Spirit Level (23 page)

Verna comes over to talk about Annabeth a couple of days later. Mom, as predicted, doesn’t take it well.

“Whose idea was this?” she says, glaring at me.

Before I can speak, Verna says, “Ours. Harry’s and mine. We’ve all gotten to know Annabeth over the years—”

“And some of what you know is because of my research,” Mom says. “That information is privileged, Harry. This is a complete violation of ethics. You could put my whole study in jeopardy.”

“How so?” Verna says. “Harry hasn’t used any of that information unethically, nor will she. I don’t see a case study when I look at Annabeth. I see a young woman who could use my help. Our help.”

“Don’t you think I see that too?” Mom says. Her face is flushed, and her hands are clenched in her lap.

“Of course you do,” Verna replies. “You just aren’t in a position to do much about it. I am.”

“I am doing something,” Mom says. “My work.”

“I’m not saying your work doesn’t help, Della, but I want to do more. And Harry does too.”

“Harry doesn’t know the first thing about it. The commitment. The sacrifices. The disappointment.”

“And you do?” I ask. “We wouldn’t be sitting here now if Verna hadn’t taken you in. I probably wouldn’t even exist. You’ve always told me that. How can you deny Annabeth the same thing? Seems to me you’ve been on the receiving end, but the rest of it’s all theoretical now. Academic. What is it you always say?
Research can’t replace experience
. So let this be
my
experience.”

“That’s not fair, Harry, and you know it. I burned out as a front-line worker, and being an academic has given me—us—lots of things we wouldn’t have had otherwise. This house, for instance. Your straight teeth. Vacations. Security. A decent car. So don’t talk to me about research and experience.”

She glares at me, but I stand my ground. “That doesn’t mean we can’t still help someone. Annabeth is awesome. She deserves a break. This is important, Mom. You know it is.”

“She could be another success story,” Verna says. “Like you, Della.”

Mom nods slowly, and in that moment I see Annabeth’s life opening up like a peony bud on a warm June day.

“Does she know anything about this?” Mom asks.

“Of course not,” Verna says. “And she won’t until we can get her over here and tell her together. In the meantime, Harry has volunteered to get the apartment in shape.”

“You sure about this, Harry?” Mom asks.

“Absolutely,” I say.

THE NEXT DAY,
when Annabeth comes to the salon, I invite her home for dinner. She seems puzzled but happy to come. I wait to tell her about the apartment and the job at the salon until we are sitting at the table on the back patio with Verna and Mom, drinking lemonade and watching Churchill chase his own tail. At first she can’t stop crying, and she keeps looking from one of us to the other and saying, “Are you sure? Are you sure?”

Verna pats her hand and says, “Yes, honey, we’re sure,” and Annabeth cries some more. Eventually Mom says, “Anyone else hungry? I’m starving. Hope you like salmon burgers, Annabeth. And chocolate cake. Harry’s specialty.”

Annabeth nods and sniffles. “Can I help with anything?” she asks.

“Nope,” Mom says. “Harry and I have got it covered. You just relax and choose some colors for your new place.”

She slides a book of color samples across the table to Annabeth, whose eyes widen. “I get to choose?”

“Of course you do,” Verna says. “It’s only two rooms, if you count the bathroom. But you don’t have to paint every wall the same color, you know.”

Annabeth seems dazed. “I don’t?” She fans out the colors. “I’ve never chosen a room color. I don’t know where to start.”

“Start with what you love,” Verna says.

“Yellow. Not bright yellow. Something soft.”

Verna reaches over and thumbs through the colors. “How about this one? Fun in the Sun? Or Sunshine on the Bay. That’s appropriate, don’t you think?”

After dinner we clean up the dishes and then sit in the living room with the color samples on the coffee table in front of us. Once Annabeth has chosen colors for all the rooms, Verna leaves and Mom goes to her room to read.

I don’t want Annabeth to go back to the park or wherever she’s sleeping.

“You could stay here,” I say. “Until the apartment’s ready.”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been sleeping at Shanti’s. On the couch. She’s been real good to me. I can’t just disappear. And I want to tell her the good news face-to-face. But I’ll be safe, I promise. I’ve been helping out with the kids, and I want to keep doing that. I’ll be fine. Better than fine.”

“Okay,” I say as I hug her goodbye. “Call if you need me.”

“I will. And thanks again. You can’t know what this means to me. To have friends and a place to live.” She starts to tear up again.

“Enough with the happy tears,” I say.

