The Search Angel (22 page)

A
t first she thinks raccoons are fighting out in the back alley again. Or there’s a cat in heat. It takes a moment of blinking in the dark to realize what’s going on. Eleanor sits up and kicks off the covers. Her daughter is in the next room and from the sounds of it, she’s spitting mad.

Angus has already posted himself next to the crib, backlit from the moon-shaped nightlight behind him. On his face is that look dogs get when they’re willing someone with opposable thumbs to take care of a problem they’re unable to solve on their own. At his side, hanging onto the crib rail with one hand is Sylvie, the other hand feeling for Angus’s ear, her face shiny and swollen with tears.

Sylvie catches sight of Eleanor and lifts her arms in the air to be taken out of her linen-clad prison. “Ma ma ma ma.”

Eleanor knows this is a developmental stage. She knows better than to be romanced by it, to read into it. But her chest swells anyway. “Shush, shush, baby girl.” She lifts the child up and holds her close so she can inhale her. Instead of settling down, Sylvie stiffens and arches her back in defiance. She is not going to be placated that easily.

“Is it your diaper?” Eleanor lays her on the change table and unsnaps the legs of the sleeper, then removes the wet diaper. Sylvie is having none of this either and tries to roll off the change table as Eleanor re-diapers her. Then, with Angus at her heels, Eleanor carries Sylvie into the kitchen to prepare a bottle—which interests the child not in the least.

After spending the next twenty minutes trotting out stuffed animals and dolls, shaking rattles that tinkle, buzz, and giggle, after turning over the cow box that moos, after reading and rereading
Goodnight Moon
, Eleanor carries Sylvie from room to room, bouncing her on her hip. But nothing can appease the infant for more than a few seconds. Finally, if only to give her aching arms a break, Eleanor straps the child into the as-yet-unused stroller and wheels her in laps through living room, hallway, and kitchen.

The motion doesn’t help at all.

The phone rings. Eleanor glances at the clock. It’s after midnight.

With Sylvie howling in the background, she picks up. “Yes?”

“I’m so sorry, Eleanor.” Ruth. “I wanted to hear about Sylvie’s first day and just realized how late … What’s all that ruckus … She’s upset?”

“I’ve tried everything. Formula, changing, distractions. Do you think something’s wrong?”

“She’s an infant and infants sometimes don’t make sense. The sooner you accept that, the better. Besides, she’s jet-lagged and in a strange environment. Totally to be expected. How are you holding up?”

“Fine.”

“Don’t lie to your mother.”

“Okay, my back hurts, my arms ache, and I’m so jittery I could explode. She won’t stop crying and don’t ask if I’ve tried this or that. I’ve tried everything a person could try. I’m ready to start wailing myself.”

“This is what I try to tell people. Babies are tiny dictators cloaked in cuteness. It’s nature’s way of ensuring the survival of the human race.”

“Not helpful.”

“I’m booking myself a ticket and will be there for tomorrow night.”

“Ruth, you don’t have to do that.”

“What did you promise me?”

Eleanor smiles. “Mom.”

“That’s better. I’m coming and I won’t listen to any arguments. In the meantime, you’re going to pull out the big guns. Let her cry in her crib for a moment while you get yourself dressed.”

“What for?”

“You’re taking her out for a drive in the car. She’ll be out cold in ten or fifteen minutes and then you sneak her back up into bed. I
promise
you, this works.”

Only it doesn’t. It isn’t until nearly 5 a.m. that Eleanor piles Angus and the inconsolable Sylvie into the car, and after an hour of driving through the darkened streets of the city, Eleanor is spent. Her hands shake and she can barely keep her eyes open. She’s nauseated with nerves and desperate for sleep.

Adopting a child on her own was the worst decision she’s ever made. Jonathan was a thousand percent right. At this rate, she’ll have to close the business for lack of sleep. Go
on welfare. And put Sylvie up for adoption so she can go to a loving couple who will raise her in tandem. Because that’s what it takes.

She stops at a red light and notices the sun is coming up. If she had the windows open, if Sylvie would stop crying, she’d likely hear birds chirping.

This baby doesn’t want her.

It isn’t until Eleanor sees the red tail lights of a plane landing that she realizes she’s driving toward the airport. Tears blur her vision as the child she’s waited nearly a lifetime for continues to wail.
Maybe subconsciously I don’t want her
, Eleanor thinks as she watches another plane approach.

Maybe I don’t have what it takes to be a mother
.

That she even had this thought makes her slow the car, pull to the side of the road, and stop at the base of a chain-link fence. Sylvie is fully hysterical now. Eleanor unbuckles the carrier and turns it around so she can see her baby’s face. Sylvie’s crying loses its force, but doesn’t abate.

