Free Plain Truth by Jodi Picoult Page A

were filled with titles I could not make out—German, I assumed, from the lettering. On the wall was a carefully printed family tree, Leda's name listed just above Sarah's.
    No television, no phone, no VCR. No Wall Street Journal sprawled across the couch, no jazz CD humming in the background. The house smelled of lemon wax and was warm to the point of suffocation. My heart began to pound in my chest. What had I gotten myself into?
    â€œLeda,” I said firmly, “I can't do this.”
    Without responding, she sat down on the couch, a nondescript brown corduroy with lace antimacassars. When had I last seen those?
    â€œYou have to take me back with you. We'll figure something out. I can come here from your place every morning. Or I can have an ex parte meeting with the judge to find an alternative.”
    Leda folded her hands in her lap. “Are you really so afraid of them,” she asked, “or is it just that you're afraid of yourself?”
    â€œDon't be ridiculous.”
    â€œAm I? Ellie, you're a perfectionist. You're used to taking charge and turning things to your own advantage. But all of a sudden you're stuck in a place that's as foreign to you as a Calcutta bazaar.”
    I sank down beside her and buried my face in my hands. “At least I've read about Calcutta.”
    Leda patted my back. “Honey, you've dealt with Mafia bosses, even though you aren't part of the Mob.”
    â€œI didn't move in with Jimmy ‘the Boar’ Pisano while I was defending him, Leda.”
    Well, she had nothing to say to that. After a moment she sighed. “It's just a case, Ellie. And you've always been willing to do anything to win a case.”
    We both looked into the kitchen, where Katie and Sarah— relatives of mine, once removed—stood side by side at the sink. “If it was just a case, I wouldn't be here.”
    Leda nodded, conceding that I'd gone out of my way—and realizing that she should go out of hers. “All right. I'll give you some ground rules. Help without being asked; Plain folks put lots of store in what you do, and less in what you say. It won't matter to them that you don't know anything about farming or dairying—what counts is that you're trying to lend a hand.”
    â€œForget farming—I know nothing about being Amish .”
    â€œThey won't expect you to. And there's nothing you need to know. They're folks like you and me. Good ones and bad ones, easygoing ones and ones with tempers, some quick to help you out and others who'll turn the other way when they see you coming. Tourists, they see the Amish as saints or as a sideshow. If you want this family to accept you, you just treat them like regular people.”
    As if the recollection had hurt her, she stood suddenly. “I'm going to go,” Leda said. “As much as Aaron Fisher dislikes having you here, he dislikes having me here even more.”
    â€œYou can't leave yet!”
    â€œEllie,” Leda said gently, “you'll be fine. I survived, didn't I?”
    I narrowed my eyes. “You left.”
    â€œWell, one day you will too. Just keep remembering that, and the day will be here sooner than you think.” She tugged me into the kitchen, where the conversation abruptly stopped. Everyone glanced up, slightly puzzled, it seemed, to find me still there. “I'm going to take off now,” Leda said. “Katie, maybe you could show Ellie your room?”
    It struck me: this is what children do. When relatives come to visit, when friends of their own arrive, they take them into their own territory. Show off the dollhouse, the baseball card collection. Reluctantly, Katie forced a smile. “This way,” she said, starting for the stairs.
    I gave Leda a quick, tight hug, and then turned toward Katie. I squared my shoulders and followed her. And no matter how much I wanted to, I did not let myself look back.
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    As I walked behind Katie,