The Lit Report

by Sarah N. Harvey

  “And you,” Ruth roared, “what are you doing? Getting skinnier by the second, talking to hot guys, oh, and yeah, I forgot—making your stupid lists. In the meantime, I can’t sleep, my ass hurts, I’ve got heartburn and I have to pee all the time.”

  Suddenly all the lying, the dieting, the labor coaching just seemed pointless and meaningless and stupid. There wasn’t any point in getting angry with her. We weren’t going to get away with it. It was that simple. Hiding Ruth’s pregnancy had become as difficult as concealing a giraffe in a swimming pool. On the rare occasions she was at school, I diverted attention from her ever-expanding girth by wearing really skanky outfits. Who’s going to look at the fat chick in the yoga pants and baggy sweatshirt when her friend is wearing stilettos and a denim micro-mini with a pink satin camisole from Victoria’s Secret (via Miki’s closet). I figured Miki wouldn’t be needing it anytime soon—her boobs were about a forty-four triple D. And they leaked. All Boone had to do was sniffle and Miki turned into a fountain. Anyway, I was the decoy, and my outfits were strictly camouflage, but I could understand why it pissed Ruth off. I was getting a lot of attention from guys (most of it unwanted) and she was getting none. Five different guys had asked me out to five different end-of-the-year parties. Ruth loves being the center of attention; I don’t. Well, not much, anyway. Yes, I high-lighted my hair. Yes, I bought new clothes, but I thought she understood that I was still the same girl—kind, studious, thoughtful—just hotter. Obviously I was wrong. Maybe I was wrong about everything.

  “You want to stop?” I asked.

  “Stop?”

  “Yeah—stop hiding it. Tell your folks. Have the baby in the hospital. Just—you know—stop.”

  “Are you nuts?” Ruth said, looking at me as if I had sprouted horns. “Why would I stop now?”

  I took a deep breath and tried to remember everything I had read about the emotional state of women in late pregnancy. The words “irrational” and “fearful” came to mind, as did the word “hemorrhoids.” You didn’t have to be pregnant to be irrational and afraid. I knew because I was feeling a bit of both myself. But I was pretty sure I didn’t have hemorrhoids, and that alone made my life better than Ruth’s.

  “I make lists because I’m nervous,” I explained. “They help me calm down.”

  “You? Nervous?” Ruth said. “Why?”

  I laughed and walked over to my bed and lay down beside her. “Oh, let me count the ways,” I said.

  “No, seriously,” she said, “it’s gonna be fine. I mean, you helped out when Boone was born, so you know what to do. And I’ve done everything you told me to do, and you’ve been reading books about childbirth for months now. It has to be okay. It just has to.”

  Ruth was lying on her back, and her belly looked like a small smooth continent rising from a blue duvet sea. How could we hope to hide it for five more weeks?

  “The Karate Kid’s at it again,” Ruth said, grabbing my hand and placing it near her belly button. “She’s getting in shape for her big entrance.”

  We lay there for a few minutes, giggling and watching Ruth’s belly ripple and surge.

  “It’s weird, isn’t it?” Ruth said.

  “What?”

  “That she’s so close to us and so far away at the same time. We can almost see her and yet she’s in her own little world.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s weird, all right.”

  IN EARLY JULY I got a part-time job downtown at a chain bookstore. I needed the money and Ruth needed an excuse to be away from home. She told her parents she had a job at the bookstore too, and we’d go downtown together on the bus; Ruth would head to the library while I went to work. I made her a book list, but I’m pretty sure all she read were magazines. When my shift was over, we walked home. I’d fill Ruth in on what had happened at work and she’d report on the latest Hollywood scandal. She had to pee about every five minutes, but she seemed almost happy. She didn’t even get mad when guys hit on me, mostly because I blew them off. Jonah was due home any day, and that cheered her up. It terrified me, but in a sort of great way, like when you’re on the Ferris wheel and it stops at the top.

  “You packed all that stuff I put on your list?” I asked one day when we were in the park having a picnic and watching all the moms with their little kids.

  “Yup,” she said. “Although I don’t know why I need my bathing suit. It’s not like I’m going to wear it.”

