Chapter Eighteen
March 18, age 7
I received my first pink slip for detention in second grade.
My English teacher accused me of lying about my book report, claiming there was no way a student in grade two could do a book report on the fantasy novel I’d chosen, as it was far beyond the class-approved reading level. I trembled with rage, with indignation, with fury at the world as the yellow school bus wove through the countryside until, at long last, it dumped me at the end of a quarter-mile driveway. It was raining, which I’d liked. If I was going to cry, the sky should, too.
I cried the moment my feet hit the soil. It was both loud and sudden enough that the bus driver called after me to see if I was all right, but I’d already begun running toward my house. She closed her doors and the ancient machine lurched to dispose of the remaining students while my sneakers sunk into damp gravel as I put one foot in front of the other, tears mingling with raindrops, plastering my hair to my cheeks.
I slowed only when the white fox stepped out into the middle of my driveway. The thick green foliage, enormous tree trunks, and gently swaying ferns felt magical when it rained. And there was nothing more magical than an arctic fox. I wasn’t even halfway between the drop point and our trailer in the woods when it sat, prim and proper, folding its tail around itself. I sniffed, wiping my eyes as I approached the fox. I sat down on the ground next to it and let myself cry.
I hadn’t lied.
I’d told the truth, and I’d been punished for it.
It wasn’t the first time I’d be wounded for honesty, and it wouldn’t be the last.
The fox rubbed up against me, batting at me to get me to play with it, but I didn’t want to. I shook my head, chin trembling, lip quivering. It was all I could do to keep the hiccups inside as my eyes continued to water. A crack of thunder told me it was going to start raining again, but I didn’t want to go in. I looked down at the pink slip of paper as tiny raindrops began to soak it.
The fox nipped the edge of my thrifted ski coat, too warm for the season, too outdated for the decade, and began to tug on the sleeve. I told it that I didn’t want to play, that I didn’t want to go inside, that I didn’t want anything. I couldn’t risk yet another adult yelling at me for something I hadn’t done. But the fox was persistent, and one cold raindrop at a time, the weather won the fight. The animal continued to lunge back to tug at my coat, wagging its tail until a giggle broke through the tears. The fox took turns prancing ahead of me and venturing back to urge me forward until we got to the house. With a housecat-like final rub against my legs, it bounded into the forest, disappearing between the ferns as though it had never existed.
My mother was deeply unhappy that I was so wet when I got into the house. She opened her mouth to scold me, but a cry broke from my belly against my will. I was wailing before I could stop myself.
She dropped to a knee. “What happened, Marlow?”
Shaking from head to toe with my sobs, I handed her the pink slip of paper. She squinted through the rain droplets as she read it once, then twice, then a third time. She unzipped my backpack and dug for the book in question. She stared at the tattered cover for a long time, for she knew it well. The books about talking animals and adventurous children and tales of good and evil had belonged to her before she’d gifted them to me. “Your teacher said you were lying because you read this book?”
I focused on the rain pounding against the tin can of our trailer. I nodded, wishing the storm could wash me away, too.
She unbuttoned my coat and wiped away my tears. She took off my shoes and bundled me into a hug, shushing me. I felt seen and loved and understood as she said, “Marlow, you are so much smarter than anyone at that school. You read a big book. I saw you read it. I helped you sound out every big word in it. And no one will punish you for being smart. Okay?”
I cried in her arms until snot bubbles made it impossible to breathe. She tightened her embrace, and in turn, I clung to this life raft of kindness.
The sounds of yelling adults clattered over one another minutes later as Lisbeth Thorson, my mom, my book report hero, screamed into the phone. I watched her like she was a warrior in a coliseum, her words and hot temper acting as her sword as she fought for me. She didn’t care that it was after hours. She called my teacher’s home number from the phone book, and made it clear that if a teacher like her wasn’t prepared for a student like me, then she’d be at the school tomorrow to have me moved up a grade.
And I was.
While I went to math, science, and geography with the other second graders, after lunch time, I was walked by a teacher’s assistant to the fourth-grade room for English so that I could be challenged. When I was meant to advance into sixth grade, they transitioned me fully into grade eight.
In the years that followed, my mother’s screams were rarely in my defense.
Still, I clutched that memory every time she hollered. I clung to how good it had felt when she’d held me even when she took the leather belt to beat the sins out of me. The cold waves of her mercurial emotions crested and broke, dipped and peaked, always unpredictable, often dangerous, always terrifying. It was confusing to look at the woman and tell myself she was my life raft, even when I knew it was she who was the storm.
But she knew I was smart, and told me she was proud of me every time I turned the last page on a newly finished book.
So, I read, and read, and read.
I had to thank her for three things: she made me a voracious reader, she was the reason I needed escape, and ultimately, if it weren’t for our poverty and her attempts to enrich my childhood, I would never have developed an appreciation for long-form tales.
We owned a television, but it had a single dusty VHS player, and the only tapes were historical documentaries or nature programs. Instead, for entertainment, my mother had taught me to be very patient and very still from a young age as I sat on her bed and she read to me. I’d fall asleep on her stomach as a four-year-old listening to her read To Kill a Mockingbird , or Where the Red Fern Grows , and of course, every morning before school, we’d read out loud from the Bible.
By the time I was five, she dared to tackle Lord of the Rings . It was too big of a book for me to try by myself, but I loved to listen. I had an excellent imagination and could picture everything with vibrant saturation. I smelled every flower and tasted every fruit. I felt the wind on my face. I was one with the sea spray and ice and fire. I became the hero as I lost myself in worlds where villains could be conquered.
People at Sunday school said the Bible was boring, but I was confident they only thought that because they hadn’t read it. It had more war, battle, romance, horror, blood, magic, miracles, ghosts, witches, angels, and demons than any of the regular books my mother and I read together. Plus, my vocabulary grew every day as we struggled sounding out words like leviathan and nephilim . Every new word would result in an explanation, an understanding, a story. Words were keys to endless doors, each door the book to a fantastic escape.
Maybe the lesson was that the source of my love and my pain were often two sides of the same coin. Maybe the lesson was that those who promised to protect me would be the ones who hurt me most. Maybe there was no lesson at all.