The Search Angel Read online

  “I did check. I think I checked …”

  “‘I think I checked’ isn’t good enough when it comes to chicken, baby. You have to be sure.”

  “Sorry.”

  William throws himself onto his tray, sobbing. The wizard hat topples onto the floor. “Wanta have chicken!”

  “Kyle, honey, did you eat any?”

  “No, I gave it all to Termite.”

  The baby’s sobs grow more intense. “I’m hungry!”

  “Why don’t I put a few pieces in the microwave for him,” says Eleanor. “Make sure they’re well done.”

  Ted reaches down to pick up the fallen hat. “Remember that story about the toddler on Long Island? Didn’t that boy die from raw chicken? Salmonella poisoning?”

  Kyle starts to cry. “I don’t want Willie to die!”

  Greggie crawls out from beneath the table. “Is Willie gonna die?” Both boys move to the high chair and wrap their arms around their youngest brother as he howls in fury.

  Ted is standing now. “Do you think we should call someone? A doctor?”

  Ginny pulls William out of the high chair and sets him on the floor beside his brothers. “Everybody climb on Daddy. Give him something real to worry about.”

  Tears are gone. All three boys charge their father, yelping with excitement as they climb his legs and poke and tickle Ted while Termite yelps his concern from the floor. Ginny watches, shaking her head, one hand caressing her belly. The mother of darkness is smiling.

  The moment is so intimate. Eleanor takes William’s chicken into the kitchen and puts it in the microwave. Ginny comes in behind her, carrying the platter of pink chicken. She sets it on the counter and looks at Eleanor.

  “You are out of your mind, doing this all by yourself. Out of your freaking mind.”

  Chapter 23

  The video camera Jonathan left behind is too sophisticated. All the buttons with symbols she doesn’t recognize. Eleanor twists and pokes and shifts the tiny controls until a green light comes on, then sets the camera on the dresser and hurries over to stand beside the crib.

  “Hello, Sylvie,” she says, reaching down to stop Angus from devouring his left ankle and point his great sopping snout toward the camera. The dog woofs in defiance. “This is Angus, your dog. He’s very friendly. Right, Angus?”

  Angus leaves the room, agitated. She hears him drop to the dining room floor in a series of bony clunks. There he lets out yips that sound like a squeaky mattress.

  “And I’m Eleanor. Mommy.” Why does she feel like a fraud calling herself Mommy? She looks around for what to say next. “This is your new room. Your bed. And …” She grabs a few plush animals. “Your toys.”

  Woof woof.

  “Angus, please!” She’ll edit that out. Somewhere in the hallway, a buzzer drones. A neighbor’s oven timer most likely, but loud enough to be heard through two closed doors. It’s too banal. Might sound depressing on video. Eleanor pauses the filming until it stops.

  She holds up a framed photo of her adoptive parents. “These are your grandparents. Papa Thomas and Nana Marion. They’re not around anymore, though. So.” She sets the photo back on the dresser. “Yeah.”

  Woof. Woof woof.

  “Angus!”

  The buzzer drones on again. There’s not much else to show so she waves into the camera. “I guess that’s it for now. I’m going to see you so soon, honey.” Her voice catches at the end. Will she really see Sylvie? Ever?

  “You’re going to have a long plane ride, then come into a big airport, and then, then there I’ll be. We’ll be together and you’ll have a …” She stops. Eleanor and a neurotic canine who hates her do not a real family make. “We’ll have so much fun.”

  Woof woof.

  Her phone rings from the kitchen. Eleanor races to see Martina Kalla’s number on the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Eleanor Sweet?” Martina’s voice sounds cool. Capable. Like she could find a granule of sugar in the sand. “Yes. That’s me.”

  “Hi there, sorry it took so long to get back to you.”

  Eleanor finds herself bouncing up and down on her toes. “That’s fine. No problem at all. Here’s my situation. I was born in Kansas City and there’s this street—”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m swamped right now and won’t be able to take you on until February. March at the latest. You said ‘urgent’ in your message, so I wanted to check if you’re able to wait that long.”

  “No.” Eleanor drops into a chair and closes her eyes. “I’m not.”

