Every Last One
  • Every Last One
  • Every Last One

Every Last One

3.6 560
by Anna Quindlen

View All Available Formats & Editions

In this breathtaking and beautiful novel, the #1 New York Times bestselling author Anna Quindlen creates an unforgettable portrait of a mother, a father, a family, and the explosive, violent consequences of what seem like inconsequential actions.
Mary Beth Latham is first and foremost a mother, whose three teenaged children come first, before

…  See more details below


In this breathtaking and beautiful novel, the #1 New York Times bestselling author Anna Quindlen creates an unforgettable portrait of a mother, a father, a family, and the explosive, violent consequences of what seem like inconsequential actions.
Mary Beth Latham is first and foremost a mother, whose three teenaged children come first, before her career as a landscape gardener, or even her life as the wife of a doctor.  Caring for her family and preserving their everyday life is paramount.  And so, when one of her sons, Max, becomes depressed, Mary Beth becomes focused on him, and is blindsided by a shocking act of violence. What happens afterwards is a testament to the power of a woman’s love and determination, and to the invisible line of hope and healing that connects one human being with another. Ultimately, in the hands of Anna Quindlen’s mesmerizing prose, Every Last One is a novel about facing every last one of the the things we fear most, about finding ways to navigate a road we never intended to travel, to live a life we never dreamed we’d have to live but must be brave enough to try.

Read More

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Library Journal
In her latest, Quindlen (Rise and Shine) once again plumbs the searing emotions of ordinary people caught in tragic circumstances. Mary Beth Latham is a happily married woman entirely devoted to her three teenaged children. When her talented daughter Ruby casually announces she's breaking up with her boyfriend Kirenan, a former neighbor who's become like family, Mary Beth is slightly alarmed, but soon distracted by her son Max, who's feeling overshadowed by his extroverted, athletic twin brother Alex. Quindlen's novel moves briskly, propelled by the small dramas of summer camp, proms, soccer games and neighbors, until the rejected Kirenan blindsides the Lathams, and the reader, with an incredible act of violence. Left with almost nothing, Mary Beth struggles to cope with loss and guilt, protect what she has left, and regain a sense of meaning. Quindlen is in classic form, with strong characters and precisely cadenced prose that builds in intensity.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Every Last One is about excruciating grief. It's about how people treat victims of violence, survivors' guilt, random blame and figuring out how to go on living.
From the Publisher
“Spellbinding.”—The New York Times Book Review

“In a tale that rings strikingly true, [Anna] Quindlen captures both the beauty and the breathtaking fragility of family life.”—People

“We come to love this family, because Quindlen makes their ordinary lives so fascinating.”—USA Today
“Packs an emotional punch.”—The Washington Post

