806 Page 4

  Mrs. Doctor Rosenberg forced a smile, the little girls giggled, Susan scowled and nodded, and Marcus just stood there, looking cool in a surfer T under a bright blue shirt, emitting waves of hostility.

  “Let’s go into the den,” suggested Mrs. Doctor. “You can join us later,” she told the kids as we made our way down an elegant book-lined hallway.

  It was then that Gabe whispered, a little too loudly, “This is so crazy wonderful! We’re biracial. I’m finally gonna be cool.”

  “Shhh!” I hissed. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  The Rosenbergs led us into a beautiful wood-paneled den and gestured for us to sit on a cushy couch. The walls were lined with all sorts of diplomas and awards. We couldn’t stop staring at the Rosenbergs, and they couldn’t stop staring at us. It was more than a little uncomfortable. Finally Dr. Jeffrey spoke.

  “Being adopted myself, I know how important it is to connect with biological family,” he told us. “My late adoptive parents, Susan and Marcus Rosenberg, were extraordinary people, and we loved each other very much, but I’ve always been curious about my birthparents. I’m still trying to locate them.”

  “You’re sure your number was 806?” I said, just because someone had to.

  “Absolutely, I have a certificate,” he responded. He opened his desk drawer and whipped out one that thanked Donor 806 for his donation.

  “Oh, I see,” I answered brilliantly. The silence was deafening.

  Mrs. Doctor picked up a silver tray with little square doughy things on it and offered it to Jesse. “Would you like a knish?”

  “Only if you’ve got some ketchup,” Swimmy answered.

  The Rosenbergs chuckled like it was a joke. I’d been at Sasha’s house enough to know that knishes and ketchup didn’t go together, so I kicked him under the coffee table and changed the subject. “Dr. Rosenberg, my mom told me that your profile said you played some musical instruments.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I tickled the ivories in my youth.”

  “I’m in a band and I write songs,” I said a little shyly. “I play guitar. Would you play something for me?”

  “I haven’t touched a keyboard in years, but I became proficient on the didgeridoo while working with the aborigines in Australia. Would you like to hear one of my favorites?”

  “It would give me...” I ran through my Goy’s Guide in my head, mentally searching for just the right word. “Naches,” I told him. That meant it would give me pleasure.

  He walked to the corner of the room, picked up a skinny leather case, and pulled out a long, painted, wooden instrument. Then he sat cross-legged on the floor. “This is called ‘The Kangaroo Hop,’” he said, putting it to his lips.

  “It goes on for a while,” Mrs. Doctor sighed.

  He blew into it, and this really spooky sound came out and went on and on and on for about five minutes. When he stopped, we all applauded.

  “Wow!” I said, trying to muster enthusiasm. “That must be really hard to play.”

  The doc smiled and put his didge away. I thought I saw the wife raise her eyes to the ceiling as if in thanks as he turned his attention to Jesse.

  “Just looking at you, Jesse, I would say you’re an athlete. Do you play soccer?”

  “Actually, no. I’m a varsity swimmer,” Jesse responded.

  “Ah,” said Dr. Rosenberg, in order to say something. “What do you excel in at school? What are your academic interests?”

  Silence descended again for a full beat. Jesse was stumped. He had to make a choice whether to tell the disappointing truth or make stuff up. He went with the truth.

  “I kind of haven’t figured that out yet,” he answered, looking at the floor. “But I’m working on it.”

  I wanted to do something to rescue poor Swimmy, but I couldn’t figure out what. It was Gabe who saved the day.

  He leaned forward and made real eye contact. “Dr. Rosenberg, may I ask you something personal?”

  “Anything at all, Gabe.”

  “Do you have any allergies?”

  “Not a one. You can roll me in ragweed, I don’t even sniffle,” he replied. Then he looked at Gabe intently. “Tell me, son, was your family open with you about using a donor?”

  “No,” the nerdy one answered, “I found out in a blood typing experiment in school. My folks are both O, and I’m type A, so they had to own up.”

  The Rosenbergs gasped and locked eyes. Then they both stood up.

  “Unfortunately,” the doctor said, “it seems that I’m not your father. I did have my doubts since we don’t have any physical similarities, but now I know for sure.”

