From a bold, sensitive, and shrewd young writer: a hotly anticipated debut novel, about flesh, fear, poverty, privilege, and the sheer and inescapable brutality of love.
In the beginning, there was Tilly: fabulous and free, outrageous and untamable, vulnerable and terrified. Was it the Sixties that did her wrong, or the drugs, or the men, or was it the middle-class upbringing she couldn't abide? As a young woman, she flees home for the hollow neon underworld of Nevada, looking for pure souls and finding nothing but bad habits. She stays away for decades, working the streets and worse, eventually drinking herself to the brink of death in the middle of the desert. One day, after Tilly has spent nearly thirty years without a family, her niece shows up on the doorstep of her dusty trailer.
Stella has been leading her own life of empty promise in New York City. She makes her living booking Botox appointments and national-media appearances for a famous (and famously neurotic) "inspirational" writer by day; she complains about her job at warehouse parties in remote boroughs by night; she waits for her married lover to make time in his schedule to screw her over, softly; and she takes care of her ailing grandmother in Connecticut. Before Stella's grandmother dies, she tells Stella the truth about Tilly, her runaway daughter, and Stella decides to give up the vast and penetrating loneliness of the city to find this lost woman the family had never mentioned.
The Gin Closet unravels the strange and powerful intimacy that forms between Tilly and Stella as they move to San Francisco to make a home with Abe, Tilly's overworked and elusive son. Shifting between the perspectives of both women, the narrative documents the construction of a fragile triangle that eventually breaks under its own weight.
With an uncanny ear for dialogue and a witty, unflinching candor about sex, love, and power, Leslie Jamison reminds us that no matter how unexpected its turns are, this life we're given is all we have: the cruelties that unhinge us, the beauties that clarify us, the addictions that deform us, those fleeting possibilities of grace that fade as quickly as they come. In the words of writer Charles D'Ambrosio, this extraordinary novel teaches us that "history has its way, the body has its way, and the rebellions we believe in leave behind a bleak wisdom, if we're lucky and defeat, if we're not." The Gin Closet marks the debut of a stunning new talent in fiction.
|Product dimensions:||5.50(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.80(d)|
About the Author
Leslie Jamison was born in Washington, DC, and grew up in Los Angeles. She has worked as a baker, an office temp, an innkeeper, a tutor, and a medical actor. A graduate of Harvard College and the Iowa’s Workshop, she is the author of the essay collection The Empathy Exams, a New York Times bestseller, and the novel The Gin Closet, a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. Her work has appeared in the New York Times Magazine, Harper's, and the Oxford American, among others, and she is a columnist for the New York Times Book Review. She teaches at Columbia University and lives in Brooklyn with her family.
Read an Excerpt
On Christmas I found Grandma Lucy lying on linoleum. She’d fallen. The refrigerator hummed behind her naked body like a death rattle. There were bloody tissues balled in her fists, but she was alive and speaking. “I just wanted a little yogurt,” she said. “I got a nosebleed.”
Her arms fluttered in the air, clutching for handholds, human fingers, anything. It was the first time I’d seen her whole body—her baggy ghost-skin and all the blue veins underneath.
I’d ridden a train through the brittle Connecticut winter with a wedge of gingerbread and a ham sandwich full of fatty cuts, her favorite kind. I had a bag of presents. From the floor she asked: “Are those for me?”
She was shivering. I’d never seen her this way, so fluent at this grasping. Her face twitched as though she were trying to hold her features steady while something happened underneath. She took my hand. Her fingers were greasy with lotion. “I need Matilda,” she said. Her voice was calm and sure, as if this request was entirely reasonable. I’d never heard of anyone named Matilda.
I gripped her wrist and slid one hand under the hunch of her back. Her skin was loose between the bony marbles of her spine. “Don’t pull,” she said. “It hurts.”
I called my brother. Tom said, “You need to ask her: ‘Lucy, did you hit your head?’” I cupped my palm over the phone and waited for her reply. He waited for me.
“It was only yogurt,” she said. “Just a little bit I wanted.”
I knelt down next to her. My boots squeaked on the linoleum. “But did you hit your head? Can you tell me that?”
“If I had,” she said. “I’m not sure I would remember.”
I reported back to Tom. He said I should keep her awake for at least two hours. This was the rule he remembered about concussions, in case she had one. He was with our mother, Dora, on the other side of the country, probably sipping seltzer at a Pacific restaurant where everyone was thinking cheerfully unconcussed thoughts about their sushi. It was a first-generation place, he told me, mercifully open on holidays. It was the first day my mother had taken off work in months.
“Tom?” I asked. “Do you know anyone named Matilda?”
“One sec,” he said. “I’m putting Mom on the phone.”
Her voice was loud and sudden: “You need to do what Stella says! You need to let her take care of you!”
“Are you trying to talk to Grandma?” I asked. “Should I give her the phone?”
“Oh,” she said. “Of course.”
Grandma Lucy gripped the cell phone with her quaking fingers. My mother spoke so loudly that her voice sounded like it was coming from the floor under Grandma Lucy’s ear. She rolled onto her side and handed me the phone. Tom said, “Two hours, yeah?” I heard noise in the background, the rustling of glass and gossip. I hung up.
Grandma Lucy didn’t want any gingerbread or tea. She didn’t want presents. She just wanted to go to sleep. It wasn’t dark yet, not even close. The day had been ruined, she insisted. She wanted to wake up and have Christmas tomorrow.
I checked my watch. I took a breath. Two hours: I would do this. We found a holiday special on television. Animated clay reindeer scampered across the glittering snow. I had to keep shaking Grandma Lucy to make sure she was awake. “Hey,” I said. “You’re missing the part with the reindeer. With the snow.”
“This show is terrible,” she said finally. The opinion itself, saying it out loud, seemed to give her a second wind, and she suggested we open presents after all. Her thick curtains made the sunlight feel oozy, as if it were coming through gauze bandages. She lived on the third floor of a block of condos with stucco walls the color of blanched almonds. Most of her neighbors were bankers who commuted into the city.
My grandmother loved Connecticut. It was where she’d fallen in love with my grandfather and where they’d gotten married. He came from old New England stock, but he’d been the one to insist they move west, to get away from his family. Then he took off to roam the world and never came back. He left her with a little girl to raise all by herself. His family promised her as much money as she needed for the rest of her life.
Grandma Lucy had fallen in love with that whole family—their old blood, their traditions—and she’d wanted to give my mother a sense of where she came from, so they spent summers on Cape Cod in a family property that my mother recalled with disdain. “It was nothing but a dirty bribe,” she told me. “Giving us that beach house for a couple lousy months. Money was like a bastard child out there—everyone knew about it, but you never heard it mentioned.” My mother didn’t have any memories of her father, but her anger toward him seemed vast enough to cover years of open wounds. It extended to his people with a ferocity that made up for my grandmother’s forgiveness.
Lucy had always understood, without needing to be told, that she wasn’t welcome at the year-round family haunts. That perhaps it was better if she stayed out west. But after she’d finished raising her daughter in Los Angeles, she’d come back to this sacred desolation, the eastern cold and money of Greenwich. She could buy anything she wanted, but she didn’t want much these days, and her sparse rooms seemed mournful in their neatness.
“She never blamed him for leaving her,” my mother said. “I never got that.”
Lucy was like a well-behaved child with her Christmas gifts, orderly and attentive. I’d gotten her a variety pack of bubble bath and a pair of pot holders that said in stitched letters: I’M HOLDING NEW YORK’S FINEST CASSEROLE. I’d always known Grandma Lucy as a maker of casseroles full of cream soups and canned corn, fridge biscuits torn into chunks. They were ocean-salty and smooth as silk. She cooked our dinners whenever she came out west to help take care of us, whenever my mother’s work got especially intense, but my mother usually hated what she made. “These stews have been processed up the wazoo,” she said. “It will take me years to shit them out.” She actually said this once at dinner. Grandma Lucy frowned and started clearing dishes from the table.
My mother had always criticized her mother’s cooking—how hard she tried and how she still wasn’t much good. She gladly took recipes from the family who had disowned her. Like she didn’t have a speck of pride, my mom said. And they always tasted terrible. There was a blueberry pie whose flakes of crust peeled away like dead skin. Finally, she just gave up and threw those recipes out, my mom said, her voice proud. She said: “I’ve had a lot of pies in my life. Never had a pie like this.”
So these NEW YORK’S FINEST CASSEROLE pot holders were a kind of wink, delayed by years, and a bit of a victory stamp. We weren’t on my mother’s side of the country anymore, and Grandma Lucy could make her casseroles in peace. She squinted at their diamond-quilted squares. “I can’t make New York’s finest anything,” she said. “I live in Connecticut.” She laid the pot holders neatly on her coffee table. “Six kinds of bubble bath,” she said. “How about that?”
When she pulled her wool skirt over the sticks of her legs, her panty hose were thin enough to show the damage of her age—plum-colored bruises across her shins and thighs. “It’s like a cage in here,” she said, meaning her body. “Every part of me aches, or else it itches.” She insisted that the itching was a deeper discomfort than I could know. “It’s not on the skin,” she told me. “It’s happening underneath.”
Then she paused as if trying to recall something. “I got you a present, too,” she said finally. “But I can’t remember what it was.”
