It wasn’t until they got home and Hollis’s mother took the business card out of her purse that they saw what was written on the back. Blue pen, block print, slanted to the right.
HE LIVES IN EDEN PRAIRIE.
MILO
He was walking home from school, scuffing through the snow in Prospect Park—snow that hadn’t existed that morning—when his phone rang. Milo saw Hollis’s name and answered. “Hey. It’s snowing!”
“It’s him.”
“What?” Milo tipped his face to the sky. He opened his mouth and caught two fat flakes on his tongue.
“I saw his picture in the Macalester yearbook. It’s him.”
It took a second for Hollis’s words to register. “Wait—” Milo stopped. “You have his yearbook?”
“No. But we looked through it in the alumni office. My mom took photos of what we found. I have one on my cell. Do you want to see him, or…”
Milo gave the tree in front of him an incredulous look, as though it were Hollis. “Why wouldn’t I want to see him?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Take your time, Hollis,” Milo said. “It’s not like I care what my father looks like or anything.”
“I’m getting a sarcastic vibe here.”
“Hollis,” Milo said firmly. “Text me his picture.”
“Fine.”
* * *
Milo couldn’t stop looking at him. He tried, several times on the way home, to shove his phone in his backpack and think about something else: homework, war in the Middle East, Hayley Christenson. Nothing worked. He kept stopping to pull it out again. He kept staring at the picture. This is my father. This is my dad. It wasn’t just that Milo saw parts of himself, because of course he did. The hair. The eyebrows. The chin. It was that …
His phone was ringing again.
Crap. It was probably Frankie, wondering why he wasn’t home yet. Milo glanced at the screen. Not Frankie. Hollis.
He answered. “Hey.”
“Conference call,” Hollis said. “Noah’s having a breakdown.”
“It’s not a breakdown,” came another voice. Low, husky … Abby. “It’s a breakthrough. Right, Noah?”
There was a snuffling sound, a few murmured expletives.
“You okay, man?” Milo said.
“It’s a catharsis,” Abby said. “He’s fine.”
“I am not fine.” Noah’s voice was thick.
“Breakdown. Breakthrough.”
“I look just like him!”
Right, Milo thought, connecting the dots. Noah had seen the picture.
“You and me both,” Milo said. Was he missing something here? Wasn’t looking like their biological father to be expected?
“Yeah,” Noah said, “but I didn’t think it would be so obvious.” He and Josh were twins, he reminded them, but they were fraternal. Josh looked just like Noah’s mother—same face, hair, everything. Until this moment, Noah hadn’t realized how much he looked like his father—not the dad who raised him, who never wanted him to search for his sperm donor in the first place, but William Bardo, Macalester Class of 2000. “Josh was right,” Noah said. “It would kill my dad if he saw this picture. I’m basically rubbing his face in the fact that he couldn’t have kids.”
“Josh isn’t right,” Abby said. “And no one is rubbing anyone’s face in anything. You just want to know where you came from.”
That’s what they all wanted, wasn’t it? Milo thought. To know where they came from? It wasn’t right, it wasn’t wrong; it just was.
“Speaking of where we came from…” Hollis said.
Milo waited.
Nothing.
“Yes?” he said.
“Well…” Hollis hesitated. “I kind of found out where he lives.”
“You kind of found out where he lives?” Abby practically shouted.
“It’s a funny story, actually. There was this woman in the alumni office. She said she couldn’t tell us anything because we weren’t alumni, but then my mom started flirting with her and she gave us the yearbook, and then they exchanged business cards, and then, when we got home—”
“Hollis,” Milo said.
“Yeah?”
“Does this story have a point?”
“Yes.”
“What is the point?”
“William Bardo lives in Eden Prairie.”
Milo took a measured breath. He let this information sink in. Then he said, “What’s Eden Prairie?”
“Not what,” Hollis said. “Where. It’s outside Minneapolis.”
“Hang on,” Abby said. “I’ve got my laptop. I’m Googling…”
“Noah?” Milo said while they waited. “You still with us?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How’re ya doin’?” Hollis said.
