The Search Angel (15 page)

S
he’s read the message some five or ten times, each time a different way.

Hey. El. Any chance we can chat or meet?

It’s everything she’s been hoping for. Forget rocking horses and drunken sex, this time he wants to talk. He’s finally come to his senses and wants her back. He came home, got in her—their—bed and said he missed her. He slept with her. So he took a few days to think—so what? Now he’s back for real. He’s realized the greatest reward can only come from risk, from holding your breath and jumping in.

She could float, she feels so light.

It couldn’t be that he would just walk away. Getting Sylvie was way too joyous a life event. A child is what they both want. He couldn’t be willing to give that up. And it isn’t as if adoption is some crazy, untried life choice. It’s been happening since the beginning of time. It happened to her!

The e-mail came in at the end of the workday, just as Eleanor climbed the stairs to change out of her sodden clothes. Come to think of it, the ping sounded different than
usual. Louder. Or more clear. She knew before looking that it was from him.

Upstairs, she pads into the bedroom and strips. She’ll see him. No question she’ll see him.

Hey. El. Any chance we can chat or meet?

Of course, it could be something bad he wants to tell her. He’s met someone else and wants a divorce. Worse—he’s met someone else and she’s pregnant.

Eleanor turns on the shower and waits for the water to heat up, then steps into the tub and lets the steaming hot spray pelt her back.

She answered him too quickly. Not ten minutes later, she said, with as much nonchalance as she could fake:
Hi. Sure, I guess we could meet or whatever. Sometime
. (She wasn’t going to say “chat.” He might suggest a phone call.)
How about tonight?

Tonight is the night she and Isabelle are planning to call Ruth. Eleanor has waited thirty-five years to hear her birth mother’s voice. She can wait one more day. More important is Sylvie and rebuilding her family. Ruth comes into Eleanor’s life and maybe it fixes some things. Jonathan comes back, it fixes everything.

Nothing
—nothing
—will stop Eleanor from seeing Jonathan tonight. If he agrees.

Her phone pings from atop the toilet. She dries her hands on the shower curtain and grabs it.

Jonathan:
Sounds good. Piatto Vecchio at eight?

Piatto Vecchio was their place. Charming, and she could arrive a few minutes late and walk all sexy across the room while he watches from the table. He’d remember what they had, their connection. He’d see her as his wife, his lover, and
not just as the soon-to-be mother of a baby that scared him out of her life.

Baby. That was a good point. Piatto Vecchio might remind him of the night she told him about Sylvie. The beginning of the end that, with any luck, was not the end. In fact, probably best to avoid Italian food altogether. Seafood might be better.

She texts back,
Blue Water Grill?

He replies,
Great
, s
ee u in an hour
.

She plunges her face into the shower jet and screams for joy.

Once she’s dried off and doused herself in a scent he once said he adores, she scans her closet for an outfit. Not so many layers tonight. Tonight she’ll show a bit of skin if it kills her. She pulls out a light blue Calvin Klein with a structured sixties feel. Fitted bodice and an A-line skirt. It’ll set off her eyes and make her waist look tiny. The perfect vibe to get her husband back. With a pair of nice pumps, her calves would look shapely, toned. Jonathan always loved her calves.

She slips the dress on and stares in the mirror.

What if the note doesn’t mean he wants her back? What if it means nothing of the sort. Maybe the guy simply wants to make things official. Talk lawyers and separation agreements and moving trucks.

She could throw up from not knowing.

In the meantime, there is Isabelle. She texts her:

Something came up tonight. May be good. Rain check—tomorrow?

“Ma’am?” Cal, the only available contractor Noel could find online, stares at her with a chisel in one hand. He waves it
toward the wall, which he has already opened up to expose the brick underneath. The ceilings on both sides saved him time, as Noel’s was already exposed and Eleanor’s exposed itself. “You got a sec to see something?”

She should never have poked her head into the store. Now she’ll wind up getting caught up in flood talk when she should be heading to the restaurant to meet Jonathan. Cal leads her over to the wall, where his assistant scrubs cracked mortar from between the bricks. Cal tugs out a thick chunk of cement, as well as a few surrounding bricks, to reveal Noel on the other side.

“Wow.” Noel stares at her. “You look fancy.”

Eleanor looks at Cal. “Can we discuss this tomorrow? I’m really in a—”

“What we have here,” he says as if she hasn’t spoken, “is a case of ancient masonry. Holes go clear through.” He points to gaps all over the wall, all of which offer tiny glimpses of Noel’s graffitied walls and posters. “You people ever have any problems with noise?”

“HEY, NOEL,” Ginny says through the wall. She fluffs her hair and grins.

“Yes,” says Eleanor. “All the time. But I just thought …”

“See now, you squish all these holes into one and you’d have yourself a hole some five feet in diameter.”

“I’m actually late for—”

“YOUR GRAFFITI LOOKS GREAT. I’VE NEVER REALLY SEEN IT BEFORE.”

Eleanor looks at Ginny and hisses, “He’s not hearing impaired!”

“It’s true,” Noel says. “I can hear just fine.”

