What Came First (12 page)

Oh God. Why did I start this?

“What?” he asks.

Maybe the story will seem funny. Maybe we’ll laugh.

“I started throwing the pretzels at them. First one at a time and then whole handfuls. And I was yelling too, I was saying, ‘You want pretzels? Here are your pretzels!’” I try to laugh. I can’t. Darren stays quiet.

I continue. “They were so shocked that they just froze. So I stopped with the pretzels. We all stared at each other, and Harrison said, ‘Mommy, you’re mean
.
’ That made me cry. Which made them cry. Which made me angry. So I started throwing pretzels again and kept at it till the entire bag was gone.”

He still doesn’t laugh. Of course not. There’s nothing funny about it.

Oh shit. I’m crying again. Right here in P.F. Chang’s.

He hands me his black napkin. The polyester can’t absorb my tears. I fish in my purse, retrieve a mangled tissue, blot my eyes, blow my nose.

“I’m not very good at this,” I say. “At being a mother.”

“They’re difficult.”

“I keep thinking it’ll get better, and it keeps not getting better.” I start to cry again.

“It’ll get better,” Darren says with no conviction—or emotion—whatsoever.

“I talked to their teacher today.” My tears are falling faster than I can blot them. “When I came to get the kids, she said, ‘Can I have a word,’ and the kids went outside to the playground. I knew it was going to be bad. No one says ‘can I have a word’ unless it’s bad. She went on for a bit about how disruptive the kids are and how other parents have been complaining. And then she asked—get this—if we’ve ever considered Ritalin.”

“Huh.” He almost laughs. Or maybe pretend-laughs.

“Seriously. She said that like it was such a new idea. Like maybe we’d never thought of drugs before.”

When the twins were four, I read everything I could about Ritalin, Adderall, and other stimulants used to treat ADHD. I talked it over with Darren, who, frankly, was no help at all. Finally, despite a million misgivings, I asked the pediatrician for a prescription and braced myself for an end to the insanity.

It didn’t work. The doctor upped the dose twice—still no good. Then he tried a couple of other ineffective medications before saying, “Maybe they’re just immature. Maybe they’ll outgrow it.” Then he referred us to a child psychologist who was far more expensive but no more useful.

“Their teacher suggested I try homeschooling,” I say.

This time he laughs for real. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“You got that right.”

The waitress picks this moment to deliver our appetizers. I wonder if the food has been ready all along, if she’s been waiting on the edges for a break in my hysteria.

“Dumplings.” I inhale the aroma. “Mm.”

Back in college, Darren used to say, “I love to watch you eat.” He thought it was funny that I took so much pleasure from food. Of course, I was thin, then. Well, thinner, anyway. I swear Darren could eat the same thing for dinner every night and not care. Before we had kids, I used to wish he could appreciate my cooking and our restaurant dinners. Now that the twins’ oversensitive palates have led us to a life of spaghetti and chicken nuggets, Darren’s unrefined palate is a relief.

We eat the dumplings and crispy green beans without talking. When our plates are empty, the waitress brings Mongolian beef and Kung Pao shrimp. I am so happy when I eat. There will be nothing left to bring home, but I just don’t care. Right now I’m not thinking about my strained marriage or my difficult children. I’m too busy savoring the sensations of salt, sweet, sour, spicy, and the newest, hippest, coolest taste on the block, umami.

“Wendy? I thought that was you!”

Annalisa Lemberger interrupts me in mid-umami. In three-inch heels, she towers over us, her old and ugly husband at her side. Unlike Darren and me, their outfits not only match in level of formality, they are actually color-coordinated. Annalisa wears white slacks with her heels. Come to think of it, that’s what she’s worn every time I’ve ever seen her, though the length of her white pants varies with the season. Her shirt tonight is a sleeveless peach silk. Roger wears a short-sleeved linen shirt: cream with peach tropical flowers. His slacks are tan.

“Annalisa! Hi!” I think I have some peppers stuck in my teeth.

I introduce them to Darren. I call Annalisa “one of my scrapbooking friends,” and then wonder if I should have simply called her my friend. It might be nice to see her outside of the group.

“Those crazy scrapbookers!” Roger says. “I say to Annalisa, I think it’s just an excuse for you girls to drink wine and gossip!”

“And have I ever denied it?” She laughs. Her teeth are really, really white—even brighter than her pants, which I see now are actually cream.

I don’t really want to be friends with Annalisa Lemberger.

“So is Tuesday y’all’s date night too?” she asks.

“Not really. Just tonight.” What’s up with the y’all? She’s not even from the South. Or is she? I’ve known Annalisa for over a year. I should really know that.

Annalisa puts her arm around Roger. “When we had kids, we made a promise to each other that we’d go out, just the two of us, once a week.”

Roger kisses her on the cheek. Even in the dark restaurant, I can see his seedlike pores.

“Oh, yeah, it’s great to have some alone time,” I say. “It can just be hard leaving the kids and all.”

“You need to get over that,” Annalisa says. “You need to have time for yourselves as a couple. Like I say to Roger, if there’s no
us,
there’s no
family
.”

Roger pats her on the butt. She stiffens, just a little, before gazing up at him. I check Darren to gauge his reaction. He is staring at Annalisa, taking in her shiny white teeth and blond hair and perky boobs.

Annalisa is no friend of mine, not even a scrapbooking friend.

“Give me a call sometime, Wendy,” she says. “I’d love to get together for coffee.”

