Spirit Level

by Sarah N. Harvey

  “No, he’s not on DSR,” Meredith says, “but I have a gut feeling that he never left Seattle. I don’t know why. And I have to start somewhere.” She pulls out her phone, taps it a couple of times and holds it out to Lucy. “I set up a Facebook page to find him. And a Twitter account. I’m going to post a video on YouTube too. Anything I can think of to connect with him.”

  Lucy peers at the screen. “You gotta see this, Harry,” she says. “You’re not going to believe it.” She hands me the phone, and my curiosity gets the better of me. Half of the cover image under the familiar blue line is a picture of a little girl sitting in a swing. Her dark hair is in pigtails, and she is staring solemnly at the camera. Meredith, I assume. The other half of the picture is a faded headshot of a young man with dark wavy hair, heavy eyebrows and dark eyes. He is smiling very slightly. As far as I can tell, his teeth are a normal size. The name of the page is Have You Seen My Dad? The profile picture is a recent photo of an unsmiling Meredith.

  I stare at the man in the photo. My donor. Not my dad, I remind myself. He looks nice. Intelligent. Not super good-looking but not ugly either. Sort of average-looking. He looks like me. Or should I say, I look like him. I am the only daughter here who does. I feel a momentary jolt of recognition and a strange sense of… excitement. Something I hadn’t expected to feel.

  Below the cover photo are posts, lots of posts.

  Posts from people who say they’ve sighted him in Paris or Singapore or Toronto.

  Posts from other donor children, some encouraging, some telling Meredith to leave it alone.

  My face pops out at me from a post, and I gasp. The picture was taken from a distance, but it’s clearly Lucy and me at Starbucks, the first time we met Meredith. She must have taken it before she came over to the table. That’s so creepy. Or maybe Alex took it, which is even creepier. Underneath the photo it says, Meeting my sisters for the first time. Hope they like me!

  “You put us on your page?” I glare at Meredith, who has stopped twirling. “Without asking our permission?”

  Meredith shrugs. “I wanted him to know that it’s not just about me.”

  “But it is just about you,” I say. “Lucy and I don’t want to meet him.” I remember that split second of excitement and wonder if I am lying. Maybe I do want to meet him, but I’m not about to admit it.

  “I know you don’t want to meet him. But you really shouldn’t speak for other people.” Meredith bares her tiny teeth in what I suppose is a smile. “Right, Lucy?”

  Lucy stares at the floor and mumbles something that sounds like “I don’t know anymore.”

  I nudge Lucy with my elbow, and she looks up at me. “Don’t be mad,” she says. “Meredith and I have been talking about it a lot. Maybe it is a good idea to meet him. I’m not sure.” Her gaze darts between Meredith and me, and I can see how much she wants this to be okay, for the three of us to be like the sisters from Little Women or Pride and Prejudice or something. Loving, kind, devoted to each other. Not bitchy and manipulative and competitive. Right now, I feel more like one of the nasty sisters from King Lear. Which probably makes Lucy poor Cordelia.

  “I’m not mad,” I say, although I am. “Just confused. I thought we agreed it wasn’t a good idea right now.”

  “Meredith says we need closure.”

  “Closure? Why?”

  “Because of, like, the pain of growing up without a father.” Lucy’s eyes dart away from mine again.

  I want to yell at her, shake her, remind her that she has two perfectly good parents, but right then the bell over the door jingles, and Miss Mathers, our oldest and sweetest client, totters in, pushing her walker and wafting a cloud of what she calls her “signature scent,” Yardley’s English Lavender.

  With Miss Mathers is her caregiver, Consuela, a tiny, cheerful Ecuadorian woman whose long dark braid is streaked with gray. They are here for their weekly shampoo and blow-dry. Verna is the only one who understands how to keep Miss Mathers’s waist-length hair aloft in an elaborate updo for seven days. Every week, Verna suggests a cut. Every week, Miss Mathers says, A woman’s hair is her crowning glory. I happen to think she’s right.