  Chapter 24

  The morning in Boston Common is crisp and sunny. Bright blue sky with clouds so puffy and defined they could have been drawn by preschoolers. Eleanor has layered up even more with leather gloves and a vintage Annie Hall fedora. Something about being able to hide beneath a sturdy brim makes her feel less vulnerable. She lets the grassy slope propel her down to the massive beech tree where eight or nine mothers have set up camp with their babies. It’s something the agency arranges to provide a network of friends for parent and child: a meet-and-greet with others whose adoptions are complete. Eleanor had been scheduled to attend this morning with Sylvie, had things gone as planned. So being here isn’t exactly wrong.

  A flutter in her stomach works its way up her esophagus.

  The setups vary from a mother sitting cross-legged with a tightly jacketed baby on her lap and a diaper bag on her blanket, to full-blown camps that include portable playpens, coolers, and bouncy chairs from IKEA. Seeing the babies—with their smiling eyes, skin of every shade, hair that ranges from nonexistent to thin to nappy to thick and spiky—nearly flattens her. A few younger infants are sound asleep in car seats or their mother’s arms, others suck from bottles. Two of the older ones sit face to face on a blanket and tussle over a ball.

  Likely because it’s twelve o’clock on a Tuesday, only one woman has her husband along.

  The mothers seem relaxed and familiar with one another. Eleanor recognizes a couple of them from the store. She approaches rather stupidly, prowling around the periphery, then holds up a hand as if to say I come in peace.

  “Hi. I’m not sure if Nancy mentioned I might be stopping by. I’m Eleanor. My baby was supposed to be here, but isn’t just yet. Long story.”

  And not a lie.

  One mother, the jovial brunette who brought along her husband, has a very fussy infant lurching backward in her arms, red-faced, refusing to be burped. “Dee Gilchrist.” She pats the corner of her blanket and moves her booted legs out of the way. “Come. So you don’t have to sit on the grass in your nice coat.”

  Her husband spits grape seeds into his palm. “Ian Gilchrist.” He tilts his chin toward the baby. “Stay-at-home dad. I’m giving Dee here a little much-needed mother–son time. I’m a peach like that.”

  Full-time dad. Here is a man wholly present for his adopted baby. No worries about what may or may not happen. What attachment did or did not happen at birth. Ian pulls a bottle of formula from his mini-cooler and excuses himself. He jogs effortlessly toward the change room hut by the wading pool.

  “This is Cole, by the way. And don’t let his fussing scare you,” says Dee. “It’s just a bit of colic.”

  “Not possible to scare me, I’ve been wanting one for so long.”

  A black woman in a tidy Burberry jacket hands Eleanor a bottle of water. “We’ve all been there. I’m Felicia.”

  The ladies go around the circle and introduce themselves: their names, what part of the city they’re from, and the ages and names of their children. One woman—one with twin boys feeding each other Cheerios—asks Eleanor when her daughter will arrive.

  “We’re still hammering out the date,” Eleanor says, before going on to explain the circumstances around Sylvie’s adoption. The earthquake. Her mother’s death. How, by the grace of God, Sylvie was rescued.

  Ian is back with the bottle and hands it to Dee. “Warmed it under the hot-water tap. See if he takes it.”
/>   Dee sets Cole on her lap and offers the silicone nipple. It’s Kort, from Sweden—Eleanor sells these at the store. The baby refuses the bottle, releases angry cries like little puffs of smoke. His mother struggles to keep him on her lap. “They say colic doesn’t last past two months. I pray day and night they’re right.”

  “Try holding him on his stomach like I showed you,” Ian says. “Football hold.”

  Rolling her eyes at the other mothers, Dee gently flips Cole over, rubbing his back with her free hand while he howls.

  “So what do you do, Eleanor?” Ian shouts over the din.

  “I have a store. Baby store, actually.”

  Felicia squeals. “That’s why you look so familiar. You own Pretty Baby?”

  When Eleanor nods, the whole group erupts in excited chatter.

  You’ll have everything you’ll ever need.

  Your store is my absolute favorite!

  You’re going to be so prepared.

  Are those convertible toddler beds ever going to go on sale?

  Cole’s cries grow louder.

  “I was in your store once,” says a woman in yoga pants. “It was someone else who served me. God, was she pregnant. Third boy under five, she said.”

