Spirit Level

by Sarah N. Harvey

  I snort. “Yeah right.”

  “Not everything is logical, Harry,” he says softly. He lets the front legs of his chair bump down and pushes the box across the table toward me.

  Please, please don’t be red roses, I think as I lift the lid off the box. No roses, thank god. A lot of crumpled white tissue paper fills the box, and after I push it aside, I reach in and pull out a wooden rectangle maybe a foot and a half long, a couple of inches high and an inch wide, tapered at both ends. I have no idea what it is. The faded label reads Globemaster. There are two brass-trimmed holes—one in the top and one on the side. The one on the side looks like a porthole. I examine it more closely and see tiny tubes filled with yellow liquid in the holes. Bubbles in the liquid move around as I turn the thing over in my hands.

  Alex takes it away from me and places it on the table in front of me. “It’s called a spirit level. Carpenters use them, although now they have digital ones. I saw this one at a thrift shop near my house and thought of you. A level for the level-headed.” He points to one of the little vials. The bubble is sitting slightly to the left of one of two lines painted on the vial. “See? Your table isn’t level.”

  I laugh and get up and put the level on the counter. It’s also a bit off. I wander around the house, Alex trailing behind me, trying to find something that is actually level. The dining-room table is close, the living-room floor is way off, and most of the stuff hanging on our walls is wonky. Alex and I straighten the pictures as we go.

  “I like your house,” he says. “It feels lived-in.”

  “You mean it’s messy,” I say. There are books and mugs strewn around the house, but the carpets are relatively clean, the dirty dishes are in the dishwasher, and the garbage isn’t overflowing the bin.

  “No,” he says. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know,” I say. I pick the level up and balance it on my head. “So—am I really that level-headed?”

  I walk across the living room toward him, like a debutante at a deportment class. When I get close enough for him to see the bubble in the level, he leans in and looks into my eyes instead. “Not as level-headed as you think,” he whispers. I stand very still, my arms at my sides, as he kisses me. His lips are soft and the kiss is gentle, almost tentative. I want it to last forever. I can feel the level slipping, slipping, slipping as I lean into the kiss. He catches it as it falls and slides it onto the couch, his lips never breaking contact with mine. I close my eyes as the kiss continues. Our bodies are only meeting at our lips, but I am hyperaware of his body. The breadth of his shoulders, the long slope of his back, the curve of his ass, the length of his legs. I feel weightless, as if the kiss has created an atmosphere in which I am free to float and experience all the sensations of this one thing. My lips feel warm and swollen; my breathing is becoming ragged. I stagger slightly and Alex pulls me toward him until my head rests on his shoulder, and we sway together, like marathon dancers holding each other up when everyone else has collapsed.

  And then Alex’s phone rings. The ringtone is “You’ve Got a Friend in Me,” from Toy Story. I don’t need a crystal ball to know who it is.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Alex says as he pulls the phone out of his pocket. “I gotta take this. I’m sorry.” He walks away from me, his shoulders hunched, and I hear him say, “Hey, Merry. What’s up? You okay?” before he opens the front door and steps out onto the porch.

  I sit on the couch and fume, turning the spirit level over in my hands, watching it transform from the most romantic gesture ever into an old block of wood with holes in it. I put it on the coffee table and glare at it. Apparently the coffee table is exactly level. I can’t believe he took her call. It seems as if the biggest impediment to our relationship isn’t the fact that he was born female; it’s that he’s a wimp when it comes to Meredith. Did she know he was coming to see me today? Did she call on purpose, to interrupt us, ruin our moment? I wouldn’t put it past her.

  The front door opens and Alex comes back in and sits beside me on the couch. “I have to go,” he says. “I need to see Meredith before I go in to work. She’s freaking out about Dr. Ramos. She thinks he’s going to reject her or something. Like Mark did.”

  “Mark rejected her?”