  I jump up and help Miss Mathers take off her coat, a heavy tweed that she wears year-round. She smiles at me with her dazzling false teeth. As I settle her in the shampoo chair next to Consuela and start to take out all her hairpins, Meredith and Lucy edge toward the door.

  “You don’t have to go,” I say, but I wish they would—well, I wish Meredith would—and I wonder if it shows on my face.

  “I have to get to work,” Meredith says. “And you’re obviously busy.”

  “I’ve got a class,” Lucy adds.

  “Nice to meet you, girls,” Verna calls out.

  “You too,” they chorus as they leave.

  “Toodle-oo!!” says Miss Mathers.

  SIX

  A FEW DAYS later, I get a text from Alex. Wanna come dog walking this aft?

  I haven’t heard from Lucy or Meredith since they came to the salon, and I haven’t contacted either of them. I think we all need time to think about what should happen next. Well, I do, anyway. I’ve spent a lot of time staring at the picture of my donor, as if he can help me figure out what to do. So far, he hasn’t. Dog walking with a cute guy is just what I need.

  Sure, I text back. Where and when?

  Meet me at the shelter at 3. The shelter’s address is followed by an emoticon of a smiling dog.

  See you then, I write. It’s already one o’clock. I need to have a shower, shave my legs, wash and dry my hair, choose an appropriate dog-and-guy-friendly outfit and take the bus to the shelter. All my clothes seem deeply inadequate, if not downright crappy. The best I can do is faded green shorts, a cute plaid shirt and a pair of red Asics runners. I put my hair up into a high ponytail and make sure that neither my lip gloss nor my mascara is smeared. It’s just a dog walk, I keep telling myself. Not a date. But it’s been a long time since I’ve felt this strange combination of excitement and uncertainty. The last time was when I had to read my prize-winning essay about climate change to my whole school. If I’m being honest, I never felt it much with Byron. There was never any uncertainty. Or an awful lot of excitement. What I’m feeling now is not an entirely pleasant sensation—I feel a bit light-headed—and it’s absolutely not rational. You’re going dog walking, I tell myself, not out for dinner and a movie, for god’s sake.

  When I get to the shelter, I’m sweaty and nauseated. I’d like to think it’s from the bus ride, but the minute I see Alex, standing in front of the shelter with a very large, very shaggy black dog, I know I’m kidding myself.

  “Hi, Harry. This is Churchill,” Alex says when I walk up to them. “Sit, Churchill.”

  Churchill sits, drooling, and regards me patiently.

  “Hey, Churchill,” I say. “How’s it going?”

  “Better now that you’re here,” Alex says in a deep, rumbly voice. Churchill’s voice. “I need you to rub my belly.”

  “Really?” I laugh. “But I hardly know you.” Are we flirting already? It seems too good to be true.

  “Lie down, Churchill,” Alex says in his regular voice. Churchill complies, then rolls over onto his back and bares his belly. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, and he appears to be grinning. I squat down and give his belly a good rub, wishing for the thousandth time that Mom would let me have a dog.

  I straighten, and Churchill leaps to his feet and starts pulling Alex down the street.

  “Not so fast, big guy,” Alex says. “He’s got a lot of energy. Doesn’t know how to heel. I’m working on that, but it’s slow. He used to live on a big fenced property. Never got leash trained.”

  “Why is he at the shelter?” I ask.

  “His owner died, I think. The heirs sold the property and bro
ught Churchill here. He’s a great dog, but he goes off like a rocket if he sees a cat or a squirrel. Nearly yanked my arm out of its socket once. But he’s kind of getting the hang of the leash. And he’s getting better with basic commands.”

  I walk beside Alex, with Churchill yawing back and forth in front of us. Occasionally the leash gets tangled in our legs, and once I have to grab Alex to keep from falling over. Does he hold on to me a bit longer than necessary? I think so, but I can’t be sure. I start to hope that Churchill will trip me again. When we arrive at the park, which is an off-leash area, Alex unclips Churchill from the leash. He takes off toward some other dogs, and Alex says, “Meredith told me you don’t want to meet your dad.”

