Most Wanted (6 page)

“Really?” Christine hadn't known that.

“Yes, I sent her there, as my first choice. Homestead's one of the most selective banks in the country. They get about twenty-five thousand donor applicants a year and accept fewer than one percent. To give you a reference point, Harvard University gets thirty-five thousand applicants and accepts six percent. In other words, it's easier to get into Harvard than Homestead.”

“Oh.” Christine listened, still not comforted. She had noticed that Homestead had offices in Cambridge, New Haven, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Palo Alto, and had assumed it wasn't a coincidence that they were near Ivy League and other prestigious schools.

Lauren leaned over the iPhone speaker. “Dr. Davidow, I'm Lauren. So are you saying that you're basically the broker for the donation?”

“Yes, but I wouldn't put it that way.” Dr. Davidow chuckled. “Christine, tell me your donor number.”

“3319.” Christine and Lauren exchanged tense glances.

“Hold on, I'm in front of my computer.” Dr. Davidow fell silent a moment, then continued, “Okay, so I just logged into Homestead and I see that Donor 3319 sperm is available. Are you near a computer?”

“Sure. Hold on a second.” Christine leaned over the keyboard, went on to the Homestead website, and logged in under her username and password. She plugged Donor 3319 into the search engine, and his bio popped onto the screen. Next to
Anonymous Donor
, it read
Sperm Available! Order Now!

“Do you see that it's still available? Homestead would've taken it off the shelves if Donor 3319 were arrested.”

Christine thought a moment. “But that assumes they saw the same report I did, which they might not have. It just happened this afternoon. What do you mean by ‘take it off the shelves'? Does that ever happen, that banks take donations ‘off the shelves'?”

“Yes, but rarely, and generally for physical abnormalities that appear in the offspring of a particular donor, such as a lazy eye. A few years ago, one of my patients had a baby that was born with a clubfoot. I notified the bank, and they took that donation off the shelves.”

“Was it Homestead?”

“No. Christine, I don't think you have to worry about this, but I'll call Homestead and let them know your concern.”

“That would be great.”

Lauren leaned over the phone. “Doctor, can she call them herself?”

“No, it's better coming from me. I have reporting requirements if there's a defect found in offspring, so it should properly come from our office.” Dr. Davidow paused. “Christine, I'll get back to you as soon as I speak with them.”

“Thanks, but Dr. Davidow, can I ask you, what screening do they do for donors?”

“They do significant screening, mainly blood tests. I understand that you're concerned, but I don't think this is something that should worry you overmuch. As I say, these are the top banks in the country. It's the same thing when we use egg donors. Our egg donors undergo blood tests for HIV, STDs, screening for Tay-Sachs and the like, and they get interviewed by Michelle to make sure that they're good candidates psychologically.”

“So Michelle sees them in a session, like she saw Marcus and me?”

“Exactly, and I rely on her evaluation. You know what an ace she is. If she doesn't give them an A+, they're not eligible to be egg donors.”

“What's the kind of thing that eliminates them?”

“Hmm, let me think.” Dr. Davidow paused, clucking his tongue. “If the putative egg donor says something like she really wants to be a mother, Michelle eliminates her. We don't want someone who wants to be a mother. We want someone who wants to donate an egg so that someone else can become a mother. You follow?”

“Yes.” Christine wanted to be reassured, but she couldn't quite, yet. “Do you know if the banks have a psychologist do an evaluation on the sperm donors?”

“No, I don't know if they do that.”

Lauren frowned. “Dr. Davidow, it sounds like the egg donors are tested more rigorously than sperm donors. Is that true?”

“There may be some asymmetry, but I don't want to speculate. I can only control the procedures that happen in my office. I harvest eggs in my office so I am intimately involved and responsible for the egg donors that we select and the methods by which eggs are stored and transferred. We don't collect sperm in our offices. But as I say, Homestead is one of the most reputable banks in the country.”

“Have you ever had a problem with them?” Christine asked.

“No, not at all.” Dr. Davidow cleared his throat. “I'll call Homestead as soon as we hang up. I might not reach them tonight because they're closed, but I'll call you back as soon as I speak with them.”