I haven’t been in the apartment above the salon for years, and it’s smaller and dingier than I remember. And piled with boxes. Some of them are full of ancient salon supplies. Some are stuffed with Mom’s old university papers. A few hold Verna’s old clothes. I snag a yellow polka-dot shirt with only one tiny bleach spot on it. A box of books turns out to be mostly sociology texts. I send Mom pictures of all her stuff and she texts back
Turf it
. I drag the box downstairs to the Dumpster and toss it in.

When I’ve gotten rid of all the junk, I start cleaning. Annabeth has offered to help, but I don’t want her to see the place until it’s clean and painted and furnished. Light floods in through the windows after I scour them with soap and vinegar and polish them with crumpled-up newspaper. The floor has the same lino as the salon but much less faded, and I scrub it until it almost gleams. Ditto for the shower stall and sink and toilet.

I’ve been haunting thrift shops and have found a dresser, a wooden coat rack, a tiny kitchen table and
chairs, a bed frame and a nightstand. I pay for everything except the new mattress, which Mom is buying. The apartment-size fridge and stove still work. Verna has an old overstuffed chair that she wants Annabeth to have. That’s about all that will fit in the room.

Lucy helps me paint. Sunshine on the Bay in the main room, Blue Angel in the bathroom. Cloud White trim. Something called Rose Parade for the table and chairs. When the paint is dry, we haul the rest of the furniture up the stairs and arrange it in the little room, angling the big blue corduroy chair so Annabeth will be able to look out the window at the sky. Lucy has brought new towels from Nori and Angela—green as a bamboo shoot. The mattress arrives, and Lucy and I make up the bed with linens Mom has kept since my sunflower phase when I was about six. A white vase sits on the table, filled with flowers cut from Nori’s garden.

“I always wanted to live here, you know,” I say to Lucy, who is curled up in the big chair.

“It’s adorable,” Lucy says. “Annabeth is gonna love it.”

The big reveal takes place on Saturday afternoon. It’s crowded in the little room—Shanti has brought her kids; Nori and Angela are there too. There’s champagne (soda for the little kids) and cupcakes from Cupcake Royale. Verna brings Annabeth up the stairs, a pink scarf tied
over her eyes, and when Annabeth takes off the blindfold, I’m afraid she’s going to faint. Shanti puts her arm around her, grins and says, “Get a grip, girl.”

“No crying,” I yell, but everyone does anyway.

“Happy tears,” Annabeth whispers in my ear when she hugs me. “Happy tears.”

And I am crying too. Mostly with happiness, but also because I haven’t heard from Alex since the day he walked out of my house, and I miss him.

A few days after Annabeth moves into the apartment, the phone rings just as I’m falling asleep. I squint at the call display. Alex.

“Did I wake you up?” he says.

“Sort of. What’s up?”

“I have to tell you something.”

“Okay.” I’m wide awake now, sure he’s going to tell me he’s decided to go to Missoula with Meredith.

“You’re not going to like it, but I couldn’t not tell you, even though Meredith would flip out if she knew I called you.”

“Spit it out.”

“When Meredith got out of the hospital, she asked her parents if she could have a few days with me, at our place, to sort out some stuff. Say goodbye. She told them they needed to trust her and give her some space before
she goes back to Missoula. They agreed. Mark’s already gone back. He had to work. Her mom’s still at a hotel.”

“So what won’t I like?”

“Meredith’s decided to take the bus down to Mexico and see Daniel. She’s convinced he’s going to be murdered by a drug cartel before she has a chance to meet him. Which is not as crazy as it sounds. He’s in this tiny village in Durango. The drug cartels kill visitors all the time. I can’t let her go there by herself, Harry. I just can’t. No matter how much I care about you, if anything happened to her…”

“Stop. I get it.” And I do, even though what he’s saying makes me feel faint.

“So you understand?” He sounds so hopeful it breaks my heart.

“Yup. Sort of.” What I understand is that I can’t do anything about their relationship. I can’t make him stop caring about her. I can’t make her less needy. All I can do is be myself, level-headed Harriet.

“We’re going to call Barbara once we’re on the road,” Alex says. “And I’ll be back soon, Harry.”

“If the drug cartels don’t murder you first.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Sorry. What do you want me to say? That I think it’s a great idea? I don’t. And I don’t have to like it.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” I can’t think of anything more to say, other than “Be safe,” which I whisper before I hang up.
And now the tears come, drenching my pillowcase. I’m pretty sure I break the fifteen-minute rule.

Lucy calls the next morning. All I can hear when I pick up are sobs and the occasional hysterical hiccup.

“Lucy, calm down. Breathe. What’s wrong?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you,” she manages to say.

“Not supposed to tell me what?” I sit up in bed and turn on the light.

“That they’re leaving.”

“It’s okay, Lucy. I already know. Alex told me.”