Ginny peers closer at the hair covering his ears and
frowns. Backs away. It’s possible she liked him better deaf.

“But the drywall,” says Noel. “Both sides were drywalled floor to ceiling.”

“Drywall doesn’t offer much of a sound barrier. If either of you did any cooking in these places, you’d likely have smells coming through the wall too. Good thing yous both get along. Some neighbors fight like the devil over sound coming through the walls.”

Eleanor looks down and pretends to pick lint from her dress.

“What about ceilings,” Noel says. “Think we had the same problem there?”

“No brickwork in your ceiling or you might not’ve survived the flood.” Cal waits for Eleanor or Noel to join him in laughter, then grows serious. “You had zero insulation up above. Ever have any complaints from your upstairs neighbor?”

“Said it was noisy once or twice. Didn’t seem like she was upset enough to do something this crazy.” Noel looks at Eleanor. “I saw her go into your store, kind of a granola type in those crazy skirts and mukluk boots. She ever complain to you?”

Eleanor feels her cheeks heat up. “I don’t remember anyone by that description.”

S
he struts across the restaurant in her little blue dress, confident in the knowledge that the crossover neckline knows instinctively which parts to hug tight and which parts to treat as total strangers. Turns out planning to arrive ten minutes late was a wasted scheme, as Jonathan’s seat faces away from the door. Her eyes caress the back of his head, his thinning black waves, shiny as ever, grazing his collar in a way they never did before. She forces herself to look away. Not good to show up reeking of desperation.

“Hey. Wow.” He stands up to kiss her hello. She thinks he’s aiming for her lips, but the kiss lands on her cheek. Nerves, she decides. “I forgot how gorgeous you are when you dress up.”

She can’t speak right away. That sweet almond soap smell from the hospital. Almost astringent. It’s Jonathan. Her eyes move to his left hand. He’s still wearing his ring.

“You change your hair?”

She touches her side ponytail. It took a half-dozen spritzes of hair spray and several bobby pins to keep the shorter pieces tucked in. “I just threw it in a clip, no big deal.”

“People at work have been talking about this place. I’ve been meaning to come check it out.”

Not good that he’s talking first person singular. “They had that great review in the
Globe
. I didn’t actually see it. But I heard about it,” she says.

She can see his shoe now. It sticks out from beneath the tablecloth. It’s new. Dark brown leather, very long and pointed in the toe. He used to buy shoes for function only. Mainly for ER comfort. Now, it seems, he buys for elegance. Another bad sign.

“I actually came straight from the hospital. Told them my dad had fallen.” His knee bounces up and down the way it does when he’s anxious. “Lied just to see you.”

Eleanor tries to hide the thrill that inches up her core. He’s never backed out of his schedule. Not in the entire ten years he’s been working.
Stop it
, she chides herself.
Stop keeping score
.

“How are your parents?”

“The usual. Dad still with the cigars. Mom still spraying the place with her lime-basil deodorizers that smell worse than the cigars. How’s Angus doing?”

The small talk is surreal. Torture. Nothing matters but why they are here. “He’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Good. And the store?”

She shuts out the vision of the flood damage, the holey wall, the lack of sales, Ginny’s pregnancy. “Never better. The ER?”

“Same old. We had this borderline patient back in this morning. Miscarried three nights ago and came back in today with bleeding. Demanded to be released so she could OD on Tylenol. Which she did this aft. Came back by ambulance,
screaming and carrying on. Unbelievable.” He shifts and the shoe vanishes from view.

The last subject she wants to get stuck on is the atrocities of the ER. Jonathan could settle into that for an hour, if only to escape the tension.

“Then we had the typical slew of after-school cases. Parents who think the school’s Band-Aids aren’t big enough, the Polysporin isn’t effective enough. They’re desperate to be able to march back into the school in the morning and inform the staff that little Greyson, in fact, needed eleven stitches, seven of which were internal, and could they promise to call the moment he falls from the playscape next time and refrain from making life and death decisions for children who aren’t their own.”

“Yeah. I bet.”

“Something about Tuesdays, I swear. Mondays, kids are still sluggish with denial the weekend is over. But by Tuesday, they’ve accepted it. Friday’s nowhere in sight and they’re pissed. Worst day of the week, in my opinion.” He raises the wine bottle and she nods. He fills both glasses and sips from his.

“Maybe you could adjust your schedule.”

“Six to seven p.m. That’s the witching hour for the nine-to-fivers.” The knee starts bouncing again. “They’ve spent all day wanting to spit in their boss’s coffee cup, because if they said they didn’t feel well and wanted to go home, he’d make a face. And that lack of control—you’d be surprised how that amps up the most minor symptoms.”

“Sure …”

A silence wraps itself around the table. Jonathan chews on his lip worriedly. Then brightens. “Then there was the
swallower. Comes in last night and announces she’s just downed two nails and a Bic ballpoint pen. Not only that but I see from her chart she was in three weeks back with some more nails and a plastic butter knife and they sent her home. Of course the bowels were ruptured and now she’s septic. Only a matter of time, right?”

Stop this
, she wants to shout.
Let’s get to something that matters
. “I suppose so.”