“Definitely!”

Once Annalisa and Roger leave, we return to our food with grim determination. I’d say it doesn’t even taste good anymore, but it does. Even Annalisa can’t ruin Kung Pao shrimp for me.

“What’d you think of Annalisa?” I ask.

Darren shrugs. “She seems nice.”

“Don’t you think she’s attractive?”

He raises his eyebrows. “She seems high maintenance.”

“She is,” I say, even though I’ve never seen any evidence of that.

The house is quiet when we get home. Too quiet. Did Ashlyn strangle the twins? (And if so, do we still have to pay her?)

Ashlyn is sprawled on the couch in the sitting area off of the kitchen, staring at her cell phone, pushing the keypad with her thumbs. When she sees us, she scrambles into a sitting position. She finishes her text and sticks the phone in her back pocket.

“Where are Harrison and Sydney?” I ask.

“In bed.”

“Asleep?”

“Yeah. I mean, I guess.”

“And they ate the pizza?”

“No, they didn’t want it. I made eggs for myself because I’m lactose intolerant, so I can’t eat pizza. And they said they wanted eggs too, so that’s what I gave them.”

“They hate eggs,” I say.

“Really? Oh.” She shrugs. Apparently, the twins don’t hate Ashlyn’s eggs. Or if they do, they ate them anyway.

Her cell phone whirs. She touches her back pocket but doesn’t take the phone out.

I pull twenty dollars out of my wallet—then I add an extra ten. This gawky teenager is a miracle worker.

“Thanks.” She shoves the bills into her front pocket without counting. When her cell phone whirs again, she pulls it out and checks the display.

“You can get that,” I say.

“Nah.” She puts the phone back in her pocket. “It’s just my mother.”

Once Ashlyn leaves, Darren and I tiptoe up the stairs and go into the twins’ darkened rooms. They both sleep curled into tight fetal positions, usually with their hands balled into angry fists. Tonight, Harrison faces the wall, but Sydney’s face, calm and angelic, tilts toward us in the doorway. Her dark curls tumble on the pillow; her hands lie together, as if in prayer.

“She looks like you,” Darren whispers.

“She’s prettier,” I say. (She is.)

He shakes his head. “You’re both beautiful.” Something passes over his face: something sad.

Tears spring to my eyes. I can’t remember the last time Darren called me beautiful. I know he’s just saying it to be nice, but it still means something. I take his hand and squeeze.

He squeezes back. “Think I’ll play on the computer for a little bit before bedtime.”

He drops my hand. And just like that, I’ve lost him to his Sims world. How foolish to worry that Darren might be attracted to Annalisa. He has no interest whatsoever in real live people.

I have my own computer. It’s in the kitchen, which means I can surf the Web, cook meals, and scream at my children—all at the same time! Right now I want to look up lactose intolerance. Maybe milk is responsible for the twins’ violent mood swings. It seems like a long shot, but you never know.

There’s an e-mail waiting from Laura Cahill. I haven’t heard from her in months, but now I can ask if her perfect son has any trouble digesting milk. (If he does, would it mar his perfection? Or would she somehow see it as a good thing?)

That question will have to wait. Laura’s message is brief, to the point, and nondairy in nature:
I think I found him.

My cell phone rings just as I am pulling into the garage and wondering how to keep my eyes open long enough to take Ian to his seven o’clock Cub Scout meeting. My insomnia has returned with renewed vigor. Ever since mailing Dexter Savage a five-hundreddollar retainer (which seemed a bit steep), I’ve lain awake at night, considering all of the things that could go wrong, from learning that Donor 613 is untraceable to hearing that he is dead, the victim of a tragic accident or, worse, some horrible and potentially genetic disease.

I turn off my ignition, grab the phone, and check the display:
Dexter Savage.
Less than a week has passed since we first spoke; I never imagined he’d get back to me so fast.

He says, “I found your man.”

That wakes me up. It isn’t until after the shock has passed that it strikes me.
I found your man.
What a corny thing to say, like something out of a bad television series.

“And he’s alive?”

He pauses. “Was that a possibility? ’Cause I woulda checked death records first.”

“Not really, I just—”

“The birth date made it easy,” he tells me. “Lots of guys named Fergus, but only two born on the same day as your guy, and one died in infancy. Got this name, checked it against your John Fergus, and whammo. We got a match. They’re brothers.”

“I see you deposited my retainer. Given that the search was faster than anticipated—”

“Said it was easy. Didn’t say it was fast. You want I give you the information now or you want I e-mail it?”

“You can give it to me now.” I retrieve my bag from the passenger floor and dig inside for a legal pad and pen. And then I take a deep breath.

“You ready?” he says.

At nine-thirty, Ian is fast asleep, worn out from planting a windowsill herb garden at his Cub Scout meeting. At least three times, I came close to telling him that I’d tracked down his donor but held myself back; I need more information before I can decide what, if anything, to tell my son.

Right now, there is only one person I can talk to about this, even though she’s a virtual stranger: Wendy Winder. I shot her a quick and slightly cryptic e-mail before heading out to Cub Scouts, but I haven’t heard back. Now I’m wide-awake, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of lukewarm decaf, searching Google, LinkedIn, Facebook, MySpace, Yahoo . . . anything that might shed light on Donor 613. And yet, nothing does. There are too many people with his name. Even adding his city of residence to the search doesn’t help.