She Gets That from Me

by Robin Wells

  It’s nuts, how stupid a nineteen-year-old kid can be. Once I’d realized the implications of being a donor, I’d called the cryobank and resigned. I even asked about getting my swimmers back, but they told me they’d already been processed. They reminded me I’d signed a contract, and that it was past the one-month deadline for changing my mind. The best they could do was list me as a “limited donor”—meaning my data wouldn’t be actively promoted on their website, and they’d move my info to the end of their donor list, where it would be buried under more than five hundred other names. Since I hadn’t produced a lot of “product,” I suppose I wasn’t worth advertising.

  I’d told Jessica about my brief foray into sperm donorship early in our dating relationship. It felt like an ethical necessity, like letting potential partners know about an STD or a stalker ex-girlfriend.

  At first, Jessica acted like it wasn’t a big deal, but apparently she did some research, and a few of months later, she asked me about it. She wanted to know if I’d always remain anonymous or if I’d agreed to let donor offspring contact me when they became adults. I said I’d agreed to let them contact me when they turned eighteen.

  “So do you know if you have any kids out there?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you want to find out?”

  “No,” I’d said. “I waived all parental rights and responsibilities. I’m nobody’s father; I’m just a donor who contributed biological material, like a kidney or skin tissue or something.”

  She’d dropped the subject, the relationship progressed, and a year later, we married in a big to-do in Seattle. I thought we were done with the topic, but then she’d brought it up again about a year ago, when we were in the hellhole of IVF treatments.

  We were sitting at Café du Monde and a woman came in, pushing a baby in a carriage. At that point, with the hormones and constant disappointments, just the sight of a baby could make Jess cry. Sure enough, her eyes had welled up.

  “Do you ever look at a child and wonder if it’s yours?” she asked.

  The question hit me like pigeon poop—unexpected, messy, unpleasant. “No.”

  “Sometimes I do,” she said. “Especially if they look like you, like that one.”

  I squinted at the baby. I wasn’t not bald, red-faced, or dressed in a onesie sailor outfit, and I was sure as hell not sucking on a Binky. He didn’t look anything like me. Hell, he didn’t look like anyone, except maybe another baby. “That’s flat-out crazy.”

  “No, it’s not. You were a sperm donor in New Orleans, so it’s likely you have children here.” Her voice is tear-choked and aggrieved.

  I feel unfairly accused of deliberately hurting her. I’ve tried to be nothing but supportive, but this whole infertility thing hasn’t been easy on me, either. “You knew I was a donor when you married me,” I said.

  “Yeah. But I didn’t know we’d have trouble conceiving our own baby.” She brushed away a tear with her forefinger. “It eats me up inside to think that you may have children with another woman—or women.”

  I reach for her hand across the table. “You can’t think that way,” I said. “It doesn’t do any good and it makes you miserable.”

  “What if I can’t help it?”

  “You can.” I had no idea if it were true, but I desperately wanted it to be. “Just don’t dwell on things you can’t change.”

  That was months ago, but the conversation replays in my brain as I read the email on my computer screen now.

  Dear Donor 17677:

  Thank you for your recent inquiry. We are unable to change your email address due to security protocol. As your contract stipulates, we will only change your personal information if you properly answer the security questions. After three wrong tries, the system locks down.

  Huh? I hadn’t tried to contact them, and I sure as hell hadn’t tried to change my e-address. I continue reading:

  Per the terms of your contract, we cannot comply with your request to inform you of the number of births that resulted from your donation. We do not disclose that information, nor do we facilitate contact between donors and donor recipients or donor-conceived children under the age of eighteen. These policies were established and are enforced in order to protect the privacy and well-being of all concerned.

  If you have any further questions, please feel free to contact us at the above e-address or phone number.

  Thank you,

  Maria Martinez

  Client liaison

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jessica

  I NEED TO seduce my husband, but I’ve forgotten how.

  I drop a handful of vermicelli into the pan of boiling water on the stove and ponder it. I can’t be obvious; if I greet him at the door naked or in sexy lingerie, it’ll be too radical a departure from the way we’ve been with each other lately. I don’t want to make Zack suspicious.

  Suspicious. The word makes me feel guilty. Well, I am guilty; I’ve gone behind his back and done something that will make him furious if he finds out, and I feel terrible about it. I’m not sure how much, if anything, I’m ever going to confess; maybe I won’t need to tell him anything.

  All I know for sure is that I desperately need to reconnect with him, and sex is the fastest way to do that. Sex is the glue that holds a marriage together.

  Sex, and children.

  Unfortunately, those are two things our marriage lacks, and I’m at fault for both of them. I tell myself it’s not anything I did or chose, so I can’t really be blamed, but still, the fact remains: I’m the one who’s defective.

  And then there’s the lack of sex. That’s on me, too. The hormones I took for IVF made me feel half-crazy and bloated and depressed. There were hormones to stimulate my ovaries, then hormones to prepare my womb to nurture an embryo. None of them ever worked as intended. Although several embryos were produced and used in multiple IVF procedures—we used every single viable embryo—only one ever implanted. And that pregnancy, if you can even call it that, only lasted a week.