Eleanor offers her the bottle. Not only is it rejected, it’s hurled across the seat. Angus whines.

It’s steamy in the car and Eleanor opens the sunroof.

From ahead, a massive plane drones, dropping lower and lower as it approaches, the sound of the engine gaining force. Eleanor realizes, as it passes overhead, so close she can almost reach up and stroke the underbelly, the roar nearly deafening her, that she’s parked at the foot of a runway.

She’s never felt so small. Like a pencil dot in comparison. Eleanor spins around to make sure Sylvie isn’t frightened. Sylvie’s eyes, puffy and red, blink hard and fast as she stares through the roof; she isn’t frightened at all. She is utterly transfixed.

“See the airplane, Sylvie? See how big?”

The child has stopped crying. Eleanor offers her a finger and Sylvie takes it, gripping hard. But once the plane is gone, she starts to sob again.

Minutes later, another plane approaches. Again, Sylvie calms. This plane is smaller, sleeker, but passes just as low and roars just as loud. Eleanor looks up at the underside of the wings, the engines strapped beneath, and turns around again, excited. “Did you see that, Sylvie?”

Sylvie, still gripping Eleanor’s finger, is fast asleep.

Eleanor pulls the car to the side of the road on Newbury Street, just a half-block from her door. Sylvie appears to be in a deep slumber, but chances cannot be taken. The transfer from backseat to crib must be done with utmost care. It’s nearly 7 a.m. and Eleanor is exhausted.

Bracing herself for a piercing wail followed by another three hours of crying, she shuts off the engine. Nothing. Not a sound from the baby. Eleanor, having had only an hour of sleep, would slay a dragon for another few hours of rest. She climbs out, careful not to jangle the keys, and closes the car door as quietly as possible. The sun peeks out from behind the buildings across the street and a thin layer of frost glitters from the iron railings around the sidewalk trees.

Her skin tightens in the cold as she lets Angus out of the front seat. She sees her breath. “Shh,” she says to him.

She won’t take Sylvie out of the car seat, she’s decided. The seat will go straight into the crib, just to be safe.

In a picture of normalcy, of sleeping at night and waking in the morning, a pair of male joggers wearing mittens
emerge from a side street, one adjusting his fleece headband. She feels a flash of envy, and pushes it from her mind. She has Sylvie. They come toward her and Eleanor closes the door quickly and waits until they pass, full of rhythmic chatter.

Now. No cars, no voices. It’s the perfect time. She puts her house keys in an easily accessible pocket and opens the door. Folds down the passenger seat. Partway through the removal process, Sylvie sighs and shifts her head to the left, works her mouth as if sucking from the bottle, but, mercifully, remains asleep.

Just as Eleanor nears her periwinkle door, car seat in hand, a crash sounds from the right. Noel strolls out from between the buildings, carrying a dented trash can. He sees her and calls out, “You gals are up early!” Angus bounds over to him, happier than Eleanor has perhaps ever seen him.

As Noel approaches, she shakes her head. “We haven’t gone to bed yet,” she whispers.

He checks his watch. “Up all night?”

She nods, handing him the carrier so she can pull out her keys and unlock the door. When she turns back, he has the car seat up on his hip. He’s watching the baby—her tininess, her shock of wild hair, her dot of a nose.

“Good night, Miss Sylvie,” he whispers.

She carries the car seat up the stairs, Angus following closely. Once Sylvie is in her crib, Eleanor tiptoes into the kitchen and pours plain kibble in Angus’s dish. For the first time in weeks, he attacks his food, right there in the apartment.

She sinks into a chair and watches. Everything is going to work out fine. Her daughter is sleeping. Angus is eating. Eleanor is surviving.

Her cell phone rings from her pocket and she jumps to
answer before it wakes Sylvie. The number is familiar, but she’s too exhausted to recognize whose it is. “Hello.”

“Eleanor, it’s Nancy.”

“Hey, Nancy. Can I give you a call in a few hours? I’m just heading back to bed.”

“Listen, honey. I want to let you know what’s happening. And I’m not saying it’s necessarily going to present a problem. At this point we have no idea what it means, but Sylvie’s father has surfaced.”

W
ell, it doesn’t mean he’s going to fight for her,” says Ruth from where she sits cross-legged on the sofa in her luxurious hotel suite. Sylvie sits peacefully in her lap, plucking Cheerios from Ruth’s palm and eating them, one by one. Her socks lie balled on the floor, where Sylvie yanked them off and tossed them upon being released from the stroller. “He didn’t know about the baby and now he does. I wouldn’t go getting worked up about it just yet.”

