What Came First by Carol Snow Page B

An X chromosome means a female, a Y chromosome a male.
    Both X and Y chromosomes have genetic markers, sequences of DNA that vary from individual to individual. Every time an X chromosome gets passed along, its genetic markers get shuffled. The Y chromosome is different. Like surnames, it passes virtually unchanged from father to son.
    In 2005, an American teenager made international news when he tracked down his donor using a cheek swab DNA test, a genealogical database, and a Web site that specialized in people searches. If he could do it, why can’t I?
    If I pay Helix Laboratories to perform a Y-line test on Ian’s DNA, it will give me a string of numbers that are completely useless—unless they match another male in Helix’s large database. Best-case scenario, Donor 613 would come from a large, heavily male family with an interest in genealogy. A partial match—say, 50 percent—between Ian and a man in the database would mean that the two shared an ancestor many generations ago: interesting from a genealogy standpoint, but not much help in tracking down the donor. However, if I could find a perfect Y-line match, odds are I’d have tracked down a very close relative: Ian’s biological uncle, grandfather . . . or even father.
    It is a long shot—and perhaps a gray area, ethically. But it’s been many years since things seemed black and white in my world. I don’t know if I will go through with testing Ian—but it wouldn’t hurt to have a kit on hand. Just in case.
    I click on the bright yellow order button. A few more clicks, and I’ve paid three hundred and fifty dollars for a kit, scheduled to ship in five to ten days. The sale complete, I slip my credit card back into my wallet and log off the site.
    I pick up the phone. “I can take calls now, Marissa.”

10
    Vanessa
    Dr. Sanchez takes Fridays off, so it’s just me in my pale pink scrubs, sitting at the front desk while Melva and Pammy clean teeth and force patients to talk with their mouths full of tools and fingers. Usually I use this time to do some filing, submit insurance claims, or stamp appointment reminder cards. Sometimes when I run out of stuff to do, I’ll check eBay. Okay, true confession time, I go on eBay a lot. A couple weeks ago I got these sandals—purple with rhinestones and three-inch heels—for eight bucks. Including shipping! It wasn’t until the package arrived that it hit me. I have no place to wear three-inch heels, with or without rhinestones.
    That’s okay. I’m really pretty happy just having a quiet life these days, hanging out in the apartment with Eric, not talking about the future. Not talking about anything. Yeah, it’s awesome.
    So, eBay. The baby section is amazing. I like to look at the fluffy little hats and tiny shoes and holiday outfits. Last month there was a plum taffeta dress, size eighteen months, with velvet trim and matching headband. Cutest thing ever.
    I’m just looking, of course. Before I can buy baby stuff, I need something. What is it? Oh, yeah! A baby . Which means I need that other thing first. Let me think, let me think . . . Oh, right. A man .
    I thought Pammy was crazy when she suggested a sperm donor. I mean, come on. My job’s okay and I still can’t believe that I get health insurance (plus dental, natch), but there’s not much left over at the end of the month. Look at what my mom went through, raising me and my sister poor and alone after my dad died. No, look at what I went through, growing up without a father.
    If only I’d gotten a college education like I planned—and like my high school math teachers told me I was smart enough to do. Then I could afford to give my kid a good life, even on my own. But just two semesters of community college put me into enough debt to scare me. Plus it was so hard, working full-time for justabove-minimum wage while taking classes whenever I could fit them in. I always thought I’d go back, but it hasn’t happened.
    Eric says a college education