Finding Cassidy (7 page)

“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.

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

Cassidy MacLaughlin, Grade Four Science Project

B
y 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:
Caucasian

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. G
et 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.

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

A
ccording 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 around 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.

Nothing in my life was the same anymore.

Finnelli’s Fine Foods was in Cadboro Bay, a trendy little village half a block from the ocean. Traffic was so light, I managed the drive in five minutes. Pulling into the side lot, I parked beside Jason’s beat-up Toyota at exactly 9:27. Barring last-minute demands from Mr. Finnelli, he’d be out in three minutes.

I had my head stuffed into the bottom of my purse—I was desperate for a mint or a piece of gum—when a knock on the window made me jump.

Jason! He held up our Saturday-night tradition: a gold and green bag of leftovers from Finnelli’s bakery.

I leaned over to open the door. “You scared me!”

The tang of salty sea air filled the car. I heard the distant sound of waves pounding the shore. “Sorry.” Jason slammed the door behind him; the waves grew silent.

“Pete gave you the message.”

“Yeah.” He tossed the bag down and leaned over to give me a kiss. Cold lips. Hot mouth. Root beer. Jason. Oh, man, I’d missed him.

I broke the connection first. “Look, Jase, I only have a few minutes. I’m sorry about what happened at your place this morning.” Bands of colour from the grocery-store sign flashed across his face. “I never meant to fall asleep. I should have gone home right away. Your mother probably figures I’m the spawn of the devil now.”

And how do you know you’re not?

Jason chuckled, tossed his hair back and reached into the bag. “Something like that.” He handed me a sugar-coated raspberry bomb. Finnelli’s speciality. Since the store was closed Sunday, Mr. Finnelli always cleared them out last thing Saturday.

“She called my mom.” I bit into the sweet, yeasty dough.

“Yeah.” Jason’s head was stuck in the bag. He surfaced with a lemon Danish.

“She doesn’t want us to see each other anymore.”

“That’s just plain stupid. Of course we’re going to see each other. At school and stuff.”

And stuff.
What did that mean? My stomach butter-flied. I licked a trace of raspberry jelly from the corner
of my mouth. “Are you saying…that you only want to see me at school?”

“No! God, no!” Jason reached over and gave me an awkward hug. He smelled faintly of apples and aftershave. The soft fleece of his team jersey tickled my nose.

“My parents said we should cool it for a couple of weeks too,” I said as I sat up. “Cut down on phone calls. No time alone.” I rolled my eyes. “They have some nerve suggesting it after what they’ve done. Give me a couple of days to work on them. They’ll come around.”

“It’ll take my mom a while,” he said. “She was pretty choked catching us in bed like that. And it didn’t help when she heard your news, either.”

The butterflies in my stomach whirled and raced. “My news?”

Jason chewed his Danish, wouldn’t meet my eyes. “You know…the donor thing.”

The butterflies exploded into a thousand fluttery wings. “How did she hear? Did you tell her?”

“Of course not!” Jason scowled. “Geez, Cass, you should know me better than that.”

I didn’t know anybody anymore. Not since my father had stopped being my father. I put down my
half-finished raspberry bomb. I wasn’t hungry. “Then who did?”

“Prissy’s mother. She went to the salon for a haircut and Mom was her stylist and I guess they got to talking. Prissy must have told her what you said at the party.”

Oh, man, Mrs. Smart was an even bigger gossip than her daughter. If she knew, the entire city did. She probably knew about Dad’s illness, too. “What did your mom say?”

“You know my mother. Something about how the rich live in a different world. Stuff about babies to order.”

Babies to order?

“That it was unnatural and wrong,” Jason added. “Like adultery, only worse.”

Adultery, only worse?
No way.

“Forget it,” Jason added. “I have.”

“I’m going to find him,” I blurted. “My father.”

“Why?”

“I’m…there’s a part of me that’s blank. Separate.” I struggled to find just the right words. “He’s a part of me, Jase. Or I’m a part of him. It’s like, I don’t know, where I fit in and all that stuff.”

I wanted him to say, “You fit with me.” Instead he said, “Fitting in is overrated.” And then he shoved the last of the Danish into his mouth.

“I’m not so sure.” Isn’t it funny how the people who don’t care about fitting in sometimes end up being the most popular. Jason was a good example of that. But for me, this wasn’t a popularity contest. “It’s about family, Jase. I mean, I share this guy’s DNA. He’s my father—or something.”

