Authors: Tish Cohen
S
he pulls up in front of Ginny’s place and stares out at bare tree branches clawing the evening sky. She’s heard nothing from Jonathan since the horse. He’s been so quiet, she thinks she’s quite possibly offended him by not saying thank you. Seriously, he went to all that trouble of attending the class, making this gorgeous gift for Sylvie, and what did Eleanor do? Nothing.
She pulls out her phone and dials his cell. The call goes to message and his voice booms deep and smooth.
This is Jonathan, sorry I missed your call. Leave a message at the beep
.
Hey. It’s Eleanor. The horse is truly stunning and it was so sweet of you to make it. Give me a call; I’d like to thank you. S
he pauses.
In person
.
She drops the phone into her bag, heart pounding. Why did she have to add “in person?” That was such a mistake. Now he’ll think her call is a manipulative ploy to get him back—which it isn’t. She picks up the phone again, willing it to ring. When it doesn’t, she reaches for the bottle of pinot noir she brought and climbs out of the car.
She shouldn’t have left the message. Now her whole night will be ruined.
The atmosphere inside the house is one of chaos. Ginny’s dining room mirror hangs slightly askew and one of the linen curtains has torn away from the rod above—Eleanor remembers this story: Greggie tried to climb the drapes after watching
George of the Jungle
. The youngest, William, belted into a high chair with a bent wizard cap on his head, has been howling since Eleanor arrived; and Ginny’s oldest, Kyle, has an ear infection and helped himself to the Tylenol bottle not long ago. The boy sits glassy-eyed in his chair, watching Eleanor in silence.
Greggie hums “It’s the Hard-Knock Life” from under the table.
As Ginny flies in from the kitchen with a casserole dish full of chicken breasts floating on rice, Ted dumps wine into glasses like he’s filling slop buckets. He hands one to Eleanor and motions toward the crying baby with the other. “Lesson number one, dear Eleanor. Sometimes you gotta self-medicate.”
“I’d have told you to come over later, once the kids are in bed.” Ginny spoons chicken onto everyone’s plates. When she looks up, the pouches beneath her eyes shine. “But they never actually go to bed.”
“More like they fall over, mid-fight, and pass out cold,” Ted says after gulping his wine. “Not that we get to sleep in our own bed.” He looks at Kyle. “Why don’t Mommy and Daddy sleep in their bed anymore, big boy?”
Kyle doesn’t take his eyes off Eleanor. “‘Cause I like to sleep like a starfish.”
Ted shrugs. “The guest room pullout isn’t so bad. Gin and I get some forced snuggling time.”
“News flash. Once this belly gets bigger, you’re down in the den.”
Greggie shouts from under the table, “I wanna sleep in the den, no fair!”
“Daddy’s all set, then,” Ted says before taking another swig. “He’ll sleep in the backseat of the car.”
“Anyhow, this way you’ll get the real picture.” Ginny disappears into the kitchen and returns with a jug of milk. “No delusions of peace or quiet.”
“Or juvenile obedience of any kind,” Ted adds. “That’s Lesson number two.”
Ginny sees Kyle feeding chicken to the scrappy Chihuahua mix dancing and yelping on the floor. “Are you feeding Termite, Kyle?”
“No.”
“I’m glad they’re still up,” Eleanor says. “I haven’t seen them in a while—right, guys?”
Greggie pokes Eleanor’s stockinged toes with a toothpick.
Ted passes Ginny a glass. She holds it to her nose, inhales deeply, and passes it back. “We’re having twins, remember?”
He stares at his wife’s belly and sinks into his chair. He shakes his head in horror as a green bean flies across the table and hits the wall. “For just one moment, I forgot.”
Eleanor peers under the table to the phone in her lap to make sure it’s getting a signal. It is.
Ginny leans over William to cut up the chicken on his high-chair tray, which calms him down. “Kyle, don’t feed the dog. You know he throws up.”
“I wasn’t.”
“It’s Ted’s night to cook,” Ginny says to Eleanor.
“Chicken and rice. My trademark dish.”
“Greggie.” Ginny peers beneath the table. “Please come sit on your chair like one of the real humans.”
