor’s and says in a cigarette-charred voice, “Lorna Gillespie. You must be Eleanor. Come—” She leads them out the door. “Let’s chat in the hall.”

  Let’s not, Eleanor thinks, following.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your situation,” Lorna says as if speaking to a six-year-old. “I’m sure Nancy told you I have concerns about who you have to assist in a pinch. We all need a little help now and then.” She cocks her head and smiles, squinting sympathetically. Eleanor half expects the woman to reach out and button her cardigan, retie her scarf, and send her off to play outside. “Nothing to be ashamed about.”

  “My mother is going to be my backup.”

  “Oh?” Nancy looks surprised. “I thought your parents were deceased.”

  “My birth mother. Her name is Ruth Smith.”

  “Right. I forgot you were adopted. That’s in your fi
le somewhere,” says Nancy.

  “Wonderful,” says Lorna. “There’s nothing like having your mother around when learning to care for a baby. Will she be present at the home visit for Nancy to meet?”

  This Martina Kalla had better be quick. “Absolutely.”

  Chapter 21

  Eleanor stares at Martina Kalla’s card.

  She has two weeks to find her mother. Maybe it would be possible if she’d been born with any surname other than the most common in North America. Or if Isabelle had grabbed an already-packed suitcase from the foyer closet and jumped on the first flight to Kansas City. Even then, fourteen days to find one woman in a country of over three hundred million was beyond ridiculous.

  She dials the number and the call goes straight to message: You have reached Martina Kalla. Thanks for getting in touch. Your call is important to me. Please leave your name and number and we’ll find who you’re looking for. Namaste.

  Eleanor is careful to enunciate. “Hi, Martina. My name is Eleanor Sweet and I’m looking for my birth mother.” She pauses. “Urgently.” She leaves her number twice and hangs up.

  Angus stares out the front door of Pretty Baby and lets out a woof so airy and hopeless it could be the balloon deflating. He’s barked so much since her return, he’s almost lost his voice. And now that he’s home, he’s stopped eating.

  Ginny wanders out of the break room, licking the icing off a small vanilla cupcake. She scratches him behind the ear. “Who’s a good boy whose breeders planned an abbreviated life for him? Huh? Who’s that good boy?”

  “Ginny.”

  “What? Great Danes live seven years because of breeders. So they can look at these huge beasts and think, ‘Whoa. Look what I built.’ Let them all be mutts, I say.” She swipes icing onto her finger and offers it to Angus. To Eleanor’s surprise, Angus licks Ginny’s finger clean and sits politely, clearly hoping for more. “I read it in my dog book.”

  “Can I try feeding him?”

  Ginny pops the cupcake into her mouth and says, “I’m eating for three. Get your own.”

  Eleanor watches Angus lower himself onto the floor. “At first it seemed to be because Jonathan left. But now, I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “I don’t think he likes me.”

  Ginny wipes crumbs from her mouth and nods. “Yeah. I can see that.”

  The back door slams against the wall and Noel walks in carrying the milk crate full of records she bought from his customer the day prior. He heaves it up onto the counter.

  “Oh good,” says Eleanor. “I paid your guy seventy-five dollars from my petty cash. It’d be great if you could reimburse me.”

  He says nothing. Just rolls his tongue against his inner cheek and grunts. As he removes albums one by one and sets each on the counter, he announces the artist’s name. “Let’s see here. We have the Irish Rovers, Englebert Humperdinck.” He pulls out a handful and fans them out like a giant poker hand. “Backstreet Boys. Mariah Carey. Four Britney Spears albums and a Jessica Simpson.” He stares at Eleanor. “The. Spice. Girls. What were you thinking?”

  “They were all popular in their day. My mother loved Englebert Humperdinck and …” She pulls out a David Cassidy album. “And I loved Keith Partridge. Someone will buy them. If you ever allow a customer inside.”

  “I need you to call him and tell him to come pick up this garbage. I want my money back.”

  “Really, Eleanor.” Ginny holds up a Celine Dion record. “What were you thinking?”

  “Your money?” Eleanor asks Noel.

  “Yes. I can’t afford to be shelling out for merchandise that will only damage my reputation. I’m sure you can understand that. I’ll leave this stuff with you to take care of?” He pauses to nudge Angus awake and the dog jumps up, dancing and wagging and fussing until the floor shakes. “How’s the old goat, huh? How’s my boy?”

  Angus prances back and forth from Noel to the door, whining hopefully. Noel looks at Eleanor. “You mind if I walk him?”

  So that’s that. She is so repellent even her dog can’t stand her.

  “Eleanor?”

  “Go ahead! Have a great time!”

  Watching Angus bound outside with Noel, tail wagging, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, Eleanor shakes her head. “Am I so unlikable?”

  “That’s it.” Ginny grabs Eleanor’s purse from under the counter. “Come over to my place for dinner. You need to escape yourself. I’d hate you too if I was with you all the time.”

  Chapter 22

  She pulls up in front of Ginny’s place and stares out at bare tree branches clawing the evening sky. She’s heard nothing from Jonathan since the horse. He’s been so quiet, she thinks she’s quite possibly offended him by not saying thank you. Seriously, he went to all that trouble of attending the class, making this gorgeous gift for Sylvie, and what did Eleanor do? Nothing.