  He opened the same desk drawer and pulled out another certificate. It was from The American Red Cross and read: “TO DOCTOR JEFFREY ROSENBERG WITH GRATITUDE FOR THE MANY LIVES YOU HAVE SAVED WITH YOUR GENEROUS DONATIONS OF BLOOD.” At the bottom in tiny print was the note: “Your type O blood is known as the universal donor.”

  Gabe, Jesse, and I all got up from the cushy couch at the same time as if we were connected.

  “I’m so, so sorry. I’m afraid this must be some sort of tragic logistical error,” Dr. Rosenberg declared with a sincere look of sympathy.

  “Or a very sick practical joke,” his wife mused suspiciously.

  “I’d stick with ‘tragic logistical error,’” I told them, trying not to lose it. “Believe me, it’s not any kind of joke. We thought we were going to find our biological father. It’s what we all dreamed about, what we all wanted more than anything.”

  “I don’t understand how this mix-up could have happened,” the doc said sincerely. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

  The dude looked almost as sad as we did while his wife had the expression of someone who has just dodged a bullet.

  “I guess we better go,” I said. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  We all walked to the front door, not knowing what to say.

  “I sincerely hope you find your father,” Doctor Rosenberg told us. He gave us each a heartfelt, backbreaking hug, and then we were standing outside as the door closed gently behind us.

  “I couldn’t have lived there anyway,” Jesse muttered.

  “And they were so close to asking you,” I snapped.

  “Well, I thought Susan was really pretty,” he added, out of nowhere.

  Just then the door opened, a bright blue arm shot out, and Jesse’s overnight bag was deposited on the doorstep. The door slammed shut, then opened again, and his soccer ball came flying out. I scooted over to where it had landed, picked up the ball, and threw it at the door.

  “Thank you, Marcus!” I shouted.

  “He probably can’t hear you. He’s too busy doing a happy dance,” Jesse said, picking up his stuff.

  “He doesn’t matter. Forget him,” I whispered to Jesse.

  “That’s the closest I’ll ever get to being cool,” Gabe mused sadly.

  “But you know,” Jesse remarked, “it’s weird that the doc gives away all that bodily fluid. Blood, sperm . . . does anyone need pee?”

  “Why are you making jokes?” I asked, holding back the tears. “It’s not funny that we have no dad. Don’t you care?”

  “I know it’s not funny, and I care a lot,” Jesse answered, his voice cracking a little.

  “My dad says things happen for a reason,” Gabe offered.

  “I always hated that expression,” I told him. “How could all our parents have gotten the number wrong?” I asked no one in particular.

  “It’s mathematically improbable that something like that would happen,” said Gabe. “There’s got to be another answer.”

  I was so fed up that I couldn’t even talk. I pulled Every Goy’s Guide out of my pocket and tossed it into the gutter. I’d been using my mom’s pink notecard with “806” written on it as a bookmark, and it slipped out as the book hit the ground and flipped upside down. We all stared at it, and our mouths fell open.

  “Oh my god!” I whispered.

  “Damn!” said J
esse.

  “Eureka!” Gabe snorted.

  The card, upside down, now read 908.

  chapter seven

  Going home, we sat together on the bus, trying to make sense of what just happened. Someone must have mixed up the donor number. That was a given. We took turns trying to figure out how it had happened until we were almost at our stop. Then Gabe snorted some organic nose spray. It seemed to clear his brain so that he was able to hit on something that made sense.

  “Back when our parents were looking for donors, Cryosperm was the only sperm bank in St. Louis. My mom told me that they looked through a big book that some nurse put together with all the donor profiles and numbers. What if one of the nurses was a little dyslexic and switched 806 and 908 next to the profiles? Our moms would have chosen 806, thinking they were choosing 908.”

  “Then why aren’t we all beige?” I wanted to know.

  “Because my mom told me that the donor number was at the top of the profile on the page and, embedded in the profile at the bottom, there was a security code number that you peeled off and showed them for the vial of sperm. So when you told the nurse who you wanted, you showed her the code number, which would have been the correct code for 908 even though 908 was listed as 806. Get it?”