“I’m…” Noah paused. “Wait. Let me blow my nose…” There was a rustling noise. Then what sounded like a foghorn. Finally, “I’m full of snot.”
“There are worse things to be full of,” Hollis said.
“I guess.”
“Noah,” Hollis said.
“Yeah?”
“You’re not the only one, you know. We’re all freaking out a little.”
Hollis was a good egg, Milo thought. Once you got past the crusty exterior, she had a gooey center.
“Okay, listen,” Abby said. “‘Eden Prairie is an edge city. Twelve miles southwest of downtown Minneapolis in Hennepin County, and the twelfth-largest city in the state of Minnesota. It is on the north bank of the Minnesota River—’”
“We get the picture,” Hollis said.
“I’m setting the scene,” Abby said.
“Why?”
“Because she’s a writer,” Milo said. “The next Augustus Burroughs.”
“Augusten,” Abby corrected him. “Not Augustus.”
“Potato, potahto.”
“Come on,” Abby said. “The north bank of the Minnesota River? Think of the symbolism. Water is the universal sign of change, people. The turning point in a story. Purity. Cleansing. Rebirth…”
“Death,” Hollis said.
“Okay, Mary Sunshine.”
“Ophelia? Captain Ahab? ‘Rime of the Ancient Mariner’? ‘Water, water every where—’”
“Okay,” Milo interrupted. “I thinking we’re getting off track. We need to decide what to do next.”
“Easy,” Abby said. “We write him a letter.”
“Or not,” Hollis said.
“Don’t we need an address?” Noah said.
“Abby?” Milo said.
“I’m on it. Give me a sec.” Abby muttered to herself as she typed. “White pages dot com … first name … William … last name … Bardo … city … Eden Prairie … state … MN…” And finally, “Ding, ding, ding!”
“All aboard,” Noah deadpanned.
“William H. Bardo,” Abby said. “17 Kerry Lane, Eden Prairie, Minnesota.”
Milo let out a deep breath. “Whoa.”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t believe we have an address.”
“And a phone number,” Abby said.
“Holy crap.”
“I know.”
“How do we know it’s him?” Noah said.
“According to whitepages dot com,” Abby said, “there is only one William Bardo in Eden Prairie, Minnnesota, and this one is between thirty-five and thirty-nine years old.”
“I see,” Noah said.
“I see, said the blind man,” Hollis said.
“One of my all-time favorite expressions.”
“Mine, too.”
“I hereby nominate Milo to write the letter,” Abby said.
“Me?” Milo said. “You’re the writer.”
“Yeah, but you brought us this far. You’re our fearless leader. Our Captain Ahab.”
“You know he dies, right?” Hollis said.
“What?” Abby said.
&n
bsp; “Captain Ahab. He drowns at the end of Moby Dick. Tangled in the line of his own harpoon.”
“Thank you, Debbie Downer.”
“You’re the one who wanted cigarette burns and blood splatters.”
“Hollis has a point,” Noah said.
Noah was sounding better, Milo thought.
“Do you guys not think Milo should write the letter?” Abby said.
“I think Milo should do what Milo wants to do,” Hollis said.
“Agreed,” Noah said.
“Let me rephrase,” Abby said. “Milo, do you want to write the letter?”
Yes, Milo did. He wanted to write the letter to William H. Bardo—17 Kerry Lane, Eden Prairie, Minnesota—telling him about the four of them. He wanted to write it bold and proud: We are your kids.
“Okay,” he said.
“Go forth,” Abby said.
“And may the forth be with you,” Noah said.
Hollis groaned. “Please tell me you’re not a Star Wars fan.”
“Hollis.” Noah breathed raspily into the phone. “I am your father.”
“Oh God.”
“God is not your father,” Noah rasped. “I am your father.”
“Go blow your nose, Darth Vader.”
* * *
Milo wanted to write the letter. He really did. And yet he couldn’t.
As he sat in Starbucks, sipping a blackberry Izze—one of the few flavors he wasn’t allergic to—he scrolled through the Donor Progeny Project website on his laptop. There was this page he remembered from the FAQ section. I Just Found My Donor. Now What?