“I’ve thrown up three times today. Domenique Beaudoin is his name, and he’s originally from Haiti. Apparently he’s married. Has kids, has money, a business down in California. Sylvie’s mother, Tia, worked in his house as a maid. They had a thing going on the side, his wife never knew. Still doesn’t, according to him. But he’d been out of the country much of the year. Tia’s sister got in touch with him when he got back and she told him about Tia’s death. And about Sylvie.”

“Haiti,” Ruth says. “Could be why this Tia gave her baby a French name.”

Eleanor stares at her. “That’s not helping.” Sylvie points at the remote control on the coffee table. “Ma ma ma.”

Ruth sets the squirming child down so she can stand at the table’s edge. Sylvie lunges for the control, holds it up to impress Eleanor and Ruth with the intricacy of it. “Listen, a wealthy man with a wife and kids is not about to destroy all that by bringing a baby born to his housemaid-lover into the picture. I’m sure it’ll blow over.”

“Ma ma ma.”

“That’s what my caseworker said. But still.”

True to her word, Ruth had hopped on a flight and checked herself into the Four Seasons. Eleanor offered her mother the master bedroom, perfectly willing to camp on the sofa for the benefit of having an extra set of hands, experienced hands, during the night, but Ruth wouldn’t hear of ousting Eleanor from her own room. The plan was, she’d come back to Eleanor’s for bedtime, then cab back to her hotel once they settled Sylvie for the night.

Sylvie takes
Boston Nights
magazine, squeezes that and the converter to her chest, and moves along the room in search of more possessions.

“I used to give your sisters a drop of scotch in their formula on the bad nights. Did a great job of calming them down and I dare anyone to judge me.”

“I mean, imagine if he decides to fight for her? I would die.”

In her collecting spree, Sylvie strings Ruth’s purse over a forearm and continues with her load toward the minibar. “She walks well for eleven months,” Ruth says.

Eleanor leans forward to take the purse, “No, sweetie, that’s Ruth’s …”

“Nonsense. What’s mine is hers.” She looks at Eleanor. “And I hope it’ll be Nana. Like Robbie calls me.”

Eleanor smiles. Nods. Nana it is.

Ruth takes off her reading glasses and they watch as Sylvie picks them up and tries to put them on. One arm takes purchase on an ear, and the other lists to her shoulder. She blinks at Eleanor with magnified fly-eyes and clutches her loot tighter.

Eleanor pulls out her camera and tries to snap a photo, but the glasses fall to the carpet. The moment has passed. “I can’t lose her.”

“You’re not going to lose her. It won’t happen.”

“Nancy said we’d know more end of day today. But it’s already 3:25. I’m thinking that’s not good.”

The TV control drops, striking Sylvie’s foot. When she wails, Ruth picks her up and soothes her, singing to her and bouncing her against her shoulder. When the crying quiets to soft whimpers, Ruth spins around sideways to show that Sylvie has fallen asleep. Eleanor moves the toys out of the way in the stroller and helps her mother settle the child inside.

“It’s not going to help to get worked up before anything happens. Let’s just keep calm and wait.”

Ruth’s phone rings from the sofa. She grabs for it and shields her voice while saying hello. Listens for a moment, then says, louder, “Well, hello to you too! So nice to hear your voice …” With an apologetic glance back to Eleanor, she mouths “my cousin” and takes the phone into her bedroom.

“Yes, of course,” Ruth says softly from the next room. “It’s been ages.”

Sylvie sighs in her sleep and starts to suckle, the tip of her pink tongue darting out against her upper lip. Eleanor can’t even enjoy this. What if her father takes her away? What if she never sees her daughter again?

“The wedding was beautiful,” Ruth is saying. “Just the way Roxie wanted it. No, it’s fine. It was a long way with your hip.”

The thing is, Domenique did contact the agency in California. And they contacted Nancy’s people here in Boston. That didn’t happen for nothing. If he wasn’t interested in Sylvie, he’d have shrugged his shoulders and carried on with his life. That he was sniffing around could not be a good sign.

“Oh, they’ll travel for a bit first. I don’t expect to be a grandmother again for another few years. One is plenty for now.”

Eleanor stops rocking the stroller. One. The conversation continues, but her head is roaring. She can’t comprehend anything else that is said. This is no wedding ceremony during which one must remain selflessly devoted to the bride’s experience. This is everyday life. She’s going to be Ruth’s dirty little secret. Somehow if it was just her, Eleanor could handle it, but the secret is going to extend to Sylvie.

That, she will not allow.

Eleanor’s eyes dart from her mother’s bedroom to the front door.

Slowly, she gets up, gathers Sylvie’s things, and stows them in the diaper bag. Without a sound, Eleanor pushes the stroller out of the room.

She steps onto the elevator and, just as the doors close, Ruth calls, “Eleanor? Wherever are you going?”