The Search Angel

by Tish Cohen

  After watching Eleanor mix butter, sugar, and eggs into a shortbread paste and set it inside the oven, Isabelle leaves her to whip up four egg whites with—the horror—a large fork meant to toss salads. Eleanor beats the eggs, looking from Isabelle to the bowl and back again.

  “Who is he?”

  “Who is who?”

  “The baby boy. The photo in your kitchen.”

  “That child is none of your business.”

  Eleanor opens the oven door to check the shortbread. Just starting to turn golden at the edges. She eyes Isabelle as she turns back to the bowl and folds the sugar into the mix. “He’s programmed to love you no matter what. You know that, right?”

  Isabelle snatches the bowl from her and starts to beat the mixture. She stirs harder. Faster. Soon tiny golden teardrops splatter out of the bowl and onto the counter. Then longer threads of lemon topping fly, attaching themselves to the cupboard doors, Isabelle’s elegant apron, the floor at their feet.

  “I’m sorry,” Eleanor says, reaching for the bowl. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

  Isabelle refuses to relinquish the bowl. With it tucked beneath her breast, she opens the oven and, with a bare hand, reaches for the metal pan. She shrieks and drops it to the floor, along with the mixing bowl. A strip of singed red flesh runs along her fingers and thumb. Before their eyes, the flesh starts to bubble.

  Eleanor rushes her to the sink and runs cold water, pushes Isabelle’s hand into the stream. “Keep it there!”

  “Just fill a Ziploc bag with ice.” Isabelle leans over the counter, pale. “I need to sit.”

  Eleanor does as told and helps Isabelle to the table, where they wrap a tea towel around the little bag of ice and press it to her hand. Angus wanders over to the mess of broken shortbread and wet lemon topping and sniffs at it, even deigning to taste small bits of crust. Isabelle stares at the dog. After a few minutes, she speaks.

  “The boy in the photograph is my son. I left him in the hospital the day he was born. While he slept in the nursery, I got out of bed. Pulled on my clothes. Lit a cigarette and walked to the nearest bus stop.”

  Outside a horn honks. Angus pads into the other room, leaving behind a trail of lemon-shortbread paw prints.

  “You don’t have to talk about it, Isabelle.”

  “I was eight months pregnant when my boyfriend left me. Sixteen and extraordinarily stupid. Our plan—however injudicious—was to marry once the baby was born. Dean was going to drop out of school and work at a motorcycle repair shop run by his best friend’s brother. His salary, however meager, would pay the rent and keep our baby in diaper cream and strained apricots. The plan never would have worked, not least of all because Dean was lazier than tar and delusional enough to believe he was born to be a rock star. He told me in my thirty-sixth week of pregnancy that he was moving to Australia to be lead singer in an Aerosmith cover band. He said that me not terminating the pregnancy had been a mistake. That I was free—lucky girl that I am—to do with the baby whatever I wished. I am thoroughly ashamed of what I did.”

  “How could you be ashamed? You were a child yourself. You left your baby in a safe place where he would be safe. That was brave. Not stupid.”

  “Bravery didn’t enter into it for a second. I was furious and immature. I didn’t leave my baby in that hospital for his own good. I did it to wound Dean, who never bothered to find out what happened.” The timer buzzes and Isabelle gets up to silence it and turn off the oven. When she turns around, her cheeks shine with tears. “I gave away my son out of spite.” Eleanor starts toward her and Isabelle holds up a hand. “I am not now, nor ever was I, a creature to be pitied.”

  The clock ticking from the wall. Angus groaning and stretching out on the floor by the fridge. The constant hiss of the radiators heating up. “Do you know where your son is now?”

  “I do. He’s at 341 Cherry Blossom Court, Sandwich, Massachusetts. He has a sensible wife and two towheaded children who leave their bicycles on the lawn no matter how many times they’re told to put them in the garage. He keeps his driveway impeccably shoveled and when the snow is particularly bad, he shovels the driveway of an elderly neighbor. No one can say he isn’t a good person.”

  “So you’ve seen him.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen him. Only from afar, though. I’ve never actually approached him or introduced myself.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time for that now?”

