by Robin Wells
“I don’ like it.” Tears had streaked down her face. “It’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not, but life’s like that sometimes.” Quinn had reached over and taken Lily’s hand.
“Everyone’s life has parts that seem unfair,” the minister had said. “When someone we love dies, it’s normal to feel sad and mad and confused, and it’s normal to cry. That’s when friends and family can help the most. That’s when we understand how important is it to love each other and to take special care of each other.”
“Mommy an’ I always takes special care of each other.”
Quinn and I had looked at each other. I’d had trouble seeing her through my misty eyes, but I could tell she was fighting back tears, too.
“Jesus is taking very good care of her now,” I’d finally said.
Quinn nodded. “And Miss Margaret and I are going to take very good care of you.”
Lily had stuck her thumb in her mouth and hugged her bear. Fat tears had coursed down her still-babyishly-round cheeks. “But I want my mommy.”
“I know,” I’d said. “I know.” I’d rocked her and stroked her hair, not knowing what else to do, until her tears stopped and she looked up.
“Am I goin’ to school today?” she asked.
“Do you want to go?”
Her head bobbed up and down. “It’s picture show-an’-tell. I’m taking a picture of Auntie Quinn an’ Mommy an’ me at the zoo. An’ Auntie Quinn said I could take the cookies we made yesterday afternoon.”
“It’s probably best to keep her on her regular routine as much as possible,” my minister had murmured.
Oh, how wonderful, that Lily’s mind is so young and forward-looking that it holds distressing thoughts for only short spurts of time. Even in grief, sadness isn’t her default emotion. It comes and goes like summer rain, but doesn’t entirely overshadow her sunny disposition.
Quinn has been a huge help these past few days. She made sure Lily went to preschool and on playdates. She coordinated which of Brooke’s many friends brought us dinner, and she helped with Lily’s meltdowns. She sat with me in the evenings as Brooke’s friends came by, all of them bearing food, and she helped with decisions about the funeral arrangements. We decided to have a reception at Brooke’s house after the service instead of a wake the night before.
I’d thought that perhaps Lily should go to school on the day of the funeral, but one of the women in Brooke’s single-parent club, a salt-and-pepper-haired woman in her early forties named Sarah, was a psychologist, and she suggested Lily attend.
“She needs to be a part of the ceremony honoring her mother’s life,” Sarah had said. “Even if she doesn’t fully understand it now, it’ll be important to her when she’s older.”
It made as much sense as anything, so Lily had accompanied us. I was surprised at how well she’d behaved, sitting between Quinn and me during the service. Quinn had arranged for Lily to go play at a friend’s house shortly after we got home.
“When is Lily due back?” I ask Quinn now.
“Anytime we want her. Her friend’s house is less than a block away.”
It occurs to me that I’ll have to make all kinds of arrangements—find children for her to become friends with, coordinate playdates, enroll her in dance lessons. It all seems rather daunting.
“Alicia and Lily have known each other since they were infants,” Quinn says. “They met in a mommy-and-me exercise class.”
I feel a moment of panic. I don’t participate in many things—anything, really—that attract young mothers. I’ll have to build a network. “I suppose I’ll have to find a good preschool for Lily in Alexandria.”
Quinn’s eyebrows rise, then pull together. “I thought you’d move here, into Brooke’s house.”
The remark startles me. “Why would I do that?”
“Well, because it—it’s Lily’s home.”
I’m taken aback by the very thought, and my answer comes out sounding more curt than I intend. “Children live in the home of their guardian.”
Quinn’s mouth opens. I think she’s about to say something more, but then she abruptly closes it. She blinks rapidly, and I realize she’s fighting back tears.
“You’re welcome to come visit anytime you want,” I tell her.
“Thank you,” she says. Her hands link together over her stomach, so tightly that her knuckles turn white. “Can Lily come visit me, as well?”
“Certainly. But not right away; she’ll need some time to settle in.”
I am, after all, Lily’s family. Blood belongs with blood. I have reasons for knowing this that I’d just as soon not think about, but I know it for a fact. Friends are wonderful, but there’s no substitute for true family.
Which is why, when Quinn took Lily to preschool that first day after Brooke’s death and I was left all alone in Brooke’s home, I went into her office and looked through her files. I didn’t know how it would be labeled and I didn’t know if it would be in the file cabinet or on her computer, but I knew she would have kept information about Lily’s father.
I decided to look for paper first. Paper is so much easier to manage, although I’m quite good on computers, much better than most people my age. I used to work at the public library and I still volunteer there, so I know all about Google—and I’ve already used it to research how to track down an anonymous sperm donor.
It’s still a long shot, but the anonymous nature of sperm donations is rapidly disappearing, and the odds of locating a donor are steadily getting better. Many cryobanks are developing more-open policies regarding contact between donors and recipients and children. Some are offering donor-sibling registries and message boards where children of the same donor can meet and stay in touch. Some have sent notices to former donors, offering them the opportunity to be notified if their offspring reaches out to them. Others refer all parties to organizations that forward messages from donors, siblings, and recipients to one another.
