Spirit Level (13 page)

She responds with an emoticon of a toilet and
lol!

I smile and send her a happy face in a surgical mask. I go back to sleep for a couple of hours, and when I wake up my headache is almost gone. I open up the
Missoula Independent
again and search for Alex Larson. Nothing. I google
Larson + Missoula
. Not surprisingly, there are pages of Larsons. A needle in a haystack, as Verna would say. I go back to my best lead—Barbara Leatherby. I consider messaging her on Facebook, but it would be the longest message ever, and who knows if she’s even on Facebook very often. I have her home phone number. I can imagine her sitting with a cup of tea on her front porch, reading a novel, admiring her roses. Do I want to mess with that? Do I have any choice?

Of course I do. Mom has been hammering it into my head since birth—maybe even in the womb. I imagine
her stroking her big belly, crooning into her navel,
You
always
have choices, little one. Always
. So I know I can shut it all down right now. Let the chips fall et cetera, et cetera. But do I want to? No. What’s the worst that can happen? Barbara hangs up on me. Or she could freak out—that’s always a possibility. Or tell me stuff I don’t want to hear. Another thing Verna always says:
Don’t ask the question if you’re not prepared for the answer
. Am I prepared? I’m not sure. All I know is I’ll go nuts if I don’t do something.

I pick up the phone, take a deep breath and dial Barbara’s number. I don’t have a script or even a plan. When she answers, I simply say, “My name is Harriet Jacobs. I’m calling from Seattle, and I’d like to talk to you about your daughter Meredith.”

She gasps. “What? Who is this?”

“My name is Harriet Jacobs,” I repeat. “Meredith is in Seattle. She contacted me through the
DSR
—the Donor Sibling—”

“I know what it is,” she says. “Is Merry all right?”

Merry? She calls her Merry? I can’t put that together with the girl I know, who is the opposite of merry.

“Um, I think so.”

Barbara is silent for a moment, and then she asks, “Do you Skype?”

I nod but say “Yes” when I remember she can’t see me.

“Let’s do that, then. What’s your Skype name? I’ll be in touch within the hour.” She’s all business now, the quaver in her voice gone.

“Harrietthespy,” I say. Then I realize how creepy that must sound, given what I’ve been doing. “After the book, you know? All one word.”

“I’ll call you soon, Harriet,” she says.

Fifty-seven long minutes later, she’s on my screen, sitting exactly where I had imagined her—on a white wicker settee on her porch. She looks like her Facebook picture, only not smiling. Next to her is Mark Leatherby. Also not smiling.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hello,” Barbara says. “This is Mark, Merry’s father. But you probably already know that.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I opt for the truth. “I found you both on Facebook. And there was some stuff in the Montana newspapers too.”

“Why were you looking for us? Is Merry in trouble?” Barbara says. Still no smile.

“Not that I know of,” I say. “Her friend Alex is here too. They seem…fine.”

Mark nods. “I’m not surprised they’re together. They’ve been friends since they met at T-ball. Thick as thieves.”

I nod. “His sister must miss him,” I say. “Being twins and all.”

Barbara and Mark look puzzled. “Sister?” Mark says. “Alex doesn’t have a sister. Just an older brother.”

“But I saw her picture. She was on the Little League team with Meredith. Danielle Larson.”

A look passes between Mark and Barbara that is hard to interpret. Mark gives a small shrug, and Barbara says, “You need to talk to Alex about that. We appreciate the call, Harriet, but I’m not sure what more we can tell you. Merry has made it clear she wants nothing to do with us. And we don’t feel comfortable talking to a stranger about her.”

Mark adds, “But please call us again if something is wrong—with Merry or Alex. If they need our help.”

“Okay,” I mumble. “Thanks for talking to me. Bye.”

I close the connection and lie down on my bed.

When I shut my eyes, all I can see is Danielle Larson in her baseball uniform. I sit up and open the
Missoulian
again, searching for birth notices. I finally find it.
Danielle Margaret Larson, born April 12, 1997, to Darrell and Donna Larson. Big brother Donnie is thrilled. Praise Jesus.
Mark was right. No twin sister. Just Danielle. I open up the Little League article again and stare at the picture of Danielle Larson. If it were in color, I’m sure her eyes would be lapis blue.

Back to Google, this time searching for Darrell and Donna Larson. It only takes a few minutes to find their address and phone number. Before I can think better of it, I dial the number. A woman answers. She sounds as if she’s smoked a pack a day for the last fifty years.

I ask, “Is Danielle there?” and there is such a long silence, I think she’s hung up.

“Who wants to know?” she finally says.

“Um, I’m doing a piece for the
Missoulian
on, uh…” I’m drawing a blank, but she fills it in for me.

“On how a good Christian family can produce a monster? You’re not the first to ask.” She laughs—or at least I think it’s a laugh. It sounds like shears cutting through sheet metal. “Danielle’s dead to me,” she continues. “You put that in your paper. Oh, I know she calls herself Alex now. I know she calls herself a man. A man! That girl is no more a man than I am! I did what I could—raised her right. But she was tainted, and nothing we did changed that. And that’s all I have to say.”

