by Julie Clark
—
Later that night, I pour a glass of wine and carry the bottle into my bedroom. My bare feet sink into the soft carpet I had installed shortly after I bought the place—a small two-bedroom bungalow in West LA. Enough room for Miles and me and not much else. I painstakingly restored it over the course of two years—putting in hardwood floors, painting the walls a rich, buttery yellow. Even though it’s small, it’s mine, and aside from the lab, it’s the place where I feel most like myself.
My closet, however, is tiny, crammed with clothes and shoes and a shelf that buckles under the weight of sweaters and jeans. But tucked behind all of that, in a plain manila folder, is the file from ACB, American Cryogenic Bank, containing the paperwork from my journey through intrauterine insemination.
Sperm banks are businesses, set up to use cookie-cutter science. They run a series of blood tests and basic genetic screening panels that most first-year grad students could do. They’re blind to the newest developments in genetics, unaware of how much more our cells know than our minds.
When I decided to use a donor, I knew I would have to do more, be more, than someone who had a partner. I was okay with that. I relished the idea of handpicking Miles’s father based on science and facts. I never wanted my child to suffer the way I had, so I eliminated the risk. I crossed it off, like an item on a list—father—relieved to have spared my child that kind of pain.
I honestly believed that between me, my mother, and Rose and her family, Miles would have everything he needed. I made it my job, my mission in life, to make sure that no hole was left unfilled. But so much of parenting is guessing, then second-guessing, never seeing your mistakes until long after you’ve made them. You think it will be simple—if my kid struggles, I’ll find a way to help him. But the reality is that you never imagine your child might push back on that help or that what your child needs is something you can’t give.
Miles first started asking questions, as I knew he would, when he was four. Why don’t I have a dad like Mikey does? I was ready, keeping my explanation simple. Sometimes people need extra help to make a baby, and thanks to the kindness of strangers who donate sperm or eggs in a doctor’s office, now they can. Miles knew about blood banks, and this seemed to fit in with his narrative of people helping people. But now I wonder if I should have told him more about who I chose and why.
I take the folder to my bed and spread the documents before me—my donor’s profile, the baby picture I paid extra to view, a well-read printout of all of his genetic stats and tests, his personal statement, and the staff reflection. I skim the personal statement, read so many times I have it memorized: I’m an engineer who loves the outdoors—skiing, windsurfing, and hiking. The only child of two loving parents, I’m especially close with my father and grandfather.
I loved the idea of a man who was close to his father and grandfather, as if they might pass down something deficient in my own genes to my child. And I loved the simplicity of it—none of the emotional baggage or misplaced expectations of the relationships I’d known.
I finger the baby photo, the edges curling and color fading. Somewhere I have an almost identical photo of Miles, and I’m struck again by the similarities—the shape of their eyes, the dimple in one cheek, the thread of genetics weaving its way through time and linking the past to this moment. It’s not just me who lives beneath Miles’s surface. I’ve let myself forget that. But Miles has never forgotten.
I finish my glass of wine and pour another, taking a healthy sip for courage. I open my laptop and google Donor Sibling Registry.
I’d first heard of it when Miles was an infant, when I was still reading the various donor boards on the Internet shortly after he was born. They talked about how important it is to give your child a sense of identity. The DSR connects donor-conceived children with biological siblings and their donors. At the time I thought it might be something Miles would do in his twenties or thirties, spurred on by a friend or partner, curious about his past. I never imagined I’d be hiding in my room with a bottle of wine, searching for Miles’s father while he slept.
I enter the information I have—our sperm bank, donor number, and state—into the appropriate fields, and my finger hovers over the submit button.
What will I do if Miles’s donor is there, looking for him? Or if he has half brothers and sisters who want to know him? This is what he wants. But he’s eight. Does he really understand what this will open up for him—for us? And what will it do to Liam, who wants a permanent place in our lives? If I do this, all of that will be derailed.
And yet.
How can I not at least look? I don’t have to do anything with the information. I can tuck it away with everything else, and it’ll be there if I need it.
I click submit and wait, feeling as if I’m free-falling and I’m not entirely sure my parachute will open in time. A new screen pops up. Your search has generated
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Okay.
When the adrenaline has faded, I’m surprised to find I’m disappointed. And worried that I’ve gotten it all wrong. That it isn’t enough to be loved unconditionally if you have no idea who you are.
DONOR PROFILE
* * *
Donor #: AF39742
Personal Statement: I love talking to others, whether with a stranger in line at the movies or over drinks with my oldest friends. I’m an engineer who loves the outdoors—skiing, windsurfing, and hiking. The only child of two loving parents, I’m especially close with my father and grandfather. We have a unique bond that transcends most of my other relationships. They inspire me to be a better person, a better man. I’m most proud of my career. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I’ve conducted myself with integrity. I chose to be a donor because I wanted to do something for someone else—without the accolades or recognition—just one pure, good thing. I can’t think of a better way to change someone’s life than to be able to help them have a child.
