Authors: Tish Cohen
“Your eyes are red. Have you been crying?”
“I haven’t been able to produce tears in twenty-seven years. What you are seeing is evidence of a poor air-filtration system in that pterodactyl we rode in on the back of.”
“Is it your son? That’s why you’re hiding?”
“Is nothing in my life sacred? I suppose you’ll want my white blood count next.”
“I just think there’s more that you’re not telling me.”
Isabelle sits on the closed lid of the toilet and swirls the wine in her glass, staring down at it. Laughter explodes from the other room. “His new family named him Walter William Runion. Walt.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
She sighs deeply, looks up at the ceiling. “June twenty-fifth of this year. He came out of the house wearing a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt and a pair of navy shorts to mow the lawn. His two little boys banged on the living room window and gave him the thumbs-up. The whole process took forty minutes and I am proud to say he was meticulous in his detailed edging where grass meets walkway.” Her eyes drift out to a sparrow perched on the sill. “No one could ever call that man anything less than meticulous.”
“Where were you when he was mowing the lawn?”
“In the car. Watching through the window. And if you’d like to pry further, why don’t you ask me how many times I’ve seen him that were not through some sort of glass.”
Eleanor says nothing.
“Once. The moment they pulled him out of me and whisked him out of the room.”
The thought of Ruth caring enough to watch her from afar gives Eleanor a thrill. She longed for it all her life. “He has no idea?”
Isabelle shakes her head.
“It’s not too late, Isabelle. I can’t tell you what this contact means to me. And if she’d been the one to initiate …” Eleanor pauses to release a breath. “You could do it for your son. You could call him. I’d even come with you to see him if you want support. It’s not too late.”
Isabelle’s hand shakes enough that the wine quivers in the glass. When she speaks, her voice is sharper than intended. “Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do, Eleanor Sweet. One found family does not make you an expert. I cannot approach Ethan now or ever.”
“Sure you can—”
“Ethan is dead.”
As Eleanor stands frozen, struggling to process this, Isabelle tops up her glass and breezes out the door. Eleanor follows her into the great room to set the wine box on the island while Isabelle arranges herself beside little Robbie in front of the fire.
“Now. Let’s establish the rules straight away.” Isabelle plasters a smile on her face. “I get to be the red engine or I throw a tantrum. Are we clear?”
Robbie beams and, with his socked foot, pushes the red engine toward her.
I
sabelle stands in the cramped entryway of their hotel room and stares accusingly at the light switch. “It’s the single most deadly source of aerobic bacteria in a hotel room after the TV remote. Streptococcus. Staphylococcus. And, the worst offender imaginable, fecal coliform.”
Eleanor watches from the foot of one of the beds. “How bad could the TV remote be?”
“What”—Isabelle’s head snaps around—“do you think people reach for immediately following sex?”
She refused to speak a word about Ethan in the cab ride from Ruth and Richard’s place. Every time Eleanor tried to talk, Isabelle pointed out the window at an old church or a tree that hadn’t yet dropped its leaves and commented on the pretty view.
“There was a study,” Isabelle says now. “All measurements were taken in colony-forming units of bacteria per cubic centimeter squared. CFUs. TV remotes, bathroom sinks, door handles, all the usual suspects were highlighted. The telephone had twenty-one CFUs. TV remotes had seventy. The main light switch? Almost 125 CFUs. And if you’d care to know the fecal bacteria count …?”
“I don’t care to know. Not in the slightest.”
“Over 115. And just so you can compare, guess what level hospitals aim for?”
“Do you think room service would send up a bowl of cereal? Or do I have to order more than that?”
“Five or less.” Isabelle is already elbow deep in her suitcase, digging through perfectly folded dress shirts and jeans. She holds up a flat red package of antibacterial hand wipes. “Your immune system will thank me for bringing these.”
“Isabelle, forget the light switch.”
It’s too late; she’s already detailing the brass switch plate, as well as the wall surface surrounding it.
“Can we talk? Please? It’s not healthy, to avoid discussing it.”
Isabelle scrubs harder, then pulls out another wipe and decontaminates doorknobs, sink handles, the towel racks, phone, and, finally, the grandfather of CFU offenders, the TV remote. As she scrubs, the television turns on, then off again. Then on. To the children’s movies available, then to the porn selections—complete with assurances that movie titles will not appear on their hotel bill.