  “Well, that’s how it felt to her, I guess. He just withdrew when she was in high school. Didn’t give her the support she needed. She completely derailed. Drugs, alcohol, a couple of pregnancies. A lot of fights. It was really hard to watch. I was the only person she trusted, the one she called when she was in trouble.”

  “And now she thinks she’s going to get the kind of support she wants from a complete stranger? That’s crazy.” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret them.

  “Is it? Maybe he can give her what she needs.” Alex’s voice is as level as the coffee table.

  What she needs is a swift kick in the ass, I think, but what do I know? Maybe Mark and Barbara did let her down when she was out of control, but I kind of doubt it.

  Alex stands up and looks down at me. “I fucked it up again, didn’t I?” he says.

  “Kind of,” I say.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he says. “She gets so down on herself…”

  “And you’re the fixer. I get it. So go fix her.” I stand up and cross my arms over my chest. “Thanks for the level. I’m sure it will come in handy if I ever decide to become a carpenter.”

  He reaches out and touches my cheek. I move away, but not before the hairs on my arm stand up.

  “I’ll fix this, I promise,” he says. “She just needs to understand that I won’t abandon her too.”

  I roll my eyes. “Good luck with that,” I say as I open the door for him.

  Turns out fury makes me dry-eyed, not teary. I’m furious at Alex, furious at Meredith, furious at myself. How could I have been so stupid? Thinking it would all work out with a trans boy who’s attached at the hip to my needy half-sister. Who am I kidding? The odds were against us from the get-go. The only person I’m not furious at is Lucy, but there’s no way I’m telling her any of this. For some reason she thinks Meredith walks on water. The best I can do is try to protect her.

  When Mom gets home, I’m in the middle of making fajitas for dinner. The laundry is done and folded, and there are brownies (no bacon) in the oven.

  “Brownies?” Mom laughs. “Guess I’ll be back at the gym tomorrow. How was your day?”

  “Good,” I say. “I did that transcription for you; did some laundry too.”

  “Sounds like a productive day,” she says. “What’s that?” She points at the spirit level, which is sitting on top of the fridge, which is apparently not level either.

  “It’s a spirit level. Alex gave it to me.”

  “It’s quite lovely,” she says.

  “I guess,” I say. “Do you want onions on your fajitas?”

  “No onions. So Alex came by today?”

  “Just to drop off the level on his way to work.”

  “Very sweet,” she says. “But you don’t look that happy.”

  “It’s complicated,” I say.

  “Isn’t it always?” she says.

  “Is that why you never married?” I ask. “Or had a long-term relationship? And don’t give me all that bullshit about how busy you were raising me and going to school. Lots of people do those things and have relationships too.”

  “That’s true,” she says. “Can I pour myself a drink before we get into this? I think this calls for more than a glass of red wine.” She pulls a bottle of tonic water out of the fridge and a bottle of gin out of the cupboard and makes herself a tall drink. Then she sits at the kitchen table and takes a long sip. “My parents had a terrible marriage. I’ve told you that.”

  “That’s about all you’ve told me.”

  “I di
dn’t think you needed the details, since you were never going to meet them. But maybe I was wrong.”

  “Yeah, you were,” I say. “So tell me.”

  Mom sighs, takes a gulp of her drink and says, “They had one of those ‘stay together for the sake of the kids’ relationships. Perfect on the outside, vicious on the inside, like an eclair filled with shit. Apparently they were very happy until they had kids, and then it all went to hell. My mom loved me and my brother, Robbie, more than anything. More than Dad. At least, that’s what he said when he got hammered. Robbie started drinking when he was thirteen. He died in a car accident—he was driving drunk—when he was sixteen. After that, my parents ignored me and concentrated on drinking and making each other miserable. I ran away and came out here. Then I met Verna, and you know the rest of the story. I had you. That was all I trusted myself with—you and Verna and my work. I was afraid that if I added in a relationship, I would become like my parents.”