  “I do not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the time has passed.”

  From the center of the table, Isabelle’s cell phone rings.

  She composes herself and wipes her cheeks before holding it up to show Eleanor. Area code 317.

  “Your decision, Eleanor Sweet. You answer it or I will.”

  Another ring.

  Eleanor takes the phone, taps it to accept the call, and presses it to her ear. She whispers, “Hello?”

  Chapter 34

  Now, lined up at Security at Logan International Airport, Eleanor realizes she can stop looking for Woody Allen. Diane Keaton is not her mother, and unless Ruth Woolsey had a fling with Woody Allen in the mid-seventies, he’s not her father.

  She thought she saw Woody Allen once in New York City. She was on a twelfth-grade class trip, and between the Central Park Zoo and dinner in Times Square, the students were allotted two hours of freedom. Most kids went shopping. Or to Central Park to look at the autumn leaves. Not Eleanor. She was determined to find her famous father. And to catch his attention, she was going to dress like Annie Hall in one of the most iconic Woody Allen moments ever: the lobster scene. It was during this sequence that Alvy Singer fell in love with Annie.

  She knew, as did the rest of the world, that Woody’s bucket hat and rumpled khaki jacket were a common sighting in the city, particularly around East 55th and 3rd on Monday nights when he played clarinet at Michael’s Pub. So when he bumped into her on the street, clutching his little leather briefcase, he would be struck by something vaguely familiar. At the very least, she figured, he’d give her a second glance.

  Eleanor spent three days planning. Her hair would be in a loose bun, she would dress in white pants and matching blouse—untucked! collar flipped up!—with a creamy vest and white neck scarf. To top it off: a tweed blazer.

  Even as a teenager she felt better wrapped up.

  The Soon-Yi Previn scandal (something Eleanor, as his birth child, was willing to overlook) was fresh, so there was no sharing her plans with the other kids. Eleanor slipped away and planted herself in front of Michael’s. After a few hours, from across the street, she spotted a diminutive man in a khaki jacket and canvas rain hat, his face long and his glasses black. He kept his face down in a way that was befitting of the very famous.

  Eleanor, her white scarf flying behind her, her hair falling out of the too-loose bun, trotted behind him for four blocks. When he disappeared into a market, she carefully arranged herself against a lamp post so they’d be face to face when he came out. In a few minutes he emerged, carrying a bouquet of orange sunflowers. He looked up and gave her a half smile. Hesitated a moment, then headed back the way he came.

  Eleanor walked the other way. It wasn’t Woody. This man’s nose was different—much smaller and more structured. And the teeth were too big. But she didn’t need to see his face. She knew the moment she saw the flowers. No way would Woody pick out such a flashy bouquet.

  Now the airport security officer, his shirt buttons straining, waits with a plastic tray. “You got the thick soles and the high heels. The boots have to come off or you go next door for a pat-down.”

  The woman by the X-ray machine appears ominous with her linebacker hands and chin criss-crossed with frown lines. On the other hand, it had taken some effort to tuck her jeans into knee socks, then riding boots, before the cab arrived to pick her up. “Up to you, ma’am.” Eleanor had been up before 4 a.m. trying to decide what to wear to meet her birth parents. Was it best to appear businesslike in a pale gray suit and
sensible shoes, or elegant in her navy shift and matching pumps? She wants them to be assured she is taking this meeting seriously. But doesn’t want to make them uncomfortable if they’re all sitting around in sweats. Eventually, she settled on what made her feel both comfortable and insulated: dark jeans tucked into riding boots, and a crisp blue shirt over a long-sleeved white T-shirt, topped by a vintage cardigan with ruffled edges.

  Ruth’s voice had been a surprise. Deep and throaty, not unlike Angus growling in his sleep. Maybe her voice was wrecked from years of smoking. Maybe she was just born with splintered vocal cords. It was clear that her mother was every bit as nervous as Eleanor. She kept saying, “My word, it’s really you? This is really you?”

  Eleanor had dreamed of this moment all her life. She’d imagined it this way and that way, but never with the workaday undertone of the actual conversation.

