Alex piggybacks Lucy along the beach until she finds the perfect place to sit with her back against a log. I mound some sand under her hurt foot. She has commandeered Meredith’s floppy hat and amuses herself by making us pose for selfies with her. When the moms catch up, it only takes a few seconds before it’s clear that we need to leave Lucy alone with Angela and Nori, who are equal parts worried and pissed off. Apparently this isn’t the first time that ankle has given Lucy trouble, and she’s been told repeatedly to be careful. The threat of surgery looms, according to Nori.
Mom and Verna stroll down the beach in one direction, Churchill trotting at Verna’s side; Alex and Meredith head in the opposite direction, arms linked. The tide is out, and I take off my sandals and head toward the water by myself, passing some Bocci players—two tall men and a short blond woman—who are drinking beer and laughing as they saunter across the sand. The wind is whipping the woman’s hair around, and her short dress flies up every now and again, revealing a pink thong. She seems unconcerned. A couple of kids are building an elaborate sand castle, with seaweed flags flying from the turrets, crab-claw ramparts and a nifty clamshell drawbridge. I stop and help them dig a channel from their moat to a nearby pool, and we stand together to watch the water fill the moat. It’s the most satisfying thing I’ve done in a long time.
Alex and Meredith seem to have resumed their argument. I can see Alex waving his arms around; Meredith is shaking her head and hunching her bony shoulders. The wind delivers fragments to me—“I won’t” and “lying” and “not right”—but I’d need to get closer to hear what they’re saying. There’s no way to sneak up on somebody on a wide sandy beach, so I opt for waving at Alex and walking down to the water. The next thing I know, Meredith is running up to me, with Alex close behind.
“What is your problem?” she says when she is next to me.
“My problem?”
“With me.”
I glance at Alex, who is standing next to Meredith, turning a shell over and over in his hands. He looks miserable.
Suddenly I am finished with her bullshit.
“You need to stop lying to everybody,” I say. “You lied to me and Lucy, you lied to our moms, and you’re probably already lying to Dr. Ramos. That’s just not right.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “You’re crazy.”
“You never worked on an organic farm. You never danced in the Denver ballet. That was your brother and sister. You’ve got two parents in Missoula, parents who love you. Barbara and Mark. I talked to them. You ran away, and you don’t even have the decency to let them know where you are.”
“You talked to them? When?” Meredith yells, her face contorting.
“A while ago.”
“You had no right! They’re my parents! My family!”
“Then maybe you should treat them better,” I say coldly. “But if it helps, they wouldn’t tell me anything. They were just glad to know you were alive.”
Meredith falls to her knees on the sand and buries her face in her hands. Alex stands over her, unmoving. I almost feel sorry for her, but I’m not finished. “You can’t base a relationship on lies. I know that for sure. I know Alex is trans. I know you’ve been a good friend to him. But that doesn’t mean he can’t have other friends. We like each other. A lot. You need to deal with that.”
I start to walk away. Alex joins me, leaving Meredith hunched over on the sand. My heart is pounding, and I’m shaking from head to toe. I want to run as fast and as far as possible, away from my crazy sister, away from my feelings for Alex. I can see Mom in the distance, bending over to examine something on the beach—a shell, a piece of beach glass, a sand dollar. She straightens up and waves at us, her hand shading her eyes. I wave back.
And suddenly Meredith is right next to me, screaming and dancing around in a rage. If she wasn’t so scary, it would almost be funny—a skinny little hippie chick freaking out. “You don’t know anything,” she spits at me. “You think my parents are such great people? Then why does my sister, my perfect ballerina sister, have an eating disorder? And why did they spend all their time and money and energy on her when they had two other children? Do you know what that was like? Knowing that they loved their ‘real’ daughter more than me? They didn’t even know I was there. They didn’t care when I got wasted or pregnant or locked up. As long as their precious Elizabeth was all right. Alex was all I had, and now you think you can have him? It’s me he loves, and I love him. We’re meant to be together. You’re just a…a diversion.”
