The Lit Report

by Sarah N. Harvey

  “SO, IS RUTH, like, Boone’s live-in nanny now?” Mark asked me as we were walking over to my dad’s house after school one day. Mark came over a lot. He was a genius with the babies when he could drag himself away from staring at Ruth’s boobs. When Mark was around, everybody laughed a lot, especially Miki. He was like a long-lost second cousin from a branch of the family that had been disowned because of unwise marriages to unreliable Spaniards. Not that Maria was unreliable—quite the opposite. Mark’s dad, whereabouts unknown, was definitely the unreliable one.

  “Yup,” I replied. “That’s the deal. She helps Miki with Boone and she gets free room and board. And get this—Miki’s homeschooling her. And she’s getting good grades. Better than she ever did at school.”

  “Wow. That means she’ll graduate at the same time as you, right?”

  “I guess so. I’m hoping the school will let her come to our grad, but you know what tight-asses they can be.”

  “Yeah. I can’t wait to get out of there.”

  “What are you going to do after you graduate?” I asked him. Mark was smart, straight-A smart. He could go to any university he wanted to, probably with a full scholarship. So could I, for that matter, if only I could decide where I wanted to go and what I wanted to do. I wasn’t used to feeling so indecisive. The grand plan was undergoing a serious renovation. Who knew what would be left standing.

  “Not sure yet. My mom wants me to be a doctor.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s such a cliché—my son the doctor.”

  I laughed. “Everyone thinks I should be a doctor too, but I don’t know. I’m thinking midwife school. But don’t tell anyone. I might still want to do creative writing. Or run a bookstore.”

  “My mom could help you with the midwife thing,” Mark said.

  “I know,” I said. “But I’m not ready to commit to anything. It’s all anyone wants to talk about. The school counselor, my parents, kids at school. Everyone acts like it’s make or break in grade twelve. One wrong decision and you’re wearing a dorky hat and asking ‘Do you want fries with that?’ for the rest of your life.”

  “I know,” Mark said glumly. “I’m getting it already and I’m only in grade eleven.”

  We walked in silence for a few minutes. Just as we turned in to my dad’s driveway, Mark asked, “Does your dad like his job?”

  “Are you nuts? He looooves it,” I said. “He used to be an ER nurse, but he burned out so he went back to school and took courses in neonatal nursing. He says it’s the best thing he ever did. Career-wise, anyway. Why?”

  “Just curious,” Mark said as we walked in the front door.

  When we got inside, Ruth greeted us wearing a red T-shirt emblazoned with the words Get a Taste of Religion— Lick a Witch.

  “Like it?” she asked. “Miki gave it to me.”

  “Awesome,” Mark said. “Where are the little dudes?”

  “Sleeping in the playpen in the living room, so we gotta be quiet. And Jane’s not a dude,” said Ruth. “Miki’s napping. Man, that chick sleeps a lot. Guess middle-aged motherhood has its downside.”

  She cackled softly and led us into the kitchen, where a huge cardboard box sat on the kitchen table.

  “What’s in the box?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. It was on the doorstep this morning when Miki went to get the paper,” she said. “The box is from www.christislord.com, so I guess it’s from my folks. It’s probably all the junk from my old room. Installation One.” She grimaced and absentmindedly massaged her right breast. Mark blushed, but he didn’t look away. “I’m debating whether to unpack it or just store it and give it to Jane when she’s older. What do you think?”

  “Store,” I said. “Definitely store.”

  “Open,” Mark said.

  “Thanks, guys. You’re a lot of help.”

  I glared at Mark. “You don’t know her parents. They probably burnt her stuff and shoveled the ashes into a box and pissed on it.”

  “Or maybe not,” Mark said. “Maybe it’s a...you know... peace offering.

  I snorted and raised an eyebrow at Ruth. She shrugged and picked up a knife off the counter and started hacking at the packing tape. As she lifted the flaps of the box, I could see an envelope sitting on top of what looked like a blanket. Ruth lifted the letter out as if she expected it to explode. Letter-bombing your own daughter. That would be harsh even for Pastor Pete.

  Her hands trembled as she tore the envelope open; it only took her a minute to read the enclosed letter. Whatever it said made her eyes fill with tears. She handed me the letter as she reached into the box and pulled out the blanket, which was pink and fluffy. “Read it,” she said as she buried her face in the blanket. “Aloud.” She was sobbing now, her shoulders heaving. Mark rubbed her back while I read the letter.

  My dear Ruth,

  Your father does not want me to contact you. He took everything out of your room and he was going to burn it but I managed to pack it up while he was at the Wednesday night prayer and pizza group. I have included some of your baby clothes and the baby blanket I crocheted when you were born. I think of you every day and I pray that you and Jane are well. I also pray that someday you will be able to forgive me. Then I will be able to forgive myself. Miracles can happen, you know.

