Eleanor had long been nursing a quiet resolveto adopt a child from a home for waifs. Her husband of six years, who had never managed to father a son, had slipped away to a younger, more prosperous partner. The marriage had drained her of vigor and yearning; she could no longer summon the strength to try again at love, to find a companion who would stand by her “in sorrow and in joy”. No, she thought, enough was enough. If she were to spend her remaining energy and affection, it would be on a soul truly in need, not on another consort.
So she set her plan in motion. She learned the ropes at the local Childrens Services office, gathered the requisite forms, and then faced the heart of the matter: locating the boy who might become her son, the continuation of her own fiftyeight years of life.
She did not wish for a newborn, fearing she had crossed the age where a woman instinctively craves sleepless nights, swaddling, rocking, and soothing cries. Instead she drove to the orphanage, hoping to find a lad of three to five years who could be the child she longed for.
On the omnibus she felt the flutter of nerves as if before a first date, and so she missed the full bloom of spring that had settled over the townsoft, cool, and bright beneath a dazzling sun. The clatter of the bus on its bends mirrored her anxious thoughts about the child who already existed somewhere in the world, though he had yet to know his place in her destiny.
Through the grimy windows, the town rolled past: motorcars glinting in the morning light, people hurrying to their errands. None of them imagined that Eleanor was on her way to meet her own happiness. She turned away from the other passengers, staring instead at the glass, yet she saw little of the street outside, for her smile was already fixed on the future son she would soon embrace.
At last the stop loomedappropriately named Orphanage. A step later, the sign read Nursery. She alighted and was greeted by an ageing manor with crumbling columns, their oncewhite plaster now flaking like camouflage, perhaps to hide the buildings scars.
Inside, a gatekeeper directed her to the matrons office. The matron was a wiry woman of advancing years, swathed in a handknit cardigan speckled with pills. Though her appearance was provincial and a little unkempt, her eyes disclosed a woman who had long found her station in life. Their conversation was brief; the next day they had spoken by telephone.
Shall we have a look? the matron prompted, rising from her seat.
Eleanor followed obediently. Down a long corridor lined with darkblue paneling, the matron called over her shoulder, The younger group is in the playroom now, so well go there. She pushed open a door and they stepped over the threshold together.
Inside, a handful of childrenperhaps fifteen, boys and girlstumbled about on a carpeted floor, surrounded by toy shelves. A caregiver sat at a window table, scribbling notes and periodically glancing up with a watchful, practiced eye.
The moment the adults entered, the children swarmed them, clutching at knees, hoisting their heads, and shrieking like fledglings:
This is my mum! Over here!
No, this is my mum, I recognize her! I saw her in a dream last night!
Pick me! Im your daughter!
The matron absentmindedly patted each childs head, murmuring brief descriptions of their temperaments to Eleanor. Eleanor felt a sudden indecisionshe wanted to take them all.
All the while, a small boy perched on a stool by the window lingered, watching the scene with a quiet curiosity, never approaching the adults. Something drew Eleanor to him. She stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on his crown.
From beneath her palm peered a pair of slightly slanted, hazel eyes that seemed out of place on a freckled face with a broad nose and faint eyebrows. He was nothing like the image Eleanor had conjured in her mind. The boy, perhaps sensing her hesitation, said in a shy voice, You wont choose me anyway.
He stared at the unfamiliar woman with a longing that bordered on pleading.
Why do you think that, dear? Eleanor asked, keeping her hand on his head.
Because Im always runnynosed and sick, he replied. And I have a little sister, Nell, in the baby group. Every day I run to her and pat her head so she remembers she has an older brother. My name is Victor, and without Nell I cant go anywhere.
A sudden drip escaped his nose, a flood of congestion that seemed to confirm his words.
In that instant Eleanor understood that she had spent her whole life waiting for a snotfilled Victor, for the boy who often fell ill, and for his sister Nella sister she had never met yet already loved.