And then she is on me—knocking me backward to the ground and straddling me. Alex is yelling and trying to pull her off, but she pins my arms down with her knees and starts to pummel me. I turn my face away, but she manages to land a hard punch to my jaw. The pain is astonishing. If I wasn’t already on the ground, I would collapse from the shock of being hit. All I can think is, It’s not like this on TV. I twist and turn, trying to avoid the blows raining down on my head and shoulders, trying to get free. Meredith continues to scream, but I can’t make out the words. There is sand in my mouth, and I can hear Mom yelling at her to stop. Then it’s over, as suddenly as it began. And Mom is dragging Meredith away in some sort of headlock.
“That’s enough, Meredith,” Mom says calmly, but she is breathing hard. She must have set a personal best running over here. “Alex is going to walk you back to the car. Angela and Nori can take you home. Make no mistake—what you did just now was assault. We could have you charged. But I’m not sure that’s the best approach.”
“I don’t care what you do,” Meredith says. She’s panting, but she sounds more resigned than defiant.
“I doubt if that’s true,” Mom says, “but right now I need to make sure Harry’s all right.” She helps me to my feet, puts her arms around me and holds me close as Alex takes Meredith by the arm and leads her away. I think I’m going to puke.
“I couldn’t get her off me, Mom. Neither could Alex. She was crazy strong.”
“Rage will do that,” Mom says. “And other things. But I can’t deal with her right now. We need to get your jaw looked at. There’s a hospital on the island.”
It really hurts when I shake my head, but I don’t tell her that. “Can we go home? I don’t want to stay here any longer.” I start to cry. Meredith has ruined the day—and maybe broken my jaw too. On my favorite beach.
Mom is stroking my hair and telling me it will be okay, but I’m not sure I believe her. After a few minutes we head slowly back to the car. The kids have abandoned their sand castle, and the tide is coming in. Soon it will be washed away. This seems like the saddest thing of all, and my crying escalates to sobbing.
Alex and Verna and Churchill are waiting when we get back. The SUV is gone.
“Verna said I could ride with you,” Alex says. “Is that okay?”
“I guess you’re going to have to,” Mom says. “Unless you want to walk.”
“I’m sorry, Della,” he says.
“What for?”
“For what Meredith did. For not protecting Harry.”
“I don’t need protecting,” I mumble, although clearly I do sometimes.
“What Meredith did isn’t your fault, Alex,” Mom says. “She’s not a happy girl.”
“Understatement,” I mutter as I climb into the backseat and put my head in Verna’s lap.
FIFTEEN
WE ARE ON the ferry, and I am in agony. When I try to talk, it feels as if someone is slamming my face with a brick. I groan, and Mom turns around and hands me a bag of frozen peas. I’m so out of it, I didn’t even know we had stopped at a store.
“This will help,” she says. “We’re going directly to the U Dub Medical Center. I called my friend Janet and told her what happened. She’ll be waiting for us.”
“You called
Janet? Why?” I mumble. I sound drunk. I wish I was.
“She’s an ER doctor,” Mom says. “She can fast-track us. She said you should try not to talk until you’ve had some X-rays. And that you should take some Advil and ice your jaw.”
First Lucy’s ankle, and now this. Two medical emergencies in one day. Must be some kind of record. Or maybe that’s what big families are like.
Mom hands me a bottle of water and a pill. I manage to swallow it, even though opening my mouth is excruciating. Alex is silent in the front seat.
Churchill is stretched out on the floor of the backseat, his massive head on Verna’s feet. It must be uncomfortable, but she doesn’t complain. Once in a while she’ll shift around in her seat and say, “Move your head, you big galoot,” but that’s all. I shut my eyes and drift away from the pain, the smell of wet dog, the sound of the tires on the highway, the murmur of voices from the front seat.