Kirkus Reviews
Essayist and novelist Quindlen (Good Dog. Stay., 2007, etc.) tosses a grenade of murderous mayhem into the middle of an otherwise standard-issue novel of manners about an upper-middle-class community in Vermont. Mary Beth Latham, who runs a landscaping business, and her eye-doctor husband Glen are the parents of 14-year-old twins Alex and Max and 17-year-old Ruby. The first half of the novel is Mary Beth's self-deprecating yet vaguely self-congratulatory narration of her family's life. Mary Beth's marriage to dull but decent Glen continues on middle-aged simmer. Soccer star Alex is as popular in his way as self-confident iconoclast Ruby, who is past her little bout of anorexia. Only Max, geeky and socially awkward, seems to be struggling. Although he does seem to like his therapist-by coincidence a specialist in twins and a twin himself-his only friend is Ruby's boyfriend Kiernan. But Ruby has outgrown Kiernan, who continues to hang around the house mooning after her and adopting the Lathams as a surrogate family since his own parents' nasty divorce. Mary Beth deals with small business crises and her Mexican workman. She and her friends commiserate over their children, although not their marriages, in admirable if not quite believable rectitude. Then Kiernan, whose mental problems Mary Beth has either missed or ignored, although they'll seem pretty apparent to the reader, goes berserk and commits a horrendous act of violence against Mary Beth's family. Only Mary Beth and Alex survive, and the remainder of the book details their road to emotional recovery. Unfortunately, while Quindlen's a pro at writing about the quotidian details in the life of a bourgeois Everywoman like Mary Beth, the actual plot is hard to swallow. The murders are too obviously meant to shock. Mary Beth's guilt over a brief affair she had with Kiernan's womanizing dad years ago rings false. And the outpouring of support she receives from friends and family is too saccharinely redemptive. An unsatisfying mix of melodrama and the mundane. Author tour to Boston, New York, Washington, D.C., Atlanta, Chicago, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, Dallas, San Francisco, Los Angeles
Maggie Scarf
…engrossing…It would be unfair to reveal what happens to the Lathams, other than to say that tragedy of an outrageous, almost unbelievable, dimension strikes at the heart of the family. The events leading to this catastrophe, and then its painful aftermath, make for a spellbinding tale.
—The New York Times
Nancy Robertson
Anna Quindlen's new novel, Every Last One, packs an emotional punch similar to that of her previous bestsellers One True Thing and Black and Blue. Her ability to convey the mundanity of everyday life while also building suspense stems from her journalistic eye for detail…Quindlen succeeds at conveying the transience of everyday worries and the never-ending boundaries of a mother's love.
—The Washington Post

Read More

Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
6.20(w) x 9.30(h) x 1.30(d)

Read an Excerpt

This is my life: The alarm goes off at five-thirty with the murmuring of a public-radio announcer, telling me that there has been a coup in Chad, a tornado in Texas. My husband stirs briefly next to me, turns over, blinks, and falls back to sleep for another hour. My robe lies at the foot of the bed, printed cotton in the summer, tufted chenille for the cold. The coffeemaker comes on in the kitchen below as I leave the bathroom, go downstairs in bare feet, pause to put away a pair of boots left splayed in the downstairs back hallway and to lift the newspaper from the back step. The umber quarry tiles in the kitchen were a bad choice; they are always cold. I let the dog out of her kennel and put a cup of kibble in her bowl. I hate the early mornings, the suspended animation of the world outside, the veil of black and then the oppressive gray of the horizon along the hills outside the French doors. But it is the only time I can rest without sleeping, think without deciding, speak and hear my own voice. It is the only time I can be alone. Slightly less than an hour each weekday when no one makes demands.

Our bedroom is at the end of the hall, and sometimes as I pass I can hear the children breathing, each of them at rest as specific as they are awake. Alex inhales and exhales methodically, evenly, as though he were deep under the blanket of sleep even though he always kicks his covers askew, leaving one long leg, with its faint surgical scars, exposed to the night air. Across the room Max sputters, mutters, turns, and growls out a series of nonsense syllables. For more than a year when he was eleven, Max had a problem with sleepwalking. I would find him washing his hands at the bathroom sink or down in the kitchen, blinking blindly into the open refrigerator. But he stopped after his first summer at sleepaway camp.

Ruby croons, one high strangled note with each exhale. When she was younger, I worried that she had asthma. She sleeps on her back most of the time, the covers tucked securely across her chest, her hair fanned out on the pillows. It should be easy for her to slip from beneath the blanket and make her bed, but she never bothers unless I hector her.

I sit downstairs with coffee and the paper, staring out the window as my mind whirrs. At six-thirty I hear the shower come on in the master bath. Glen is awake and getting ready for work. At six-forty-five I pull the duvet off Ruby, who snatches it back and curls herself into it, larval, and says, “Ten more minutes.” At seven I lean over, first Alex, then Max, and bury my nose into their necks, beginning to smell the slightly pungent scent of male beneath the sweetness of child. “Okay, okay,” Alex says irritably. Max says nothing, just lurches from bed and begins to pull off an oversized T-shirt as he stumbles into the bathroom.