I told her we wouldn’t worry about that for now. What if I ran a bath instead? Maybe it would feel good against her skin?
“We’ll use the bubbles!” she said. She was so lonely, so ready to please me. How was I only seeing it now? Her eagerness came loose like unspooled thread. You couldn’t yearn like this unless you’d been lonely for years, practicing. Now her body was weak enough to yearn along with her.
I ran a bath with honey vanilla, her choice, and sat on the toilet seat while she folded herself—thin legs, white belly, arms like baggy insect wings and glimmering with soap—under the steaming surface of the water. I brought a book and kept my eyes tightly locked on it, line to line, so she wouldn’t feel me staring. I glanced up once. She curled her finger to beckon me closer. I leaned in.
“She filled a bath,” she told me. “To bring them back to life.”
“What?” I said. “Who did?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. Very slowly, she inched herself farther under the water. I could see the red flush of heat marking her skin where she’d gone under. Who had filled a bath? Who’d died? It could be from a movie. I knew she watched a lot of them. What else could you do, alone all day, with every body part giving up separate ghosts—eyes and legs, lobes of the mind?
“Who did what?” I asked again. “What came back to life?”
“She was gentler than your mother, no matter what she did. She gave me a bruise here once, but she was always gentle underneath.” Lucy ran two fingers across her cheek, leaving a film.
I said, “I don’t know who you mean.”
“No,” she said. “We never told you.” She hugged herself. She could have been speaking from the middle of a dream.
“Never told me about what?”
“About Matilda,” she said. “Your mother’s sister.”
“You have a—” I stopped myself. “Where is she?”
She spoke so softly I could barely hear: “I don’t know.”
In her croaking voice, Grandma Lucy told me about her younger daughter in reverent bursts, as if Matilda were a dream that would be lost if she weren’t told fast enough. It had taken all these years just to say her name out loud.
Grandma Lucy said she’d taken Matilda—only Matilda, not my mother—to the tide pools every summer. This was in Chatham, near the big salty mouth of the Atlantic. “I showed her sea urchins,” she said. “Little bundles of purple pencils.”
She’d explained—to her and now to me—about starfish. How they ate with their stomachs outside their bodies. Their color was like orange juice concentrate, she said, so unbelievably bright. Maybe she had shades of freezer foods in mind for every animal. I remembered all the times my mother had said, She’s just a housewife, through and through.
“Matilda loved those pools,” Lucy said. “She really did.”
She’d loved feeling the urchins’ points and watching the crabs for hours, as they fought for homes in rock caves, but she’d flinched from the starfish when they sucked on her arm. “She said it felt like someone taking a breath right next to her skin,” Grandma Lucy said. “I told her it had a mouth on its belly.”
“It thought Matilda was food?”
“No.” Grandma Lucy laughed. “It thought she was home.”
She described the shoreline—meadows that stretched all the way to the water, full of a particular prickly weed. Matilda called it Grandma Grass, because the wind made it sound like an old woman sighing. “Grandma Grass.” Lucy paused. “I guess that’s me now.”
It was only when she started shivering again that I thought of how the water must have cooled around her skin. She couldn’t lift herself from the tub. I had to dunk my arms to hoist her up. Her wet body dripped all over my jeans and my cashmere sweater. She sat on the toilet seat, shaking.
That’s when she got to the part about the dead things. One time my mother had filled a bathtub with bits and pieces of the ocean: a collage of ash-gray barnacles lined up like toy soldiers, a small flock of ghost crabs that hoisted themselves across the tub with weary ticktock steps, old men in their shells. They tapped the porcelain with their pincers.
“Your mother left them for days,” Grandma Lucy said. “She was like that. Always curious.”
“And Matilda tried to save them?”
Grandma Lucy held the towel around her narrow shoulders while her white hair dripped bathwater. She told me about this younger daughter—new to me, gone to everyone—the one who found a tiny ocean dying and thought she could run enough bathwater to bring it back to life. What happened? The barnacles washed away like scabs. The crabs weren’t the kind of crabs that needed water all around them. They drowned.
* * *
On the train home, I called my mother. I told her Grandma Lucy needed help. No problem, she said. We’d hire a nurse for visits.
“She doesn’t need help sometimes,” I said. “She needs it all the time.”
My mother was an immigration lawyer and a fearsome pixie beauty. She negotiated her daily schedule as a creature separate from herself, uncompromising, a force to be obeyed: client meetings, spinning classes, therapy sessions. “I call Mother all the time,” she said, hurt.
I knew if she’d been in the room, she would have pulled out her daily calendar to show me where she’d penciled these calls: little X’s tucked between names and telephone numbers, between appointments crossed through once, twice, three times, until the final hour perched uneasily in a hasty box of pen strokes. My eyes got lost when I looked at that book. It was a maze. I knew my mother was in there somewhere.
None of it made sense, I said, why Grandma Lucy was naked and fetching yogurt, and what about this bleeding? All this shivering? Maybe it was loose firing, her explanations—I had a nosebleed—just words that came into her head and seemed right.
Had she been lucid or not? my mother asked.
I didn’t know, I confessed. She veered.
I could hear background fuzz. This meant I was on speakerphone. It was still Christmas, even in the West, but I could tell my mother had returned to her office. I knew she liked to pace the length of her long windows, their panels stuck with skyscrapers like splinters.
“She’s probably not getting enough exercise,” she said. “She barely leaves the house.”
I thought of Grandma Lucy sprawled on the floor, hands flapping like birds. A mustache of blood had pooled in worm trails from her nostrils.
“I don’t think exercise is the issue, so much,” I said. “She’s just…”
“She needs help.” I paused. “Like I said.”
I knew grown children did this all the time—put their lives on hold to care for the failing bodies of their parents, to help them eat and smile and shit without making a mess. My mom wanted to look into live-in care options. It was no problem, she said. She had the money. “But Mother isn’t going to like it,” she said. “Not one bit.”
Strangers being nice never make anything better, Lucy had told me. They just make me feel alone. She’d rather wither away completely than make this final submission to a stranger’s care.
I suggested another plan. I could come up four nights a week. I’d cook and keep her company.
My mom said, “You’ll make me look like a terrible daughter.”
“There’s always somebody falling, isn’t there? And you catch them.”
“She fell,” I said. “I didn’t make her fall.”
She stayed silent. So did I.
I said, “She told me about Matilda.”
Finally: “I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
“You had years.”
“I always meant to,” she said. “I just didn’t.”
“I knew you’d think I was terrible.”
“For what?” I said. “I don’t even know what happened.”
“You want to know what happened?” she said. “Matilda left us. She left first. She came back, but she never really came back. She never tried.”
“She ran away?”
“It was complicated.”
“It’s been so many years…I mean, Christ, my whole life. You never wanted me to know?”
“We agreed we wouldn’t talk about it,” she said. “It was easier for Lucy.”
“It was. It’s different now.”
“What did she say?” my mom asked. “About Matilda? How did she sound?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was she angry?”
“Not angry, so much. Just sad.”
“How did she bring it up?”
“I don’t know, Mom. She was lying in the tub and rambling. She fell and maybe hit her head, and she was hurting and being honest. She missed her daughter.” I paused again. “That’s how she brought it up.”
My mother was quiet.
“I wish you could explain it,” I said. “How it got—”
“It happens, okay? When something happens like this in a family,” she said, “it doesn’t do any good to try to figure it out.”
Her voice sounded like a bronze bell, hard-struck and twanging across the miles, so sharp it was difficult to believe it wouldn’t leave a humming aftertone. Happens. Like earthquakes or cancer. Like the steady clock-ticking of an old woman falling apart. My mother wouldn’t understand what was happening to her mother’s body until she saw it for herself.
“You don’t know anything about her?” I said. “Nothing at all?”
“We know she lives in the desert,” she said. “God knows where in Nevada. Or maybe she doesn’t anymore. It’s been years since we’ve heard.”
A moment earlier, there had been some part of my mother open—some part I’d never heard. Now she was blistered and brittle in a way I recognized, ready to take offense. It was the way she talked about her father when she spoke about him at all.
My mother claimed to have disavowed his clan— nothing but a big nest of WASPs, she said—but her voice betrayed stray notes of pride. They’d been the movers and shakers behind our nation’s early history. I imagined skeletal, bespectacled men who levied sugar taxes and traded fur pelts, paid the boys who cleaned up tea from the harbor. As a child I’d loved thinking about the Boston Tea Party. What if someone had founded an entire city on soil made from hard-packed tea, Darjeeling or English breakfast? Would the heat of summer make the air smell like it was steeping?
“It’s history,” I told my mom. “And our family was part of it.”
“It stopped being your family when he left,” she snapped. “It stopped being your family before you were even born.”
So there I was, a child of the West, where history was marked in decades, where the history of a woman, her very name, could dissolve like heat off the freeway, an ugly shimmering, the inscrutable residue of what was already gone.
I moved to Manhattan when I was twenty-two years old. I’d had big plans for New York in the beginning. Everyone does, I guess. The first time I ever saw Manhattan, I was visiting Tom at Columbia. He’d left home an angry teenager with blue-streaked hair and a band called the Hangovers. But in his new life, in this new city, he had become very proper: an economics major with a girlfriend named Susannah Fern Howe. Her parents lived in Newton. “As in Fig?” I’d asked, but he didn’t seem amused. They had another house off the Cape. “Like where Mom went when she was little?”