If Milo decided to initiate contact, the page advised, he should “proceed slowly.” He should offer only “basic information.” He should “wait and see” what kind of response he received before “taking things further.” The page read more like a list of warnings than helpful hints. Milo should “exercise caution” and “maintain limited expectations.” He should prepare himself for his donor’s “ambivalence” and avoid asking any “loaded questions” that might put his donor “on the defensive.”
The more Milo read, the less confident he felt. He’d opened a new Word document and tried to get started, but he wasn’t even sure how to begin. Dear Donor? Dear Mr. Bardo? Dear William? Another son might have known exactly what to write to the father he’d never met. Another son might have read the FAQ section—scanned through I Just Found My Donor. Now What?—and said, screw it, I’ll write whatever I want. Another son might have started his letter with Dear Dad because he wasn’t afraid of the consequences.
Milo was not another son. Milo was at a loss.
JJ would know what to write, he thought. Something comic and irreverent. Something to make his donor laugh. Yo, yo, yo, Willy B. What up, dawg?
Milo thought about texting him. Was Jonah Jedediah Rabinowitz really the best person to help write this letter? Probably not. But Milo texted him anyway. Starbucks 7th Ave STAT. Then he texted Frankie and Suzanne to let them know where he was. Doing homework at Starbucks on 7th.
It wasn’t the whole truth, but the whole truth could wait. Later, he would tell them. After he mailed the letter.
After he mailed the letter? Ha! He didn’t even know how to start. How was he supposed to start? Milo sucked down his blackberry Izze. He angled his chair so he could see the door. He waited for JJ.
HOLLIS
Milo group-texted the letter on Saturday morning.
Dear Mr. Bardo, it began, which struck Hollis as funny, as though Milo were addressing the school principal or an elderly neighbor. Not that she would know how to greet the guy any better. Dear #9677?
Anyway. Dear Mr. Bardo, it began.
My name is Milo (age 15), and I’m writing not just for me but also for my half siblings, Hollis (14), Noah (17), and Abby (15). We were all conceived using donor sperm from the Twin Cities Cryolab in Minneapolis, MN. Our Donor was #9677. We are writing to you because our research suggests that you may be Donor #9677 and that, if you are, you registered with the TCC as willing-to-be-known by your future offspring (a.k.a. us). All we are asking at this point is to hear back from you. We don’t want to disturb your life or freak you out or anything, but we would like to know that you are A) alive and B) open to contact. Whatever you want to share with us is great. If you don’t want to share anything … well, we will respect your feelings. But we hope this is not the case because we would really like to hear from you.
Sincerely,
Milo, Hollis, Noah, and Abby
P.S. You can email us anonymously by registering with the Donor Progeny Project and posting on the Twin Cities Cryolab message board under #9677. Or, if you want, you can email us directly: MiloRobClark @brooklynIDS.org; [email protected]; [email protected]; AbsofSteel3 @sheboygancountryday.edu. Thanks again.
Milo texted one other photo—a crop shot of his hand, dropping the envelope into the mailbox. Signed, sealed, and delivered, the caption read. Followed by, Hey, Hollis, if u want to watch him open it, u could stake out his house for the next 3 days, LOL.
Hollis did not LOL. She knew Milo was joking, but she also knew exactly how close 17 Kerry Lane, Eden Prairie, Minnesota, was to her house. It was 23.6 miles. Yes, she’d Google Mapped it. Yes, this had been a stupid thing to do. She knew she shouldn’t Google Map William Bardo’s house. She told herself not to do it, and then she went ahead and did it anyway. Why hadn’t she listened to herself?
Now, Hollis was plagued by the thought that she might have crossed paths with William Bardo any number of times in her life and not even realized it. They could have passed each other in the shampoo aisle of Target or the shoe department of Kohl’s. They could have sat in adjoining booths at the Original Pancake House, poured syrup from the same bottle, bought gumballs from the same dispenser on their way out. Had he noticed her? Had he thought she looked familiar? 23.6 miles. It was screwing with Hollis’s head.