  A sympathetic groan erupts from the blanket.

  “Imagine?”

  “I mean lucky but, wow. Hope she has her mother nearby.”

  “Nearby? How about living in?”

  There’s no way Eleanor dares mention the coming twins. She’ll never get the conversation on track again. “Someone told me not to schedule the pediatrician appointment the first week. What did you all do? I mean, I want to make sure she’s healthy but I don’t want her getting poked with a needle as soon as she arrives. I don’t want her to associate me with pain.”

  Cole’s face is scrunched up tight and dark red. He tucks his tiny legs close to his body and howls. Ian holds out his hands. “All right, all right. Time to come to the master.” It’s a role Ian cherishes, that much is clear. He props his son on his enormous shoulder, stands up and massages his back in a firm upward sweep. From Ian comes soothing shushing sounds and he walks Cole around the big tree, pointing up at a squirrel. It doesn’t matter what injustices this baby encountered early in life. This man will single-handedly undo them all.

  Cole’s cries lessen. His body softens; he relinquishes his fight. Before long, he’s making quiet whimpers, blinking at the world around him. Ian grins at his audience.

  “See? The pay’s pretty good, too.”

  Dee turns to Eleanor. “What about you? Is your husband nervous?”

  “I’m actually doing this on my own.”

  “Wow. I love it,” says Dee, her eyes fixed on Eleanor’s wedding ring. Eleanor pushes her hands into her pockets. “Like a celebrity.”

  Felicia, whose baby has fallen asleep in her lap, leans closer. “I heard this one story—this was a surrogate situation. The pregnant birth mother found out the adopting mom was single after her guy walked out. Anyway, birth mom broke the contract. Wouldn’t adopt out to the mother alone. The adopting mom took it to court but she lost. A change in circumstance unacceptable to her nullified the deal.”

  “That’s horrible,” says Dee. “I’d die.”

  Felicia looks at Eleanor. “Different situation from yours. Yours was orphaned. Not to be morbid, but did they find both her parents’ bodies?”

  This Eleanor has never considered. That Sylvie’s father could still come forward. “Nothing at all is known about him. Whether he’s even in this country. As far as anyone knows, my daughter’s birth mom was all on her own. Plus it’s been six months since it happened.”

  Dee pats Eleanor’s knee. “Relax. You’re fine if no one’s come forward by now. We’ll have to make a play date for when your girl arrives. What’s her name?”

  “Sylvie.”

  “Sylvie, that’s so French. I love her already.”

  Shrinking beneath the brim of her hat, Eleanor feels her heart thump. Sylvie had no father on record. Her mother’s sister signed her over as only living kin. The conversation has moved on to preschool waiting lists but Eleanor can no longer focus. She stands up, smoothes her skirt. “I should head back to the store.”

  But she doesn’t.

  Eleanor runs up the grassy slope to Beacon Street and marches through the traffic. She jogs along Battersea Road and up the steps to Isabelle’s front door. Here, she pulls a scrap piece of paper from her purse and scrawls out a note. She slips it into the mail slot and walks away.

  Chapter 25

  The rap on the front door is unmistakable. Eleanor lifts her head off the pillow in the dark and looks at the clock: 2:47. Angus’s nails chatter against the floor as he dances and yips his pleasure.

  He knows the person on the other side.

  She stands up, her silky nightgown falling like water down her legs. After the blow of both search angels turning her down, after not hearing from Jonathan, after the story of the thwarted adoption in the park, after Isabelle ignoring her note, she took a full sleeping pill to quiet her mind. It hit her hard.

  When she steps forward, she has to steady herself with the nightstand.

  Another knock. “Eleanor.”

  It’s him. Her fingers trailing the wall, she pads into the bathroom to rub toothpaste on her tongue, fluff her hair. Then she quiets Angus. Pulls him back from the door. Opens it.

  In sweats, his hair in his eyes, his shoes untied. A shy grin on his face. Jonathan.

  She opens the door wider and Angus charges his beloved. There is whispering. Affectionate petting. A tail thwacking the wall with joy. When the dog calms, Jonathan looks up at her, his eyes asking if he can come inside. She steps back and allows him.

