Page 11 of Jasper
“Who is she?” the man demands.
Dr. Langford starts to stammer. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information without written consent from her.”
“Who is she?” the voice snaps again. Loud enough that I hear it echo in the hallway.
I flinch.
The heat in his voice isn’t cruel. It’s protective. He clearly doesn’t see this as just some problem to solve but rather something he won’t walk away from. My fingers tighten around my purse.
Dr. Langford’s voice lowers, trying to contain things.
“We’re working on a resolution. If we can secure your consent retroactively, we can proceed with linking the surrogate with another couple, one who wasn’t planning to use their own genetic material, perhaps. Or if she chooses, we can terminate the pregnancy.”
“No.” The response is immediate. Fierce. Final. “That’s my kid. I didn’t sign up for this, but I’m sure as hell not letting some rich couple buy it out from under me or have you fuckers kill my kid.”
The line goes silent for a few seconds. Then the director speaks again, voice trembling just slightly.
“Understood.”
“I want you to give her my name and contact information.”
“I’ll need a signed consent for that.”
“You don’t need a goddamn signed anything. I’m telling you straight up to give her my information.” He pauses for a couple of seconds and then states firmly, “No, I’m demanding you give it to her immediately. Ask her to call me. We can work this out.”
At this point, Dr. Langford just seems defeated. “Fine. We’ll be in touch.”
When the call ends, I sit in stunned silence for a few minutes while the doctor composes himself.
That man, whoever he is, just refused to disappear. He could’ve signed a waiver. Could’ve washed his hands of the baby. That’s what I expected. And what the Whitmores probably expected too.
But instead, his response was to fight for his kid. I don’t even know his full name, but something I can’t quite identify shifts in my chest. This isn’t just my problem anymore. There’s another person out there who cares about this baby and wants it to survive.
The door creaks open, and Dr. Langford steps back into the consultation room, smoothing his lab coat like he’s trying to look composed.
I sit up straighter without meaning to.
“I’ve just informed the donor. He asked for your name,” the doctor says gently. “And contact information.”
I swallow. “You didn’t give it to him.”
“I couldn’t,” he confirms. “Not without your signed consent.”
He moves to the desk, pulls open a drawer, and retrieves a plain white card. He flips it over and scribbles something on the back with a black pen.
“But,” he continues, “he insisted that I pass this on.”
He holds the card out between two fingers. I don’t reach for it right away.
“What did he say?” I ask, even though I overheard the conversation.
His expression softens a bit.
“More or less, he said to tell the woman carrying his child… that he wants the baby. That he’ll take full responsibility. That she’s not alone in this.”
I reach for the card slowly, turning it over in my hands.
The writing is neat and bold. Jasper Jackson. A phone number. An email. Nothing else.