Donor Type: Anonymous
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 185
Hair Color: Light brown
Eye Color: Hazel
Complexion: Fair
Ancestry: German, Irish
Ethnic Origin: Caucasian
Religion: None
Education Level: Master’s
Area(s) of Study: Engineering
Occupation: Engineer
Blood Type: A+
CMV Total Antibody: Negative
* * *
Chapter Four
“I brought ice cream!” My mother pushes past me, carrying a reusable grocery bag from the ninety-nine-cent store. “Liam,” she says, catching sight of him in the kitchen. “Be a love and put this in the freezer.”
“No problem, Beth.” Liam takes the bag and disappears into the kitchen, where I can hear him trying to rearrange my crammed freezer to make room for the gallon of ice cream.
My mother zeroes in on a basket of Miles’s laundry sitting in the hallway, waiting to be folded. She picks it up and moves it to the couch, where she starts to make neat stacks of shirts and underwear.
“Mom,” I say. “Go play with Miles. I don’t need you to fold my laundry.”
She smiles, apologetic, holding a sock in one hand and searching the basket for its partner. “Sorry. Nerves.”
She glances at me quickly, waiting to see if I’ll ask her why she’s so nervous. But I don’t, because I don’t want to leave any opening for her to launch into my dad’s return.
“Thanks for babysitting tonight,” I say over my shoulder. “We won’t be late.”
“I’m happy to,” she says. “Miles and I need to work on his Halloween costume. Besides, your father has a poker game, so I was at loose ends anyways.”
I let her words hang in the air, refusing to engage. My relationship with my mother is complicated. She’s one of the strongest women I know, often sacrificing what she wanted to give Rose and me what we needed. And yet, I’ve never understo
od what it was about my father that left her unable to move on.
Equally confusing to her was that I preferred to stay home and study rather than go out with friends. Rose made more sense to her. But even though Rose grew up to live the life my mother wanted for herself, I think she resents how easy it is for Rose, often making snippy comments to me about how Rose just doesn’t understand how difficult it can be, as if the two of us are in some kind of hardship club.
“Grandma!” Miles flies out of his room and crashes into her.
She folds him into a tight hug and says, “What’s it going to be this year? Pirate? Dinosaur?”
He wiggles away and says, “I made a list. But I need you to help me narrow it down.” He dashes off to his room again.
“A list.” My mother laughs, her eyes catching mine.
And just like that, my annoyance melts away. I couldn’t do any of this without her. I can’t imagine what it was like, raising Rose and me by herself. No one helped her with babysitting or Halloween costumes. She did it all on her own, with only my father’s intermittent attention.
She deserves so much more.
I move forward and wrap my arms around her. “Thanks, Mom.”
“It’s just a costume,” she says. “You know I love to do it.”
“It’s not just the costume,” I say. “It’s everything.”
She cups my chin in her hand. “I know.”
Liam returns from the kitchen. “We’d better leave if we’re going to make our reservation.”
I step away from my mom and grab my sweater.
As we walk out the door, she calls, “Drive carefully.”
I smile despite myself. Since we each turned sixteen, our mother has always said this when we walk out the door. I think she is terrified that if she doesn’t say it, something will happen and it will be her fault. Rose calls it Beth’s Blessing.
I follow Liam to the car, hoping a night out will wipe away all thoughts of my father’s return and the worry that he’ll hurt my mother and Rose once again.
—
Liam has me laughing throughout dinner as he catches me up on his week. One of his programmers inadvertently designed a character that looked like an enormous penis, and the CEO, in front of a conference room full of investors, asked why the main character looked like a giant prick.
“Want to go for a walk on the beach?” Liam says after paying the bill.
“Sure.” That seems as good a time as any to drop Miles’s revelation on him.
Liam takes my hand and leads me down a side street that arcs onto the beach. The Santa Monica Pier rises in front of us like a carnival on a postcard.
“I wish you’d let me teach you how to surf,” he says.
I lean into him. “And risk getting bitten by a shark? No, thanks.”
He chuckles. “I don’t know what it is with you and sharks.”
“Jaws ruined the ocean for me. Sorry.”
We walk toward our favorite lifeguard station in silence. Finally I say, “I think I’ve figured out why Miles is so hard on you. He told me he wants to know his donor. That I ruined his life.” I give a shaky laugh, hoping the sound of the ocean covers the uncertainty slipping through.
“You haven’t ruined his life,” Liam says. “But no wonder he lost it on you in the camping store.”
I sneak a glance at him, trying to gauge his reaction. He catches me and lifts my hand, kissing my knuckles and easing the tension I’ve been carrying around since last Friday. We slow our pace and sit in the faint shadow of the lifeguard station.
Liam shakes his head. “So all this time, we’ve been forcing the issue, sliding me into the spot he thinks belongs to someone else.”
“The problem isn’t you. But I don’t know how to help him.”
Since last Friday, things I never really thought about have come into sharp focus, like the way Miles will watch Henry and the kids when they’re playing in the backyard. A part of Miles runs around with them, but another part soaks it in, absorbing Henry’s fatherness like his body might absorb a cold glass of water. Tears prick my eyes, and I swipe them away with the tips of my fingers, frustrated. I don’t want to cry about this. Liam places his hands on my knees. Over his shoulder, the Ferris wheel begins its slow rotation, lights twinkling in the night.
