Free The Book of One Hundred Truths by Julie Schumacher

short thin hair was like a silver cap on her head. “I’ll give you a little demonstration.” She washed her hands and led me down the hall.
    “I don’t think I’m going to have kids when I get older,” I said. “I probably won’t get married, either. I’m probably just going to live by myself.” We walked up the stairs. “I mean, some people probably like having big families, and they like having friends. I just want to be by myself and be normal.” I realized that I wasn’t making a lot of sense, but I couldn’t stop talking. “The problem with our family is that it’s probably impossible to grow up to be normal. I mean, most people don’t alphabetize the groceries”—I had seen Phoebe do this—“or play games at dinner. And what about Ralph? What if Ralph doesn’t want to be a Creature of Habit? What if he just wants to be a regular person?”
    “Shhh.” Nenna stopped and turned toward me. She put her hand on my shoulder. “Theodora Elizabeth,” she said. Half her face was in shadow. “Did you know that your parents were nervous at first about giving you such a long name?”
    “No.” I was ashamed of myself, but I wasn’t sure why.
    “They were. Eight syllables.” Nenna opened the door to her room, and together we walked in and saw Ralph struggling on his stomach in the cage of his crib. His arms and legs were paddling away, but they weren’t getting him anywhere. He was pale and fleshy in his T-shirt and diaper. I thought he looked like a bug—like a little white grub.
    “They worried that they should try to find something shorter,” Nenna said. “Or something easier to pronounce.” She pushed a couple of buttons and lowered one side of the crib. “But finally they realized that they didn’t want to give you a baby’s name, or a little girl’s name; they wanted to give you the name of the person they hoped you would grow up to be. And so that’s what they did. And you’re filling that name, one piece at a time—all eight admirable syllables.”
    She leaned over Ralph’s mattress. “Who’s my boy? Where’s Ralph? Where’s my sweetcake?” Nenna’s voice was a song. She scooped Ralph up and settled him against her neck. He was still half-asleep; his bald head bobbled back and forth. “Hold out your arms for him.”
    I did what she told me. Ralph squiggled softly against my chest.
    “I want you to promise me something,” Nenna said. “When Ralph grows up, I want you to tell him that he should be proud of himself. I want you to tell him that his family loves him. That they will always love him, and they will stand by him no matter what. Can you do that?”
    I nodded. Something rose up inside me, some sort of airy little elevator lifting off from my stomach.
    “There. See how he trusts you?” Nenna said.
    I patted Ralph’s fat little wrist with a finger and his eyes flicked open. They were round and blue, as if he were surprised to wake up and find himself in the world.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

    I t wasn’t easy, swallowing paper. I had heard about people doing it, chewing up entire sheets of loose-leaf and forcing the wet gobs of pulp down their throats. But I couldn’t do it. I was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, my mother’s notebook of truths in my lap and a thick and gummy soup on my tongue. I felt like I’d eaten a mouthful of paste—the kind from the jar that we used to use in kindergarten.
    “Thea?”
    I gagged on a wad of paper and coughed. “What?” Why couldn’t I be left alone for ten minutes?
    “I’m back. Did you get my note?” It was Jocelyn. Who else?
    I scraped the mess from my tongue with a toothbrush. I wasn’t eating my notebook—not yet. But I was thinking about eating it. I had decided to experiment by trying to eat an envelope first. It was a fairly small envelope, and I figured if I could get it down, I could work my way up to some thicker paper. “Yes, I got your note,” I said through the door. I coughed, then spat in the