What Came First (8 page)

As for sperm donors, it doesn’t hurt to look.

There’s nothing on eBay, at least right now. But Google turns up a whole bunch of sperm bank sites, each with a long list of donors. Think about it. All these men, there for the picking! Well, not the actual men, of course, but for a few hundred bucks, they’ll give me what my boyfriend of five years won’t.

None of the sites have photographs, which kind of blows. Not that I necessarily need to find someone who looks like that
Twilight
guy, but I don’t want my baby daddy to be a troll. Still, there’s a lot more information here than you’d see on an online dating site. (Yeah, I’m speaking from experience. I had a couple of dry years, manwise.) There are questions that the donor guy answered. Even better, there are interviews. Someone sits down with the guys, talks to them, writes down their impressions. That way, if the guy’s all “I love people,” and the interviewer’s all “He wouldn’t make eye contact,” you know you might end up with shifty-eyed babies.

Again, I’m just looking. Just curious. But between filling out a next-appointment card for one of Melva’s patients and telling some lady on the phone that Dr. Sanchez wouldn’t be back until Monday (and that he’ll be out next Friday and the Friday after that and I don’t know why dentists take Fridays off, they just do), I fell just a little bit in love with Donor 4317.

After that there was a family medical history that was way too boring to read. Then I got to the good parts.

“What you looking at?” I hadn’t heard Melva coming up behind me.

“Just trying to pick the father of my unborn child.” I laugh. “Not really, just I was bored, so I looked up this site.”

“Lemme see.” Melva scoots me out of the way. I use the interruption as an excuse to get a cup of coffee from our tiny break room, which is really just a walk-in closet with a coffeemaker and minifridge. The coffee tastes gross from sitting too long, but I add sugar and cream. That helps.

Melva is still on the computer, muttering, “Maybe . . . he’s kind of . . . nah . . . too much asthma in the family.” She clicks the mouse and brings up a new donor.

“I like this one.” I reach over her for the mouse and click back to the wood-carving, family-loving, real estate guy.

Melva is unimpressed. “Who’s Rivers Cuomo?”

“Dunno. Says he’s in Weezer.”

We do a quick image search on Rivers Cuomo, and my love for Donor 4317 fades, just a tiny bit. He’s okay looking, but no
Twilight
guy.

My cell phone rings. It’s Eric. Weird . . . I feel this stab of guilt, like I really had been checking out guys on a dating site. Then I feel another stab of guilt as I think,
Eric has no career, no ambition, and no desire for a family. Plus Melva’s right: he’s kind of short. No one would ever pick him for a donor.

I press the talk button on my phone. “Hey, baby.” I’d still choose him over 4317, if only he’d let me.

Melva rolls her eyes.

It’s been over a week since my birthday. I haven’t said anything more about marriage or children, and neither has Eric (of course). All I can do is pretend it never happened.

“You free tonight?” He speaks loudly to be heard over the background noise. Eric usually calls me from the parking lot outside the Hawthorne Costco.

“Yeah.” I would never plan something without checking with Eric first, so he’s got to know I’m free. For some reason, whenever he wants to go somewhere, he calls and asks like it’s a date. I used to think that was really cute, like he’s not taking me for granted. I don’t think it’s so cute anymore.

“It’s my dad’s birthday, and my mom wants us all to come for dinner.”

“Uh . . . sure. Is there going to be a cake?”

“Of course not. She just wants us around.”

“Oh, right.”

“Angie’s put together that photo album or scrapbook or whatever she was talking about at Christmas.” Angie is Eric’s sister-in-law. “It’s supposed to be a surprise, but my mom said she knows about it but we all need to pretend she doesn’t.”

The scrapbook. The thought of it makes my stomach clench. When Angie asked me for recent pictures of Eric, I gave her some cute pictures of us at Hermosa Beach last summer.

She said, “No offense, but I really just want pictures of the family in the book, so I’m going to have to cut you out.

When I was a kid, my best friend was this girl named Julie Castillo. Julie lived down the street with her two sisters and four brothers in a cramped three-bedroom bungalow that looked just like mine from the outside except mine was beige and hers was yellow, plus mine had scruffy grass in the small strip between the concrete sidewalk and front steps, while hers had plastic flowers planted in the dirt. Which I know is tacky, but I really loved them.

On the inside, the Castillos’ house was nothing like mine. The house was alive with the smells of Mrs. Castillo’s cooking—onions and tomatoes and peppers—and the shouts and laughter of the seven Castillo kids and their army of friends. In my house, the television did all the talking, and the air smelled like garbage that should’ve been taken out yesterday.

Every time I went in the Castillos’ house, at least after my father died, I wished I were part of their family. When Eric and I started going out and I heard he was one of four kids, I thought, this is it—the family I’ve been waiting for.

But now I realize it doesn’t work that way. I need to have a family of my own.

“You working right now?” I ask Eric.

“I’m on break. Hey. Are we running low on bean burritos? We just got in a new shipment.”

My jaw tightens. “Have you checked the freezer lately? We’ve got like twenty burritos left from the last bag you brought home.”

“Yeah, I know. I was kidding. Anyway. See you at home.”

Melva is still on the computer even though there’s an old lady in the waiting room. She clutches a big black bag on her lap and looks annoyed.

“Hi, Mrs. Guerrero. Have you been helped?”

The old lady purses her lips and shakes her head. Melva keeps her eyes on the computer screen, her mouth curled in a sneer. Mrs. Guerrero’s English is shaky, and Melva speaks Spanish, so she used to be Melva’s patient. But Melva said something to piss her off, so now Mrs. Guerrero will only let Pammy clean her teeth.

“Pammy will be ready for you in a minute,” I tell her, speaking slowly.

She nods and continues to look annoyed.

Melva surrenders my chair. “Eric calling to propose?”

“Yeah, right. It’s his dad’s birthday, so we’re going up to Glendale for dinner.”

“You get his dad a present?”

“Don’t have to. He’s dead.”

Based on the photo she e-mailed, I disagree with Wendy Winder’s assessment that her children look nothing like Ian; there is a definite resemblance around the eyes and also in the little girl’s expression. The picture shows them gazing into a tank at Sea World, one of Ian’s and my favorite weekend destinations. He has gazed at the tank in just the same way, and while I know the odds are nearly nonexistent, I can’t help but wonder whether we’ve ever passed by his biological half siblings—and whether there are any other children going about their daily lives of school and sports and vacations who share his DNA.

As much as Wendy Winder complained about her twins (who can’t be as bad as she made them sound), I keep thinking,
At least they have each other
. Ian just has me. And someday I’ll be gone.

When I see Doug Hepplewhite’s name on my schedule Friday morning, I steel myself for an onslaught of uncomfortable emotions. Doug is Dorothy Hepplewhite’s son and trustee. For someone who deals with the grief-stricken on a regular basis, I still struggle to strike the proper tone. Some people want to spend the entire session talking about their loved one, which, considering my hourly rate, can put a small dent in their inheritance. Other survivors get right to business. My fondness for Dorothy only compounds the situation, and I don’t want my personal sadness to add to her son’s burden.