Eleanor sits on her bed and watches Isabelle use a corner of the cloth to clean between the tiny rubber buttons. “This isn’t about hotel bacteria,” she says. But Isabelle just scrubs harder and the TV turns to the local news. The volume vanishes for a moment, then grows increasingly louder to the point that the ghostly weatherman is shouting that temperatures will fall to almost forty degrees overnight. “Isabelle. Talk to me.”
She stops. Turns off the TV. Tosses the remote onto the foot of her bed. “I was better off in my town house on Battersea Road. That’s all I have to say.”
Down the hall, children’s voices shriek as they thunder along the carpeted corridor, then bang on a door nearby. A man’s voice, teasing, “I’m gonna get you!” makes them shriek with delight. The voices grow quiet and a door thumps shut.
“This day is not about me, Eleanor Sweet. And I forbid you to make it so.”
“Isabelle …”
“You’ve waited a lifetime to meet your mother. How do you feel after this afternoon? That’s what we should discuss.”
Ruth was fantastic. Eleanor had explained to her, to all of them, the situation with Sylvie. Adopting her without Jonathan. Ruth squeezed Eleanor’s knee and actually volunteered to drive the four hours into Boston to be there for the home visit. Insisted she be appointed as Eleanor’s support system—and not just for Nancy’s approval. For real. Said she’d be there for Eleanor and Sylvie no matter what. No matter when.
If the home meeting goes well this week, everything will be in place.
“How did he die?”
Isabelle reaches for a fresh wipe and turns to the bedside lamp. Starts to scrub the switch and stops. Her elbows drop to her sides. “It was a heart attack.” She sits back on the bed and draws her knees to her chest. “No one saw it coming; he was in good shape and had much to look forward to, and all the silly things people tell themselves to feel better. Heart trouble doesn’t run in my family. No idea about his father’s. I’d love to be dramatic and say I’d just decided to come out of the shadows and introduce myself and then it happened, but I’d decided no such thing.”
“When did it happen?”
“July fourteenth. Ethan played hockey with a bunch of
friends once a week. Finished the game and collapsed getting into the car. One of his teammates ran back to the arena for the defibrillator, while another called 911. It was too late for either.”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry.”
“I read it in the paper like a perfect stranger. Even after his death, I was too cowardly to approach his family.” Isabelle stares at her toes. “That was it for me. I couldn’t continue to bring other people together after failing so colossally with my own son. So I stopped searching. Then I found myself making excuses not to leave the house. It might rain. It might snow. Days passed where I didn’t step outside. Eventually I decided it made more sense to have whatever I needed sent to the house.”
“So you actually stopped going out.”
“What gave me the right? If Ethan wasn’t going to have a life, neither was I.”
Eleanor is silent a moment, allowing this to sink in. Isabelle had become a recluse. Yet she had left the house to help her. “Can I ask you something?”
Isabelle huffs her indignance. “Nothing seems to have stopped you yet!”
“Why me? Why did you come out of exile for my case?”
“Because I know how it feels to be left by the man you love at the very worst time imaginable and I didn’t want you to lose a baby, like I did, as a result.”
Eleanor closes her eyes for a moment. She owes this woman everything. “Isabelle …”
“Don’t Isabelle me and don’t get sentimental. I have every right to wallow. My only child died not knowing how much his birth mother loved him.”
A small spider crawls up the wall above Isabelle’s headboard. It zigs to the right, resumes its upward journey, then zags to the left. Eleanor stares at the indecisive creature as if it’s personally responsible for the tragedy of Isabelle’s son never knowing her.
She can tell Isabelle that he knew she loved him. Those words can come out of her mouth. But the truth is he probably didn’t. Eleanor of all people knows how badly she needed affirmation of her own birth mother’s affection. She slides off the bed and leans over Isabelle, wraps her arms around this woman who has helped so many people out of their loneliness and guilt, only to be destroyed by her own.
S
he felt the change before she saw it. The air in the apartment actually seemed thinner. As if there were less oxygen. It was hard to take in a deep breath—her lungs were unable to fill up. Even the door swung open too easily when she hauled her suitcase inside.
