The Genius Factory (9 page)

Tom was in great spirits. He had a father, even though he hadn’t found him yet. He knew his real dad was a brilliant man (160 IQ!), a family man, and an accomplished man. For the first time in his life, Tom knew what it felt like to be proud of his father. Even better, Alton seemed as if he were becoming a friend and maybe even a real brother.

There was even better news, but Tom didn’t know it yet. I was keeping a secret from him, a secret of Samantha’s. One day while we had been talking, Samantha had confessed, “I know Coral’s first name. And I know what he does.”

“Excuse me?” I said. Samantha said she had not told me everything about her 1985 visit to the Repository. Julianna McKillop had not merely shown her a photograph of Coral, she had revealed Coral’s first name and profession. “When I was holding the picture of Coral in my lap, Julianna said, ‘Oh, you better give me back the picture of Jeremy.’ Julianna was incredibly embarrassed that she had said his name. She also told me Jeremy was a doctor, and I asked what kind, and she said surgeon. She told me that Jeremy had been in practice near Miami. She told me that Jeremy was open about being a donor, that he had gone on a TV program to talk about it. And she told me that Jeremy would be happy to meet my son when he was a teenager.”

This wasn’t the only news, Samantha said. She admitted that she had been searching for Jeremy/Coral and thought she had found him. When she’d heard the Repository was closing in 1999, she’d written a letter to the director. She’d told him she had an implied contract with the Repository, that Julianna had agreed that the Repository would contact Donor Coral when Alton was a teenager. The director wrote back and said: Tough luck, that’s against the rules.

So Samantha had decided to find him herself. She was friends with several adoptees, and she had seen how they always wanted to find their birth parents eventually. She assumed Alton would want to know Coral one day. She had figured she’d better start looking now, while the sperm trail was warm.

Without telling her then-husband or her son—who didn’t yet know he was a sperm bank baby—Samantha had begun trolling the Internet for Dr. Jeremys. She combed through lists of surgeons in Miami, Fort Lauderdale, Tampa, looking for Jeremys, Jeremiahs, and Jerrys. Whenever she found one, she would send him an e-mail saying, “I am looking for a sperm donor named Jeremy who donated to the Repository for Germinal Choice. If it is not you, do you know who it is?” Most never wrote back. Some wrote back saying, “It’s not me, and I don’t know who it is.”

After a year and dozens of failed letters, she uncovered a lead. In late 2000, a few months before she saw my article on
Slate,
she got an unusual reply to one of her letters. A Dr. Jeremy wrote back, saying, “It’s not me, but I think I know who it is: Dr. Jeremy H. Taft.” Samantha followed the clue. She surreptitiously checked out Jeremy H. Taft. He was a celebrated, talented Miami plastic surgeon, and he was a perfect match for Donor Coral. He had an interest in math, significant musical ability, and the correct number of kids of his own (three). He had written a book, just like Donor Coral. Still, Samantha was ambivalent, because Jeremy H. Taft was sleazy. He had a huge practice, largely because he advertised his services on city buses, on billboards, and in magazines. On the other hand, Samantha discovered he ran a scholarship program for needy kids.

Whatever he was, he was definitely the right guy. He was the right age, had the right hair and eye color, the right marital status. He even looked like the picture of Coral she had seen. His personality fit. A man who would erect a billboard of himself advertising face-lifts was the kind of man who would go on television to brag about donating sperm.

Samantha told me she had written Taft two letters and so far received no reply. But she wasn’t sure she had sent them to the right address, and she wondered if the letters had been vague. She had also left a couple of phone messages at his office that had gone unreturned, but again, she suspected they had been too opaque. He might not have understood the communications because she’d never said straight out that she believed he was Donor Coral and had plenty of supporting evidence.

Samantha revealed this to me right at the time Alton and Tom started corresponding. She was sure Jeremy Taft was Coral, and she believed he would be glad to hear from her and Alton, as long as he was sure they were legit and not seeking money. So how could she reach him? She decided to write a much bolder, clearer letter. She would present all her evidence in its most conclusive form. She would also tug at whatever paternal feelings he had by telling him all about Alton. She would enclose a photograph: What man could resist a photo of his own handsome son? She drafted this letter:

Dear Jeremy,

I believe that you are the genetic father of my son Alton. He was conceived via a sperm donation from the Repository for Germinal Choice, and was born August 19, 1986. Julianna (from the Repository) slipped up and told me the donor’s first name when she showed me his photo in 1985. She also told me he was a surgeon in Florida and told me about his sister’s musical gifts. I knew of other attributes from the Repository’s description. It was not hard to find you with help from the internet.

