“All right,” I say. “Thanks.”
I follow the two women into a light-filled living room. Mrs. Moore motions me toward an armchair by the fireplace, then settles on the sofa. Quinn perches on the chair to my right, her face white, her mouth tight.
“How on earth did you find us?” Mrs. Moore asks. “As I recall, that registry only let me enter a phone number.”
I nod. “I called, but I couldn’t get an answer or leave a voice mail. Since it was a landline, it was easy to find out Brooke’s name and address.”
“Oh, mercy! I put down Brooke’s old phone number? What was I thinking? I meant to write in mine.” She makes a tsk-tsking sound and puts her hand on her chest again. “Well, there was so much going on at the time, it’s not surprising I got confused.”
Something is off about this whole situation. Why was she posting for Lily? “Is Brooke aware that you posted on the donor registry?”
“Um...” She glances quickly at Quinn, then looks at her lap. “Not exactly.”
Oh, hell. Is the old gal here a little unhinged? My grandfather had had Alzheimer’s, but you wouldn’t have known it if you’d just met him. He might carry on a perfectly pleasant conversation about, say, the weather, then leave the room and return wearing nothing but his underwear.
“I really think I should talk to Brooke before this goes any further,” I say.
“I’m afraid you can’t do that.” The older woman’s face falls and sort of slumps in on itself. “Brooke is no longer with us.”
I’m about to ask,Where’d she go?but then I glance at Quinn. She’s looked stressed ever since I told her why I’m here, but now her eyes are radiating something else—something I recognize, but can’t immediately place. I’ve seen it on my sister’s face after my father...
It hits with sudden, surprising force:grief.These two women are in mourning.
“Good God. What happened?”
Mrs. Moore swallows and looks like she’s about to cry.
“Brooke had a brain aneurysm.” Quinn’s voice quavers. “It happened about six weeks ago.”
—
OF ALL THEsituations I’d imagined walking into this morning, this wasn’t one of them. And I’d imagined a variety of scenarios.
I’d awakened with a hellacious hangover, a rotten taste in my mouth, and the remnants of a dream about my late father flapping in my brain like a tattered flag. I dreamed I’d failed some kind of test and disappointed him, and it left me sick in the depths of my soul.
The rotten taste remained after I brushed my teeth, and I realized that it wasn’t just too much booze on an empty stomach; it was the conversation with Jessica and the knowledge that I had a child out there looking for me.
I swallowed some ibuprofen and a tall glass of water. I’m sure I dreamed about my father because he’s my moral arbiter. When I don’t know what to do, I’ll pretend my father is in the situation and imagine his reaction, because he was the most honest, upright man I’ve ever known. It’s a less holy but more relatable version of WWJD. Whatever the problem, Dad believed in facing it head on and taking responsible action. “Just do what you know is right,” he’d told me.
It was pretty clear to me what I needed to do in this situation, at least as far as the child was concerned. It wouldn’t be right to ignore an outreach request. Maybe the kid needed a kidney or bone marrow transplant or something. As soon as I received the contact information for my child—my child; the solid reality of that still rattled me—I’d call. I wouldn’t say who I was; I’d get his—or her—mother’s phone number, then talk to the mom. Maybe shedidn’t know that the child—who’s likely to be a teenager—was trying to find me. Maybe she won’t want him or her making contact until age eighteen. Whatever the mother wanted, I’d follow her wishes.
I called in to my office that I’d be working remotely today—it’s a common practice at our law firm—then took my laptop to an uptown coffee shop. That’s where I’d been this morning when the donor registry emailed me the phone number. When I got no answer, a quick reverse search gave me Brooke’s name and address. It was only a few blocks from the coffee shop, so I’d simply headed on over, hoping to meet Brooke or get her cell number from whoever answered the door. I never dreamed she’d be dead.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say now.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Moore gives a small nod.
“So—is Lily living with her father?”
Mrs. Moore blinks. “You’rethe father.”
I know this, but...wow. I sit there for a moment, wondering again about Mrs. Moore’s mental status. “I meant Brooke’s husband.” The moment I say it, I realize there are other options. “Or ex-husband. Or—or partner. Or ex-partner.”
“Oh, Brooke wasn’t married or coupled up. She was a single mother by choice.”
The hits just keep on coming. I don’t know why this surprises me; my thinking is probably colored by all of the fertility treatments that Jess and I have been through and by my own two-parent upbringing.
I lean forward. “So who’s Lily’s guardian?”
