What Came First (7 page)

“May I ask what this is in regards to?”

Oh God. What am I supposed to say?
The same stranger fathered our babies?

“Just tell her my name is Wendy Winder. She’ll know what it’s about.”

I am in the bedroom. The kids are at school and Darren is at work, but I close the door anyway.

I’m starting to think Laura Cahill’s kid isn’t disabled. More likely, she just keeps him around so she can have a nice picture on her desk. She’s probably like those celebrities who have day nannies and night nannies and weekend nannies and never, ever see their children.

God, that sounds good.

She comes on the line.

“Ms. Winder, this is Laura Cahill. Thank you so much for calling.”

I sit on the edge of the bed. “No problem. I, um . . . Thanks for sending your son’s picture. He’s really cute.”

“He
is
cute, isn’t he?” She laughs. “I’m dying to see what your children look like. Do they look like Ian?”

“Around the eyes—maybe a little.” I pop up from the bed and cross to the window. “Mostly, they look like me. Dark curly hair and brown eyes. Of course, they’re a lot thinner than I am!”

I expect her to laugh. She doesn’t. “Oh, I’m sure you look great,” she says, which for some reason makes me feel even fatter, as if she could see me through the phone wearing my size-sixteen jeans (which are getting tight).

“What are your twins like?” she asks me. “Are they musical?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t given them lessons or anything. They’re only five.”

“You shouldn’t let that stop you. Honestly, I wish I’d gotten Ian started sooner. He just started piano, and his teacher said he’s got an incredible natural ability. She says if he just practiced more often he could be amazing.”

“Uh-huh.” In the yard below, our tiny pool—four feet deep, twenty feet long—reflects the bright spring sky. By July, the water will reach one hundred swampy degrees.

She pauses for an instant. “You said ‘we.’ So you have a . . . partner?” The way she says it, you’d think it was entirely optional for the mother of five-year-old twins to have a husband.

“Yes, I’m married,” I say just as I realize that she was trying to figure out whether my partner was a man or a woman. Now,
that’s
funny. I live in Scottsdale, Arizona, one of the most conservative cities in America. Of course my partner is a man. The only question is whether he is closer to forty or sixty.

Before things get awkward on the partner front, she goes back to talking about music. “Ian always loved music, even as a tiny baby.”

“Mm,” I say. When the twins were toddlers, I played classical music CDs in a desperate attempt to calm them down. The music seemed to agitate them even more. They especially hated Beethoven.

“I played flute all the way through high school,” she continues. “So maybe he’s getting some of it from me. But I was never that great. So I keep thinking some of it must be coming from our donor.”

Our donor.
Wow. She just throws it out there, as if she were saying
our hairdresser
or
our dentist
.

I walk away from the window, back to the door. I lock it. Again: absurd. Nobody’s even home. But it makes me feel better.

“About our—that,” I say. “What I was kind of wondering—wondering a lot, actually—is about personality traits that may have been passed along. That’s actually why I contacted you. Does your son have any behavior issues?”

“Like . . . what?”

“Hitting?”

“No.”

“Kicking?”

“No”

“Okay . . . How about biting?”

“
Biting?
No. Definitely no.”

She didn’t need to say it like that.

“What about other forms of acting out? Uncontrolled crying, say? Or extended screaming?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Verbal assaults? Tantrums?”

She is quiet for a long time. And then she throws me the boniest of bones.

“There was one time when Ian was three, three-and-a-half years old. We were at Target, and he wanted me to buy him some candy, and I said no. He threw such a fit that we had to leave the store. I was so afraid that he might be entering some horrible new phase, but he came down with a terrible cold that night, so I think he just wasn’t feeling well.”

“Oh.” It’s all I can manage.

“Are your kids more . . . high-spirited?”

High-spirited?
I force a laugh. “You could say that.”

“I actually worry about Ian sometimes,” she says. “He’s active and energetic, but there’s just no aggression there. So I’m concerned that someday another kid, some bully, might pick on him and he won’t be able to defend himself.”