He had moved his things out while she was away. She dropped her keys on the hall table and wandered into the kitchen. His wood-handled knives were gone, the ones he bought two summers ago at a sidewalk sale in Brookline. The living room was more dramatic. Two-thirds of the bookshelves were empty. The black love seat was gone, as were the two turquoise leather cubes they used as a coffee table. Now, the candles that were perched upon them sit directly on the floor.
Empty patches of wall where his posters used to hang. A lamp here, a bowl there. The vintage Coke crate full of
Popular Science
magazines.
In the bedroom, his drawers were all empty except for an $89.99 Nordstrom price tag—knowing Jonathan he probably spent this on one T-shirt—a few buttons, and a pair of concert ticket stubs from when they saw Billy Joel in New York City a few years back.
The closet was all but empty on his side, nothing but wire hangers that chattered when she flung open the door. On the floor, an old pair of runners he long ago replaced. A sealed package of Odor-Eaters. She reached for the insoles and hurled them into the trash can. Leaving her with his garbage, the message in that, made her throat burn.
Angus. It hit her now that the dog didn’t greet her at the door, begging for his evening walk. Noel had said he’d leave him in the apartment for her return. Surely Jonathan didn’t take the dog too.
“Angus?” Eleanor rushed through the apartment again. “Angus?”
There. In the dining room. Four black feet, as big and knobby as those of an elephant calf, poked out from beneath the dining room table. Thwack thwack went the tip of his tail against a chair leg. She got down on the floor and draped herself over him.
Thwack thwack—but otherwise no movement from the Great Dane.
“But you love to hate squirrels. Let’s go.”
No movement.
An hour later, to stop her pacing, to give herself something to do other than stare at the holes Jonathan left behind, Eleanor filled the bathroom sink with icy cold water and splashed it on her face until her hair, her shirt, her forearms were soaked. Dripping, shivering, she reached for her toothbrush and looked around for the paste. Without question, she had put a fresh tube on the counter the morning she left.
Which meant he took it.
After finding a crumpled old tube of paste in the bathroom cabinet, she tried, unsuccessfully, to squeeze out the
tiniest amount of paste onto the bristles. Furious now—how much more damage could he inflict upon her life?—she grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen, sliced the toothpaste tube up the middle, and splayed it open like a worm from tenth-grade biology class. It wasn’t until blood dripped into the sink that she realized she’d cut her finger on the tube’s edge.
Calmly, she wrapped the wound in toilet paper and sat on the bed. Here, she dialed Jonathan’s cell phone and waited for him to pick up.
A television on in the background. Then his voice. “Hello?”
Eleanor slammed the receiver down onto the nightstand three times.
That was one week ago.
She should have checked the forecast, Eleanor thinks. She could have gotten up earlier to warm the place before the home visit. Nancy’s been inside for half an hour and still hasn’t taken off her jacket. Ruth, who arrived much earlier, has pulled her chair up close to the radiators.
The weather outside has turned frigid and the radiators lining the living room window hiss and tick with effort to warm the place up in the morning. The apartment grew cold enough overnight that Angus came out from beneath the dining room table to sleep on the throw rug in the living room. Eleanor carries a tea tray into the living room, remembering too late that the leather cubes are gone. The tray will have to go on the floor.
“Coffee tables are so dangerous.” She hands each woman
a cup of tea. “Sharp corners. I was thinking of getting a leather ottoman.”
“I love that look,” says Ruth, as Nancy nods her approval.
From the floor, Noel’s song whines and sputters like a broken buzz saw. He’s trying to fix his now-damaged speakers and, with construction having temporarily opened up the wall between the stores, the music is louder than ever.
From the slipper chair, Nancy wraps her hands around her teacup. “So, Ruth, will Sylvie be your first grandchild?”
“Our first granddaughter. My daughter Ronnie has a three-year-old son, Robbie.” She grins at Eleanor. “Quite the personality that one. He’s very excited to meet his new cousin.”
Nancy writes something in a small pad, then cocks her head. “Ruth, Ronnie, Robbie. All
Rs
.”
Eleanor watches her mother, the way she keeps massaging her fingertips to calm herself down. It irritates her that Ruth is nervous. She and Richard were the ones who inadvertently set up a little club of
R
names that Eleanor will always be excluded from.
