What Came First by Carol Snow Page B

sees us, she scrambles into a sitting position. She finishes her text and sticks the phone in her back pocket.
    “Where are Harrison and Sydney?” I ask.
    “In bed.”
    “Asleep?”
    “Yeah. I mean, I guess.”
    “And they ate the pizza?”
    “No, they didn’t want it. I made eggs for myself because I’m lactose intolerant, so I can’t eat pizza. And they said they wanted eggs too, so that’s what I gave them.”
    “They hate eggs,” I say.
    “Really? Oh.” She shrugs. Apparently, the twins don’t hate Ashlyn’s eggs. Or if they do, they ate them anyway.
    Her cell phone whirs. She touches her back pocket but doesn’t take the phone out.
    I pull twenty dollars out of my wallet—then I add an extra ten. This gawky teenager is a miracle worker.
    “Thanks.” She shoves the bills into her front pocket without counting. When her cell phone whirs again, she pulls it out and checks the display.
    “You can get that,” I say.
    “Nah.” She puts the phone back in her pocket. “It’s just my mother.”
    Once Ashlyn leaves, Darren and I tiptoe up the stairs and go into the twins’ darkened rooms. They both sleep curled into tight fetal positions, usually with their hands balled into angry fists. Tonight, Harrison faces the wall, but Sydney’s face, calm and angelic, tilts toward us in the doorway. Her dark curls tumble on the pillow; her hands lie together, as if in prayer.
    “She looks like you,” Darren whispers.
    “She’s prettier,” I say. (She is.)
    He shakes his head. “You’re both beautiful.” Something passes over his face: something sad.
    Tears spring to my eyes. I can’t remember the last time Darren called me beautiful. I know he’s just saying it to be nice, but it still means something. I take his hand and squeeze.
    He squeezes back. “Think I’ll play on the computer for a little bit before bedtime.”
    He drops my hand. And just like that, I’ve lost him to his Sims world. How foolish to worry that Darren might be attracted to Annalisa. He has no interest whatsoever in real live people.
    I have my own computer. It’s in the kitchen, which means I can surf the Web, cook meals, and scream at my children—all at the same time! Right now I want to look up lactose intolerance. Maybe milk is responsible for the twins’ violent mood swings. It seems like a long shot, but you never know.
    There’s an e-mail waiting from Laura Cahill. I haven’t heard from her in months, but now I can ask if her perfect son has any trouble digesting milk. (If he does, would it mar his perfection? Or would she somehow see it as a good thing?)
    That question will have to wait. Laura’s message is brief, to the point, and nondairy in nature: I think I found him.

4
    Laura
    My cell phone rings just as I am pulling into the garage and wondering how to keep my eyes open long enough to take Ian to his seven o’clock Cub Scout meeting. My insomnia has returned with renewed vigor. Ever since mailing Dexter Savage a five-hundreddollar retainer (which seemed a bit steep), I’ve lain awake at night, considering all of the things that could go wrong, from learning that Donor 613 is untraceable to hearing that he is dead, the victim of a tragic accident or, worse, some horrible and potentially genetic disease.
    I turn off my ignition, grab the phone, and check the display: Dexter Savage. Less than a week has passed since we first spoke; I never imagined he’d get back to me so fast.
    He says, “I found your man.”
    That wakes me up. It isn’t until after the shock has passed that it strikes me. I found your man. What a corny thing to say, like something out of a bad television series.
    “And he’s alive?”
    He pauses. “Was that a possibility? ’Cause I woulda checked death records first.”
    “Not really, I just—”
    “The birth date made it easy,” he tells me. “Lots of guys named Fergus, but only two born on the same day as your guy, and one died in infancy. Got this name, checked it against