  By the time she stops speaking, we are both pretty choked up. I think about all that she has denied herself—a lot of it for my sake—and it makes me sad.

  “Was there ever anyone…?”

  “Yes,” she says. “There was. Not too long ago. Remember Ray, the boatbuilder? The one I went out with last year? He had one of those things.” She points to the spirit level. “We started to get pretty serious. I broke up with him, even though I really cared for him.”

  I remember Ray. I liked him. He played the banjo in a bluegrass band with his brother and his cousin. “Oh, Mom,” I say. “You’re never going to be like your mom and dad. Never. It’s just not possible.”

  “I can’t take the chance.” She takes a swig of her drink. “Nature versus nurture, right? No one really knows how it works. That’s why I studied sociology. To try and figure it out.”

  “And?”

  She laughs. “And I still don’t know. Probably never will. And here I sit, drinking my mom’s favorite drink, telling my lovely daughter horror stories.”

  “You don’t need to do that anymore,” I say.

  “Do what? Drink?”

  “Give up things for me. I don’t want you to. I’m not a little kid anymore. You’re not going to turn into a monster and hurt me. For one thing, Verna wouldn’t allow it. Can you imagine?”

  Mom shrugs. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I am.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” she says.

  “Okay.”

  “I won’t shy away from whatever life throws at me if you won’t.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I think you know.” She points at the spirit level. “You’re too young not to take a chance, and I’m too old.”

  “You think?”

  “I do.”

  I reach across the table and take her hand and shake it.

  “Deal,” I say.

  “Deal,” she replies.

  THIRTEEN

  LUCY CALLS ME the morning after my heart-to-heart with Mom. I’ve already taken the dogs for a walk and am getting ready to go to the salon. I need to keep busy.

  “Meredith’s freaking out,” she says. “I mean freaking out.”

  “About what?” I ask.

  “About Dr. Ramos. Apparently he hasn’t responded to her latest email, and she’s convinced he hates her.”

  I roll my eyes. “Have you heard from him?”

  “Nope,” she says cheerfully. “But then, I’m not looking for a daddy. Meredith is. She says her dad—the one who raised her—abandoned her when she needed him most, and she thinks her bio-dad is doing the same.”

  “Isn’t it a bit soon to assume that?” I want to tell her about calling Mark and Barbara, but I’m afraid she’ll go straight to Meredith and all hell will break loose. Instead I say, “I wrote to him too. Last night.”

  “You did?” she says. “That’s awesome. Now we can all go together to meet him when he gets back from Mexico.”

  “Assuming he wants to meet us,” I reply. “He might not. Three teenage daughters coming out of nowhere? How terrifying is that!”

  Lucy laughs. “We’re not that bad, are we?”

  Not you and me, I want to say. But Meredith? She’s another story.

  “I gotta run to class,” Lucy says before I can answer. “Text me if you hear anything, okay?”

  When I get there, the salon is hopping, and I stay for the whole day, answering the phone, shampooing clients, sweeping up hair, making coffee, taking care of some toddlers while their moms get their hair cut, running to the bank for change, getting sandwiches at the deli across the street. Verna drives me home at the end of the day and comes in to have tea with Mom, who is on the phone in her office.

  “I’m going to jump in the shower,” I tell Verna.

  There are dishes in the sink, and she starts to rinse them and put them in the dishwasher. “I’ll do that,” I say. “Mom will flip if she finds you doing my chores.”

  She waves me off and fills the kettle. “I can handle Della,” she says. “You run along.”

  In my room, I check my phone for messages. Nothing. I turn on my computer to check my email. Nothing. I have to admit it—I’m disappointed and a bit upset. I can’t seem to differentiate the strands of confusion and hurt. It’s one giant ugly mass of emotional junk, like that island of garbage that floats in the Pacific Ocean.

  Over the next three days, I don’t hear from anyone but Lucy. She doesn’t seem concerned that our donor has gone awol, but I’m starting to get seriously pissed off.

