Free The Lit Report by Sarah N. Harvey

emotional state. I also measured her stomach, which she hated, even though it wasn’t any bigger yet. I had managed to find a fetoscope and a blood-pressure cuff on eBay. I had to ask my mother if I could use her credit card to order Ruth a birthday present online, but even when she said yes, a Doppler was still out of the question. A $500 charge on her VISA would set off all her maternal alarm bells. I stole a tape measure from the sewing room at school, and I bought a really gorgeous lined journal and a special pen with purple ink to record all the information.
    â€œRemember? I told you we’d be able to hear the heartbeat at around twenty weeks? You’ll probably feel the baby kicking before that,” I said. “It’s so cool. I heard Miki’s baby’s heartbeat on the Doppler when she was only eleven weeksalong, but fetoscopes aren’t that sensitive. Wait till you hear it—it sounds like a tiny galloping horse.”
    â€œSo you’re saying I’ve got My Little Pony racing around in there,” Ruth said with a grimace. “I always hated their stupid manes and those lame little brushes. I think of it more as a Smurf anyway. Probably Sassette. She was always my favorite. Smurfette was such a turd.”
    I had a sudden vision of Ruth popping out a little blue baby with red pigtails and pink overalls. Blue babies are not good. Blue babies mean a trip to the hospital. Maybe I needed to stop reading about all the possible complications of pregnancy and childbirth. I knew Ruth should be having blood tests and urine tests, that she might develop vaginal bleeding or gestational diabetes or have a breech baby. And what if she needed a caesarean or an episiotomy? I didn’t want to think about it, but somebody had to. As we turned onto my street, Ruth was still babbling about how she had flushed Smurfette down the toilet when she was four. As I listened to her, my heart started racing, and I broke into a sweat. When we got to my house, she was still going on about the look on her dad’s face when the plumber fished out not only Smurfette but also Pastor Pete’s watch, Peggy’s rhinestone cross and a handful of Jonah’s Lego.
    â€œShut up,” I yelled. I grabbed Ruth by the arm and swung her around to face me.
    â€œWhat is your problem?” she screeched, swatting at my hand.
    I grabbed her other arm and shook her. I didn’t care if she punched me or slapped me or pushed me into the street. I just wanted her to stop talking.
    â€œYou’re pregnant,” I hissed. “You’re not having a Smurf. Your baby is not a toy.”
    She glared at me, and two red spots appeared on her cheeks. “Don’t you think I know that?” she said. “Don’t you think I pay attention to all the shit you tell me—eat less, exercise more, try tofu, meditate, take my vitamins, do yoga? Don’t you get that I still can’t believe this is happening to me? That I don’t want to believe it?” Tears formed in her eyes and she let them fall. “I’m scared, Julia. Fucking terrified. I’m not stupid—I know lots of things can go wrong. I just don’t want to think about them. Not yet anyway. You can worry for both of us right now. I’ve done everything you’ve told me to do so far, haven’t I?”
    I nodded and moved my hands off her arms and up to her face. I felt bad for yelling at her, but I was scared too, and I had no one to talk to. No one at all.
    â€œYour mascara’s running. You look like Alice Cooper,” I said as I stroked her cheeks. “C’mon. Let’s go nuts and have some dip with our carrot sticks.”
    SEABISCUIT—WHICH IS what I called Miki and Dad’s baby—was kicking up a storm by early February. Every weekend I laid my hands on her belly and we giggled when the baby’s tiny elbows or heels pressed back. It felt like fetal tai chi. The bigger