The Search Angel (9 page)

T
he cab is due to arrive in thirty minutes. Eleanor bumps her yellow suitcase out the door and into the hall with a glance back at Angus, who sits behind her, his ears flattened against his skull. He doesn’t take his eyes off her bag. Once again, his enemy has reared its battered leather head. But this week is worse than last. He’s down to one human.

Eleanor clips on his leash. “It’s good you look sad. Perfect timing.”

Ginny has taken care of Angus before. She didn’t actually take him home—her youngest once had a dream Angus had two heads—but Ginny fed and walked him and let him sleep in the shop all day while she worked, so Angus was only alone at night. She didn’t do it for money or to offer a helping hand. She did it for extra time off work.

Hauling a suitcase and the dog who despises it down the narrow flight of stairs to the street is no easy task. As long as the bag is in Eleanor’s hand, Angus won’t budge from the top step. Which means she has to make two trips down and nearly trips over Ginny, who is sitting cross-legged on the
Pretty Baby welcome mat. From the look on her face and her all-black attire, it’s as if someone died.

It’s a terrible time for someone to have died. The cab will be here in—Eleanor checks her watch—twenty-three minutes.

“Hey, Gin.” Eleanor puts on a bright face as she unlocks the shop door and ushers Ginny, whose abdomen is already bulging, and Angus, and the despised suitcase inside. Already, Queen thumps through the walls. “You look fantastic. So slender!”

Ginny slumps on the counter stool. “Can you hire a hit man to off yourself? Is that even possible?”

Okay, so no one is dead. Yet. “I suppose. He may insist you pay him up front though.”

She motions toward her midsection. “I can’t do this. Someone needs to snuff me out.”

It happens every time. Ginny’s fears multiply with every week of pregnancy. Worries that she’ll lose the baby she swore she didn’t want consume her throughout the first trimester. During the second trimester, she becomes terrified about birth defects. And closer to her due date, she fears the nurse administering the epidural will sneeze and paralyze her for life. But accidental dural puncture is averted, baby is born healthy, and fear is replaced with exhaustion.

“You can do this, Gin. You’ve done it three times before.”

“No. You don’t understand. I can’t.”

Eleanor turns on the computer behind the cash. Twenty-one minutes until the cab arrives. “Listen, hon. I was wondering—” A gnawing sound behind her makes her turn around. There’s Angus, lying on the floor, working diligently to chew off the handle of the suitcase. “Angus!” She
drags the bag away from him. He rests his chin on his paws in obedience but doesn’t take his gaze off the hated luggage.

Turning back to Ginny, Eleanor smiles. “I need a little favor.”

“I went to the doctor, Eleanor. I’m not having a baby.”

“What?”

A huge crash of bass as “Bohemian Rhapsody” builds to the chorus. Ginny starts to sob without tears. “I’m having two babies.” She grabs her belly. “It’s two people I’ve got in here!”

“Okay, that’s a bit of a shock, no question. But lots of women come in carrying twins. It’s certainly doable.”

“But they don’t
already
have three boys under the age of five.”

Nineteen minutes left. “You’ll do a great job. Listen—”

“Two heartbeats I heard on the ultrasound this morning. You know what that means? It means
two hearts
. And that means two heads to delouse. Which means four more hands—that’s twenty fingers! And twenty extra nails I have to clip on top of the sixty I’m already clipping! Do you know what it’s going to be like to keep five kids under the age of five still, long enough to trim one hundred nails? And, here’s the real trouble … those nails? They just keep growing. You think, because you survive the ordeal on a Saturday—an entire Saturday—that you’re good for a bit, like with a haircut. But no! By the next Saturday, one kid grabs your wrist and you’re bleeding. The nails have already grown in—you understand how quickly it happens? And do you have any idea how many weeks there are in a year? Fifty-two. Every single year! That’s …”—Ginny, her chest heaving now, two spots of color on her cheeks—“five thousand two hundred clippings per year.” She wipes tears from her cheeks and
blinks at Eleanor. “And Jamie’s toenails are thick.” Her voice cracks. “Ted calls them hooves.”

“But you’ll finally have your girl. For sure out of five kids at least one is a girl, right?”

Out front, a cab pulls to the curb and the driver gets out, stares at the building. He’s early.

“No.” Ginny pushes matted hair behind her ears. Eleanor doesn’t have the heart to point out she has food in her bangs. “That’s the thing. I’m having two more boys. I’m going to have
five
boys, Eleanor. Do you know what that is in girl equivalency? It’s like having fifteen girls.”

Eleanor opens the door and signals to the driver that she’s coming. “Ginny, I’m going away for a few days. I need you to watch—”

Ginny pulls her close and sobs onto her cashmere sweater. “What am I going to do? I’ll never survive five boys that young. Never. Do you know how many sandwiches I’ll be making every morning? And don’t get me started on the LEGO.”