  Isabelle, with the call on speaker, had explained the situation. That she was sitting across from Eleanor Sweet, the child Ruth gave up thirty-five years ago. Ruth had gone silent a full minute. Eleanor thought the call had been dropped. Or, worse, her mother had hung up.

  Finally, Ruth whispered, “I don’t believe it. All these years, it’s really you.”

  Eleanor’s turn. “It is. It’s me … and this is you.”

  “Oh, this is unbelievable. Unbelieva—Richard?” She covers the phone a moment and calls out to Richard again. Then she’s back. “You won’t believe this, sweetie, but I married your biological father. Richard?” More scuffling. “Oh, this is ridiculous. When can I get my hands on you for a big hug?”

  The man at Security stares at Eleanor and smacks his gum. “Some folks just don’t like to be in their stocking feet. My wife hates it. Makes her feel like a kindergartner, she says.”

  “Eleanor Sweet!” Isabelle is already seated at the gate, waving. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

  A businessman in line behind Eleanor sets his brogues in her shoe tray. There. Decision made. She looks at the security guard. “I’ll take the pat-down.”

  “They’ve informed me there’s no business class on this flight,” Isabelle says as Eleanor drops into the seat next to her. “None at all. I thought I’d misheard the woman. I asked if the plane has wings or will I be required to flap my arms to keep the machine in the air.”

  “I don’t think these little commuter airlines have business class. The flight is short. They assume you can rough it for an hour and a half.”

  “If I’d wanted to rough it, I’d have strapped a saddle onto that plow horse you keep on your kitchen floor. Do you know they tried to charge me extra for the weight of my bag?”

  “We’re only gone overnight. How much could you possibly—?”

  “I pointed to the hefty person behind me and demanded they compare our weights, bags included. Said if my total exceeded hers, I’d gladly pay.” She huffs out a sigh and nods toward a large woman with piercings that ridge her entire left ear and tattoos creeping up her neck. Beside her is her equally massive boyfriend, studs dotted along the lapel of his leather jacket. “They let me through.”

  “Jesus, Isabelle. You’re going to get us killed.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve booked the bulkhead for us. It may be a short flight, but I refuse to spend it dying of deep-vein thrombosis.”

  “Bulkhead’s fine with me.”

  “You’ll take the window. And you’ll shut the blind before takeoff. I prefer to pretend I’m in the back of a cab, rather than forty thousand feet above any sort of common sense.”

  “I insist on reimbursing you for your flight,” Eleanor says. “You have to agree to that.”

  Isabelle leans back in her chair, crosses her arms over the purse in her lap, and closes her eyes. “Shut up, Eleanor Sweet. And wake me when they have my plane ready.”

  The flight is delayed almost two hours because the pilots are late for work. Something about a traffic jam on the I-95. Drinks and snacks are suddenly free, but the passengers are warned that the toilets aren’t functioning because the engines haven’t been turned on yet. As a result, Isabelle orders herself a cup of coffee, but refuses to drink it. “I’m far too old to subject myself to staring down at another person’s shortsightedness.”

  “Do what I just did in the bathroom,” Eleanor says, biting into a muffin. “Don’t look down.”

  “I’m not a cave woman.” Isabelle hauls her oversize leather bag onto her lap and washes down a Gravol with the tiniest sip of coffee, then proceeds to dig through her Gucci purse. “Damn these hippie sacks. You cannot find a thing when you need it.” She pulls out a fluffy sleep-mask and sets to work untangling the elastic band.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Whose name?”

  “You know.”

  “Ethan Bradley Santos and I think about him every day.”

  Isabelle tugs the sleep-mask over her eyes and leans back. She lets her bag slide down her leg. It catches on the tray and, fully blinded, she gives it a shove, knocking her entire coffee cup onto Eleanor’s lap.

  “Hey, I’m soaked!”

  Isabelle balls her jacket up into a pillow and tucks it between her head and the shaded window. “Keep it down, darling. I’ve taken a pill.”

  Chapter 35

  It’s like something out of a movie.”

