Spirit Level

by Sarah N. Harvey

  “Very impressive,” Alex says. “A girl who does her research. I like that.”

  “You have no idea. I put footnotes in my book reports in third grade. It was so obnoxious. That’s what being raised by an academic will do to you.”

  And you wouldn’t like it if you knew what else I was researching, I think. We reach the park, and I let Churchill off the leash. As he bounds away, Alex says, “I’m sorry about yesterday. Things got…complicated. Meredith was really upset about something. She left work and asked me to meet her, but by the time I got there, she’d made plans with Lucy.”

  “So you all went to EMP,” I say, trying to keep an accusatory tone out of my voice.

  He nods. “I’m sorry. I messed up. I should have called you.”

  “What was Meredith so upset about?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. Whatever it was, she got over it before I got there. She must have talked to Lucy or something.”

  I watch Churchill for a few minutes. If you ever wanted a demonstration of the word gamboling, all you’d have to do is watch Churchill playing with his doggy friends. I envied him. The world could use more gamboling and less stressing. More treats and fewer commands. I take a deep breath and say, “Do you always do whatever Meredith wants?”

  Silence.

  Someone calls their dog—“Scout! Get over here! Scout!”—and a border collie streaks across the park.

  When Alex finally replies, his voice is stiff and formal. “I said I was sorry. But Meredith is my best friend. You have no idea the stuff she’s done for me. Don’t you have a friend like that?”

  He turns toward me and looks steadily into my eyes. He doesn’t look angry, just serious. I look away. I can’t tell him about Byron, my best friend turned boyfriend turned…nothing. Byron, who misses me. Byron, who would do whatever I wanted—except stay.

  “Sort of,” I say. I turn and start walking back to the bus stop.

  Alex says, “Don’t go, Harriet. Please. You haven’t taught me to whistle yet. And Churchill could always use some more leash training.”

  “That’s true,” I say, and I know there is nothing I want more than to stay.

  By the time I get home, it’s almost dark. Alex and I have spent almost eight hours together, first at the park with Churchill (who earned a lot of treats by learning to roll over) and then at a sushi bar Gwen and I go to a lot. I love sushi, so I was able to show off a bit, ordering stuff Alex had never had. Maybe Missoula doesn’t have a lot of sushi restaurants. Spicy squid salad, shumai, drunk clams. After that we got gelato at Gelatiamo (chocolate chili/ coconut for me, hazelnut/pistachio for Alex) and walked for ages, ending up at Myrtle Edwards Park, where we sat on a bench while the sun set. We talked a lot, but not about anything important. Sometimes we were silent, and it didn’t feel awkward at all. When we finally said goodbye at my bus stop, I was exhausted but wired. The combination of sunshine, sushi, sugar and happiness made me bolder than I usually am. The bus pulled up, and I kissed Alex on the mouth—really fast but hard, no tongue. I could taste the pistachios on his lips. Delicious. He looked startled, but he didn’t pull away or wipe his mouth afterward. I laughed and said, “Thanks for the great day” and jumped onto the bus.

  Now I can’t sleep, so I get up and continue researching the Leatherbys of Missoula, Montana.

  NINE

  THERE ARE A LOT of Leatherbys in England, an ice-cream parlor called Leatherby’s in California, and the Leatherby Libraries are part of some university in California. And that’s just on the first page. Google can be overwhelming sometimes, so I decide to try my luck on Facebook. Lots of my friends’ parents have Facebook pages. My friends mock their moms’ posts or their dads’ profile shots and bitch about how their parents are tracking their every move. My mom doesn’t have a page, and I doubt she’s ever looked at mine. She says she doesn’t have time for Facebook, and she thinks selfies are evidence of the downfall of civilization. Now I’m hoping that Barbara Leatherby has embraced social media. Maybe she even has a Twitter handle.

  I type her name into the Find Friends space and, lo and behold, there she is. Barbara Jean Leatherby of Missoula, Montana. Blond, tanned, fiftyish. Sporty-looking—not like Meredith at all. Her cover picture is a rose, which makes sense. I can’t see much else without friending her, but I can see where she works (at the University of Montana), her relationship status (It’s complicated) and where she went to school (UC Berkeley).

