The Search Angel (7 page)

T
he way to accomplish the impossible is to break it down into steps. First you tackle the most doable. This way you get your bearings, you build your confidence. With any luck, by the time you reach the impossible, you’re stupid enough to believe you can do it.

When Jonathan was onside with the adoption, the plan had been for Eleanor to oversee the store from upstairs for a month or so while Sylvie got adjusted. During this time, she would interview nannies to find one that was not only
the
most loving and capable nanny since Mary Poppins, but one that formed a quick and tight connection with Sylvie.

Again, that was then. Eleanor can no longer afford a nanny. It’s time to arrange the next best thing.

Sunnyside Day Care was recently written up in the
Globe
as the best child-care facility in the downtown core. Located in an historic redbrick house with a wraparound porch, it has walls painted every color of the rainbow. There’s a play station, an art station, a food station, a reading nook, and a closet full of rollaway mats for sleepy-time. Through the window, you can see the playground, complete with plastic climber, tricycles, and a grassy island upon which several young boys
toss around a ball covered in stars. Bouncy music charges the air with enough fun that little ones are meant to forget about their parents for eight to ten hours, five days a week. The staff appear to be appropriately attentive and nurturing, and the children seem content.

All snacks and meals are locally grown and organic. When a new child joins, she is assigned a Sunny-buddy—an older child whose job it is to make the newcomer feel welcome. Most of the staff have been there since the day they opened their doors. Continuity. That will be especially important for a child like Sylvie.

The owner, Wendy Nicholls, a substantial woman with a friendly red tinge to her skin, pushes a clipboard across her desk to where Eleanor sits perched on a wooden chair. “We have a three-month wait list, but fill it out anyway. You just never know who’ll move away, or whose mother decides to quit work and stay home full time. Your daughter could wind up with a spot in the next few weeks.”

Your daughter
.

Eleanor stifles what will surely appear to be a goofy smile and picks up the pen attached by a long string. The wait list isn’t good news. Sunnyside is located within walking distance of the store—Nancy will like that. Being that she’ll be raising Sylvie on her own, a farther day care isn’t a great option. The form wants the child’s name first. Eleanor enjoys printing
Sylvie Sweet
. Allergies, the form wants to know. Eleanor doesn’t know this. She writes:
to follow
.

“How many on the list ahead of us?”

“Let’s see now.” Wendy reaches for a pad nearby and flips it open. “One … three … no, four. Four kids ahead of your Sylvie. But what often happens is a spot opens up and the
parents have made other arrangements, the child gets nicely settled elsewhere and Mom and Dad don’t want to disrupt things. So you could just as easily be next in line.”

A knock at the door. A smiling woman in a painting smock and clogs leads in a young boy—no more than three—with bouncy yellow curls. His round cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy. “Sheldon isn’t feeling so well, Wendy.” She lifts him up and sets him on a chair beside the desk and his legs dangle listlessly over the edge. He starts to slip his thumb into his mouth and the woman—her nametag says
Laurie—
stops him and wipes his hand with a disposable cloth from a package on Wendy’s desk. Eleanor approves of the precaution. Laurie motions that it’s okay now and the thumb disappears into his mouth. “We’re thinking maybe a call to Mom is a good idea.”

Wendy places the back of her hand on his forehead and nods. “You’ve got yourself a bit of a fever, sweetheart. Would you feel better at home with your mom?”

Sheldon nods, a big, springy curl falling over his cheek.

Eleanor continues to fill out the form—occupation, address, and phone number of mother’s workplace—while Wendy attempts to contact the little boy’s mother. She’s not in the office and isn’t picking up her cell phone. “Your mommy’s out right now, but that’s no problem at all.” She dials another number. “Let’s talk to Daddy, okay?”

Sheldon nods again and mumbles “Daddy” through his wet thumb.

“Oh, hello, Mike. This is Wendy from the day care—everything is fine—I don’t want you to worry. But Sheldon isn’t feeling all that great right now and we’re thinking he’d probably rather be at home with Mom or Dad.”

Laurie runs a hand over the boy’s head. Father’s name, workplace, contact info, Eleanor’s form wants to know. She stares at the “Father” box, pen hovering above it.

“Okay, I’ll tell him. Sorry to disturb.” Wendy hangs up and smiles at Sheldon, giving his knee a loving squeeze. “He’s already on his way, honey. Should be here in about ten minutes. Would you like a Freezie to keep you cool while you wait for Daddy?”

Sheldon’s eyes widen. He gives a garbled and wet-sounding
yes
. His Velcro’d shoes bang together in excitement for Daddy or frozen treat. Likely both.

Sylvie would have to make do with the treat.

When Laurie leaves the room, Eleanor looks up at Wendy. Her words come out in a near whisper. “What if there’s no father and you can’t find the mother? Who do you call then?”

