Jodi Picoult - Small Great Things

I step down from the chair and fold my arms. The best lies are the ones that are wrapped around a core of truth. So although I conspicuously leave out any mention of Turk Bauer or the dead baby or Carla Luongo, I tell Mama about the nursing student and the patient who so easily assumed that she was the one in charge, instead of me. The words spill like a waterfall, with more force behind them than I expect. By the time I am finished, we are both sitting in the kitchen, and my mother has set a cup of tea down in front of me.

Mama purses her lips, as if she’s weighing evidence. “Maybe you just imagined it.”

I wonder if this is why I’m the way I am, the reason I tend to make excuses for everyone but myself and try so hard to fit in seamlessly. My mother modeled that behavior for years.

But what if she is right? Could I be overreacting? I replay the interaction in my head. It’s not the same as the incident with Turk Bauer-Mrs. Braunstein didn’t even mention the color of my skin. What if my mama’s right and I’m the one who’s being overly sensitive? What if I’m making the assumption that the patient’s comments were made because Virginia’s white and I’m not? Doesn’t that make me the one who can’t see past race?

Clear as a bell, I hear Adisa’s voice in my head: That’s just what they want: for you to doubt yourself. As long as they can make you think you’re not worthy, they still got you in chains.

“I’m sure the lady didn’t mean anything by it,” Mama pronounces.

But it didn’t make me feel any less small.

I don’t say it out loud, but I think it, and it sends a shiver down my spine. This isn’t me. I don’t accuse; I don’t believe the majority of white people judge me because I’m Black or assume they are superior to me. I don’t prowl the world looking for an excuse to pick a fight. I leave that to Adisa. Me, I do my best to fly under the radar. Sure, I know that racism exists and that people like Turk Bauer are waving that banner, but I don’t judge all white folks by the historical actions of a few.

Or, rather, I never have before.

It’s as if the little Post-it note on the patient file of Davis Bauer has nicked a vital artery, and I can’t figure out how to stop the bleeding.

Suddenly we hear a jangle of keys and bluster as Ms. Mina and her daughter and grandson return to the brownstone. Mama hurries into the foyer to take their coats and their shopping bags, and I trail after her. Christina’s eyes widen when she sees me, and she throws her arms around me while Mama peels the snowsuit off her four-year-old son, Felix. “Ruth!” she cries. “This is fate. Mom, wasn’t I just talking to you about Ruth’s son?”

Ms. Mina looks up at me. “She was indeed. Ruth, dear, aren’t you just beautiful. Not a single wrinkle on that skin. I swear, you don’t age.”

Again, I hear Adisa in my head: Black don’t crack . Very forcefully, I tamp down on that voice and gently fold tiny Ms. Mina into an embrace. “Neither do you, Ms. Mina,” I say.

“Oh, go on with those lies.” She pretends to wave away my words, and then smiles slyly. “No, seriously. Go on with them. I love hearing every one.”

I try to signal to my mama. “I should probably be going-”

“Don’t you cut your visit short on our account,” Ms. Mina says, taking Felix from Mama’s arms. “You stay as long as you want.” She turns to Mama. “Lou, we’ll take our tea in the gold room.”

Christina grabs my hand. “Come with me,” she says, and she drags me up the stairs to the bedroom where we used to play.

It’s a shrine of sorts, with the same furniture she had as a child, but now there is a crib and a litter of toys on the floor. I step on something that nearly hobbles me, and Christina rolls her eyes. “Oh, God, Felix’s Playmobil men. Crazy, right, to spend hundreds of dollars on something plastic? But you know Felix. He loves his pirates.”

I crouch down, examining the intricate ship as Christina rummages through the closet. There is a captain in a red coat and a feathered black hat, and several pirates tangled in the plastic web of rigging. On the deck is a character with plastic skin that’s an orange-brown, with a little silver collar around his neck.

Good lord, is this supposed to be a slave?

Yes, it’s historically accurate. But still, it’s a toy. Why this slice of the past? What’s next-the Japanese POW internment camp play set? The Trail of Tears Lego? The Salem Witch Hunt game?

“I wanted to tell you before you read it in the paper,” Christina says. “Larry’s thinking of running for Congress.”

“Wow,” I answer. “How do you feel about that?”

She throws her arms around me. “ Thank you . Do you realize you’re the first friend I’ve told who doesn’t act like this is the first step to the White House or start talking about whether we should get a place in Bethesda or Arlington? You’re the first person, period, who it occurred to that I might have a choice in the matter.”

“Well, don’t you? It seems like a pretty big disruption for the whole family.”

“Yeah,” Christina says. “I’m not sure I have the fortitude to be the wife of a politician.”

I laugh. “You have the fortitude to run the country by yourself.”

“That is exactly what I mean. Apparently I’m supposed to forget the fact that I graduated summa cum laude and instead I get to stand around holding my cute kid and smiling like the only thought I can hold in my head is what shade of lipstick matches my blouse,” Christina sighs. “Promise me something? If I ever cut my hair into a bob that kind of looks like a helmet, you’ll euthanize me?”

You see, I tell myself. Here is proof . I’ve known Christina my whole life. And yes, maybe there are differences between us-socioeconomic, political, racial-but that doesn’t mean we can’t connect, human to human, friend to friend.

“Sounds to me like you’ve already made up your mind,” I point out.

She looks at me, hopeless. “I can’t say no to him,” Christina sighs. “That’s why I fell for him in the first place.”

“I know,” I tell her. “But it could be worse.”

“How?”

“Congressmen serve for two years,” I point out. “Two years is a blink. Imagine if he’d set his heart on being a senator .”

She shudders, then grins. “If he makes it to the White House,” Christina says, “I’m hiring you as my chief of staff.”

“Maybe surgeon general,” I counter.

Christina links her arm through mine as we walk back to the gold room, where my mama is now setting out a tray of china and a teapot, a platter of homemade almond cookies. Felix sits on the floor, playing with a wooden train. “Mmm, Lou, I dream about these cookies,” Christina says. She hugs my mama before reaching for one. “We are so lucky to have you as part of our family.”

Family doesn’t get a paycheck, I think.

I smile. But like anything you wear that doesn’t fit, it pinches.

–

DURING ONE OF those Indentured Servant Saturdays when I was playing hide-and-seek with Christina and Rachel, I took a wrong turn and found myself in a room that was off-limits. Mr. Hallowell’s study was usually locked, but when I turned the knob, desperate to hide from the high-pitched squeal of Christina calling, “Ready or not, here I come…” I found myself stumbling inside the secret sanctum.

Rachel and I had spent a good deal of time imagining what might be behind that closed door. She thought it was a laboratory, with rows and rows of pickled body parts. I thought it was candy, because in my seven-year-old mind, that was the most valuable stash worth locking up. But when I landed on my hands and knees on the Oriental rug in Mr. Hallowell’s study, the reality was pretty disappointing: there was a leather couch. Shelves and shelves of what looked like silver wheels. A portable movie screen. And feeding the film into the chattering teeth of a projector was Sam Hallowell himself.