  In Jesus’ blessed name,

  Mom

  “You were both right,” Ruth said. “It’s an almost-burnt offering.” She giggled and put the blanket aside to rummage around in the box. Everything was packed carefully, lovingly even, between layers of pink tissue paper. All the baby clothes were pink, which made Ruth wince and laugh. “Now you know why I hate pink,” she said as she held up a pair of OshKosh overalls. “But these are pretty darn cute, don’t you think?”

  “Not as cute as these,” I said, unearthing a pair of tiny pink patent leather Mary Janes.

  “What’s up with this?” Mark asked. He was dangling the lacy orange thong from his index finger. Ruth grabbed it away from him and threw it back into the box.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said. “It was another life, right, Julia?”

  I nodded as she sealed the box and wrote on the side in black felt pen Installation One: Childhood. “I’ve already started Installation Two,” she said. “Wanna see it? It’s called Motherhood and it’s gonna be wicked. Way better than number one.”

  She dragged us upstairs to her room, which was twice as big as her room at Pete and Peggy’s. Big bay windows looked out over the backyard; Jane’s crib was tucked into the bay, and the wall opposite the queen-size bed was covered by a giant corkboard. Stuck to the corkboard were a cord clamp, a photo of Ruth holding Boone and Jane, a letter from Jonah, a picture of Jonah in his white chef‘s outfit, a picture of Miki and Dad with Boone, a picture of my mom taken at my twelfth birthday (I could tell from the candles on the cake she was holding), two Ziploc bags—one holding microscopically small nail clippings, one containing wisps of hair—and a picture of me that was “framed” with feathers, glitter, a LifeSavers necklace and a red ribbon rosette that said World Champion Best Friend in gold script.

  “Your dad put up the corkboard for me,” she said as she stuck her mother’s letter onto the board with a safety pin. “That way I won’t ruin the walls. It’s just a start, but it’s pretty cool, huh?”

  “Very cool,” I said. The three of us sprawled on the bed and gazed at the wall in silence. I might have fallen asleep, but the babies started to whimper and Mark was up like a shot.

  “I’ll heat Boone’s bottle,” he said as he went out the door.

  “Feeding time on the farm,” Ruth sighed as she sat up. “You coming?”

  “Is it okay if I stay up here for a bit?” I asked. “I’m kinda tired and you and Mark have the babies covered.”

  “Mark just wants to stare at my boobs,” Ruth said, “but that’s okay. No one else is gonna look at them for a while. Wanna go for a walk later?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I won’t be long.”

  After she left,
I got up and looked more closely at Installation Two. I reread Peggy’s letter. I’d been wrong to tell Ruth not to open it, but then, she’s used to me playing it safe. She always does what she wants, no matter what I say. I should be used to it by now. I’d been wrong about so many things in the last year, though. Wrong about Ruth, whom I never thought would take motherhood seriously. Wrong about my mom, who isn’t naïve or ignorant or stupid. Wrong about Miki, who finds motherhood way more challenging than med school. Wrong about my parents’ relationship. I was even wrong about Peggy, I guess, although I still think we’ll be doing double axels in hell before she breaks away from Pete. I’m not going to say that to Ruth, though.

  I still don’t think teenagers should be mothers. I really don’t. Ruth just happens to be an exception to that rule. For a start, most teen moms don’t get taken in by a singing nurse and a baby doctor who insists that homeschooling be taken very seriously. Most teen moms don’t have a brother who phones every night, names cakes after his niece and looks yummy in a hat shaped like a giant mushroom. Most teen moms don’t have friends like me and Mark and Brandy, who will babysit at the drop of a hat. I know that there are times when Ruth is tired and discouraged and fed up with endless diaper changing and vegetable pureeing, but it’s not in her nature to brood about it. She’s more likely to whip up a smoothie with leftover mashed bananas and call me up and beg me to come over and play Pictionary or watch crap TV. She always turns the TV off when the babies are in the room, though, even if we’re in the middle of Top Model. No TV for the babies. That’s one of Ruth’s rules. She has almost as many rules as I used to have lists. It’s like living in a parallel universe. A much happier parallel universe.

  Ruth has started reading because it’s something to do while she nurses Jane. I’ve given her all my favorite books, but she won’t read anything by Dickens and she still thinks Jane Austen is a stuck-up priss. She really liked Catch-22, though, and I had to get her every single Vonnegut book from the library after she read Slaughterhouse-Five. Right now she’s binge-reading Anne Rice vampire novels, which is actually kind of scary. I’m reading an awesome book called The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. One of the characters is like Pastor Pete on crack. Absolutely nuts. Ruth’s gonna love it. Or not. Hard to tell.

