What Came First (41 page)

“Yes. Good morning, Dr. Sanchez.”

“Are you going to marry him?”

“You shouldn’t ask personal questions,” Dr. Sanchez tells her.

“No, it’s okay,” I say. It’s not okay at all, but I don’t want Kyla getting into trouble.

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I used to think so, but now . . .” I shrug. “It could go either way.” Since our awkward dinner, Eric hasn’t mentioned marriage again, and neither have I.

“My dad has a girlfriend,” Kyla announces.

He turns bright red.
“Kyla.”

What? Dr. Sanchez is seeing someone? I should be all over this, like, I can’t wait to tell Melva and Pammy at lunch. But instead it just makes me . . . sad. Like he’s betraying his wife. Or maybe I’m just worried about the kids. It’s bad enough that they keep having to adjust to new nannies. But to bring someone into their lives who might not love them enough?

“I’ll be in my office,” he mutters.

“He’s weird,” Kyla says.

“Your father is the least weird person I know,” I say.

“You oughta get out more often.” She holds up the magazine to a spread of an up-and-coming young female star. “You think she’s pretty?”

“Not as pretty as you.”

She rolls her eyes but can’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

I grab a legal pad. “I gotta go over the day’s schedule with your dad. When I come back, I’ll find some work for you.”

“No rush.”

Dr. Sanchez pecks at his keyboard so hard, I’m afraid he’ll break it.

“My apologies for my daughter’s behavior.” He doesn’t look up.

“Nah. I love Kyla.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, they’re shiny.

“She’s something,” he says, his voice soft. “When I think . . .” He stops. Clears his throat. Forces himself to look at me. “Okay. So. Root canal at nine-thirty—is that right?”

“Yeah. Though it’s Mrs. Meyer, and she’s usually late.”

“Well, I hope she’s on time today. We’ve got those implants scheduled for this afternoon . . .” He taps his desk with a pencil. “Do you think it’s normal? The way Kyla is so interested in clothes and movie stars at this age? That she’s asking to wear makeup?”

“Of course it’s normal.”

“She’s twelve!”

“Exactly. She’s twelve. Almost thirteen. Right on schedule.”

He nods. “And after Mrs. Meyer . . . some checkups?”

“Two of them. They should be quick. Might even be able to squeeze them in when Mrs. Meyer is still in the chair. You know, if she’s late.”

“Which she will be.”

“Yeah, she will.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Oh. My. God.

“It’s none of my business if you do.” It comes out sounding bitchy. I don’t mean it to.

He drops the pencil. Drums his fingers on the desk. “I signed up with
Match.com
. A couple of months ago. There’ve been a few lunch dates.” He clears his throat again. And again.

“That’s good. Isn’t it?” I don’t sound convincing.

He shrugs. Looks down at his hands. “I just figured it’s . . . time. But there’s been no one. That I’ve met. Who I want to see again, I mean. Certainly no girlfriend.”

“It takes time,” I say, for lack of anything better.

He nods and makes a funny noise, like a half grunt. Then he goes, “Computer class still going well?”

“Yeah. Awesome.”

“Glad to hear it. Okay then.” He stops drumming the desk and pats it, which is code for “We’re done here.”

Back at my desk, Kyla is opening drawers.

“What you looking for?” I might’ve been annoyed, but there’s only boring stuff in the drawers: pens and Post-its and extra forms. I keep all my makeup and McDonald’s toys in the filing cabinet.

“Pictures of your boyfriend.”

“You won’t find any.”

She shuts the door and leans back in my chair. “You got any in your wallet?”

I shake my head. Long ago, I had a snapshot of Eric that I kept in my wallet. Just a casual shot of him playing guitar. Then one day he saw it and got kind of weird, like, “Who do you show this to?”

I was all, “No one” (which wasn’t true)—I just liked to look at him every now and then.

He said, “In case you forget what I look like?”

That was the end of the wallet photo.

Kyla goes, “My dad said your boyfriend’s short.”

“He’s not short. He’s average. Your dad’s just tall. And why did you ask me if I had a boyfriend if you already knew?”

“Because when I asked my dad why he didn’t go out with you instead of those skanks he met online, he said it’s because you have a boyfriend. So I wanted to see if maybe you’d broken up.”

“He went out with skanks? You shouldn’t say ‘skanks.’ It’s not a nice word.” Wait a minute. “You know, Kyla, when your father said that, like, if I didn’t have a boyfriend . . . I don’t think he meant . . .”

“Yuh-huh.”

“He was just saying that.”

Kyla raises one eyebrow. She smirks. Then she goes, “You got any nail polish around here? I could use a mani.”

I don’t tell Melva and Pammy that Dr. Sanchez has joined Match .com, and I definitely don’t tell them what Kyla said. It’s just embarrassing. For him, I mean. And so obviously not true. But I feel like I have to tell Eric. Not telling him would be keeping a secret.

“It’s probably true,” he says.

“Of course it’s not true. Don’t you think I would have noticed?”

“Noticed what? Dr. Sanchez is an upstanding guy. He’s not going to look down your shirt.”

“He can’t look down my shirt. He makes me wear scrubs, remember?”

Eric shakes his head. “The kind of guy he is, if he was into you, he’d go out of his way to act like he wasn’t. So the fact that he acts as if he doesn’t like you probably means he likes you.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Actually, it does.”

My face is hot and I can’t look at Eric. So weird. I should be mad at him right now because he’s pushing me away. And yet . . . and yet . . .

He says, “Do you . . . If there were no us, I mean. Would you . . . would this be a good thing?”

Eric knows me so well. Better than myself, sometimes. Damn it. There’s no point being anything but honest with him, though it takes a long time to find the words.