It’s not very busy in the ER, and soon I’m being examined by Janet, who orders X-rays and asks what happened. “Family feud,” I say, and although she looks startled, she doesn’t press me for more info. Mom can fill her in. Or not. I really don’t care.
I must doze off, because the next thing I know I’m being wheeled to X-ray, Mom at my side. The X-ray technician says, “Whoa!” when he sees my face.
“You should see the other guy.” I wince when I speak, and Mom frowns at me. Apparently, it’s too soon to make a joke about it.
After the X-ray we wait some more. Finally the doctor returns with good news: no fracture, no dislocation, no broken teeth, but my face is going to be really sore and swollen for a while. No doubt there will be bruising. In other words, I’m going to look and feel like shit. I’m a bit wobbly when we walk out to the waiting room, where Verna is deep in conversation with Nancy, one of the Sunday ladies, who is waiting for a friend who has overdosed. Alex is nowhere to be seen. Verna notices me looking around and says, “He had to go to work. He wants you to text him as soon as you can.”
In the car I send him a short text—No broken bones. Heading home to sleep—and then turn my phone off. When we get home, Mom makes me some soup while I take a shower to rinse off the sand and the sweat and the hospital stink. I start to cry when the water hits my face.
“Can you let Lucy know I’m okay?” I ask Mom as I slurp my soup out of a mug, wincing with every sip. “I don’t have the energy to talk to anyone.”
“Of course,” Mom says. “I’ll call Angela and Nori.”
“I still think you should consider calling the police,” Verna says. She is cutting up apples for applesauce, and she waves the knife at Mom when she speaks.
Mom sighs. “I don’t think the police will give Meredith the kind of help she needs.”
Verna slams the knife down on the cutting board. A chunk of apple bounces onto the floor. “I understand, Della, but she’s violent and out of control. She hurt our girl. She needs help, but she won’t get any if we don’t do something.”
“Maybe that’s true,” Mom says evenly, “but it’s Harry’s call.” She looks over at me. “Do you want me to involve the police, Harry?”
I shake my head and gasp with pain. The thought of being questioned by a cop makes me nauseous, even though I’ve done nothing wrong. “All I want to do is sleep and forget about it. And I don’t want you guys to fight, okay?”
Verna glares at Mom, who shrugs and says, “I think we can do that.”
I sleepwalk through the next few days, drinking smoothies, watching all six seasons of Lost, which is oddly soothing, and avoiding contact with my own “Others,” including Alex. I know Mom has been in touch with Angela and Nori. I know Lucy wants to talk to me. I know I should get a grip, but I feel as lost as the survivors of Oceanic Airlines Flight 815. The only person I consider calling is Byron, although that would take more emotional energy than I currently have.
I think a lot about what Verna said to Mom about Meredith—She needs help, but she won’t get any if we don’t do something—and I wonder what I would have thought of her if I’d had to transcribe her story. Has she ever told me the truth? I still don’t know. Maybe I never will. But it can’t hurt to try to understand her a bit better, so I imagine I am listening to one of Mom’s tapes, and I write down—on the yellow legal pad—what I hear in my head.
My name is Meredith Leatherby. I’m eighteen years old, from Missoula, Montana. I left home over a year ago and came to Seattle because I wanted to find my sperm donor and I thought he was here. My best friend, Alex, came with me. We have been friends since first grade. Alex was born female but realized when he was around eleven that he was actually a boy. I tried to keep him safe. It never seemed weird to me. His family is awful. I have two older siblings, Jackson and Elizabeth, who are twins. I found out when I was twelve that my dad, Mark, was not my biological dad, and I went nuts. I felt so betrayed. Even though I knew Mark and my mom, Barbara, loved me, I couldn’t get past the lies. I started drinking and doing a lot of drugs and screwing random guys. I got pregnant a couple of times. My parents divorced because of me. So Alex and I left Missoula after high school and came to Seattle. No one here knows us, so I can make up shit about my past that’s not so pathetic as my real past. It doesn’t hurt anyone, but Alex doesn’t like it. He wants me to be “real,” whatever that means. When I found two of my half-sisters, I kept on lying—and Alex kept on being pissed about it. I could see that he really liked one of my sisters, the one called Harry, and I was jealous. For a while now, I’ve wanted him to be my boyfriend, but I never told him. I was afraid that he would leave me. That I wouldn’t be the most important person in his life anymore. Alex was super pissed with me, and I took it out on Harry. I mean, I went nuts and beat her up. Everything just came spewing out of me—all the pain and rage and fear I’d been feeling for years. I think I may have broken her jaw before her mom dragged me off her. I’m sorry I hit Harry, and now Alex won’t even talk to me. I don’t know what to do.
