Authors: Tish Cohen
W
aiting in the apartment foyer when she returns from Isabelle’s is the rocking horse, wrapped in a huge yellow bow. Tall and classic, with bridle and thick, ropy mane and tail. Glass eyes. Leather saddle held on by brass grommets and wood polished to a sheen. Inscribed on the haunch:
Sylvie
.
Eleanor carries it into the nursery. Sets it on an angle by the window and rocks it with one finger.
It should mean something, that he attended this class. Sanded the wood, cut the leather, affixed the mane and tail to this beautiful and classic piece. It would be so touching in another scenario. Something a loving father would do. But this way it feels loaded with guilt. A gesture more about the man than the child.
No. She’s not giving her daughter a gift from a man too spineless to be part of her life. Eleanor drags the horse into the closet and slams the door.
Jonathan Sweet doesn’t get to be both good guy and bad guy at the same time.
There’s no sign of Angus in the apartment and Noel isn’t picking up his phone. Eleanor has no choice but to head
downstairs and see if the dog is waiting in Pretty Baby or Death by Vinyl.
It’s near closing time and the shop door is unlocked. No sign of Ginny. One customer roams the aisles. Not even a customer, really. A man with wispy brown strands of hair crisscrossing his scalp and a nervous way of licking his lips before he speaks, who asks Eleanor to turn down the rock music. To which she explains it’s coming from next door. Next he asks what age can a child sit in the front seat because his daughter doesn’t like him driving his grandson in the front. But the boy’s almost nine. It seems ridiculous. Eleanor explains the rule: twelve for cars with air bags. The man doesn’t know if his Nissan has any. He assures her he’ll go off and check.
Where is Ginny?
The tinkle of the bell announces a FedEx courier, who heads toward the cash in a jangle of keys and pocket change. He sets a dinner-plate-shaped box on the counter and slides it toward Eleanor. “Package for Noel Bannon.”
“He’s not at this address.”
The courier tilts the box toward her. “Says here ‘Noel Bannon care of Pretty Baby.’” He takes a look around the store at the pastel-colored wall hangings, the seven brands of breast pumps, the bin of discount newborn sleepers, then the stack of Pretty Baby business cards by the cash register. “Seems the right place.”
“Noel’s next door. You’ll have to take it over there.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I can’t deliver it anyplace other than what’s on the label.”
She holds up a finger to ask the courier to wait as she pulls out the ragged business card Noel gave her the other day. The phone rings six times before he picks up.
The fumble of fabric. Then a groggy half-whisper. “Yeah?”
“It’s Eleanor. Listen, I have a courier here with a packa—”
“Huh?” More rustling, this time accompanied by a grunt. “Who from? Is it a guy called Andrew something?”
“Wait, you’re at home in bed? Why is your music playing in the store?”
“That must be my
Velvet Underground & Nico
reissue. Man, that’s fast.”
“Noel—”
“It’s a first pressing. eBay started at $350 and I took it at $1,295. There was some kind of copyright thing with this cover so right away they reissued with another. Bumped the price way up. I sell that, I can make my rent.”
“You open your doors, you can make your rent.”
“Oh, that reminds me. A collector is bringing a load of vinyls in to your place tomorrow afternoon. Just have a quick peek and offer him seventy-five dollars if it looks good.”
This is too exasperating to warrant a reply. “Do you have Angus with you?”
He yawns like a lion into the receiver. “Do I ever. You know, I taught that dog how to speak—as in bark—on command. Damn thing has been barking ever since. Barked all night. One of my neighbors called the cops.”
“Bring him back please, Noel. And come and get your package.”
As Eleanor hangs up, Ginny shuffles up from the basement, pulling on her coat. Her hair appears to be in the same ponytail as when Eleanor left and she might not have changed her clothes. Or bathed. Her face is bloated and shiny. She holds up a book on canine behavior, her eyes glassy. Or crazed, it’s hard to tell which.
“Hey. I’ve figured out how to manage all these kids. I’m going to control my litter the way a bitch does, postpartum. There’re some great ideas in here. Right down to crate training. The humans have it all wrong. That’s why our kids misbehave. For the first time, I think this thing is doable.”