“Great, thank you so much.”

“How are you otherwise? Feeling okay?”

“Yes. Nauseated but okay.”

Dr. Davidow chuckled. “When you're pregnant, nauseated is good. Okay, let me get back to you.”

“I will, thanks. Bye now.”

“Good night.” Christine pressed
END
to hang up, then met Lauren's eye. “He's taking it seriously.”

“He should.”

“I wish he'd told me it was silly.” Christine was only half-joking, and Lauren patted her hand.

“I don't think anything that worries you is silly. But you've done all you can do, and I think you should try to rest easy tonight.”

“I will,” Christine told her, wondering if that was possible.

 

Chapter Five

Christine woke up in her bedroom, stretched out on top of the comforter in her sweatclothes. Her laptop was open, and around her lay the last of her unfinished Data Summary Sheets, the paperwork that went into each student's file, detailing their progress and their meetings with the Instructional Support team and their parents. Murphy snored at the foot of the bed, and she heard water running in their bathroom. Marcus must've come home and was showering. She propped herself up on her elbow, realizing that she had fallen asleep while she was working, even though the bedside clock read only 9:45. She used to be a night owl, staying up to watch Jimmy Fallon, but the exhaustion of her first trimester had thrown her for a loop.

Christine's hand went automatically to her tummy, and she wondered when she'd be able to feel the baby moving. The thought suffused her with happiness, and she leaned back on the soft pillow, feeling the smile spread across her face. The bedroom was so pretty, with a sky-blue color scheme that made her feel restful, and the comforter was a blue hydrangea pattern that matched the curtains on the far wall, three mullioned panes that overlooked their street, with white sheers for privacy. The ceiling was a soft cumulus white, and Christine felt as if she were in girl heaven, for which she sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

Her gaze fell on the laptop, and its dark screen told her that it had fallen asleep, too. Suddenly she remembered. Donor 3319. Zachary Jeffcoat. Her stomach clenched all over again, and she picked up her phone from the night table and checked the screen. Dr. Davidow hadn't called her, and she checked her phone to make sure that the ringer was on, which it was. She lay back on the pillow, holding the phone. She was close to her mother and wished she could call her to talk it over or maybe go visit them, since her parents lived in nearby Middletown, where she had grown up. But Christine didn't want to worry her mother any more; her hands were full taking care of Christine's father, who had Alzheimer's.

She reminded herself of Dr. Davidow's sensible words, that Homestead is one of the best banks in the country, that they had procedures in place to ensure only the highest-quality donors, that his own sister had used them, with two successful pregnancies, using the same donor twice. Christine remembered being weirded out when she first heard that was possible, as well as the other icky facts about infertility procedures, but that was when she was a rookie in the infertility world. She'd gotten over the ick factor, like with any other medical malady, and in no time found herself talking with other women in the waiting room about sperm motility or vaginal secretions, the lingo of a club that no one wanted to join. She had come to understand that they were a random group of people linked by a heartbreaking predicament, trying to attain what the rest of the world took for granted, a baby. A family.

So much about the fertility process had opened Christine's eyes, and some was the exact opposite of what she'd expected; for example, she had expected the doctor's office to be full of bulletin boards of photos from babies conceived through the various procedures offered by the clinic. But there had been nothing in the decor of Families First that related to babies at all. The art was watercolor landscapes, and the magazines mainstream, unrelated to parenting or pregnancy. A small sign on the door read:
Out of consideration for our other patients, we ask that you not bring any babies or children with you to your appointments at our practice
.

As Christine went through month after month without becoming pregnant, she came to appreciate the wisdom of the rule, and its mercy. It would've killed her to see a new baby in the waiting room; she'd had a hard enough time when she saw babies in the store, smiling and kicking their chubby legs in shopping carts. Christine had never in her life wanted something so badly as she wanted a baby, experiencing her wish as the most fundamental of desires, the primal yearning of an organism to reproduce, obeying an imperative embedded in the DNA of every living creature. She had never given up faith that she would somehow be pregnant, and now she finally was. And she had been the happiest woman on earth until she saw the CNN video.