There is a line painted down the center of their room. Two years ago they came to me, at a loose end on a June afternoon, and demanded the right to choose their own colors. I was distracted, and I agreed. They did a neat job, measured carefully, put a tarp on the floor. Alex painted his side light blue, Max lime green. The other mothers say, “You won’t believe what Jonathan”—or Andrew or Peter—“told me about the twins’ room.” Maybe if the boys had been my first children I would have thought it was insane, too, but Ruby broke me in. She has a tower of soda cans against one wall of her bedroom. It is either an environmental statement or just one of those things you do when you are fifteen. Now that she is seventeen she has outgrown it, almost forgotten it, but because I made the mistake of asking early on when she would take it down she never has.

I open Ruby’s door, and although it doesn’t make a sound—she has oiled the hinges, I think, probably with baby oil or bath oil or something else nonsensically inappropriate, so we will not hear it creak in the nighttime—she says, “I’m up.” I stand there waiting, because if I take her word for it she will wrap herself in warmth again and fall into the long tunnel of sleep that only teenagers inhabit, halfway to coma or unconsciousness. “Mom, I’m up,” she shouts, and throws the bedclothes aside and begins to bundle her long wavy hair atop her head. “Can I get dressed in peace, please? For a change?” She makes it sound as though I constantly let a bleacher full of spectators gawk as she prepares to meet the day.

Only Glen emerges in the least bit cheerful, his suit jacket over one arm. He keeps his white coats at the office. They are professionally cleaned and pressed and smell lovely, like the cleanest of clean laundry. “Doctor Latham” is embroidered in blue script above his heart. From upstairs I can hear the clatter of the cereal into his bowl. He eats the same thing every morning, leaves for work at the same time. He wears either a blue or a yellow shirt, with either a striped tie or one with a small repeating pattern. Occasionally, a grateful patient gives him a tie as a gift, printed with tiny pairs of glasses, an eye chart, or even eyes themselves. He thanks these people sincerely but never wears them.

He is not tidy, but he knows where everything is: on which chair he left his briefcase, in what area of the kitchen counter he tossed his wallet. He does something with the corners of his mouth when things are not as they should be—when the dog is on the furniture, when the children and their friends make too much noise too late at night, when the red-wine glasses are in the white-wine glass rack. It has now pressed itself permanently into his expression, like the opposite of dimples.

“Please. Spare me,” says my friend Nancy, her eyes rolling. “If that’s the worst you can say about him, then you have absolutely no right to complain.” Nancy says her husband, Bill, a tall gangly scarecrow of a guy, leaves a trail of clothing as he undresses, like fairy-tale breadcrumbs. He once asked her where the washing machine was. “I thought it was a miracle that he wanted to know,” she says when she tells this story, and she does, often. “It turned out the repairman was at the door and Bill didn’t know where to tell him to go.”

Our washer is in the mudroom, off the kitchen. There is a chute from above that is designed to bring the dirty things downstairs. Over the years, our children have used the chute for backpacks, soccer balls, drumsticks. Slam. Slam. Slam. “It is a laundry chute,” I cry. “Laundry. Laundry.”

Laundry is my life, and meals, and school meetings and games and recitals. I choose a cardigan sweater and put it on the chest at the foot of the bed. It is late April, nominally spring, but the weather is as wild as an adolescent mood, sun into clouds into showers into storms into sun again.

“You smell,” I hear Alex say to Max from the hallway. Max refuses to reply. “You smell like shit,” Alex says. “Language!” I cry.

“I didn’t say a word,” Ruby shouts from behind the door of her room. Hangers slide along the rack in her closet, with a sound like one of those tribal musical instruments. Three thumps—shoes, I imagine. Her room always looks as though it has been ransacked. Her father averts his head from the closed door, as though he is imagining what lies within. Her brothers are strictly forbidden to go in there, and, honestly, are not interested. Piles of books, random sweaters, an upended shoulder bag, even the lace panties, given that they belong to their sister—who cares? I am tolerated because I deliver stacks of clean clothes. “Put those away in your drawers,” I always say, and she never does. It would be so much easier for me to do it myself, but this standoff has become a part of our relationship, my attempt to teach Ruby responsibility, her attempt to exhibit independence. And so much of our lives together consists of rubbing along, saying things we know will be ignored yet continuing to say them, like background music.