“I got her into the OR. That shit has to come out. Saddest thing. Twenty-eight and it’s going to kill her if we can’t lock her up. And we can’t.”

She fakes a shiver. “I wasn’t sure what to wear to this place. How fancy it was.”

“They say the red snapper’s outrageous here.”

Eleanor doesn’t eat fish. Their entire relationship she’s never eaten fish. How hard is it to remember your wife doesn’t eat fish?

“The other night, I was glad you came over.” She almost said
came home
. But it seemed presumptuous.

“Me too.” They say nothing for a moment. His hand retracts. “The sex was always good.”

Was? “Still is.”

A waiter approaches to take their orders. After refilling their wineglasses, Jonathan sets his chin on his fists, focuses on her. “I’m aware how unforgivable it was. What I did.”

She lifts a shoulder in an effort to reward his self-censure.

“Just all of a sudden like that. I just … work was crazy, I heard those stories. I freaked out.”

“It’s okay.”
You’re here. It’s all I care about
.

“No. You’re my wife. You deserve better.”

A warmth starts in her breast and works its way up her
neck. She tries to swallow. “I know your job’s insane. Or …”—she half smiles—“I can sort of imagine. My day at work is more: ‘Do you want the stroller in silver or red?’ And ‘Cloth diapers?’ ‘Yes, they’re a great idea if you have fulltime help.’”

“Mine is: ‘Should I pull the Swiss Army knife out of your liver via your ear or your asshole?’” He sips from his wine. “You’re lucky to have a job that centers on a happy event. The birth of a baby.” Eleanor’s failure to conceive hangs over the table like a little raincloud she wishes she could blow away. “Sorry,” he says, making it worse.

She blinks to show him he’s forgiven. Everything is forgiven.
When are you moving back in?
she is dying to ask.
How soon can the smell of your Pert Plus drift up from your pillowcase, your scrubs fill the laundry basket, your keys clank on the front hall table?
She gulps down her entire glass of wine and feels her head swim.

“I miss you.”

“Me too. I miss us.” He looks up, tilts his head, his brows pressed lower as if he might cry. “And I’ve been giving you mixed signals. It’s not fair.”

“You were just … you were going through something.”

“You’re an exceptional woman. I’ve always known that, but now even more. You’re brave. You’re strong.”

She waits, fingering her wedding band.

“I’m behind you in this. I want you to know that.”

“Behind me,” she repeats stupidly, her heart thumping a warning. “What does that mean?”

“I get it. I do. You chose the baby over me, over us. I respect that. I could never do what you’re doing, taking on a baby by yourself, but I get it.”

For a moment she thinks she’s misunderstood. That the wine has muddied her thinking. But no, he said it. “So … this dinner.” She waves at the wine. “Tonight. The other night. The rocking horse. You don’t want to get back together? That’s not what’s going on?”

He grips the armrests and tenses. As if, more than anything on earth, he’d like to bolt. “Uh …”

She dumps wine into her glass. Fills it to the top. Swigs.

“I really wanted to apologize in person for the way I handled things. Tell you I think you’re just incredible. I wanted you to know that if you need anything, even money …”

Her empty glass bangs on the table. The candlelight, the other diners, the fireplace, all swirl around her as she reaches for her purse and stands up. “I’m incredible. So incredible that you’re leaving me.”

“Are you drunk?” He reaches across the table and takes her arm, which she tugs from his grasp. “Sit down.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“El.”

“And don’t El me.” She hugs her bag to her chest like a bulletproof vest. She wishes she had a sweater, a coat. A sack. She’d wrap herself in anything right now. “You’re such a sweetheart of a man, aren’t you. Lucky, lucky me.”

The couple at the next table try not to stare. She can see Jonathan getting nervous about what she might do. There is no predicting this outcome. He hisses, “Lower your voice. And sit down. You’re causing a scene.”

“That’s the thing about breaking up, Jonathan. It’s like trying to get pregnant. You can’t always control the outcome.”

Eleanor sits in her car and tries to massage what feels like a bullet hole in her left shoulder. She has no idea how she got out of the restaurant. She found the car, the steering wheel in her hands is proof of that. Someone asked if she was okay, back by the front doors. Someone else—maybe the hostess, maybe a diner—followed her out, stood watching as she fumbled with her keys in the rain.

Her phone rings and she picks it up, hoping it’s him. Apologizing. Begging her to return.

“Yes?”

“I’m standing, in a bone-chilling fog no less, on the sidewalk with the riffraff, in front of a purple door that refuses to open. Please explain.”

Isabelle.

“I texted you earlier,” Eleanor says. “I told you I needed a rain check.”

“Rule number two. The search angel doesn’t read texts and she doesn’t take rain checks.”

“It’s just that my ex got in touch and I thought maybe he wanted to get back—”

“Do you know what I’m doing right now, Eleanor Sweet?”

“Yes, you said, standing with the riffraff …”

“I’m playing the world’s tiniest violin between index finger and thumb. Be here within ten minutes or I shall return to the splendor of my twelve-foot ceilings, my heated limestone floors,
and
the leisurely retirement I richly deserve.”