The Search Angel by Tish Cohen Page A

Eleanor’s hand, Angus won’t budge from the top step. Which means she has to make two trips down and nearly trips over Ginny, who is sitting cross-legged on thePretty Baby welcome mat. From the look on her face and her all-black attire, it’s as if someone died.
    It’s a terrible time for someone to have died. The cab will be here in—Eleanor checks her watch—twenty-three minutes.
    “Hey, Gin.” Eleanor puts on a bright face as she unlocks the shop door and ushers Ginny, whose abdomen is already bulging, and Angus, and the despised suitcase inside. Already, Queen thumps through the walls. “You look fantastic. So slender!”
    Ginny slumps on the counter stool. “Can you hire a hit man to off yourself? Is that even possible?”
    Okay, so no one is dead. Yet. “I suppose. He may insist you pay him up front though.”
    She motions toward her midsection. “I can’t do this. Someone needs to snuff me out.”
    It happens every time. Ginny’s fears multiply with every week of pregnancy. Worries that she’ll lose the baby she swore she didn’t want consume her throughout the first trimester. During the second trimester, she becomes terrified about birth defects. And closer to her due date, she fears the nurse administering the epidural will sneeze and paralyze her for life. But accidental dural puncture is averted, baby is born healthy, and fear is replaced with exhaustion.
    “You can do this, Gin. You’ve done it three times before.”
    “No. You don’t understand. I can’t.”
    Eleanor turns on the computer behind the cash. Twenty-one minutes until the cab arrives. “Listen, hon. I was wondering—” A gnawing sound behind her makes her turn around. There’s Angus, lying on the floor, working diligently to chew off the handle of the suitcase. “Angus!” Shedrags the bag away from him. He rests his chin on his paws in obedience but doesn’t take his gaze off the hated luggage.
    Turning back to Ginny, Eleanor smiles. “I need a little favor.”
    “I went to the doctor, Eleanor. I’m not having a baby.”
    “What?”
    A huge crash of bass as “Bohemian Rhapsody” builds to the chorus. Ginny starts to sob without tears. “I’m having two babies.” She grabs her belly. “It’s two people I’ve got in here!”
    “Okay, that’s a bit of a shock, no question. But lots of women come in carrying twins. It’s certainly doable.”
    “But they don’t
already
have three boys under the age of five.”
    Nineteen minutes left. “You’ll do a great job. Listen—”
    “Two heartbeats I heard on the ultrasound this morning. You know what that means? It means
two hearts
. And that means two heads to delouse. Which means four more hands—that’s twenty fingers! And twenty extra nails I have to clip on top of the sixty I’m already clipping! Do you know what it’s going to be like to keep five kids under the age of five still, long enough to trim one hundred nails? And, here’s the real trouble … those nails? They just keep growing. You think, because you survive the ordeal on a Saturday—an entire Saturday—that you’re good for a bit, like with a haircut. But no! By the next Saturday, one kid grabs your wrist and you’re bleeding. The nails have already grown in—you understand how quickly it happens? And do you have any idea how many weeks there are in a year? Fifty-two. Every single year! That’s …”—Ginny, her chest heaving now, two spots of color on her cheeks—“five thousand two hundred clippings per year.” She wipes tears from her cheeks andblinks at Eleanor. “And Jamie’s toenails are thick.” Her voice cracks. “Ted calls them hooves.”
    “But you’ll finally have your girl. For sure out of five kids at least one is a girl, right?”
    Out front, a cab pulls to the curb and the driver gets out, stares at the building. He’s early.
    “No.” Ginny pushes matted hair behind her ears. Eleanor doesn’t have the heart to point out she has food in her bangs. “That’s