  Next I search for Mark Leatherby. He is about Barbara’s age, maybe a bit older. Clearly not Meredith’s brother. I click on his profile. He’s dark-haired and thin-faced, with a goatee and wire-framed glasses. His cover picture is a photo of two dogs—one looks like an overgrown fox, the other is some kind of terrier. Mark also works at the university and has a complicated relationship. Who doesn’t? And, like Barbara’s, his privacy settings don’t allow me to see his friends or his posts.

  I wonder if Alex has a Facebook profile, but since I still don’t know his last name, it’s impossible to search for him. I make a mental note to work it naturally into the conversation the next time I see him. My mind wanders a bit, replaying our day together, especially the kiss, wondering if he’s as wide awake as I am. When I look for Meredith Leatherby on Facebook, all I find is her “looking for daddy” page, so I move on to the Missoulian newspaper, type the name Leatherby into the Search field and hope for the best.

  When the screen fills with citations, I’m excited—until I realize there’s a local tack shop named Leatherby’s in Missoula. Apparently it has the best selection of cowboy boots in Montana. I’ve always wanted cowboy boots. Red ones. Another reason to go to Missoula. Finally I come across a Barbara Leatherby, manager of the bookstore at the university. She’s excited about a famous Montana author who’s going to do an event at the store. Interesting, but not much help. Barbara pops up again in an article about a pottery show at a local community center. There’s a picture of her smiling and holding up a beautiful vase. She is quoted as saying that “making pottery is a meditation for me, an opportunity to be with my own thoughts.”

  Barbara shows up a few more times, but there’s no sign of Mark until I find an obituary from 1999 that lists him as the son of the dearly departed Jack Leatherby, a retired dentist. Next to Mark’s name is Barbara’s, in parentheses, which means they are (or were) husband and wife. Holy shit! I get up and pace my room. In 1999, Meredith would have been what? Two or three? I read the entire obituary. Mark is the only child of Jack and his deceased wife, Rose. Jack’s beloved grandchildren are listed as Jackson, Elizabeth and Meredith. I find the birth announcements for all three kids—Jackson and Elizabeth are twins, three years older than Meredith. Parents: Mark and Barbara Leatherby.

  I shut down the computer, get back into bed and try to force my tired brain to make sense of what I’ve discovered. Meredith has two siblings (possibly not biological). Her parents are separated or maybe divorced. Her grandfather was a dentist. I fall asleep wondering whether Alex has secrets too.

  The next day I work in the salon, finish my transcription of Jessica’s interview (I still don’t like her) and clean the house, which Mom pays me to do once a week. I don’t hear from Alex, but I assume he’s working, although I still don’t know where. Verna comes over for dinner, and afterward she beats us both at Scrabble, since she seems to have memorized the latest edition of the Official Scrabble Dictionary. She plays chillax and bromance and qajaq, which she puts on a triple word score; Mom and I don’t stand a chance. When the game is over, I say goodnight and go upstairs to check out the Missoula Independent.

  The Independent is a community newspaper, full of stories about local people and events. Almost right away, I find an article about Elizabeth Leatherby’s move to Denver to dance in the company that Meredith told us she belonged to. The accompanying photograph shows a small, lithe blond girl in mid-leap. My heart sta
rts to race; this is the first evidence I have found that confirms my suspicions about Meredith. Then I find a picture of some volunteers at an organic farm. Second from the left, leaning on a fence, grinning, is Jackson Leatherby. He looks like his father—dark-haired and wiry, with glasses and a scruffy beard. Next to him, a beautiful girl with long, wildly curly hair is gazing up at him adoringly. No wonder he looks so happy. Organic veggies and love are a potent combo.

  Jackson and Elizabeth show up in older articles as well. When they graduated from Big Sky High, they were co-valedictorians. They formed a hiking group in high school called the Jumbotrons, named after nearby Mount Jumbo, their favorite place to hike. How cool is it to live near a mountain named after a Disney elephant? They also took part in the annual community weed-pulls on Mount Jumbo. I bet their parents were proud.

