Eleanor had been nursing the idea for years to adopt a child from an orphanage. Her husband of six years had slipped away to a younger, more successful partner, leaving her feeling as if the very fabric of marriage had been ripped from her hands. She was exhausted, bereft of the will to try again, to find someone who would stand by her in sorrow and in joy. No, she decided. If she was to spend her energy and warmth, it would be on a soul that truly needed it, not on a companion.
So she set about it. She learned the ropes of social services, gathered all the paperwork, and then faced the hardest part: locating the boy who would become her son, the continuation of the life she had built over her thirtyeight years.
She didnt want a newborn; she feared she could no longer endure the sleepless nights, the swaddling, the rocking and the endless cooing that seemed to rise from some deep, untamed part of a woman. Instead she headed for the orphanage, hoping to find a three or fouryearold small lad who could be hers.
On a fogladen morning she boarded a rattling doubledecker bus, nerves fluttering like they do before a first date, while the spring in London had already unfurled in all its bright, crisp glory a young chill in the air, a sun so sharp it seemed to cut through the mist. The bus creaked around each bend, and Eleanors thoughts kept returning to the child she imagined, a child already alive in the world but still unaware that fate had earmarked him for her.
Through the window the city passed: honking cars, glinting shop windows, pedestrians hurrying to unknown destinations. None of them knew that Eleanor was on a quiet pilgrimage to her own happiness. She turned her gaze away from the bustling streets, unable to see them at all, because a smile already spread across her face, directed at the son she would meet in a few minutes.
The stop was labelled Littleton Orphanage plain as the sign itself. The next stop, Nursery.
She stepped out and instantly spied an old manor with crumbling columns, their oncewhite plaster now mottled, as if painted in camouflage so that the enemy would not notice. She entered, explained herself to the gatekeeper, who pointed her toward the headmistresss office.
Inside she introduced herself to a very elderly woman, draped in a handknitted cardigan that was more thread than fabric. Mrs. Hawthorne, the headmistress, was provincial, a little unkempt, yet her eyes betrayed a woman who knew exactly where she belonged and had been there for a long time. Their chat was brief; they had spoken on the phone the night before.
Shall we go look? the headmistress said, rising from her seat.
Obediently, Eleanor followed. Down a long corridor painted in deep navy panels, Mrs. Hawthorne called over her shoulder, The younger group is in the playroom, so well join them. She pushed a heavy door, and both women crossed the threshold.
Inside, a handful of children girls and boys, maybe fifteen of them scattered across a carpeted floor, surrounded by low cupboards filled with toys. A caregiver sat at a little table by the window, scribbling notes, her head flicking up now and then to keep a watchful eye on the chaos.
As soon as the adults entered, the children surged toward the doors. They swarmed the women, clutching at knees, lifting faces, shouting like a flock of chicks:
This is my mum! Follow me!
No, Ive seen her in a dream!
Take me, Im your daughter!
Mrs. Hawthorne absentmindedly patted the childrens heads, offering Eleanor whispery descriptions of each. Eleanor felt herself wobble, because she was supposed to choose a boy any boy and yet she felt she had to take them all.
Her gaze landed on a small boy perched on a stool by the window, who had not yet fled toward the adults. He turned his head, eyes scanning the familiar scene as if it were a painting he knew well.
Eleanor, inexplicably drawn to him, stepped forward and placed her hand on his head. Beneath her palm, a pair of slightly slanted, indeterminate eyes stared back, set in a cheeky, freckled face with a broad nose and faint, pale eyebrows. He was nothing like the boy Eleanor had imagined. The child, perhaps sensing the absurdity, said in a flat tone, You wont pick me anyway.
He stared at the stranger with a hungry intensity, as if pleading for something else entirely.
Why do you think that, little one? Eleanor asked, keeping her hand on his crown.
Because Im always runnynosed and sick, he replied. And I have a little sister, Molly, in the baby group. I go to her every day and rub her head so she remembers Im her big brother. My name is Billy, and without Molly I cant go anywhere.
At that moment, a thin stream of mucus escaped his nose, trembling with the tension of the confession.
In that surreal instant Eleanor realized she had spent her whole life waiting for a runnynosed Billy, often ill, and his sister Molly, whom she had never met yet already loved.