“Hey,” Marcus said, coming out of the bathroom, a light blue bath towel wrapped around his waist. His body looked pumped, his shoulders broad with strong caps, his biceps full, and his torso tapered to the towel. His hair was wet, which made it look almost brown, and water droplets dotted his chest.

“Oh, hi.” Christine managed a smile as she shifted up against the headboard, upholstered with the hydrangea fabric. “Have fun at the driving range?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?” Christine asked, surprised. Usually Marcus felt terrific after he'd been to the driving range. It reduced his stress level, relaxing him, and they'd had some of the best times in bed after he'd come home from hitting a bucket.

“You're not interested in golf.”

“No, but I'm interested in you.” Christine patted the bed beside her, and Marcus sat down, showing her his palm, which was pink and large, but callused at the pads under each finger.

“See how that's red? I'm squeezing too hard. It's like a death grip. It's an easy fix. I have to chill out. It's just a bad night. Everybody has a bad night.”

“Sure, of course.” Christine could see he didn't want to dwell on it, so she let it go. Marcus was a sensitive man despite his jocky appearance, and it was best to say less when he was out of sorts. His late mother Barbara “Beebee” Nilsson, a lovely woman and an accomplished equestrian, used to refer to Marcus as a “draft horse,” explaining that he had a big, strong body but was a softy inside. Christine wouldn't have put it that way, but understood that it was meant with love, and she had known Beebee only a year when she passed suddenly, from an aneurism. Christine was less a fan of her egotistical father-in-law Frederik, who hadn't waited long to start dating before he eventually remarried.

“You fell asleep early.”

“I know, I'm beat.”

“You hungry? Do you want anything from downstairs?”

“No, did you eat? I feel terrible there's nothing in there. I was going to go food shopping after school, but then we had the party.”

“Don't worry about it. I had more cake. I'm having a cake baby.” Marcus patted his waist, which was still trim enough to qualify as a four-pack. She had met him her freshman year of college, when he was a hunky junior in her Government class. She'd done a double-take when she saw him pick up his backpack and his forearm rippled with not only two muscles, but three. It was lust at first sight, though love came later and happily, stuck around for the duration. They had been married for seven years, happy as fried clams.

“So what did Lauren think? About our donor?”

“She didn't think it was the same person, either. For what it's worth, we called Dr. Davidow and told him.”

“Really?” Marcus pursed his lips. “What did he say?”

“He said he would call Homestead and get back to us. They're the only ones who know the donor's identity. The doctor's only the broker.”

“I knew that.”

“I didn't.” Christine blinked, feeling vaguely dumb. It wasn't a feeling she liked, which was why she had so much empathy with her reading students. Most of them had tracking problems or problems identifying words, the kind of challenges that left them feeling stupid or excluded even though they fell short of dyslexia or other diagnosed reading disorders.

“Did Dr. Davidow tell you about the screening they do for donors?”

“Not really.” Christine saw the pain crossing Marcus's face, and she felt guilty even having the discussion. “Truly, I'm not worried about it as much as I was before. I think it's probably just a fear. I felt better after I talked to him.”

“Good.” Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “I was worried Lauren would rile you up.”

“No, she didn't. She listened, but she didn't get me crazier than I already am.”

“Good. I like you just the level of crazy you are.”

“Me, too.” Christine touched his arm, stroking the curve of his bicep, still damp.

“God, I'm beat, too,” Marcus said, unsmiling, and Christine knew it was code that he wasn't in the mood to make love. She hadn't been either, so she didn't press the point. Their sex life hadn't been a problem until their infertility issues. The fun had gone out of their lovemaking back when they still thought Christine was the one with the problem; instead of a loving expression, sex acquired a single-minded purpose, to get pregnant. The situation had gotten worse after their problem was diagnosed as Marcus's. He had lost all interest in sex, and one or two times, hadn't been able to perform. They had only recently gotten their sex life back on track, but Christine worried that today's focus on Donor 3319 wouldn't help.