Small Great Things(19)
“White people do not run the world, Adisa,” I argue. “There are plenty of successful people of color.” I name the first three that pop into my head. “Colin Powell, Cory Booker, Beyoncé—”
“—and ain’t none of them dark, like me,” Adisa counters. “You know what they say: the deeper you go into the projects, the darker the skin.”
“Clarence Thomas,” I pronounce. “He’s darker than you and he’s on the Supreme Court.”
My sister laughs. “Ruth, he’s so conservative he probably bleeds white.”
My phone dings, and I carefully extract it from my purse so I don’t mess up my nails.
“Edison?” Adisa asks immediately. Say what you will about her, but she loves my son as much as I do.
“No. It’s Lucille from work.” Just seeing her name pop up on my phone makes my mouth go dry; she was the nurse during the delivery of Davis Bauer. But this isn’t about that family at all. Lucille’s got a stomach bug; she needs someone to fill in for her tonight. She’s willing to trade me, so that instead of working all day Saturday, I can leave at eleven. It means pulling a double shift, but I’m already thinking of what I could do with that time on Saturday. Edison needs a new winter coat this year—I swear he’s grown four inches over the summer. I could treat him to lunch, after shopping. Maybe there’s even a movie coming out that Edison and I could go see. It’s been hitting me hard lately—the realization that getting my son to a point where he’s accepted to college also means that I will be left alone. “They want me to come in to work tonight.”
“Who’s they? The Nazis?”
“No, another nurse who’s sick.”
“Another white nurse,” Adisa clarifies.
I don’t even respond.
Adisa leans back in her chair. “Seems to me they’re not in a position to be asking you for favors.”
I am about to defend Lucille, who had absolutely nothing to do with Marie’s decision to put a Post-it note on the baby’s file, when the nail technician interrupts us, checking our fingers to see if the polish is dry. “Okay,” she says. “All done.”
Adisa waggles her fingers, a shocking shade of hot pink. “Why do we keep coming here? I hate this salon,” she says, her voice low. “They don’t look me in the eye and they won’t put my change right in my hand. It’s like they think my Black is gonna rub off on them.”
“They’re Korean,” I point out. “Did you ever think that maybe, in their culture, neither of those things are polite?”
Adisa raises a brow. “All right, Ruth,” she says. “You just keep telling yourself it’s not about you.”
—
NOT TEN MINUTES into my unscheduled shift, I’m already sorry I said yes. There’s a storm crackling outside, one the weathermen didn’t see coming, and the barometric pressure’s tanked—which leads to early ruptured membranes, to women going into premature labor, to patients who are writhing in the halls because we don’t have enough space for them. I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off, which is a good thing, because it keeps me from thinking about Turk and Brittany Bauer and their baby.
But not so much that I don’t casually check the chart when I first come on duty. I tell myself that I just want to make sure that someone—someone white—has scheduled that consult with a pediatric cardiologist before the baby is discharged. And yes, there it is in the schedule, along with a record of Corinne doing the baby’s heel stick on Friday afternoon to draw blood for the state newborn screening. But then someone calls my name and I find myself pulled into the orbit of a laboring woman, who is being wheeled up from Emergency. Her partner looks terrified, the kind of man who is used to being able to fix things who has come to the sudden realization that this is outside his wheelhouse. “I’m Ruth,” I say to the woman, who seems to have telescoped further into herself with each subsequent contraction. “I’m going to be here with you the whole time.”
Her name is Eliza and her contractions are four minutes apart, according to her husband, George. This is their first pregnancy. I get my patient settled in the last birthing room we have available and take a urine sample, then hook her up to the monitor, scanning the gravestone printout. I grab her vitals and start asking questions: How strong are the contractions? Where are you feeling them—the front or the back? Are you leaking any fluid? Are you bleeding? How’s the baby moving?
“If you’re ready, Eliza,” I say, “I’m going to check your cervix.” I put on a pair of gloves and move to the foot of the bed, touch her knee.
An expression flickers across her face that gives me pause.
Now, most laboring women will do anything to get that baby out of them. There’s fear about getting through childbirth, yes, but that’s different from the fear of being touched. And that’s what I’m reading all over Eliza’s face.
A dozen questions jockey their way to the tip of my tongue. Eliza changed in the bathroom with her husband’s help, so I didn’t see if she had any bruises that might flag an abusive relationship. I glance at George. He looks like an ordinary father-to-be—nervous, out of place—not like a guy with anger management issues.
Then again, Turk Bauer looked pretty normal to me until he rolled up his sleeves.