Ninety Two Birthdays

I never thought I would want to be a father to 92 children, but something changed the year after I was injured climbing Long's Peak, and now being a father is the thing I dream of more than anything else. The first family willing to meet with me has invited me for the weekend to Upper Michigan. The rustic charm of the local restaurant with its exposed wood ceiling and fireplace envelops us as we sit down for our first introduction to each other.

“Jake, it's nice you could join us,” the dad, George, says in the tone of a person trying to be polite in a difficult situation.

“I’m happy I could barge in on your family vacation.” I'm giddy with excitement.

“Every summer we come up to Mackinac island,” he says, his gaze encompassing the others sitting at the table. His wife Liz, and their child Noah, who’s 12 years old, are looking at the menu. I’m trying not to stare.

“Dad, can I order a steak?” he asks.

Hearing the word Dad, I can’t help but jump in my seat a bit, but Noah is looking at George.

“No.” George shakes his head. He looks apologetically at me. “We just moved to a better public school district last year. We're on a tight budget.”

“Ughh,” Noah groans with displeasure.

“You can get a steak for your birthday,” George says. "Next week.”

“Ok.” Noah sticks his face back in the menu.

After we order, Noah looks at everyone around the table before he speaks. “Mom. Dad. How did it happen that he…” He points his finger at me, then realizes that's rude and puts his finger down. “That, Jake, is my father?”

His mother smiles tightly. “Let’s not talk about that tonight, Noah.”

Noah looks back and forth between me and his mom, scrunching his face in thought, or in disgust.

I can handle pre-teen angst. “Well, it's great to be here, and I’m looking forward to getting to know all of you better,” I say.

Liz chuckles. “Well, all we know you have a master’s degree in physics and no history of medical problems.”

“That’s true,” I say. “Does anyone here have an interest in physics?”

They all stare at the tablecloth.

“How about mountain climbing?”

George apologizes for everyone. “Sorry, Jake.” 

When the waiter arrives at our table to take our order, I go for the chicken cordon bleu. It's on the top of the menu. I offered to pay the bill tonight, but I'm predicting George grab it as a power move, and I don't want to make the wrong impression. I understand how he could feel a bit threatened by my presence.

While we wait for our food, George and I talk about how the Green Bay Packers played last season. Liz and Noah watch us talk, and whisper to each other now and then.

When the food arrives, I try to broaden the conversation. “The food here is amazing. How's your burger, Noah?”

“It’s ok.”

This is like pulling teeth, but Noah seems to be a good kid. And he looks like me.

The rest of the dinner proceeds in awkward conversation. It's like a ballroom dance. I take one step forward, and they take one step back. The more I tried to lighten the mood, the more they glance back and forth at each other conspiratorially. The more I ask about Noah, the more they protect his privacy. They dodge, parley and deflect my questions. To sum things up, they don’t want me there.

“Noah will let you know his decision tomorrow,” George says, at the end of the dinner. We had discussed the goal of this weekend's meeting in advance.

“Thanks George.” I shake Noah’s father’s hand and look him in the eye. “Tonight was great.”

I think George hates me. But to break through the miles of male ego between us, I need tenacity. I think about it from his perspective, and I'd hate me too.

After they refuse dessert and excuse themselves to return to their room at the Elk Lodge Hotel, I head to the bar. I need a drink.

Beer in America has improved the last ten year. I take a sip of the Keweenaw craft brew IPA. The smell of the hops takes my mind to a different world, the cool mist of the mountains. The whisper of wind through pine needles. The smell of mountaineering in Boulder.

Someone is staring at me. I look down the bar, a woman turns away, her eyes staying on me just an instant longer than they should have. Why is it men always need to make the first move? I stare back her way. She acknowledges my presence and gives me a subtle smile.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask.

“Sure. A gin tonic.” She taps the rim of her cocktail glass with a pink fingernail.

I move closer. “Jake,” I say to introduce myself.

“Well, Jake, you're the best looking man who’s showed up at a bar in Mackinac Island in a while.”

“Thanks.” Inside, I’m disheartened that my appearance must be what gets me selected as a sperm donor so often. The world is shallow. “And your name is?”

“Beth,” she says. “And what do you do, Jake?”

“Mountain climbing.”

“Not a lot of mountains around here.” Beth takes a sip of the gin and tonic the bartender places in front of her. “Can you make a salary from that? Mountain climbing?”

“No. But I have a few side hustles.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing glamorous.” I take a sip of my IPA and stare at the backlit bottles behind the bar until she asks a different question. 

“So, what are you doing up here?”

“Some personal business.”

“You’re a tough nut to crack.” She winks. “We’ll see if we can open you up later.”

Four IPAs and about twenty classic pop songs later, she gets back around to asking, “Now, what is that personal business you are up to?”

“Meeting my son for the first time,” I blurt out before realizing this might be the wrong answer.

“First time? Wow! You’re a negligent dad.”

“I’m a sperm donor.”

Beth breaks out laughing. “Wow!” She’s on her fourth gin and tonic.

“So, how many?”

“How many children?”

“Yep.”

“92.”

“92! I’ve never met a sperm donor before.” Beth’s eyes are shining with curiosity. She laughs. “If you have sex with the mother, would that be cheating? You’ve already been there before...”

“It’s different.” I frown. She's not taking parenthood seriously.

“Sorry Jake. I’m just a Northern Michigan gal trying to figure this all out.”

“How about we get the next drink in my room?”

Beth gives me a hard stare. “You seem like a good guy, Jake. But I think this is all too much for me.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Sorry.”

She pays the rest of her bill and waves me good night.

I finish the rest of my IPA and think about where I am in life. I wonder what it’s like to have sex with one woman and have one baby. That seems simpler and more romantic than the medical center visits and cash payments.

Vivid dreams fill my mind as I sleep, yet I can’t remember them a few seconds after I awake the next day.

As I wait for the meeting at 10am with George and his family, I feel a tightness in my chest. Suddenly, not knowing anything about my 92 children has left a hole in my heart. Where are they right now? What do they think about me? Do they even know I exist?

At the hotel patio, George says good morning, and says I should go for a walk with Noah, and discuss things man to man. Noah is 12, but I get where he’s coming from.

Noah and I walk to a copse of pine trees overlooking Lake Huron. Out of earshot of his parents, Noah says. “I already have a dad.”

“I’m your dad.”

“DNA is just a string of proteins. Like chemicals. You are not my Dad.”

I don’t have an answer to this. I feel a tear well up in my eye, while I think of how to respond.

“But, you can follow me on Instagram,” Noah says.

“Can I DM you?”

“Sure. And I’ll send you photos from my birthday party.”

It's a good start.