Finding Cassidy (10 page)

Mr. Edwards walked into the room, followed by two middle-aged people wearing khaki pants, sensible loafers and navy blue windbreakers with university crests.

“Who are they?” I hissed to Quinn’s back.

She didn’t turn around. “Scientists from U Vic.” Her voice was cold enough to freeze the sun.

I found out their names soon enough—Ms. Prefontaine and Mr. Bradley. Since Jonathan and I had missed yesterday’s session on egg addling, they would catch us up. Jonathan was assigned to Ms. Prefontaine,
who was short and round, lively and animated. I was assigned to Mr. Bradley, who was tall and thin with sandy brown hair and blue eyes.

As we followed them outside, Mr. Bradley barely cracked a smile. Great, I thought as we walked through the cool morning air to the lakefront. Just my luck to get stuck with Mr. Serious.

“Denise and I thought we’d take a few minutes to go over this morning’s procedure,” he said. “What it is, why we’re doing it, that kind of thing.” He gave us each a handout.

Feeling chilly, I zipped up my coat and began to read.
“Managing Resident Canada Geese.”
I skimmed the statistics and glanced only briefly at the section called “Nuisance Factor” before skipping to the final section, called “Control Options.”
A number of control methods have been used with some success in both the United States and Canada. These include extended hunting hours, border-collie control, landscape alterations, bird removal, egg addling and euthanasia.

When we were finished reading, Ms. Prefontaine said, “It’s important to remember that one pair of geese can produce five to twelve goslings a year.”

Mr. Bradley nodded. “They can pretty much over-run a place in a few seasons.” He gestured to the marsh nearby. “Like they’ve done here.”

Something about this guy was familiar, I decided as I watched his hand move through the air. Maybe he’d been on TV talking about the geese or something.

“Circle Lake has too much marshland for border-collie control,” he continued, “and we’re not prepared to go as far as euthanasia. So we’ve adopted egg addling as our method of control.”

“What’s egg addling?” Jonathan asked.

“Simply put, birth control for birds.” His blue eyes twinkled. Maybe Mr. Serious wasn’t so serious after all. “There are three possible methods: Shaking, oiling or piercing. You can shake the eggs, pierce the eggs or oil them, but oiling is about as foolproof as you can get.”

“I don’t get it,” Jonathan said. “Do you rub the eggs with oil, or what?”

“Exactly!” enthused Ms. Prefontaine. “The oil prevents oxygen from getting in to allow egg development. But the mother doesn’t realize anything’s wrong, so she sits there all season waiting for the eggs to hatch. It’s quite wonderful, because if we removed the eggs, the mother would lay more. With this procedure, she doesn’t.” A wide smile stretched across her face. “And the eggs that are left are rendered non-viable.”

Yuck.
That poor mother bird, sitting patiently waiting for her goslings to be born. It didn’t seem fair.
Quinn was right. Egg addling sucked. “So basically, we’re talking abortion for geese.”

Her green eyes widened. She was momentarily speechless. “Not abortion. No!” She recovered quickly. “It
is
a method of birth control, yes. But it’s simply a procedure to render them non-viable.”

I felt Jonathan and Mr. Bradley studying me, but I kept my eyes on Ms. Prefontaine. “I guess it’s all a matter of which words you choose to describe the
procedure.
”

“And it’s not something we’re here to discuss.” Her smile was gone. “If you’re uncomfortable, perhaps bring it up in your ethics or philosophy class.”

“I will,” I said coolly. “Because the whole idea is disgusting.” I’d also talk to Quinn and find out about her plan.

There was an awkward pause, and then Mr. Bradley said, “Perhaps you and I can discuss it as we walk to the nest.” A slight frown creased his forehead. “These are issues many of us struggle with, too,” he admitted quietly.

Clearly his compassion made Ms. Prefontaine (a.k.a. The One with Murderous Intentions) uncomfortable. “Yes, well, that’s true for some people.” She cleared her throat and outlined the morning routine.

Five minutes later, she and Jonathan headed west while Mr. Bradley and I took the chip path to the east.