Somehow Ruby emerges every morning from the disorder of her room looking beautiful and distinctive: a pair of old Capri pants, a ruffled blouse I bought in college, a long cashmere cardigan with a moth hole in the sleeve, a ribbon tied around her hair. Ruby never looks like anyone else. I admire this and am a little intimidated by it, as though I had discovered we had incompatible blood types.

Alex wears a T-shirt and jeans. Max wears a T-shirt and jeans. Max stops to rub the dog’s belly when he gets to the kitchen. She narrows her eyes in ecstasy. Her name is Virginia, and she is nine years old. She came as a puppy when the twins were five and Ruby was eight. “Ginger” says the name on the terra-cotta bowl we bought on her first Christmas. Max scratches the base of Ginger’s tail. “Now you’ll smell like dog,” says Alex. The toaster pops with a sound like a toy gun. The refrigerator door closes. I need more toothpaste. Ruby has taken my toothpaste. “I’m going,” she yells from the back door. She has not eaten breakfast. She and her friends Rachel and Sarah will stop at the doughnut shop and get iced coffee and jelly doughnuts. Sarah swims competitively and can eat anything. “The metabolism of a hummingbird,” says my friend Nancy, who is Sarah’s mother, which is convenient for us both. Nancy is a biologist, a professor at the university, so I suppose she should know about metabolism. Rachel is a year older than the other two, and drives them to school. The three of them swear that Rachel drives safely and slowly. I know this isn’t true. I picture Rachel, moaning again about some boy she really, really likes but who is insensible to her attentions, steering with one hand, a doughnut in the other, taking a curve with a shrieking sound. Caution and nutrition are for adults. They are young, immortal.

“The bus!” Alex yells, and finally Max speaks. This is one of the headlines of our family life: Max speaks. “I’m coming,” he mumbles. “Take a sweatshirt,” I call. Either they don’t hear or they don’t care. I can see them with their backpacks getting on the middle-school bus. Alex always goes first.

“Do we have any jelly?” Glen asks. He knows where his own things are, but he has amnesia when it comes to community property. “It’s where it’s always been,” I say. “Open your eyes and look.” Then I take two jars of jelly off the shelf inside the refrigerator door and thump them on the table in front of him. I can manage only one morning manner, so I treat my husband like one of the children. He doesn’t seem to mind or even notice. He likes this moment, when the children have been there but are suddenly gone. The dog comes back into the room, her claws clicking on the tiled floor. “Don’t feed her,” I say, as I do every morning. In a few minutes, I hear the messy chewing sounds as Ginger eats a crust of English muffin. She makes a circuit of the house, then falls heavily at my feet.

After he has read the paper, Glen leaves for the office. He has early appointments one day a week and late ones three evenings, for schoolchildren and people with inflexible jobs. His office is in a small house a block from the hospital. He pulls his car out of the driveway and turns right onto our street every single morning. One day he turned left, and I almost ran out to call to him. I did open the front door, and discovered that a neighbor was retarring the driveway and a steamroller was blocking the road to the right. The neighbor waved. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he called. I waved back.

