Today, though, as I wash her hair, she says, “I met a guy who said he’d get me a record deal.”
“That’s awesome!”
“I think he might be a pimp though.”
“Really?”
“He offered to set me up in an apartment. What does that sound like to you?”
My experience of pimps is limited, but Shanti would know. She’s not at the salon today, but I’m sure she’ll be in soon. “What’s his name? What does he look like?” I ask.
“White, skinny, mid-forties. Little mustache. Nice clothes. Drives a white Beamer. He says his name is Brad.”
“I’ll ask around,” I say. She closes her eyes as I massage her scalp, and we both hum along to “Someone to Watch Over Me.” For the hour that she’s in the salon, I can be that someone for her.
Three long days later, I get my first communication through DSR.
Subject line: Hello, Harriet
I stare at the words for such a long time that they start to blur. Then I click on the message to open it and squeeze my eyes shut as the words appear on the screen. What if there’s a photo? What if I don’t like him/her? Or he/she doesn’t like me? What if he/she’s stupid or mean or super right-wing? What if he/she doesn’t like reading? What if he/she only listens to Christian country music? What if—
I squint with my left eye. The message is still blurry, but there’s no photo. I open both eyes and read the message.
Dear Harriet,
My name is James Miller. I live in Sarasota, Florida, with my mother, stepfather and two sisters. We moved here from Arizona when I was five. I am twenty-one years old and have been searching for my half-siblings for a year now, with very little success. Genealogy has been a particular interest of mine since our family joined the Mormon Church when I was fifteen. I would love to get to know you and talk to you about my faith. I recently returned from a mission in Argentina, where I was able to lead many into the fold.
Yours truly,
James Miller
This is even worse than I imagined. No way do I want to end up on some Mormon’s ancestral roll. I delete the message immediately, my hand shaking. Then I feel bad for James Miller; he’s obviously not what Mom would call “socially adept.” I mean, who starts a relationship with proselytizing? Maybe he’s a great guy, religious beliefs aside. Or maybe this has all been a huge mistake. I’ll give it another week and then take my post off DSR. No harm, no foul. In the meantime, I retrieve James’s email from the trash and put it in a folder labeled Donations.
Then another email arrives. Not from James, thank god or Moroni or whoever it is Mormons worship.
Subject line: SISTERS!!!!
Hi, Harriet,
My name is Lucy Tanaka. Sorry about all those caps and!!! I’m pretty excited, especially since we both live in Seattle. I’m 15 and I live in Wallingford. I have an older half-brother named Adam. He’s 20 and lives in Oregon, where he goes to college. Same donor, different mother, so he’s your half-brother too. I told him I was doing this. He says hi. No exclamation point or caps. But that’s just Adam. In case you haven’t figured it out, Adam and I have two moms, Nori (my mom) and Angela (his). They both know I’m looking for my sibs. I really want to meet you. Where do you live? So stoked!!!!
Your sis,
Lucy
PS I love your name.
PPS I found another half-brother a while ago on DSR.
His name is Ben—he’s 22. He lives in Australia.
Holy shit! Not only do I have a half-sister, but she’s here. Practically around the corner. I can actually meet her, which is kind of scary but also pretty exciting. Even though the DSR advises exploring new sibling relationships slowly, I can’t see the advantage of dragging it out. Email is a shitty way to get to know a person. Before I can think better of it, I type a reply and hit Send.
Hi, Lucy,
Thank you for writing. Yes, I would like to meet. I live in Victory Heights. Maybe we could meet in the U District on Monday afternoon around 3? You choose a place. Harriet Jacobs
Less than a minute later, the computer pings with her reply.
Yes!!! Meet me at Café Allegro. I love that place! They have the best chai lattes. Can’t wait to see you.