“And my husband is Richard, and Roz is my second daughter.” Quickly, Ruth looks at Eleanor. “Third!”
This doesn’t look good. Quickly, Eleanor says, “Can you believe how the weather changed? Went from autumn to winter overnight?”
“I didn’t pack a warm enough coat. Wasn’t thinking.” Ruth glances at Eleanor as if asking for forgiveness. “As usual.”
“So when did the two of you find each other? And who found whom?” Nancy leans over her knees, seemingly undisturbed by the exchange. “I’m so busy arranging for these adoptions, I rarely get to see people come together later.”
Eleanor debated, when she took Angus out earlier,
whether Nancy should be told the truth. That she and Ruth have only just reconnected. Or perhaps
reconnected
isn’t the right word. Does connecting count when you’re being pulled out of someone’s uterus and bustled off into another room?
Connected for the first time
is more accurate. It might be safer to pretend they’ve lived a normal life as mother and daughter. Or, if not normal, that they were reunited—
united
—some time ago. That they aren’t nearly complete strangers.
Nancy is not here hoping to find more change in Eleanor’s life. She wants to see some nice, boring consistency. Which doesn’t exactly come with having found your birth mother seven days ago.
Still. Eleanor watches Ruth squeezing her palms now. She doesn’t have it in her to give the woman such a victory. Not after the “third daughter” slip. “I contacted Ruth through a search angel recently. Until then, I didn’t even know if she was alive.” She smiles. “I’m glad she is.”
Ruth cocks her head. “I’m so proud of my daughter for reaching out. It’s a difficult thing to do.”
“I wanted
my
daughter to have grandparents, a real family. That made it easy. And now I’ve found the
Rs
.”
Ruth busies herself with her knees now.
Nancy looks at Eleanor with concern. “And then there’s our little
E
and
S
wing of the family.”
Before Eleanor can respond, there’s a long jagged screech from Noel’s speakers below, followed by the rat-a-tat-tat sound of a nail gun. Angus jumps up and barks, unsure where to aim his efforts.
“Angus!” Eleanor says sharply, rushing to settle him before he gives Nancy the impression he’s a threat.
“You can’t say it isn’t lively around here,” says Ruth.
“I won’t argue that. So, Ruth, obviously Eleanor has told me about Jonathan leaving. How do you feel about the situation—your daughter adopting on her own?”
Ruth looks at her daughter. “Eleanor is strong. I couldn’t be more proud of her. Her store. Her life. She can handle this without him or any other man. I’m behind her one hundred percent. Anything she needs, anytime she needs it.”
A satisfied smile creases Nancy’s face. She sets her teacup on the tray and stands. “I think I’ve got all I need.” From her briefcase she pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to Eleanor. “We prefer that she travel here with Luiz, because the travel itself is a stressor and she knows him. We were making an exception for you and … anyway. You’ll pick her up at Logan.”
Eleanor stares down at the note, which reads:
American Airlines Flight 943 Palm Springs—Boston
Arrives November 24th 10:30 a.m
.
Eleanor looks up at Nancy. “Sylvie’s mine?”
“All yours.”
She didn’t expect the front doors to be open after work that evening. It’s after six o’clock; you’d think all the parents would have picked up their kids by now. Inside, the big house that is Sunnyside Day Care echoes with her own footsteps. No sounds of chairs scraping or children chattering to muffle her arrival. Eleanor stops, listens for audible signs of life. When she hears the swish of shuffling papers, she follows it to a photocopy room near the back of the building.
“The doors were unlocked,” she says to a ponytailed young woman in green glasses and an oversized sweater. “I hope it’s okay I came right in.”
“Oh!” The girl starts, slapping a file folder to her chest. “You scared me!”
“Is Wendy around? I just need to add something to my application.”
“She’s gone home.” She waves for Eleanor to follow her. “I’m Bree. Come. The applications are on her desk; we’ll dig yours up.” She heads into the next room and picks through a tidy stack of papers.
“Eleanor Sweet. My daughter’s name is Sylvie.”
“Sylvie. Yup. Here it is.” Bree motions to the pens in a melted-looking clay mug obviously made by tiny hands. “Grab a pen and have at it.”
Eleanor scans the sheet and stops at the line “Next of Kin.”
On the line, which is now blank, she writes
Ruth Pantera
.