Unholy Birth

by Andrew Neiderman

  She grunted a reluctant “It’s possible” but reserved her judgments for our interview and meeting. Of course, I kept anticipating her changing her mind about going forward. All day and all night until the hour of the meeting, I expected her to tell me she had made a mistake. We were making a mistake. We were rushing into it. Cancel the meeting until we had more time to think about it. Our business needs made it impossible at this time.

  A few times I think she was about to do that. I caught her starting to say something, look at me, and then shake her head and keep silent. She concentrated more on our work, too, as if she didn’t want to have to think about what we were contemplating. She went to sleep early and generally avoided me as much as she could. I saw it all, but I didn’t challenge her for fear that if I brought it up, she would pounce and end it all.

  “You look like you’re about to give birth now,” Willy told me the night we waited for Dr. Matthews to arrive.

  I had been too nervous to eat much of a dinner. Her ravenous appetite actually annoyed me. When I muttered something about it, she laughed.

  “What am I supposed to do, Kate, act like an expectant father?”

  Actually, what made me nervous was her being herself. She could be so intimidating that this Dr. Matthews would stammer some excuse and run out of the house.

  “Be nice,” I said when the doorbell sounded.

  “Yes, Mommy,” she replied. She sat back in our living room and flipped through the most recent issue of Food Concepts.

  I took a deep breath and went to the front door.

  It is amazing how the title of Doctor colors your view of people and triggers preconceptions. We’re all comfortable with stereotypes. It’s so much more difficult to have to make judgments about individuals. I know Willy was anticipating the same sort of person I was: intellectual-looking, not at all feminine, a combination of a female medical person and a businesswoman.

  The woman who stood in our doorway was so different from that image, I wondered if she were someone else. She looked like a former Miss America, six feet tall if not a bit taller, with radiantly raven black hair in a classic Lana Turner style reminiscent of the Forties. In the patio lights, her almond-shaped ebony eyes were dazzling and full of warmth, even more highlighted because of her rich, peach complexion. Her face was angular with classic high cheekbones, her features diminutive, her lips perfectly shaped and full.

  She wore a turquoise cotton blouse that fit like another layer of skin and clearly outlined her shapely bosom. The ankle-length skirt of darker blue had an intricate pattern of red lines that looked hand-embroidered. Her feet were in a pair of thongs and she had a gold ankle bracelet on her right ankle.

  I was immediately self-conscious about the way I had perused her body and clothing. I could see it amused her.

  “Hi, I’m Lois Matthews,” she said, leaving off her doctor title, which was obviously an attempt to get into an informal situation as quickly as possible. “Are you Kate Dobson?” she followed when I didn’t automatically respond.

  “Oh, yes. Please come in,” I said stepping back.

  She entered and looked around.

  “What a beautiful home and what a view you have. It impressed me as soon as I drove up.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “We’re in a little more than a year,” I replied.

  “What is it, about five, six thousand square feet?” she asked, looking at the house.

  “Closer to six,” I said.

  “Lots of space. That’s good when you’re contemplating having children,” she said lowering her voice.

  It wasn’t until that moment that it occurred to me this could be an interview of us as much as it was to be an interview of her and her company.

  “Please, come in,” I said, leading her down the corridor to our living room where Willy sat, still pretending greater interest in the food magazine. She looked up, but held on to the magazine. I nearly laughed at the look of surprise on her face, too.

  “This is my life partner, Wilma Radcliff,” I said. “We all call her Willy.”

  “Please to meet you, Willy,” Dr. Matthews said crossing the room. “Lois Matthews.”

  Willy rose and offered her hand, but said nothing.

  “Please, have a seat,” I said indicating the sofa. Dr. Matthews sat and placed her briefcase on the glass-top coffee table I had cleared in anticipation.

  “We were wondering how you people work out that Internet contact,” Willy began with a little more of an aggressive tone than I would have liked. “Kate said she didn’t leave her name or e-mail address or anything. She merely began to do research for us.”

