What Came First by Carol Snow Page A

touch.”
    “Sure,” I say, as if I have the vaguest idea of what she’s getting at.
    She says, “I know it’s a long shot. But do you have any more of 613’s sperm?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I’ve read that some people store their donor’s sperm after their children are born. In proper cold storage, it can keep for years. So I was wondering—hoping—that maybe you still had some of Donor 613’s. That maybe I could buy it from you.”
    “You want his sperm?”
    “I want a child.”
    “You can have one of mine!” I blurt. And then: “Kidding. Ha ha. No, I don’t. No sperm.”
    “Oh.” She sighs.
    “Sorry.” And I am, even though I am probably saving her from a genetic personality disaster that could destroy her perfect life with her perfect son.
    “If you ever hear of anyone else who used this donor, will you let me know?”
    “Sure.” I pause. “Though if this guy has fathered a lot of kids, they’ll start filling prisons in about ten years. That ought to make them easier to track down.”
    She doesn’t laugh. After a bit more awkward conversation, we say good-bye, and I promise to e-mail a photo of the twins. When we get off the phone, I pull up my favorite recent picture: Harrison and Sydney at Sea World last summer, gazing into a tank full of sharks, their brown eyes wide, their pink mouths curved into little, wondrous smiles.
    I stare at the picture on the screen for maybe a full minute. They were so good that day: holding Darren’s hands and mine, waiting in line without squirming, passing the gift shops without complaint.
    Before they fell asleep in our hotel that night, Sydney said, “I’m glad you took us to see the dolphins.”
    And Harrison said, “Today was awesome.”
    Why can’t they always be that way?
    I burst into tears. I love my children so much it makes my chest hurt.

9
    Laura
    That didn’t go quite the way I anticipated. No, let me rephrase: that didn’t go at all the way I anticipated. Here I was, expecting to feel this instant connection or at least a sense of kinship with Wendy Winder: to compare notes on our children’s food preferences and developmental milestones and maybe to discover similarities in sleep habits and artistic inclinations. Of course I’d known chances were slim that she’d have kept a vial in cold storage. But it never occurred to me that she’d recoil at the idea of wanting more children, as if motherhood were a punishment and not a privilege.
    I pick up the phone to tell Marissa she can stop holding my calls—and then I put it down again. Locating a leftover vial is the most obvious way to get more of 613’s sperm. But it’s not the only way.
    Nine years ago, the Southern California Cryobank assured Donor 613 that they would keep his identity confidential. And they have. I respected his right to privacy then; I still do. However, what I respect and what I want have turned out to be two very different things. When I purchased the sperm, neither the Southern California Cryobank nor Donor 613 nor I anticipated the rapid evolution and availability of genetic tests. We certainly never imagined that it could be possible to track down a sperm donor using the information gathered from a simple cotton swab.
    I pull up the Donor Sibling Network’s Web site and click through until I find what I’m looking for. A few computer pecks later, and I’m staring at the home page of Helix Laboratories, a company that analyzes genetic data. On the home page, a bright yellow button says, “Order your Y-line test kit today!”
    I’ve learned all kinds of things from the Donor Sibling Network Web site and its links. The secret to genetic identity lies in the chromosomes. Each of us carries twenty-three pairs; one of each pair comes from the mother, the other from the father. The twenty-third is the sexual marker, better known as the X and Y chromosomes. Everyone gets an X chromosome from the mother, but it is the father’s contribution that determines gender.