“You can call me Tom.” He was a tall guy with long legs. It was going to be a brisk walk.

“Okay…Tom.” Some of the younger teachers let us call them by their first names, but not the older ones. And this guy had to be Frank’s age.

“So, why are you taking this course?” he asked.

’
Cause I want that trip to Costa Rica.

“Lots of reasons.” I fumbled around for an appropriate answer. “I like nature. Birds especially.”

“What’s your favourite bird?”

I frowned. Favourite bird? Herons? Eagles? Hummingbirds? It was too hard to pick just one. “Probably the one I’m chasing down,” I admitted. “I’m a birder. Right now I’m after a scarlet macaw and a quetzal.”

“You’ll have to travel south to find them.”

South to Costa Rica.
“I know. So far, I’ve seen 628 different species in five countries. On two continents,” I added proudly.

He glanced at me. “So you’re a spotter, then?”

“What do you mean?”

A patch of nettle hung low over the path. He held it back so I could pass. “Spotters collect numbers, ticks on a sheet. Birders tend to go deeper. Care more.”

He made collecting numbers sound superficial. “I like seeing the birds, too,” I replied defensively. “What
I do isn’t a bad thing.” It was way better than oiling eggs to kill baby birds.

“I didn’t say it was. Spotting’s okay, I suppose. As long as you practise good environmental stewardship. Trouble is, some spotters don’t. They litter, they trample nests, they scare birds. Not only that, they miss the point entirely. They’re after the thrill of the number, not the joy of the bird itself.”

As I tried to figure out where I fit into that equation, he slowed and pointed. “The nest isn’t far now.” Crouching down, he peered through the bushes. “See the male? Standing sentinel watch?”

I bent down. The male stood about two metres away, tall and proud, black beak glinting in the sun, picture perfect.

“Spectacular, isn’t he?” Tom whispered.

I nodded. “And he’s so still.”

We exchanged smiles. I was struck again by that odd feeling of familiarity.

“We need to scare him away,” Tom explained. “Then we’ll have about ten minutes to do the egg addling.”

I watched for a minute, then I said, “I can’t believe you want to kill them off.”

“Not kill them off. They aren’t developed birds. We just need to bring them under control.”

Under control.
I snorted loudly.

The male’s head turned sharply in our direction. Beady black eyes scanned the underbrush.

“Ooops.” I swore under my breath. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay. It’s time to move, anyway. Get the umbrella ready. When I stand, follow me. We’ll rush him.”

The male honked and rose with a hiss. His wingspan was huge—four, maybe five feet across. Screeching and spitting with displeasure, he flapped his wings madly, stirring the air dangerously close to my head. I was glad I had the umbrella for protection. Finally, with one last ornery honk of protest, he flew off.

“Come on.” Tom walked quickly through the marsh. “We don’t have much time.”

The female had her back to us. She sat like a round, regal queen on her feathered throne. “I can’t do this.”

I braced myself for a flicker of disgust, or even an argument, but all Tom did was nod and say, “Watch out. When she lifts off, she might go toward you.”

Surprisingly, the female put up less of a fight than the male. A honk, a hiss, a giant flap of wings and she was gone. Tom motioned me forward. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but at least come and watch,” he said.

The nest was smaller than I expected, the eggs bigger. There were six of them, and they looked like
super-sized breakfast eggs. Same colour, same shape, only massive.

Tom unzipped his knapsack, began laying things on the ground. Then he reached down and gingerly lifted an egg from the nest. “Here.” He handed it to me. “Hold this.”

I cradled it carefully in my palms. “It’s warm!” The only shells I’d ever handled were empty ones, or ones that I planned to crack and scramble. I’d never held one with this much weightiness to it, this kind of promise. Tom opened the bottle of oil. “This isn’t fair,” I said. “The geese don’t even get a choice.”

He put the bottle back down. “We have to do something.” His blue eyes reflected a curious mix of firm resolve and sadness.

My fingers curled protectively around the smoothness of the egg. “What you’re doing is wrong. Tampering with nature like this.”