  I explained for the hundredth time that it had to look as if we were going on a vacation, bathing suits and all. The cabin we were going to was beside a lake. And who knew? Maybe Ruth would decide to have one of those underwater births. Or maybe she’d just want to go for a swim. Knowing her, she wouldn’t bother with a suit.

  “Your mom’s driving us, right?” Ruth asked.

  “Next Saturday—bright and early.”

  Ruth groaned. “What if the baby’s late?”

  “Then we call and say we’ve just had some sort of vision of Jesus in a bowl of Cheerios and we need to stay away longer. Talk to God some more. The cabin’s free until Labor Day. No pun intended.”

  “Ha bloody ha,” Ruth said. She ate another piece of chicken and gazed at a girl about our age pushing a baby in a stroller. “Do you think that’s her kid?”

  “I dunno,” I said. “Could be, I guess. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  THE NIGHT BEFORE we were supposed to go to the cabin, my mother came down with a wicked stomach flu. In the morning she was too weak to stand up, let alone drive for two hours.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “You’ll have to ask Ruth’s parents for a ride.”

  “They’re leading a workshop this weekend. Something about mission statements for marriages.”

  My mom winced and clamped her hand over her mouth. I slid a plastic ice-cream bucket toward her, but she shook her head and motioned it away. “How about your dad?”

  “Away,” I said, sparing her the details of Dad and Miki’s weekend trip with Boone to Tofino. Baby’s first room service. I was starting to feel sick myself, and I prayed I hadn’t caught whatever she had.

  “Oh.” She groaned. “Pass me the bucket.”

  I went to the kitchen and called Ruth. “My mom’s really sick. We’re going to have to wait a couple of days.”

  “No way.” Ruth sounded adamant.

  “Don’t freak out. It’ll be fine.”

  “Contractions,” Ruth hissed.

  “What?”

  “Contractions,” she hissed again. “I’ve been having contractions. And my mom’s in the next room.”

  “They’re probably just Braxton Hicks,” I whispered. “You know—false labor. I told you about that.”

  “They’re not Braxton Hicks. We have to go—now.”

  “There’s no one to drive us.”

  “I’ll ask Jonah. He came home last night. He was only here five minutes and he looked like he wanted to split. He’ll drive us.”

  “You can’t tell him, Ruth. Not a word.”

  “I’m not an idiot,” said Ruth before she hung up. “We’ll be there before lunch.”

  WHEN THEY CAME to pick me up a few hours later, the first thing Jonah said was, “Where’s the thunder, lightning and rain?”

  “It’s July, asshole,” said Ruth. “Not January.”

  “Julia knows what I mean, don’t you, Julia?” Jonah said, giving me a quick hug and a kiss on the top of my head. He was wearing baggy red board shorts and a tight T-shirt that said Miles, Monk, Trane. I bet his parents loved that. It was all I could do not to grab his ass. I settled for landing a light kiss on his neck.

  “‘When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning or in rain?’” I recited.

  “‘When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won,’” Jonah replied.

  “Jesus Christ, you guys,” said Ruth. “Get a room.”

  It was a whole new interpretation of Macbeth, which, trust me, isn’t usually thought of as one of Shakespe
are’s more romantic plays. After Jonah and I stopped laughing, we crammed all my stuff into Pastor Pete’s old Dodge Caravan and took off for the lake. I rode shotgun, since Ruth said she wanted to sleep in the back of the van. We listened to one of Jonah’s Thelonious Monk CDS for a while and stopped at a Dairy Queen after we’d been on the road for about an hour.

  “So, Mom says you guys are going on a retreat,” Jonah said as we got back in the car with our hot fudge sundaes.

  “Yup,” I said, trying not to look at him. I couldn’t help smelling him though, the familiar combination of sweat and deodorant and something sweet—cinnamon buns, maybe, or some kind of pie. I’d never figured out what it was. Just that it made me feel like a kitten with a catnip mouse.

  “Or maybe you’re just going to be partying at the lake,” he continued. “Have a few friends over. Fire up the barbie. You sure brought enough stuff.”

  I snuck a look at him. Was he serious? His profile gave nothing away, although I noticed that he had a zit on his chin and looked as if he had cut himself shaving. I was happy about the zit; perfection is so hard to deal with.

  “Nothing like that,” I assured him. “ Just taking a break. Swimming, hiking, hanging out. Just the two of us, right, Ruth?” Ruth grunted from the backseat.

