Looking for Jane (16)
Angela keeps eating out of respect for Tina’s efforts with the meal, though her appetite has evaporated. She can sense the heat of Tina’s gaze on her forehead.
“Okay. I get it,” Tina says gently. “Do what you want to do, love. I just wanted to play devil’s advocate, you know? I just think there’s another side to this that you may not be fully considering because you’re a bit… biased, I guess is the word for it. Clouded. Not everyone would choose the same thing you did. Not every adopted child wants to find their birth parents. And those who do, don’t always find what they hoped to. They’re not all like Sheila, you know? That’s all I’m saying.” Tina pushes her chair back with a scrape and steps over to Angela to plant a kiss on the top of her head. “Really, do what you want, Ange. I love you and I’ll support you whatever you decide, okay?”
Angela sighs, avoiding Tina’s eyes. She nods.
Tina squeezes her shoulder and collects Angela’s plate and cutlery, stacking it on top of her own. “I’m gonna go get on the bike, if you don’t mind. Work off some of this pasta.”
“Sure.”
There’s a prickly tension between them now.
“What are you gonna do?”
“Oh.” Angela hesitates. “Probably just finish this so-called wine and relax a bit. Maybe read a book.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Tina drifts off in the direction of the kitchen while Angela retrieves her phone from her purse. She flops back down on the couch, opens Facebook, and scrolls through the inane chatter and disconcertingly targeted ads in her news feed, pausing to like an occasional post. She isn’t on social media much anymore. The never-ending stream of pregnancy announcements and baby photos just triggers rage in her. She knows it’s unfair to feel that way, and that she should be happy for her friends’ growing families, but sometimes—like now—the generosity of spirit she would like to feel gets weighed down by bitter jealousy.
When she hears the spare bedroom door shut, followed by the muffled beep-beep-beep of Tina turning on the stationary bicycle, Angela wanders down the hall, past the closed door where Tina has started her spin session, and turns the handle on the third bedroom door.
It’s dark and cool in here. A faint whiff of paint still lingers in the air, weaving with the woody smell of new furniture. She only comes in here once in a while, usually when Tina isn’t home, or when she’s in the shower. Angela saw the look in Tina’s eyes once when she caught her sitting in the rocker, clutching a teddy bear to her chest, imagining it were a baby.
Angela walks over to the dresser and switches on the small table lamp, setting her glass down beside it. The bulb casts a golden glow over the whole nursery as she sits down on the unworn cushion of the rocking chair. She glances over at the white slats of the crib to her left, the blankets folded neatly over the side of it in a rainbow of pastel colours. A mobile hangs from the ceiling, felt pieces in the shapes of elephants and giraffes are suspended in midair. The changing table beside the crib is well stocked with unopened diaper cream and brand-new flannel receiving blankets. They set up the nursery last year, back when they were temporarily overjoyed at the seeming success of their first round of fertility treatments. But now the room just feels fake and cold, a stage for a play that Angela fears will never be produced.
She heaves a deep breath, listens to the whirring of the bicycle in the room next door, the faint beats of up-tempo hip-hop music that clash with the serenity of the nursery. She looks up at the row of stuffed animals perched on the floating shelf on the wall across from her and wonders whether Margaret Roberts ever bought anything for her baby. Based on what she read in her web search today about the maternity homes, she doubts it. And then to have that child taken away from her, against her will…
Angela sees Tina’s side of things, but she isn’t sure doing nothing is truly an option now. She knows herself, and she knows this will eat at her. In Angela’s experience, people regret the things they didn’t do far more than the mistakes they actually made. It’s inaction that causes you to lie awake into the early hours of the morning, second-guessing your own judgment. It’s the what-ifs and should-haves that crouch down deep in that buried chamber of your soul. They latch on tighter; their teeth are sharper.
With a sense of self-righteous recklessness, Angela reopens the Facebook app on her phone and types the name Nancy Mitchell into the search box. Several profiles pop up on her screen. She filters for the greater Toronto area, though Nancy could be living in Australia by now, for all she knows. But it’s a place to start. She scrolls through the profiles, clicking on each one who looks vaguely the right age. She sees snapshots of the women’s lives, some with open profiles and others with higher privacy settings. Photos taken on family vacations, the women’s arms wrapped around the shoulders of sullen teenagers who grudgingly agreed to pose with their mother. Posts about hobbies, gardening, and crafting. Political opinions. Senses of humour. As the personalities and histories of the women take shape, Angela’s fingers grow cold with nerves. Is she doing the right thing? There’s a living, breathing woman on the other end of each profile whose life could be ruined with this bombshell now in Angela’s possession.
She finds five Nancy Mitchells who fit the specs of her search. She types out a message to the first of them, then copies it and sends it to the others.