“Off the Cape,” Tom corrected. “Martha’s Vineyard. An island. It’s different.”
He’d grown different, too. In high school he’d been hard as nails and full of mockery, teasing me about the ways I hardly knew the world, making vague reference to his friends and the confusion of their sex-having. Now he’d grown distant, polite in my company, as though both of us were already adults. I was ten, and he was already telling me New York was a “peerless city,” whatever that meant, the opposite of Los Angeles. All I knew was I wanted to go shopping in the Village.
“Shopping, yeah,” he said, winking. “We’ve got a little bit of that.”
Already: we. He and the city owned things, held them.
I’d been picturing vintage stores full of gauzy dresses and leather sandals. He took me to Fifth Avenue, where the money in my pink plastic purse wasn’t going to buy me anything. “What about the bohemian stuff?” I asked. “Bohemian” was a word I’d learned especially for my trip. We ended up on a street full of discount denim outlets, the kind with clattering metal shutters. Yellow jeans were going for ninety-nine cents a pop. “Here’s the Village,” he said. “Happy now?”
I moved there ten years later, to prove I could be. My mother had been asking me for years— What were my plans? My goals? —but I couldn’t think of any answer that was my own, that wouldn’t have been, beneath it all, a reply to her questions.
The problem wasn’t realizing that New York was different from the place I’d dreamed it would be, but rather, knowing that it was that place, somewhere I hadn’t yet discovered. I knew there were vintage stores like the ones I’d imagined, where elegant women ran their long fingers over lace skirts and tucked their feet into weathered ballet slippers to strut along hard sidewalks full of flakes that glittered in the sunlight. It was out there, that block. I kept trying to find it.
Living in New York seemed like a career in itself: just being there, opening my gills to the grit and heartbeat of the city. The coffee shops were thick with everyone I’d known in college, where I’d understood myself most sharply, my edges contoured by the constant presence of other people: our long chats in empty dining halls, our dinner parties of bland shrimp and burnt rice. We’d spoken without reservation, in arguments and monologues, and there was always someone listening. Drunk, maybe, but listening. What were we going to do next? We spread ourselves like a glaze across hundreds of blocks, across brownstones.
I slept in a room that had been a closet. You could still see the painted hooks where the wardrobe bar had been attached. I came home late, buzzed, and curled into my twin bed with a book of Lorca’s poems about the city: They are the ones. / The ones who drink silver whiskey near the volcanoes / and swallow pieces of heart by the bear’s frozen mountains. I spent my nights wondering: Who were the ones? Where were they drinking?
“You’re like your father,” my mom told me. “You make a career out of all the little things.” She didn’t mean this as a compliment.
My father, no longer her husband, had worked for many years as a personal assistant for an artist named Enrico. Enrico was the unofficial leader of a group of artists known as the Border School. “Rothko at the Dump,” he was called, because he took big heaps of trash and painted them a single color or a wash of two. His pieces were called Dump 1, Dump 2, Dump 3. It was a startling effect—the color so regular and vast, the rustling texture of the rubbish beneath. They made me feel a bit seasick, gave me that heave-ho of wanting to move closer and farther away at once. Afterward I always wondered: What was its purpose, that vertigo? It changed a moment of your life and went away again.
As it turned out, my mother knew me better than I knew myself, because I became a personal assistant as well. I got a job working for a journalist on the Upper West Side whom I called Ms. Z. She had a real name with more letters, but she never quite seemed like a real person, not quite, so I used the Z by itself. Much of New York seemed composed of these types: ideas about people that had become actual people, walking around with scripted lives curled in their guts, ticker tapes of ridiculous words waiting to get spoken.
Every morning I went to Ms. Z’s apartment on Seventy-first, just off the park, and worked in a loft above her living room. Her furniture was ugly and expensive: heavy fabrics with thick tassels and brocade cushions, couches for looking at rather than sitting on. But she did have floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the dark green Ramble. You could see people having small adventures, dropping Popsicles and fighting with lovers.
Ms. Z wrote books about things like women having sex and women getting old and old women having sex. She worked a hefty lecture circuit and I wrote her speeches. I interviewed inspirational single women and inspirational married women and inspirational anorexic women and inspirational suicidal women—or rather, women who had considered suicide and turned away. I also booked her Jitney tickets and took out cash from ATMs so she could pay her several cleaning women, none of whom were legal.
One day she had a pre-interview over the phone for a television appearance. It was a talk show about aging. Aging! The show came with punctuation.
I listened to her voice piping aphorisms like song lyrics into the phone downstairs: “It’s not about staying young. It’s about loving old.”
She called me down afterward. “Book my Botox,” she said. “I’m not going on TV without it.”
I heard her say this, and then, almost immediately, I heard the echo of how I’d repeat it to other people. And I did repeat it, on that night and other ones. I put on high heels and walked a mile through rainy streets to a cocktail party underneath the Brooklyn Bridge. I arrived and opened my mouth to drink and speak. “Guess what my boss said?”
I told friends, acquaintances, strangers, anyone who would listen. It didn’t matter if you knew me or not. The anecdote worked either way. This was New York. Telling stories wasn’t about talking to anyone in particular, it was just about talking. Something had happened to you that might capture another person’s attention. It was lonely, this kind of speaking. The truth of being young felt like an ugly secret everyone had agreed to keep.
Every night I said things like: Today my boss and I got drunk at lunch. Today my boss was on Oprah! Today I spent a thousand dollars on gift baskets. Today I used the word “autumnal” twice, and both times I was speaking to tulip salesmen.
The places where I said these things mattered as much as saying them. The facts and feelings of my life were only as important as the places where they caught in my throat. The Pegu Club, the SKINnY, Milk and Honey, Marlow & Sons and the Slaughtered Lamb and Kettle of Fish and the Dove and Freemans and the arepas place off First and a coffee shop called Think, and a restaurant called Snack, and a restaurant called Home.
We all stayed out late because we knew we were supposed to, spinning the furious and elegant yarns of cowards. We stretched our lives like taffy on racks. We found the grave and humorous correlations between our lives and the lives of celebrities, the course of unjust wars, the third world and its charlatan leaders, the globe and its various Achilles heels—the oceans, the atmosphere. We made fun and then we stopped making fun, quite abruptly, to show we knew how to take things seriously. We ate well. We talked about the food; we talked about the food we weren’t eating—in other restaurants, other boroughs. We talked about sadness, how we’d never really known it. We talked about genocides that people had forgotten because they only talked about the holocaust. We talked about ourselves, mainly, and who we were fucking.
I talked about Louis, a married professor who hosted me, his phrase, from time to time. Stupidly, I had fallen in love with him. He’d written a book about the early female mystics, the ones who starved and hurt themselves, called: How Did Julian Find His [Sic] God? He asked me questions about my two years of anorexia. Three if you counted another year I didn’t get my period. “It was my sick God,” I told him. I was like that—up for it, sporting.
“You’re young,” he said, putting his hand on my knee. “But you should take yourself more seriously.”
I told my friends what he’d said, and we laughed. They’d always told me I should try the opposite.
There were things I didn’t tell anyone. Today I got on my hands and knees in Ms. Z’s bathroom and scrubbed away urine stains left by her dying dog. Today I watched Ms. Z make her housekeeper cry. Unsaid, rephrased: Today I got paid to watch a grown woman cry.
I compressed my days neatly into appetizer courses. I worked as a personal assistant for a woman with a reputation for treating people like shit, and she treated me like shit. I couldn’t spin witty versions of the rest. In the darkness I began caring for my collapsing grandmother. She wasn’t being inspirational or having sex or treating anyone like shit. She was just getting old.
I went to Grand Central after work, on alternating days, and took the train to Greenwich. The cars were crowded with suited commuters riding to the suburbs, heading into their twelve-hour furloughs, loosening their ties. Beside them, I lurched into the hardest hours of my day: helping Grandma Lucy walk around the block, fixing Coronas with cuts of lime, her single indulgence, spreading creams and potions across the crinkled paper of her rosacea-blooming cheeks.
Outside the train windows, Connecticut unfurled into an endless spread of lumberyards and fenced-off freight ghettos, graveyards for retired buses and port-o-potties, all the wreckage hushed under sudden dusk. Sometimes I rode in the bar car, where men tucked away plastic cups of watery gin to brace themselves for the trials of their wives and children. You’d rather be alone? I thought. You sure? I imagined Grandma Lucy watching the door for my entry, perched like a bird in her silent apartment full of colors: yellow walls, blue carpet, purple couch, these cloying shades her only company.
All these hues had come with age—a concession, perhaps, to the quiet desire for cheer in solitary circumstances. Her old living room in Los Angeles had had white walls and a white couch, invisibly matted with the white fur of her white cat, Boo. He’d had a brother named Radley, a tabby who’d gone to live with new owners a few months after Grandma Lucy got him. I always wondered if he was sent away because of that couch. Boo died when I was sixteen. Grandma Lucy kept his ashes in a silver box behind her best china.
We spent our evenings watching movies about spies and bank robbers. We put on big boots and walked around her parking lot. She took pleasure in the way I dressed, so I chose my outfits carefully: wide skirts with big blooming scarves, blouses edged with sequins or delicate stitching. “You’re your own person, Stella,” she said. “I like that.” The truth was, I shopped at stores that other people liked first or that trusted bloggers recommended. But it felt worthwhile to bring a smile to her face.