  One of Ruth’s rules is that Boone and Jane must be read to every day, without fail. Goodnight Moon, Baby Beluga (my dad’s fave, for obvious reasons), The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Peep-O. Jane’s attention span leaves something to be desired. She’s like a gnat with ADD. Boone has all the makings of a serious reader, though. He furrows his little brow and bats at the pages with his pudgy paws. That’s my bro. Jane’s more into gnawing the corners and drooling. I’ve started making a library for them, although it will be a while before I can read them Mr. Gumpy’s Outing or The Wind in the Willows or The Lord of the Rings. In the meantime, Ruth’s fallen madly in love with Toad of Toad Hall, and she thinks Stuart Little is a blast in his little red convertible. But then, she’s always liked guys with cool cars.

  Another of Ruth’s rules is that she, Miki, Dad, me and the babies must eat dinner together at least once a week. She also thinks we should have an extended family Christmas this year—Mom, Gary, Nana and me; Miki and Dad and Boone; Ruth and Jonah and Jane; Maria and Mark. I’m working on Mom. Ever since she started dating Gary, she’s relaxed a bit around Dad. And Gary’s an okay guy. Not terribly exciting, but I don’t need an exciting step-father, if that’s what he becomes. Boring is good, if he makes my mom happy. Miki and Dad are cool with anything we cook up (ha-ha) for Christmas, as long as Dad gets to sing cheesy Christmas carols (he and I do a smokin’ rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”) and Miki gets to play charades. I happen to know that my mom kicks ass at charades, so I’m hoping the opportunity to act out Faster Pussycat Kill! Kill! will tip the scales in favor of the family Christmas.

  In the meantime, I’m doing the whole long-distance thing with Jonah—e-mail, text messages, Facebook, phone calls, webcam, the occasional visit—which is a pain, since I’m trying to keep my grades up, and he can be very distracting. When we’re together, it’s awesome; when we’re not, it sucks. Sometimes he gets on my nerves, especially when he won’t shut up about his favorite knife or the best way to do a chiffonade, but most of the time I’m so busy I forget to miss him. Does that mean I don’t love him? I don’t know. Time will tell, I guess.

  I’m still working at the bookstore a couple of evenings a week, saving all my money for when I leave home next year. Mom’s surprisingly okay with me moving out. Maybe it’s because she won’t have to sleep on the couch anymore. Or maybe she and Gary want to shack up together. Who knows? She’s busy with school and happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. And she totally deserves it, even if it means I’m not the center of her universe anymore. I feel a bit like an astronaut floating through space, my only connection to my past a long thin cord of memories. As long as no one clamps the cord, I’ll be okay.

  I doubt whether Ruth and Jane will come with me when I leave. Ruth’s really settled in at Dad’s, and she’s definitely not ready to tackle another big upheaval. And I don’t think Miki could get by without her. I understand all that. What I don’t understand is that she actually believes her mother is going to start acting like a regular mom and grandma. That’s part of the reason she wants to stay where she is. She told me that she thinks that as long as she doesn’t give up on Peggy, there’s a chance Peggy won’t give up on her. That equation makes sense to her for some reason.

  Anyway, I try not to make elaborate plans anymore, especially elaborate plans for other people’s lives. It’s just too disappointing when things don’t work out. I know Ruth thinks it’s way more exciting not to have everything all planned out ahead of time, but my dad doesn’t call me Little Miss Sobersides for nothing. Going with the flow isn’t my natural state, although I have cut down on the obsessive list-making. The only lists I make these days are for groceries. Like David Copperfield, I’m not sure if I’m the hero of my own life. Writing it all down has helped, but I still feel a little freaked out sometimes, like I’m the survivor of an emotional earthquake and I can’t find my emergency supplies.

  As I get to the end of this story, my fascination with first lines isn’t much help to me. Now I keep thinking about last lines—aren’t they just as important? Shouldn’t a novel’s last line sum up the book in a way that lingers (preferably like the scent of roses or chocolate chip cookies, not like a fart) in the reader’s mind? When I look back over all the first lines I quoted and all the books they were taken from, I realize there’s actually a theme, a connecting motif, as Mrs. Hopper would say. Which is kind of crazy, since I chose the quotes because they were from books I love, not because they were part of some Julia Riley literary grand plan. Really. But sometimes things just work out, whether you make a plan or not. So I’m not going to tell you what the theme is—if you don’t figure it out, it doesn’t really matter. It’s just a story. My true story. And yes, there will be a test.

  Sarah N. Harvey is an editor and the author of Puppies on Board, The West Is Calling (with Leslie Buffam) and Bull’s Eye, an Orca Soundings. She lives in Victoria, British Columbia, with a combative fish named Yul.