When I open the door to my condo, it still smells like burned Italian chicken. I turn up the air conditioner and flip on the ceiling fans, then go to my laptop and Google the words “fertility,” “donor,” “connect,” and “international,” because I can’t remember the exact terms Jessica used.
There it is.International Fertility Donor Registry—Connecting donor children, donor siblings, donor recipients,and donors. The screen seems a little blurry, but I developed mad drunk-writing skills in college, and I call upon them now. I follow the prompts, enter my donor number, 17677—I’m proud I still remember it after all these years—and the name of the cryobank. My fingers feel fat and awkward, but I manage to put in my name, password, and email address.
Abracadabra! I’ve accessed the postings for my number.
Just as Jess said, the icon of a child pops up. It’s just a big round head and a little body clad in short pants, nonspecific gender-wise, of the same ilk as the international male-female restroom symbols. A dotted line connects the kid icon to a male icon at the bottom of the page. The explanation at the top reads,Icon in center of screen is seeking contact with icon at bottom.
My heart stutters, then revs like a race car. Sure enough, there’s a kid out there wanting to make contact with me!
I stare at the screen for a long moment, then go back to the prompts. It’s a secure site. If I register with my social security number and pay additional money, I can read the message. I’ll also be able to respond and post messages of my own. My fingers hover cautiously over the keyboard as if it’s a swamp full of gators.
“What the hell,” I mutter. I enter the information and pay the fee with my PayPal account.
Thank you for registering. Your application will be processed within forty-eight hours.
What?I have towait?
Two minutes ago I didn’t know I’d ever want to do this, and now I’m frustrated at the delay.
“You are one screwed-up dude,” I mutter to myself. I turn off the computer and notice that the room seems to be tilting. It takes three tries before I can stand up. I stagger to the bedroom, collapse across the bed, and fall fast asleep.
CHAPTER SIX
Quinn
I’M THE FIRSTto arrive for the May meeting of the single parent group on Thursday morning at seven thirty. We usually meet here at the Java Hut every first Saturday, but changed it to this morning at 7:30, before work because a couple of members have weekend conflicts. I get a chai latte and head to our usual table. This month, the painting on the wall is a sofa-sized acrylic of an empty armchair strapped into a roller coaster. According to the Post-it note stuck beneath it, a hopeful local artist wants to sell it for forty dollars.
I study it for a moment. It exactly captures the way I’ve been feeling for the last month; life has been a series of plunging lows, fast curves, and scary climbs, and I haven’t felt securely strapped to anything.
Brooke was my human safety belt—the person who made me feel secure and grounded. She was the person I called first whenever anything happened, the person I could talk things through with, the person who would tell me, “You’ve got this,” and make me believe it. She was smart and wise and kind, and I valued her insights and judgment. I really need her right now to help me sort through everything that’s going on, but obviously, she’s not around.
I take a sip of my steaming drink. I almost didn’t come today because I knew her absence would be so pronounced. I started attending the meetings because Brooke encouraged me to accompany her to one when I first moved to New Orleans, and I kept coming back because it’s such a great bunch of women.Women, and one guy, I mentally amend.
Brooke found the group listed in a free weekly newspaper shortly after she moved to New Orleans:
A support group for singles who are (1) interested in becoming parents without a partner through adoption, artificial insemination, surrogacy, or the old-fashioned way, or (2) choosing to raise a child without a partner.
Not having a parenting partner doesn’t have to mean not having support!
Brooke discovered that the members were bright, funny, and warm, and they soon became close friends. I didn’t fit the criteria, but they welcomed me with open arms anyway.
Everyone in the group is mourning Brooke. And while the thought of being around other sad people isn’t exactly uplifting, I know it’ll be good for us to get together. There’s something healing about being with others who share your pain. Plus I have some personal news I can’t wait to share.
The first member through the door is Annie, a human resources manager with an oil and gas company who suggested this meeting time. Annie has an eight-year-old son, Sean, who catches his school bus at seven. She’d been in a relationship with the child’s father, but he took off before Sean was born. Pretty and tiny as a doll—she’s a couple of inches shy of five feet—she has long brown hair and wears large black-rimmed glasses. She waves, then heads to the counter to order a coffee.
After she gets her drink, she makes her way toward me. We hug hello. “How are you doing?” she asks as she sits down.
“Fine.”
She sees right through my automatic reply. Her dark eyes warm with empathy. “I know how close you and Brooke were. This must be a really hard time for you.”
I nod, tears forming in my eyes. Tears are never very far awaythese days. “Brooke’s grandmother said something a couple of years ago that kind of sums up how I feel,” I say. “She’d just lost a dear friend to cancer, and Brooke asked how she was coping. Miss Margaret said, ‘Well, back in the day, Johnny Carson did a recurring soap opera skit onThe Tonight Show. The studio camera would focus on audience members, and Johnny would read ridiculous things about them. It was called ‘The Edge of Wetness.’”
Annie laughed.
“Miss Margaret said, ‘That’s how I feel because I keep tearing up. I’m always on the Edge of Wetness.”
Annie pats my hand, and then Sarah bustles through the coffee shop door. Her gray-streaked hair curls wildly around her head, and today she looks every one of her forty-four years. She waves, and stops at the counter to order coffee.