Though Lucy worked hard to keep the scraps of her life in order, it was getting harder. She took a lot of pills but didn’t know their names, only what they did: This one is for my heartbeat when it gets too fast, she said. There’s another one for when it’s skipping. I arranged them in small cubbyholes marked with the days of the week. I learned her body through the steaming bathwater: blood bruises darkening her thighs, sagging breasts draped like plastic bags over the bulb of her stomach. She had a long nose that was smooth and sweeping, its profile assertive. She wore frosty pink liner around the edges of her thin lips, but she couldn’t apply it right. The color always faded farther in, as if she’d sucked it all inside. She’d loved makeup for as long as I’d known her.
“Your mother’s always been a looker,” she told me once. “But she never seemed to notice.”
Lucy had always believed that if she could make her daughter different from her, different enough, she’d turn out satisfied. Now she was eighty years old and still asking herself: Had she?
Grandma Lucy had a body that looked sturdy and practical. It was hard to believe she’d been the source of my mother’s traits: a fierce and petite frame, a set of features that seemed stone-carved. Every part of my mother was thin, down to her fingers. She looked like she was about to split along a thousand secret fissures.
I looked more like Lucy than I looked like my mother. I had a certain beauty, but it wasn’t delicate. You didn’t want to protect me; you wanted to see if I would break. I was taller than most men by the time I got my period, over six feet, and my build was solid and demanding. My only fragile parts were my eyes—light blue and often teary, generally leaking. My father called them “windy.” My limbs looked heavy and felt that way, too: the straight stalks of my legs, my veiny palms and blunt fingers like weapons. “You’ve got a strong presence,” my mother said. “You should be proud of it.”
My mother dismissed beauty in the way that only beautiful women can. One time she told me, “Looks matter, I guess, but you can’t do much about them.” Then added, “And they never get you what you really want.”
She’d been angry when I asked for a bridal magazine for my tenth birthday. I loved looking at those porcelain women, silk dresses cinched tight around their doll waists. They had limbs so thin it seemed as if you could fold them into a box like twisted puppets. I imagined their interior lives as neatly appointed rooms, their emotions like furniture draped with sleek fabric and cut in smooth lines—the calm of self-possession, the tranquillity of being fully desired. I’d seen a picture of my mother in her wedding dress, and it took my breath away— I came from her, I thought, I couldn’t have—but knew I could never give her my admiration, or even a piece of it, because it wasn’t the kind of admiration she wanted.
Grandma Lucy had always been reserved about her body, never used words like “pee” or “snot.” Now she couldn’t hide anything. She had attacks of diarrhea on the couch and on the carpet. She was eating prunes because her pain medication made her constipated. “Maybe the prunes aren’t such a good idea,” I said. She was too frail to get to the bathroom quickly. She walked by balancing one hand against the walls or tables. Her nerves cried wolf; the itching had not abated. She was convinced ginger could help.
“Ginger?” I said. “Why ginger?”
She pulled a folded sheet of yellow paper from her pantry, where it had been tucked behind tins of salt and flour. It showed a map of the human body, covered with Chinese characters and bright red arcs connecting limbs, like an airline poster showing flights between cities. It had been Matilda’s. Grandma Lucy explained as best she could: “She thought everything was all linked up. She thought you could make your stomach feel better if you massaged your toes the right way.” Matilda also had particular ideas about which colors should be the last ones you saw before falling asleep: pale blue and gold. “She painted her ceiling,” Grandma Lucy told me. “Made her bedroom stink like turpentine for days.”
It was Matilda who’d had this crazy notion about ginger, that you should hold it under your tongue until it burned. It would distract you from your other aches. “It’s worth a try,” Grandma Lucy said now. “I haven’t got much to lose.”
Every Tuesday a woman named Juana came to the condo. She’d been working for Grandma Lucy for years. She cleaned and fixed pots of soup that we stored in the fridge all week: turkey chili that looked like dog food, soups thick as paint, chicken noodle with strands of thready meat. Lucy had grown to like baby textures. She had gums that bled like inky pens. Already she’d lost most of her appetite and a lot of weight, too. I had the most luck getting her through a bowl of split pea or bisque, the smooth ones, cream of this or that. When she clutched her spoon, her knobby fingers showed ghostly margins where the larger flesh had been.
One time she fell asleep eating chowder. Later, I found kernels of corn stuccoed all over her couch. Juana took me on a tour of their cleaning products. She showed me how to use carpet cleaner on the diarrhea stains and explained the difference between brands: This one you can use on the couch, this one not.
“Too harsh?” I asked.
She pinched her nose. I understood. Too smelly.
Juana was very emotional about my grandmother’s condition. One afternoon I found her crying in the kitchen. “No more,” she said. “I hate it.”
I hated it, too, but I’d never cried about it. I’d often wanted to, but I wasn’t sure I was able. I patted Juana’s arm. My fingers felt wooden and inhuman.
“You’re very—how do you say?—strong,” she said. “Very strong.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t strong. I was just organized into little sections inside. The sections didn’t touch each other, necessarily. I hadn’t seen some of them for a long time.
I returned to the city after midnight and called the friends I knew would be awake: the ones who didn’t have jobs, the trust-fund artists and the downright poor, the ambiguously depressed, with diagnoses and without, the ones who lived so far into Brooklyn they essentially lived in Jersey. We talked with beer on our breath, leavening our words with wisdom. They talked about how they’d seen rats as large as dogs in their stairways, how they’d unlearned the aesthetic rules of prior centuries. I talked about how I’d faced mortality in Connecticut. We stayed awake until dawn because we wanted to feel reduced by fatigue—in just that way, sharpened into spokes—or else we were afraid of dreaming.
One night I didn’t call anyone. I wanted to find a man, any man, who could offer his face as a label for my loneliness. I already felt alone. I needed this stranger, wherever he was, whoever he was, as proof. I found him at an Irish bar in midtown, a bald man sitting by himself near the bathroom. I liked his voice when he offered me a whiskey. I told him I wanted it neat.
When he repeated my request to the bargirl, he was forceful and assured, as if he understood exactly why I needed it like that. He’d make sure they got it right. If I squinted, his head looked like it was glowing. It was as blurry as a lightbulb seen through tears.
We drank. We talked about the perils of age and the delusions of youth. Sometimes he tapped his skull like a good-luck charm: Knock on wood. He asked me why I was staring at his head. I said, “I like how it gleams.”
I drank a little more. He drank a little more. He said he was a doctor who specialized in brain lesions. “Seek and destroy,” he said fondly, tapping the wood of his scalp once more. I wondered if he’d even gone to med school.
I asked the bargirl for a maraschino cherry so I could chew the stem. How did people tie these with their tongues? It seemed like a testimony to something about the human body, something the mind could not control. Seek and destroy. You could damage any part of the brain you wanted, and some people would still be able to tie those stems into knots. I wouldn’t, but others would.
“I’m only trying to help her,” I said. “But I don’t think it’s enough.”
“Sweet girl.” He smiled. “It’s enough.”
He put his arm around my back, and I felt his hand moving underneath my skirt, grabbing my ass. I slapped his arm. “I’m saying something true about my life.”
“And you don’t even give a fuck.”
He squeezed me harder and laughed. “Of course I don’t.”
I beckoned him closer with one bent finger, made like I was going to tell him a secret. Then I leaned into his ear and spat.
“You little bitch!” he said. “What was that?”
I looked from side to side—for another person’s face, for the door. Whiskey blurred the lights. I didn’t leave any money. I barely stumbled as I left.
One day my friend Alice invited me to a launch party for a film. Not a movie, she said, but a film. Alice was attractive enough to have a good time anywhere. She was half German, half Japanese—“Axis-bred,” she said—and gorgeous, her smooth skin eerie like a doll’s. The certain knowledge of her own allure lay beneath her beauty, its seed as well as its product. She knew how to abuse substances in a serious way without becoming unseemly.
She told me it was going to be absurd, this party, full of people from Los Angeles. “I’m from Los Angeles,” I said.
She paused to consider this. “You are,” she said. “But not like they are.”
She wanted to go early, elevenish. It still meant I would have to skip my trip to Grandma Lucy’s. I called Juana and asked if she would mind bringing some soup that night. Could she stay while Lucy ate it? She could. Sometimes Grandma Lucy spilled on herself without realizing. A streak of tipped-over oatmeal had once left a red flush across her thigh, grains stuck as if they’d been pasted on her skin.
The party was in a dirty Bushwick warehouse. The film, which almost no one had seen, was about schoolyard bullies. The gimmick was the bullies had superpowers, but the good kids had even better ones. There was comic violence but not upsetting violence, for reasons that had to do with ratings. There were possible political implications. A woman at the party was speaking loudly, maybe drunk, maybe sober, about valences. It was an allegory for the war on terror, she said, official torture policy and so on. “So what’s the takeaway?” she said. “All’s fair as long as only the bad guys get hurt?”
Alice had spent the commute telling me about her current lover, his distancing mechanisms and terrible cologne. I could nod in earnest. Louis never wore cologne, but he had plenty of distancing mechanisms, like his wife. He made our silences—our failure to understand each other, his failure to try—seem like inevitable symptoms of the human condition.