  “What did you say, little sis?”

  “Nothing.” Even to me, Ruth sounded odd. Breathless, as if she’d been running a marathon.

  “You okay back there?” I asked. “If you’re carsick, we can trade places.” I was so anxious I felt like I was going to puke all over Pastor Pete’s camo seat covers; in my head I was pleading: Please, please, please Ruth, don’t have the baby now. Not in the car, not with Jonah. Hold on just a bit longer. Cross your legs, Think good thoughts. Pray.

  “I’m okay,” Ruth mumbled. “I’ve got a, uh, charley horse. In my leg. I’ve been getting them every ten minutes, Julia. For, like, three hours. And I really need to pee.”

  “Every ten minutes?” I squeaked. “For three hours? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  As I turned around to talk to Ruth, I heard the click of the turn signal and felt the van move to the right and slow down. Jonah was pulling over. Oh, God, he was pulling over. He couldn’t pull over. We had to get to the cabin—and fast.

  “Why are you stopping?” I said. “She’s fine. Aren’t you, Ruth?”

  Ruth moaned.

  “See, she’s fine. Let’s just keep going. We’re almost there and then I can massage her charley horse and maybe run her a hot bath. Just keep going.”

  By this time the van had rolled to a complete stop, and Jonah was staring at me as if he had just picked up the psycho hitchhiker from hell. He got out of the car, went around to the sliding side door and pulled it open. Ruth was lying on the floor curled up in a ball, panting.

  “Charley horse, my ass,” he said. “What’s going on, Ruthie? What did you take? Do we need to go to a hospital?”

  “Nooooo,” she managed to say in between puffs. “Didn’t take anything. Cabin...gotta get to the cabin.”

  Jonah turned to me. He was frowning, which did nothing to diminish his charm.

  “Wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

  “Not really,” I said, sweat trickling down my spine. It wasn’t my secret to tell, but the sight of Ruth in labor, even if it was false labor—please let it be false labor—made me want to cling to Jonah’s fabulous biceps and beg him to stay with us and help with the birth.

  “I’m not stupid, you know,” he continued, “and neither are you. Whatever’s going on, I figure you’ve got a plan—a good plan. But I’m her brother, and I’m here, and I want to help. I’m not going to run to Pete and Peggy. You should know that.”

  Another groan and a gasp from the backseat clinched it for me.

  “She’s in labor,” I blurted out. “At least she thinks she is. We need to get to the cabin and get set up. I’ve got it all under control. She’s not due for a few days, but we can’t take a chance. So let’s go. Now.”

  Jonah didn’t waste any time arguing. “Get in the back with her,” he barked as he jumped into the driver’s seat and revved the engine. We laid rubber as he got back onto the highway. Ruth cried quietly on the floor of the van.

  “It hurts so bad,” she whimpered. “So bad.”

  “I know, sweetie, I know.” I crouched down behind her and rubbed her back. The stopwatch I’d bought for timing her contractions was buried in one of my bags, so I tried counting seconds, but my brain had frozen. If she’d really been in labor for three hours, and her contractions were ten minutes apart, how long did we have before she was fully dilated? It was like one of those ridiculous math problems: John and Jim are going to Moose Jaw from Winnipeg. If John takes a train going ninety-seven miles per hour and Jim rides his bike at fourteen miles an hour, where will Jim cross the tracks and get flattened by the train? She could have the baby in ten minutes or ten hours. I prayed for ten hours.

  “You okay back there?” Jonah’s voice floated over us.

  Ruth yelped and started to pant. I panted with her. And counted.

  “She’s having another contraction. I think it’s only been about seven minutes since the last one. How close are we?”

  “Twenty minutes, maybe fifteen, if we’re lucky,” Jonah said. “Are you sure about the hospital?”

  “No hospital,” Ruth wailed as the contraction carried her away.

  Three contractions, one bruised shin (she kicked me), eight blasphemies, seventeen obscenities and numerous blows to my upper body later, we reached the cabin. Ruth managed to walk as far as the front steps, where she collapsed in tears.

  “I can’t do this. It’s too hard,” she sobbed.