Read More


Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network


Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >

Every Last One 3.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 559 reviews.
retromom More than 1 year ago
This is going to be a hard book to review. I really don't want to give the story away because it has some shocking parts that really need to be felt. I have enjoyed other Anna Quindlen books- Blessings, One True Thing, and Black and Blue. Anna has a way to take us into situations that can be quite uncomfortable and makes one feel so many different emotions all at once. This book is no different. When the book begins we are introduced to Mary Beth Latham and her family: her husband Glen an ophthalmologist, her teenage twin sons Alex and Max, and her teenage daughter Ruby. They seem to have it all even though they are not the perfect family by any means. As Max suffers from depression, Mary Beth becomes concerned for him. She is so concerned for him that she does not see the impending doom about to happen. I had no idea what was going to happen in this book. I felt as shocked as the characters in the story. I could feel the confusion and gut wrenching pain that the characters felt. I knew Mary Beth's life was going to fall apart but I had no clue what was coming. When it did happen, I felt as though the wind was knocked out of my sails! I think it is great that an author can make a reader feel so much emotions with their words. The story is a book of tragedy and survival. How much can one person take and how do they go on and survive? It is quite an emotional roller coaster. I highly recommend this book. It touched me in a way that was quite surprising to me. When you finish this book you will want to not take life for granted and you will want to hug those around you. This is a book you not only read but experience! What a powerful book! It's a book you won't soon forget!
NatalieTahoe More than 1 year ago
I read Anna Quindlen's Every Last One with a little bit of hesitation -- I wasn't sure how I would feel about this book since I was one of the few people who wasn't the biggest fan for Quindlen's very popular book, Rise and Shine. I know, I know. I was one of "them." Last weekend, I was on another flight coming back from Boston and I had just finished Raven Stole the Moon. I closed that book on the flight and thank goodness, I had Every Last One in my carry-on bag. Most of you all know that I cannot stand being on a plane when I've finished a book and then I'm stuck in the air with nothing to do but deal with all the "Bobs" out there. In this recent Quindlen release, Mary Beth Latham is married with 3 children and lives in the suburbs. Her husband is an optometrist and Mary Beth owns her own landscaping business, and although a bit flawed, life is, for the most part, good. Ruby, her oldest daughter is going to go off to college soon, and her twin boys have just entered high school -- Alex is incredibly athletic and popular, and Max is musically-inclined and a loner. Their house in the neighborhood is beautiful. They have two cars. They have a dog. Life is...fine. I opened up Every Last One and the first 100 pages threw me a bit for a loop -- I was drawn into it, but I just couldn't figure out why. Mary Beth's voice was so removed, almost like she was looking at her life through a camera and filming it -- distant, sad, disconnected. Usually something like this would frustrate me, but I couldn't stop reading it. And then the last half of the book happened, and I will not give one hint away. It's good. It's really, really good. I couldn't read certain pages without tearing up or my throat closing over, and I shuddered and gasped at everything. I cannot in good conscience give a thing away. Anna Quindlen has written with such an effortless manner to leave you completely stunned. With cunning ease, she has drawn you into the lives of one family in one town. And how quickly any one of us could be them. Do not pass by this one. Pick it up. Drink it in. Hug your family. http://coffeeandabookchick.blogspot.com
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I always love Ms. Quindlen's quirky characters and she does not disappoint here. We are introduced to a nice family, a great neighborhood of "normal" people. Ms. Quindlen gently reveals the cracks, and then the earthquake happens. Some of the characters will resonate with readers; we all know some families like those in the story. It can be very emotional at times, at least for me. I appreciate her style and her development of the story line. I might have wished for a different ending, but it was a satisfying read and I recommend it for women, mostly mothers. But remember the tissues.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book brought me to tears - which is highly unusual for me. Although not a huge fan of Ms. Quindlan's fictional work in the past (though I love, love, love her non-fiction and am hard-pressed to consider a Newsweek issue complete without her column), I will pay her the ultimate compliment here: This book taught me something about myself. By presenting her characters so clearly, especially Mary Beth Latham (like myself, a mother of three), I was able to confront some truths about humans in general and myself in particular, and perhaps I can grow from those realizations. Bravo, Ms. Quindlan!