Now the party was so loud I could barely hear Alice when she spoke, though I could tell from her face—lips pursed or cracked wry, circling an O toward her frosted martini—whether she was expecting me to laugh or frown. Occasionally, she wanted me to reply. She wanted to know, for example, if Louis’s approach was very theoretical. His approach to what? This was one of the questions I hadn’t heard, or paid attention to, very well. I kept coming back to an image of Grandma Lucy eating dinner: a seersucker robe plastered against her knees, damp with chicken broth, folded over the nest of cracker crumbs and blue pills caught between her cushions. Every so often Alice touched my arm and said something like: “Isn’t that just the intensest?”
Alice and I had eating disorders at the same time in college and shared them like an extracurricular, the way some people share cocaine or volleyball. She taught me her tricks, like drinking hot water to keep warm. She could go through fifteen cups at a meal, wrapping her fingers around each glass to absorb the heat. She told me that green-tea farmers did this during Shizuoka winters in their drafty wooden shacks. She trained herself to believe she had the yearning built into her bones. I thought about her bones more than I thought about other people’s bones. They were like tree branches under her skin. I remembered this old version of Alice like a legend, a collection of surreal details, but really she was just starving, we both were: sick in the heart and showing it.
We recovered together, or said we did, touring a circuit of therapy panels and discussion groups. We made fun of their clichéd slogans and the girls who didn’t look skinny enough to need them. We got a little bigger ourselves. We said we hurt, and this was the truth. We did hurt. We felt something, but we used it, too, and this was the worst part. When we finally saw our pain, dredged it up and spoke it, we found it mangled by our manipulations, the ways we’d twisted it around to get what we wanted. We could barely recognize it. It was barely ours. Then Alice got bad again, worse than I’d ever been, and we kind of drifted apart.
Now we frowned together at our past selves. “That was so fucked up,” Alice said. “How we were back then.” Alice wasn’t plump, but you could see the weight in her breasts. She was a B cup now for sure. She had a strange way of talking about her disease: “It was the worst thing that ever happened to me,” she said. “And the best.”
She was on Prozac now. “It’s a hard drug,” she said. “It takes something.”
It didn’t take everything. She was still an animated storyteller, full of tales about the people who commissioned her art pieces for their lofts and condos. She had a keen interest in other people and a sharp sense of humor whose edges, rising without warning, showed me how I must seem to other people, refracted and grinning like a clown. Once in a while she’d pause in the middle of an anecdote and stare off into the distance, as if scanning the horizon. Maybe she was waiting for the return of her disease or else another kind of trouble. There was this hope in her eyes, just a flicker.
The room around us was full of characters, local and foreign, like smudges brought to life from cartoon strips: hipsters with mullets, in suspenders; girls in leggings, their narrow wrists moving like flying fish through glittering glass bangles. A woman sat with two ferrets curled over her shoulders like parentheses. A man wedged a photograph of David Bowie into the V of his sweater-vest, where his chest hair grew thick and tangled, and asked me to take his picture. “Use my cell phone,” he said. “It has a camera.”
People spoke loudly because they wanted to be heard and overheard by strangers. One woman had gotten another knife commercial but she was worried this meant her hands were too butch. A man was DPing for a documentary about Monopoly buffs in Tennessee. A guy knew a friend of a friend who was making a feature-length about rabies. There were also a lot of people dancing. I liked that.
Alice liked to talk about my second life, up north. “Everyone I know is getting degrees or working,” she said. “But you’re really experiencing something.”
Alice complained about her lover, the one who smelled like European lovemaking, and his vanity complex about her art. “It’s like every canvas is a mirror,” she said. “He just sees himself.”
I saw: broth, robe, pills.
“Lame,” I said.
She said, “It’s not like every piece of art is about him.”
Most of her art probably was about him, or at least the idea of him. I said, “Really lame.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said. “But you use smaller words than you used to.”
Grandma Lucy had a small balcony, tucked between the balconies of finance bachelors, where she liked to sit at twilight, even during winter. Around dusk she got peaceful and confused. Doctors had a name for this. They called it sundowning.
“Dora ran an orphanage in Africa,” she said. “She helped build it. She broke her finger.”
“My mother helps African people, you mean,” I said. “With her law firm.”
A home-care nurse who’d started coming once a week explained about the twilight thing. “It happens with older folks,” she said. “They get confused. It’s like clockwork. Who knows why?”
Sundowning was like shape-shifting. Grandma Lucy’s real self—rambling and delirious, eager to believe in histories that never happened—waited until nightfall and then emerged into the shadows. Lucy would start talking to me like a blind person, her gaze slanted away from my face, as she remembered her lost daughter’s favorite sandwiches and how much trouble Matilda had falling asleep at night.
Between the hard clarity of her days and the medicated speech of her nights, there were these twilights, when it was impossible to tell which parts were real and which might have been imagined.
Matilda could be an actress by now, or a poet or a waitress or a bank teller or simply a suburban mother, quietly stupendous. Lucy said that Matilda was the kind of woman who might have died young. At first it shocked me to hear her imagine the death of her own daughter this way—calmly, a bit wistfully—but I realized death did not make her feel the way it made me feel. It was so near she could almost hear it, a distant hum, and who knew what it held? Maybe it held her daughter, waiting. Maybe it would bring them closer than they’d been.
My mom called me every day. She wanted reports over the phone. “I’m not getting the full story from Mother.” She paused. “She’s always been too damn proud.” She couldn’t see what was happening to her mother’s pride. “Is she eating enough?” she asked. “What is she eating?” I told her about the meals but could not explain the long hours between them—hours of mess and boredom, embarrassments of the body. Nobody can tell you that a person is dying, or what her dying looks like, until you see it for yourself.
Grandma Lucy often spoke about Matilda, though she didn’t talk about why she’d left, or been left, or broken ties, or been broken. She talked only about what her daughter had been like when she was young.
“It never should have happened,” she said once. “It was a terrible thing.”
I thought this would be it, perhaps—a story that had never been told, a story about the break.
“Matilda was just a girl,” she said. “But after him…” Her voice was sharp and singing, as if an old nerve had rubbed raw against the wind.
I got a sick feeling in my stomach. She’d been raped or gotten pregnant.
“She was gone after him. I don’t think I ever found her again.”
One night Alice took me to a play about AIDS in rural Africa. It was performed by a mime troupe, meant to echo those who didn’t have a name for why their families died. They clawed at their skin to mime lesions, and traced bony fingers down their torsos to show the slender sticks that human bodies could become.
Afterward we drank. We drank Jack and Diets and told strangers in a strange bar about this sadness that we’d seen.
A phone call woke me up before dawn. It was four in the morning, and Grandma Lucy had fallen. “I’m alright,” she said. “But I’ve been lying here for hours.”
She’d needed to use the bathroom, she explained, and had forgotten the night-light. It was dark, was the problem, and she’d tripped on a stool.
“Where are you now?” I said. I was already late for work. Ms. Z was having an interview—filmed by someone for something—at an Upper East Side Starbucks.
“I’m near the stove,” Grandma Lucy said. “I’m near the bottom of the stove, but I can also see the living room.”
“The kitchen isn’t on the way to the bathroom,” I said. “You said you were going to the bathroom.”
I never made it to Starbucks. I got a slew of messages from Ms. Z, as I’d known I would. Everything had gone wrong, and there would be hell to pay, and did I know that? Did I really understand that? I’d better. I’d be made to understand, I was assured. At a certain point she asked her housekeeper to keep leaving messages on my machine, once an hour, but the housekeeper’s voice sounded defeated and a little jealous: I’d gotten out. She was still there.
Lucy wasn’t unconscious, just unable to get up again. She was frail as a bird but hard to lift. If any part of her dragged across the floor, her thin skin tore and bled. “Be careful,” she said. “Be careful with me, okay?”
I called my mother. “Things aren’t good out here,” I told her. “I think you should come as soon as you can.”
She said she was finishing a case, and would I believe her— please, because it was true—that this case was a matter of life and death? She booked a plane ticket for the next week. I decided that Grandma Lucy would not spend another night alone. I’d stay on her purple couch until my mother came.
I told Ms. Z that my grandmother had died because this was the only way I could imagine getting the week off. I packed a duffel bag and bought, for once, a one-way ticket on the train. “You don’t have to stay over,” Grandma Lucy said. “I’m doing fine.”
But she seemed pleased when I arrived. She’d made the couch as best she could, sheets tucked messily under cushions. I pictured her hands, quivering, trying to get it right. At night I watched ants crawl in a thin line from the cupboards, quiet and constant as leaking fluid. I drank cheap red wine. It helped the long hours edge away into sleep. One day a black crow dropped the corpse of a mouse onto the frost-slicked windowsill, and I swept it off with a broom, watched it drop three stories to the street below.
It was a week of bitter cold, dirty snow frozen all across the state, but our hours together had the dazed, loose-limbed quality of fever. Grandma Lucy was getting worse. She barely ate. I felt that I could see her body getting smaller across the span of hours. Still, I braved winter to fill the fridge with her favorites: green grapes, whole buttermilk, rice pudding, and seven-ounce bottles of beer that looked as if they’d been designed for the hands of children. She wouldn’t eat much besides the pudding. The grapes were too tart, she said, and the milk too thick, like wet cloth draped across the inside of her throat. “I can’t breathe when I drink it,” she said. “It chokes me up.”