“People do it all the time. Women wear makeup. Couples practise birth control. That’s tampering with nature.”

“That doesn’t hurt anyone!”

“Fair enough.” He nodded. “But sometimes tampering with nature is the right and honourable thing to do. Now, it’ll go a lot faster if you hold each egg while I oil them.” He paused. “Will you?”

“I guess.” He was giving me a choice, and I liked him for that. “But I don’t want you to think I agree with this, because I don’t.”

He flashed brilliant white teeth. “And I don’t want you to think I don’t respect your opinion, because I do.” He upended the bottle of oil and let some of it seep onto a white cloth. Then, with slow, methodical strokes, he coated the egg nestled between my palms. I stared at his fingers. They were long and slim, with weird, knobby knuckles. Just like mine.

“The trick is a light coating,” he said. “Too much and it’ll soil the feathers on the mother bird.”

“Right,” I responded absently. How many people had fingers like that? I’d never seen another set in my life.

He gestured for me to put the egg down and grab another.

I tried not to look at his fingers as he worked on egg number two, but my eyes wouldn’t cooperate. They were drawn there with single-minded purpose, the way some guys just couldn’t help staring at my breasts. What were the odds that he would have the same freaky knobby knuckles as me? Could it be a coincidence?

I didn’t believe in coincidences.

“Are you double-jointed?” My voice came out all
quavery, but Tom didn’t appear to notice.

“Yeah.” He gestured for another egg. “You?”

I swallowed. “Yeah.” His head was bent over egg number three. Oh God, it wasn’t possible. Was it? He had long legs. I had long legs. He was dirty blond. I was light blond. He seemed familiar.

It couldn’t be that easy.

When he looked up and gestured for the fourth egg, I stared hard into his eyes. They were blue. Blue-green, to be exact. Mine turned blue-green by the end of the summer, after months in the sun. Did that count? Oh God, oh God, I had to know. “So.”
Good start, Cass.

He chuckled, raised an eyebrow. “So.”

Did you jack off into a jar on September 22, 1988?
“Did you grow up in West Vancouver, by any chance?”
Lame, Cassidy, lame. Why don’t you just ask him if he ever did any work for the Cypress Hills Fertility Clinic.

“Nope. I grew up on the east coast.”

“Huh.” I digested that as he oiled egg number five. It was still possible. He could have come out on a visit. Needed cash. I fought the urge to laugh out loud at the thought of him…you know.

“Why?”

Think fast
,
think fast.
“You look like an old friend of my mother’s.”
A very intimate old friend.
“Someone she
went to school with in West Van. I saw him in a picture once.” This lying thing was getting scarily easy.

“Wrong guy.”

A crow cawed off in the distance; I jumped.

After I retrieved the last egg, Tom said, “I grew up in Maine. Went to university in Montreal. Followed my wife west fourteen years ago. We’ve been to Vancouver but never to West Van. I hear it’s pretty, though.”

“It is.” I pretended to listen as he placed the final egg alongside the others and reiterated the benefits of egg addling.

But all I could think of was this: He wasn’t the one. So why the sting of disappointment? Why the weird rush of relief? Why was I being such a dumb-ass?

Why had I even hoped?

Silently, I followed him back down the chip trail to the nature house. Was it always going to be like this? Looking and questioning? Wondering? Wanting to ask, Were you in West Vancouver in September 1988? Did you donate sperm? Are you my father?

I couldn’t live like this.

I had to find him.

An albatross can sleep and fly at the same time.

Cassidy MacLaughlin, Grade Four Science Project

M
r. Edwards cornered me at the nature house. I wanted to grab Quinn, find out how to fight the egg-addling thing, but I didn’t get a chance. I was behind on my worksheets, Eddie told me, and I’d missed too many sessions. My mark was slipping. His solution: stay behind, work through lunch and catch up. After I finished, I had just enough time to drive across town to the counsellor’s office. Frank had planned to join us, so I was surprised to see Mom there alone.

“Your dad’s having a bad day,” she whispered when I walked in. As counselling offices went, the place was pretty fancy, with lots of brass lamps and expensive prints and even a Persian carpet. “He’s at home.”

