Spirit Level (21 page)

I decide to be completely up front with James about why I haven’t contacted him; his reply is sweet and kind.

Dear Harriet,

When I didn’t hear from you, I wondered if perhaps I had come on too strong in my email. Please be assured that we will not discuss my beliefs unless you want to.
I am not ashamed of what I believe, but I do not want to alienate people either. Especially my half-siblings. I would be happy to tell you about my family and the places we have traveled, or you could tell me about your life. I will follow your lead.

Your friend,

James

And that leaves Dr. Ramos. Daniel.

Dear Dr. Ramos,

Sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’ve been really busy with work. I have three jobs: dog walking, helping my mom out with transcriptions (long story—she’s a sociologist doing research for a book) and working in my grandmother’s hair salon. I am attaching a picture of myself. I think we look a lot alike.

I’ve never been to Mexico, but maybe now that I know I’m part Mexican, I should go sometime. Please write to me when you get a chance.

All best,

Harry

A couple of days later, he writes:

Hello, Harry,

Thank you for sending the picture. Yes, we do look a great deal alike, although you are much prettier ;-).
You look a bit like one of my nieces, Bonita, who is about your age. Meredith looks exactly like my Aunt Renata at eighteen, and Lucy, well, Lucy doesn’t look like anyone in the family, but temperamentally I think she is very like my mother—passionate and kind. A whirlwind of energy. A bit on the impulsive side. Am I right?

My guess is that you are more on the cautious side, like me. Not a bad thing, overall, but not exactly flashy. But maybe I am wrong. A picture can only tell you so much. Perhaps you are as flamboyant as your grandmother too.

My work here is very satisfying and it distracts me from thoughts of Alissa. The town has never had a doctor, let alone a clinic. I plan to winter here after I find another doctor or two to help out. Rural Mexico is beautiful, but poverty-stricken. I would love to bring you all here sometime, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I must go now. I hope you write again soon.

Best regards,

Daniel

On Wednesday, I’ve just stepped out of the shower when the doorbell rings. Mom is home, and I can hear her open the door and say, “Come in, you fine fellow.” Maybe it’s Ray, although I can’t imagine her calling him a fine fellow. I peek out the bathroom door and see a black
blur racing down the hall toward me, nails scrabbling on the wooden floor. Churchill. Before I can shut the door, he’s all over me, licking my face, which makes me yelp, and dancing around the bathroom, knocking a bottle of shampoo off the edge of the tub. I clutch my towel around me and yell at him to sit, but he’s too excited, and I don’t have any treats hidden in the bathroom. I shut the door and sit on the toilet until he calms down and puts his head in my lap.

“You’re an idiot,” I say, stroking his ears. “But a sweet idiot.”

“You okay in there?” Mom asks from the hallway. “Alex borrowed Churchill from Verna, and he decided to drop by.”

I grab Churchill’s collar, stand up and open the door a crack. “Alex is here?” I hiss.

“In the kitchen. Why?”

“I’m not dressed. And I’m not ready for him to see me in a towel.”

“Fair enough,” she says. “I think you’re safe to make a run for it.” I can hear the laughter in her voice.

“It’s not funny,” I say.

“It kind of is,” she replies. “I have a feeling that our hairy friend here can make anything funny.”

“Hahaha. Let’s go, Churchill.” I race down the hall with Churchill nipping at my towel and slam the door after us once we are both in my room. Churchill immediately makes himself at home on the bed while I get
dressed and brush my hair. I stare at my bruises—they’re now a gross greeny-yellow—in the mirror and consider patting on some concealer. It’s tempting, but I want Alex to see what Meredith did, to understand how dangerous she is. Who am I kidding? He’s probably come to defend her. Or say goodbye.

Alex and Mom are sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and eating banana bread. Alex flinches when he sees my face. Good. He’s not looking so great himself. His halo of hair looks greasy, and he’s got some zits on his forehead. The skin under his eyes is puffy and gray. His clothes are wrinkled.

“Banana bread?” Mom says to me.

“Wow, it’s a regular little coffee klatch in here,” I say. It comes out nastier than I meant it to, and Mom frowns at me. I sit down, grab a slice of banana bread and start to cut it up into little pieces with a knife and fork.

“Can’t open my jaw too well yet,” I say. “But at least I’ve progressed to solid food. I never want to see another smoothie.”

“Duly noted,” Alex says. Churchill is sitting by my chair, strings of drool hanging halfway to the floor.

Mom stands up and says, “I’ve got work to do. If you need anything, you know where to find me.” Alex stands up as she leaves the room. I wonder who taught him his manners. They seem at odds with what little I know of his home life.

“So how are you?” he asks. “Really.”

“I’m okay. Just haven’t wanted to talk to anyone, you know?”

“I get that. But I needed to see you, to make sure you were all right.”

“Well, now you have.”

“And I thought Churchill might cheer you up.” We both look over at Churchill, who is now dozing in a patch of sunlight.

“Mission accomplished,” I say.

“You’re making this really hard,” he says.

“
I’m
making it hard?
Me
? Did I punch myself in the face? Did I lie to everybody? We both know how this happened.” I push the banana bread away from me and stand up. “Maybe you should go.”

Alex stays where he is, next to the sink. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s Meredith’s fault, but I’m not sure she’s responsible, if that makes any sense.”

“Not to my face it doesn’t.”

“But do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah—that she’s kind of nuts, so she can’t be held responsible for her actions. Is that about right?”