“All right.” Eleanor pulls the book from her grasp. “You need a day off. Wash your hair, change your shirt, take a nap, and for God’s sake put down the dog book before pulling your babies from the amniotic sac with your teeth in the birthing room starts to sound like a good idea.”
T
he poster on the wall shows the cover of a book—
Chosen
—written by the speaker Nancy mentioned, the woman found as an infant on a street corner in Seoul and adopted out to a middle-class Jewish family in Dallas. The book’s image is stunning—a baby’s soft shoulder, seen from behind.
Donna Devon herself stands tiny and strong, with wide stance, short black hair, and easy grin, chatting with Nancy next to the podium. Dressed in black T-shirt, tights, and motorcycle boots, she exudes peacefulness and confidence. Strength. This is not a woman who feels unloved. To look at her is to feel weak, incapable in comparison. This is a woman who knows how to live. How to survive.
She’s here to give the parents-to-be a glimpse into the adoptee’s experience. She is also meant to share what she wishes had been done differently, what she wouldn’t change. How it’s important not to take it personally if your child is sad about his start in life from time to time.
The room has the humid, yeasty smell of nervous energy, and the floor almost vibrates with the audience’s determination to do everything right.
It was short-sighted not to have arrived earlier, Eleanor quickly realizes. She wasted precious minutes soaking Angus’s kibble in canned chicken broth, which of course didn’t interest him in the least. Now most of the seats in the meeting room are taken. With whispered apologies, Eleanor works her way along a row to an empty chair in the center. Just as she lowers herself into it, a soft hand lands on her arm.
“Sorry. I’m saving that seat for my husband.”
Eventually, Eleanor locates a seat in the back row, in the far left corner beside a couple dressed like they just came from running sprints, in matching Saucony shoes, nylon pants, and hooded sweatshirts. The woman, her dark head as sleek as an otter’s with its smooth ponytail, twists to one side to allow her to pass.
Miles from Reception lowers the lights and yanks down a projection screen. The high-spirited chatter in the room falls to a respectful hush, but Donna doesn’t seem to be in the room.
Eleanor can feel someone’s stare and finds the runners focused on her. The man, as bony and gristled as a grapevine, holds out his hand.
“Jim Faust. This is my wife, Bev. What country are you adopting from?”
Eleanor takes his hand and introduces herself. “My daughter’s here. Well, California.”
“Hyun-Ki is coming from Korea. From National Boys. Yours an infant?”
Eleanor nods and they exchange photos. The Fausts’ son is older, they explain, nearly three and recently separated from his younger brother, who was adopted to a couple in the U.K. They’d been after a younger child, but seeing Hyun-Ki crying, alone in his crib, broke their hearts.
“Arrives in January,” says Jim. He looks at his wife. “What day is it?”
“Like I don’t have it etched into my brain? The ninth. At 11:37. Flight 1833 from Seoul.”
Eleanor says, “The cold will be a shock.”
Jim laughs. “We’ve already picked up a snowsuit. Warmest we could find.”
Bev turns in her chair to survey the room. “Is your husband coming tonight? I see there are a few chairs stacked; we could pull one over and squeeze it into our row.”
It had been Jonathan who, upon hearing they’d been approved, ran out and bought Sylvie every classic children’s book he could find. The Beatrix Potter stories,
Goodnight Moon
, Dr. Seuss, Maurice Sendak. He arranged them on her windowsill beside the gliding rocker so he could read to her the night they arrived home. It was important to her adjustment, he’d said, that they establish routines right away.
“He’s not here,” Eleanor says.
“How’d he manage to sneak past Nancy’s ‘both spouses attend’ rule?” says Jim.
“We’re sort of … separated at the moment.”
“I don’t understand. You’re going to adopt alone?” asks Bev.
Eleanor nods.
“Oh,” says Jim, his expression less chummy now. “Well. I’ve heard more women are doing that now. Men, too, I would guess.”
“The agency doesn’t … I mean, is this allowed?” Bev asks, one hand on her throat.