Eleanor pats her back. It’s peanut butter in her hair; the smell is unmistakable now. There’s no way she can leave Angus with Ginny. In her state, she might forget the dog exists.

Through the window, Eleanor sees Noel climbing into the Audi. Eleanor pulls back from Ginny. “Quick. What have you got in your lunch?”

With the nail of his index finger pressed into a white rag, he extricates the dust from the decorative trim surrounding the odometer. Once he’s swiped all the way around, twice,
he shifts the rag to a clean spot and spritzes it with an eco-friendly surface cleaner that smells like grapefruit. Then repeats the procedure around the gas and temperature gauge.

Eleanor sits in the seat beside him and watches. The look on his face is either enthusiastic or maniacal, she can’t decide which. Holding up Ginny’s crushed box of raisins, she flashes him a smile. “Raisins are surprisingly high in vitamin C. I thought, since it’s cold and flu season, you might like—”

“The thing is—and people don’t know this—you have to use a gentle cleaner. These chemical-based sprays, they dry out the dashboard. You combine that kind of harsh formulation with the constant glare of the sun and the heat and cold and, man. You’ve got yourself a recipe for premature desiccation and fading and cracking. Dashboard’s never gonna look the same.” In and out of the vent slats, along the crevice surrounding the stereo and A/C system goes his rag-covered finger. A slight shift of the hand to find a clean spot on the cloth, then over to the glove box.

Eleanor tightens the scarf around her neck. It’s cold this morning. How he’s sitting in here in nothing but a Meat Loaf T-shirt defies explanation. From the cab behind them, the driver honks. From the Pretty Baby window, Angus barks.

“So, anyway.”

“I used to use nothing but warm water. But then I heard there has to be at least some oil in your formulation.” He grabs the bottle and shrugs. “This one uses lavender oil. Supposed to keep things well conditioned.”

Two businessmen stop in front of Death by Vinyl and peer inside. The cab honks again. The driver will leave and then she’s going to miss the second flight in two weeks. She calls out the window that he can take her suitcase, which sits
on the sidewalk. With a roll of his eyes, he grabs it and puts it in the trunk. She speaks fast.

“So, I’m going away today and, well, you seemed to take to Angus the other day at the cemetery. You know, the way he ate your muffin and then he wanted to wrestle. It’s rare for him these days. He’s … I don’t know. He’s been in a depression. Do you think you could watch him while I’m gone? It’s just for a few days and he can still sleep at my place.”

Noel wipes down the top of the dashboard and frowns. “Look at that lint. I don’t think I should use a cotton cloth.”

“Anyway. About Angus.”

“Who’s Angus—your husband?”

Eleanor stares at him, stunned. “My
dog
. Please. I have no one to help me and I have to board a plane in a couple of hours. He’s no trouble. If you could feed him and walk him, maybe let him hang with you while you …” She was going to say
work
, but there doesn’t seem to be much of that going on over there. “Fine-tune your speakers, I’d really appreciate it. My assistant, Ginny, can give you advice, and of course I’ll give you my cell.”

“Maybe it’s a polyester cloth I should use.” He looks at her. “You think? What else is lint-free?”

It’s ridiculous, but she has no choice. “I’ve got something you can try.” She jumps out of the car and races into the store, returning half a minute later with a box of baby wipes. She drops into the seat and hands it to him, out of breath. “These are lint-free. Guaranteed.”

He pulls one out and wipes the dash, skeptical at first. Then he leans closer and grins. “Hey, I think these things work.”

“Great. So about the dog.”

“Can I keep them?”

“Yes. Will you watch Angus?”

“You’re leaving when?”

“Six minutes ago.”

He pauses to read the plastic package, worried. “They don’t give you very many. I’ll be out of these in a couple of weeks.”

The driver is out of the car and yelling something in Spanish. “I’ll give you an entire carton when I return. It’ll last you a year.”

“You’ll leave instructions?”

“What?”

“For the dog. I’ll do it if you leave detailed instructions. How much food. When he goes out. What he likes to do at night. That sort of thing.”

Eleanor is so relieved she leans across the center console and gives Noel a hug. “Everything you need is inside my store. I’m home in three days.” With a wave goodbye, she jumps into the waiting cab.

T
opeka, Kansas. The Department for Children and Families is nothing much to look at. But sitting on a cement planter out front, staring at the salmon-colored bricks and no-nonsense sign, Eleanor is filled with ridiculous hope. Suddenly every woman shuffling through the revolving door could be her mother. At the very least, her mom spent enough time in the area to give birth. She likely walked along this very street.

Eleanor watches for her own features to pass. Dark blue eyes. Blond hair. Charmingly crooked nose. Wide mouth that should smile more.

