Now Mom sits up. “That’s big news.”
I bury my face in the pillow and groan. “Why does everything have to happen at once?”
She laughs and rubs my back. “I’ve wondered that myself many times. Unfortunately, we don’t get to pick and choose what life throws at us. Right now, the best thing you can do is get some sleep.” She pulls the duvet over me and then turns out the light. Her voice floats over me in the darkness. “Things will look better in the morning, Harry. I promise.”
ELEVEN
WHEN I TURN my phone on the next morning, there are two more texts, three missed calls and a voice mail. I listen to the voice mail first. It’s from Byron.
Hey, Harry, he says. I know we said we wouldn’t talk, but it’s hard. New York City is cool, but I miss the coast—a lot. And I miss you. I’ve met a few people here, but not anyone I want to hang out with. Zach’s mom and dad say I can stay with them if I decide to come back to Seattle. Can you call me? I get that you might not want to. Hope you do though. See ya.
Shit. He sounds so confused. That makes two of us. Part of me wants to call and tell him to come home. Tell him we can pick up where we left off. Another part of me wants to call and tell him the truth—or at least part of the truth: I’ve met someone else, but I still want to be friends. I want to imagine him roaming around New York with a girl who adores him, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and eating designer donuts at some trendy pop-up restaurant. Most of all, I want him to be happy so I can be happy too. Maybe he feels the same way. Maybe I’ll call him and see how it goes.
I sigh and move on to the texts.
One is from Meredith: Pls call me. It’s important.
The other is from my friend Gwen: Back from France soon. SOOO many stories.
Gwen and I have been friends since sixth grade. Her boyfriend, Zach, is Byron’s best friend. We spent a lot of time together, the four of us. Gwen thought Byron and I were crazy to break up. She’s a true romantic—always has been. Love conquers all. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Love makes the world go round. Love means never having to say you’re sorry. To give her credit, she’s also super smart and very funny. She wants to be a pediatric oncologist, for god’s sake. She’d probably think dating a trans guy was cool, but I don’t think I can talk about it with her yet, especially on Skype. I might tell her about the donor thing though. She’s a good listener.
I decide to call Lucy, who shrieks when she hears my voice.
“Where have you been? I’ve been so worried. Didn’t you get my texts? Are you okay?”
When she finally winds down, I say, “I’m fine. Just busy. I turned off my phone. But I heard the news. Meredith must be stoked.”
“She was right, Harry. He’s from here. Not right here, but close by. Whidbey Island. Right now he’s in Mexico, so we’re going to email first. Maybe talk on the phone. Get to know each other a bit before we meet.”
“I thought you didn’t want to meet him.”
“I didn’t think I did, but now I’m curious. I’ve talked to Angela and Nori about it, and they say it’s up to me. But they’ll want to be there too. Can you imagine? Angela will be all kind and caring, and Nori will grill him about his life choices.” She laughs, and I can’t help it—I laugh too.
“I really want you to be part of this, Harry,” she continues. “You know, like the three musketeers. One for all and all for one.”
“Then my mom would want to get involved. And Verna.”
“And Alex,” Lucy says. “Don’t forget Alex.”
As if I could.
“Poor guy,” I say.
“Alex? Why?”
“Not Alex. Our donor. He won’t know what hit him. Three daughters, three moms, a granny and a best friend. Probably more than he bargained for. He may regret coming out of hiding.”
“Do you think so?” Lucy sounds worried, as if it hasn’t occurred to her that it might have been a tough decision for him. “Meredith says he seems really nice. I’m a bit scared to email him. What if he doesn’t like me?”
I laugh again. “Not like you? He’d have to be crazy.”
“Will you help me?” she asks.
“With what?”
“With my email.”
“Um, sure. I guess. If you want me to.”
“Can you come over now?”
“Can I have some breakfast first?”
“I’ll make you breakfast. Bacon, eggs, toast, whatever you like.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see if I can get Mom to drive me.”
“Pancakes?”
“Stop,” I say. “You had me at bacon.”
Mom has some errands to run, so she agrees to drive me to Lucy’s. When we get there, before I get out of the car, she says, “It’s okay if you want to meet him, you know. In case you were worried about how I’d feel.”
Lucy runs down the front steps before I can reply and knocks on Mom’s window. When Mom rolls it down, Lucy says, “Angela’s home for a couple of hours. She wants you to come in for breakfast. We’ve got muffins in the oven if you don’t want eggs. Banana-chocolate chip. They’re awesome.”
Mom smiles and turns to me. “Okay with you if I stay? I know you and Lucy have things to discuss.”
“Can’t pass up your favorite muffins,” I say, and she turns off the car.
Lucy bounces along beside us as we go up the path to the house. “I can’t believe I’m so excited about meeting our donor. I mean, I’ve barely given him a second thought before. It’s weird. Angela and Nori want us to take it slowly, but that’s not my style, you know?”
“I know,” I say. “But I’m with your moms on this one. Slow and steady wins the race, as Verna would say.”
“If you’re a turtle,” Lucy says. “But Meredith is acting like she’s got cold feet too. And she was the one who was all gung ho to begin with.”