Laurie is back. The thumb is replaced with a Freezie.

“No worries at all.” Wendy points toward the form. “We’ll just call whoever’s next in line. It’s right there in the next box, see it? ‘Next of Kin.’ Your parents. Sister, friend. Aunts, uncles. A grandmother. Put down as many as you like.”

Eleanor stares at the form. She has no one to offer her daughter but a Great Dane with a penchant for eating ice cream when no one is looking. She can’t exactly put that on the form.

There was a fantasy Eleanor had the year she learned she was adopted. The movie
Annie Hall
had been on TV and Eleanor convinced herself Diane Keaton and Woody Allen were her parents. To imagine you sprang from the loins of famous people is common among adoptees, Eleanor would learn later. There’s a certain comfort in the belief that in order
to give you up, your parents must have been extraordinarily important.

Woody and Diane made perfect sense. They were together from 1972 to 1977, the timing was perfect. In fact, when Diane accepted her Oscar in March of 1978 wearing a shirt and tie, two voluminous skirts over a pair of pants, and her sister’s socks, she could very well have been hiding post-pregnancy baby weight. Eleanor was born in ‘75, but still. Diane is a busy woman. She mightn’t have had time to hit the gym.

It explained everything. The crooked nose her adoptive mother called charming. Pale skin that refused to even freckle. A tendency to overdress.
Très
Diane, she convinced herself. From Woody, her diminutive frame maybe? Her poor eyesight? Definitely insecurity.

She made it a point to look up every movie they made together. There was
Play It Again Sam
filmed in ‘72,
Sleeper
in ‘73,
Love and Death
in ‘75, and then
Annie Hall
. The way Eleanor sees it, she was conceived during the pre-production phase of
Love and Death
.

It had to be. Especially when you consider Diane went on to adopt her daughter in ‘96, her son in 2001. She must have felt at least some guilt for giving up Eleanor …

Nancy is right. She’s in trouble.

T
he next afternoon, a heavily pregnant woman with muted red-gray hair walks in with two much older women, one obviously a relative with the same reddish hair, barely-there cheekbones, tiny ears, and inward tilt to her knees. The other one more solidly built, mocha-skinned with short hair grayed to white. They head straight for the furniture displays.

It is clear, beyond the facial similarities, which one is the pregnant woman’s mother. What surprises Eleanor is the pregnant woman’s ease with the other woman, the one with the darker skin. It goes beyond mother-in-law, has none of that polite deference. The way she slips her arm through this woman’s. She’s close with this one. Closer than with her look-alike.

They prowl the cribs. Running their hands over side rails. Leaning inside and pushing down on mattresses, everything but climbing inside and curling up for a trial nap.

The apparent grandmother lowers the rail on the white lacquered Dearest One crib, the highest-priced crib in the store. When the rail doesn’t lower right away—this crib has a tiny lever on either side of the frame—the mother-to-be
turns away. “Forget it. I read an article about that. Stubborn crib sides. It said they contribute to accidents because the parents delay lowering the mattress as baby grows. Too damned hard to lean over.”

“I never lowered the rails once,” says the white-haired one. “All three kids, I just leaned in and picked them up. Who needs an extra step?”

Eleanor walks over. “This one is funny. The levers aren’t where you’d expect.” She shows them the shiny chrome levers and lowers the side with ease. It’s a good crib. The same one she has upstairs for Sylvie. Solid hardwood and a nice sleek design. “Costs a bit more up front but it converts into a day-bed for later. You really get your money’s worth.”

“Is there any discount on it?” The pregnant woman has a hand on her belly. “It’s gorgeous but, you know, having a baby is so pricey.”

“I’m afraid not. I’m selling it below suggested retail as it is.”

She sighs. Moves toward another crib but doesn’t seem happy with what she sees. Pretty Baby’s most popular model with its recognizable name and appealing price tag. She moves the rail up and down. “This one works better. Plus I like the dark wood.” She turns to the white-haired woman. “Try it, Mom.”

“I like the glide, sweetie. It’s nice and smooth. But don’t you think the wood makes it too boyish? You could be having a girl, don’t forget.”

The pregnant one looks up. “I love it but it’s way too much. What do you think, Belle?”

Belle, hugging her purse to her belly, waves away her own opinion. “Oh, it seems pretty enough. It’s just the price.”

The pregnant woman is adopted. Eleanor is nearly certain.

“This crib is antique pine. Still solid wood but not nearly as bossy as the dark one. And half the price.” More than any other customer she’s had, Eleanor wants this mother-to-be to make the best choice. “The crib people buy most often when they’re unsure about the sex, this is it. It’s more neutral. More so than white even, which tends to feel girly once the boy is born. It’s weird, before baby comes, how you might think this or that is neutral. Then little Sasha comes home and her green walls feel G.I. Joe instead of natural forest.”