Alton is quite an amazing and wonderful kid who would make you proud if you knew him.

He understands full well the fine balance between hard work and creativity. He is soft spoken and modest, with a sweet and happy personality.

His hobbies are computer games and mountain biking. He likes chess and nonfiction writing.

If you have any interest in contacting him, his e-mail address is
                                                      
. If you are at all interested in meeting him, I could arrange to bring him to Miami. We are now a tiny family of two and it could be quite wonderful for him to meet you or other members of your family, especially your parents or children. On the other hand, just a photo from you could become a cherished possession.

Samantha Grant

She attached a cute photo of Alton, sealed the letter and picture in an envelope marked “Personal,” placed that envelope inside another envelope, and mailed it to his office. No way could he duck it.

In the meantime, Samantha and I discussed whether to tell Tom about her discovery of Jeremy Taft/Donor Coral. We thought we should keep it a secret for now. What if Jeremy wanted to meet only one child? It would be cruel to tell Tom that his father was out there but wouldn’t see him. And it would be unfair to Jeremy Taft to saddle him with two sons when he knew about only one. Besides, Tom was just sixteen; was he old enough to handle the information about Jeremy and the frustration of knowing he might never get to meet him? We agreed: until Jeremy Taft told her he wanted to meet Tom, we wouldn’t tell Tom or Mary about him.

Still, I felt guilty. There was one thing in the world that Tom wanted—to know his father—and I was depriving him of it.

CHAPTER 5

DONOR WHITE

Donor White’s entry in the 1988 Repository for Germinal Choice catalog.

T
he same week Samantha Grant left me her cryptic, anonymous voice mail, another mysterious woman called late at night. “I’m a mother of a ten-year-old girl from the Repository,” she whispered into my voice mail. “I want to talk to you.” Click.

I lingered by my phone the next day. No call back. The following morning, the phone rang, and I heard the same whispering voice. “I called you the other night. I have a ten-year-old daughter who was born with the help of the Repository.”

I said hello and asked, “What’s your name?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, then whispered, “Beth Kent. My daughter is Joy.” I cleared my throat and summoned up a whisper of my own. I never really had to whisper until I started working on this sperm bank story, but there is something about these conversations that makes people talk softly. It’s not the need for secrecy; they would whisper to me when they were alone in their houses. It was more like the hush of the confessional, the sense that these are sacred matters—birth, identity, genius—not to be joked about or even discussed in everyday voices. Even the e-mails from mothers and donors felt like whispers. No exclamation points. No smiley faces.

I asked Beth why she called. She said she wanted to dispel the notion that the women who went to the genius sperm bank were crazies seeking
über-
children. She told me she had gone to the Repository not because she wanted a genius baby but because she wanted a
healthy
one. The Repository was the only bank that would tell her the donor’s health history. She had picked Donor White. Her daughter Joy, she said, was just what she had hoped for, a healthy, sweet, warm little girl. (That’s why Beth asked me to call her daughter “Joy.”) “My daughter is not a little Nazi. She’s just a lovely, happy girl.” She described Joy to me, how she loved horseback riding and Harry Potter. She read me a note from Joy’s teacher: “Wow, it is a pleasure to have her smiling face and interest in the classroom.”

Even so, Beth was cautious. She was suspicious of reporters. I sensed that she was feeling me out in the conversation, gauging whether I seemed to exploit her. At some point, she must have decided that I passed the test, because she said in a new, confiding tone of voice, “Now I want to tell you a little bit more about what happened to us. Maybe you can help us. I was hoping that you might be able to help me find Donor White. I’m looking for him, and I am pretty sure he is looking for us, too.”

Oh, boy, here came another secret. I had not been privy to this many secrets since the late-night drunken spill sessions in college, and I was starting to feel funny about it. I don’t think I am a particularly good confidant. I can keep a secret well enough, but I don’t have the instinct for knowing the right thing to say when I’m told it. Still, I was starting to realize that empathetic ability was not so important, at least when it came to the Nobel sperm bank. I was the useful idiot here. Mothers were not confiding in me because they hoped I would go all Oprah on them and counsel them on how to live a better life. They were confiding in me for strictly pragmatic reasons—because I could help. Like a movie detective, I was being told secrets only because I might be able to unravel them.