  There’s no mention of Meredith at all until I come across a short article about her Little League team, which played in the Little League World Series when Meredith was twelve. She was the star shortstop. And there she is in the team photo. Front and center, smirking, lips tight. Behind her, a tall girl with curly blond hair smiles broadly at the camera. I scan the names under the picture: the tall girl’s name is Danielle Larson, and she looks exactly like Alex.

  Alex must have a twin sister. Weird that he hasn’t mentioned her. Mind you, he hasn’t told me anything about his family. And I haven’t asked.

  I wake up with a brutal headache and call Verna to tell her I can’t help in the salon today. Then I text Mom that I’m sick and going back to sleep. No way I can face the Sunday ladies today. I stay in bed until I hear the front door shut and the car start. When I go downstairs, a note on the kitchen table says, Feel better, Harry. Call if you need anything. I take an Advil, make some toast and stare out the window as I eat it.

  My phone pings as I’m putting my dishes in the dishwasher.

  The text from Lucy says, Wanna hang out 2day?

  I text back, Can’t. Sick. Sorry.

  Bummer.

  Yeah. Going back to sleep. Call you later.

  She responds with an emoticon of a toilet and lol!

  I smile and send her a happy face in a surgical mask. I go back to sleep for a couple of hours, and when I wake up my headache is almost gone. I open up the Missoula Independent again and search for Alex Larson. Nothing. I google Larson + Missoula. Not surprisingly, there are pages of Larsons. A needle in a haystack, as Verna would say. I go back to my best lead—Barbara Leatherby. I consider messaging her on Facebook, but it would be the longest message ever, and who knows if she’s even on Facebook very often. I have her home phone number. I can imagine her sitting with a cup of tea on her front porch, reading a novel, admiring her roses. Do I want to mess with that? Do I have any choice?

  Of course I do. Mom has been hammering it into my head since birth—maybe even in the womb. I imagine her stroking her big belly, crooning into her navel, You always have choices, little one. Always. So I know I can shut it all down right now. Let the chips fall et cetera, et cetera. But do I want to? No. What’s the worst that can happen? Barbara hangs up on me. Or she could freak out—that’s always a possibility. Or tell me stuff I don’t want to hear. Another thing Verna always says: Don’t ask the question if you’re not prepared for the answer. Am I prepared? I’m not sure. All I know is I’ll go nuts if I don’t do something.

  I pick up the phone, take a deep breath and dial Barbara’s number. I don’t have a script or even a plan. When she answers, I simply say, “My name is Harriet Jacobs. I’m calling from Seattle, and I’d like to talk to you about your daughter Meredith.”

  She gasps. “What? Who is this?”

  “My name is Harriet Jacobs,” I repeat. “Meredith is in Seattle. She contacted me through the DSR—the Donor Sibling—”

  “I know what it is,” she says. “Is Merry all right?”

  Merry? She calls her Merry? I can’t put that together with the girl I know, who is the opposite of merry.

  “Um, I think so.”

  Barbara is silent for a moment, and then she asks, “Do you Skype?”

  I nod but say “Yes” when I remember she can’t see me.

  “Let’s do that, then. What’s your Skype name? I’ll be in touch within the hour.” She’s all business now, the quaver in her voice gone.

  “Harrietthespy,” I say. Then I realize how creepy that must sound, given what I’ve been doing. “After the book, you know? All one word.”

  “I’ll call you soon, Harriet,” she says.

  Fifty-seven long minutes later, she’s on my screen, sitting exactly where I had imagined her—on a white wicker settee on her porch. She looks like her Facebook picture, only not smiling. Next to her is Mark Leatherby. Also not smiling.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hello,” Barbara says. “This is Mark, Merry’s father. But you probably already know that.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I opt for the truth. “I found you both on Facebook. And there was some stuff in the Montana newspapers too.”

  “Why were you looking for us? Is Merry in trouble?” Barbara says. Still no smile.

  “Not that I know of,” I say. “Her friend Alex is here too. They seem…fine.”

  Mark nods. “I’m not surprised they’re together. They’ve been friends since they met at T-ball. Thick as thieves.”

