Free What Came First by Carol Snow Page B

together. No movie. Just me and a really big casserole.
    On the way out, we pass through the kitchen. The padded envelope is still sitting on the island.
    “Give me one minute.” I grab the envelope and duck into the bathroom. It smells of the same lemon as my bedroom. I rip the envelope open, scan the directions, and emerge brandishing a cotton swab.
    “Open your mouth. I need to scrape the inside of your cheek.”
    Ian has always been full of questions, and I expect him to demand a detailed explanation. I haven’t decided whether to tell him the partial truth—that a DNA analysis can shed light on his ethnic background—or the whole truth: a Y-line DNA test could lead us to his donor. I was going break the news slowly, gauge his reaction carefully. Now there’s no time.
    But Ian is so anxious to get to the birthday party, he doesn’t ask questions, just opens his mouth so I can get my sample and then hurries into the car, which is still warm from my drive home.
    Later, much later, after I’ve tried watching a movie and reading a book, only to find myself pacing around the echoing house, I grab my purse and the Tyvek envelope containing the salivasoaked swab. The rain comes down in sheets, but the post office is less than a mile away. A blue mailbox stands at the edge of the tiny parking lot.
    The envelope falls with a thud.

    Two weeks later, I receive an e-mail from Helix Laboratories. They tell me that Ian is a male of Northern European ancestry, which is not much of a surprise. And then, the big news: Ian’s Y chromosome matches two individuals in Helix Lab’s extensive database. By 37 and 42 percent.
    In other words, we have failed to track down any close relatives. I have met another dead end. If I sign a release, Helix will add Ian’s results to their public database, but I don’t want to give up that kind of control.
    Per your request, we will notify you of any future Y-line matches of greater than 50%, the e-mail tells me. A name might pop up a year from now. Or two. Or ten. By then it will be too late.

Part 2
    APRIL

1
    Vanessa
    I’m so over Donor 4317. Something about him just never felt right. Plus, once I broke down and read all of his boring medical stuff, I saw that there was a ton of cancer in his family, and that’s not something you want to mess around with.
    Right now I’m torn between two lovers. Nonlovers. Whatever. First, we’ve got Donor 5429, just a few miles away from me at the Southern California Cryobank. He’s six foot four with brown hair and hazel eyes. He does triathlons and plays the drums. And he cries at movies.
    Eric? Never cries.
    Bachelor Number Two’s money shot is in cold storage on the other side of the country, at the Northern Florida Sperm Repository. But that’s okay. No long-distance relationship issues there. They ship! My baby could be a jet setter before he’s ever born!
    Bachelor Number Two, aka Donor 81GH2, calls himself a “nerdy jock.” How cute is that? Plus, he says he can’t wait to have children of his own someday.
    Sometimes I daydream about meeting 5429 or 81GH2. We’d fall in love, get married, and then, finally, have babies together. I wouldn’t even mind about his other little donor children running around somewhere in the United States (or even Europe). I’ve never been a selfish person. And anyway, he wouldn’t love those other kids. They’d be like distant cousins he’d never met.
    I’ve decided that 5429 is named Lucas and 81GH2 is named Shane. Or maybe Crispin.
    Eric doesn’t know that I’ve been cruising sperm donors. I’ve been waiting for just the right moment to threaten to have someone else’s baby. If that’s not a wake-up call, I don’t know what is. In the meantime, thinking about these guys, trying to imagine their voices, smells, and eyes, makes me feel more in control of my destiny.

    Friday night we have dinner at Eric’s mom’s house. She lives in Glendale, which is north of L.A. In other words, the drive is a