Free The Search Angel by Tish Cohen Page A

form wants to know. Eleanor doesn’t know this. She writes:
to follow
.
    “How many on the list ahead of us?”
    “Let’s see now.” Wendy reaches for a pad nearby and flips it open. “One … three … no, four. Four kids ahead of your Sylvie. But what often happens is a spot opens up and theparents have made other arrangements, the child gets nicely settled elsewhere and Mom and Dad don’t want to disrupt things. So you could just as easily be next in line.”
    A knock at the door. A smiling woman in a painting smock and clogs leads in a young boy—no more than three—with bouncy yellow curls. His round cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy. “Sheldon isn’t feeling so well, Wendy.” She lifts him up and sets him on a chair beside the desk and his legs dangle listlessly over the edge. He starts to slip his thumb into his mouth and the woman—her nametag says
Laurie—
stops him and wipes his hand with a disposable cloth from a package on Wendy’s desk. Eleanor approves of the precaution. Laurie motions that it’s okay now and the thumb disappears into his mouth. “We’re thinking maybe a call to Mom is a good idea.”
    Wendy places the back of her hand on his forehead and nods. “You’ve got yourself a bit of a fever, sweetheart. Would you feel better at home with your mom?”
    Sheldon nods, a big, springy curl falling over his cheek.
    Eleanor continues to fill out the form—occupation, address, and phone number of mother’s workplace—while Wendy attempts to contact the little boy’s mother. She’s not in the office and isn’t picking up her cell phone. “Your mommy’s out right now, but that’s no problem at all.” She dials another number. “Let’s talk to Daddy, okay?”
    Sheldon nods again and mumbles “Daddy” through his wet thumb.
    “Oh, hello, Mike. This is Wendy from the day care—everything is fine—I don’t want you to worry. But Sheldon isn’t feeling all that great right now and we’re thinking he’d probably rather be at home with Mom or Dad.”
    Laurie runs a hand over the boy’s head. Father’s name, workplace, contact info, Eleanor’s form wants to know. She stares at the “Father” box, pen hovering above it.
    “Okay, I’ll tell him. Sorry to disturb.” Wendy hangs up and smiles at Sheldon, giving his knee a loving squeeze. “He’s already on his way, honey. Should be here in about ten minutes. Would you like a Freezie to keep you cool while you wait for Daddy?”
    Sheldon’s eyes widen. He gives a garbled and wet-sounding
yes
. His Velcro’d shoes bang together in excitement for Daddy or frozen treat. Likely both.
    Sylvie would have to make do with the treat.
    When Laurie leaves the room, Eleanor looks up at Wendy. Her words come out in a near whisper. “What if there’s no father and you can’t find the mother? Who do you call then?”
    Laurie is back. The thumb is replaced with a Freezie.
    “No worries at all.” Wendy points toward the form. “We’ll just call whoever’s next in line. It’s right there in the next box, see it? ‘Next of Kin.’ Your parents. Sister, friend. Aunts, uncles. A grandmother. Put down as many as you like.”
    Eleanor stares at the form. She has no one to offer her daughter but a Great Dane with a penchant for eating ice cream when no one is looking. She can’t exactly put that on the form.
    There was a fantasy Eleanor had the year she learned she was adopted. The movie
Annie Hall
had been on TV and Eleanor convinced herself Diane Keaton and Woody Allen were her parents. To imagine you sprang from the loins of famous people is common among adoptees, Eleanor would learn later. There’s a certain comfort in the belief that in orderto give you up, your parents must have been extraordinarily important.
    Woody and Diane made perfect sense. They were together from 1972 to 1977, the timing was perfect. In fact, when Diane accepted her Oscar in March of 1978 wearing a shirt and tie, two voluminous skirts over a pair of