  He kicks off his shoes, drops his keys on the hall table—a sound she didn’t know she missed but that now makes it impossible to breathe. In the light from the living room window, she’s aware of the sheerness of her nightie.

  “God, I miss you.” He steps closer.

  He walked out. He stiffed you at the agency. One nice gesture, then he ignored your phone call.

  Still. He’s here. He’s home. “I miss you too.”

  Angus pants, happy, his body weight against Jonathan’s thighs as if to keep him here. In the apartment. Where he belongs.

  Eleanor reaches for Jonathan’s hand and leads him into the bedroom. Knocks Pillow Jonathan to the floor and pulls her husband onto the bed. He nuzzles her hair and she groans. She stares up at him, hair strewn across her face in a way she hopes is sexy.

  “You’re beautiful.” He throws one leg over her and kisses her. He tastes like scotch.

  Nothing has ever been so exquisite. She can’t even think, can only feel the wet softness of his tongue, his lips. His body against hers, heavy, solid. Safe. She wonders if she’s dreaming.

  “I’ve been thinking …” he whispers.

  She covers his mouth with hers and kisses him harder, not daring to hear what he might say. She sucks on his tongue, teasing him until he moans.

  Her hand slides down his shirt and under his waistband. Her fingers find their way to the front of his thigh. She touches his hardness, and for a moment he holds his breath. “I want you,” he says.

  She pulls him on top of her and parts her legs, guiding him inside her.

  Chapter 26

  An hour before opening, Eleanor allows Angus to relieve himself on a street lamp out front, then she heads into the store to make a cup of coffee. The dog shoves his way in as she’s partway through the door. She locks up behind her. She’s not up to dealing with early morning customers.

  With the help of the pill, with the arrival of Jonathan, she slept deeper than she has in weeks. When she finally woke, he was gone. She sat up, blinking. It could have been a dream, if not for Pillow Jonathan tossed on the floor. Then again, it’s Saturday. He works the day shift Saturdays. Almost certainly, he went to work. She searched every surface in the apartment for a note.

  There was nothing.r />
  She curses herself for not allowing her husband to talk. But his presence, his body, it felt too good. She couldn’t risk it.

  Still, it means something, his coming. It might even mean everything.

  In the shop, Angus steps onto the window display to squeeze himself between baby dresser and glass and lie down. It’s the perfect spot for observation. Offers him countless reasons to woof and growl the entire morning long.

  Eleanor removes her outer layer and boots up the computer: Search Angels, she types into Google. Thousands of Search Angel sites come up, the second being on Facebook. As she scrolls down the Facebook page, message after message comes up.

  “From Ernie Ruiz: looking for my brother Ricky. Born June 1971.”

  “From Alex Heingarten: birth son given up Dec 11, 2009. Markham-Stouffville Hospital, Ontario, Canada. Birth mother Michele Boisvert, orig from St. Laurent, Quebec.”

  She scrolls through page after page of pleas for help. All from people looking for a search angel. Of course. Hundreds of thousands of people must be looking for birth relatives. There cannot possibly be enough search angels to help them all.

  She checks her phone. Nothing from Jonathan.

  Still. He came home. He came home.

  Ginny thumps through the door, already deep into her maternity wardrobe of Ted’s old police shirt, stretched-out leggings, and UGG boots. She could be six months pregnant. She sees Eleanor and puts down her bag, spins in a circle. “I don’t look pregnant, do I?”

  “God, no. You look like you’ve never even met a baby, let alone borne any.”

  Ginny smiles. “That’s what I thought. I’m carrying more compact this time.”

  As Eleanor turns back to the computer, Angus jumps up in an explosion of barking and window bumping.

  Out on the sidewalk, a teenage boy rolls back and forth on a skateboard, squatting down low to leap over sidewalk cracks. The impact when he lands could topple the entire city. In spite of Angus’s barking, a few tattoo-soaked girls lean against the Pretty Baby storefront and suck on cigarettes. A little blue-headed girl cheers. They’re the same kids as before, Eleanor thinks. The ones who peered through the window, full of hope that Noel would actually open for business. Perfectly reasonable. Why would an adult lease a store, spray the walls in graffiti, drag in a ten-foot Sasquatch, and play the same song over and over if he didn’t plan to open the doors one day?