  “Yes, well, it’s not unlike the way the phone system can work. You can reverse the incoming and see who’s made the phone call. We have developed or had developed for us, I should say, the system that alerts us as to inquiries and then we follow up. If people wish to respond, we’re happy to do what we can.”

  She turned to me. Her smile reminded me of the aluminum sheets some people put on the windows of their mountain houses to deflect the direct sunlight.

  “We’re grateful you took the time to drive here,” I said, eyeing Willy. She had that impish smirk.

  “How long have you been in business?” she asked Dr. Matthews.

  “We’re into our tenth year. How long have you two been together?” she countered.

  “We’re into our fifth year,” Willy replied.

  “Well, that shows some longevity, commitment on your part,” Dr. Matthews said, nodding at me, too.

  “As does your ten years,” Willy replied. She loved verbal ping-pong. I felt like stamping my foot. “How did you get into this business or service, whatever you call it?”

  “It’s both. I didn’t set out specifically to be in this enterprise. I decided to specialize in andrology.”

  “Which is?”

  “The science of diseases of the male sex, especially those related to the male sex organs.”

  “How many sex organs do they have?”

  “Willy!”

  “Just kidding. Go on, Doctor,” Willy said, looking sincerely interested now.

  “I suppose I was moved to do this work when I learned that nearly ninety percent of impotence has a physical or physiological cause. A good deal of it is blamed on the female partner who gets labeled unfairly as frigid.”

  “Ah, so you’re really doing this for women?” Willy said, jumping in like an attorney in a cross-examination.

  Dr. Matthews smiled again.

  “In every sense, Willy. Most females in a sexual relationship want their men to, shall we say, function properly? You would be surprised how many women are too embarrassed to push their husbands or partners into exploring the reasons for their failure to perform. Some leave the relationship and some…” She paused.

  “What?” Willy asked, refusing to fill in any words for her.

  “Find alternative means of satisfaction.”

  “Vibrators,” Willy said, looking at me. “See?”

  “Stop it,” I mouthed.

  “Among other things. After I was practicing for about three years, I was offered the position at Genitor, a position that turned into a full partnership. I’m working with some very good people,” Dr. Matthews said, opening her briefcase and taking out a brochure she held up. The cover had pictures of three good-looking and distinguished-looking people. “Dr. McKinny is a certified urologist and a national authority now on sperm banking. Dr. Lasman is a board-certified pathologist and a recognized authority on semen storage. As you will see, we also employ a well-respected psychologist, Morgan Patterson, who has practiced family counseling in particular for over twenty-five years.”

  “What does a psychologist do with sperm?”

  “He interviews prospective donors in particular,” Dr. Matthews replied, ignoring Willy’s sarcasm. “There are some things you can’t determine through lab testing and family history alone. Our clien
ts are impressed with the service. I don’t know many sperm banks that do it. There are many out there who only do the minimum required screening before sending out its donor package.”

  “Does it come in the mail?” Willy asked dryly.

  “No,” Dr. Matthews said smiling. “It’s frozen. Cryopreserved sperm is frozen in liquid nitrogen at a temperature of minus 192 degrees Celsius. The sperm cells are held in a state of suspended animation, and all cellular activity is halted until thawing. It will be hand delivered. I might deliver it myself,” she added and looked at me. “I know Kate contacted us, but which one of you is…?”

  “She’s Mommy Dearest. I’m Dad,” Willy said.

  Dr. Matthews held her smile. Now it was more of a soft, almost angelic smile, possessed by someone who was truly at peace with herself. I longed for that smile.

  “I don’t mean to sound as if I’m prying, but our benefactors insist that we provide sperm donations only to truly qualified recipients.”

  “What does that mean?” Willy asked, her voice now bulging with resentment and aggression.

  “Nothing whatsoever to do with rejecting gay couples. A majority of our business comes from the gay community lately,” she said.

  “Is that right?” I asked.

  “We’ve not made a significant number of deliveries to this area yet, but we have done quite a bit of work in the L.A. basin.”

