Most Wanted

Chapter Five

Christine woke up in her bedroom, stretched out on top of the comforter in her sweatclothes. Her laptop was open, and around her lay the last of her unfinished Data Summary Sheets, the paperwork that went into each student’s file, detailing their progress and their meetings with the Instructional Support team and their parents. Murphy snored at the foot of the bed, and she heard water running in their bathroom. Marcus must’ve come home and was showering. She propped herself up on her elbow, realizing that she had fallen asleep while she was working, even though the bedside clock read only 9:45. She used to be a night owl, staying up to watch Jimmy Fallon, but the exhaustion of her first trimester had thrown her for a loop.

Christine’s hand went automatically to her tummy, and she wondered when she’d be able to feel the baby moving. The thought suffused her with happiness, and she leaned back on the soft pillow, feeling the smile spread across her face. The bedroom was so pretty, with a sky-blue color scheme that made her feel restful, and the comforter was a blue hydrangea pattern that matched the curtains on the far wall, three mullioned panes that overlooked their street, with white sheers for privacy. The ceiling was a soft cumulus white, and Christine felt as if she were in girl heaven, for which she sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

Her gaze fell on the laptop, and its dark screen told her that it had fallen asleep, too. Suddenly she remembered. Donor 3319. Zachary Jeffcoat. Her stomach clenched all over again, and she picked up her phone from the night table and checked the screen. Dr. Davidow hadn’t called her, and she checked her phone to make sure that the ringer was on, which it was. She lay back on the pillow, holding the phone. She was close to her mother and wished she could call her to talk it over or maybe go visit them, since her parents lived in nearby Middletown, where she had grown up. But Christine didn’t want to worry her mother any more; her hands were full taking care of Christine’s father, who had Alzheimer’s.

She reminded herself of Dr. Davidow’s sensible words, that Homestead is one of the best banks in the country, that they had procedures in place to ensure only the highest-quality donors, that his own sister had used them, with two successful pregnancies, using the same donor twice. Christine remembered being weirded out when she first heard that was possible, as well as the other icky facts about infertility procedures, but that was when she was a rookie in the infertility world. She’d gotten over the ick factor, like with any other medical malady, and in no time found herself talking with other women in the waiting room about sperm motility or vaginal secretions, the lingo of a club that no one wanted to join. She had come to understand that they were a random group of people linked by a heartbreaking predicament, trying to attain what the rest of the world took for granted, a baby. A family.

So much about the fertility process had opened Christine’s eyes, and some was the exact opposite of what she’d expected; for example, she had expected the doctor’s office to be full of bulletin boards of photos from babies conceived through the various procedures offered by the clinic. But there had been nothing in the decor of Families First that related to babies at all. The art was watercolor landscapes, and the magazines mainstream, unrelated to parenting or pregnancy. A small sign on the door read: Out of consideration for our other patients, we ask that you not bring any babies or children with you to your appointments at our practice.

As Christine went through month after month without becoming pregnant, she came to appreciate the wisdom of the rule, and its mercy. It would’ve killed her to see a new baby in the waiting room; she’d had a hard enough time when she saw babies in the store, smiling and kicking their chubby legs in shopping carts. Christine had never in her life wanted something so badly as she wanted a baby, experiencing her wish as the most fundamental of desires, the primal yearning of an organism to reproduce, obeying an imperative embedded in the DNA of every living creature. She had never given up faith that she would somehow be pregnant, and now she finally was. And she had been the happiest woman on earth until she saw the CNN video.

“Hey,” Marcus said, coming out of the bathroom, a light blue bath towel wrapped around his waist. His body looked pumped, his shoulders broad with strong caps, his biceps full, and his torso tapered to the towel. His hair was wet, which made it look almost brown, and water droplets dotted his chest.

“Oh, hi.” Christine managed a smile as she shifted up against the headboard, upholstered with the hydrangea fabric. “Have fun at the driving range?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?” Christine asked, surprised. Usually Marcus felt terrific after he’d been to the driving range. It reduced his stress level, relaxing him, and they’d had some of the best times in bed after he’d come home from hitting a bucket.

“You’re not interested in golf.”

“No, but I’m interested in you.” Christine patted the bed beside her, and Marcus sat down, showing her his palm, which was pink and large, but callused at the pads under each finger.

