Spirit Level (20 page)

“Maybe that’s true,” Mom says evenly, “but it’s Harry’s call.” She looks over at me. “Do you want me to involve the police, Harry?”

I shake my head and gasp with pain. The thought of being questioned by a cop makes me nauseous, even though I’ve done nothing wrong. “All I want to do is sleep and forget about it. And I don’t want you guys to fight, okay?”

Verna glares at Mom, who shrugs and says, “I think we can do that.”

I sleepwalk through the next few days, drinking smoothies, watching all six seasons of
Lost
, which is oddly soothing, and avoiding contact with my own “Others,” including Alex. I know Mom has been in touch with Angela and Nori. I know Lucy wants to talk to me. I know I should get a grip, but I feel as lost as the survivors of Oceanic Airlines Flight 815. The only person I consider calling is Byron, although that would take more emotional energy than I currently have.

I think a lot about what Verna said to Mom about Meredith—
She needs help, but she won’t get any if we don’t do something
—and I wonder what I would have thought
of her if I’d had to transcribe her story. Has she ever told me the truth? I still don’t know. Maybe I never will. But it can’t hurt to try to understand her a bit better, so I imagine I am listening to one of Mom’s tapes, and I write down—on the yellow legal pad—what I hear in my head.

My name is Meredith Leatherby. I’m eighteen years old, from Missoula, Montana. I left home over a year ago and came to Seattle because I wanted to find my sperm donor and I thought he was here. My best friend, Alex, came with me. We have been friends since first grade. Alex was born female but realized when he was around eleven that he was actually a boy. I tried to keep him safe. It never seemed weird to me. His family is awful. I have two older siblings, Jackson and Elizabeth, who are twins. I found out when I was twelve that my dad, Mark, was not my biological dad, and I went nuts. I felt so betrayed. Even though I knew Mark and my mom, Barbara, loved me, I couldn’t get past the lies. I started drinking and doing a lot of drugs and screwing random guys. I got pregnant a couple of times. My parents divorced because of me. So Alex and I left Missoula after high school and came to Seattle. No one here knows us, so I can make up shit about my past that’s not so pathetic as my real past. It doesn’t hurt anyone, but Alex doesn’t like it. He wants me to be “real,” whatever that means. When I found two of my half-sisters, I kept on lying—and Alex kept on being pissed about it. I could see that he really liked one of my sisters, the one called Harry, and I was jealous. For a while now, I’ve wanted him to
be my boyfriend, but I never told him. I was afraid that he would leave me. That I wouldn’t be the most important person in his life anymore. Alex was super pissed with me, and I took it out on Harry. I mean, I went nuts and beat her up. Everything just came spewing out of me—all the pain and rage and fear I’d been feeling for years. I think I may have broken her jaw before her mom dragged me off her. I’m sorry I hit Harry, and now Alex won’t even talk to me. I don’t know what to do.

I reread what I’ve written, trying to be objective. Would I have compassion for this girl if I was simply transcribing her story? Maybe. Does it make me have more compassion now? I think it would if my face didn’t hurt so much.

Eventually I get bored with watching crap, and I venture out with the beagles, Kira and Nutmeg, who seem to sense that I’m not up to much. We walk decorously around the block, stopping at every tree. The next day I take out Ketch and Mayva, aka Sniffy McSnifferton. I want to see Ping-Pong, the rottie-shepherd cross, but sweet as she is, I don’t think I can manage her yet. The dogs make me laugh for the first time in forever. By Sunday I am ready to go back to the salon.

I’m hoping to see Annabeth. I haven’t seen her for a while, and I’m worried that she’s got into Brad’s clutches
or something. When we get to the salon, the first thing I see is Churchill, sprawled across the loveseat. Or, more accurately, sprawled across Annabeth, who is sitting on the loveseat, a huge grin on her face.

“Whoa! What’s Churchill doing here?” I ask.

“What he does best,” Verna says. “Charming people.” She too is grinning. “Surprise!”

“You adopted Churchill?” I stammer.

Verna nods. “I did. With your mom’s blessing. We agreed that he shouldn’t be in that shelter a moment longer. He’s technically my dog, but I’ll need some help with him. Walking him, giving him baths, a bit more training—that sort of thing. You up for that?”

In answer, I throw my arms around her and squeeze her until she squeals. Churchill barks, jumps off Annabeth’s lap and bounds across the floor, almost knocking us off our feet.

“Sit!” I say, and he does. When I hold out my hand and say, “Who’s a good dog?” he lifts a paw for me to shake.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Someone turns on the music, and the four of us (plus Churchill) sing along to “Hound Dog.” Mom has made today’s playlist, which is all songs about dogs. There’s some Norah Jones, some Beatles, Neil Young, Led Zeppelin. Who knew they all loved their dogs? It’s the best present she’s ever given me. I dance around the salon, and Annabeth gets up to dance with me.

When Shanti walks in, she joins us, boogying to “Walking the Dog,” slapping Mom’s ass and exhorting her to “shake what your momma gave you.”

Mom complies. Is there anything funnier than watching your mom dance? I sit down on the loveseat, and Annabeth joins me.

“Shanti’s the one I asked about Brad,” I tell her.

Annabeth nods. “She went out of her way to find me when one of her friends told her what a freak Brad is. Not a record producer at all. Not even a pimp. Just a real creep. I should know better than to believe a guy like him.”