  Without a word, Jonah put down the stuff he was carrying and scooped Ruth up in his arms. I unlocked the door, ran into the cabin ahead of him and found a bedroom that looked as if it had been decorated by a blind nun obsessed with New Kids on the Block. Wood paneling, orange burlap curtains, lots of crucifixes, a single bed and at least ten posters of NKOTB. The most attractive thing in the room was a stupid poster of a kitten that said Hang in there. It was taped up next to one of the crucifixes. A deeply appropriate thought, all things considered.

  We manhandled Ruth onto the bed just as another contraction hit. Jonah stayed with her (she didn’t hit him at all) and I lugged all my crap in from the van. I dug my stopwatch out and handed it to Jonah.

  “Time them,” I said. “How long, how far apart. Rub her back. Remind her to breathe. Don’t let her push. And put these rubber sheets on the bed.”

  Jonah nodded and grinned. “You’re hot when you’re bossy, you know,” he said.

  “Save it,” I replied, grinning back. “We’ve got a baby to deliver.”

  Nine

  No one remembers her beginnings.

  —Rita Mae Brown, Rubyfruit Jungle

  I bought a water-damaged copy of Rubyfruit Jungle from a thrift store when I was thirteen. There was a pretty red and purple flower on the cover, and above it floated the words A novel about being different and loving it. At thirteen, everyone thinks they’re different, but they usually don’t love it. I thought I might learn something from Rita Mae Brown, whoever she was. And learn I did. For about six months after I read Rubyfruit, I wanted to be Molly Bolt—gay, unashamed, opinionated, artistic, original. I wanted, like Molly, to have sex with a hot cheerleader and inspire the adoration of rich and powerful women. I hadn’t bargained on my unremitting crush on Jonah and the fact that no cheerleader in our school seemed to be a closet dyke. I gave up on trying to be gay, but I’ve never forgotten how unapologetic Molly was about the circumstances of her birth. She says, “Who cares how you get here? I don’t care. I really don’t care. I got myself born, that’s what counts. I’m here.” I hoped and prayed that Ruth’s baby would feel the same way. And I knew Ruth and Jonah and I would never forget this baby’s beginnings.

  Ruth’s baby was born just before midnight, six long hours after we arrived at the c
abin. Jonah stayed with us the whole time, after phoning Pete and Peggy to tell them he’d decided to go on retreat with us. Of course they were thrilled. Obviously going to Bible boot camp had worked some sort of miracle. They wouldn’t have been so thrilled had they known there were only two beds in the cabin and their pregnant daughter was about to give birth to their first grandchild on one of them.

  It turned out to be a pretty straightforward birth, although I certainly didn’t realize it at the time. My head was full of disastrous scenarios: breech birth, strangulation by umbilical cord, hemorrhaging, loss of bowel control, stillbirth, birth defects, vaginal ripping—the list went on and on, but none of those things happened. The labor was longer than any of us liked—Ruth kept moaning, “You never told me it would take this long”—but shorter than a lot of first births. Jonah and I moved every possible projectile away from the bed when Ruth was in transition. I did everything I could to keep her comfortable and calm: I gave her ice cubes to suck (she spat them at me) and juice to drink (ditto); I turned on the music she had chosen for the delivery (she yelled at me to turn it off); I wiped her face with a damp cloth (she bit me); I rubbed her feet (she kicked me); I left the room (she called me back); I came back (she yelled, “Get the fuck away from me!”). Jonah massaged her back and crooned old jazz standards to her. I thought for sure that she’d belt him when he sang “What a Wonderful World,” but she just sobbed and bleated, “You’re the best brother ever.” Every few minutes I checked her dilation, and when I finally saw the baby’s head (at about the same time that Ruth screamed, “My crotch is on fire!”), I let her push and the baby entered the world. In a few seconds she too was screaming at the top of her lungs. Like mother, like daughter.

  Jonah caught the baby, and I think it’s safe to say that we all experienced that moment of utter awe that I had felt at Boone’s birth. Awe and joy and, for me at least, terror. But there was no time for anything but making sure the baby’s airways were clear (although I already knew that from all the screaming) and that she had all her bits. Fingers, toes, eyes, ears. All present and accounted for. I did a quick test called an Apgar, something Maria had done right after Boone was born, to check the baby’s heart rate, breathing, movement, skin color and reflexes. All excellent. I showed Jonah where to clamp the cord, and I cut it.