Finding Cassidy

by Laura Langston

  “And you don’t do it to Jason, either. You make him smile a lot. So I don’t see how you can be bad for him.”

  I’m not, Pete. Your Mom’s lying. Adults do. It sucks.

  “So if you don’t do the stuck-up thing to me or Jason, why do you do it to my mom?”

  I practically groaned. Because she pushes my buttons and makes me say things like, “it wasn’t a lovefest or a love feast, either.” Instead I said, “I’m not sure, Pete. Sometimes people do stupid things.” And then I saw Dad’s car in the distance and I thought of the really stupid thing he and Mom had done and I knew some stupid things were way worse than others.

  “Sweetie, listen. I want you to do me a favour and be a secret spy like you sometimes play, okay?” When Pete nodded, I hurried on. “Tell Jason that I’m sorry, that he can call me and that I’ll see him in the parking lot after work tonight. And don’t let your mom hear,” I stressed. “Got that?”

  His brown eyes were huge and serious as he nodded a second time. “That you’re sorry, that he can call and you’ll see him in the parking lot tonight.”

  “After work,” I repeated. Frank’s car was three houses away. I dug around in my purse for a stick of gum and handed it to Pete. “Remember, okay?”

  “’Kay.” He unwrapped the gum and shoved it in his mouth with the Oreo-cookie crumbs. I glanced one more time over my shoulder for Jason. I hated leaving like this, but I had no choice. I walked slowly down the stairs to face my own brand of parent hell.

  SEVEN

  Chickens that lay brown eggs have red earlobes. There is a genetec link between the two.

  Cassidy MacLaughlin, Grade Four Science Project

  By the time we got home, Mrs. Perdue had called Mom, informing her that she’d found Jason and me in bed together, virtually naked.

  I didn’t help my cause when I informed my parents that I wasn’t naked at all, I had underwear on. Or when I added that you didn’t need to be naked to have sex. Or in a bed, either.

  Mom freaked. She said the usual stuff about being disappointed and how they trusted me and that they didn’t want me sneaking around like “some modernday Juliet.” Dad was calmer. He reminded me that sex was a big step and part of a committed relationship. Which Jason and I had, as I pointed out.

  Then they dropped the bombshell: Mrs. Perdue did not want me seeing Jason anymore. I was no longer allowed in her house, and Jason was no longer allowed in mine.

  I begged, I pleaded, I cried.

  It didn’t matter. Though they both thought Mrs. Perdue was overreacting, and while they sympathized when I pointed out that she was a bitter, nasty woman who hated any girl Jason dated, they also thought Jason and I should “cool it for a while.” There was, they said, a lot happening.

  Understatement of the millennium.

  However, they did agree that I could meet Jason after work that night to apologize for falling asleep in his bed. Other than that, I was under house arrest for the weekend.

  While they ran out to retrieve my car from Max’s place, I was put in charge of cleaning. Little Mac and Big Mac had booked the first possible flight out of Montana; they would arrive tomorrow.

  As I scrubbed the toilets and set out fresh towels, my mind reeled. The shock of yesterday’s double whammy—the Huntington’s diagnosis and the donor-insemination news—hadn’t worn off. If anything, it was like a bad injury: it hurt more the second day. What would the diagnosis mean to Dad? How would he cope? Then I’d remember: he was Frank, not Dad. And that would start me down the other road: Who was my dad? Should I call him “Dad”? What was he like? Did he have an illness, too?

  After lunch, Frank went for a nap and Mom went for groceries. Before she left, I reminded her to go to the bank and retrieve the clinic information from the safety deposit box. She reminded me to ready the spare room.

  That took all of about five and a half minutes.

  Restless, I retrieved the purchases from my car and tried to forget the nightmare that was my life.

  The previous night’s mall therapy session had been excessive even by my standards. I hung up the lingerie sets, put away the teddies and the CK underwear, and left a pair of bright pink silk lounging pyjamas on the bed. Tabitha promptly jumped up, plopped down in the middle of them and fell asleep. Desperate for diversion, I wandered into my bathroom, where I exfoliated, tweeked, plucked and made myself up. Twice.