Jason lifted a cinnamon bun from the bag. “You’ve already got a father, and he’s a great guy.”

“When’s the last time you saw your father?”

“That’s got nothing to do with nothing.” Suddenly it mattered. “But when?” I pressed.

“Last week. When he was over to see Pete.” His blue eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I don’t mean your stepfather. I mean your
real
father.”

He took a huge bite of the cinnamon bun. “My stepfather
is
my real father.” His words came out in a fine spray of cinnamon and sugar.

“I mean the guy who
fathered
you.”

Jason’s face hardened. He swallowed a chunk of bun, licked his fingers, took his time answering. “If he wanted to see me, he’d make the effort. I’m not going to.”

He still hadn’t answered my question.

“Besides, parents are nothing but trouble.” A cheeky grin split his face. “I’ve got one and a half, and look at
the hassles in my life. You’ve already got two. Why go looking for more?”

“I just have to, that’s all.”

His smile slipped. “Whatever.” He changed the subject. “Listen, I have to go, too. Mom’s expecting me to pick Pete up right after work.” Disappointment tugged deep in my belly. I hadn’t missed one of our Saturdays in months.

We had a real routine. I’d meet Jason after work, and he’d bring doughnuts. We’d pick out a movie, retrieve Pete from Mrs. Crenshaw’s place. We’d bribe the kid with bedtime stories and too many raspberry bombs. He’d go to bed, then we’d snuggle on the couch until Mrs. Perdue came home from her Saturday-night date. I wondered if I’d ever spend a Saturday night there again. “Say hi to your brother.”

“Sure.” Jason folded up the bag. “By the way, Mom’s screening my calls. If you need to reach me, call Mike and he’ll let me know.”

I kissed Jason goodbye and watched him get inside his car and start his engine. Only after he’d waved and pulled out of the parking lot did I cry.

I cried because it was only 9:45 and I didn’t have to leave for another fifteen minutes. I cried because Prissy Smart’s mother was a stupid, gossipy old cow. But mostly I cried because Jason didn’t understand.

He didn’t understand why I wanted to find my father, and I had been so sure he would.

I hardly slept that night. Jason was my guy, my other half. We always understood each other.

Not this time.

By the time Sunday rolled around, I knew I had to convince my parents to let Jason come over so we could talk things out. But I also had to warn them that Mrs. Smart had blabbed about the donor insemination.

Okay, so technically I’d blabbed first, but I’d been in a drunken stupor in a private home. Mrs. Smart was perfectly sober—one assumed—and gossiping not only in a public place, which we all know is the lowest of the low, but in a
hair salon,
where gossip was like cockroaches in New York: dirty, plentiful and impossible to avoid. Clearly, a little verbal extermination was in order.

My parents would not be pleased that people knew. I mean, they’d kept the news from me for years. It wasn’t like they
wanted
to share it. And Dad had said, “No one needs to know.”

Unfortunately, the opportunity to tell them never
presented itself. And by the time Grandma and Grandpa Mac pulled up in their rental car that afternoon, I had a bigger worry.

How could I sit down and pretend everything was the same?

My heart somersaulted as I watched Mom and Dad rush out to greet them. Big Mac looked like a lovable old crane with long, gangly limbs and tufts of white hair poking out of his pink scalp. Little Mac looked like a sparrow beside him—rounded body, short little legs and quick bursts of energy.

They were as different from Nana and Granddad as Target was from Sak’s. But I loved them with a fierceness that almost took my breath away.

Except they weren’t mine. We weren’t even related.

Maybe that would make it easier to pretend.

And maybe, I thought as Grandma walked in the door and pulled me close, it wouldn’t.

“You’ve grown.” She gave me another squeeze before tugging on Big Mac’s jacket. “Hasn’t she grown, Bill?”

And then he hugged me and Grandma turned away, but not before I saw the telltale shine of tears in her eyes.

Dad led her into the kitchen, where she chirped on about the weather and the flight and all the other stuff
travellers say when they arrive anywhere. Then her words came to a sudden end. There was a second of silence before she let out a heart-wrenching wail.

Big Mac turned three shades of red. I led him into the family room, where Dad had started a fire. The flames in the massive floor-to-ceiling fireplace threw a peach glow over his wrinkled face as we sat across from each other. “Dad made coffee.” I spoke louder than necessary to try and drown out Grandma’s sobs. “He’s probably getting it right now.” I knew coffee was the last thing on anybody’s mind, but it was one of those flat-out socially acceptable lies that Big Mac seemed to appreciate.