Chapter 3 - THE DONOR NUMBER
I did not sleep.
At 7:58 the next morning, I called Queen City Fertility Center.
The receptionist transferred me to records.
Records transferred me to the patient-services manager.
The manager said almost nothing useful without verifying my identity.
That was reassuring.
After I passed security questions, she asked me to submit a formal records request.
“I need to know whether my donor file was connected to a patient named Julian Brooks.”
A pause.
“I can’t disclose another patient’s records.”
“I understand.”
“Even if that person is your former spouse.”
“I understand.”
“But we can provide your own treatment file.”
“How quickly?”
“Usually three to five business days.”
I closed my eyes.
“Is there anything you can tell me now?”
“Not about another person.”
“Can you tell me my donor number?”
“Yes.”
She gave it to me.
Donor 4187.
I wrote it down.
That number had been in my paperwork.
I just had never cared about it before.
My donor profile was supposed to be anonymous.
College-educated.
Brown hair.
Blue eyes.
Six feet one.
No significant hereditary conditions listed.
I chose him because the profile reminded me of nobody.
That was intentional.
I did not want to replace Julian.
I wanted distance.
At nine fifteen, Julian texted.
We need to talk.
I did not answer.
At nine seventeen:
You’re misunderstanding the file.
At nine twenty:
Do not call the clinic until we speak.
That one I screenshotted.
Then I called my divorce attorney, Claire Benton.
She had represented me eighteen months earlier.
When I explained the envelope, she went quiet.
“Are you saying you believe your ex-husband may have interfered with donor material used in your fertility treatment?”
“I’m saying I don’t know what I believe.”
“Good.”
“What?”
“Don’t jump ahead of the evidence.”
I leaned back.
“Can a person even transfer frozen sperm into a donor program like that?”
“Probably not casually. We need medical counsel and actual records before assuming the billing language means what it seems to mean.”
That made sense.
It also frustrated me.
I wanted one clean answer.
Real life gave me procedures.
Claire advised me not to meet Julian alone.
I agreed.
At noon, Garrison called.
“I recognized Adrian Mercer.”
I sat up.
“How?”
“He was a client of my old firm.”
My pulse jumped.
“For what?”
“Commercial lease dispute. Maybe fifteen years ago.”
“Anything medical?”
“No.”
“Anything involving Julian?”
“Not that I remember.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Why didn’t you say this last night?”
“Because I wasn’t certain.”
That answer was so unlike Julian that it made me trust Garrison more.
He continued.
“There is one thing.”
“What?”
“Mercer lost his medical license.”
I froze.
“When?”
“Years ago. I checked this morning.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to repeat something I haven’t verified.”
“Garrison.”
He exhaled.
“Improper fertility practices.”
I stood.
“What kind?”
“I’m sending you the disciplinary order.”
The state medical board document was public.
Adrian Mercer had surrendered his license six years earlier after allegations involving improper handling of reproductive tissue, inadequate consent documentation, and record falsification.
No criminal conviction listed.
No dramatic raid.
Just a licensing process ending a career.
I read every page.
One section mentioned “unauthorized substitution of reproductive specimens.”
My hands went cold.
Then Claire forwarded me an old email from my divorce file.
Subject:
Property disclosure follow-up.
Attachment list:
Joint accounts.
Insurance.
Retirement.
Medical storage account.
I had ignored the phrase at the time.
Medical storage account.
The disclosed value was only $840.
I opened the underlying statement.
Queen City Fertility Center.
Account owner:
Julian Brooks.
May you like
Storage reference:
My donor number.