sw7134 More than 1 year ago
This novel reads like a bad Danielle Steele novel. Anna Quindlen wrote this? hard to believe. Starts out so slow, and then so over the top with drama. Not believable. Just did not work for me. Come on anna, I know you can do better. I really did not care about the characters, I could barely remember who was who!
readerfromBelfordNJ More than 1 year ago
I'm somewhere in the middle of the book. The great tragedy has not yet happened. The reviewers don't want to give it away. Then I get to one of the Anonymous readers, and in its very first sentence told what and who did it. Sometimes I read reviews to see if I might like the book and this about ruined it for me. I'll continue but after all the people not wanting to give it away, I lost some of my desire to read on.
sweetpeaSP More than 1 year ago
This is a compelling novel by a wonderful writer. As the book begins we meet the Latham family, a privileged middle class family, three children, calm, normal, every day living, then....Tragedy strikes. The inner turmoil, self-blame, and the rest of their lives to find their way and survive, because there is no other choice tells the rest of the tale. This is a story of strength and resilience and life needs to go on. A journey well worth the experience! Other books that gave me a sense of love, triumph, survival and lots to think about are EXPLOSION IN PARIS and SAME KIND OF DIFFERENT AS ME and BLACK AND BLUE (by this author)...
RSM63 More than 1 year ago
As usual, Anna Quindlen delivers. Every Last One is an immensely readable book. The kind you do not want to put down, and you do finish in 24 hours. Two biggest pluses: Ms Quindlen can write. The prose flows, and you are never bored. This is where her background as a journalist really shows. You hang on every word. The other big plus in my opinion, is the characters: strong, capable women onto whom Ms Quindlen thrust the most unimaginable of situation. Yet, in her capable hands you belive it. This book will not resonate with guys, but for the 30 and 40 something women, devoted to well-written fiction, the book club types, this is clear home-run. The themes and characters, the vagaries of middle-age and life in general, and most of all, the mothers' devotion to family, are well recorded in this book. For those looking for deep meaning, or ground breaking themes - this is NOT it. But if you just want a good read, whose writing style and story do not insult one's intelligence, this is it.
charlottesweb93 More than 1 year ago
Mary Beth & Glen are living a charmed life in the suburbs with their three teens. Ruby, and the twins, Max and Alex. Ruby is a Senior in High School and the twins are fourteen. They have their typical twin issues, but nothing uncommon. Until one night their idyllic life is shattered in a shocking and tragic way. Leaving Mary Beth to hold everything together, something she is ill prepared to do, for many reasons. This is one of those books that I can't say much without giving major spoilers. But to say that the "shocking event" was a major shocker is a gross understatement. It took my breath away in a way most unexpected. In Every Last One, Anna Quindlen has a masterful way with words. She expertly creates a world that is easy to slip into. Her words drawing you further in with each page. You feel as if you are part of the story and that is why when tragedy strikes, you are so shocked by what just happened. If you have never read Anna Quindlen, I encourage you to do so, but be prepared for what is about to happen.
KateMann More than 1 year ago
Anna Quindlen does not disappoint with her latest novel. She writes the family dynamic, especially siblings, better than any author I know! I cried A LOT, but in the end I was left deeply satisfied.
dtav More than 1 year ago
This could have been a fantastic story if it were told by a better writer. The author wastes half the book before she gets to the tragedy. I don't want to read novels to explore the mundane nature of our day-to-day lives and I don't think I'm alone in that opinion. Mary Beth was not likeable, there was really no reason to care about any of the characters.
Teacher2021 More than 1 year ago
I bought this book for my summer reading list. I am an elementary teacher and like to spend my summers reading adult literature. This was my first read of the summer. It took me a while to get into the book. Too many characters and not an engaging beginning. It seemed like the diary of a suburban housewife. I knew something tragic would happen and I wouldn't say it was predictable, but it wasn't a shocker either. The ending wasn't what I was hoping for either.
JLAK More than 1 year ago
