Spirit Level (16 page)

The girl is a freakin’ saint. Her best friend from high school sneaks Brandi into her room at night and brings her food when she can, but Brandi won’t let her tell her parents that Brandi has no home to go to. She’s afraid of Social Services. Going into foster care seems worse to her than never knowing where you’re going to sleep.
Once her mom gets housing, she’ll probably go there for meals and a shower, but only if it doesn’t jeopardize her family’s stability.

I stop typing and take out my earbuds. Every time I do a transcription, I’m reminded of how good my life is. Roof over head—check. Regular meals—check. Good school—check. Nice clothes—check. Access to a car—check. Friends—check. Family—check. Money for university—check. Maybe that’s why Mom hired me: to give me some perspective. If so, it’s working. I like my sheltered life, but maybe it’s time to shake it up a bit.

I take a deep breath, open a new email message and start typing.

Dear Dr. Ramos,

My name is Harriet Jacobs, known as Harry. I don’t know how much Meredith has told you about me, but I thought I would write and say hello. I live with my mom here in Seattle. Everyone on
DSR
recommends that you take it slow when you first connect with your donor (and vice versa), and that’s fine with me. Actually, I told Meredith and Lucy I didn’t want to meet you, but that turns out not to be true. I’m not exactly sure why. Just to be clear, I don’t need or want you to be my dad. But I do want to know some things, so I hope you don’t mind answering a few questions.

1. Where did you grow up?

2. What kind of doctor are you?

3. Do you have any children (other than donor kids)?

4. Are you married?

5. When were you a donor?

6. How did you find out about us?

7. Do you want to meet us?

8. Are your parents still alive?

9. Do you have any siblings? If so, do they have kids?

10. What is your favorite food?

I’m sure I’ll think of other things, but that’s it for now.

Sincerely,

Harry

I send the email before I can think better of it.

Now all I have to do is wait. I’m about to Skype Gwen when the doorbell rings. When I open the door, I immediately regret not changing into something nicer than the yoga pants and gray hoodie I wore to Lucy’s.

Alex is standing on my doorstep, holding a florist’s box, the kind long-stemmed red roses come in. I like roses in gardens, but I hate the kind that are grown in South America and get shipped here in refrigerated containers. They don’t even smell like roses.
Frankenroses
, Mom calls them.
The ultimate clichéd romantic gesture
. I wouldn’t have pegged Alex as that guy, and it’s not Valentine’s Day, but I fear the worst.

“Hey,” I say. “This is a surprise. How did you find out where I live?” It’s not the friendliest greeting, but he’s caught me off guard.

“I have my ways,” he says. I must look skeptical, because he adds, “Okay. I called Verna. I wanted to surprise you.”

“Mission accomplished,” I say, trying to remember if I’ve brushed my hair recently.

He shifts from foot to foot on the porch, and I step back to let him inside. Compared to Lucy’s house, ours is nothing special, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of either. I lead him into the kitchen, where my laptop is still open on the table. He puts the long white box on the table and leans against the counter.

“Want to see what I wrote to my donor?” I say.

“You wrote to him? I thought you didn’t want anything to do with him.”

“I changed my mind. I’m allowed to do that, you know.”

He nods and says, “I’m sure it was a very rational decision.” He’s smiling when he says it, so I know he’s teasing me.

I punch him lightly on the shoulder and pull out a chair for him. We sit side by side as he reads my email. When he’s done, he tilts his chair onto its two back legs and says, “Very thorough. Excellent tone. Not too needy. Friendly but not excessively so. Respectful.”

“I try,” I say. “It’s weird though. I’ve gone from not wanting to contact him at all to wishing he’d set up a meeting. And I don’t really know why.”

“Does there always have to be a why?” he asks, still teetering on the chair. It’s making me anxious, watching
him balance. “Maybe he’s communicating with you on, I don’t know, a cellular level.”

I snort. “Yeah right.”

“Not everything is logical, Harry,” he says softly. He lets the front legs of his chair bump down and pushes the box across the table toward me.

Please, please don’t be red roses, I think as I lift the lid off the box. No roses, thank god. A lot of crumpled white tissue paper fills the box, and after I push it aside, I reach in and pull out a wooden rectangle maybe a foot and a half long, a couple of inches high and an inch wide, tapered at both ends. I have no idea what it is. The faded label reads
Globemaster
. There are two brass-trimmed holes—one in the top and one on the side. The one on the side looks like a porthole. I examine it more closely and see tiny tubes filled with yellow liquid in the holes. Bubbles in the liquid move around as I turn the thing over in my hands.

Alex takes it away from me and places it on the table in front of me. “It’s called a spirit level. Carpenters use them, although now they have digital ones. I saw this one at a thrift shop near my house and thought of you. A level for the level-headed.” He points to one of the little vials. The bubble is sitting slightly to the left of one of two lines painted on the vial. “See? Your table isn’t level.”

I laugh and get up and put the level on the counter. It’s also a bit off. I wander around the house, Alex trailing behind me, trying to find something that is actually level.
The dining-room table is close, the living-room floor is way off, and most of the stuff hanging on our walls is wonky. Alex and I straighten the pictures as we go.

“I like your house,” he says. “It feels lived-in.”

“You mean it’s messy,” I say. There are books and mugs strewn around the house, but the carpets are relatively clean, the dirty dishes are in the dishwasher, and the garbage isn’t overflowing the bin.

“No,” he says. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I know,” I say. I pick the level up and balance it on my head. “So—am I really that level-headed?”

