You won't get many long novels from Patricia MacLachlan. Her 1986 Newbery Medal winner, Sarah, Plain and Tall, is one of the shortest books to ever receive the award, at only fifty-eight pages in most editions. To tell an emotionally lasting story in the brief space Patricia MacLachlan takes for her books, one must be a keen purveyor of feeling, feeling that bleeds between the lines when words cannot convey the full truth of a life story played out authentically. This is the watermark of Patricia MacLachlan's writing, creating a foundation of emotion leading up to the greater truths one can just barely touch, but never grasp, no matter how many blocks are cemented upon the foundation. There is much to be felt that can't be explained concretely in any of life's most rewarding ventures, but the answers can usually be glimpsed, if only for a fleeting moment.
Robbie has felt like an unnecessary appendage in his family for some time. His mother and father are concert violinists, accomplished enough for their eccentricity (especially that of Robbie's mother) to be seen as a mark of genius, and droves of aspiring musicians show up at their door to audition anytime an opening in their group needs filling. Robbie's parents are so involved in the lively and challenging music scene, there isn't much time left to spend with their growing son, to show or even tell him they love him. So Robbie isn't too sad when he's sent to spend the summer with his grandmother, Maddy, harmlessly addled as his parents believe her to be. Maddy spins the craziest, strangest, most entertaining stories one could possibly believe about her escapades with animals in the wild, but true or not, she has her neighbor Henry (who also happens to be her unofficial boyfriend) around to help supervise, alleviating any concern from Robbie's parents.
Robbie can learn from Maddy's words, and he can learn from Henry's low-key wisdom, but most of all he learns from the casual respect given freely between himself, Maddy and Henry. Does it matter if Maddy's outlandish tales about cavorting with wild animals are true? Does it matter if Henry believes them, or can a lack of belief be no stumbling block to their relationship if Henry doesn't let it be, if his understanding of truth allows him to see Maddy's stories for the truth they definitely contain, whether or not the events described in them actually happened? There may be absolute truths in life that shouldn't be bent, but there is also the truth of fiction, and it is indeed a powerful truth. For the influence Charlotte A. Cavatica has had down through the generations on every reader of Charlotte's Web who recognized they, like Wilbur the pig, were not truly "Radiant", but nonetheless needed a friend like Charlotte to love them unconditionally and be willing to give themselves up for them, whether or not they could ever possibly deserve such eternal loyalty; for those whose heart shattered into a thousand pieces at the tragedies endured by Georgie Burgess in A Lottery Rose, hardship heaped upon hardship until the weight would crush most seven-year-old boys, but not Georgie; for everyone who has sweated and convulsed at the dizzying stress Connor Lassiter went through while fleeing for his life from a Juvenile Authority determined to deactivate the famous Akron AWOL in Unwind; these characters and more, having affected the lives of billions, are as real as the family living next-door. "We all have our truths, Kiddo," says Henry on page thirty-one of The Truth of Me. "Some are big truths. Most times they're small truths. But those stories are Maddy's truths." To understand the truth of fiction, to see there can be as much veracity in a made-up story as in a factual recounting of a documented occurrence, is to free oneself to experience the full import of literature, or film, or story in any capacity by which it is delivered. The right fiction presented at the right time can do as much to change hearts as the biggest events in human history. As Robbie comes to adopt the relaxed outlook on life of Maddy and Henry, he sees, too, that there may be more to his mother's apparent emotional indifference toward him than he knows, and it isn't so bad having a great violinist for a parent. Especially when one has a Maddy and a Henry for backup. If we learn as much as Robbie does in this story—and it is my wish for everyone who reads it that they do—then The Truth of Me will be an experience that feeds the soul and lightens one's emotional load. How can one ask more of a book than that?
I love Robbie, whose quietly sweet presence made it easy for me to spend many moments in pause reflecting on what I was reading as the paragraphs passed beneath my eyes. With those introspective moments in mind, I want to thank Patricia MacLachlan for conceptualizing this story and putting in the effort to set it down on paper. It did good things for my heart. It made me smile. It gave me hope, and insight into myself, those closest to me, and even the people I don't know if I will ever understand. Not every book does all that. I would give two and a half stars to The Truth of Me, and that rating was close to rounding up to three. There isn't a person on earth who couldn't benefit from picking up this book and giving it a thoughtful read, and that is the best recommendation I know how to make.