“I am one of the real humans.”
She never should have called Jonathan, Eleanor thinks. Someone walks out of your life, you don’t go scaring them further away by demanding face-time. Especially a man! He’s probably freaked out right now. Cell phones are a terrible invention.
“Okay.” Ginny sits up straight, blows a strand of hair off her face. “Daddy made dinner, so everyone check their chicken.”
“Very funny, Gin. I’m a great cook.”
Eleanor nods with her mouth full. “Delicious.” As she slices into another piece, she leans closer to her plate. The chicken actually does look pink. She reaches for her napkin and glances around to make sure no one is looking. Then expels it and hides the evidence in her lap.
The baby pushes a piece of chicken into his mouth.
She has to say something. William could get sick. Eleanor stabs a piece of meat and holds it up to the light. “You know, it might be a teensy bit underdone.”
“How long did you cook it?” Ginny snaps at Ted.
“Same as usual.”
Ginny scoops William’s chicken from the tray and sweeps her finger through his mouth to remove whatever he hasn’t swallowed. No surprise, the child begins to scream. “You have to check the center,” Ginny calls over the wailing. “How many times have I told you that?”
“I did check. I think I checked …”
“‘I think I checked’ isn’t good enough when it comes to chicken, baby. You have to be sure.”
“Sorry.”
William throws himself onto his tray, sobbing. The wizard hat topples onto the floor. “Wanta have chicken!”
“Kyle, honey, did you eat any?”
“No, I gave it all to Termite.”
The baby’s sobs grow more intense. “I’m hungry!”
“Why don’t I put a few pieces in the microwave for him,” says Eleanor. “Make sure they’re well done.”
Ted reaches down to pick up the fallen hat. “Remember that story about the toddler on Long Island? Didn’t that boy die from raw chicken? Salmonella poisoning?”
Kyle starts to cry. “I don’t want Willie to die!”
Greggie crawls out from beneath the table. “Is Willie gonna die?” Both boys move to the high chair and wrap their arms around their youngest brother as he howls in fury.
Ted is standing now. “Do you think we should call someone? A doctor?”
Ginny pulls William out of the high chair and sets him on the floor beside his brothers. “Everybody climb on Daddy. Give him something real to worry about.”
Tears are gone. All three boys charge their father, yelping with excitement as they climb his legs and poke and tickle Ted while Termite yelps his concern from the floor. Ginny watches, shaking her head, one hand caressing her belly. The mother of darkness is smiling.
The moment is so intimate. Eleanor takes William’s chicken into the kitchen and puts it in the microwave. Ginny comes in behind her, carrying the platter of pink chicken. She sets it on the counter and looks at Eleanor.
“You are out of your mind, doing this all by yourself. Out of your freaking mind.”
T
he video camera Jonathan left behind is too sophisticated. All the buttons with symbols she doesn’t recognize. Eleanor twists and pokes and shifts the tiny controls until a green light comes on, then sets the camera on the dresser and hurries over to stand beside the crib.
“Hello, Sylvie,” she says, reaching down to stop Angus from devouring his left ankle and point his great sopping snout toward the camera. The dog woofs in defiance. “This is Angus, your dog. He’s very friendly. Right, Angus?”
Angus leaves the room, agitated. She hears him drop to the dining room floor in a series of bony clunks. There he lets out yips that sound like a squeaky mattress.
“And I’m Eleanor. Mommy.” Why does she feel like a fraud calling herself Mommy? She looks around for what to say next. “This is your new room. Your bed. And …” She grabs a few plush animals. “Your toys.”
Woof woof.
“Angus, please!” She’ll edit that out. Somewhere in the hallway, a buzzer drones. A neighbor’s oven timer most likely, but loud enough to be heard through
two closed doors. It’s too banal. Might sound depressing on video. Eleanor pauses the filming until it stops.
She holds up a framed photo of her adoptive parents. “These are your grandparents. Papa Thomas and Nana Marion. They’re not around anymore, though. So.” She sets the photo back on the dresser. “Yeah.”
Woof. Woof woof.
“Angus!”