  She pulls out her phone and dials his cell. The call goes to message and his voice booms deep and smooth. This is Jonathan, sorry I missed your call. Leave a message at the beep.

  Hey. It’s Eleanor. The horse is truly stunning and it was so sweet of you to make it. Give me a call; I’d like to thank you. She pauses. In person.

  She drops the phone into her bag, heart pounding. Why did she have to add “in person?” That was such a mistake. Now he’ll think her call is a manipulative ploy to get him back—which it isn’t. She picks up the phone again, willing it to ring. When it doesn’t, she reaches for the bottle of pinot noir she brought and climbs out of the car.

  She shouldn’t have left the message. Now her whole night will be ruined.

  The atmosphere inside the house is one of chaos. Ginny’s dining room mirror hangs slightly askew and one of the linen curtains has torn away from the rod above—Eleanor remembers this story: Greggie tried to climb the drapes after watching George of the Jungle. The youngest, William, belted into a high chair with a bent wizard cap on his head, has been howling since Eleanor arrived; and Ginny’s oldest, Kyle, has an ear infection and helped himself to the Tylenol bottle not long ago. The boy sits glassy-eyed in his chair, watching Eleanor in silence.

  Greggie hums “It’s the Hard-Knock Life” from under the table.

  As Ginny flies in from the kitchen with a casserole dish full of chicken breasts floating on rice, Ted dumps wine into glasses like he’s filling slop buckets. He hands one to Eleanor and motions toward the crying baby with the other. “Lesson number one, dear Eleanor. Sometimes you gotta self-medicate.”

  “I’d have told you to come over later, once the kids are in bed.” Ginny spoons chicken onto everyone’s plates. When she looks up, the pouches beneath her eyes shine. “But they never actually go to bed.”

  “More like they fall over, mid-fight, and pass out cold,” Ted says after gulping his wine. “Not that we get to sleep in our own bed.” He looks at Kyle. “Why don’t Mommy and Daddy sleep in their bed anymore, big boy?”

  Kyle doesn’t take his eyes off Eleanor. “‘Cause I like to sleep like a starfish.”

  Ted shrugs. “The guest room pullout isn’t so bad. Gin and I get some forced snuggling time.”

  “News flash. Once this belly gets bigger, you’re down in the den.”

  Greggie shouts from under the table, “I wanna sleep in the den, no fair!”

  “Daddy’s all set, then,” Ted says before taking another swig. “He’ll sleep in the backseat of the car.”

  “Anyhow, this way you’ll get the real picture.” Ginny disappears into the kitchen and returns with a jug of milk. “No delusions of peace or quiet.”

  “Or juvenile obedience of any kind,” Ted adds. “That’s Lesson number two.”

  Ginny sees Kyle feeding chicken to the scrappy Chihuahua mix dancing and yelping on the floor. “Are you feeding Termite, Kyle?”

  “No.”

  “I’m glad they’re still up,” Eleanor says. “I haven’t seen them in a while—right, guys?”

  Greggie pokes Eleano
r’s stockinged toes with a toothpick.

  Ted passes Ginny a glass. She holds it to her nose, inhales deeply, and passes it back. “We’re having twins, remember?”

  He stares at his wife’s belly and sinks into his chair. He shakes his head in horror as a green bean flies across the table and hits the wall. “For just one moment, I forgot.”

  Eleanor peers under the table to the phone in her lap to make sure it’s getting a signal. It is.

  Ginny leans over William to cut up the chicken on his high-chair tray, which calms him down. “Kyle, don’t feed the dog. You know he throws up.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “It’s Ted’s night to cook,” Ginny says to Eleanor.

  “Chicken and rice. My trademark dish.”

  “Greggie.” Ginny peers beneath the table. “Please come sit on your chair like one of the real humans.”

  “I am one of the real humans.”

  She never should have called Jonathan, Eleanor thinks. Someone walks out of your life, you don’t go scaring them further away by demanding face-time. Especially a man! He’s probably freaked out right now. Cell phones are a terrible invention.

  “Okay.” Ginny sits up straight, blows a strand of hair off her face. “Daddy made dinner, so everyone check their chicken.”

  “Very funny, Gin. I’m a great cook.”

  Eleanor nods with her mouth full. “Delicious.” As she slices into another piece, she leans closer to her plate. The chicken actually does look pink. She reaches for her napkin and glances around to make sure no one is looking. Then expels it and hides the evidence in her lap.

  The baby pushes a piece of chicken into his mouth.

  She has to say something. William could get sick. Eleanor stabs a piece of meat and holds it up to the light. “You know, it might be a teensy bit underdone.”

  “How long did you cook it?” Ginny snaps at Ted.

  “Same as usual.”

  Ginny scoops William’s chicken from the tray and sweeps her finger through his mouth to remove whatever he hasn’t swallowed. No surprise, the child begins to scream. “You have to check the center,” Ginny calls over the wailing. “How many times have I told you that?”