The young mother bounces her hands on the crib rail. “Okay. This is the one, then.” According to her AMEX, her name is Liza Robbins.

Payment is made, delivery is arranged, and all the while Eleanor is dying to say something. It isn’t until the women have left, until they’re piling into a cab out front, until Eleanor is certain she’ll never see them again, that she gets up the nerve. The doors are slamming shut, but Liza sees Eleanor on the sidewalk and lowers her window.

Eleanor leans in, apologetic and embarrassed. “I’m sorry to pry … I have to ask. Are you … Is this an adoption, the three of you?”

Liza laughs. “We confuse everyone.” She touches the dark-skinned woman’s arm. “Yes. This is Jan, my adoptive mother, the woman who raised me—brave thing!”

They all laugh. Then Belle says, “I’m the birth mother. I got pregnant way too young and”—she pauses to swallow, release a deep breath—“ugh, what can I say? I was stupid.”

“Don’t say that. You were smart. And brave.” Liza turns to Eleanor. “I only just found my birth mom two years ago. When my son was born, he had a few health issues. I needed some family history.”

“Thank God you did. I’d tried everything to find you,” says Belle. She pats her daughter’s stomach. “At least I can be there for this one’s birth.”

Liza adds, “My poor husband. Two mothers-in-law.”

“Was it hard?” Eleanor asks. “Finding your mom?”

“It was more scary than hard. What if she refused contact? What if she was no longer alive? That sort of thing. But the procedure, I just contacted the state where I was born and they had open access. I got lucky.”

Belle hooks her arm through her daughter’s and beams. “So did I, baby.” Jan links her other arm. “We all three got lucky.”

Eleanor has never told anyone. Not Ginny, not her friends from school. Only Jonathan. She didn’t even know herself until she was thirteen. “I was adopted.”

“Oh, sweetie …” Liza looks at her.

No one outside the adoption community can possibly fathom the enormity of those three words. That wound is primal and forever. Sometimes a piece of lint in your pocket, other times the size of the whole world. This Liza, she may have found her birth mother but still she calls her Belle.

“… have you and your birth mother been in touch?”

Eleanor rubs her left shoulder. “No. She never … And my adoptive parents were against it. Plus, you know. Where to begin. And all the what-ifs.”

“Do you know her name?” asks Jan. “Where you were born?”

“Smith … and Kansas. I know my birth date. The hospital. That’s it, really.”

“Look it up online. Plug in all the information on a search site and see. Or go to Kansas, to the records office. It’s
an open state.” The cab starts to move and Liza waves out the window. “You’ll have what you need in no time.”

Eleanor watches the cab pull into traffic.

It’s time to stop waiting for her mother to appear on her doorstep. If Eleanor was never brave enough to start the hunt for herself, she’s brave enough to do it for Sylvie. But there’s someone she needs to speak to first.

T
here’s a corner by the entrance of Glen Manor cemetery that is as yet unpopulated. Thick with sugar maples that have all but lost their fiery leaves—the few robust hangers-on, like the last guests to leave a party, continue to twirl and wheel for another day, perhaps another week if the October winds are kind. This area is not as well tended as the rest of the grounds—the caretakers are content to treat it as wilderness until a boom in human expiration dictates further expansion. For now, the forest floor is buried in fallen leaves, all of whom are free to luxuriate as long as they desire.

It suits Angus just fine.

The moment Eleanor unclasps Angus’s leash, he lopes straight toward the nearest pile and drops to the ground, wriggling on his back and clawing at the out-of-reach tree-tops with great, bony toes. He turns his head left and right, and snaps an angry warning at any debris obtuse enough to remain within reach.

“Angus,” she pretend-scolds, thrilled to see him behave normally. “Have a little dignity. You’re probably rolling in something gangrenous.”

The teacups and saucers in her basket make comforting
clinks as she follows the dog to their usual spot. After Eleanor moved out of the house, Marion, her adoptive mother, always had her home for Sunday afternoon tea. They each had their own special cup: Marion’s bone china and dotted with tiny pink rosebuds, Eleanor’s more austere with its simple band of platinum. Always English breakfast tea with milk and half a sugar. Always Paterson’s shortbread. The ritual remains, with the location changed and the conversation decidedly one-sided.

They didn’t have much in common, all those years. Marion was good and kind. But her days of chasing a youngster around a park were behind her. She adored Eleanor but had the interests of a retiree—the garden, her knitting, the growing pain in her knees. The one thing they did share, Eleanor wouldn’t discover until much later in life: infertility.

She stops in front of matching black granite headstones.
Marion Prue, loving wife of Thomas and mother of Eleanor Jane. Thomas Prue, cherished husband of Marion and father of Eleanor Jane
. Angus knows the drill. He leans down into a deep downward dog stretch and lies down between the stones. Eleanor sets the china on the grass and pulls out a battered tartan thermos, pours tea into the cups. The dog looks up, pants expectantly until Eleanor tosses him a cookie. He usually catches it in his mouth and swallows it whole. This time he watches it land in the grass and stares at it.

