The Search Angel (6 page)

J
onathan is late. Eleanor watches the other people in the agency waiting room and tries to stop her hands from shaking. Couples, all except the one who just walked in. There, in the corner, behind a crisp copy of
House Beautiful
, this single woman seats herself, a graceful, olive-skinned creature with bare ankles. With light brown hair pulled off her face and a long neck, she could be a ballet dancer on her day off. There’s something self-conscious in the way she keeps checking her watch, swiping nonexistent lint from her lap.

Eleanor picks up
Parenting
magazine and tries to focus on an article about teething, but her attention keeps drifting back to the dancer. Surely there have been other people here in the agency alone, but not until now has Eleanor paid any attention. Why is the ballerina by herself? Could this one have been dumped recently as well? Or is she going it alone? She’s delicate, this girl. Unsure of herself. No earth-mother aura to her whatsoever. It gives Eleanor a thrill. If this one can raise a child on her own, so can she.

The cherub-faced man at reception—Miles, Eleanor has heard him called—wearing a modern shrunken suit that
exposes leopard-spotted socks, stands up and calls out “the Needhams?” A petite couple, pink-cheeked with excitement, follow him down the back hall to one of the caseworkers’ offices. Moments later, Miles is back to set a fresh pot of coffee by the plants on the windowsill. A stack of Styrofoam cups needs straightening and he takes care of it. He nods at Eleanor. “Nancy will be right with you?” She remembers him from her other visits. Phrases every statement as a question in a way that suggests a good-natured lack of confidence. It made her like him right away.

She pulls out her phone and stares at it, willing a text to appear from Jonathan telling her he’s looking for a parking spot.

It was over a year ago that Eleanor and Jonathan came in to try to convince Nancy Stachniuk they were worthy. Eleanor nearly buckled under the scrutiny, terrified the agency would come across some minor infraction from the annals of her life, something as benign as an unpaid parking ticket, and use it to prove that nature was, in fact, all-knowing, and that Eleanor was not qualified to become someone’s mother.

A twenty-something couple sits across from her with clasped hands. Eleanor recognizes the nervous giggles, the toes pointed inward in submission. The woman, a reddish-blonde with only a hint of a chin, appears more nervous than the man, who is prim and controlled in his fitted polo sweater and polished brogues. He has one arm around her shoulder, squeezing it rhythmically.

The blonde’s purse lies on its side between her feet, its contents oozing out onto the navy carpet. Eleanor leans forward
and smiles. “Your wallet’s on the floor.” She motions to the purse. “I just don’t want you to lose it.”

“I’m a mess when I’m nervous.” The woman leans down to pick it up.

Her partner grins affably. “This application process is rigorous, don’t you think?”

Eleanor nods. “I was so desperate to appear good I was afraid to put my hands in my pockets in case they thought I’d just stolen a pen.”

The door flies open and a tall bearded man in square glasses and turtleneck walks in, catches the eye of the dancer, and hurries to her full of apologies. They kiss and whisper excitedly.

Ballerina Girl isn’t alone.

The blonde woman asks, “How far along are you in the process?”

“Approved. We’re just sort of … working on the date.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” she says. “To be at your stage—I can only hope we get there.” She looks at her partner. “Can you imagine, honey?”

“Dream come true,” he says. “Total dream come true.”

Eleanor’s phone pings. She looks down to see Jonathan has texted:
Sorry, El. Thought about it some more. Not comfortable doing this
.

She sits back, wills herself not to vomit.

Miles calls out, “Jonathan and Eleanor Sweet? Nancy will see you now?”

Eleanor stares at her phone. Texts a response to Jonathan.
I’ll do it without you, then
.

“Mrs. Sweet?”

She stands, drops the magazine to the floor, and fumbles to pick it up.

“Are we waiting for Dr. S to arrive?” Miles asks as she approaches.

“Just me today.”

The young couple nearly bounce out of their seats with good-luck waves. Eleanor nods her thanks and waves back, nauseated.

She follows Miles’s spotted socks along the hall, trying to formulate a new plan. The truth. That’s all she has left.

“You remember where Nancy is, love? Second door on the left?”

The entire wall behind Nancy’s desk is plastered with photographs of happy clients with their adopted children. These freshly formed families pose atop bicycles, in front of the Eiffel Tower, at the kitchen counter, and lying on their backs making snow angels. Some have faces slathered in chocolate birthday cake, others in spaghetti sauce. But all are grinning.

“So,” says Nancy, sipping from a can of Nestea. A droplet lands on her sweatshirt and she frowns. “You’re feeling better?”

Eleanor pulls her cardigan closer. “Yes.”