“Reality will do that to you,” Mom says.
When we go into the house, we’re hit with the best smell in the world (next to Mom’s cologne)—bacon and fresh baking. Angela comes out of the kitchen and hugs Mom and me.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Della. I bake when I get antsy. And then I eat it all.”
“Glad to help,” Mom says. “And glad to hear you’re antsy too. I thought maybe I was the only one.”
“I know,” Angela says. “We knew this day might come, but it feels different than I thought it would. More… fraught. Hence the baking. Nori doesn’t seem concerned at all. So it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”
We sit down at the harvest table in the kitchen. Nobody talks much. We’re too busy stuffing our faces. Lucy, despite her size, eats more than anyone else. Four slices of bacon, a mountain of eggs, three slices of toast with peanut butter and jam, two muffins. She washes it down with mugs of milky coffee. When she notices me watching her, she grins and says, “Yeah, I know. Nori says I eat like a stevedore, whatever that means. I’ve always been that way. Right, Angela?”
“From the day she was born,” Angela says. “I thought Adam would be the one emptying the refrigerator, but he eats like a sparrow compared to Lucy.”
“She’s like a hummingbird,” I say. “Eating her body weight every day. You should have called her Anna.”
“Why Anna?” Lucy asks.
“They’re the only type of hummingbird that overwinters here,” I tell her. When Lucy gapes at me, I add, “School project, seventh grade.”
“Cool,” she says as we clear the table, leaving Mom and Angela to their tea.
Lucy’s room has turquoise walls and an orange paisley duvet with matching throw pillows. There are clothes everywhere—and I mean everywhere. On the floor, on the bed, under the bed, on the turquoise-and-orange-striped armchair by the window, on the bedside table, ov
erflowing the drawers of a huge dresser, spilling out of the closet.
“Wow!” I say. “You have a lot of clothes.”
“I know, I know. It drives Nori and Angela crazy. But I buy them myself and I do my own laundry, so they can’t say much about it.”
I can’t imagine functioning in such a mess, but she’s obviously used to it.
She sweeps some clothes off a desk and chair, revealing a MacBook Air. I clear the armchair and pull it over next to the desk.
“So here’s what I’ve got.” She opens the laptop and turns the screen toward me.
Dear Dr. Ramos, it says.
“That’s it?”
She nods. “That’s why I need your help. You’re good with words, right? I don’t want to sound like an idiot.”
“Okay. What do you want to say?”
“That’s just it. I’m not sure.”
I tell her what Mom has always told me when I’m writing something: Be direct. Be yourself. Be brief.
“So tell me what you want to say, and I’ll write things down. Then we can edit it into a really good email.”
Lucy trades places with me and starts to talk. Fast. I keep telling her to slow down—I’m a good typist, but I’m not that good—and she tries, but she has a lot to say. Most of which doesn’t make it into the final email.
After two hours, more coffee (for her) and some water for me, this is what we come up with.
Dear Dr. Ramos,
My name is Lucy Tanaka and I am your daughter. I am fifteen years old and I live in Seattle with my two moms, Angela and Nori. I have a half-brother named Adam who is your son with Angela. He’s in Portland, Oregon, at school. Another half-brother, Ben, lives in Australia. I have a great life—I’m very happy. I never thought about contacting you until I met my half-sisters Meredith and Harriet (Harry). Meredith came here from Montana to find you (but you probably already know that). Harriet and I have lived here all our lives. It’s weird to think that we might have passed you on the street.
I am a ballet dancer. My moms put me in dance when I was really little because I have a LOT of energy. I love dancing. I teach Baby Ballet on Saturdays. If it was up to me, I would arrange to meet you tomorrow—I hate waiting—but everyone says we should take it slow, get to know each other via email, so that’s what I’m doing.
I really appreciate that you got in touch with Meredith. I’m curious how you found out she was looking for you. And I’m really excited to meet you. If that’s what you want too. Please email me back a bit about yourself (if you feel like it).
Your daughter,
Lucy
She wants to add her phone number, but I tell her I don’t think it’s a good idea yet. One thing at a time. She groans and throws a paisley pillow at me. “Why do you always have to be so sensible, Harriet?”
I shrug. “I came out of the womb that way, I guess, just like you came out chugging your weight in breast milk and whirling like a dervish.”
“Gross,” she says. “Shall we send it?”
“Up to you.” I hand her the laptop and she rereads the email. When she hits Send and the email whooshes away, I wish I’d added a few lines of my own.
Harriet here. I was against trying to find you, but now I’m not so sure. I look a lot like you. I know you’re a donor, not a dad, but now that you’ve been found, I think I want to meet you. I just don’t have the guts to say so.
TWELVE
MOM IS LONG GONE by the time we finish the email, so Angela drops me off at home on her way to work. She doesn’t ask about the donor stuff, and I don’t volunteer anything. There’s a note from Mom on the kitchen table: Had to go to the college. I left you a transcription I need done right away. Hope you had fun with Lucy. I ate too many muffins. Will be hitting the gym later. Grilled chicken for dinner?