Ridiculous that she thinks of herself as abandoned by them. She’s thirty-five, for God’s sake. Thirty-one when they died. They did all that parents are meant to do. Marion stayed home and raised her. Thomas taught her to read. They attended her dance recitals and swimming lessons. Took her camping in Vermont.

On her birthday every year after she turned fourteen,
Marion woke her up with this: “Your birth mother is thinking about you today.” And Eleanor would imagine Diane Keaton, lounging in an historic Los Angeles home, Spanish in style, surrounded by Mexican art and dogs. Maybe sipping a cup of tea and wondering how Eleanor was doing. Whether her heels had a tendency to blister with new shoes and how many times a week she washes her hair.

One day, Eleanor fantasized, she’d find in her mailbox a letter written in elegant script. Diane couldn’t possibly know her adopted name, but somehow the letter would be addressed to Eleanor Prue. There wouldn’t be a reply name or address in the upper left corner because very famous people, people too important to keep a baby whose existence is troublesome, have to be careful about security. They have to be guarded. But the letter inside would be anything but cautious. It would gush on and on about regret, longing, and how the important thing was that a private plane was waiting for Eleanor at Logan International Airport. That a man in uniform would escort Eleanor aboard and sitting inside would be her parents: Diane and Woody, so happy they could burst. They would embrace her and shower her with kisses. Most of all, apologize.

It was at this point in the reverie Eleanor would think to bring in Marion and Thomas. They’d get on the plane after Eleanor, and the five of them would be one big, happy sprawling family.

“Mom. Dad,” Eleanor says now to the headstones. “I want you to know that what I’m about to do has no bearing on the two of you as parents. You gave me the very best you could and I am forever grateful. It’s time I contact my birth mother. The reason isn’t important—well, Jonathan turned out to be a piece of shit who walked out on me and now my life is a total—”

A flash of movement to the left of her. A man in a leather jacket bent over a grave.

He shields his eyes from the sun and squints. “Eleanor?”

Noel
. She ducks down behind her mother’s headstone and gathers up the embarrassment of finery spread out upon the grass. As quietly as she can, she stuffs the cookies into the basket before he sees her juvenile display.

Too late. He’s already standing over her. “Tea party?”

“No.” She dumps out her tea, drops the cup with a clink into the basket, and slams the lid shut. “Just … nothing.”

Noel pats his thighs until Angus hauls himself to standing, wagging his tail. Noel holds up a piece of muffin. “May I?”

“No. He detests sweets,” she says with an edge.

Noel offers it anyway and Eleanor sits up taller, prepared to savor the dog’s rejection of the treat. But Angus throws her under the train. He gobbles up the muffin and pants up at Noel, looking for more.

“Hmm.” Eleanor is unwilling to allow Noel any satisfaction. “He must be starving to do that.”

“What’s his name?”

“Angus,” she mumbles, willing her neighbor to leave.

Noel tussles with the dog a bit, and Angus gets down on his elbows and pretends to pounce. It’s like a dinosaur trying to skip rope. He takes Noel’s arm in his great dripping jowls and feigns swallowing it. “You’re a real tough guy, eh?” When Angus catches sight of a squirrel and lopes off, Noel wipes his hand on his jeans.

He motions toward the headstones. “Your parents?”

The wind blows hair in her face. She pushes it away and tightens her scarf.

“They’re both gone?”

He seems unable to take the hint. His company is not wanted. She nods.

“How’d it happen?”

“Twin-motor plane in Aruba about four years ago. Bad weather combined with an inexperienced pilot,” she says. “Any other questions?”

“Jesus.” He flips up his collar, buries his hands in his pockets. His shoulders are wide, she notices now. If he wasn’t such a jerk, he’d be quite handsome. He nods toward the teacup in her lap. “That’s nice, what you’re doing.” He shivers and starts to walk away. “Anyway, getting cold. See you back at the ranch.”

His politeness catches her off guard. She’d been prepared for a fight. Just before he disappears behind a ridge of evergreens, she calls out, “Noel?”

He turns.

She motions toward the stones where he’d been standing. “Was it someone close?”

He walks off. “Just a nice place for a good think is all.”

When he’s out of sight, Eleanor scoops up the remainder of her things. He’s lying. With Angus in tow, she heads back toward the group of stones Noel had bent over. Most are old, the polished sheen of the granite having worn to a distant ache. She wanders closer to see the tidy ruffle of a single white rose. It lies before a grayish-pink headstone that looks new.

Victoria Bannon

September 30, 1979–November 16, 2009

Beloved wife of Noel Bannon