She hangs up, and all I can think is, Alex is a girl. Even though he’s not. I wish I’d never gone looking for information about Meredith. I wish I’d just left well enough alone. I don’t care anymore if she’s my half-sister or a serial killer or both. All I care about is who Alex is, and whether he was ever going to tell me.

My heart is racing, and I can feel beads of sweat forming along my hairline. My mouth is dry. Alex was born a girl. A girl named Danielle. He’s a boy now, so that means he’s transgender. I know about the difference between sexual orientation and gender identity. A trans girl named Sabrina came to our school last year, and she got hassled by a few idiots, who were suspended.
Our school’s Gay-Straight Alliance did a presentation about being trans at an assembly. It was the first time I heard the expression “Sex is what’s between your legs. Gender is what’s between your ears.” But right now it’s hard not to think about what is (or isn’t) between Alex’s legs.

As far as I can tell, Alex likes girls. I like boys. No problem. In theory, it sounds straightforward—reasonable, even—but the reality is something else. I’ve never even slept with a guy
with
a dick. Maybe it’s better that I have no basis for comparison. But the questions just keep coming: Does Alex take hormones? Has he had surgery? What would it be like to make out with someone who has breasts and a vagina? And does wanting to make me a lesbian? I know it doesn’t, but I still ask myself the question.

I lie down again and toss and turn, sweating, flailing, pummeling the pillow. Nothing helps. The only way I can answer my questions is to talk to Alex. And right now, I’m too scared.

My phone rings in the early afternoon. Lucy. I don’t have the energy for her right now. And I’m afraid I might repeat what I found out about Alex and Meredith, which I don’t want to do. Not yet anyway. I’d like Lucy to think well of me for as long as possible. Maybe if we’d grown
up together, I wouldn’t worry about disappointing her. I’ve seen my friends treat their siblings like shit and it doesn’t seem to damage their relationships. This seems way more fragile.

A couple of minutes later, there’s a text message from her:
Our donor contacted Meredith!!!!!!!!!!

Followed by one from Alex:
I need to see you
.

And one from Byron:
I really miss you. I’m thinking of coming home
.

As Verna says, it never rains but it pours.

ROCK AND A HARD PLACE.
Devil and the deep blue sea.
I lie on the couch and try to think of all the ways Verna would describe my situation. I get stuck on
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

I jump when the phone rings. It’s Mom, checking in. I tell her the (partial) truth: I’m lying on the couch and I don’t feel very well. She says she’ll pick me up a variety pack of Rachel’s Ginger Beer, which is my favorite drink in the world, sick or not. A bottle of
RGB
—any flavor—makes everything better. I feel guilty when I thank her. Being deceitful is so exhausting. I wonder how Meredith does it.

I turn my phone off and go for a walk with one of my favorite dogs, a calm, intelligent sweetheart named Ketch. My thoughts feel like out-of-control bumper cars, but I slow them down with some music—Fox Glove,
Halsey, St. Vincent. I walk for miles, enjoying the thudding of my feet on the pavement, the slight breeze off the Sound. For a while I almost forget about half-sisters and donor dads and probably-trans boys. Almost.

When I get back, there are seven messages on my phone. Two each from Lucy, Alex and Byron. One from Meredith. They all say basically the same thing:
Where the hell are you???

I ignore everyone but Alex. All that donor drama can wait. And Byron? A month ago I would have been ecstatic if he said he was coming home. Now I just don’t know. It’s not like I can talk to him about Alex. But part of me really wants to ask if we can be friends again. I can’t face that right now. It’s not like he’s turning up tomorrow.

I text Alex:
What’s up?

He texts right back:
I’d like to see you again
.

When?

Tonight?

Sure. 7 pm at that gelato place?

Sounds good.

I turn off my phone and spend the rest of the day on the computer, reading about being transgender. There’s a lot of stuff about puberty-suppressing drugs, but I’m pretty sure Alex hasn’t done that. You need to have your parents’ permission, for one thing, and lots of support from your family. And money. Not an option for Alex. One doctor says that
without puberty-suppressing drugs, transgender kids are at risk for depression and suicide, and
are subject to bullying, abuse, alienation and harassment
. I hope Alex hasn’t ever been depressed or suicidal, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had. I would be if I’d been born into his family. Maybe Meredith saved him from that. In which case I should be grateful to her.

I find an article called “What Happens When You Find the One… And He’s Nothing—Nothing—Like You Expected?” I don’t actually believe in the concept of “the one,” but the author has a lot of interesting things to say about falling in love with a trans guy. She says real love, true love,
shakes you up inside like a Boggle board, jangling all your letters into wholly new words, some you’ve never seen before but recognize instantly nonetheless
.

She also says that
to be trans is to feel the truth so acutely you can’t fake it. It is to be so consumed with the truth of who you are that you are willing to risk everything to inhabit it. To refuse to be what other people have decided you are—this is an act of courage few individuals dare try
.

I wonder if I have the courage to inhabit my own truth. I wonder what that truth is. I do feel jangled. But I also feel excited—and hopeful. Like maybe this can work.