“How were you to know? You have an amazing voice, and one day someone important is going to hear it.”

She shrugs. “I hope so. In the meantime, I’ll be more careful.”

“Where are you sleeping these days?” I ask.

“Parks mostly. I go to one of the shelters when I need a shower. I clean up every day at the library. Still can’t get a library card though.”

“Use my address.” As soon as I say it, I know that I have crossed one of those invisible boundaries that Mom is always talking about. I don’t care. It doesn’t seem right that we can give a dog a home so easily, but this girl—this talented, funny, smart girl—has to sleep in the park.

“Thanks, Harry, but you need id with your address on it—like a bill or something, or a driver’s license.”

“Oh.” I get up and pull her to her feet. “Well, at least I can give you the deluxe shampoo, scalp massage and shoulder rub. And you can borrow my library card anytime.”

She slides into one of the shampoo chairs and I drape a cape around her shoulders. She leans back and sighs as I wet her hair. Shanti and Mom are still dancing, and Verna is putting water in a huge bowl for Churchill.

“Stop slobbering, you big brute,” she says to him. “And you two”—she gestures at Mom and Shanti—“stop your shenanigans. You’re acting like teenagers.”

Mom grabs Verna’s hand and spins her across the room. “We should do this every week.”

“Amen, sister,” Shanti says as she collapses into one of the styling chairs and looks over at Annabeth and me. “But I do need my shampoo and massage.”

“Soon as I’m done here,” I say.

“That guy Brad is gone,” Shanti says to Annabeth. “Marco chased him off.” Marco is Shanti’s pimp (and Rocco’s dad) and a really scary dude. But useful at times, I guess.

“Thank you,” Annabeth says.

“No problem,” Shanti replies. “You got a phone?”

Annabeth nods.

“I’ll give you my number. You can call me anytime. Come by my place. Have a meal. Meet my kids.”

“Thank you,” Annabeth says, and I am flooded with shame. I look over at Mom, who is tidying up a stack of towels, and think, Screw it. If Shanti can help, so can I.

When we’re finished for the day, Verna and I take Churchill for a short walk so I can show her how to keep him from pulling her arm out of its socket. When we get back to the salon, I look up at the windows on the second floor and say, “I always wanted to live there, you know.”

Years ago, after she first met Verna, Mom lived in a tiny space above the salon. No real kitchen and a bathroom that used to be a closet, but I always thought it could be very cool with a fresh coat of paint and some funky vintage furniture. I used to fantasize about it being my first apartment. It’s been empty ever since Mom moved out. It would be perfect for Annabeth.

“I know,” Verna says. “You wanted to paint sunflowers on the bathroom walls.”

“Why can’t we fix it up for Annabeth?” I ask. “She could work at the salon in exchange for living upstairs. I’ll be back at school soon, and you know you need the help.”

“Your mother wouldn’t like it.”

“Why? Because Annabeth is one of
her
girls? That’s bullshit, and you know it. You took Mom in. Why can’t we help Annabeth? She needs someone. She needs to go to school. She needs to get a library card, for god’s sake!”

Verna says, “I’ll think about it, Harry,” and I know she will. But she won’t be rushed, and I have to respect that. I also have to hope she can get Mom onside.

While I wait for Verna to make up her mind, I decide to reach out to my brothers—all three of them, including James the Mormon.

My Skype call to Ben in Australia confirms my first impression of him: he’s laid back in a totally surfer-dude way but also ambitious and clever. And funny. He has two little brothers (Isaac, twelve, and Jasper, fourteen), a dad named Al, who makes wind chimes for a living, and a beekeeper mom named Nina. “Oh yeah, total hippies,” he says. “Homeschooling vegans all the way. But Al’s business makes a ton of money. His wind chimes are sold all over the world. They own a big chunk of land in this tiny little outback town. And he’s a good dad. He’s paying my tuition fees, even though he thinks when I’m an architect I’ll get all up myself. He’d rather I took up pottery or the Pan flute. Nina yabbers a lot about saving the bees, but she’s also a total hardass when it comes to the business. That’s why they do so well. Al’s the creative side of things. She’s the
CEO
.”

“Are your brothers donor kids too?” I ask.

“Nah. Nina left the States and came to Australia right after she got pregnant. She was a single mom for a while, then she met Al and the little blokes came along. Rest is history. What about you?”

I tell him about Della and Verna, and we trade Lucy stories. He has a dog, a mutt named Iggy, that he holds
up to the computer. Iggy looks like a cross between a Jack Russell and something else—a dachshund maybe. I promise to send him some pictures of Churchill and the rest of my canine gang. When we say goodbye, with a promise to keep in touch, I feel as if I’ve made a friend.

Not so much with Adam. He makes it clear that he’s only talking to me as a favor to Lucy. He doesn’t want to Skype or talk on the phone. He prefers to text. I don’t think he cares that Lucy has discovered a bunch more half-siblings, and he has absolutely zero interest in meeting Dr. Ramos. The only really interesting thing I find out is that he never tells anyone he’s a donor child. When I ask him why, he says it’s no one else’s business. No wonder he moved to another city. It would be pretty hard to keep that secret with Nori and Angela and Lucy around. But I only have so much patience for communicating with my thumbs, so we don’t text for long, and he doesn’t suggest we do it again. Apart from the way he looks, it’s hard to feel any connection to him at all, which is kind of disappointing. Maybe that will change over time, but I won’t hold my breath.