  Mom still wasn’t home.

  And thoughts of him—my real father—still wouldn’t leave.

  What did he look like? Where did he live? Did he have other children? Was he curious about me?

  I wandered into the kitchen. Through the French doors, I saw three small starlings feeding. Two finches fluttered in to join them. My parents couldn’t understand my fascination with birds. I couldn’t understand their concern about a little bird crap on the hot tub and the fancy stone barbecue.

  I mean, it is biodegradable.

  The ringing phone startled me. Worried that it might wake Dad, I bolted for it. When I saw the name on the call display, I let the answering machine pick up.

  “Hi, Cass, it’s Quinn.” There was a long, uncomfortable pause. “I…uh…heard the news.”

  My Daddy’s dying. Only he’s not my real daddy at all ’cause I’m a sperm child…sperm child dancing to the music.

  Oh, God—Quinn wasn’t even part of our crowd. If she knew, then everyone did. Mortified, I slid down the wall beside the phone stand and rested my head on my knees.

  “I’m…um…really sorry.”

  I wanted to grab the phone and yell into the receiver “About what? That I’m a sperm child or that Frank’s dying? Or that you tried to ruin my life in grade eight?”

  “I’ve been looking into that stupid egg addling we have to do out at Circle Lake and I know how to get around it. Call me if you want to talk.”

  I didn’t want to talk. Especially not to her.

  I was angry. Angry at Quinn for being nice enough to call when I still wanted to hate her. Angry at fate or God or whatever it was for giving Frank Huntington’s. Mostly, I was angry at myself for getting drunk and opening my big, fat mouth at the party.

  How was I going to tell my parents?

  It was almost three by the time the Lexus pulled into the driveway, and I still hadn’t figured it out.

  I hurried outside. “Did you remember the bank?”

  “Yes, Cassidy, I remembered the bank.” Mom popped the trunk. “Help me with the groceries, will you?”

  With record-breaking speed, I carried the bags inside. Silently and efficiently, I helped Mom empty them.

  “Is your dad still sleeping?”

  He’s not my dad. “Uh huh.” I stuffed the head of romaine in the crisper and shut the fridge door. “Where’s the envelope?”

  “In my purse.”

  It hung on the back of the chair. Never before had a black purse held so much fascination. I stared hard, knowing it held the answer to my past. And the answer to my future. It held my missing half. “Can I see it?”

  She sank wearily onto a kitchen chair. Even makeup couldn’t hide the smudge of dark circles under her eyes. “In some ways it seems like only yesterday that we brought you home. But this…” She pulled a manila-coloured envelope from her purse and gave it a shake. “This seems like a lifetime ago.” She held it out.

  I hesitated. I’d imagined this moment all day. I’d planned to go into my room, open it by myself and connect with my father privately. But now I was afraid.

  The envelope was cool to touch, slick against my fingers, yet it burned. My father was inside. I flicked back the flap and removed the contents. Just a single piece of paper.

  I stared at the words.

  Cypress Hills Fertility Clinic

  2134 Marine View Way, West Vancouver, B.C. 604–925–8417

  Date: September 22, 1988

  Procedure Number: Four

  Donor Number: 1546

  Donor Characteristics:

  Race: Caucasianr />
  Height: 6 feet

  Weight: 195 pounds

  Eye Colour: Blue

  Hair Colour: Blond

  September 22, 1988. Nine months and one week before I was born. It was real. There was a part of me—a small part—that had held out hope. Thought that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t true. That by some weird fluke, one of Frank’s wayward sperm had done its job and reached the bull’s eye. That, blond hair, long legs and pasta aside, I really was his child. But the whole damned thing was real. Tears stung my eyes. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t.

  I turned the paper over, looking for more. The back of the paper was blank. I frowned. “Where’s the rest of it? Where’s his name?”