Milo had mailed the letter, and that was fine, but Hollis needed to pretend that it was bound for somewhere else—somewhere far, far away. She needed to clear her mind of it completely.
“Thelma and Louise?” her mother said. “Little Women?… Delivery Man?” She read aloud from the pay-per-view description: “‘An affable slacker discovers that he has fathered 533 children through anonymous sperm donations to a fertility clinic twenty years before—’”
“Seriously?” Hollis said.
“What? We love Vince Vaughn.”
“Mom.”
Her mother smiled. “I think it sounds funny. And apropos.”
17 Kerry Lane, Hollis thought. 23.6 miles. Her mother knew this. Her mother was well aware because Hollis had told her. “This isn’t a joke to me,” she said.
“I know it’s not.” Her mother was grimacing now. “Sorry … I was aiming for levity.”
“Ha,” Hollis said. A nonlaugh.
“I’ll make the popcorn,” her mother said. “You pick the movie. Okay?”
“Fine.”
* * *
At 11:58 p.m., Hollis was in bed but not asleep when she heard something hit her window. Once, twice, three times before she got up to investigate. There, standing in her ice-encrusted backyard, half-lit by the moon, was Gunnar Mott.
“Hey,” he stage-whispered when she opened the window.
“Hey.”
“Want to come out?” He tossed a handful of pebbles in the air and they hit the ground in a silvery spray.
Come out? Hollis thought. It was midnight. It had to be 15 degrees. But what else was she going to do, sleep? She couldn’t sleep. Her head was spinning. 17 Kerry Lane. 23.6 miles. The movie had distracted her for a little while, but as soon as it was over she went right back to thinking about William Bardo.
“Hang on,” she said.
Hollis went outside in pj’s and her skullcap. Without saying a word, Gunnar reached for her. He stuck his tongue in her mouth: Doritos. Hollis liked Doritos well enough but not in someone else’s teeth.
She pulled away. “Wh
at are you doing here?” Gunnar lived nowhere near this neighborhood. He rode a different bus to school.
“Sleeping over Fitzy’s.”
Fitzy’s, Hollis thought. She was drawing a blank. Then she remembered Michael Fitzgerald. He was a sophomore like Gunnar—a tall, skinny kid with bad skin. He lived three blocks down and was always dribbling a basketball.
“Oh,” Hollis said. Her mind was a tornado, twisting and rising. If she didn’t let some pressure out, she might be swept away. But talk about her feelings with Gunnar Mott? She and Gunnar didn’t talk. The most scintillating words in their repertoire were hey and see ya.
“Hey,” Hollis said softly.
“Hey.” Gunnar reached up under her pj top. His hands were freezing.
Hollis shivered. “Did I ever tell you about my father?”
“Hmmm?” He was kissing her again. Tongue probing. Teeth scraping. Hands pressing her back against the side of the garage.
Hollis pushed him away. “My father.”
“Oh shit.” Gunnar dropped his hands and looked around the yard like a crazy person. “Where?”
“He’s not here. I’ve never even met him.”
“Oh … shit.” Gunnar laughed, a puff of relief. He stuck his tongue back in Hollis’s mouth.
She pushed him away again.
“What?”
“I’m trying to talk.”
“Talk,” he repeated.
“Yeah. You know … words? Strung together to form sentences?”
Gunnar didn’t say anything, which Hollis took as a “please continue.” So she did. She told him she was donor-conceived. She told him she had a half brother named Milo. She was just about to explain what the Donor Progeny Project was when Gunnar cut her off. “Hey,” he said.
“What?”
Gunnar lifted her pj top, ran his fingers along her bare side.
Hollis flinched.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your hands are freezing.”
“Well,” Gunnar said low, “why don’t we warm each other up?” He inched his hand higher.
Hollis folded her arms against her chest, blocking him.
“What?” He sounded annoyed.
“I’m trying to tell you something.”
“I didn’t come here for you to tell me something.”
“What did you come here for then?”
The Other F-Word Page 12