19

A cool façade got me through the day. The inner avalanche was somehow not apparent on the outside—this had always been the case with me. I held myself together even as I worried that I might pass out. I told my friend the story over lunch at Gracias Madre, aware that I was recounting it, not feeling it. I heard the words coming out of my mouth, I registered her kind, stricken face across the table, but part of me had levitated and was now hovering, as if the story weren’t my own.

This hovering continued that evening in San Francisco. Dinner had been planned months in advance with a couple we adored. The evening, as we had envisioned it, would be boozy, fun, a celebration of friendship. As Michael and I walked from our hotel to their Pacific Heights town house, I continued to fidget with my phone. The whole day had gone by without word from Benjamin Walden. Maybe he wouldn’t write me back. But if he didn’t write me back, wasn’t that a certain kind of proof? Dear Ms. Shapiro, I’m sorry but you’re mistaken. Dear Ms. Shapiro, I was never a sperm donor. Dear Ms. Shapiro, You’re out of your fucking mind.

What I remember: a marvelous, fairy-tale house, the front parlor where we gathered for drinks before heading out to a bistro a few blocks away. A vodka martini with two olives in a long-stemmed glass. I had texted earlier that day to let them know that I had, as I put it, seismic news. It seemed an appropriate choice of words. It was San Francisco, after all. Good seismic or bad seismic? the wife had written back. Just seismic. They looked at us expectantly. What was the news? Michael and I found ourselves tag-teaming the story as if we were actors in a play—a darkly comedic play—tripping over one another, mining the story, beat by dramatic beat. The vodka was having the desired effect. I was becoming numb, but also voluble. It was a good story. A great story. I had pretty much lost sight of the fact that it was my story. We had them laughing. We had them on the edges of their seats. We spent most of the evening talking about it, over steak frites and good French wine.

The next day I received a text: Any word from the good doctor? The wife’s tone was breezy and dismissive, unlike her. She was usually highly sensitive, tuned in. I had begun to despair about ever hearing from Benjamin Walden. I had double- and triple-checked his email address to be sure I had gotten it right. Of course, this was absurd. What was I thinking? That Benjamin Walden would leap to respond to what must have been a bombshell? But as I careened through the hours, I had no patience, no capacity to be measured. The good doctor was my biological father. Meanwhile, the texts continued. Keep us posted with updates! I was hurt by her tone. How could she not understand that this wasn’t a soap opera, this was my life? But later, much later, I came to understand that I had presented it as entertainment. So had Michael. It was a default and a defense; if we were able to shape it into a story, perhaps it would hurt less.

That night, a second night we had planned—a dinner party in the fairy-tale house—I went in resolved that I wasn’t going to say a word. I wasn’t going to hijack their evening. It wasn’t their fault that my life had blown up. It was a table of extraordinary raconteurs, and for whole minutes at a time, I was able to forget that the ground beneath me had cracked wide open. I ate the seafood paella, drank more than my share of wine. I laughed, told other, easier stories, clinked glasses. I met Michael’s eyes across the table. I’ve got you, those eyes said.

It continued to seem oddly possible to go on living my life as if nothing had happened. Nothing had, in fact, happened. It had been uncovered, but it wasn’t new. It had always been the case. My father had never been my father. A doctor from Portland had always been my father. I was not who I thought I had been. But I was who I had always been.

The next morning, when I awoke, I could wait no longer. Certainly, I should have given it more than two days. The templates Jennifer Mendelsohn had spoken of would have me waiting weeks, months, possibly forever. Eventually, I’ll read sample letters online—generally meant for parents of donor-conceived children who wish to contact their anonymous sperm donors—that contain phrases like priceless gift and unbelievably lucky and grateful. Experts counsel patience. If you receive no response at all you must respect the donor’s wish for privacy. When breaking the barrier of silence with your child’s donor, be sincere and stay hopeful.

To: Dr. Benjamin Walden

From: Dani Shapiro

Subject: Regarding my letter

Dear Dr. Walden,

I realize my letter must have been shocking to you and respect that you may need to process this information before deciding how to respond. I’d be grateful, though, just to know that you received it. I’m reeling from this myself. It has turned the entire narrative of my life upside down. Of course, if you haven’t received it, I’ll resend.

Thanks. I hope to hear from you.

Dani