Memories came without warning or context. “She slapped me once,” she said. “Did you know that?”
I shook my head. I could tell from her voice, its somber hush, that she was talking about Matilda.
“I think maybe she could have killed me,” she said. “If she’d been drunk enough.”
“She had a drinking problem?”
Grandma Lucy paused, then shook her head, confused, as if she’d forgotten what I’d asked. “She was so beautiful,” she said. “When she was young.”
I found poems that might lend my life a sense of gravity. I read them in the near-dark, trying to pass the time so I wouldn’t go to bed at such embarrassingly early hours. When you are old and grey and full of sleep…My throat was gritty with wine; anger rose like phlegm. How could anyone write those words once they’d seen aging for themselves? But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,/And loved the sorrows of your changing face. What did young Yeats know about the bodies of old women, how their pubic hair turned ashen between the sticks of their thighs?
I couldn’t look at my own vagina without imagining the labia wilting like a flower. I hadn’t masturbated properly in weeks, and not for lack of trying. I roused dirty old fantasies from my adolescence—rich men paying me for sex, stroking their fat fingers along my spine—but I couldn’t make them work anymore. My body felt pitted, flesh lingering hopelessly around a gutted core: the place orgasms had come from, before the sight of Lucy’s body made them sputter dry.
* * *
I was a little drunk when my mother arrived. Grandma Lucy was asleep. I hadn’t meant to be drunk, but she was two hours late and I’d started to think she wasn’t coming. I opened the door and she hugged me, a quick pressure like a heartbeat. Her hands felt like paws of ice. “Jesus,” she said. “You smell like wine.”
“We had a little with dinner.” My head was still thick with a dark sweet fog. I’d been napping.
“Mother’s been drinking, too?”
“Just beer,” I said. “Like always.”
“She shouldn’t be drinking anything.” She rubbed her hands together. They were ungloved and bluish-pale.
“Cold?” I said. “It’s worst in March, I think. You start hoping it’ll get better, but it doesn’t.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I was outside for an hour at Howard Beach. Some problem with the A downtown.”
She’d come all the way up from the city, saving money on a flight even though she had plenty to spare.
“You want some tea?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t.” She picked up the empty bottle from the table and squinted at the label. “She really needs both of us, Stella. She needs us at full capacity.”
“I needed to relax.”
“Relaxing is never a long-term solution.”
“It’s not a long-term situation, Mom.”
She set down the bottle abruptly. “Don’t talk like that,” she said. “At least not around me.”
She started collecting things from the floor, books and magazines, and piling them on the table. Her own living room was perfectly neat. Even the kitchen was spotless. That was how she lived. I could remember her getting angry at my father before work, storming out the front door, yelling, “Come on, Jay, your crap is all over the house.”
And I remember his reply: “I live here. My crap lives here.”
Now she frowned at the piles she was making, rearranging them.
“It’s been hard,” I said. “I’m no good at this.”
“At helping her get old, or stopping her from getting old, or whatever I’m supposed to be doing to help. It’s too much, you know? All this falling down, all her drugs, all her daydreams and her shitting and everything. She’s so skinny, Mom. You’ll see.”
Even in bed, lying down, swaddled like a baby in the direct line of her space heater, Grandma Lucy showed the skeletal lines of her decline. “Oh, Mother.” My mother sighed. “Look at you.”
Everything she noticed felt like blame: I can’t believe she lives like this, looking at the mess, and of course I’d been looking at it for months. What are all these drugs? she said. Where are the prescriptions? I couldn’t tell her because I didn’t know. Grandma Lucy had filled them herself a long time ago, or maybe given them to Juana, but she couldn’t remember the names when I asked. The bottles were empty in the cupboard, all of them jumbled. Well, this is no good, my mom said. No good at all.
She thought the whole place was depressing.
“She fixed up the inside how she likes,” I said. I’d been hating it for weeks, all the bright matching colors, their symmetries like sutures stitching up wounds. But now I felt defensive.
My mom suggested I take the weekend off. “I’m here now. I’ve got things covered.”
I saw her pulling up my sheets from the couch.
“You’re not sleeping here?” I said.
“I’m sleeping with her,” she said.
I couldn’t imagine my mother sharing a bed with anyone.
“And what am I supposed to do?” I said. “While you’re taking care of everything?”
“Why don’t you take a trip with your professor?” she said. “Isn’t that the kind of thing that makes you happy?”
I grabbed her wrist. “Why are you mad?”
She paused, considering her words. “It’s gotten so bad. I just wish you’d told me.”
“I did,” I said. “I tried.”
I called Louis from the train. Ordinarily, there would have been pride blocking my voice, getting in the way, but here I was, saying, “Take me anywhere,” adding, “If you can get away, I mean.”
“I’ll see what I can swing,” he said.
Crises made a difference to him. They could turn you into someone else, or they could become you. They were becoming.
He and his wife lived in TriBeCa, but he had a little cabin in Vermont near the Mad River Valley. That’s where we were going. I think he told his wife it was a place where he could find himself—when really, of course, it was a place he brought women. I didn’t kid myself. I knew I was part of a pattern. I’d been up once before, during the summer. The woods had been full of spindly mosquitoes, vicious in their veering, and moist heat that felt like the breath of a drunkard telling you a secret. I’d glimpsed important truths: I could tuck my pants into my socks or smear the stronger chemicals into my skin, but the bugs would always come around, and they would always leave with a little more of my blood; Louis would never make a life with me. These revelations were anecdotal and syntactically parallel: the trouble with insects, the trouble with expectations.
Now we were moving through the snow in his four-wheel-drive rental. He wanted to know everything about my terrible situation back home: Could Grandma bathe? Could she speak? Where could I see, especially, the outline of her bones? He’d made his life’s work from crafting words about the broken bodies of women—he saw something sacred in them, something breathtaking.
“It helps,” I told him. “Telling you all this.”
“This is hard,” he said. “And it’ll get harder. You’ll get yourself through it.”
You will. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what he would give and what he wouldn’t.
We drove past strip-mall buffets and the skeletons of fallen barns. We stopped for lunch in a town called Windsor, at a pizza parlor with two windows. One said PIZZA. The other said & FUN. They were full of ferns. You couldn’t see anything but leaves inside.
“This place used to serve pizza,” I said. “Before a ficus ate the owner.”
“Ah,” he said. “Carnivorous plants.”
There was a silence. He paused. I paused.
He said, “Should we eat?”
We ate pizza with pineapples and black olives. The marinara sauce was runny from canned juice. Each bite tasted saltier than the last. I didn’t make any more jokes.
I called my mother from the edge of Windsor. Louis said we were about to go off the grid. My mom didn’t seem worried that I’d be out of range.
“We’re doing fine,” she said. “I’m figuring out her prescriptions right now.”
“I know the long red ones help with the pain. But they make her confused.”
“I should go,” she said. “I’m on the other line with the doctor.”
When I hung up the phone, I saw Louis looking at me as if I were a child. There was a tenderness in his eyes I’d never seen before. He and his wife didn’t have any kids. Weren’t planning to, he said.
We stopped in a drugstore for supplies. I wanted to pretend the end of the world was approaching and we were shopping for our hideout bunker. He said we could always come back tomorrow.
He disappeared down an aisle and returned with a package of condoms and a tube of the kind of pain cream that heats your body until it doesn’t hurt anymore. “The only thing better than getting head,” he said, “is getting head with heat cream.” He was trying to lighten the mood, a favorite phrase of Grandma Lucy’s. I was happy he was thinking about oral sex, but I also wondered what that cream would taste like. Probably not good.
We took a dirt road into the woods. “My woods,” he called them. He was a man who owned an apartment on Varick Street and a whole forest somewhere else. It got dark early, and we drank nicer wine than I’d tasted in months. It felt strange to drink with another person. I’d grown used to the feeling of drinking until I dissolved into delirium, its perfect silence, until I could feel absolutely unobserved.
Louis said he was curious about my love life. But he was my love life. He wanted to know: Was I seeing anyone else? I told him about trying to masturbate on Lucy’s couch. He was interested in this. But I couldn’t?
I was surprised by how quickly it could leave, all that hurt—how I could feel worse about Louis, closer at hand, than the memory of her face seizing up with pain, features twisted as if a big invisible palm had clamped her face and squeezed it.
I gave him head while he sat on the ratty plaid couch. I could see the cover of an old porn video stuck into the cushions. He forgot about the special cream and I didn’t. I didn’t remind him.
Afterward he said, “I want to do something for you,” and we had sex on a shaggy rug the color of butter. He came, I think, and I didn’t, I’m sure.
“Did you orgasm?” he said.
I said, “That felt nice.”
I lay with my face to the empty fireplace. He wrapped his arms around me, and I could feel his chest hair against my shoulders. It made me giddy. It was the strong grip of a healthy body, nothing like Grandma Lucy’s hunched back, her skin peeling onto the carpet.
“You really are beautiful,” he said.
My heart skittered like mice under my ribs. He’d never said that to me before.
“Did you miss me?” I said.
He said, “I’m glad to be with you now.”
