Free Bull's Eye by Sarah N. Harvey Page B

Phone calls unreturned. Brain unused. The Sandra letters are from my mom to Donna, telling her how wonderful I am and how lucky she is to have me. The letters from K tell Donna how wonderful
she
is and how lucky he (or she) is to have her. It’s a whole world of wonderfulness. I feel queasy. I had no idea Aunt Donna even knew when my birthday was. My mom has never mentioned that she sent her sister weeklyupdates on my unbelievable adorableness. And who the hell is K?
    I turn the box upside down to make sure I haven’t missed anything. A photo flutters out and lands on the carpet facedown. There’s a date scrawled on the back—
Feb 15, 1989
. Three weeks before I was born. I turn it over. My mother and Aunt Donna are standing in front of the Sylvia Hotel in Vancouver’s West End. I recognize it from all the times my mom and I have stayed there. In the photograph, Aunt Donna is very, very pregnant. My mother is not. I look up at my mom and she is crying silently, with her hand over her mouth. I just make it to the bathroom before I lose my breakfast, my lunch and my mind. I don’t want sorbet anymore.

Chapter Two
    When I finally come out of the bathroom, Mom—or whoever she is—is sitting at the kitchen table. The pink blanket is on her lap and she is staring at the photograph. My dish of sorbet is still sitting on the counter. Suddenly I crave the simple cold sweetness on my tongue. I stand silently, spooning the melted goop into my mouth. I finish off what’s in the bowl and getthe container out of the freezer and keep eating. It’s easier than talking. And I figure the ball’s in her court. No way am I starting this conversation.
    â€œShe made this for you, you know,” she says. She strokes the blanket. “She was so young—your age. Can you imagine?”
    I laugh. It comes out more like a seal’s bark. Harsh and loud. I can’t imagine anything at the moment, other than getting away from her and her lies.
    I was nine when she told me I was a sperm-donor baby. Up until then I hadn’t worried too much about not having a dad. I kind of wondered what had happened to mine, but lots of my friends had no dads. Vanessa’s was dead, Rory’s took off when Rory was little, Jason’s was in jail. No biggie. My mom’s best friends, Richard and Chris, were always around to do guy stuff with me. They would shoot hoops, fix my bike, order pizza, go to Daughter ’n’ Dad Day at school. I wasn’t suffering. But when I was eight I started bugging Mom nonstop to tell me about my dad. Forsome reason I got it into my head that he was a millionaire who had died in a tragic ballooning accident. When I turned nine, she took me out for burgers at Duck Soup, my favorite diner. She told me all about sperm banks and donors. She told me how she had wanted a baby so badly and how she had planned everything and how great it all was. She said my dad was a really smart, super-healthy medical student. She also said that when I was eighteen I could register somewhere and maybe find him and any half-siblings I might have. I was, like, yuck! No thanks. For years after that I thought sex involved plastic cups. I never talk to Mom about it. It still grosses me out.
    â€œSo the whole sperm-donor story was crap?” I say. “All that stuff about wanting a baby so much but not having a partner, and planning, and choosing the best donor? All total bullshit?”
    â€œNo,” she says slowly. “Not all of it. I didn’t have a partner. And I did want a baby very much, but I didn’t plan on Donnagetting pregnant. I didn’t plan on adopting you. That just happened.”
    â€œYeah, right.” I snort and some sorbet goes up my nose. It feels okay. Very cooling. “So why make up the lame-ass sperm-donor story? Why not just—here’s an original idea—tell me the truth? I’ve spent seventeen years listening to ‘The truth