“My husband and I split post-approval, so I have to go
through a few more hoops, but yes, from some countries. As Nancy said, ‘Not every couple will remain a couple.’”
“I’m sorry,” says Bev, leaning across her husband’s lap. “I don’t see bringing a baby into your life with no father. I understand it can happen, but to do it on purpose?” She shakes her head.
“Bev.”
“I get that you want a baby, but there are times, situations where you put the interest of the child ahead of your own needs—”
“Bev. That’s enough.”
“So sue me. Someone has to speak up for the children. They have no control over where they end up. They’re completely in the hands of those who—”
Eleanor stands up. She cannot bear the thought of climbing across this woman’s unforgiving lap, so straddles her chair back, knocking it down and falling to her knees in the process. Embarrassed now, on top of being humiliated, her left knee paining, she charges down the hall to the ladies’ room, willing herself not to limp.
Checking her lipstick in the mirror is Donna Devon. She looks up, her features softened from the halogen spotlight over her head. Up close, she is extraordinarily beautiful, with skin so smooth it doesn’t seem real. She smiles hello when Eleanor stumbles into the room.
Quickly, Eleanor rearranges her face to wipe off Bev Faust’s disapproval. “I ordered your book,” she says. “I’m so curious how it’s been for you as an adoptee, adopting. I’m looking for someone to relate to, I guess.”
“I hope you don’t relate to all of my stories. At least not the heroin smoothies. Or being chased down Canal Street
in New York by the police.” Donna touches up her lips and grins devilishly.
“My story is pretty vanilla in comparison.”
“Everyone’s is.”
Eleanor opens the stall door, then turns around. “I’m adopting on my own. My husband is gone. Or … might be gone.” Her throat tightens up with emotion. “I’m sorry. Not sure why I’m blathering. I’m just …” She lets out a sigh so hard she shudders. “I’m all alone.”
Donna takes Eleanor’s shoulders. “Hey. Having a husband doesn’t guarantee anything. I was raised by a couple in Saratoga. My adoptive mom worked two jobs to put me and my adopted sister through private school and pay the mortgage. My adoptive dad? He spent his days at the Cat Call, a strip bar around the corner. Came home every night wrapped in the smell of cheap whisky and nasty perfume. You can do this, you hear me?”
Eleanor nods with far more conviction than she feels. “Thank you.”
Donna checks her watch. “We’d better get me in there before Nancy starts without me.”
Eleanor follows Donna out. “Can I ask you something? Did your mother raise you two all on her own, then? No help at all?”
“Oh God, no.” They march back toward the board room. “My grandmother lived upstairs. It wasn’t until I was five that I realized she wasn’t my second mother, that she was my grandmother.”
A door flies open and Nancy catches sight of Donna. “There you are, Missy. You’re on in ten.”
Donna squeezes Eleanor’s arm and heads to the front
of the room where Miles is adjusting her podium. Nancy approaches Eleanor.
“You look tired. Everything okay?”
I’m perfect. I’m strong and independent and capable of raising a whole army of babies on my own, not just one
. “My dog’s been keeping me up.”
“And Jonathan?”
“It’s not looking good.”
They both pause as a heavyset woman with spiked hair and dangly earrings walks toward them.
The woman holds out her hand to shake Eleanor’s and says in a cigarette-charred voice, “Lorna Gillespie. You must be Eleanor. Come—” She leads them out the door. “Let’s chat in the hall.”
Let’s not
, Eleanor thinks, following.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your situation,” Lorna says as if speaking to a six-year-old. “I’m sure Nancy told you I have concerns about who you have to assist in a pinch. We all need a little help now and then.” She cocks her head and smiles, squinting sympathetically. Eleanor half expects the woman to reach out and button her cardigan, retie her scarf, and send her off to play outside. “Nothing to be ashamed about.”
“My mother is going to be my backup.”
“Oh?” Nancy looks surprised. “I thought your parents were deceased.”
“My birth mother. Her name is Ruth Smith.”
“Right. I forgot you were adopted. That’s in your file somewhere,” says Nancy.