  Wow, this guy really cuts to the chase. Maybe I’m reading this all wrong. Maybe he’s Meredith’s emissary, and he’s not interested in me at all.

  “He’s not my dad. He’s my donor.” I’m still not ready to tell anybody I might have changed my mind.

  “Yeah, I get that.”

  “So why doesn’t she?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe she just needs someone to share the experience with. Someone who understands.”

  “But I don’t understand. Really, I don’t. I didn’t grow up longing for a dad.”

  “Well, she did.”

  So now I’m supposed to feel guilty that I have a great mom?

  “What was her mom like?” I ask.

  “Hard to say. I mean, I’d go to Meredith’s house and her mom would be all Have some milk and cookies, but in private? You never really know, do you? Maybe it was a totally different story. But her folks were really good to me, especially her dad.”

  I think of the girls in Mom’s study—all the reasons they run away and end up homeless. Maybe I should try to be a bit more compassionate toward Meredith. A bit kinder.

  We stand in silence and watch Churchill race around the park.

  Finally Alex says, “I’m sorry I brought it up. I didn’t ask you here to get you to change your mind.”

  “No? Then why did you ask me?” There’s something about Alex that invites openness. Unlike Meredith, he seems incapable of deviousness. I turn to look at him and see that he is blushing, which is incredibly sweet.

  “Because I like you,” he says.

  “You’ve only met me once,” I say, although why I want to argue with him is beyond me.

  “And I liked you. Is that so hard to believe?” The blush is receding, and he is grinning at me. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls with tragically low self-esteem.”

  I laugh. “Not tragically low. Just average.” Like the rest of me, I think.

  “Well, you passed the belly-rub test. I can’t be with a girl who won’t rub a dog’s belly.”

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “Belly rubbing is the key to a good relationship.” I put my fingers in my mouth and let loose a piercing whistle. All the dogs in the park stop running and look at me. “Churchill, come!” I yell, and he races toward us. Alex hands me a dog treat, and I get Churchill to sit and shake a paw before I give it to him. Then he puts his paws on my shoulders and licks my face before he runs off again.

  “Looks like Churchill’s got a new best friend,” Alex says. “I feel so betrayed. And jealous. I always wanted to be able to whistle like that.”

  “My mom taught me. Her whistle is epic. Almost painful. Better than any rape whistle, she claims. I could teach you. You just have to know where to put your lips and fingers and tongue.”

  The minute it is out of my mouth, I realize that it sounds pretty, well, dirty. Alex snorts and says, “As the actress said to the bishop.” We both start to laugh, and we can’t stop. Tears stream down our faces, and Churchill barrels over to investigate. He obligingly jumps up and licks the tears and snot from my face. Talk about a memorable first date. If that’s what this is.

  Alex and I circle the park, keeping an eye on Churchill, who is romping around with a fluffy white dog the size of his head. Every now and again he bounds over to us, like a canine chaperone, begs for a treat and bounds off again. My hand brushes Alex’s as we walk, and I have to remind myself that this is only the second time we have met. It’s too soon for hand-holding, isn’t it? Byron and I knew each other for years before we held hands. But this is different. Really different.

  “What happens if Churchill doesn’t get adopted?” I ask, even though I think I know the answer: he’ll be put down. The thought brings tears to my eyes as I watch Churchill tear around the park with his tiny friend in pursuit.

  “He’s a great dog,” Alex says firmly. “Someone will take him. And he’s only been at the shelter a week.”

  “How do you deal with it?”

  “Deal with what?”

  “You know—if a dog has to be put down.”

  “It’s only happened to me once so far. And it was brutal. That’s not going to happen to Churchill. Not if I can help it.”

  He calls Churchill over before I can ask what he means, attaches his leash and says we need to get back to the shelter. We walk in silence for a while, and I wonder if somehow I’ve completely blown it. But then he says, “I’ll be walking Churchill again soon. Probably Thursday. You in?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “I’ll even teach you to whistle.”

  “Meredith might come too, if she’s not working.”

