“I mean a real sister, like Alicia has.”
Brooke places the plastic bowl on a shelf in the fridge, then turns to take the next one as I hand it to her. “Sorry, sweetie, but I can’t give you one of those. Remember how I explained to you that my baby-making parts are broken?”
Lily’s head bobs. “That’s why I have a donor instead of a live-in daddy.”
“That’s right.” Brooke places another container in the fridge.
“Well, maybe Auntie Quinn can give me a real sister.”
“Oh, honey—it doesn’t work that way,” I say.
“But you could have a baby.” She turns her big blue eyes on me. “You could get a donor daddy like Mommy did.”
“We just call him a donor, not a daddy, remember?” Brooke gently corrects.
“Grams says he’s my daddy, too.”
Brooke’s face takes on a bit of an edge. “Well, things have changed since Grams’s day.” She points at the kitchen clock and gives an exaggerated gasp. “Oh, my, it’s way past your bedtime! You need to run right upstairs and brush your teeth, sweetie.”
I listen to Lily’s footsteps thump up the staircase. “Is something up with Miss Margaret?”
Brooke sighs. “Just the usual. From time to time, we have the same old discussion.” She holds her up hands and uses them like talking sock puppets. “She’ll say, ‘Lily’s father should be a part of her life,’ and I’ll explain, ‘He signed up for sperm donation, not fatherhood.’ She’ll say, ‘He’d feel differently if he knew her,’ and I’ll say, ‘The contract says he can meet Lily when she’s eighteen if she’s interested.’ She’ll say, ‘You should try to contact him now,’ and I’ll say, ‘That’s not part of the arrangement.’ Then I’ll sidetrack her by telling her how grateful I am that he made Lily’s life possible and how fortunate I feel to have such a wonderful daughter, and I’ll mention some funny or amazing thing that Lily said or did, and the conversation will mercifully drift toward Lily’s overall fabu-losity.”
I smile. “If I knew for sure I’d have a child as wonderful as Lily, I’d go for donor insemination, too.”
“You can, you know.”
“Consider insemination?”
“Have a child as wonderful as Lily.” She places the last plastic container in the refrigerator. The door closes with a soft thud that echoes off the kitchen’s hard surfaces. “A genetic sibling.”
“Huh?” The air in the kitchen suddenly seems heavy, as if it’s carrying the weight of something important. Goose bumps form on my arms, confirming the significance of the moment. What, exactly, is she saying?
Brooke picks up a blue dish towel, walks to the other side of the kitchen island, and starts wiping the granite. She avoids looking me in the eye. “I still have some frozen sperm at the cryobank.”
“What?” Goose bumps spread up my neck, then down my legs.
Brooke looks over and meets my startled gaze, her blue eyes steady. “I have sperm left over from Lily’s donor,” she says. “If you’re interested, you can have it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Quinn
Friday, May 10
“JUST LOOK ATBrooke’s linen closet,” Miss Margaret says. “It’s like a picture in a magazine.”
I peer over the older woman’s stooped shoulder at the neat stacks of sheets and pillowcases and towels and washcloths, all color-coordinated and precisely aligned, with the folded sides out. I can make a closet look like this once, but Brooke maintained this orderly perfection all the time. “She was the most organized person I’ve ever known,” I say.
“Me, too, and I’ve got some years on you.”
I’m helping Miss Margaret sort through Brooke’s belongings and put stickers on things that are to be moved, stored, or donated. She and Lily arrived in New Orleans yesterday afternoon and will be here for a few days. We had dinner together at Joey K’s Restaurant on Magazine Street, then Lily came home with me for the night. I invited Miss Margaret to stay with me, too, but she’d insisted on sleeping at Brooke’s house.
“It’ll help me say good-bye,” she confided.
While waiting at one of the restaurant’s outdoor tables for our order to arrive, Margaret asked Lily if she wanted to visit her old house.
“Is Mommy there?” Her little face peered up, her blue eyes heartbreakingly hopeful.
