Spirit Level (18 page)

“And they think it’s a good idea to meet him when he comes back from Mexico?”

“Yup. And so do I.”

“You do?”

She nods. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Are you?”

“Of course. But if you don’t want to meet him, that’s okay too. Although I would like to thank him for his excellent genetic material.”

I laugh and say, “You can read the email.”

“You sure?” I nod and sit down beside her at the table as she reads.

When she gets to the end, she says, “He sounds like a nice person.”

“Lucy says he sounds like me.”

“In what way?”

“Cautious, careful, boring.”

“She didn’t actually say that, did she?”

I shake my head. “Not in so many words.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“Hide.”

Mom smiles. “I can understand that. It’s a lot to take in. But remember our deal?”

“Yeah, I remember. No turning away from what life throws at us.”

“So hiding is not an option.”

“I guess not.” I find the ferry schedule on my phone and say, “Could we go to Whidbey on Monday?
All of us—three sisters and their families. Hang out at Double Bluff, have a picnic.”

She nods. “I could use a day off. Do you want to set it up?”

“Sure.”

It’s been a few years since we’ve been to Double Bluff, but I remember walking for miles on that beach, digging for clams, building sand castles, making s’mores over a beach fire.

“Can we stay the whole day? The ferries run really late in the summer.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she says.

After a flurry of phone calls, it’s all set up. Alex is coming too, at Meredith’s request. Could be awkward, since we haven’t talked since he was at my house, but I don’t say anything. At least we don’t have to travel in the same car; Angela and Nori drive a hybrid
SUV
, and Meredith and Alex will go with them.

I try to work on another transcription, but the girl’s story is so depressing—and so familiar—I can’t finish it. Drugs, sex, abuse, violence, poverty. I can’t handle it today. I roam the house in my pajamas, unable to concentrate on anything for more than five minutes. I try to read, but the words swim; I watch a movie, but I can’t understand what the actors are saying; I put some bread in the
toaster and forget to take it out; I do a load of laundry, but leave out the soap. Eventually I give up and go back to bed. I balance the spirit level on my knees and watch the bubbles move around. As I stare at it, I have an idea.

I grab my computer and start googling
Boatbuilders + Seattle
. I don’t remember Ray’s last name, but I figure I’ll recognize it when I see it. I’m briefly excited when I find Ray’s Boathouse, but it turns out to be a restaurant in Ballard. There are a lot of boatyards in Seattle, so I start calling them, asking for Ray. On my tenth try, a guy says, “Which one? Doheny or Kurtz?” and suddenly it comes back to me. I was reading
Heart of Darkness
for school when Ray and Mom were dating. I thought it was funny that his name was Kurtz.

“Kurtz,” I say, and the guy yells, “Kurtz! Phone call!” The next thing I hear is Ray’s voice, saying, “Ray Kurtz here.”

I almost hang up, but I’ve gone this far, so I clear my throat and say, “This is Harriet Jacobs, Della’s daughter. Um, how are you?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “A bit surprised to hear from you.”

“Mom and I were talking about you the other day. A friend of mine gave me one of those spirit level things, and Mom told me you had one.”

“I have a few, actually.”

“So I wondered if you could help me with something.”

“If I can,” he says.

“Could you call my mom?”

Ray laughs. “You want me to call your mom, after she broke up with me—what?—over a year ago?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so, Harriet.”

“But she told me how much she liked you. How you guys were getting serious. How she didn’t want to risk turning into her mother or something. How she didn’t want to do anything that might mess up our lives. Not that you would have, but—”

“I get it, Harriet. But I don’t think I can call her.”

“Are you married or something? In a relationship?”

“No, but—”

“She’ll be happy to hear from you. I promise. She misses you.”

“I’ll think about it. But right now, I have to get back to work.”

“Thank you, Ray,” I say.

“Look after that spirit level,” he says. “You never know when it might come in handy.”