The key piece of information needed for any of this is the donor number. That’s the golden ticket for making contact—the number that identifies the father. You must have it, as well as the name of the cryobank.
I’d discussed all of these findings with Brooke as I uncovered them, but she’d wanted nothing to do with it. She’d insisted on raising Lily as a single mother and abiding by the terms of the original donor agreement.
But Brooke was no longer here. I was now Lily’s guardian, and I needed to do what I thought was best for her. And I was completely convinced that Lily’s father should be a part of her life—now more than ever.
It took me a while, but I found a folder labeled New Orleans Cryobank in Brooke’s file cabinet. I pulled it out, my heart fluttering as I opened it. Taped to the inside of the folder was a photo. I stared at it, and my hands began to shake. It was a picture of a young boy who looked so much like Lily that I nearly dropped the file. He even had the same dimple in his left cheek.
This was it—the file about Lily’s father! I quickly riffled through the contents. There were brochures about the cryobank and a three-page form about the donor. I rapidly scanned them. Apparently he has blue eyes and brown hair and he’s six foot two. He’s of English, French, and Scandinavian descent, with no history of heart disease or cancer in his immediate family at the time of his donation. As Brooke had said, there was no name, phone number, or address. No picture of him as a man—just the photo of him as a child.
I pumped my fist in the air—I learned about fist pumps when Brooke taught Lily how to do one when she first ate broccoli. I’d read the rest of the information more carefully later, but I already found what I was looking for, right there at the top of the page: “Donor 17677.”
That’s it—the donor number for Lily’s father! I’d found the golden ticket.
CHAPTER THREE
Zack
Thursday, May 9
/> KANSAS CITY DAN had come to New Orleans to get some nookie.
The realization dawned on me about three-quarters through the unnecessary meeting.
I’d wondered why the beefy-faced client insisted on traveling to our law offices with his assistant, when the corporate merger negotiations were basically finished and all that remained was a tedious last-draft slog through minutiae, a task better suited to email.
And then I stretched out my legs and ran smack into the reason: Dan was playing footsie with his blond assistant under the long oak conference table. I quickly pulled back my feet, straightened in my chair, and put on my best poker face.
“There you have it,” I say now as I flip over the final page of the document. “Any questions?”
“I think that wraps things up,” Dan says. “Just wanted to make sure we touched all the bases.”
My guess is you’ll do that tonight. “Well, then, I believe we’re all done.” I turn to the lawyer representing the selling party. “Unless you have anything to add?”
“Nope.” He’d told me beforehand that he thought the meeting was a waste of time. But, hey, he’d said, it’ll accomplish my two key goals—keeping my clients happy and accruing billable hours. He closes his laptop now and pushes back his chair. “I’m good.”
“Well, it’s been great doing business with you,” I tell Dan. We all stand, shake hands, and exchange the expected pleasantries. I take my time gathering up my things until the conference room empties.
I’m not opposed to mixing business with pleasure, but Dan and his assistant are both wearing wedding rings, and I know from previous conversations that they’re not married to each other. I try not to be judgmental, but I don’t like the concept of cheating. I don’t like the idea of a boss having an affair with an employee, either; the power differential makes things lopsided.
Come to think of it, I don’t like much of anything about Dan. He’s an executive with a national chain of funeral homes, and he makes his money from charging grieving people exorbitant prices. Plus he exhibited zero sympathy for the local businessman who’s selling his family-operated mortuaries because he has a terminal illness. I give Dan plenty of time to clear out before I step into the hallway so I don’t have to interact with him any further.
Steve Schoen, the senior partner at my firm, approaches the conference room as I’m leaving. He’s a fit, silver-haired man who looks like an older version of Anderson Cooper. He greets me with a broad smile. “Great job on the Shipman Energy contract, Zack. That was partner-level work.”
I get a rush of satisfaction, like I used to feel in high school when I nailed a long pass. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. Are you sure we can’t persuade you to stay?”
I blow out a sigh. I’ve worked at Schoen, Roberts, Moreau, and Associates for ten years, ever since I graduated from law school. Up until about a year ago, I would have given my eyeteeth to make partner, but I recently notified them I’d be leaving.
“If it were just me, I’d be all over it,” I say, “but Jessica has a great opportunity in Seattle, and her family lives out there.”
“I hate to see you go, but I understand.” Steve gives a rueful grin. “Happy wife, happy life, right? Especially for a two-career couple who’re probably ready to start a family. It’s hard to beat doting grandparents who live nearby.”
I smile and nod. It’s funny, how everyone assumes you can have a child anytime you want. But then, I haven’t said anything about the infertility problem Jessica and I have been dealing with for the last couple of years. What the hell would I have said? We’re going through a soul-sucking black hole of disappointment that’s bled all the joy out of our marriage?
“You’ll do great in Seattle,” Steve says. “The firm you’re going to is stellar.” He shoots me a thumbs-up. “I appreciate that you’re staying here through the Henson merger and the Tripp acquisition.”
“No problem.” I’d brought in the two pieces of business, and I wanted to see them through—plus I’m working on a pro bono case for a seventeen-year-old from a disadvantaged background that I want to get settled.