  “There was no name,” Mom said softly. “I was afraid to tell you last night, Dee Dee Bird. There is no ‘rest of it.’ That’s all we were given.”

  No way. “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.” Pain flashed across her face.

  “So you don’t know who—” I glanced at the paper again. “—who donor number 1546 is?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You never saw a picture?”

  “Not one.”

  “But someone would know who he was. I mean, these guys were paid, weren’t they?” I remembered that from the People magazine article. “The clinic would have kept records of their names.”

  “I assume so, but I never asked.”

  She never asked. “What about his family history? His medical history? What if he has some kind of genetic illness like Frank?”

  “Dad,” Mom said firmly.

  I ignored her look of displeasure. “What if cancer runs in his family? Or heart disease?”

  “They screened for that sort of thing. They would have told us if there was the possibility of a problem.”

  “Do you know that for sure?”

  A shadow crossed her face. She looked away.

  My stomach nose-dived. She didn’t know for sure.

  I stared around the kitchen, at the breakfast bar with its trendy chrome stools, the cappuccino maker in the corner, the stash of vitamins under the clock. Everything was the same as it had been two days ago. Everything except for me. I’d never be the same again. “I can’t believe it.” This was no nightmare. This was a horror show. I had a father and I didn’t know who he was.

  “I know you’re hurting, Cassidy, and if I could go back and do things differently, believe me, I would.” Her words were like a distant wind. She reached out to give my hand a little shake. “But I’d still go ahead with it. I’d still have the procedure. I’d still want you here.”

  The procedure. I pulled my hand away. On the other side of the glass doors, a big, black crow rammed into the bird feeder. The other birds scattered.

  “Your dad and I were talking. We think it’s a good idea for all of us to go to a counsellor. He could use help dealing with the Huntington’s, and it would help you sort out your feelings, too.”

  I didn’t respond to that. Instead I watched the crow assault the feeder. Get away from there, I wanted to yell. The seed’s not for you. But nature had its own rules, and crows were hardwired to scavenge. After a minute I asked, “Will you call the clinic and get his name?”

  Mom got up, switched on the oven, opened the fridge. “I can’t promise anything, Cassidy. Certainly not in the next day or two.”

  “I’ll call the clinic myself, then.” I spoke to her back. “I want more information.”

  She turned, a package of chicken breasts held out in front of her like an offering. “Why can’t you just leave well enough alone?”

  Shock rendered me momentarily speechless. “How can you ask me to do that? This is my life we’re talking about. He’s my father.”

  “No!” she said. “Your father is sleeping down the hall. He’s the man who raised you.” She put the chicken aside and leaned against the counter. Her ferocious dark eyes stared me down. “He’s the man who piggybacked you on his shoulders when you got tired of walking. The man who taught you to ski…who watched every single one of your school concerts and every single play…who drove you any time you needed a ride. He needs your support right now, Cassidy. Going on a search for your donor will kill him. Just kill him!” she repeated.

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “I don’t think so. Your father is facing the fight of his life. The last thing he needs is his daughter going out and replacing him.”

  “I’m not replacing him,” I said hotly. “And don’t try to make me feel guilty, either, because it won’t work. I feel really bad that Frank is sick. I do.”

  Mom tried to interrupt; I talked right over her. “But I have my own life to live and I don’t even know who I am anymore.” The tears I’d fought to suppress choked the back of my throat. “I have to do this, Mom. I have to find out who this man is. He’s a part of me.”

  Mom flushed. She opened her mouth, attempted to speak. Nothing came. Eventually she managed a strangled, “Oh, baby.”

  “I just have to.” There was no other way to explain it. It was something I needed to do.

  “Don’t tell your dad, okay?” Mom finally said. “He’s got enough on his plate at the moment.”

  I didn’t want to make things worse for Dad. No way. But what about me? “Frank, you mean?” I was hurt that my feelings didn’t seem to count. “I won’t tell him.” And before she could respond, I headed for my bedroom. I had a phone call to make.