“Is there anything . . .” I can’t say
wrong with him
. “Does Ian have any special challenges?”

It takes her a moment to realize what I’m suggesting.

“You mean, like a disability?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Oh.” That sounded wrong, like I’m disappointed. I’m not. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

She says, “Do your children have any . . . challenges?”

“Oh, no—they’re fine. Just very physical. And emotional. And I guess you could say aggressive. I’d say aggressive. Yes, very.”

“Kids go through stages,” she says. “I’m sure it will pass.”

“Yes, of course.” Like maybe after they kill each other.

“Ian’s had his stages too. And he’s far from perfect, but I’ve always felt he’s perfect for me. My only regret is that I only have him. That’s actually the reason—part of it, anyway—why I wanted to get in touch.”

“Sure,” I say, as if I have the vaguest idea of what she’s getting at.

She says, “I know it’s a long shot. But do you have any more of 613’s sperm?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve read that some people store their donor’s sperm after their children are born. In proper cold storage, it can keep for years. So I was wondering—hoping—that maybe you still had some of Donor 613’s. That maybe I could buy it from you.”

“You want his sperm?”

“I want a child.”

“You can have one of mine!” I blurt. And then: “Kidding. Ha ha. No, I don’t. No sperm.”

“Oh.” She sighs.

“Sorry.” And I am, even though I am probably saving her from a genetic personality disaster that could destroy her perfect life with her perfect son.

“If you ever hear of anyone else who used this donor, will you let me know?”

“Sure.” I pause. “Though if this guy has fathered a lot of kids, they’ll start filling prisons in about ten years. That ought to make them easier to track down.”

She doesn’t laugh. After a bit more awkward conversation, we say good-bye, and I promise to e-mail a photo of the twins. When we get off the phone, I pull up my favorite recent picture: Harrison and Sydney at Sea World last summer, gazing into a tank full of sharks, their brown eyes wide, their pink mouths curved into little, wondrous smiles.

I stare at the picture on the screen for maybe a full minute. They were so good that day: holding Darren’s hands and mine, waiting in line without squirming, passing the gift shops without complaint.

Before they fell asleep in our hotel that night, Sydney said, “I’m glad you took us to see the dolphins.”

And Harrison said, “Today was awesome.”

Why can’t they always be that way?

I burst into tears. I love my children so much it makes my chest hurt.

That didn’t go quite the way I anticipated. No, let me rephrase: that didn’t go at all the way I anticipated. Here I was, expecting to feel this instant connection or at least a sense of kinship with Wendy Winder: to compare notes on our children’s food preferences and developmental milestones and maybe to discover similarities in sleep habits and artistic inclinations. Of course I’d known chances were slim that she’d have kept a vial in cold storage. But it never occurred to me that she’d recoil at the idea of wanting more children, as if motherhood were a punishment and not a privilege.

I pick up the phone to tell Marissa she can stop holding my calls—and then I put it down again. Locating a leftover vial is the most obvious way to get more of 613’s sperm. But it’s not the only way.

Nine years ago, the Southern California Cryobank assured Donor 613 that they would keep his identity confidential. And they have. I respected his right to privacy then; I still do. However, what I respect and what I want have turned out to be two very different things. When I purchased the sperm, neither the Southern California Cryobank nor Donor 613 nor I anticipated the rapid evolution and availability of genetic tests. We certainly never imagined that it could be possible to track down a sperm donor using the information gathered from a simple cotton swab.

I pull up the Donor Sibling Network’s Web site and click through until I find what I’m looking for. A few computer pecks later, and I’m staring at the home page of Helix Laboratories, a company that analyzes genetic data. On the home page, a bright yellow button says, “Order your Y-line test kit today!”

I’ve learned all kinds of things from the Donor Sibling Network Web site and its links. The secret to genetic identity lies in the chromosomes. Each of us carries twenty-three pairs; one of each pair comes from the mother, the other from the father. The twenty-third is the sexual marker, better known as the X and Y chromosomes. Everyone gets an X chromosome from the mother, but it is the father’s contribution that determines gender. An X chromosome means a female, a Y chromosome a male.