“Good. And where’s Jonathan?”

“He isn’t here.”

Nancy’s laugh has an edge. “I can see that. He’s not well yet, I take it?”

“No. Not really.”

There’s no benefit to delaying the truth. There’s no way around it. The best thing is to just blurt it out and suffer the consequences.

“Poor guy. I had a sinus infection once. Thought my face was going to explode.”

“Nancy?”

“Hmm?”

“We weren’t really sick.”

“I don’t understand.” The pop can returns to the desk.

“Jonathan left me.”

“What?”

“He walked out.”

“Oh shit.” Nancy’s chair squeaks as she slides closer. “Because of this?”

Eleanor nods. She feels sobs coming on and digs her nails into her thighs. She cannot break down. She must appear strong. Fiercely maternal and capable. Able to raise cribloads of babies all on her own.

Nancy reaches out and squeezes Eleanor’s hand. “Hey. It happens. It sucks, but something as huge as adoption can break a couple. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it.”

“He’s all about the attachment problems, what might go wrong …” Her voice quivers and she stops talking rather than risk a sob.

“I know. And he has a point. There is a higher likelihood for emotional problems with some of these kids. You don’t go into this halfway.”

Eleanor reaches for a Kleenex on Nancy’s desk. “Last night, I actually begged him to lie to you. To pretend we were intact so you didn’t pull the adoption.” She presses a tissue into the corner of one eye and then the other. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

Nancy smiles. “Well, I’m glad we didn’t go
that
route. Not that I haven’t been there before too.” She watches Eleanor.

“So. You’re here in front of me. It’s out in the open. What do you want to do?”

Eleanor tucks her hair behind her ears. “I want to adopt her on my own.”

Nancy pauses. Presses her lips together thoughtfully. “It’s not the ideal, but certainly adoption by single parents is a growing trend in many countries,” says Nancy. “I know of a single woman who had success in China. Russia and some of its former republics welcome singles. It’s not typical, singles adopting, but it’s happening more and more. Guatemala is another country accepting them.”

Eleanor stares at the woman who’s been working with her for the better part of a year. What does Eleanor care about Russia or China? “Sylvie’s from the States.”

“The problem, for single adoptive parents, doesn’t just lie in the agency or country’s approval. It can be difficult once you bring the baby home. Friends, family, sometimes they jump in with their own judgment. That’s something to consider.”

“Yes. What about Cali—?”

“Guatemala is really on the forefront. Same-sex couples qualify in Guatemala. Huge draw for gay couples.”

“Okay, but—”

Nancy sits forward in her seat and folds one hand over the other. “Sri Lanka doesn’t adopt out to singles.”

“Nancy. I only want Sylvie. I want to go ahead with this adoption. Not another one.”

“We’re cool with single parents adopting here. We’re good.”

Eleanor falls back in her chair. She closes her eyes for a moment to process this, then leans forward on the desk. “So Sylvie’s still mine? That’s what you’re saying?”

“Every agency has their own policy—some don’t accept singles at all. But here, we see it like this: Not every couple
that adopts will remain a couple. And not every single parent will remain single. We look at a person’s strength and character. His or her parenting potential. You own the hottest baby store in the city. It’s not everything, but it gives us a certain amount of ease. There will be some new paperwork to fill out, satisfy us that your finances can support a child, that you have appropriate care for her while you’re at work, etcetera. But the real thing is: we need to see you have a strong support system—this becomes more important than ever for a single parent. This we do not waver on.”

She can have Sylvie. Eleanor allows this to sink in a moment. “By support system you mean child care, that sort of thing?”

“I mean friends and family. You need at least one dependable person who lives nearby, who is going to be there for you day or night. Are your parents close?”

“My parents are dead.”

“Siblings? Uncles or aunts? Cousins?”

Eleanor searches her life for middle-of-the-night support. Jonathan, really. He was her support, has been since her adoptive parents died two years ago. There are no siblings. No cousins, but for her dad’s second-cousin Jeremy who runs a whale-spotting boat tour out in Maine.

“No siblings. Aunts and uncles and cousins aren’t around here. But I do have a friend who works for me. Ginny.”

“Okay. She’s good with kids?”

“Well, she has three of her own … so.”

“Is she the kind of person you can call at three in the morning to pick up Pedialyte at the drugstore? That kind of thing?”

“Well, her husband does shift work, but some nights would work, I’m sure.”

Nancy frowns and leans over her desk. “You seem to be a bit isolated, Eleanor. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned.”

“No, I’m not isolated.” Eleanor laughs too shrilly. “I’m surrounded by people all day long.”