  EIGHT

  Ducks around the outside of a group sleep with one eye always open. Those inside the group shut both eyes.

  Cassidy MacLaughlin, Grade Four Science Project

  According to the sing-song voice on the answering machine, Cypress Hills Fertility Clinic was closed until Monday afternoon. What kind of message could I leave?

  Hello, I think you know my father. Or, Wanted, any and all information on donor number 1546.

  I thought not.

  I checked the computer. Cypress Hills didn’t have a website. Impatiently, I tried half a dozen different spellings; I searched the West Vancouver business directory; I even did a generic search for West Coast fertility clinics.

  Nothing.

  What was that about?

  I pulled up what I could find on sperm donor children. I learned that in England and some American states, donors were now asked to register so potential offspring would have all the information they’d need. In the past, the amount of information given out depended entirely on the clinic.

  How much information would Cypress Hills give me?

  I found a scary post from Australia about a donor who carried some weird-sounding Opitz disease. Officials were trying to find his offspring. The kids were at risk of dying from serious respiratory problems or digestive disorders. One telling sign: those born with the disease had widely spaced eyes.

  I whirled around, stared hard into the mirror. I had widely spaced eyes. My stomach cramped. And digestive problems.

  I swivelled back to the screen and read on. All offspring—and there were forty-two of them—were in Australia or the United Kingdom.

  My stomach uncramped.

  Wait a minute. Forty-two offspring?

  What did you think? That they only donated once?

  Hardly. Then the implication of all those donations struck me.

  I could have a whole bunch of half-brothers and sisters out there. My stomach seized up again.

  I didn’t want to know.

  I turned off the computer, pulled another photo album from my cupboard, grabbed my scissors from the desk and settled into a mound of pillows on my bed. This time I started at the beginning. Album number one. My baby pictures. With vicious delight, I snipped myself away from Granddad and Nana Hunt, from Frank the Fake and Grace the Snake. By the time Mom knocked on my door, I’d reached album three, and I had a nice little pile of Cassidy the Separate beside me.

  I pulled a pillow off the pile, tossed it over my handiwork. “What?”

  Mom opened the door and poked her head a
round the corner. “Dinner.”

  “No thanks.” I wouldn’t eat with them if they paid me to.

  She glanced at the pile of photo albums at my feet. “What are you doing?”

  “Thinking.”

  She studied me for a long minute. “Huh.” I could tell she didn’t believe me. “I’ll bring you a plate.”

  I grabbed the TV remote and switched on the TV. When she came back a few minutes later with smothered chicken and rice, I feigned fascination with a rerun of What Not to Wear.

  I wolfed down the food. It was hot and comforting, a long-time favourite from childhood.

  “You did pretty well,” Mom said when I went into the kitchen a little while later.

  “I managed to choke it down.” I rinsed my plate, put it into the dishwasher and cut myself a huge chunk of butter tart square.

  Frank was on the phone. “You have my personal guarantee that the mayor will hear about your flooding problem,” he said. Obviously it was a business call. “And I’ll be in touch with the Public Works Department first thing in the morning.” That was take-charge Dad. But in spite of the confident tone and reassuring words, I couldn’t miss the oatmeal colour of his skin, the slump of his shoulders, the constant tap, tapping of his finger against the table. He was sick. And he was only going to get worse. My stomach turned inside out at the unfairness of it all. I grabbed some milk and headed back to the bedroom.

  What would Frank think of my searching for my donor? Would he be hurt, like Mom suggested? Or would he understand? It wasn’t like I wanted to meet the guy, have a relationship or anything.

  Or did I?

  I was still pondering when I headed out to meet Jason and apologize.

  “Half an hour.” Mom stood in the doorway and called down the sidewalk after me. “I want you home by ten o’clock.”

  “By ten-fifteen,” I yelled back. “You said I could have thirty minutes with him.”

  Normally Mom would have come after me, repeating the curfew in her firm, no-nonsense voice. But tonight her only answer was a nod and a wave.