One Good Egg: An Illustrated Memoir by Suzy Becker Read Free Book Online Page B

hearing distance.
    Steve had actually mentioned it, under the heading of things he didn’t know until he had to fill out that questionnaire. “It was fixed,” I said, “operated on when he was one.”
    My intimate knowledge impressed Dr. Felton enough for him to confide in me, “I have met some women who are so picky about their donors—I’ve been tempted to ask them, ‘Did you bother to ask your husband whether he was fertile before you married him?’” I smiled understandingly. I wasn’t one of those women.
    Dr. Felton leafed though the rest of Steve’s packet, making passing reference to some heart and thyroid disease—all very common within an extended family. “I think we’re all set here,” he said when he got to the end. He smiled, rose, did another half bow in closing, then walked back to wherever it was he had come from. The heating system rumbled on in his wake—the HVAC opposite of the whir of a cryogenic cooling system—then rumbled off after he’d disappeared.
    I kept my eyes fixed on the opening, willing Steve to reappear. It didn’t take him this long at home! I was studying the plaques above the doorway when Steve walked through, shaking his head. We refrained from further conversation until we were in the privacy of the elevator. “Well”—I couldn’t tell from looking at him—“how was it?”
    “A blond Britney Spears type with a caveman—an unattractive caveman—”

    “They only had one video?”
    “No, it was the newest one. The doctor recommended it.”
    “Wait, you don’t think he screens—”
    “Mmm. It would seem he does. Well, I hope it went all right. It’s all very odd, really. I’ve never had to fuss about these things before . . . ” He zipped up his coat. “And how was your interview? ‘Stephen, you’ve had sex with men,’” he imitated Dr. Felton halfheartedly. “Does Suzy know?”
    “Nope, nothing on that. He asked if I knew about your undescended testicle.”
    “Good God.”
    T he lab didn’t have Steve’s sperm analysis the next morning. The receptionist picked up on my urgency. “Is your husband going in for chemo, Mrs. Dillon?” We were new to the agency family.
    “Oh, no, he’s just going back to Australia. We’re trying to get his appointments set up.” She had no further questions. That afternoon she called back. “Ten dense vials with 96% motility fresh, 87% frozen,” I repeated aloud, although Steve had heard through the phone, and threw my arm around his waist.
S TUDLY S TEVE
     

    The receptionist scheduled appointments, one every three days through the end of December.
    We called Lorene with the good news. “So are we celebrating?” she asked.
    “Steve’s spending the night at Bruce’s. They’re going porn shopping. You and I were going to decorate the tree . . . ”
    It was our first Christmas together but none of it was shaping up the way I had imagined. It was all my imagination’s fault: People in retail (Lorene, for example) don’t celebrate Christmas, they survive it. She had to work late, trying to keep up with the framing orders. And people from Australia (Steve, for instance) don’t care about making cookies or hanging stockings by a fireplace—it’s 95 degrees in Melbourne this time of year.
    That night, Lorene and I didn’t get to decorate the tree. We had a quiet dinner and toasted “to Daddy’s sperm.”
    “Just think,” Lorene said, “this time next year, you could be pregnant.”
    “But we still have one more try while Steve’s here . . . ” This is the kind of thinking that sets someone up for disappointment.
    I picked Steve’s head out, bobbing toward me, almost a block away. Funny how you can go years without seeing someone, then miss him when you’re apart for a night. “Porn mission accomplished?” I asked, pointing to the backpack. He nodded.
    This time a woman from the lab greeted us at the elevators. There wasn’t a proper reception area or a receptionist. She instructed us to