Small Great Things(39)
When my sister and I were little, Mama used to bring us here on Saturdays to work. She framed this as a big deal, a privilege—not all kids are well behaved enough to shadow a parent at a job! If you’re good, you get to push the button on the dumbwaiter that brings the dishes up from the dining room to the kitchen! But what started as a treat soured quickly for me. True, sometimes we got to play with Christina and her Barbies, but when she had a friend over, Rachel and I were evicted to the kitchen or the laundry room, where Mama showed us how to iron cuffs and collars. At ten, I finally rebelled. “Maybe you’re okay with this, but I don’t want to be Ms. Mina’s slave,” I told my mother, loud enough to maybe be overheard, and she slapped me. “You do not use that word to describe an honest, paying job,” my mama corrected. “The same job that put that sweater on your back and those shoes on your feet.”
What I didn’t realize at the time was that our apprenticeship had a higher purpose. We were learning the whole time—how to make hospital corners on a bed, how to get stains out of the grout, how to make a roux. My mama had been teaching us to be self-sufficient, so that we’d never be in the position Ms. Mina was in, unable to do things for ourselves.
We finish cleaning the crystal drops, and I stand on a chair while my mama hands them to me one by one to hang from the chandelier again. They are blinding in their beauty. “So,” Mama says when we are nearly finished, “are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to pry it loose?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I was just missing you, that’s all.”
It’s true. I came to Manhattan because I wanted to see her. I wanted to go somewhere where I knew I’d be valued.
“What happened at work, Ruth?”
When I was a child my mother’s intuition was so uncanny it took me many years to realize she wasn’t psychic. She didn’t know the future; she just knew me.
“Usually you can’t stop talking about a set of triplets or a father-in-law who punched out a new daddy in the waiting room. Today, you haven’t mentioned the hospital at all.”
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.”