“I’m not sure. It’s kind of weird. Really weird.” I pick at my thumbnail. Thanks to Kyla, it’s hot pink. “I’d need to be really careful, not to mess things up with my job, you know. But, yeah. I guess if I were single I’d be curious to see where things went. Whether I just like him for his children or if there’s anything there. Which there probably isn’t.”

“But there might be.”

“. . . There might be.”

“And if there’s nothing with him, would you be curious to see what else was out there? Who else was out there.”

“Maybe.” I swallow hard. “Yes.”

I look up slowly, terrified that I’ll see relief in his eyes. Or joy at finally getting his chance at freedom.

I can’t believe it. He is crying. He’s not making any noise, but his face is drenched. All of a sudden I’m crying too. I cross the room and throw my arms around him, bury my face in his chest, soak his soft T-shirt with my tears.

“I love you,” he whispers. “You’ve got to know that.”

“I love you, too.”

“But . . .” he says.

“I know. You don’t have to say it. I know.”

Now that the chickens are gone, Ian is eating meat again (though not poultry). We have just finished devouring our beef Stroganoff when the phone rings. According to my machine, the number is unknown. I answer anyway.

“Laura? This is Wendy Winder.”

Wendy Winder! I never thought I’d hear from her again.

“The kids and I are staying in Michigan,” she says. “Living here, actually. I don’t have my computer, or I would have just e-mailed you.”

“Did something happen? Did anyone else contact you?” How ironic if someone finally came up with a vial of 613 sperm. For an instant, a pang of hope shoots through me—but then I realize that it’s too late. It’s over.

“No, nothing like that. It’s just—remember how you asked if my kids had natural musical ability?”

“Oh, right. Ian’s switched to guitar,” I say just as he points to my office to let me know he’ll be practicing. “He started two months ago, and his teacher says it sounds like he’s been playing for at least a year.”

Unwelcome, a vision of Eric Fergus flashes through my mind.

“Really. That’s—yeah. Nice. Anyway. I signed my kids up for piano. They’ve been taking lessons for three months now.”

“And?”

“They’re awful. Terrible. No talent whatsoever. With years of practice, they might be average. My parents—we’re staying with them—they have a cat? And every time Harrison or Sydney so much as sits at the piano, the cat runs for the door and starts crying to be let out.” She laughs.

“Maybe if they tried another instrument,” I suggest.

“Oh, no, I’m going to make them stick with the piano, at least for a couple of years, because it’s good for them to learn about music and it keeps them out of trouble for a half hour a week. But what I wanted to tell you was, don’t assume that the things that make Ian special come from the donor. Maybe he gets his musical ability from you. Or one of your long-lost relatives. Or from nowhere at all. The stuff that makes our kids who they are—some of it comes from the mother and some from the father. But most of it—who knows? They just are who they are.”

I say, “Funny. I guess I’ve reached the same conclusion. I just never put it into words.”

“Are you in touch with Eric Fergus?” she asks.

“No.” A faint pain flares in my chest. “You?”

“God, no. So after that last IVF, did you ever . . . try again?”

“No. I thought about it, but . . . no.”

“Sorry.”

“Me too. But—it’s okay.”

“Do you still have his e-mail?” she asks. “I’d like to send him a note. Thanking him. For what he did. For what he gave me.”

After I give her the information, we say our good-byes without any pretense of staying in touch or of being family. I still wish I could have met Wendy and her children. I may always miss the reunions that never were, but I like knowing that they’re out there.

Besides, shared blood doesn’t make a family. I should know that better than anybody. Carmen is more of a grandmother to Ian than my mother will ever be. And he couldn’t be more excited about meeting his new cousins if they were actually related. The two of us are not alone in the world, after all.

Guitar music spills around the edges of the closed office door. Ian hits a wrong note, says, “Ugh!”

Love washes over me with so much force it makes me dizzy. I need to see Ian’s face. I need to hold him.

Beyond the closed door, he laughs and says something I can’t understand. It is new, this habit of talking to himself.

The doorknob is cold in my hand. I push the door open slowly, carefully, just enough for a peek. The computer is on, music playing. Some music program or video, maybe?

“Try it again,” the man on the screen says. For an instant, I am impressed by the interactive nature of the program. And then it hits me. Blood rushes to my ears.

“Eric?” I swing open the door. “What are you doing talking to my son?”

On the other end of the Skype call, Eric Fergus sits on a couch, a guitar in his lap. He looks stunned.

“Oh, crappus,” Ian mutters.

Eric says, “I . . . I . . .”

“It’s my fault,” Ian says. “I told him you said it was okay if we talked. But that you didn’t want to talk to him.”

“It’s not okay?” Eric says.

“Who initiated the contact?” I demand.

“In English?” Ian asks.

“I did,” Eric tells me. “I tried to Skype you a couple of weeks ago, but Ian answered, and we got talking about music. It’s really awesome that he’s taking guitar.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Eric called?” I ask, trying and failing to catch my son’s eye.

Ian sits hunched over his guitar. “You told me we were never going to see Eric or talk to him again. So I figured you’d say I can’t Skype him.”

“You can’t Skype him,” I say.

On the screen, Eric Fergus sits hunched over his guitar.

“Eric.” I try to get him to look at me.
“Eric
.”

He peeks up through his shaggy hair. Wendy Winder is right: our children are themselves and nobody else. But damn, if Eric doesn’t look exactly like my son right now.

“I don’t really know you,” I say. “Not really. You could be a complete psychopath.”

“I’m not.”

“But you
could
be.”

“But I’m
not
.” Now he’s looking straight at me, with a slight frown.

“If you want to see my son—and, bear in mind, he is
my
son, not yours—we’ll need to draw up an agreement. Make it clear how often you can talk to him and what kind of behavior is and is not acceptable. You can’t just call him whenever you feel like it.”