  “Oh, is that so?” I practically sang, throwing a look of self-satisfaction at Willy. It looked like I was right about the motivation for Dr. Matthews making the trip.

  Willy smirked, but sat back, relaxed.

  “Okay,” she said. “How do you define well-qualified recipients?”

  “Obviously, we’re concerned about the recipient’s own health, age, sexual history. I’ll get into further detail as we move along.”

  “Yes, we should move along,” Willy said. “Give us the whole story.”

  Dr. Matthews laughed.

  “It’s a story, I suppose. Let me begin with the willing-to-be-known donors. Most prospective parents today believe that their children should be able to know their lineage to help them understand their identity. This does not mean the donors develop any sort of relationship with the children,” she quickly added. “They are not required to meet them. The children simply have the right to know who they are and as much about them as you, the parents know. Where they take it from there is their own affair. We at Genitor do not release this information to the children until they’ve requested it after they have reached the age of eighteen. There are some sperm banks doing it earlier, but we’re not one.”

  “Do we have to meet the donor?” Willy asked.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Matthews, I didn’t offer you anything to drink,” I said.

  “Please. Call me Lois.”

  “Lois. What would you like?”

  “Just cold water would be fine,” she said.

  “Willy?”

  “Get me a beer,” she said as macholike as she could just to annoy and tease me.

  Dr. Matthews did not lose her smile.

  “What do you two do?” she asked as I rose to get the drinks.

  “We own and operate a catering company. Kate designs the gourmet dishes and runs the business end and I manage the physical operation. Currently we employ six people, including two delivery personnel. We’re well off enough to afford children,” she added, raising her voice as I reached the door.

  I hurried to get the drinks, terrified about leaving Dr. Matthews alone with Willy, but when I returned, they were both laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked handing the glass of cold water to Dr. Matthews and then Willy her beer. I had poured myself a glass of pinot noir.

  “What do you know, Kate. The good doctor here has just confessed to being bisexual,” Willy told me.

  “Confessed? I’ll bet. How did you manage to get her to tell you that?”

  Willy raised her hand to be sworn to tell the truth.

  “She volunteered the information. I didn’t fish or prod, did I, Lois?”

  Once again she was being impish, suggesting that perhaps Dr. Matthews had made a pass at her.

  “Oh?” I said. “That is interesting.”

  “And being bisexual is good for her work,” Willy said, sipping her beer.

  “Why is that, Willy?”

  “This way she can get both perspectives on the sex act. Speaking of which, how the hell does she do it, Lois? Does she stand on her head while I pour it in or what?”

  Dr. Matthews sipped some water and laughed.

  “It’s not complicated, but it has to be done correctly.” She looked from Willy to me. “It’s not part of our normal service, but I can assist,” she said.

  Willy nearly spilled her beer.

  “My goodness,” she said. “You really do love your work.”

  Dr. Matthews laughed again.

  “Let’s just say, Willy, that it’s in our mutual interests for this to succeed. You get a child and our percentage of success goes up.”

  Willy looked at me, her eyes widened and that impish smile forming around her mouth.

  Touché, we were both thinking.

  “Well, Lois, it does sound like you guys got this down to a science. It’s actually a lot more fascinating that I had anticipated,” she said, suddenly sounding more interested in the whole thing than I had been.

  Dr. Matthews smiled.

  There was a pregnant pause as they held each other’s gaze. I felt my heart skip a beat.

  That was the first warning, the first note in the song of regret that I was destined to sing.

  That we were both going to sing.

  3.

  “I KNOW YOUR BIGGEST CONCERNS will be about the sperm donation itself,” Dr. Matthews continued.

  Willy had finished her beer and had gotten another. She also talked Dr. Matthews into a glass of my pinot noir. When she went out to get that, she returned with a platter of goat cheese and multigrain crackers, a small bowl of olives, and some dried apricots. I couldn’t remember when she was as cordial to a stranger in our home. Usually, the hospitality fell to me.