“Wonderful,” says Lorna. “There’s nothing like having
your mother around when learning to care for a baby. Will she be present at the home visit for Nancy to meet?”
This Martina Kalla had better be quick. “Absolutely.”
E
leanor stares at Martina Kalla’s card.
She has two weeks to find her mother. Maybe it would be possible if she’d been born with any surname other than the most common in North America. Or if Isabelle had grabbed an already-packed suitcase from the foyer closet and jumped on the first flight to Kansas City. Even then, fourteen days to find one woman in a country of over three hundred million was beyond ridiculous.
She dials the number and the call goes straight to message:
You have reached Martina Kalla. Thanks for getting in touch. Your call is important to me. Please leave your name and number and we’ll find who you’re looking for. Namaste
.
Eleanor is careful to enunciate. “Hi, Martina. My name is Eleanor Sweet and I’m looking for my birth mother.” She pauses. “Urgently.” She leaves her number twice and hangs up.
Angus stares out the front door of Pretty Baby and lets out a woof so airy and hopeless it could be the balloon deflating. He’s barked so much since her return, he’s almost lost his voice. And now that he’s home, he’s stopped eating.
Ginny wanders out of the break room, licking the icing off a small vanilla cupcake. She scratches him behind the ear.
“Who’s a good boy whose breeders planned an abbreviated life for him? Huh? Who’s that good boy?”
“Ginny.”
“What? Great Danes live seven years because of breeders. So they can look at these huge beasts and think, ‘Whoa. Look what I built.’ Let them all be mutts, I say.” She swipes icing onto her finger and offers it to Angus. To Eleanor’s surprise, Angus licks Ginny’s finger clean and sits politely, clearly hoping for more. “I read it in my dog book.”
“Can I try feeding him?”
Ginny pops the cupcake into her mouth and says, “I’m eating for three. Get your own.”
Eleanor watches Angus lower himself onto the floor. “At first it seemed to be because Jonathan left. But now, I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“I don’t think he likes me.”
Ginny wipes crumbs from her mouth and nods. “Yeah. I can see that.”
The back door slams against the wall and Noel walks in carrying the milk crate full of records she bought from his customer the day prior. He heaves it up onto the counter.
“Oh good,” says Eleanor. “I paid your guy seventy-five dollars from my petty cash. It’d be great if you could reimburse me.”
He says nothing. Just rolls his tongue against his inner cheek and grunts. As he removes albums one by one and sets each on the counter, he announces the artist’s name. “Let’s see here. We have the Irish Rovers, Englebert Humperdinck.” He pulls out a handful and fans them out like a giant poker hand. “Backstreet Boys. Mariah Carey. Four Britney Spears
albums and a Jessica Simpson.” He stares at Eleanor. “The. Spice. Girls.
What
were you thinking?”
“They were all popular in their day. My mother loved Englebert Humperdinck and …” She pulls out a David Cassidy album. “And I loved Keith Partridge. Someone will buy them. If you ever allow a customer inside.”
“I need you to call him and tell him to come pick up this garbage. I want my money back.”
“Really, Eleanor.” Ginny holds up a Celine Dion record. “What were you thinking?”
“Your
money?” Eleanor asks Noel.
“Yes. I can’t afford to be shelling out for merchandise that will only damage my reputation. I’m sure you can understand that. I’ll leave this stuff with you to take care of?” He pauses to nudge Angus awake and the dog jumps up, dancing and wagging and fussing until the floor shakes. “How’s the old goat, huh? How’s my boy?”
Angus prances back and forth from Noel to the door, whining hopefully. Noel looks at Eleanor. “You mind if I walk him?”
So that’s that. She is so repellent even her dog can’t stand her.
“Eleanor?”
“Go ahead! Have a great time!”
Watching Angus bound outside with Noel, tail wagging, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, Eleanor shakes her head. “Am I so unlikable?”
“That’s it.” Ginny grabs Eleanor’s purse from under the counter. “Come over to my place for dinner. You need to escape yourself. I’d hate you too if I was with you all the time.”