BY THE TIME
Monday morning rolls around, I am like a cat on hot bricks, as Verna would say. At sixes and sevens, on pins and needles, as jumpy as a marionette. I should never have agreed to spend a whole day with Alex and Meredith.

I throw on the dress I wore when I first met Lucy, put my hair up in a loose bun and brush on some mascara. Old Navy flip-flops complete my ensemble.

“You look relaxed,” Mom says when I come downstairs. She looks pretty good herself, in white capris and a blue top that matches her eyes. “Ready to go?” she says. “Verna’s been calling every five minutes. She’s worried we’ll miss the ferry.”

I roll my eyes and grab the picnic basket from the kitchen counter. It’s a potluck picnic, and I made a muffuletta, which is basically a loaf of crusty Italian bread
stuffed with cheese and meat and pickled vegetables and olives. We also have iced tea and the makings for s’mores.

On the drive to Verna’s, Mom says, “Maybe don’t talk too much about the donor situation and the possibility of meeting your new grandmother. Verna’s a bit worried.”

“About what?”

“About losing you.”

“That’s—nuts.” Then it occurs to me that maybe Mom feels the same way. I’ve been so focused on my own shit that I haven’t considered whether my huge new extended family might make my mom feel insecure or inadequate or something. Those are not words I associate with her, but anything is possible these days.

“Are you worried too?” I ask. “’Cause you don’t have to be. It’s not like I’ve been, you know, pining for a big family all this time. It’s just—”

She cuts me off. “You don’t have to explain. I understand. If you want to meet all of the Ramoses eventually, you should.”

She reaches out and pats my leg. “And since you ask, I’ve had a couple of bad moments, but I’m good. Talking to Angela and Nori has helped. And like Lucy says, you’re not exactly the most reckless girl in the world. You never wanted to run away and join the circus. So I doubt that you’re going to go live with the Ramoses.”

When we get to Verna’s, she is standing outside, wearing navy pants and a crisp white blouse and holding
a shoe box. I jump out to get into the backseat, and she slides the box in after me.

“What’s in the box?” I ask.

“Cinnamon buns,” she says. “For the picnic.”

I inhale deeply. “With cream-cheese icing?”

Mom laughs. “Those buns might get eaten on the ferry. We are going to be with four teenagers, after all. And I know this one didn’t eat breakfast.”

“Not my problem,” Verna says. “Hands off the cinnamon buns. You hear me, Harry?”

“But I’m so hungry,” I say, just to bug her. “And they smell so good. Just one for the road? Please.” Verna turns around and swats me.

Mom puts on some music, and Verna immediately starts complaining—she hates Mom’s music. Always has. It’s one of the few things they don’t agree on. Mom loves Nirvana and Pearl Jam and the Foo Fighters—all that Seattle grunge stuff. She’s Dave Grohl’s biggest fan. She’d marry him if she could. Verna calls it
that infernal caterwauling
. She prefers orchestral music, which bores Mom and me to tears. I put in my earbuds and listen to Marina and the Diamonds and Modest Mouse until we get to the ferry lineup. I can see Angela and Nori’s
SUV
up ahead, but when Mom and Verna get out to say hi, I stay in the car to try and enjoy a few minutes of solitude before everything gets crazy. I’m not alone for long. Lucy knocks on the window and then jumps into the backseat. I laugh when I see what she’s wearing: cargo shorts and
a turquoise T-shirt. Exactly what she had on the day we met. As if there was some kind of magic in the fabrics, something that bound us to each other and protected us.

“Nice outfit,” I say.

She giggles. “You too.”

I look down the row of cars and see Meredith get out of the
SUV
. She is wearing an ankle-length purple paisley skirt, a gauzy white blouse and a wide-brimmed floppy hat. On her feet are buffalo sandals, and she is carrying a fringed leather bag.

“Whoa,” I say. “She looks like she’s on her way to Woodstock, not to Whidbey Island for a picnic. Where does she shop anyway?”

“Thrift shops,” Lucy says. “All her stuff is secondhand. Isn’t that cool? What’s Woodstock?”