I lay on my back and hugged myself to cover my breasts. I looked at him. The stubble on his cheeks caught bits of glow from the lamp. I wanted him badly. He didn’t feel ashamed of anything he was saying. He owned trees! And he was not afraid of hurting other people. He made this seem like an important kind of bravery.
When we got back to Windsor, my phone told me I’d missed sixteen calls. They were all from my mother. I called her back, and she told me Grandma Lucy had collapsed. “Not like the other times,” she said. “She had a cardiac event.”
“You better come,” she said. They’d taken Lucy to Greenwich Hospital.
She was deep inside a coma by the time I got there. Tom had already arrived. I was the last one. My mother was holding a book called Precious Hours that was covered in flowers. It looked like a book you would buy at the hospital gift store. She was pacing the third-floor ICU when I found her. She looked tired, and there was a run in her panty hose the width of my thumb. “You’re here,” she said. “You’re finally here.”
I felt the sob rise, could do nothing against it. “She’s dead?”
“She’s on life support. Her mind is gone.”
I put my arms around her. She felt like a little girl, so much smaller than I was. She smelled like stale sweat and, more faintly, like coffee. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
She told me she’d given Grandma Lucy some pudding. That was when it happened, all of a sudden, for no reason she could see.
“Pudding,” I said. “She ate a lot of that.”
She gave me a look, and I realized I’d interrupted her in the middle of a thought. “She told me I had a run in my panty hose. That was the last thing she said.”
“I can’t believe it,” I told her.
Actually, I could.
“I’m just glad you’re here. I’m glad we’re all here.”
It wasn’t true, what she said. Matilda’s name was never spoken in that hospital room, not once.
They say the body knows things, can sense presence even when the mind has gone. I wondered if bodies felt absence as well. I saw a shudder pass through the collapsing cage of my grandmother’s chest, making her arms spasm as if they’d touched something electric. “These are movements the mind doesn’t even know about,” the doctor said. “She’s already gone.” For a moment I imagined she was clutching the daughter she’d never mentioned, the one whose body was too far away to touch.
Juana arrived at the hospital in tears but didn’t speak much. She stood by the window, holding a teddy bear she’d brought. Smoggy shafts of sunset filled the room and stained the linoleum floors like thin tomato soup. Cold air came through the cracked-open window and tapped our skin like fingers. There was a playground across the street. We could hear the squeal of rusty swings and the shrill voices of children calling fouls. There was a sweet, wrong smell coming from the cold breeze—like maple syrup. The papers said something about a factory disaster down in Jersey.
Tom pulled out his BlackBerry and searched for information about Lucy’s condition. He wanted to know what had happened to her. Getting old and dying wasn’t enough for the search field. He couldn’t find specifics.
I stood by Lucy’s bed and held her hand. A breathing machine went clack, clack, clack as it brought the air into her body, its plastic tube expanding and collapsing like an accordion.
I went to the bathroom and sat in the handicapped stall for nearly twenty minutes, just to be alone.
“Upset?” my mother asked when I got back. She was checking my eyes for signs of crying. I could count the number of times I’d done this in front of her. No matter what comfort she’d offered, there was always a desire lurking underneath her words, a hope that if I’d been crying, I would find the strength to stop.
“No,” I said. “I wish I had been.”
She hugged me then, with force. “Well, that’s something I get,” she said. “I’ve felt a lot of things in my life, and I’ve barely cried about any of them.”
It was a bright day, a good death. That’s what people say about a death like hers. She was old. It didn’t hurt. I watched a nurse thread a morphine tube into the blue vein beneath her puffy skin. This marked the end of life support, the beginning of something called comfort care.
The smell of her room had two layers: soap and urine. Her face was bloated with fluids that came from her organs shutting down. Her chin swelled against the plastic collar of her breathing tube. The tube was no longer connected to anything on the other end. We tracked the beeping of her heart on a mint-green machine. Her deep breaths rattled and then stopped completely. I saw her chest deflate and then I turned away.
My mother unplugged the heart monitor before we heard the flatline. I kissed my grandmother’s forehead and smoothed back her matted white hair. Juana let out a startled cry—“Ay!”—and started sobbing.
The beeping was gone. The clacking of the breathing tube was gone. Juana’s weeping was the only sound in the room.
Gone was the word my mother used about her sister whenever I asked, which made it sound like Matilda was the one who’d chosen to leave. Or else she used the word “estranged,” which seemed apt: made strange to her own family. I pictured her living alone in the middle of an empty field, catching lightning with her fingertips, her body gone electric like the human maps she’d studied.
I was angry at my father for keeping the secrets of my mother’s family, my family, during all the years of their marriage and its aftermath.
“It was your mother’s secret,” he said. “Not mine.”
“But you knew she was out there somewhere…you probably knew better than anyone how hard it must have been for her in that family.”
“You have to understand,” he said. “Your mother never talked about her. Never.”
“You never asked? You didn’t think it was unnatural?”
“Your mother isn’t a very sentimental person,” he said. “You know that.”
He’d once tried to explain some of the differences that had dissolved their marriage. “Your mother always wanted me to do more,” he said, “and I always wanted her to feel more. That was most of it.” He was full of brief statements about his own identity: “I am made of emotions. Emotions are my biggest addiction.” He told me I could break his heart with a single cruel word. I reported this to my mother.
“I bet you could,” she said, and I heard a note of satisfaction in her voice. She was different. She didn’t depend on anyone. It seemed that other people’s needs slid smoothly off her body, naturally and inevitably repelled, like beads of water coursing off an oily frying pan in the sink.
Tom didn’t understand why I was so upset about Matilda. “What’s the big deal with Mom not telling you?” he asked.
“It’s not about my knowing,” I said. “It’s not about me at all. I just wonder who deserves to get cut off from every—”
“Maybe it was Matilda’s fault,” he said. “Have you thought of that? You don’t know anything about her.”
Tom wasn’t callous, but he believed people controlled their own destinies. You make what happens next, he liked to say. I felt like “next” was something that happened all over me. I never thought I could shape it between my fingers like putty.
You could see the sculpture of Tom’s life as something he’d carved. He’d spent his twenties making money in private equity. He’d left his big bank for a smaller boutique firm where he’d have more control over the cash. “If something goes wrong, it’ll be on me.” There was more pride in his voice than fear. He never had patience for things that didn’t happen and people who didn’t make them happen. Matilda was a person who hadn’t happened. At least she hadn’t happened to him. But now I felt, without being able to explain it, that she was happening to me.
I knew she must have been pretty, like my mother, maybe she still was, and this became part of my imagining. I conjured exotic lives and stuck the paper doll of her imagined body inside them: coastal mansions, distant jungles, cabaret shows in seedy strip malls. It did not matter where she was, only that her face glowed, luminous.
* * *
We planned a small memorial gathering in Lucy’s condo. It was only a few friends—people who’d become, in recent years, more like pen pals. “This must be the new stove,” one said. They recognized things from her letters. My father even came. He and my mother still got along surprisingly well. It seemed like their divorce had come as a relief to both of them. I sensed that he knew her better than anyone else. She wasn’t known by many people.
When she criticized him, her opinions never seemed raw, only well considered and matter-of-fact. He was a deal she’d already gotten out of, but I was stuck with him for the long haul. “Your father always expected to be someone extraordinary,” she said. “He wasn’t prepared for how he turned out.”
I told Ms. Z that I needed a few days away from work for my grandmother’s memorial service. I’d lied about her death, and now the lie had come true. I needed more days.
“You don’t have more days,” said Ms. Z. “You have a job.”
She had an important television appearance coming up: a daytime talk show where she’d be participating in a roundtable with a group of homeless teens. She needed me to do research: How many kids lived on the street in America right now? What had the president done to worsen their lot? Even Ms. Z, one of the most terrible people I’d ever met, knew our president was bad news. I told her I absolutely could not come to work. “Fire me if you have to” is what I said. She did.
I wanted Lucy’s condo to look presentable for her service. I wasn’t much good at cooking or cleaning, but I set out fresh flowers and smoothed the couch cushions. They’d stayed wrinkled from all my nights of restless sleep. Cleaning was a way of making things presentable for her, as if her ghost would come back as a finicky houseguest. I tried recipes from magazines, but they didn’t turn out like their pictures. My wilted spinach leaves looked greasy and depressed. “Warm salad?” my mom said. “Interesting.”
She rose during the meal and said a few words to our assembled guests. “It’s only the body that goes,” she said. “The spirit remains.”
Near the end of the night, I saw her crouched on the kitchen rug, holding an empty Corona bottle from the recycling. She handed it to me like a relic. I wasn’t sure what she wanted me to do with it. I set it neatly on the floor. “Matilda almost ruined this rug,” she said finally. “Back in L.A.”
She told me that Matilda had dumped cigarette butts everywhere, overturned all the plants and ground their loose soil into the knitted weave. “Just because she could,” she said, shaking her head. Then she really got going. She told me how Matilda had run away with her English teacher during high school. “That was the start,” she said. “The beginning of the end.” My mom had already left for college. She felt guilty for being gone. “Not guilty for Matilda’s sake,” she said. “Guilty for Mother’s.”