Beth unfolded the mystery for me on that first day and over several weeks with phone calls, e-mails, and packages of letters. Eventually, she let me visit her and Joy in their small Pennsylvania town. I liked her a lot, especially once we dispensed with the solemn whispers. She was a nurse, which didn’t surprise me a bit. She was at once brisk and warm. I could imagine her jabbing the needle, and I could imagine her giving the hug afterward.

Here’s the story she told. In the late 1980s, Beth and her husband were living in San Diego. She was finishing up a stint in the coast guard. He was a fireman, a bit older. He’d had a vasectomy, but Beth was desperate for kids. She was in her early thirties and couldn’t wait any longer. Beth was leery of sperm banks. She had inquired at several banks, but they had been closemouthed about who their donors were. How could Beth know if the guy was really healthy? What if he had a family history of mental illness or cancer or heart disease? She wouldn’t take the risk. But in 1988, she read an article about the Nobel sperm bank. It sounded different. She sent away for an application and a catalog and was pleased to discover that the Repository told her everything she wanted to know about the donors: notably that they had passed blood tests for major illnesses, that their family medical history was clean, and that they had led lives of accomplishment, happiness, and good health. Beth knew nothing about Robert Graham’s eugenic ambitions, and she would not have been interested if she had.

Beth filled out the Repository application, which she found gratifyingly comprehensive. She liked that she had to give her medical history and that she had to promise not to smoke or drink while pregnant. The bank’s Escondido office wasn’t far from Beth’s home. After mailing back the application, Beth and her husband dropped by to introduce themselves to Dora Vaux, then the Repository’s office manager, recruiter, and fairy godmother. They asked her advice about which donor to choose. Dora studied Beth’s husband for a minute, then declared, “Donor Turquoise or Donor White.” Dora flipped open the catalog to Donor Turquoise #38, who was described as “a top science professor at a major university, head of a large research lab. Has published several college text books.” His IQ was 145. He was of German descent and had blue eyes, fair skin, and thick, wavy brown hair. He was born in the 1940s and was “very outgoing, happy, confident.” His hobbies were “farming, drama, German literature.” He had two “healthy, bright children,” and “all his family are very long-lived.”

Then she turned to Donor White #6: “Scientist involved in sophisticated research. Many technical publications.” He was of English ancestry, with blue eyes and dark brown hair. He was taller than Turquoise—six feet to Turquoise’s five feet, eight inches—and a decade older. His personality was “very engaging, warm, friendly.” He liked running, gardening, and reading history. His family was long-lived, too. His mother suffered from migraine headaches; he was nearsighted.

Shopping for a father! That special Turquoise glow or White’s whiter than whites? Crest or Colgate? Beth agonized. Dora asked her what she
really
wanted. Beth said, “I want to have a happy baby.” Dora told Beth that Donor White was a friend of hers, he lived nearby, and he was a delightful, sweet man. She told Beth that Donor White had already fathered lots of children through the Repository, and they were all happy, happy babies.

Then Dora dug into her file cabinet and pulled out a copy of an essay, “The First of My 12 Children Will Soon Be Four” by “R. White.” Donor White had written it, Dora said. Beth took it home and read it. Donor White described how he and his wife had been childless through more than twenty-five years of marriage, because of unknown fertility problems. But when he was over fifty, he’d been recruited as a sperm donor at the Repository and had been amazed to discover that he was very fertile. Now a dozen babies had been born from his seed in only three years. Donor White wrote how happy the children made him feel, even though they were unknown and unknowable:

The indirect success described above is not like having your own children, of course, and I will likely never be able to see any of them in person. . . . Moreover, many of these children will likely never know that their adopted fathers are not their biological fathers. Still, I know these children are out there somewhere, and they are thought about often. I have seen very pleasing photographs of several of them, with their parents’ permission, and have been able to form my own mental images of others while running on the beach in the quietness of the early morning. This is a rather poor substitute for having one’s own children, but it does provide a sense of continuity that was not present before. In my view, a person’s genes really belong to all of those many ancestors from whence they came, and we are only allowed to borrow and make use of them during our lifetimes. I have the satisfaction, then, of having been able, in an anonymous way, to connect the past with the future in a continuous line like a curve on a graph.