  Finally, on Friday evening, an email arrives from Dr. Ramos while I am watching a movie on my laptop.

  Dear Lucy, Meredith and Harriet,

  Thank you for your emails. It has been quite overwhelming to connect with you. I hope you can forgive me for taking so long to reply. I needed to think about what I was going to say. And I hope you don’t mind that I am emailing you as a group.

  You have many questions, some of which I will happily answer here, some of which might be better answered in person. Obviously, there is no rulebook for this situation; the best I can do is proceed with caution and respect. As my siblings would tell you, I am not the most gregarious person in the world, so please do not read anything into my reticence.

  I am 61 years old and I have been an ER physician for many years. I retired last year after my wife, Alissa, died of breast cancer. I live on Whidbey Island, where I read, dig in my garden and listen to music. I am quite a good cook and a very bad guitarist. Not very exciting, but there it is. I got enough excitement working in the ER to last three lifetimes.

  I donated sperm often when I was a medical student. As you may know, sperm can be frozen for a very long time and still remain viable. Alissa and I never had children—she was unable to conceive. And yes, I do see the irony of that. The very sad irony. I have three brothers (one is my identical twin) and two sisters, all in or near Seattle, and too many nieces and nephews to count (not really—I have three nieces and six nephews ranging in age from 4 to 30). I see them as often as I can but not as often as I’d like.

  I heard about your Facebook page, Meredith, through one of my nephews. He showed it to his father, my twin brother Bernard. There was some confusion at first, since my nephew thought it was a picture of his father. After reassuring his son, Bernard showed it to the rest of my siblings. Pretty soon I had the whole family after me to contact you, including my mother, who is 90 now, but still very much a force of nature. My father died many years ago. Everyone wanted me to contact “my” children, although I kept telling them I had no claim to call you mine except biologically.

  So here we are. I hope I have answered enough of your questions. I would like very much to meet you, but it will have to wait. I am helping set up a clinic in my father’s home town in Mex
ico. I will probably be here at least three more months. In the meantime, I am happy to continue to exchange emails with you all. I hope this is not too disappointing.

  Yours truly,

  Daniel Ramos

  PS. Harriet, my favorite food varies with the season, but I always love a good piece of pie.

  PPS. My Internet connection is intermittent. Please don’t be alarmed if you don’t hear back from me right away.

  My first thought is, Well, he must be okay if he likes pie! Strange what the mind latches on to. But I do love pie. Then my phone rings, and Lucy is squealing and shrieking and saying “Omigod” over and over. When she calms down a bit, she tells me that she and Meredith were together when they read the email. They’re at a coffee shop now, celebrating with carrot cake. No mention of Alex.

  “Meredith must be thrilled,” I say, imagining her sitting next to Lucy, listening to our conversation.

  “She’s on the phone with Alex. She can’t stop crying. I think she’s kind of bummed that he’s still in Mexico. Aren’t you excited?”

  “Sure,” I say. “He sounds really nice.”

  Lucy laughs. “He sounds like you. Calm, rational. Not like that’s a bad thing. Somebody has to be calm. Right, Meredith? Meredith says hi, by the way. Wait, I’m gonna put you on speaker. She’s off the phone now.”

  “Hi, Meredith,” I say. “Great news, hey?”

  Meredith sniffles and says, “It’s wonderful.” She sounds as if she has a terrible cold.

  “Too bad we can’t meet him right away,” I say. “But maybe it’s better this way. Gives us a chance to get to know him a bit first.”

  Meredith blows her nose and says, “I suppose,” but she doesn’t sound convinced.

  “We could go over to Whidbey anyway,” Lucy says.

  “Yeah, we could go and check out his house,” I add.

  “That’s a terrible idea.” Meredith sounds as if she’s frowning.

  “I was just kidding,” I say. What is her problem? She seems to have absolutely no sense of humor.