  “I think so,” Jesse said. “That way if a wannabe mom was numerically challenged, they couldn’t get the wrong sperm by reversing or inverting numbers. They had to get the sperm of the profile they wanted. Each of our moms picked the profile of 806 that should have been marked 908.”

  Not bad for a dumb jock, I thought.

  “So, do you guys wanna post 908 on DSC.org and see if he contacts us?” asked Gabe.

  “Hell no,” said Jesse. “My situation is desperate. I can’t wait for a ‘no contact’ to contact me.”

  “I’m on a roll,” I told them. “I can’t deactivate now. I say we get our bio dad’s profile and we contact him. Maybe he’s like our almost-dad. Maybe he’s sorry he was a ‘do not contact.’”

  “How do we get his profile?” Jesse wanted to know.

  “They probably keep all that info in their filing system,” Gabe said. “Or maybe they’ve transferred it to a computer?”

  “One of us should call and see if we can find out,” I said.

  They both looked at me as the bus pulled into our stop.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” I said, and then I uttered the words I thought I would never say. “Gimme your numbers, and I’ll call you tonight.”

  We piled off the bus and went our separate ways, thinking our separate thoughts, and I called Sasha on my cell to fill her in while I walked home.

  “I can’t talk, K,” she said. “My mom’s working late, so my dad and I are on our way to pig out at McDonald’s”

  “No burgers, please, I’m begging you. Have a salad.”

  “You really are out to change the world one meal at a time, my veggie friend.”

  “Just work on your dad, will you?”

  “Okay. You have my word—no meat. I promise to try to influence my dad, but tonight he’s king because he’s taking me to a . . . drum roll . . . Kings of Leon concert.”

  “How did you pull that off? I thought your dad hated rock concerts.”

  “I told him that sharing music is a father-daughter bonding experience.”

  “I wouldn’t know, but have a great time,” I told her. Then I hung up, feeling kind of ashamed of myself because I wasn’t totally happy for her. I was really jealous that she had a dad to share a dinner and a concert with, and I was going home to an empty house.

  When I got there, I did what I said I would. I called the sperm clinic and tried to sound like a customer. Then I called Swimmy, and he conferenced in Abracadabra.

  “Here it is,” I told them. “I found out zip. I think I sounded young or something. The Sperminator dude told me that if I was a real patient, I should come in person, and then I’d see how their files were kept. Then he hung up on me.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll have to do,” said Jesse. “We gotta go to Cryosperm and figure out a way to get 908’s information.” And right then and there, we hatched a plan to take back our birthright.

  The next day we met at Jesse’s. He had a really nice house. There were sports trophies and pictures of him all over the place. The kitchen had two stoves and a humongous fridge that I’m sure had never had any Burger Boy stuff in it. On the counter was a framed cover of a magazine called Catering Quarterly, with a picture of his moms and the headline: “Liz Worthington and Tina Flax Share Success Secrets.” It was perfect. I could totally see why Jesse was bummed out.

  His moms had taken the car and told Jesse he could use their catering van if he had to go anywhere, so we piled in and headed for Cryosperm. We actually seemed to be getting along okay until I realized that I should have changed into my outfit at Jesse’s house. I wanted to go back, but Jesse said it was too late, we were almost there. And if I was so smart, then why didn’t I think of that before.

  Then Gabe had a sneezing fit, ran out of tissues, and sprayed saliva all over the place. The two of them shifted back into their most annoying selves. I told them to just shut up, and that they’d have to get out when we arrived and let me change in the van. When we pulled into the lot, that’s what they did.

  When I slid back the door and stepped out in my candy striper’s uniform (which I found stashed in the back of my mom’s closet), Jesse fell off the skateboard he’d been fooling around with, and Gabe kind of gulped.

  “You look very, uh, authentic,” he said.

  “If you weren’t you, you’d be kind of hot,” Jesse admitted.

  “I try not to think anyone’s hot, ’cause no one thinks I’m hot. But if I did ...” Gabe began.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I interrupted. “Whatever.” And then it hit me. “You guys, this is where we were conceived. We’re standing outside the building where our creation began.”