Relief loosened the muscles in the back of my neck.
Guilt tightened them up again. It’s not like I wanted Frank to be sick, but every time I looked at him, my thoughts were so jumbled that I didn’t know what to say. I was furious that he’d lied to me. I hated him for it. Yet how could I hate him? His choice to accept donor insemination had given me life.

I slid into a plush green chair beside Mom. “I spent the morning killing geese.”

“That’s nice, dear.” Her head was bent over her Palm Pilot.

“And I met a man who could have been my father.”
Except he wasn’t.

“It’s stress,” she whispered without looking up. “The doctor says it makes Dad’s symptoms worse.”

She hadn’t heard
one thing
I’d said. “Stress is a killer,” I agreed loudly. “So is being ignored.” Startled by my voice, the receptionist’s head snapped up. She studied me for a minute before turning back to her appointment book.

Biting back a sigh, I studied the oval brass plaque on the door across from me. Clarissa Martin, M.A., R.C.C. Just as I was wondering what all the letters stood for, the door in front of us flew open.

Clarissa Martin was stocky and middle-aged. Her grey-blond hair was cut in a plain bob that went perfectly with her boring, no-nonsense beige suit. She
was bread-pudding bland and probably about as useful as an empty wallet, I decided as she shook Mom’s hand. “And you must be Cassidy.” She extended her hand toward me and smiled. The smile transformed her owl-like face into something resembling pretty. “Come in,” she said.

Her office was decorated with more brass lamps, more green chairs and another Persian rug. One wall displayed a series of framed degrees, while the other featured a massive picture of a gold and purple sunrise. The caption read, “Open the gift of yourself.”

I practically puked. Touchy-feely I am not. I mean, let’s be honest. Being here had about as much appeal as running down the street naked. Although, come to think of it, I was beginning to feel a certain scuzzy nakedness from the way people whispered when I walked by.

Ms. Martin’s first words were for me. “Your mother called and told me what’s happened in your life over the last few days. It’s been quite a ride.”

Understatement of the millennium.

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

Since I planned to sleep-talk my way through this interview, I gave her the bare-bones version. “I want to find the man who fathered me for a variety of reasons, and my mother doesn’t want me to.”

My mother started to interrupt, but Ms. Martin held up a hand to stop her. “And that doesn’t seem fair to you,” she said.

“Right.”

“You probably feel like half of your family history is blank,” Ms. Martin added.

“I do,” I admitted. Come to think of it, bread pudding had a great deal of substance.

Her smile was sympathetic. “Well, in a way it is.”

Her sensitivity caught me off guard. The floodgates opened. “It’s like…for all these years they’ve lied to me, and now with D—Frank’s illness, it’s like they want me to accept their decision and move on. Not do anything about it. But half of
me
is blank. I need to find out who I am.” I was too close to tears for comfort. I took a breath, reined myself in. “Mom seems to think it doesn’t matter. I resent that.”

“I can understand how you might feel that way.”

Any counsellor worth her weight in Prozac would have said the same thing. Nevertheless, her acceptance of my feelings was all the encouragement I needed. I couldn’t have sleep-talked my way through this now if I’d doubled up on Xanax. “She’s acting like everything’s about Frank.” I jerked my thumb toward Mom. “And I know he’s sick and it’s a scary disease and I’m scared, too. I don’t want him to die. But I
have a life, too, only up until now my whole life has been fake, thanks to her.” I crossed my arms and slid down in my seat. I probably looked like a petulant eight-year-old, but I couldn’t help myself. “I just want to make my life real.”

“And you think finding your biological father will make things real for you, is that it?”

I nodded.

She turned to Mom. “And you disagree?”

Mom squirmed. “Disagree’s a strong word. It’s not that I don’t want Cassidy to have closure. It’s just that there isn’t much information available, I don’t have the time to help her with her search, and mostly I’m afraid of what it will do to Frank.”

Mostly it was about Frank. It was always about Frank. You’d think I’d be used to it by now—the Frank and Grace show. They might love me, but I’d always ridden on the periphery of their lives.