The truth is, I hate leaving New Orleans, but Jessica needs a change. She’s the one who’s had to deal with hormone shots and mood swings and invasive procedures, and it’s really taken a toll on her.
After six months of trying to conceive a child on our own, Jessica had gone to a fertility specialist, who’d diagnosed her with low ovarian reserves. Who knew you could be practically out of eggs at age thirty-six? After two years of hormone treatments and five failed IVF attempts—punctuated by one miscarriage, a mere week after a positive pregnancy test—her doctor had said he couldn’t recommend further treatment unless we used donor eggs.
Jess had responded with anger, denial, and despair. She wants a baby that’s biologically her own. I was fine with donor eggs or adoption, but now, quite frankly, all I want is a break. Jess had insisted on going to another specialist. After reading her medical records and examining her, the second one had concurred with the first. The new guy agreed to do another round of ovarian stimulation so Brooke could freeze any eggs that might be harvested, but he only did it because Jess refused to take no for an answer. “The quantity and quality of your eggs doesn’t really justify it,” he said, “but it’s your money.”
The amount of money we’ve already spent is astronomical, but I try not to think about that. With her eggs in the bank, the doctor insisted she take at least a six-month sabbatical from any further treatments. I want to be done with them altogether. Some things just aren’t meant to be, and at some point, a person has to accept that.
I’d hoped that Jessica would get back to her old self, but the truth is, I don’t even know what that is anymore. She still looks like the smart, gorgeous woman I fell for, but she doesn’t want to discuss anything or go anywhere. Her feelings get hurt over the least little thing, she’s irritable and remote, and she has no interest—none at all—in sex.
They warned us when we started IVF that the hormones could suppress libido, but it completely erased hers, and that pretty much killed mine, too. It got to the point that I didn’t try to initiate anything because when she did agree, it felt like she was just obliging me.
She’s been off the hormones for a couple of months now, but nothing has changed. If anything, we’ve fallen even deeper into the no-sex, no-real-communication rut. I’m worried that Jess is depressed. I’ve asked her repeatedly to see a doctor about it, but she says there’s no point; she doesn’t want to do talk therapy and she refuses to take medication.
The only thing she wants to do is work. She’s the controller at a large hotel on Canal Street, and this transfer to Seattle is the first non-baby thing that’s really interested her in . . . jeez. How long has it been since she’s cared about anything but getting pregnant? I can’t even remember.
Anyway, she wants to move to Seattle, so we’ve flown there twice in the last month—once so I could interview at a law firm, and another time to look at neighborhoods. Both times we visited her parents, her brother, and her sister, and that seemed to perk her up.
I think it’ll be good for her to live close to her family, so I’ve agreed to leave this city I’ve grown to love. We already have the condo under contract; we close on the sale in two months. Jessica’s heading back to Seattle tonight for another long weekend to look at houses. She likes to take an evening flight so she can sleep on the plane and make up the two-hour time difference.
She has an old school chum out there who’s in real estate, and she thinks he can help find us a place. She’s scheduled to start her new job in three weeks, but she may take a week off between positions. I’ll follow four weeks or so later.
As I walk down the hall toward my office, I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my text messages. There’s one from my pal Hayden—Are you running in the 5K Saturday?—and one from Jessica—Can
you make it home by five thirty for an early dinner before my flight? I’m leaving work at three so I can fix my special chicken cacciatore.
My stomach does a weird flip. It’s strange that she’d want to fix a meal the night she leaves town. She doesn’t cook much. In fact, the last few times she cooked a meal from scratch, she was trying to talk me into another round of IVF. Surely she’s not thinking . . .
Nah. We’re getting ready to move, the doctor told her to give it a rest, and she knows I’m done with the whole thing. I stifle the thought and sit at my desk to check my business emails. I read a couple, then look at my personal messages. I scroll past a few I should probably set to spam, then freeze as I see a message from the New Orleans Cryobank. The subject line reads, In response to your recent request.
I haven’t made a recent request. Hell, I haven’t had any contact with the cryobank in . . . what? Seventeen, eighteen years?
I briefly donated sperm while I was a freshman scholarship student at Tulane University. Dad’s business had run into trouble, and I wanted to pay my own freight. I only did it for a short while; I stopped when a long-legged blonde I had a huge crush on refused to go on a second date when I told her about it.
“I don’t want to date a sperm donor,” she’d said.
“Why not?” I’d asked, completely clueless.
“If you don’t date someone, you won’t fall in love with him.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t want to risk falling in love, getting married, and having children with someone who already has twenty kids out there,” she’d explained. “I especially don’t want to have them showing up on my doorstep in eighteen years and vying with my kids for their father’s affections. So the best policy is just don’t date anyone who’s ever been a donor.”
“Hey, I was only asking you out for a beer,” I’d said as casually as I could, but the truth was, I’d been thunderstruck. Until she’d said that, I hadn’t been concerned about how being a donor might affect a future partner. I’d just thought, Hey, I can make up to $1,200 a month and I won’t need to hit up Dad for money. What little further thought I might have given it had been along the lines of, I’ve been through a lot of testing so I have proof I’m healthy and I’m providing a valuable service for infertile couples.