Free The Search Angel by Tish Cohen

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 excitedlytoward 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.

Chapter 10
    T he way to accomplish the impossible is to break it down into steps. First you tackle the most doable. This way you get your bearings, you build your confidence. With any luck, by the time you reach the impossible, you’re stupid enough to believe you can do it.
    When Jonathan was onside with the adoption, the plan had been for Eleanor to oversee the store from upstairs for a month or so while Sylvie got adjusted. During this time, she would interview nannies to find one that was not only
the
most loving and capable nanny since Mary Poppins, but one that formed a quick and tight connection with Sylvie.
    Again, that was then. Eleanor can no longer afford a nanny. It’s time to arrange the next best thing.
    Sunnyside Day Care was recently written up in the
Globe
as the best child-care facility in the downtown core. Located in an historic redbrick house with a wraparound porch, it has walls painted every color of the rainbow. There’s a play station, an art station, a food station, a reading nook, and a closet full of rollaway mats for sleepy-time. Through the window, you can see the playground, complete with plastic climber, tricycles, and a grassy island upon which several young boystoss around a ball covered in stars. Bouncy music charges the air with enough fun that little ones are meant to forget about their parents for eight to ten hours, five days a week. The staff appear to be appropriately attentive and nurturing, and the children seem content.
    All snacks and meals are locally grown and organic. When a new child joins, she is assigned a Sunny-buddy—an older child whose job it is to make the newcomer feel welcome. Most of the staff have been there since the day they opened their doors. Continuity. That will be especially important for a child like Sylvie.
    The owner, Wendy Nicholls, a substantial woman with a friendly red tinge to her skin, pushes a clipboard across her desk to where Eleanor sits perched on a wooden chair. “We have a three-month wait list, but fill it out anyway. You just never know who’ll move away, or whose mother decides to quit work and stay home full time. Your daughter could wind up with a spot in the next few weeks.”
    Your daughter
.
    Eleanor stifles what will surely appear to be a goofy smile and picks up the pen attached by a long string. The wait list isn’t good news. Sunnyside is located within walking distance of the store—Nancy will like that. Being that she’ll be raising Sylvie on her own, a farther day care isn’t a great option. The form wants the child’s name first. Eleanor enjoys printing
Sylvie Sweet
. Allergies, the