I gather up all the stuff I need for transcribing—laptop, earbuds, tape recorder—and sit at the kitchen table. The girl’s name is Brandi. She goes to high school, even though she has no home. She wants to study law and be an advocate for poor people. A while ago her dad lost his job—he was some kind of executive—and started drinking a lot. Her stay-at-home mom had no income. One of her little brothers (she has three) has epilepsy. The family lost their home and dear old dad disappeared into the bottle, leaving mom in a shelter with four kids. They were on a wait list for subsidized housing, but nothing was big enough for four kids. Apparently there are rules about how many kids you can stuff into one bedroom, especially if one kid has special needs.
When Brandi turned seventeen, she decided to take care of herself while her mom got back on her feet. She couch-surfs and eats out of Dumpsters or gets bread and peanut butter from the food bank, dragging herself to school every day. The school has no idea she’s homeless. She stays at the school, doing homework in the library, until the janitors kick her out. Sometimes she hides out in the girls’ change room after the school closes. Then she has a shower, washes her underwear and sleeps on a yoga mat she found in the Lost and Found. She doesn’t do drugs or drink. She never turns tricks. She makes a bit of money panhandling and allows herself one Subway meal a week. Her grades are good, but she’s worried they won’t be good enough to earn her a scholarship for university. She looks after her little brothers on Sundays to give her mom a break.
The girl is a freakin’ saint. Her best friend from high school sneaks Brandi into her room at night and brings her food when she can, but Brandi won’t let her tell her parents that Brandi has no home to go to. She’s afraid of Social Services. Going into foster care seems worse to her than never knowing where you’re going to sleep. Once her mom gets housing, she’ll probably go there for meals and a shower, but only if it doesn’t jeopardize her family’s stability.
I stop typing and take out my earbuds. Every time I do a transcription, I’m reminded of how good my life is. Roof over head—check. Regular meals—check. Good school—check. Nice clothes—check. Access to a car—check. Friends—check. Family—check. Money for university—check. Maybe that’s why Mom hired me: to give me some perspective. If so, it’s working. I like my sheltered life, but maybe it’s time to shake it up a bit.
I take a deep breath, open a new email message and start typing.
Dear Dr. Ramos,
My name is Harriet Jacobs, known as Harry. I don’t know how much Meredith has told you about me, but I thought I would write and say hello. I live with my mom here in Seattle. Everyone on DSR recommends that you take it slow when you first connect with your donor (and vice versa), and that’s fine with me. Actually, I told Meredith and Lucy I didn’t want to meet you, but that turns out not to be true. I’m not exactly sure why. Just to be clear, I don’t need or want you to be my dad. But I do want to know some things, so I hope you don’t mind answering a few questions.
1. Where did you grow up?
2. What kind of doctor are you?
3. Do you have any children (other than donor kids)?
4. Are you married?
5. When were you a donor?
6. How did you find out about us?
7. Do you want to meet us?
8. Are your parents still alive?
9. Do you have any siblings? If so, do they have kids?
10. What is your favorite food?
I’m sure I’ll think of other things, but that’s it for now.
Sincerely,
Harry
I send the email before I can think better of it.
Now all I have to do is wait. I’m about to Skype Gwen when the doorbell rings. When I open the door, I immediately regret not changing into something nicer than the yoga pants and gray hoodie I wore to Lucy’s.
Alex is standing on my doorstep, holding a florist’s box, the kind long-stemmed red roses come in. I like roses in gardens, but I hate the kind tha
t are grown in South America and get shipped here in refrigerated containers. They don’t even smell like roses. Frankenroses, Mom calls them. The ultimate clichéd romantic gesture. I wouldn’t have pegged Alex as that guy, and it’s not Valentine’s Day, but I fear the worst.
“Hey,” I say. “This is a surprise. How did you find out where I live?” It’s not the friendliest greeting, but he’s caught me off guard.
“I have my ways,” he says. I must look skeptical, because he adds, “Okay. I called Verna. I wanted to surprise you.”
“Mission accomplished,” I say, trying to remember if I’ve brushed my hair recently.
He shifts from foot to foot on the porch, and I step back to let him inside. Compared to Lucy’s house, ours is nothing special, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of either. I lead him into the kitchen, where my laptop is still open on the table. He puts the long white box on the table and leans against the counter.
“Want to see what I wrote to my donor?” I say.
“You wrote to him? I thought you didn’t want anything to do with him.”
“I changed my mind. I’m allowed to do that, you know.”
He nods and says, “I’m sure it was a very rational decision.” He’s smiling when he says it, so I know he’s teasing me.
I punch him lightly on the shoulder and pull out a chair for him. We sit side by side as he reads my email. When he’s done, he tilts his chair onto its two back legs and says, “Very thorough. Excellent tone. Not too needy. Friendly but not excessively so. Respectful.”
“I try,” I say. “It’s weird though. I’ve gone from not wanting to contact him at all to wishing he’d set up a meeting. And I don’t really know why.”
“Does there always have to be a why?” he asks, still teetering on the chair. It’s making me anxious, watching him balance. “Maybe he’s communicating with you on, I don’t know, a cellular level.”
Spirit Level Page 11