XXXOOO Lucy
I close the computer and sit back, my heart racing. How could it be this easy? This straightforward? Lucy’s emails sound so…normal. Not all angst-ridden. Sort of… sunny. Monday is five days away, and all of a sudden I can’t wait to meet her. My little sister. I email her back and say: How about Saturday instead? Same time and place? How will we recognize each other?
What I don’t say is that if I have to wait until Monday, I’ll drive myself insane with worry and probably confess everything to Mom. I don’t want to do either of those things.
Sure, she writes back. Saturday is awesome. I’ll be there—with bells on. In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m half Japanese.
I’m tempted to write back and attach a photo of myself, but I decide not to. It’s not much to go on—there are tons of teenage Japanese-American girls in Seattle—but maybe it’s better this way. Less clinical, more spontaneous. Lighthearted, almost, like Lucy’s emails. Not a big deal at all.
To try to distract myself while I wait, I transcribe an interview for Mom. This one is with a sixteen-year-old girl named Mattie who has been homeless for six months. Her mother is a violent alcoholic. Her brother is a convicted murderer. Her father is long gone. Her sister died from an overdose when she was eighteen. Mattie panhandles and deals a bit of weed, although she says she hates drugs. She is almost illiterate. The only thing she has in the world is her dog, Leroy, a pit bull cross that she rescued from a Dumpster when he was a newborn. Leroy will attack anyone who lays a hand on her, but she can’t take him into a shelter. They sleep in parks or in shop doorways or occasionally on someone’s couch. She always feeds Leroy first. Sometimes she ties him up outside the library while she goes inside to try and clean up. Her biggest fear is that Animal Control will take Leroy away from her because he has no dog license. When Mom asks her what would make her life better, she says she’d like to find a shelter that will allow dogs and she’d like to take Leroy to the vet, because he’s been limping lately.
And I’m freaking out about meeting my half-sister in a coffee shop.
I stress about what to wear to meet Lucy. Shorts and a tank top seem too casual. My favorite skirt has a blob of dried yogurt on it. My favorite capris are wrinkled. I finally settle on a cute blue halter dress I found in a vintage shop last spring. I put on my red wedge sandals, twist my hair up in a loose bun and walk to the bus stop.
I get to the coffee shop early and lurk at a back table, thumbing through a foodie magazine someone has left behind. Reading recipes usually calms me down. All those precise measurements and logical steps. Everything in its proper place. I’m not much of a cook, but I do like baking. A recipe for bacon brownies diverts me briefly—disgusting or delicious?—but soon I’m back to worrying about meeting Lucy. She’s only fifteen, for god’s sake. What’s there to be worried about? Worst-case scenario, we meet, have a chai latte, discover we have nothing to say to each other and go our separate ways. Best-case scenario—well, I can’t even imagine what that would be. Having a sibling is a mystery to me.
I’m keeping an eye on the front door, and when she comes in there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s her, even though she looks like a twelve-year-old. She’s tiny—probably not even five feet tall—with black hair in a long ponytail. She’s wearing a turquoise T-shirt and cargo shorts with huge pockets. She’s also ringing a tiny bell—as if she’s leading a meditation group. (Mom had a meditation phase; the bells drove me crazy.) To be accurate, she is actually striking two teensy cymbals together. She wasn’t kidding when she said she’d be here with bells on. I also know it’s her because someone in the back of the caf
é calls out, “Hey, Lucy!” and she yells back, “Hey, Nate.” For such a little person, she has a surprisingly big voice.
I stand up and lift a hand in welcome, feeling huge and clumsy. She sees me and darts toward me, cymbals tinkling, a huge grin on her face. Her teeth are very straight and very white. Orthodontics or good genes? I had braces for years, so I’d guess orthodontics. And some White Strips.
She stops right in front of me and says, “You look just like him! I would have recognized you anywhere! Hug?”
Without waiting for an answer, she throws her arms around me. She’s seriously strong. I end up patting her on the back.
“Who do I look like?” I ask when she finally steps back and jams the cymbals into the outside pocket of her khaki messenger bag.