I walk across the living room toward him, like a debutante at a deportment class. When I get close enough for him to see the bubble in the level, he leans in and looks into my eyes instead. “Not as level-headed as you think,” he whispers. I stand very still, my arms at my sides, as he kisses me. His lips are soft and the kiss is gentle, almost tentative. I want it to last forever. I can feel the level slipping, slipping, slipping as I lean into the kiss. He catches it as it falls and slides it onto the couch, his lips never breaking contact with mine. I close my eyes as the kiss continues. Our bodies are only meeting at our lips, but I am hyperaware of his body. The breadth of his shoulders, the long slope of his back, the curve of his ass, the length of his legs. I feel weightless, as if the kiss has created an atmosphere in which I am free to float and experience all the sensations of this one thing. My lips feel warm and swollen; my breathing is becoming ragged. I stagger
slightly and Alex pulls me toward him until my head rests on his shoulder, and we sway together, like marathon dancers holding each other up when everyone else has collapsed.

And then Alex’s phone rings. The ringtone is “You’ve Got a Friend in Me,” from
Toy Story
. I don’t need a crystal ball to know who it is.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Alex says as he pulls the phone out of his pocket. “I gotta take this. I’m sorry.” He walks away from me, his shoulders hunched, and I hear him say, “Hey, Merry. What’s up? You okay?” before he opens the front door and steps out onto the porch.

I sit on the couch and fume, turning the spirit level over in my hands, watching it transform from the most romantic gesture ever into an old block of wood with holes in it. I put it on the coffee table and glare at it. Apparently the coffee table is exactly level. I can’t believe he took her call. It seems as if the biggest impediment to our relationship isn’t the fact that he was born female; it’s that he’s a wimp when it comes to Meredith. Did she know he was coming to see me today? Did she call on purpose, to interrupt us, ruin our moment? I wouldn’t put it past her.

The front door opens and Alex comes back in and sits beside me on the couch. “I have to go,” he says. “I need to see Meredith before I go in to work. She’s freaking out about Dr. Ramos. She thinks he’s going to reject her or something. Like Mark did.”

“Mark rejected her?”

“Well, that’s how it felt to her, I guess. He just withdrew when she was in high school. Didn’t give her the support she needed. She completely derailed. Drugs, alcohol, a couple of pregnancies. A lot of fights. It was really hard to watch. I was the only person she trusted, the one she called when she was in trouble.”

“And now she thinks she’s going to get the kind of support she wants from a complete stranger? That’s crazy.” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret them.

“Is it? Maybe he can give her what she needs.” Alex’s voice is as level as the coffee table.

What she needs is a swift kick in the ass, I think, but what do I know? Maybe Mark and Barbara did let her down when she was out of control, but I kind of doubt it.

Alex stands up and looks down at me. “I fucked it up again, didn’t I?” he says.

“Kind of,” I say.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says. “She gets so down on herself…”

“And you’re the fixer. I get it. So go fix her.” I stand up and cross my arms over my chest. “Thanks for the level. I’m sure it will come in handy if I ever decide to become a carpenter.”

He reaches out and touches my cheek. I move away, but not before the hairs on my arm stand up.

“I’ll fix this, I promise,” he says. “She just needs to understand that I won’t abandon her too.”

I roll my eyes. “Good luck with that,” I say as I open the door for him.

Turns out fury makes me dry-eyed, not teary. I’m furious at Alex, furious at Meredith, furious at myself. How could I have been so stupid? Thinking it would all work out with a trans boy who’s attached at the hip to my needy half-sister. Who am I kidding? The odds were against us from the get-go. The only person I’m not furious at is Lucy, but there’s no way I’m telling her any of this. For some reason she thinks Meredith walks on water. The best I can do is try to protect her.

When Mom gets home, I’m in the middle of making fajitas for dinner. The laundry is done and folded, and there are brownies (no bacon) in the oven.

“Brownies?” Mom laughs. “Guess I’ll be back at the gym tomorrow. How was your day?”

“Good,” I say. “I did that transcription for you; did some laundry too.”

“Sounds like a productive day,” she says. “What’s that?” She points at the spirit level, which is sitting on top of the fridge, which is apparently not level either.

“It’s a spirit level. Alex gave it to me.”

“It’s quite lovely,” she says.

“I guess,” I say. “Do you want onions on your fajitas?”

“No onions. So Alex came by today?”

“Just to drop off the level on his way to work.”

“Very sweet,” she says. “But you don’t look that happy.”

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“Isn’t it always?” she says.

“Is that why you never married?” I ask. “Or had a long-term relationship? And don’t give me all that bullshit about how busy you were raising me and going to school. Lots of people do those things and have relationships too.”

“That’s true,” she says. “Can I pour myself a drink before we get into this? I think this calls for more than a glass of red wine.” She pulls a bottle of tonic water out of the fridge and a bottle of gin out of the cupboard and makes herself a tall drink. Then she sits at the kitchen table and takes a long sip. “My parents had a terrible marriage. I’ve told you that.”

“That’s about all you’ve told me.”

“I didn’t think you needed the details, since you were never going to meet them. But maybe I was wrong.”

“Yeah, you were,” I say. “So tell me.”

Mom sighs, takes a gulp of her drink and says, “They had one of those ‘stay together for the sake of the kids’ relationships. Perfect on the outside, vicious on the inside, like an eclair filled with shit. Apparently they were very happy until they had kids, and then it all went to hell. My mom loved me and my brother, Robbie, more than anything. More than Dad. At least, that’s what he said when he got hammered. Robbie started drinking when he was thirteen. He died in a car accident—he was driving
drunk—when he was sixteen. After that, my parents ignored me and concentrated on drinking and making each other miserable. I ran away and came out here. Then I met Verna, and you know the rest of the story. I had you. That was all I trusted myself with—you and Verna and my work. I was afraid that if I added in a relationship, I would become like my parents.”

By the time she stops speaking, we are both pretty choked up. I think about all that she has denied herself—a lot of it for my sake—and it makes me sad.