The buzzer drones on again. There’s not much else to show so she waves into the camera. “I guess that’s it for now. I’m going to see you so soon, honey.” Her voice catches at the end. Will she really see Sylvie? Ever?
“You’re going to have a long plane ride, then come into a big airport, and then, then there I’ll be. We’ll be together and you’ll have a …” She stops. Eleanor and a neurotic canine who hates her do not a real family make. “We’ll have so much fun.”
Woof woof.
Her phone rings from the kitchen. Eleanor races to see Martina Kalla’s number on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Eleanor Sweet?” Martina’s voice sounds cool. Capable. Like she could find a granule of sugar in the sand. “Yes. That’s me.”
“Hi there, sorry it took so long to get back to you.”
Eleanor finds herself bouncing up and down on her toes. “That’s fine. No problem at all. Here’s my situation. I was born in Kansas City and there’s this street—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m swamped right now and won’t be able to take you on until February. March at the
latest. You said ‘urgent’ in your message, so I wanted to check if you’re able to wait that long.”
“No.” Eleanor drops into a chair and closes her eyes. “I’m not.”
T
he morning in Boston Common is crisp and sunny. Bright blue sky with clouds so puffy and defined they could have been drawn by preschoolers. Eleanor has layered up even more with leather gloves and a vintage Annie Hall fedora. Something about being able to hide beneath a sturdy brim makes her feel less vulnerable. She lets the grassy slope propel her down to the massive beech tree where eight or nine mothers have set up camp with their babies. It’s something the agency arranges to provide a network of friends for parent and child: a meet-and-greet with others whose adoptions are complete. Eleanor had been scheduled to attend this morning with Sylvie, had things gone as planned. So being here isn’t exactly
wrong
.
A flutter in her stomach works its way up her esophagus.
The setups vary from a mother sitting cross-legged with a tightly jacketed baby on her lap and a diaper bag on her blanket, to full-blown camps that include portable playpens, coolers, and bouncy chairs from IKEA. Seeing the babies—with their smiling eyes, skin of every shade, hair that ranges from nonexistent to thin to nappy to thick and spiky—nearly flattens her. A few younger infants are sound asleep in car seats
or their mother’s arms, others suck from bottles. Two of the older ones sit face to face on a blanket and tussle over a ball.
Likely because it’s twelve o’clock on a Tuesday, only one woman has her husband along.
The mothers seem relaxed and familiar with one another. Eleanor recognizes a couple of them from the store. She approaches rather stupidly, prowling around the periphery, then holds up a hand as if to say
I come in peace
.
“Hi. I’m not sure if Nancy mentioned I might be stopping by. I’m Eleanor. My baby was supposed to be here, but isn’t just yet. Long story.”
And not a lie.
One mother, the jovial brunette who brought along her husband, has a very fussy infant lurching backward in her arms, red-faced, refusing to be burped. “Dee Gilchrist.” She pats the corner of her blanket and moves her booted legs out of the way. “Come. So you don’t have to sit on the grass in your nice coat.”
Her husband spits grape seeds into his palm. “Ian Gilchrist.” He tilts his chin toward the baby. “Stay-at-home dad. I’m giving Dee here a little much-needed mother–son time. I’m a peach like that.”
Full-time dad. Here is a man wholly present for his adopted baby. No worries about what may or may not happen. What attachment did or did not happen at birth. Ian pulls a bottle of formula from his mini-cooler and excuses himself. He jogs effortlessly toward the change room hut by the wading pool.
“This is Cole, by the way. And don’t let his fussing scare you,” says Dee. “It’s just a bit of colic.”
“Not possible to scare me, I’ve been wanting one for so long.”
A black woman in a tidy Burberry jacket hands Eleanor a bottle of water. “We’ve all been there. I’m Felicia.”
The ladies go around the circle and introduce themselves: their names, what part of the city they’re from, and the ages and names of their children. One woman—one with twin boys feeding each other Cheerios—asks Eleanor when her daughter will arrive.
“We’re still hammering out the date,” Eleanor says, before going on to explain the circumstances around Sylvie’s adoption. The earthquake. Her mother’s death. How, by the grace of God, Sylvie was rescued.