“Adam. My brother. Your brother. Nori’s Japanese. Angela isn’t.” She digs in her bag and pulls out her phone.
“Look,” she says. “This is Adam. Brown eyes, wavy dark hair, olive skin, tall. Just like you.”
I look at the phone. She’s right. I do look like him. A lot. She turns the phone on me, takes my picture and says, “Can I send it to him? Please? It’s gonna blow him away. How much you look like each other.”
I nod dumbly as her thumbs fly over the phone and the message swooshes away. Everything is happening too fast. I need to sit down, take it all in. Digest it. I start to lower myself into my chair, but Hurricane Lucy is already on the move.
“You want a coffee? Or some tea? They have great tea here. Nori says I shouldn’t drink so much coffee.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me over to the counter, where I order a mocha and a blueberry scone, and she gets a chai latte and a cinnamon bun. “With extra icing, Nate,” she says to the cute guy in the plaid shirt who takes our order.
“You got it, Luce,” he says.
“Do you come here a lot?” I ask while we wait for our drinks and food.
“Three or four times a week since I was, like, ten,” she says. “My dance studio’s just around the corner. On Saturdays I’m there all day—teaching Baby Ballet and taking classes. I get soooo hungry. Nori always wants me to pack a ‘healthy lunch’ ”—she puts the words in air quotes—“but the food’s awesome here, and they take care of me. I’m kind of like the café mascot.”
As if on cue, Nate brings our order to the table and hovers around for a few minutes, asking us if we’ve got everything we need, how we know each other and whether I live nearby. I tell him everything looks great and don’t answer his other questions. When he finally leaves, Lucy leans across the table and whispers, “He was totally flirting with you!”
I glance over at him—he’s behind the counter making coffee, but he looks up and catches my eye and smiles. I blush and look down at my scone.
“He’s a friend of Adam’s,” Lucy says. “So it wouldn’t be like a blind date or anything.”
“I have a boyfriend,” I say stiffly.
“Oops,” Lucy says. “My bad. Nori says I’m, like, addicted to matchmaking. And you gotta admit—he is hot.”
I take a sip of my mocha. I don’t know why I lied to Lucy about having a boyfriend. Not a great start. Almost as bad as proselytizing. I’m no better than our Mormon brother.
“So you’ve been dancing a long time?” I say.
“Forever. I love it. Nori started me in Baby Ballet when I was two. I was kinda hyper and she thought it might, you know, chill me out.”
“Did it work?” I ask.
She laughs—loudly—and says, “Nope, not really, but it kept me busy. Still does.” She takes a big bite of her cinnamon bun, following it with a gulp of her latte, and says, “What’s your thing?”
“My thing?”
“You know. Your passion. Your obsession.”
I’m saved from answering by the return of Nate, who wants to know if we need anything else. I ask him if he can bring me some more whipped cream for my mocha. I don’t even like whipped cream. Then I ask where the washrooms are and excuse myself from the table. Anything rather than answer Lucy’s question.
What should I say? That I give an excellent scalp massage? That I’m a fast typist? That I write a great essay? That I like reading and listening to indie bands? No way am I going to tell her that I don’t really have a “thing.” When I come back from the washroom, Lucy is texting again.
“Adam says it’s scary. How much you two look alike.”
I nod. I’m not sure scary is the right word, but I know what he means.
“And I sent Ben your picture too.”
I can’t help it. I frown at her and say, “Why did you do that?”
She puts down her phone and says, “I’m sorry, Harry. I should have asked first. Adam says I always come on too strong.”
I shrug. “It’s a weird situation, for sure. Hard to know where to start.”
“I’m sorry,” she says again, and I can see that she is trying not to cry.
“It’s okay. Really.” I reach out and touch her hand.
“I’m such an idiot,” she mumbles. “I’ve been wanting a sister for sooooo long and now you probably hate me.”