Ms. Martin steepled her fingers. “Has anyone thought to ask Frank what he thinks of Cassidy’s need to pursue this?”

We shook our heads.

Ms. Martin raised an eyebrow. “Well, that should be the first step.” She paused. “I’d like to suggest that Cassidy talk to her father. Alone.”

The last thing I wanted to do was talk to Frank.
Sure, he was calm and he was a good listener, but getting him to share his feelings was practically impossible. Unless it came to business or politics.

“And it wouldn’t hurt you to call Cypress Hills, Grace. At the very least to inquire about the medical history of the donor. Cassidy’s worries about her father’s health—and I’m talking about Frank here,” she clarified with a smile, “are bound to bring up fears about the health of her biological father.”

I felt Mom shift awkwardly. She was used to issuing orders, not taking them. “I…uh…I signed a confidentiality agreement,” she said. “The donor was guaranteed anonymity. I have no legal right to ask for anything.”

“
What?”
He was
anonymous?
“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid to.” Her voice was barely audible. “I knew you’d be upset.”

Did day follow night? “How could you
do
that?” If he was anonymous, then I was, too. I was no longer Cassidy the Separate. Now I was Cassidy the Separate and Anonymous One.

Mom’s eyes glistened with tears. Ms. Martin handed her a tissue. “It was the only way they’d accept us as clients. And I did question it, Cassidy. I did. But the doctor and your father persuaded me that keeping the
donor anonymous was the best thing.” She dabbed at her eyes and left a smear of black mascara on her cheek. “They were insistent, and I was so desperate for you that, well, I went along.”

“What else have you kept from me?”

“That’s all.” Mom’s voice wavered. “I promise, Dee Dee Bird, you know everything now.”

I sank back into my chair. Not everything. Not what mattered.

Ms. Martin came to Mom’s defence. “Signing that kind of thing was common practice for years,” she said. “It still is at some clinics. In fact, many donor children know less about their origins than adoptees.”

Like I was supposed to care about the rest of the world when
my
world was falling apart.

“I still suggest you call, Grace. Records are generally kept. There have been cases where recipients have been able to trace donors. You can appeal. It’s worth a try. For Cassidy’s sake.”

Guaranteed anonymity.
I had to make sense of this. I had to talk to Jason. “I’m not allowed to see my boyfriend.” I interrupted Ms. Martin mid-sentence. “And it’s not fair. I need all the—
friends’
—support I can get right now.”

Whoever said that guilt is a useless emotion was wrong. Guilt works wonders on mothers who are
wracked with it. It didn’t take Mom long to agree to call Mrs. Perdue and see if she could get her to loosen up her restrictions.

After that, Ms. Martin grabbed a folder from her brass in-basket and removed a bright pink clip from a collection of papers. “Speaking of support,” she said, looking at me, “I have some information that might help you.”

It was all I could do not to groan out loud. He was anonymous. I was anonymous. That was enough information for today.

“Donor insemination has many different ramifications, and it might be helpful to link up with others who are in your position.” She sounded just like Quinn. Reluctantly, I pulled myself out of my slouch and accepted the piece of paper she held out. Skimming the list, my eyes lingered on DOG. Donor Offspring Group.

“I’m thinking of a follow-up appointment in a week,” Ms. Martin told Mom as she flipped through her day planner. “That’s plenty of time to call the clinic and talk to Jason’s mother. It’ll also give Cassidy time to talk to Frank.”

They made the arrangements. I zoned out. My life was going down the toilet faster than Saniflush.

Jason would help me make sense of things. I might
be Separate and Anonymous everywhere else, but not with Jason. With Jason, I was his girlfriend. With Jason, I belonged. It was the only place I did.

I made it to school in time for my last class. After math was over, I hurried upstairs, keeping one eye out for Jason, the other out for Quinn. I didn’t see either of them. But when I reached my locker and started spinning the combination on my lock, I sensed a presence behind me.

Jason!

“Hey!” He pulled me close, planted a kiss on my lips. “Where’ve you been?”