I reread what I’ve written, trying to be objective. Would I have compassion for this girl if I was simply transcribing her story? Maybe. Does it make me have more compassion now? I think it would if my face didn’t hurt so much.
Eventually I get bored with watching crap, and I venture out with the beagles, Kira and Nutmeg, who seem to sense that I’m not up to much. We walk decorously around the block, stopping at every tree. The next day I take out Ketch and Mayva, aka Sniffy McSnifferton. I want to see Ping-Pong, the rottie-shepherd cross, but sweet as she is, I don’t think I can manage her yet. The dogs make me laugh for the first time in forever. By Sunday I am ready to go back to the salon.
I’m hoping to see Annabeth. I haven’t seen her for a while, and I’m worried that she’s got into Brad’s clutches or something. When we get to the salon, the first thing I see is Churchill, sprawled across the loveseat. Or, more accurately, sprawled across Annabeth, who is sitting on the loveseat, a huge grin on her face.
“Whoa! What’s Churchill doing here?” I ask.
“What he does best,” Verna says. “Charming people.” She too is grinning. “Surprise!”
“You adopted Churchill?” I stammer.
Verna nods. “I did. With your mom’s blessing. We agreed that he shouldn’t be in that shelter a moment longer. He’s technically my dog, but I’ll need some help with him. Walking him, giving him baths, a bit more training—that sort of thing. You up for that?”
In answer, I throw my arms around her and squeeze her until she squeals. Churchill barks, jumps off Annabeth’s lap and bounds across the floor, almost knocking us off our feet.
“Sit!” I say, and he does. When I hold out my hand and say, “Who’s a good dog?” he lifts a paw for me to shake.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Someone turns on the music, and the four of us (plus Churchill) sing along to “Hound Dog.�
� Mom has made today’s playlist, which is all songs about dogs. There’s some Norah Jones, some Beatles, Neil Young, Led Zeppelin. Who knew they all loved their dogs? It’s the best present she’s ever given me. I dance around the salon, and Annabeth gets up to dance with me.
When Shanti walks in, she joins us, boogying to “Walking the Dog,” slapping Mom’s ass and exhorting her to “shake what your momma gave you.”
Mom complies. Is there anything funnier than watching your mom dance? I sit down on the loveseat, and Annabeth joins me.
“Shanti’s the one I asked about Brad,” I tell her.
Annabeth nods. “She went out of her way to find me when one of her friends told her what a freak Brad is. Not a record producer at all. Not even a pimp. Just a real creep. I should know better than to believe a guy like him.”
“How were you to know? You have an amazing voice, and one day someone important is going to hear it.”
She shrugs. “I hope so. In the meantime, I’ll be more careful.”
“Where are you sleeping these days?” I ask.
“Parks mostly. I go to one of the shelters when I need a shower. I clean up every day at the library. Still can’t get a library card though.”
“Use my address.” As soon as I say it, I know that I have crossed one of those invisible boundaries that Mom is always talking about. I don’t care. It doesn’t seem right that we can give a dog a home so easily, but this girl—this talented, funny, smart girl—has to sleep in the park.
“Thanks, Harry, but you need id with your address on it—like a bill or something, or a driver’s license.”
Spirit Level Page 14