  I nod. “His sister must miss him,” I say. “Being twins and all.”

  Barbara and Mark look puzzled. “Sister?” Mark says. “Alex doesn’t have a sister. Just an older brother.”

  “But I saw her picture. She was on the Little League team with Meredith. Danielle Larson.”

  A look passes between Mark and Barbara that is hard to interpret. Mark gives a small shrug, and Barbara says, “You need to talk to Alex about that. We appreciate the call, Harriet, but I’m not sure what more we can tell you. Merry has made it clear she wants nothing to do with us. And we don’t feel comfortable talking to a stranger about her.”

  Mark adds, “But please call us again if something is wrong—with Merry or Alex. If they need our help.”

  “Okay,” I mumble. “Thanks for talking to me. Bye.”

  I close the connection and lie down on my bed.

  When I shut my eyes, all I can see is Danielle Larson in her baseball uniform. I sit up and open the Missoulian again, searching for birth notices. I finally find it. Danielle Margaret Larson, born April 12, 1997, to Darrell and Donna Larson. Big brother Donnie is thrilled. Praise Jesus. Mark was right. No twin sister. Just Danielle. I open up the Little League article again and stare at the picture of Danielle Larson. If it were in color, I’m sure her eyes would be lapis blue.

  Back to Google, this time searching for Darrell and Donna Larson. It only takes a few minutes to find their address and phone number. Before I can think better of it, I dial the number. A woman answers. She sounds as if she’s smoked a pack a day for the last fifty years.

  I ask, “Is Danielle there?” and there is such a long silence, I think she’s hung up.

  “Who wants to know?” she finally says.

  “Um, I’m doing a piece for the Missoulian on, uh…” I’m drawing a blank, but she fills it in for me.

  “On how a good Christian family can produce a monster? You’re not the first to ask.” She laughs—or at least I think it’s a laugh. It sounds like shears cutting through sheet metal. “Danielle’s dead to me,” she continues. “You put that in your paper. Oh, I know she calls herself Alex now. I know she calls herself a man. A man! That girl is no more a man than I am! I did what I could—raised her right. But she was tainted, and nothing we did changed that. And that’s all I have to say.”

  She hangs up, and all I can think is, Alex is a girl. Even though he’s not. I wish I’d never gone looking for information about Me
redith. I wish I’d just left well enough alone. I don’t care anymore if she’s my half-sister or a serial killer or both. All I care about is who Alex is, and whether he was ever going to tell me.

  My heart is racing, and I can feel beads of sweat forming along my hairline. My mouth is dry. Alex was born a girl. A girl named Danielle. He’s a boy now, so that means he’s transgender. I know about the difference between sexual orientation and gender identity. A trans girl named Sabrina came to our school last year, and she got hassled by a few idiots, who were suspended. Our school’s Gay-Straight Alliance did a presentation about being trans at an assembly. It was the first time I heard the expression “Sex is what’s between your legs. Gender is what’s between your ears.” But right now it’s hard not to think about what is (or isn’t) between Alex’s legs.

  As far as I can tell, Alex likes girls. I like boys. No problem. In theory, it sounds straightforward—reasonable, even—but the reality is something else. I’ve never even slept with a guy with a dick. Maybe it’s better that I have no basis for comparison. But the questions just keep coming: Does Alex take hormones? Has he had surgery? What would it be like to make out with someone who has breasts and a vagina? And does wanting to make me a lesbian? I know it doesn’t, but I still ask myself the question.

  I lie down again and toss and turn, sweating, flailing, pummeling the pillow. Nothing helps. The only way I can answer my questions is to talk to Alex. And right now, I’m too scared.

  My phone rings in the early afternoon. Lucy. I don’t have the energy for her right now. And I’m afraid I might repeat what I found out about Alex and Meredith, which I don’t want to do. Not yet anyway. I’d like Lucy to think well of me for as long as possible. Maybe if we’d grown up together, I wouldn’t worry about disappointing her. I’ve seen my friends treat their siblings like shit and it doesn’t seem to damage their relationships. This seems way more fragile.