I have read almost "every last one" of Anna Quindlen's books and this one kept me reading to the last page. The Lathams were an ordinary family: father, Glen, was a dentist, mother, Mary Beth, had a lawn designing business and there were three children; Ruby, a teenager and her younger twin brothers, Max and Alex. They were very close for siblings. The twins, Max and Alex were very different except in looks and having the same birthday. Max liked to go to his room and play his drums and Alex was an athlete. Max resented the notoriety that Alex got for excelling in sports. Ruby was a teenager with many girlfriends and one boyfriend that the whole family seemed to like. A tragedy happened in the family and it tore them apart. Quindlen kept the drama going to the last page.
Linda-Teacher More than 1 year ago
This story is an intense and shocking family drama which I enjoyed very much. Anna Quindlen's characters are very detailed and very real and seem quite like people with whom I have interacted in my forty years in the educational field. Having been a middle school vice-principal for fifteen years and dealing with thirteen to fifteen year olds everyday, I felt as if I knew these children and their emotions and problems were very common in that age range as well as with high school students. Anna Quindlen's descriptions of the marital situations of the parents is quite an honest picture of the stress of parenthood of today. The plot of the story involved me to the point where I read far into the night to finish the book. The shocking twist was so dramatic that I felt intense sympathy and empathy for the mother and this woman will stay with me for a long time. I recommend this book without reservation.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is one of the bravest novels that I have ever read and one of Quindlen's best in my opinion. Quindlen really goes there and writes about something that I think is every woman's greatest fear. I've read a lot of Quindlen, so I picked this up without knowing what it would be about. I'm glad that I didn't know what was coming (there was foreshadowing, but I didn't know exactly what would happen.) I really appreciate how she got me thinking that it was a certain type of story and then took it in a whole new direction. It gave the novel a sense of verisimilitude. Mary Beth's life is going in a certain direction, tragedy strikes, and she is left to make sense of it all. This novel has such authenticity that it's frightening. It's not for readers who prefer what I like to call "realistic fantasy" where the book is about real-life but everything is on the surface and like a Hollywood movie. It feels true, it feels real, and that is discomfiting. I felt hopeful for the characters at the end. It's a hard-won hope for them. An excellent book that will not disappoint.
hannahprescott More than 1 year ago
This is powerfull and compelling. Mary Beth Latham isinteresting, active in her landscaping business, is the wife of a physician, and mother of a high school senior girl and twin 13-year-old boys. Tragedy turns her world upside down. Because the story is from Mary Beth's perspective, we are not given details about it itself, and while she is recovering physically, details are not clear due to her medications and the trauma. Gradually,she is able to accept that her life will never be the same again. She slowly rebuilds what is left of her life. This is an amazing, tearful, moving story of survival. Life! Ugh!
LegalMaven More than 1 year ago
For those who do not believe this is realistic, may I direct you to the Broadrick murders in San Diego, CA or the double murder in Ventura Harbor, CA. Ms. Quindlen has the keenest understanding of teenagers and how they relate to one another and to adults. Her female characters are fully developed to the point that I am sure I know these women. Her shortcoming in this story is the lack of character development for the husband. However, since the female character tells the story in the first person, and it is far, far more about her, the aforementioned flaw is acceptable. This is one heck of a great read...and it is torn right from the front pages of the news. Without giving too much away...the violence, the anger - properly directed, and that which is not, comprise reality...like it or not. Four Stars for Anna!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Wow ! I read it cover to cover in one cold, rainy afternoon! I really enjoyed it. It's the first Anna Quindlen I've ever read. I couldn't put it down.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I really like Anna Quindlen's books and this was no exception. In this book, right from the beginning, you knew somebody was going to get hurt, but not who and not how. Quindlen's descriptions of a normal family's everyday life is spot on and her talent for expressing how someone might feel in situations is great. Keep these books coming, Anna!!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Couldn't stop crying; couldn't stop reading.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I love Anna Quindlen's books, but I have to say I was horrified by this one. After I finished it, bothered me and not in a good way. I was sorry I read it.