Ian is back with the bottle and hands it to Dee. “Warmed it under the hot-water tap. See if he takes it.”
Dee sets Cole on her lap and offers the silicone nipple. It’s Kort, from Sweden—Eleanor sells these at the store. The baby refuses the bottle, releases angry cries like little puffs of smoke. His mother struggles to keep him on her lap. “They say colic doesn’t last past two months. I pray day and night they’re right.”
“Try holding him on his stomach like I showed you,” Ian says. “Football hold.”
Rolling her eyes at the other mothers, Dee gently flips Cole over, rubbing his back with her free hand while he howls.
“So what do you do, Eleanor?” Ian shouts over the din.
“I have a store. Baby store, actually.”
Felicia squeals. “That’s why you look so familiar. You own Pretty Baby?”
When Eleanor nods, the whole group erupts in excited chatter.
You’ll have everything you’ll ever need
.
Your store is my absolute favorite!
You’re going to be so prepared
.
Are those convertible toddler beds ever going to go on sale?
Cole’s cries grow louder.
“I was in your store once,” says a woman in yoga pants. “It was someone else who served me. God, was she pregnant. Third boy under five, she said.”
A sympathetic groan erupts from the blanket.
“Imagine?”
“I mean lucky but, wow. Hope she has her mother nearby.”
“Nearby? How about living in?”
There’s no way Eleanor dares mention the coming twins. She’ll never get the conversation on track again. “Someone told me not to schedule the pediatrician appointment the first week. What did you all do? I mean, I want to make sure she’s healthy but I don’t want her getting poked with a needle as soon as she arrives. I don’t want her to associate me with pain.”
Cole’s face is scrunched up tight and dark red. He tucks his tiny legs close to his body and howls. Ian holds out his hands. “All right, all right. Time to come to the master.” It’s a role Ian cherishes, that much is clear. He props his son on his enormous shoulder, stands up and massages his back in a firm upward sweep. From Ian comes soothing shushing sounds and he walks Cole around the big tree, pointing up at a squirrel. It doesn’t matter what injustices this baby encountered early in life. This man will single-handedly undo them all.
Cole’s cries lessen. His body softens; he relinquishes his fight. Before long, he’s making quiet whimpers, blinking at the world around him. Ian grins at his audience.
“See? The pay’s pretty good, too.”
Dee turns to Eleanor. “What about you? Is your husband nervous?”
“I’m actually doing this on my own.”
“Wow. I love it,” says Dee, her eyes fixed on Eleanor’s wedding ring. Eleanor pushes her hands into her pockets. “Like a celebrity.”
Felicia, whose baby has fallen asleep in her lap, leans closer. “I heard this one story—this was a surrogate situation. The pregnant birth mother found out the adopting mom was single after her guy walked out. Anyway, birth mom broke the contract. Wouldn’t adopt out to the mother alone. The adopting mom took it to court but she lost. A change in circumstance unacceptable to her nullified the deal.”
“That’s horrible,” says Dee. “I’d die.”
Felicia looks at Eleanor. “Different situation from yours. Yours was orphaned. Not to be morbid, but did they find both her parents’ bodies?”
This Eleanor has never considered. That Sylvie’s father could still come forward. “Nothing at all is known about him. Whether he’s even in this country. As far as anyone knows, my daughter’s birth mom was all on her own. Plus it’s been six months since it happened.”
Dee pats Eleanor’s knee. “Relax. You’re fine if no one’s come forward by now. We’ll have to make a play date for when your girl arrives. What’s her name?”
“Sylvie.”
“Sylvie, that’s so French. I love her already.”
Shrinking beneath the brim of her hat, Eleanor feels her heart thump. Sylvie had no father on record. Her mother’s sister signed her over as only living kin. The conversation has moved on to preschool waiting lists but Eleanor can no
longer focus. She stands up, smoothes her skirt. “I should head back to the store.”
But she doesn’t.
Eleanor runs up the grassy slope to Beacon Street and marches through the traffic. She jogs along Battersea Road and up the steps to Isabelle’s front door. Here, she pulls a scrap piece of paper from her purse and scrawls out a note. She slips it into the mail slot and walks away.