For a moment it seems possible that Diane Keaton herself might stroll by. She’d read somewhere that Diane’s real surname is Hall, her nickname Annie. That Woody wrote the film specifically for her and that she wore her own clothes, despite the protestations of the wardrobe person on set. Eleanor taps her black and white oxford shoes together. She actually rolled up her jeans today to highlight her pretty lace socks. The polarity of the masculine and the feminine—it made her feel substantial somehow. Diane Keaton–ish, anyway.

She downs the rest of her water, tosses the bottle into a
recycling bin. The office doesn’t open until nine. She’s been sitting here since ten after eight. The way she sees it, any one of a number of things could happen on this trip. She could find out her birth mother is dead. Or terminally ill. Or that she’s impoverished or mentally unstable. Her mother could refuse to see Eleanor—an act that could be more hurtful than the adoption itself and one Eleanor isn’t sure she would survive. Her birth mother could be a felon. Worse than any of this, she may never find her mother at all.

The plastic hospital bracelet. She holds it in one palm and stares out into the street. A woman with hair so sculpted and sprayed it resists the morning’s breeze strides past carrying four coffees in a cardboard tray. She steps off the curb and checks traffic. It isn’t her face, rosy and full-cheeked, that feels familiar; it’s something in the way she trots so lightly across the street. Eleanor gets up and follows her down the sidewalk, narrowly missing being flattened by a bicycle courier.

The woman backs through the glass doors of an insurance company, holding it open for Eleanor, who tries not to stare as she smiles her thanks. The woman stabs the elevator button in a way that suggests she works here every day. Eleanor slows. She has no plan, other than to keep this person in sight for as long as possible. Though, really. What is she going to do—follow her up the elevator, into her office and to her desk?

The woman stabs the button again with good-natured impatience. “Thing has been so slow lately.” She eyes Eleanor. “Do you work for Kravitz?”

“No! I’m …” Eleanor pulls her purse closer. “I think I’m lost, actually. I haven’t been here, in Kansas, in a long time.”

“Well. Welcome back.”

Eleanor smiles. “I was born here. Well, not in Topeka. Kansas City. At the Women’s Hospital.” She rocks her body side to side hopefully. “Thirty-five years ago …”

The woman wiggles one of the smaller coffee cups out of the tray and sips. “I used to live in KCK. Great city. Very cultural these days.”

Lived in Kansas City
. Eleanor’s heart thumps in her throat even though it’s nearly impossible that the first person she meets is her mother.

Eleanor’s phone rings from inside her purse. “I’m back here to …” The ringing bounces against the marble walls, amplifying the sound. “Hang on, sorry.” She pulls out her phone, but not before the elevator pings and the doors swish open. “Hello?”

A male voice. Noel’s. “Those baby wipes of yours are terrible on windows. Smudged them up bad. I had to Windex them twice and I’m still not sure they’re clear.”

“I’m kind of busy here, Noel. Can I call you right back?”

“And about your dog. I’ve fed him two bowls of kibble. I mean, enough to feed a moose, and he’s still begging for more. Is this normal?”

The woman steps into the elevator with a polite nod goodbye. Eleanor holds up a finger. Into the phone she says, “What? No! Two bowls back to back?”

“I don’t think he even swallowed. You should feed him more. His ribs are sticking out.”

Inside the car, the woman hits a button and waits, staring at the numbers above the open doors.

“I do feed him”—she lowers her voice and turns around—”I told you, he’s been depressed.”

“He’s sure not depressed now. He found a tennis ball in the shop. I had to throw it for him all day. Does this dog not sleep?”

All he does is sleep
, she wants to say but doesn’t. “Listen, I can’t talk right now.”

“You should’ve seen him in the park. He was the damned social director—greeting every dog and owner that passed by. He’s just so … happy.”

“I promise you it’s not his normal state—”

The doors start to close. Eleanor drops the phone into her purse and lunges to stop them but it’s too late. The woman is gone.

“Hello? Eleanor? Hello-o?” Noel’s voice comes to her garbled from where the phone has slipped between her wallet and tampon case. Eleanor pulls it out with a sigh. What does it matter anyway? The coiffed woman from KCK was not her mother.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind picking me up some of that BB’s Lawnside BBQ sauce? You can’t get that stuff up here and I’ve got this nice rack of beef ribs in the freezer.”

Across the street, people are starting to enter the Department of Children and Families. She checks her watch: 9:03. “Noel? I’ve got to go.”

As soon as she reaches the information desk, she thinks she should have called first. She has no desire to stand in front of this uniformed, gum-smacking twenty-two-year-old security guard and explain her predicament.
I have no name. No real information about myself. But, hey, I do have a thirty-five-year-old
plastic bracelet!
Eventually, after a few wrong turns and a few confused department receptionists, Eleanor finds herself at the adoption records desk, staring at an employee pretending she’s not eating a sandwich.