  “Cool.” No way am I going to tell him that I’m not a big fan of his best friend, even if she is my half-sister. Maybe it will be good for me to spend more time with her. Maybe I’ve misjudged her. If he likes her, there might be something I’m missing.

  When we get back to the shelter, he says, “I have to stay and do some more work here—cleaning out the kennels, filling water bowls, that kind of thing. The dog walking is the fun part. So—same time on Thursday?” He smiles and I smile back. We stand there like two grinning idiots as Churchill winds his leash around our ankles. I extricate myself without falling over, give Churchill a final belly rub and head toward the bus stop.

  Suddenly Thursday seems a very long way off.

  On the bus back home I get a text from Lucy: Can u come over?

  Over where? I reply.

  My house. I need to talk to u.

  I pause a minute before I reply, and another message comes in from her: My moms aren’t home.

  K. What’s your address? What bus should I take?

  She gives me directions, and I tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can. She doesn’t tell me what’s wrong, but if I had to guess, I’d say it has something to do with Meredith.

  Lucy’s house is the kind my mom has always wanted but can’t afford—a moss-green Craftsman bungalow, with a large porch, stone-covered pillars and shingle siding. The wide front stairs lead up to a deep-burgundy door with a silver knocker in the shape of a giant bee. The door opens before I have a chance to knock, and Lucy grabs my hand and pulls me inside. Her outfit of the day includes a straw fedora, which is cute but odd. Who wears a hat in their own house?

  The front hallway is cool and dim. As I follow Lucy through to the kitchen at the back of the house, I notice many of the features my mom has been obsessing about for years: wooden wall panels, exposed rafters, stained-glass windows, hardwood floors, a brick fireplace. The kitchen has obviously been renovated—there’s a bright-red gas stove, a huge island with a sink in it, windows everywhere.

  “Let’s go out on the deck,” Lucy says. She leads me through french doors onto a multi-level wooden deck that overlooks a lush back garden. A large brick-red umbrella shades a round wooden table that has a tray on it with glasses and a pitcher of what looks like pink lemonade. “Want some?” Lucy asks.

  I nod and say, “That’s some garden.”

  “Nori’s pride and joy,” Lucy says as she hands me a glass of lemonade. “It’s been in S
eattle Magazine. Even won some award—best of Seattle’s small gardens or something. You’d think she’d be sick of gardening after working in other people’s gardens all the time, but she says this is her sanctuary. She even made a special place for Angela to meditate in. Do you want to see it? It’s really cool. Very Japanese.”

  She starts to get up, and I put a hand on her arm. “What did you want to talk about?”

  She sits down and stares into her glass of lemonade. “I did something stupid,” she says. “Really stupid.”

  I don’t say anything—Mom always says that silence is actually the best way to get someone to talk. As we sit, I notice that Lucy is crying. I can’t actually see her face—the brim of the fedora hides it—but I can see drops falling on the wooden table.

  “What’s wrong, Lucy?” I ask. “It can’t be that bad.”

  She looks up at me, her face streaked with tears, and takes off her hat. Her beautiful curtain of silky black hair is gone. What’s left is a spiky pixie cut, just like Meredith’s. I say, “Holy shit!” and she starts to wail.

  “Angela and Nori are so mad at me. They’re saying that Meredith is a bad influence. They don’t want me hanging out with her—or you—until they’ve met both of you. I said you had nothing to do with it, but they’re getting all overprotective, and I’m afraid you guys won’t want to meet them and—”

  Before she can get herself any more worked up, I pull my chair over to hers and put my arms around her. It’s like hugging a child, she’s so small, and she looks more like a little kid than ever—a sad, confused little kid. We are sitting like this when the french doors open and a small wiry woman in jeans and a dirty white T-shirt steps onto the deck. Behind her is a tall tanned woman in a sky-blue sleeveless dress. Her long hair hangs in a braid down her back. Neither woman is smiling—they actually look pretty pissed—but the tall one’s eyes widen when she sees me, and she gasps. I’ve forgotten how much I look like her son, Adam. It must be a shock to see someone who could be his twin.