“The original hippie music festival, back in the day. She looks ridiculous.”

“Don’t be so mean, Harry,” Lucy says. “She’s not hurting anyone.”

“You’re right,” I say. But I still think she looks ridiculous. Alex is out of the car now too, talking to Meredith. He is in his usual shorts and shirt—no fringed vest, thank god, or bell-bottom jeans. They appear to be arguing, if Meredith’s body language—back stiff, arms crossed, shoulders elevated—is anything to go by. Lucy and I watch as she jabs Alex in the chest and he takes a step back, throwing up his hands and striding away from her and toward our car. I don’t know if he’s spotted us
yet—I hope not—but then Lucy rolls down the window and calls him over. He is frowning and flushed when he leans down and peers into the backseat.

“Everything okay?” Lucy asks.

“Meredith’s a bit on edge,” he says. “Not sure why. And Churchill’s asleep. Hi, Harry.”

I wave weakly and am saved from speaking by the announcement that the ferry is about to load. Lucy jumps out of the car, and Alex slides into the backseat beside me. “Mind if I ride with you?” he asks. “Or are you pissed with me too? If so, it’s going to be a swell day.”

Once again, I’m saved from having to reply. On her way back to the
SUV
, Lucy executes a huge split leap—a grand jeté, I think it’s called—and lands badly. I see her ankle twist and hear her yelp. She steadies herself against a nearby car to keep from falling. I start to get out of the car, but she waves me off and hobbles toward the
SUV
. Mom and Verna return to the car, and we drive onto the ferry. When we’re on board, they head to the upper deck and I’m left alone with Alex again. No sign of Meredith or Lucy. It’s only a twenty-minute ride, but I don’t think I can stay silent that long, not with him so close to me. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, and I notice a scar running up his forearm and disappearing under his shirt.

“What’s that from?” I ask, pointing at it.

“Fell off my bike,” he says. “I was about thirteen. Some older guys were chasing me. One of them stuck a stick in my spokes. I landed on a spike in a pile of construction
garbage someone had left on the boulevard. The guys took off, and some passing stranger took me to the hospital. I got thirty stitches, and when my mom finally came to pick me up and I told her what happened, all she said was
Boys will be boys
.”

The one time I had to have stitches—I stepped on some glass on the beach—Mom and Verna stayed with me every minute and never once reminded me that they had both told me, repeatedly, to wear my sandals. I got a strawberry sundae on the way home from the hospital, and we watched all my favorite movies for days afterward. And I only had four stitches.

“That’s so shitty,” I say.

“Yeah, well, she’s right. Boys will be boys—unless they’re girls.” His laugh is bitter, and I want desperately to make things better for him. Someday soon we’ll have to talk about Meredith, about us, but today is not the day. Today is a day for distractions. So I tell him a story, which is something Mom always did when I was upset. Mom didn’t tell me stories about princesses and unicorns. She told me stories about the lives of interesting people—Georgia O’Keeffe, for instance, and Margaret Mead and Gandhi. But I want to amuse Alex, so I tell him about something that happened to Gwen and me when we were about ten.

“Gwen’s family had this awesome above-ground pool, but her older brothers and their friends were always in it, and they would splash us and make giant whirlpools that sucked us under, and occasionally they would hold our heads
underwater too long. No fun. One day all the brothers were out, so Gwen and I decided to use the pool, which was on a patio with big glass doors leading into the house. The second story of the house had windows above the pool, so, in our infinite wisdom, we decided to cannonball together into the pool from there.” I pause for a moment. “Naked.”

Alex snorts with laughter, and I continue. “So we jumped, and there was a huge
boom
as the pool exploded. Water flooded the house and flung us across the concrete patio and out into the backyard. We ended up under an apple tree, freaking out and with very sore asses from concrete burn. Gwen’s mom was in the kitchen when the little tsunami hit. She was pretty cool about it, even though there were two inches of water in her house. But they never got another pool. And I bet my mom had to pay something for the damage to the house, although she never brought it up.”