  What it did, though, was give me hope—clinging, cloying, pathological hope, persisting even after the doctors said all hope was gone.

  I’m accustomed to succeeding at whatever I put my mind to. I’m like NASA that way: failure is not an option. I’ve always been able to work harder, practice more, try a new method, or find a way around a problem. Why am I unable to succeed at something as basic as getting pregnant?

  I stir the marinara sauce simmering on the stove. Infertility has been a heartbreaking journey. It’s cost us a fortune, and now I’m afraid it’s costing our marriage.

  From what I’ve read, it’s pretty normal for IVF to take a toll on a relationship. I felt awful because of the hormones, so I rejected all of Zack’s advances and never made any of my own. Before we knew it, the sexiest things happening in our marriage involved third-party medical procedures and solo semen deposits into plastic cups.

  I’m off the hormones now, but our default setting is “distant.” We’ve stopped flirting, we’ve stopped cuddling, we’ve stopped really talking. The fact that Zack was a sperm donor only magnifies my sense of inadequacy. I feel like a failure as a woman.

  Well, I need to close the emotional distance between us before I go to Seattle, especially in light of what I’ve done, so tonight I’m making an effort. I’ve put on a black lace thong and a matching bra under my favorite jeans and a red top he likes, and I’m wearing my hair down and loose because he likes that, too.

  I’m cooking a homemade meal, as well. I don’t really believe that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but hopefully it’ll be a prelude.

  I check the chicken cacciatore in the oven, then place a foil-wrapped loaf of garlic bread in beside it. The perfume I dabbed behind my ears mingles with the scent of garlic, making me feel a little sick—or maybe it’s just guilt over what I did.

/>   I hear the key turn in the door. My pulse races as I smooth my hair.

  “Hey there,” I call, trying to make my voice sound warm and upbeat.

  “Hey,” he responds, his head down as he steps in and closes the door behind him.

  He’s a great-looking guy—tall and fit, with thick brown hair, even features, and electric-blue eyes. The amazing thing is that he’s just as nice as he is good-looking. If I’d made a list of everything I wanted in a spouse—and I did; I believe it’s important to know what you want in life so you can go after it—I would have shortchanged myself. Zack is everything I wanted and more. He has qualities I didn’t even know were important, like being funny and thoughtful and generous.

  I smile and move toward him around the gray granite island. We meet by the dining room table. Just as I lean in to give him a kiss, he turns and drapes his jacket over a chair. My lips land awkwardly on his cheek. I laugh and start to try the kiss again, but he deliberately shifts away. He straightens and looks at me, his gaze as stony as the countertop.

  My stomach dips, as if I drove over a hill too fast. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  He folds his arms across his chest. “I got an email from the New Orleans Cryobank today. Apparently someone signed into my account, inquired about the number of births from my donation, then tried to change the email address.”

  My mouth goes dry. I head to the stove and pretend an intense interest in the marinara sauce, my heart pattering hard.

  “Would you happen to know anything about that?” he asks.

  I react like the guilty party I am. I move to the oven and stall. “Why would you think that?”

  A nerve jumps in his jaw. “Because I can’t think of anyone else who would want that information.”

  I open the oven door as if the chicken urgently needs to be checked. “Maybe the cryobank confused you with another donor.”

  I’m peering into the oven so I don’t see his face, but his voice is low and hard. “Is that really the way you want to play this?”

  “I—I’m not playing anything.”

  “I spoke to a liaison at the cryobank, Jess. She confirmed that someone accessed my account, which means they knew the password. And you know the password I used to use for everything.”

  I’m tempted to put my head in the oven, but it’s electric, not gas. I continue to stare at the chicken, the heat burning my cheeks. I feel sick and scared and so guilty I could die.

  He’s caught me. I close the oven door and lean against it. “Okay. Yes. I tried to find out if you have any children and, if so, how many.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I thought we needed to know.”

  “Hell, Jess! Why would we need to know?”

  How can I explain the way it’s been gnawing away at me? There’s no rational way to describe the aching emptiness I feel at the thought of another woman having his baby, when I’m unable to give him one myself. “I—I was curious,” I say lamely.

  “And that makes it okay to go behind my back?”

  Of course it doesn’t. I can’t bring myself to look at his face. “No.”

  “How did you get the name of the cryobank and my donor number?”

  My knees feel unsteady. I move back to the stove and turn the burner off under the pasta, then stir the marinara sauce again, hoping I look less rattled than I feel. “I—I ran across it in your desk drawer.”

  “You couldn’t have ‘run across it’ without going through my private papers.”

  “I saw the envelope the last time you got out your passport.”

  “So you thought it was okay to just read my personal papers?” He’s in full lawyer mode now. “I know where you keep your old journals. Does that give me permission to read them?”