The woman, with sunken cheeks and cracked lips, wearing a name badge that reads
Brenda
, wraps what’s left of her cream cheese bagel in a napkin and tucks it under the counter. Her skin is so thin it clings to her tendons and ligaments, her bones. A few bottles of water could plump it up, bring her to life. She covers her mouth with her fingers while she finishes chewing.

“Sorry. We’re short-staffed. I’m all by myself down here most days and I missed dinner last night.”

“You have to eat.”

Brenda swallows and waves at her face to expedite the process. “What can I do for you?”

“I have a bit of a situation.” She waits, nervous, while Brenda reaches for a pen. The one thing she can’t take is pity. If, for one second, this woman looks at her with sorrow or embarrassment or concern, Eleanor will spin around and hop a cab back to the airport. “I was born here thirty-five years ago. And, well. My mother, she …”

“You were adopted?”

“Yes.”

“All you need is twenty dollars and twenty minutes, luv. You got both?”

No sorrow here. Eleanor is relieved. It’s business as usual. “Yes, sure.” She pulls out a twenty.

“State of Kansas is totally open for adoption records. Lucky for you.” Brenda pushes the money into a cash machine. “Now. What have we got? Mother’s name? Your birth name?”

Eleanor fumbles to pull the hospital bracelet from her purse. “Baby Girl Smith. August 10, 1975. Women’s Hospital. That’s all I really know.”

Brenda examines the bracelet. “Hard to believe anyone starts out this small, isn’t it?”

“I’m just hoping the adoption is on record here somehow. And I can get a bit more information. I really need to find her.”

Brenda hands it back to her. “Women’s Hospital. Sadly, the name Smith doesn’t help us much. More often than not, it’s made up.” She pulls on a pair of glasses and motions toward the chairs in front of her desk. Eleanor sits. “August tenth, let’s see now …”

“Nineteen seventy-five.” Eleanor refrains from mentioning that Woody and Diane were filming that year.

“A Leo. Nice.” She punches the date into her computer. “Good, strong souls, Leos. I married one.” She looks up. “You married?”

Eleanor slides her hands beneath her thighs. “I don’t really know what I am.”

Brenda nods. No judgment, no pity. She returns to the computer screen. “Well, the good news is we’ve got your mother’s name. Or at least the name she gave.”

“Wait, what’s her name?”

“Ruth Smith. So we’ve got that as well as your date of birth. But there’s absolutely no adoption information from that hospital on that day.” She looks at Eleanor from over her papers. “It means the adoption didn’t take place here in Kansas state. The birth did, but not the adoption.”

“I don’t understand. You’re saying she took me somewhere else? Packed me onto a plane and took me to someone?”

“That’s certainly possible, but more likely the adoption took place close by.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The hospital is just off State Line Road, which divides Kansas City into two states. The west side is Kansas. The east side is Missouri. You, my dear, were born on the Kansas side, but you were probably adopted on the other side of the street. In Missouri. A very common occurrence in Kansas City.” She places her cool, dry hand over Eleanor’s. “I’m sorry, luv.”

“So, what, I go across State Line Road and find the Department of Children and Families in Missouri?”

“I’m afraid it’s not that easy. Missouri isn’t like Kansas. Adoptions that take place in Missouri are sealed. They won’t give you any information about adoptions in Missouri.”

“But this must happen all the time, the way the city is cut in half.”

“Breaks my heart to have to disappoint people. I’m sorry. Kansas is only one of a handful of states with open records. Most allow access to non-identifying information only. She slides the paper across the counter to Eleanor. “But you do have a few things to go on. Her name: Ruth Smith. And this is your mother’s address, however temporary, the day you were born. And here’s your birth certificate. Don’t leave without this.”

Eleanor stares down at the small white piece of paper the woman has placed on the counter.
Baby Girl Smith
. Across the front is stamped in red:
VOID.

“Voiding it is just a way to prevent fraud. Identity theft. You know.”

Eleanor nods and slips her birth certificate into her purse. Void sounds about right.

“Honey, there are people out there who can help you. They go beyond what the state can do. You know, go back to your public school, your church. They go through cemeteries and archived newspapers.”

“Do you have them here?”

Brenda shakes her head. “They’re private individuals. Call themselves search angels. They’re mostly volunteers, often women who gave up an infant of their own.”

“How do I find one?”

“Where’d you say you’re from?”

“Boston.”

Brenda consults a thick binder and scrawls a name on the back of her business card. She hands it to Eleanor. “Isabelle Santos. She used to live in Boston. I’m not sure if she’s still taking clients, but she’s one of the best.”