“We had a similar case a few months back: single woman adopting from Indiana. She was a little fuzzy on who, exactly, would be there for her in a pinch, but she was such a doll and worked as a teacher. Anyway, she convinced us. Four months into the adoption, she lost her job. Had to miss work one too many times because of colds, unreliable child care, a bout of chicken pox. Then she had a huge financial struggle, had to go on government assistance, what have you. Wasn’t a great situation. My superior is fanatical now. We do not support single-parent adoptions unless the individual has a reliable support network.”

Eleanor shifts in her chair. “So where does that leave me?”

“I can’t in good conscience approve you adopting Sylvie on your own if you don’t have more support, Eleanor. I’m sorry.” Nancy opens a file on her desk and shuffles through the papers. “I know you’ve already had a home visit, but I’m going to book you in for another now, with this change in your situation.” She looks up, her expression grim. “I’d like you to have at least one key support person there. Do you have a problem with that?”

Eleanor stands, slings her purse over one shoulder. “No. No problem at all.”

“Oh, and Eleanor?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a guest speaker coming next week. Get the details from Miles. I’d like you to attend.”

T
he package in her mailbox is from El Centro, postmarked two weeks prior. She knows exactly what it is—it’s a DVD from the agency in California. Part of the deal through the agency is a video of your child, though Nancy warned them that some of these videos arrive after the child does. On the envelope, above the address,
Mommy
has been written in black marker, obviously by a caregiver. Eleanor races up the gritty stairs to the second floor and into her apartment.

She kneels in front of the DVD player and fumbles to get the plastic disk free while Angus watches from beneath the dining room table. “Angus, come sit with me.”

With a forlorn groan, he drops his chin onto his paws and stays put.

She slides the disk into the machine and waits. Nothing happens at first, then the crooked chaos of the camera being held at someone’s side, turned on, pointed at the ground. Children shouting, a baby crying, a TV blaring can all be heard in the background. A woman speaks, her voice deep in tone, almost masculine, but it’s impossible to hear what she’s saying over the din. Then the camera swings up.
There
.

Sylvie.

Moving. Babbling. Looking around.

Eleanor laughs out loud, her eyes stinging with tears. It’s magic to see her in motion. To see her come to life.

That smooth caramel skin with freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. Those eyes! They glow as if lit from behind. Her wild hair defies gravity. With adult hands cupping her underarms, she stands stunned and wobbly in a too-tight sleeper on what is likely her foster mother’s lap. Eleanor’s breath sticks in her throat as Sylvie looks off to the side, drooling as she sucks on a set of plastic keys.

To see her live like this. It’s almost like having her in the room.

The camera pans back and more of Cathy can be seen. She’s long-faced and tired in leggings, a big T-shirt, and pastel Keds. From her neck hangs a silver cross. The furniture behind her, it all seems to have been taken from an office. If not for the playpen to one side with two toddlers in it, and the TV blaring, you wouldn’t know it was a home. Cathy smiles stiffly—clearly she’s not comfortable in front of the camera, but the baby she handles with ease. A bird chirps from somewhere in the house. A lawn mower whines. Children race past and shout. The cameraman, likely Luiz, keeps saying, “Sylvie.”

Sylvie is much smaller than Eleanor imagined, her hair longer and bushier, this time pulled back in a pink headband. No pom-poms. She’s at Eleanor’s favorite stage, just leaving infancy and bumping against that deliciously sweaty, drooling-puppy state of toddlerhood.

Eleanor cannot decipher what the foster mother is saying over all the background noise, but the woman points excitedly
toward the camera lens to encourage Sylvie to look. The child does, but only as she reaches out to touch the lens in wonder. It’s obvious Cathy feels some sort of responsibility or pressure to make the girl smile. She’s been fostering for fifteen years. She knows what the adoptive parents want to see. She jostles and cajoles, then looks up at the camera as if to say it’s impossible. Sylvie will not smile.

“Sylvie, say
Mama
,” says Luiz, off-camera. “Say
Mama.”

Suddenly Cathy lifts the baby up in the air and bops her up and down. The keys jangle against Sylvie’s wet chin, her red mouth exploring the plastic chain. Eleanor, still on her knees, shuffles right up to the screen, stares, barely able to breathe.

Then Cathy changes her tactic. She moves her face close to the baby’s, then buries her mouth in Sylvie’s abdomen, giving the child a raspberry kiss. Now, with the keys still in her mouth, Sylvie tucks one knee up to her belly, then the other, and a wide grin opens her face. Sylvie’s laughing face fills the screen. Eleanor freezes the frame. A tingle spreads down her arms.

Nothing will stop her from having this child. Nothing.