I hand her a napkin and say, “I don’t hate you. I’m just not very good at talking about myself, I guess. And I don’t have a boyfriend. He moved to New York, and we broke up. I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“You broke up? Why?”
“’Cause New York is so far away and Skype is so lame.”
“But…don’t you love him?”
“Yeah, but we’d never be able to see each other. So I decided to rip off the Band-Aid, go cold turkey.”
The look of horror on her face is almost comical. You’d think I’d just told her that I only had three weeks to live. “Are you always like this?” she asks.
“Like what?”
“So…” She stops and blows her nose on the napkin. “So sensible.”
For the first time all day, I laugh. I’m not sure why. It’s not exactly a compliment to be called sensible, but it’s hardly an insult either.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I am. But you know what? Maybe it’s time I stopped.” I pick up my mocha and drain it in one gulp. I can almost feel the sugar rushing through my veins. “Maybe I should ask Nate out.”
“Seriously?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Too soon. But he is cute.”
Lucy nods. “He’s only working here until he gets his big break as an actor. A while ago he was Stanley in Streetcar. He was all broody and gross for weeks. One review called him ‘promising’ but another said he was ‘a limp hipster imitation of Brando.’ ”
“So he’ll be here a while,” I say. “If I decide I need a broody actor boyfriend.”
Lucy cracks up. “I’m sorry I called you sensible,” she says as we head out of the coffee shop. “And I’m sorry I sent your picture to Ben without asking first. And I’m sorry I have to go back to the studio for my pointe class.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Really. I’m not upset. And I’m glad you sent Adam and Ben my picture. Maybe you could send me theirs too—so we’re even.”
She nods vigorously and hugs me again before we go our separate ways. “Promise we’ll get together soon? Maybe you could come and watch me dance. Or you could come to my house and meet Nori and Angela. We could Skype with Ben.”
“I promise,” I say. “Don’t worry. You haven’t scared me off. Not yet anyway.”
Her face starts to crumple—she looks like a toddler whose balloon has drifted away—and I add, “Just kidding.”
She slings her messenger bag across her body and says, “Gotta go. Bye, big sis. Call me.” She takes off down the street, the bag bumping against her hip, and I wonder if this is what being a big sister feels like: protective, annoyed, amused an
d confused.
FOUR
LUCY TEXTS ME an average of four times a day for the next couple of days until I agree to meet her on Tuesday at the same coffee shop. Clearly she’s on “full steam ahead” while I’m on “proceed with caution,” but she doesn’t seem to notice. Eventually she wears me down with her emoticons and her general chirpiness. Today she is wearing cutoff jeans and an embroidered peasant blouse; her hair falls in a shiny black cloak to her waist. On one arm are about fifty sparkly metal bangles that chatter and clank as she waves her arms and talks. Her fingernails are bright orange. I feel drab and lumpy in my (now clean) dark denim skirt and green T-shirt, with my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
Over our drinks, Lucy tells me her favorite color (turquoise, but also tangerine, hence the nail polish), why she’s afraid of small dogs (bitten in the face by a Chihuahua when she was a baby—see, she still has a tiny scar), how much her dance school costs per month (a lot!), what she thinks about gay marriage (totally for it, obviously; she wants to plan Nori and Angela’s wedding, but they want something simple, which is so boring), how many pairs of pointe shoes she has worn out (hundreds!), how strong ballet boys have to be and how they aren’t all gay (especially Paul, whom she has a crush on but he’s way too old for her). She loves rare steak, dill pickles and lemon meringue pie. She watches old Disney movies when she’s tired or sad.
I’m about to tell her about Verna and the Sunday ladies when she says, “Oh, I forgot. Nori and Angela want you to come for dinner soon. Your mom too.”
“My mom doesn’t know about you yet,” I say.
A tiny furrow forms between Lucy’s perfect eyebrows. I wonder whether she gets them done professionally or if they just grow that way. I run a finger over my own brows, which feel bushy and unkempt.
Spirit Level Page 3