“He wants to know his father, which is impossible,” I continue. “I should have seen this coming, should have prepared better for the inevitability.”
“Maybe you can find a support group for him. He’s probably not the only kid who struggles with this,” Liam suggests.
“We were in one for a little while when he was younger,” I say.
“Why’d you stop going?”
I sigh. “I don’t know.” I look beyond the crashing waves to the moon reflecting on the ocean’s surface. “Meetings were in West Hollywood. Traffic was a beast there and back. He didn’t seem to get much out of it, and it was just one more thing we had to do every week.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll figure it out.”
I hope I sound more confident than I feel. I have no idea what figure it out means. Searching for Miles’s donor? Calling the clinic? Bribery? I’m up against a wall, with no way to give my son what he desires and no clear path to the life I want with Liam.
Liam turns so he’s sitting behind me and pulls me back into him, wrapping his arms around me. We stare at the ocean glowing in the moonlight. After a little while he says, “Henry tells me your dad is back and wants to see you.”
“Same story, different day,” I say. “As regular as a leap year.”
“Are you going to see him?”
“Mom wants us to come for lunch.” I try to maintain an even tone and suppress my resentment at being pressured into going.
He rests his chin on top of my head. “Maybe he’ll surprise you.”
“I don’t need any more surprises from him.”
Liam sighs into my hair. “I only meant maybe you might want to reevaluate, considering what Miles is going through. It might help him.”
“You can’t be serious, knowing how he’s treated us.”
“It was just a suggestion.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, and I try to match my breath with the slow roll and tumble of the waves.
“What about you?” he asks softly.
I turn to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“Therapy for you,” he says. “To help sort out your feelings about your dad.”
“My feelings are pretty simple,” I say. “Not a lot of sorting to be done.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He looks away, toward the bright lights of the pier. “It affected you. To be left like that as a little girl. Did you ever think about seeing someone, to help process it all?”
I shrug. “My mom took me to see someone when I was sixteen. She was worried I was closing myself off from people, because I didn’t want to go to pep rallies or bonfires like everyone else my age.”
“And?”
“And it was a waste of time. My therapist was a middle-aged man who wore brown knit vests and had a comb-over. He was a cliché, all the way down to the fern hanging in a macramé plant holder. He had me write a letter to my father, telling him all the ways he disappointed us.”
“Did you send it?”
I look at Liam, surprised. “No.”
I think back to those stuffy afternoons in that dark office, saying all the things I’d rehearsed earlier to convince the therapist I didn’t need to see him anymore: I’m fine. No, I’m not angry with my father. No, I don’t miss him. Sure, I have friends. It never occurred to me that my answers were wrong. That by denying my pain, I was confirming it. What child wouldn’t feel those things?
“Therapy wasn’t for me. I’ve accepted my father’s failures, and I’ve moved on.”
Liam says, “Just because you’ve accepted it doesn’t mean you’re not still scared of it.”
“I don’t think sitting for fifty minutes and rehashing all those feelings woul
d serve a purpose now.”
Liam nods, though I can tell he doesn’t agree. “Fair enough.”
I feel a silent shift in the air between us, and it surprises me that it wasn’t the revelation about Miles that did it but rather the discussion about my dad.
“It’s late,” I say, hoping to move on. “We should let my mom get home to Prince Charming.”
Liam stands and pulls me up. I brush the sand from my pants and reach up, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I love you,” I say, letting my unease slide back to the ground where it belongs.
“I loved you first,” he says, giving me a soft kiss, and then leading me back to the car.
BIOLOGY
* * *
A father’s abandonment can imprint itself on you, shaping how you see the world and every decision you make. Rose grew up to create the perfect family. I grew up to pull apart the science of our father’s choices, to find a genetic reason to explain why some men leave while others stay.
We can now look at your DNA and know where your family came from thousands of years ago. What they ate. How they lived. It can reveal secrets you never imagined possible. Your ancestors’ long-ago choices influence who you are, just as the decisions you make today might be the beginning of a genetic response that will manifest itself generations from now.
No pressure.
Biology matters. It links you—definitively—to your family. No matter how hard we try, we can’t erase what’s already written inside.
* * *
Chapter Five
I’m running late for parents’ night at Miles’s school. I’d gotten waylaid on my way out by a student asking for a makeup quiz, and by the time I got there, the lot was full and I had to park three blocks away and walk. I’d hoped to go home and change, but there wasn’t time, so I’m still wearing the blue jeans, blouse, and boots I wore to work this morning. At least I ran a brush through my hair, though the evening air is causing it to frizz. I remind myself that I’m doing important work, that it doesn’t matter that I look wrinkled and worn out from the lab. But there’s something about PTA mothers that makes me momentarily forget that I’m the one with a PhD, that my work will improve lives all over the world. Those women make me feel inadequate, with their Pinterest-inspired bento box lunches and their commitment to Mandarin lessons, reminding me I will always be two steps behind.