  They stand on the sidewalk and stare at creamy gold brick, luscious white trim, and a cedar-shingled roof. The house is flanked by old trees long past the height of their autumn color. Masses of spent hydrangea, pinkish green dried to brown, line the base of a stone porch, the steps of which are scattered with leaves. In the air, far warmer than at home, the smoky tang of burning leaves. At one side of the property, a wheelbarrow full of clippings beside a partially denuded cedar suggests someone was distracted by the football game on TV.

  From an ancient, sprawling chestnut tree hangs an old rope swing. The way it sways in the breeze is almost taunting. You weren’t good enough, it seems to whisper.

  “I wonder if they’ll adopt me.” Isabelle starts up the steps. When Eleanor doesn’t follow her, she turns around. “Two for one, what do you think?”

  “I think I want to throw up.”

  “If this is a bid to get your clutches on my Gravol, you can give it up right now. I have two pills left—one for the terrible sleep I’ll have sharing a hotel room with you, and the other to knock me out when we step back onto that cattle-mover with bar service tomorrow morning. Now, get your delicate system up here and let’s get this done.”

  Eleanor climbs the steps, aware of her own rumpledness next to Isabelle’s fresh-pressed perfection. They had both set out at the same time, traveled on the same flight. Why does Eleanor look like something pulled out of a trash can?

  “Can we just leave? Go back? I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Nonsense. Now take off that scarf. You look like you’ve been rear-ended and are too miserly to buy a proper neck brace.” She starts to untie the linen scarf.

  “No, no, no!” Eleanor’s hands go to her throat to stop her. “I need it.”

  But Isabelle already has it off. She rolls it up and stuffs it in her bag. “There. How does that feel?”

  “Naked.” Eleanor looks at the toes of her boots. At home they looked so much newer. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

  “Won’t happen. She’s been wondering about you for even longer than you’ve been wondering about her. She’s likely worried you won’t like her. Think about it. You have every right to be angry.”

  “You’re coming in, right? You’re staying?”

  Isabelle tucks a stray piece of hair behind Eleanor’s ear. “I am, darling. Now, take two steps back. You smell like stale urine.”

  “Urine? That’s your coffee!”

  “Stale coffee smells remarkably like urine.”

  “Is it too late to fire you?”

  “Rule number three. The search angel cannot be fired. But she can quit at any time. Rule number four is that they’re to open the door with a snifter of
brandy in each hand, both for the search angel.” She rings the bell and shakes her head. “Rule number four doesn’t seem to take.”

  Distraction. Isabelle knows exactly what she’s doing.

  The front door flies open. Standing before them is a beautiful woman of about fifty. With her long, wavy, ash-blond hair, wide mouth, and teacup-handle ears, this is, without question, a sophisticated version of the girl from the yearbook. The way she smiles, exposing her lower teeth, the way she holds her hand (devoid of brandy snifter) with her fingers lined up like a Chinese fan—Eleanor can see these in herself.

  Ruth steps onto the porch. “I don’t believe it. I don’t even believe what I’m seeing. You look exactly like me.” She takes Eleanor’s hands. “May I give you a hug?”

  Eleanor nods. Right away she is wrapped in her mother. She tries to feel something. Anything other than numbness and wonder. Ruth’s shoulders start to shake. “Sorry. Heavens … just to have you here.”

  Her mother’s back is muscled and strong through her blouse. Her athletic build Eleanor did not inherit. The hug continues and Eleanor finds herself staring at Isabelle, who motions that she’s sipping from an invisible snifter and nods toward the house. Eleanor smiles. Then closes her eyes and shuts Isabelle out. All thoughts of finding Ruth for Sylvie are momentarily pushed aside. This is her mother, flesh and blood and Chanel No. 5.

  Ruth pulls back. “You’re simply gorgeous. So delicate with that perfect bone structure.”

  A small child, also blond, comes barreling out of the house and attaches himself to Ruth’s leg. Stupidly, Eleanor feels jealous. She’s waited thirty-five years for this moment. Can’t it last longer than twenty seconds?

  With his finger looking for his nostril, the boy gazes up at Eleanor. “She doesn’t look like a baby.”

  Ruth laughs, pulling away and wiping wet eyes. “This, dear Eleanor, is your nephew Robbie. Robbie, this is your Auntie Eleanor, all grown up.”