“Appointments and stuff.” He was wearing the Hugo Boss cologne I’d bought him for Christmas. I buried my face in his shoulder and inhaled the scent, inhaled
him.

He pulled back, stared down at me. “What’s wrong?”

Jason said he could always tell when I was upset, because my voice got higher. I struggled for a gravel-deep bass. “I’m fine.”

That sexy Jason-grin transformed his face. “Hey, you’re better than fine, but what’s wrong?”

People pushed past us; the relief of after-school laughter was loud, sharp. I didn’t want to tell him
about the counsellor here. “Can we go somewhere to talk? Just for a few minutes?”

He flicked his hair off his forehead, shifted his books from one arm to the other. “I’m real sorry, Cass, but I have to pick Pete up today. He’s got some major concert at his school tonight and I promised Mom I’d get him home early and supervise his homework and stuff.”

His blue eyes shone with sincerity. He was telling the truth. Disappointed, I turned around, popped the locker door, dumped books.

“We can talk while we walk to the parking lot.”

It wasn’t enough. “My mom’s gonna call your mom,” I said over my shoulder as I dug around for my math book. “See if your mom will lighten up, let us spend time together again.”

“Great.”

Was that a lack of enthusiasm, or was I just being paranoid?

“Oh, and Quinn was trying to find you,” Jason added. “She stuck a note in your locker.”

I rooted around. There was a flourescent orange square wedged between my makeup bag and a sweater. I grabbed it, stuffed it into my pocket. Satisfied that I had all that I needed, I slammed my locker shut and spun the lock.

Jason took my hand. We began to walk. “So what’s wrong?”

“I saw the counsellor today.” We turned the corner, headed down the stairs.

“Uh huh.”

At the bottom, we dodged left to avoid a pack of giggling grade-niners. “It was awful, Jase. Mom signed a confidentiality agreement. That means I have no right to get my donor name.”

He stiffened, and then dropped my hand. “Geez, Cass, not this again.”

“But, Jason, don’t you get it? This means”…
This means I’m Cassidy the Separate, Anonymous One…
“This means I might never know who he is.”
Who I am.

Scowling, he slammed his shoulder against the main door and strode outside. I followed. The afternoon sun mocked me with its cheerful yellow glow. “Cass, really, you’ve got to—”

“There you are.”

Jason and I whirled around at the sound of Yvonne’s voice. She strode forward wearing a skirt so short it could have passed for a belt. “Here.” She thrust an envelope into my hand. “It’s a cheque for eight hundred dollars. If the window’s more, my dad says to call.”

I didn’t know what to say. Jason saved me. “Thanks,”
he said. There was a coolness in his voice that I appreciated.

But it wasn’t cool enough to get rid of Yvonne. “So, you’re sure about the limo thing?” she asked Jason with a bat, bat, bat of hugely false eyelashes. “You’ll pass?”

Limo? They were talking about the prom?

Jason grabbed my hand, steered me down the sidewalk toward the parking lot. “I’m sure.”

Yvonne fell in beside us. “We were lucky to get that limo, Jason. It was the last one. People reserve three and four months ahead. And the prom’s only six weeks away. Are you sure you won’t come with us? We have room for one more.”

Jason’s scowl grew deeper. “No thanks.”

“What’s this about?” I asked.

“I thought you knew.” Yvonne smirked in my direction. “Jason said you weren’t going to the prom and he—”

“What?” I dropped his hand, gaped at him. “But you haven’t even asked me!”

He flushed.

“Ooops.” Yvonne giggled. “But I’m sure I got it right. He said you weren’t going.”

I wouldn’t look at her. Instead I stared at Jason. “Is that true?” My voice came out in the barest of squeaks.

Jason glared at Yvonne and then turned to me. “Not exactly…Sort of…I…Let me explain.”

“Forget it.” My throat started to close. Those all-too-familiar tears threatened to spill. “I’ve gotta go.”

I drove aimlessly for a while, then ended up at the Windsor Park soccer field, where I sat on the bleachers and watched a chubby old man draw white lines on the field.