“See how that’s red? I’m squeezing too hard. It’s like a death grip. It’s an easy fix. I have to chill out. It’s just a bad night. Everybody has a bad night.”

“Sure, of course.” Christine could see he didn’t want to dwell on it, so she let it go. Marcus was a sensitive man despite his jocky appearance, and it was best to say less when he was out of sorts. His late mother Barbara “Beebee” Nilsson, a lovely woman and an accomplished equestrian, used to refer to Marcus as a “draft horse,” explaining that he had a big, strong body but was a softy inside. Christine wouldn’t have put it that way, but understood that it was meant with love, and she had known Beebee only a year when she passed suddenly, from an aneurism. Christine was less a fan of her egotistical father-in-law Frederik, who hadn’t waited long to start dating before he eventually remarried.

“You fell asleep early.”

“I know, I’m beat.”

“You hungry? Do you want anything from downstairs?”

“No, did you eat? I feel terrible there’s nothing in there. I was going to go food shopping after school, but then we had the party.”

“Don’t worry about it. I had more cake. I’m having a cake baby.” Marcus patted his waist, which was still trim enough to qualify as a four-pack. She had met him her freshman year of college, when he was a hunky junior in her Government class. She’d done a double-take when she saw him pick up his backpack and his forearm rippled with not only two muscles, but three. It was lust at first sight, though love came later and happily, stuck around for the duration. They had been married for seven years, happy as fried clams.

“So what did Lauren think? About our donor?”

“She didn’t think it was the same person, either. For what it’s worth, we called Dr. Davidow and told him.”

“Really?” Marcus pursed his lips. “What did he say?”

“He said he would call Homestead and get back to us. They’re the only ones who know the donor’s identity. The doctor’s only the broker.”

“I knew that.”

“I didn’t.” Christine blinked, feeling vaguely dumb. It wasn’t a feeling she liked, which was why she had so much empathy with her reading students. Most of them had tracking problems or problems identifying words, the kind of challenges that left them feeling stupid or excluded even though they fell short of dyslexia or other diagnosed reading disorders.

“Did Dr. Davidow tell you about the screening they do for donors?”

“Not really.” Christine saw the pain crossing Marcus’s face, and she felt guilty even having the discussion. “Truly, I’m not worried about it as much as I was before. I think it’s probably just a fear. I felt better after I talked to him.”

“Good.” Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “I was worried Lauren would rile you up.”

“No, she didn’t. She listened, but she didn’t get me crazier than I already am.”

“Good. I like you just the level of crazy you are.”

“Me, too.” Christine touched his arm, stroking the curve of his bicep, still damp.

“God, I’m beat, too,” Marcus said, unsmiling, and Christine knew it was code that he wasn’t in the mood to make love. She hadn’t been either, so she didn’t press the point. Their sex life hadn’t been a problem until their infertility issues. The fun had gone out of their lovemaking back when they still thought Christine was the one with the problem; instead of a loving expression, sex acquired a single-minded purpose, to get pregnant. The situation had gotten worse after their problem was diagnosed as Marcus’s. He had lost all interest in sex, and one or two times, hadn’t been able to perform. They had only recently gotten their sex life back on track, but Christine worried that today’s focus on Donor 3319 wouldn’t help.

“I really like Dr. Davidow,” she said. “He took me seriously, but he didn’t become alarmed.”

“There’s no reason for alarm.”

“He told me that if there were any problem with our donor, they would take the sperm off the shelves.”

“Really.” Marcus lifted an eyebrow, and Christine leaned over, pulled her laptop into her lap, and pressed ENTER to wake it up.

“Yes, they take the donation off the shelf if the kids are born with a clubfoot or a lazy eye, stuff like that.”

“Interesting.”

“Agree.” Christine felt she had redeemed herself, knowing something he didn’t. She navigated out of the Nutmeg Hill website and back to Homestead’s, plugging in Donor 3319 into the search function. She had checked it every fifteen minutes until she had fallen asleep. “He said that it probably wasn’t a problem if his sperm was still available.”

“That makes sense.”

“He and I checked together, and it was still available.” Christine clicked the link for Donor 3319, but froze when she read the screen. The entry for Donor 3319 had been changed. Now it read: Sperm Temporarily Unavailable! Sorry!

“Oh my God, no,” Christine said, stricken.