Both X and Y chromosomes have genetic markers, sequences of DNA that vary from individual to individual. Every time an X chromosome gets passed along, its genetic markers get shuffled. The Y chromosome is different. Like surnames, it passes virtually unchanged from father to son.

In 2005, an American teenager made international news when he tracked down his donor using a cheek swab DNA test, a genealogical database, and a Web site that specialized in people searches. If he could do it, why can’t I?

If I pay Helix Laboratories to perform a Y-line test on Ian’s DNA, it will give me a string of numbers that are completely useless—unless they match another male in Helix’s large database. Best-case scenario, Donor 613 would come from a large, heavily male family with an interest in genealogy. A partial match—say, 50 percent—between Ian and a man in the database would mean that the two shared an ancestor many generations ago: interesting from a genealogy standpoint, but not much help in tracking down the donor. However, if I could find a perfect Y-line match, odds are I’d have tracked down a very close relative: Ian’s biological uncle, grandfather . . . or even father.

It is a long shot—and perhaps a gray area, ethically. But it’s been many years since things seemed black and white in my world. I don’t know if I will go through with testing Ian—but it wouldn’t hurt to have a kit on hand. Just in case.

I click on the bright yellow order button. A few more clicks, and I’ve paid three hundred and fifty dollars for a kit, scheduled to ship in five to ten days. The sale complete, I slip my credit card back into my wallet and log off the site.

I pick up the phone. “I can take calls now, Marissa.”

Dr. Sanchez takes Fridays off, so it’s just me in my pale pink scrubs, sitting at the front desk while Melva and Pammy clean teeth and force patients to talk with their mouths full of tools and fingers. Usually I use this time to do some filing, submit insurance claims, or stamp appointment reminder cards. Sometimes when I run out of stuff to do, I’ll check eBay. Okay, true confession time, I go on eBay a lot. A couple weeks ago I got these sandals—purple with rhinestones and three-inch heels—for eight bucks. Including shipping! It wasn’t until the package arrived that it hit me. I have no place to wear three-inch heels, with or without rhinestones.

That’s okay. I’m really pretty happy just having a quiet life these days, hanging out in the apartment with Eric, not talking about the future. Not talking about anything. Yeah, it’s awesome.

So, eBay. The baby section is amazing. I like to look at the fluffy little hats and tiny shoes and holiday outfits. Last month there was a plum taffeta dress, size eighteen months, with velvet trim and matching headband. Cutest thing ever.

I’m just looking, of course. Before I can buy baby stuff, I need something. What is it? Oh, yeah!
A baby
. Which means I need that other thing first. Let me think, let me think . . . Oh, right. A
man
.

I thought Pammy was crazy when she suggested a sperm donor. I mean, come on. My job’s okay and I still can’t believe that I get health insurance (plus dental, natch), but there’s not much left over at the end of the month. Look at what my mom went through, raising me and my sister poor and alone after my dad died. No, look at what I went through, growing up without a father.

If only I’d gotten a college education like I planned—and like my high school math teachers told me I was smart enough to do. Then I could afford to give my kid a good life, even on my own. But just two semesters of community college put me into enough debt to scare me. Plus it was so hard, working full-time for justabove-minimum wage while taking classes whenever I could fit them in. I always thought I’d go back, but it hasn’t happened.

Eric says a college education is overrated, but it’s easy for him to say that because he has one. I wanted to study accounting. I would have had a really good job by now. One where I didn’t have to wear scrubs to answer the phone.

So after I came up with all the reasons why I shouldn’t have a kid on my own, I started to think about how maybe I should. I mean, if I have to choose between being a struggling single mom or not having kids at all, what do I pick?

I don’t have to make that decision yet. Maybe Eric will come through. Or maybe me having a baby would change his mind, even if it’s not his. I know Eric would be an amazing dad. That’s what really kills me.