The article touched Beth. She
liked
Donor White. She ordered several vials of White sperm and scheduled inseminations with her doctor. Month after month passed, and she couldn’t get pregnant. Beth occasionally visited the Repository office to cheer herself up. Dora and Robert Graham had covered the office walls with photographs of the sperm bank’s offspring. These beautiful babies frustrated and enticed her. She ached for a child. Dora hugged her, comforted her, and told her it would all work out.

Beth was so desperate to conceive that she quit her job for one with better health insurance. After six months of failure, she gave up on regular insemination. She spent almost all her savings on in vitro fertilization, trying to have a test-tube baby with Donor White’s sperm. This was 1989, when IVF success rates were very low and the cost was very high. But the pregnancy took.

Beth swore she wouldn’t raise a kid in Southern California—too dirty, too dangerous. She and her husband moved back east to Pennsylvania farm country. Beth had grown up in small-town Indiana. She desired the same kind of childhood for her daughter. Joy was born in the summer of 1990, a boisterous, darling little blondie. After all her fertility trials, Beth considered Joy a miracle baby. Her thoughts returned again and again to Donor White. She thought about his article, and about the children of his own he could never have. When Joy was a few months old, Beth wrote him a thank-you note, care of Dora at the Repository, and enclosed a picture of tiny Joy.

Then, when Joy was almost a year old, Beth had a more radical idea. She was traveling to southern California on family business. She called her old friend Dora at the Repository. Beth offered to leave Joy with Dora at the Repository for a couple of hours, in case Donor White wanted to come by and meet his daughter. Now, at any other sperm bank in the country, the office manager would have declined that offer politely. Allowing anonymous donors to meet their children violates every principle of sperm bank confidentiality. It sabotages the contract among donor, parent, and bank. American sperm banking is premised on the notion that the donor is anonymous and free of all the obligations (and pleasures) of fatherhood. Allowing visits could open bizarre legal trapdoors. What if the mother dropped off the child and never returned, for example? The emotional bonds created by such meetings would be tragically precarious, as fathers bonded with children that could never really be theirs.

But Dora’s attitude toward rules was erratic. (After all, she had told Lorraine the full name of Donor Fuchsia.) And Dora had a warm heart; Donor White was her friend. He lived around the corner. Besides, no one but Beth and Donor White would ever know the meeting had occurred. So Dora said yes, come on by and I’ll babysit Joy.

So, on the afternoon of June 2, 1991, Beth dropped Joy off with Dora at the Repository’s small office in Escondido. Beth headed out to a coffee shop, telling Dora she would return in two hours. Dora called Donor White. He and his wife raced over from their house.

When Beth came back, Joy was clutching a gift from Donor White, a Playskool doll wearing a pink dress. Dora told Beth that Donor White had been ecstatic to meet his daughter. “He told Dora that he would live on that moment for the rest of his life.”

After they returned home to Pennsylvania, Beth locked the doll away in a keepsake chest. As Joy grew up into a toddler and then a little girl, Beth would occasionally bring out the doll and say, “Someone special gave this to you.”

Her gratitude to Donor White endured. Beth would mail photos of Joy to the Repository almost every year, always enclosing an extra print and asking that it be sent to Donor White. Then, right before Joy’s fifth birthday in 1995, Beth and her husband received an envelope from the Repository. Inside they found a birthday card for Joy. It was signed “Donor White.” There was nothing else on the card.

Soon, a three-legged correspondence arose among Beth, Donor White, and the Repository. Beth would send a letter to Donor White, care of the Repository. The new Repository manager, Anita Neff, would cross out all identifying information and forward it to Donor White. He would send a reply to Anita, who would edit it and mail it on to Beth.

In December 1995, Beth mailed the Repository a Christmas card for Donor White, along with a photo of Joy and Santa Claus. The day after Christmas, Donor White and his wife replied with a long letter. Donor White described some of his favorite ancestors—without naming names, of course. He discussed his fascination with DNA research and his hope that Joy might become a microbiologist, before adding wryly, “We won’t make Joy select a career before she finishes first grade.”

Donor White wrote that he and his wife hoped they would meet his daughter, even though he knew it was impossible. “In the back of our mind there is the thought that some day, some way, we might get to make a future visit in person. In the meantime, please know you are thought of very often, Joy, and thank you for letting us believe that we really do have a small part in your life.” The letter was signed, “With all our love, Your adoptive grandparents.”