He nods. “I’ve known for a long time that she—well, she makes stuff up. About herself, about her family. It seemed harmless enough at first, but then she got more intense, more obsessed about her donor, started lying more, but I didn’t want to admit it. She’s my best friend. But that’s all. She’s not my girlfriend, and I really didn’t know she wanted to be. You have to believe me.
But she’d do anything for me. And now I have to do something for her.”

Here it comes, I think. He’s going to say goodbye. I sit down and start folding a napkin into a fan. He sits too and reaches over to still my hands.

“We need to get her some help,” he says.

“We?”

“I’m not sure where to start. I thought maybe your mom might have some ideas.”

I pull my hands away. So this is still about Meredith, not about us. I wonder if it will ever be about us. But if Meredith never gets help, we won’t stand a chance at all. I can see that now.

I get Mom from her office, and when I tell her what Alex wants, she switches into professional mode, asking questions, making notes.

“I know Meredith stayed with Angela and Nori for a night or so after the incident at the beach,” she says. “She was in rough shape. Where is she now?” This is news to me, that Lucy’s family gave Meredith shelter after what she did to me. It pisses me off.

“At our place. In her room, in bed,” Alex says. “She only gets up to go to the bathroom. I don’t think she’s eating, and she won’t talk to me. She’s been fired from both of her jobs. I’m going to have to get a second job, I guess. Give up the animal-shelter stuff.” He looks over at Churchill, who is running in his sleep and barking softly.

“You can’t do that,” I say. “You love working at the shelter. The dogs need you.”

“Not as much as Meredith does.”

“This has gone beyond your ability to look after her, Alex,” Mom says. “She needs professional help. Let me make a few calls, but first of all, do you think she’s suicidal?”

Alex flinches. “I don’t know. She could be. She won’t talk to me.”

“Has she ever attempted suicide?”

“Not that I know of,” he says. “Unless you count drinking until she blacks out.”

“I do,” Mom says, “if it goes hand in hand with other symptoms. And where are her parents?”

“Missoula.”

“How would you feel about calling them?”

Alex puts his head in his hands and shudders. “I promised her I wouldn’t. She hates them.”

“I could call them again,” I say.

“Again?” Mom says, eyebrows raised. “You’ve called them before? I’m not even going to ask how you tracked them down.”

“It wasn’t that hard. I have excellent research skills, you know. Learned from a master.” I smile at her, but she doesn’t smile back.

“That’s a real invasion of privacy, Harry. Theirs and Meredith’s,” Mom says sternly. “You should know better.”

“I probably shouldn’t have called, okay? I know that. But how else was I going to find out whether all that stuff Meredith told us—the dance company in Denver, the shelter in Boise, the organic farm—was true? I told them she was in Seattle with Alex. That’s all.”

“And what did they tell you?”

“Not much. They were glad to hear she was okay, and they told me to call again if anything was wrong.”

Mom turns to Alex. “What do you think? Will they help her now?”

He nods. “Yeah, they’ll help. She won’t like it though.”

“Probably not,” Mom says, “but we have to start somewhere.”

Within the hour, the three of us are huddled around my laptop at the kitchen table, Skyping with Barbara and Mark, who are in what looks like a breakfast nook. After the introductions are made, Mom gives them a brief, almost clinical update. They are horrified when they hear that Meredith attacked me, but apparently it’s not an isolated incident. She was arrested in Missoula for beating up a girl who bullied Alex. Put her in the hospital. She’d gotten off with community service, but she left Missoula the day after her sentencing.

“I don’t know Meredith that well,” Mom says, “but I know this shouldn’t be Alex’s responsibility.”

Mark and Barbara nod. “We’ll come and get her. Bring her back home and try to get her some help.”

“You should know the kids found their donor a while ago.”

Alex finally speaks up. “That day on the beach, I told her it was wrong to lie to everyone. She freaked out and took it out on Harriet.”

Barbara looks puzzled, so I fill in the blanks. “Alex and I were spending time together. She’s threatened by our relationship, I guess.”

“Still no excuse for violence,” Mom says.

Barbara and Mark nod. “We’re so sorry, Harriet,” Barb says.

I should say,
It’s not your fault
, but I’m not feeling that generous. Nature, nurture—who really knows? “I’m kind of beat,” I say instead. “Think I need a nap and a painkiller. That okay?”

Mom nods. Alex and Churchill follow me into the living room, where I lie down on the couch and close my eyes. Churchill drapes himself across my legs and feet, like a heavy hairy afghan.

Alex perches on the arm of the couch near my feet. “You think we might have a chance?” he asks.

“Of what?”

“You know what. Of being a couple.”

“Maybe. If you weren’t—” I stop myself before I say something cruel. He looks so beaten down, and I haven’t got any fight left in me.

“Weren’t what? A girl? A wuss?”

“I didn’t say that. I know it’s complicated. I know you love Meredith. I know you’ll do anything for her. But I don’t know where I fit in.
If
I fit in. And then there’s all the trans stuff. Not like that’s gonna be a walk in the park.”

His shoulders droop. “I want to figure it out, Harry. I do. Can we just put things on hold until Barbara and Mark come? Until I know Meredith’s taken care of?”

“Do you think she’ll go with them?”

“Not without a fight,” he says.

I DON’T WANT
to see Meredith again, but she wants to see me. “To apologize,” Alex says. That’s hard to imagine, but I decide to get over myself. Besides, I’m curious. Will she be in a straitjacket or shackled to the bed? Part of me hopes so. The mean part. The part I never knew I had.