  Shame shrinks me. I feel small and petty and ugly. “You’re right,” I say, abandoning the spoon in the sauce. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.”

  “You know what’s even worse than going through my private papers? You hacked into my email account, impersonated me, then tried to change the e-address so you could get information without my knowledge. On what planet is that an all right thing to do?”

  “I’m sorry. It—it was a mistake.” Although the word hacked isn’t really accurate, when I know he used to use I8abagel as the password for all non-money-related accounts. “I just really wanted to know, because . . .” I run out of words. I can’t come up with a single excuse that isn’t covered with the ugly slime of jealousy, bitterness, resentment, or worse.

  “Because what?”

  “Well . . .” I turn off the burner under the sauce, move to the other side of the kitchen island, and perch on one of the barstools, hoping I can still turn his mood—and the evening—around. “Because I’ve changed my mind about using a donor egg.”

  This doesn’t seem to strike him as good news. His brow pulls into a hard frown. “You’ve always hated the idea of a donor egg. Besides, we’re moving so you can take on this big new job, and you agreed to take a break from all this starting-a-family stuff. It makes no sense.”

  “It makes lots of sense.” I try to sound persuasive and enthusiastic. “I’d like to make a fresh start. One with better odds. You tried to persuade me to consider a donor egg.”

  His frown deepens. “That was a bunch of IVF procedures ago, and you were dead set against it. And anyway, I fail to see a connection. What the hell does a donor egg have to do with my account at the cryobank?”

  Because if I use a donor egg, it’ll be one more biological child you’ve created with a random woman’s DNA, and I want to know how many of those are already walking around. But I can’t say that, because it’s wrong. It’s small-minded and selfish and probably politically incorrect.

  “What’s really going on here, Jessica?” His blue eyes are troubled. I can tell he’s trying to move beyond his anger, although I can see it hasn’t entirely burned out yet. He’s such a good man. The thought pierces me.

  “Nothing.” My eyes fill with tears. I look down and twist my wedding set on my finger.

  He blows out a hard sigh and runs his hand down his face. “You need to level with me. If I can’t trust you, what kind of marriage do we have?”

  I wrap my arms around my stomach, which feels like a cannonball pressing against my spine. He’s right. I’m destroying his trust in me. I feel like I can’t even trust myself anymore. What kind of obsessed, desperate, crazy woman have I become? Tears drip off my chin, making splotches on my blouse.

  He pulls a paper towel off the holder and hands it to me. This little kindness makes me feel worse.

  “Come on, Jess,” he says. “Tell me what’s really going on.”

  I dab at my eyes. “I . . . I wanted to know if you had any children. It’s been killing me.”

  “We’ve talked about this, Jess. I think you need to get professional help.”

  “A shrink won’t change the situation.”

  “Well, neither will rooting around in my personal papers and trying to hack into my donor account.”

  “I have this need to find out, and it’s gotten worse instead of better. I can’t seem to let it go.”

  “We’ve discussed all this. I’ve explained over and over that the cryobank has rules and procedures in place to respect everyone’s privacy.”

  “I know, I know. But a lot of time has gone by, and I thought that things might have changed. And . . .” The words pour out before I can stop them. “They have.”

  “What?”

  “I—I found out something.” I bury my face in the paper towel. Oh my God, what am I doing? Shut up, I tell myself. Just shut up. Say no more. But there’s a part of me that can’t keep quiet.

  Zack blows out a long sigh. “I talked to a representative at the cryobank, and she told me they didn’t release any information.” He clearly thinks I’m sti
ll lying. “Truth and trust go together, Jessica. My father always said that trust is the most important thing in a relationship, and if you can’t be honest with me, well . . .”

  I interrupt, my voice muffled through the paper towel. “The cryobank isn’t the only place that has information.” I shouldn’t be telling him this, I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stand for him to think I’m dumb or lying.

  “What?”

  I lower the paper towel. “When I couldn’t find out anything from the cryobank, I searched online.” The words gush out, like water from a broken pipe. “There’s an organization—the International Fertility Donor Registry. For a fee, you can post a donor number and the name of a cryobank on their website, and anyone else who has the same info—the donor, a child, siblings, or the donor recipient—can reach you.” I venture a glimpse at his face. He’s wearing his inscrutable lawyer expression. “Both parties have to sign up and be actively looking, so it’s by mutual consent.”

  “Hell.” He drags his fingers through his hair and draws in a long breath, then paces toward the window. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing’s truly private anymore.” He turns around, walks back, and folds his arms across his chest. His gaze is so pointed it practically pins me to the wall. “So what did you do?”

  The paper towel crumples in my hand. “I, um, visited the site and registered as you.”

  “Jesus, Jess!”

  “I-I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

  A muscle twitches in his jaw. His eyes make me feel like I’m under a laser telescope and he can see right through my skin, right into my black, guilty heart.

  He takes a step forward, puts his hands on the granite island, and leans over it toward me. “What did you find out?”