  “Yeah, this is where 908 did his thing, all by himself,” Jesse whispered almost reverently.

  “Ugh, I never thought of it that way!” I snapped. “And I don’t want to.”

  “Don’t forget the magazines I bought,” Gabe reminded me, looking embarrassed.

  “Let’s do it, Jesse!” I ordered, taking the stack of girlie rags from Gabe and heading for the entrance with Jesse behind me.

  When I peeked inside the door of Cryosperm, it looked kind of like a regular doctor’s office. There was one of those high desks that the receptionist usually sits behind, and in back of it, a bunch of file cabinets. No one was in the waiting room, and a sign with an arrow pointed down a hallway to the “Donor Rooms.”

  Suddenly, a dude in a pink shirt and lavender tie popped up behind the counter. He clicked on an intercom and bellowed, “Room Nine, are you making a donation or having a party with yourself?”

  “I have a hand cramp,” Room Nine whined.

  “Boo-hoo,” said the dude. “Man up and deliver. I’m going to need the room in five minutes . . . no pressure.”

  A donor walked up to the desk carrying a labeled cup and put it down. “Can I keep this, Lowell?” he asked, holding up a copy of Lusty Latinas magazine. Lowell snatched it out of his hand, and the guy flew past me out the front door. Seems like everyone was afraid of Lowell. But I wasn’t. I was on a mission.

  I signaled Jesse to wait a minute and then slinked through the door with my magazines. Flashing what I hoped was a seductive smile, I slid them onto the desk. “I’m here to refresh the literature,” I announced.

  Lowell didn’t even look up. “About time,” he mumbled. “I still have Playboy with Pam Anderson’s real boobs.”

  I gave the magazines a tiny push that sent them slipping to the floor on Lowell’s side of the desk. He performed a snotty eye roll that equaled my all-time biggest and best, and then he stooped down to pick them up.

  “Let me help you,” I said in a voice loud enough for Jesse to hear. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door open, and Jesse crouched d
own and sneaked in as Lowell and I knelt on the floor collecting magazines.

  “Wicked tie, Lowell,” I commented as I tried to draw his attention to my pathetic cleavage.

  “It’s Gaultier,” he pronounced in the French way.

  I now knew cleavage was not the answer, so I switched tracks. “Madonna’s favorite designer,” I whispered in awe. I pictured Jesse jiggling handles, trying to find an empty donor room.

  “Blessed be her name,” Lowell answered as we moved to loading magazines to the desk. He was almost smiling at me when the intercom buzzed. He held up a “hold on” finger.

  “What is it, Room Eight?” he snapped. “Wait a sec, I don’t remember filling room eight.”

  “You did,” I reminded him. “When I was outside, I heard you yelling to someone, ‘Take room eight.’”

  “Whatever,” Lowell muttered.

  Jesse’s voice came blasting through the intercom. “The good pages are stuck together. Can I get another magazine?”

  I held up a Lusty Busty. Lowell mouthed a silent “Yecch” as he grabbed it. “Hold that stroke, sailor,” he hissed.

  As soon as he darted from behind the desk and down the hall, I began flipping through the file drawers. The files were labeled with the year and the donor number, and the most recent were in the drawer I opened. I barely had time to figure that out and snap it closed when Lowell reappeared, all chatty and ready to pick up our conversation.

  “I have three sealed copies of her Sex book,” he confided.

  “Oh! My! God! I’m eating my heart out,” I moaned.

  The intercom buzzed again.

  “I need help. I can’t get the video to play,” complained Jesse.

  “It’s broken, Eight!” barked Lowell. “Flip the magazine pages fast. It’ll look like a movie.”

  “Do you have Big Boob Babes, July?” asked Jesse.

  “I’m gonna trade one book for concert tickets,” Lowell announced to me, ignoring Jesse.

  “Front row,” I assured him.

  Jesse buzzed again. “Please, I need it!” he pleaded over the intercom.

  Lowell shot me an exasperated look, grabbed a few magazines, and flew down the hall. I made it through three file drawers before I heard him shouting, “Don’t call me again, Eight, or something bad will happen!”