  “Yes, of course. We’re very concerned about that,” I said, trying to be more businesslike.

  “There has to be no evidence of HIV, hepatitis B or hepatitis C, human T-cell lymphotropic virus-1, and of course, syphilis. We screen our donors in accordance with the parameters recommended by the FDA, the American Society for Reproductive Medicine, the American Association of Tissue Banks, and the Center for Disease Control and Prevention.”

  “You forgot Good Housekeeping,” Willy quipped. Dr. Matthews laughed.

  “I know that sounds like overkill, but we believe it’s better to err on the side of paranoia.”

  “Good name for the baby, huh Kate? Paranoia. Say, we haven’t decided on the name,” Willy remarked. She was nearly finished with her second beer. “Will it be Dobson or Radcliff?”

  “I can offer no input on that matter,” Dr. Matthews said quickly.

  “Well, we do have at least nine months to figure it out,” Willy said.

  “I wouldn’t wait until the last moment. Those sort of decisions should be well thought out beforehand.”

  “We always think out those sort of decisions beforehand,” Willy said. “Our work has taught us the importance of proper preparations.”

  “That’s good,” Dr. Matthews said nodding.

  I was beginning to feel like I wasn’t in the discussion.

  “Go on about the screening please, Dr. Matthews,” I said sharply.

  “Yes, of course. We use only cryopreserved semen, and all sperm are quarantined for a minimum of six months before they are released.”

  “Must be horny little devils by then, huh Kate? Makes them more anxious when they’re set loose, I suppose, huh, Doc?”

  Dr. Matthews laughed and sipped her wine. She had beautifully shaped legs, I thought. I followed the line of them under th
e exposed portion of her thigh, down to her calf and on to her foot. I liked the shade of light turquoise she had chosen for her toenails.

  Willy caught the little journey my eyes had taken. She tightened her lips and put her beer bottle down on the side table a little harder than necessary.

  “I never thought of it that way. I’ll mention it to Dr. McKinny. To continue,” Dr. Matthews said, nodding my way, “the clinical evaluation includes one complete semen analysis, at least five sperm counts and post-thaw evaluations. Morgan Patterson conducts a personal history interview supported by a four-generation medical-genetic history. Included is an HIV risk assessment based on sexual activity and drug use.”

  “Jeez. Why would anyone want to be a donor?” Willy asked. “His whole life exposed. What secrets are left?”

  “Some do it for the money, but most want to see their family line continued. We have husbands whose wives are not interested in having any children or any more children or who can’t have children and don’t want to adopt, and we have single men who are worried they’ll never have children. Reasons vary.

  “Of course we screen for a variety of diseases and the donor is given a complete physical. A sperm count is performed on every sample to be sure it meets our standards.”

  “What are the standards for sperm count these days?” Willy quipped, and finished her second beer.

  “For us it’s a minimum of twenty million motile sperm per cc.”

  “Sounds crowded. So?” Willy asked, turning to me. “You like what you’re hearing, Kate?”

  “There are post-evaluations of a donor after he has donated as well,” Dr. Matthews added, and finished her wine.

  “Kate, you should be asking more questions,” Willy urged. “It’s your womb, not mine.”

  I gave her a scowl, which brought a smile to her face. Then I turned to Dr. Matthews.

  “How do we decide or how do we know who…?”

  “Oh, I’m going to provide you with donor profiles.” Dr. Matthews took out a packet of papers. “There are well over fifteen hundred here.”

  “Fifteen hundred!” Willy exclaimed. “That’s one helluva singles bar.”

  “Yes, there are lots of choice, but you’ll narrow it down rapidly. Each profile includes age, education, current occupation, physical characteristics, ethnicity of course, religion, family medical history, the lab results, and personal comments about himself, such as his view of his exceptional abilities, skills, hobbies. We then include Morgan Patterson’s personality evaluations, and,” she said turning to Willy, “you’ll be happy to know we include his answer to the question, why do you want to be a sperm donor?”