She came home during the middle of the term to keep Lucy company, but Lucy said she wanted to be alone—moved onto the daybed and ate toast for breakfast, toast for lunch, toast for dinner. My mom spent her days brushing crumbs off the blankets. Sometimes Lucy didn’t bathe for days. She smelled like old socks. This was a woman who had never worn a dirty sock in her life. Her fingernails got ragged from chewing. She’d always been so proud about presenting herself well, curling her hair and putting out a little bowl of salted nuts for guests. For weeks she didn’t care about anything.
Matilda lived in Berkeley that year, tripping on acid and maybe protesting the war. My mom shrugged. “I don’t know what she was doing. She didn’t call us once. Then she showed up one day, broken by love.”
“Broken by love?”
“Her words, not mine.”
My mother knew those had been hard months at home, the ones after the return, even though she hadn’t seen them herself. Matilda worked part-time catering gigs until she stopped working altogether. She started sleeping twelve hours a day, half her life. She wouldn’t eat. Bottles of liquor went missing from the cabinets—Cristal, Pernod, Cointreau—and Lucy found her lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon, drunk and sweaty, sometimes asleep, sometimes awake, mumbling in a way that made it hard to tell if she’d been dreaming or crying.
Mom mentioned Grandma Lucy’s will without a break in her voice. There was a clause that left a little bit of money to Matilda, enough to make it hard for her to fight the fact that there wasn’t more. This clause had been my mother’s idea.
I asked if Matilda was the kind of woman who’d start a fight about money. Was she that kind of person?
My mom pursed her lips. “We don’t know what kind of person she is.”
Our estate lawyer had found her current address, and he was going to send her a letter. The information placed her in a little town called Lovelock, Nevada. Bluff Estates, the address said, a neighborhood with a name.
“What kind of letter is he sending?” I asked my mother.
“Cordial,” my mom said. “But not overly personal.”
It would be a letter telling Matilda about her mother’s death.
“You shouldn’t say that in a letter,” I said.
“It doesn’t seem right.”
“And what should we do? Head out to the desert?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Just understand my side of this? I don’t enjoy feeling like a villain.”
I didn’t say: You’re not a villain. I said: “I’m not making you a villain.”
“Well, good,” she said. “You always seem to think I am one.”
I spent one summer during high school working for my mom’s law firm. I was supposed to spend a month in Guatemala, building houses for a village in the northern jungles, but near the beginning of June some guerrillas held up an airport near Flores. The newspapers said they had a manifesto and a lot of guns. Their wives brought cold Fantas and tortillas to the hostages. The articles never said what their manifesto was about, but it said what kind of guns they had. I asked my mother if she thought it was safe.
“You’re worried about guerrillas?” she asked, amused.
I shrugged. But I was.
Around the house, Tom made comments like: “You don’t want to fuck with socialism.” I didn’t want to be scared of socialism, but there I was, a little scared. The headlines said things like: Ambushed!
That was when my mother suggested I could spend the summer working at her law firm. “Why make foreign countries better when you can help foreigners come here instead?” she asked. She was maybe kidding, maybe not.
I’d often argued with her social causes. “I think women should be able to cut their own vaginas if they want to,” I told her once, because she was a crusader against genital mutilation. I couldn’t stand the prospect of inheriting all her ideas about the world. They were rigid and particular, like armor that had been made especially for her body.
“It’s not a question of want,” my mom said. “It’s a question of coercion.”
Her certainty felt like a wall she’d built around herself—just like that, in the middle of a conversation—a sign that she lived in an entirely separate world more sure and steadfast than my own. She was a pro-choice woman who didn’t like to hear other women going on and on about how much they regretted their abortions. I could never understand the ways she wanted to love me. She always flinched when I hugged her, as if she hadn’t been expecting it, as if afraid of being crushed.
That summer I helped research the asylum case of a woman named Daro. She was a refugee from Senegal. Her problems had started when she resisted the cutting rituals of her tribe. She used her hands to show us, held her palms in a V above her crotch and then rubbed two fingers together. She fled her village—had been, she said, “run out”—and then suffered persecution at the hands of distant cousins in Dakar.
I transcribed interviews that my mother conducted through two translators: to French, then Wolof, then back again. Mom’s voice was scratchy on the tape recorder: “Why do your cousins persecute you?”
There was a shuffling farther back, a circling game of telephone. “They think she have disrespected her village,” the translator said. “But she did not want the knife for her daughters.”
I went to my mother’s bed that night and lay next to her. “You were right,” I whispered. “It’s terrible.”
I wondered if she’d given me this case to prove a point, to show me how wrong I’d been. I’d told her something terrible and false about the world, about innocent people’s lives, to show that I was not the same person she was. I remembered Daro’s voice, the sorrow marking up her foreign tongue, and started crying.
“Don’t cry,” my mother said. “Just help.”
So I tried: I searched Daro’s name on the Internet. I typed: “Daro Izowede + persecution.” And then: “Daro Izowede + defying tradition.” The only thing that came up was a list of personal ads. Daro had made one before she left Dakar. It showed her face in profile—the thumb-sized photo, her long acrylic nails spread like a fan across her cheek. My hello phrase is I am looking for a man to love I do not know the name.
At the office I printed out pages of information from human rights websites. I highlighted all the parts that were about rural rituals, or rural violence, or sexual violence, or mutilation, or getting married. I made neat folders with neat labels. It felt good to stack them on my mother’s desk. I said, “I hope these make a difference.”
“They will,” she said. She rose from her chair and shook my hand.
That summer she dated a younger man named Greg and got dumped. I don’t know what broke between the two of them, only that I found her at the kitchen table one night, and she used that exact word: dumped. Her voice was blunt and ugly as a stranger’s, but her eyes were clear and her speech was orderly. She never dulled herself with wine or heavy fits of crying. She only got sharper when she was sad, brutal and precise. “He thought he could make me hurt,” she said. “He didn’t even ruin my night.” She was sitting there with her hands crossed on the table, staring straight at the clock above the fridge. “You don’t have to stay and watch,” she said. “It won’t make me feel any better.”
The next morning I found her in exactly the same place. This time she was wearing a suit and holding a steaming mug of coffee. Her eyes looked bleary.
“Do you have a hangover?” I said. I knew from television that this was what grief could look like: getting sad, then getting a hangover. Getting drunk, presumably, between. Back then, the Hangovers were just getting started. Tom had gotten a set of secondhand snare drums painted with sleek silver flames.
“Excuse me?” she said. “Do I what?”
“Are you okay?”
“You think I got drunk last night?”
“No,” I said. “Of course not.”
“You think that man mattered even one little bit? You think I need a man to make me happy?”
I shook my head, staying quiet. I was afraid of saying something worse. She asked me if I was ready for work. It was a Saturday. I wasn’t dressed. I got dressed. My hello phrase is I am looking for a man to love I do not know the name. I wanted to tell my mother she wasn’t alone. All around the world, people were looking for love. No one knew which name it would respond to.
On the way to the office, we walked through an alley that smelled like pizza and urine. We passed a homeless woman crouched in the shadow of a Dumpster. She wore blue mechanic’s coveralls that had the name Pluto stitched across the breast pocket. She had a striped cloth wrapped around her head. Her skin was dark, like cola.
“Hey ya!” she called. “You girls spare any change?” Her accent was lilting and musical, inviting.
“Not today,” my mother said. “Not today.”
“That’s bullshit,” the woman said. She smacked her palm against the Dumpster. “Bullshit bullshit bullshit.”
My mother stopped and turned to me. She said, “Never do what I’m about to do.” Then she told the woman, “I don’t owe you anything.”
“You don’t owe me? You never seen a day of this pain in your life, and you don’t owe me?”
“You don’t know what I’ve seen,” my mother said. She unzipped a woven coin purse, probably knitted by a tribe, and turned it over the woman’s head. Coins skidded off her scalp, her shoulders, and clattered against the pavement. The woman was silent.
My mom grabbed my arm. “Walk away,” she said. “Now we walk away.”
“Where do you think that woman was from?” I said. “What do you think happened to her?”
“It doesn’t matter what happened. You can always make a choice to be a decent person.”
“Maybe she is a decent person,” I said. “That’s what I was getting at.”
My mother glared at me. She said, “I knew what you were getting at.”
I pulled away from her grip and turned around. I saw the woman on her knees gathering coins, reaching under the Dumpster to check if any had rolled beneath.
I looked up Matilda’s address on an Internet map. At first I thought Bluff Estates was a subdivision, but it was a trailer park. I brought up the address and kept clicking closer, scrolling back from the yellow skirt of desert that surrounded her grid of avenues. The trailers were arranged around cul-de-sacs, their neat rectangular roofs like the building blocks of children, leftovers placed in a splayed starburst of residence around the edge of town. Their edges fuzzed.
Did her trailer have a cactus garden? A swamp cooler? Broken windows? A family of mice under the crawl space? I felt my stomach seize up with every click, like a Peeping Tom, as if she’d suddenly appear at one of her windows, shooing me—a stranger—away from her sun-scorched home. Eventually, I got so close that the satellite image gave out, gave up, and offered a row of small blue question marks instead.
My parents got involved in something called Grief Work. My father made it sound like a social justice movement. But really, my mom said, it just meant setting aside time for what they were feeling. “Your father never has much trouble doing that,” she said. “As we all know.” I was surprised she’d agreed to join him. They were making collages every Tuesday in the pool house of a rabbi named Jeri.
“I really like her,” said my dad. “But I’m not at all attracted to her.” He said this like it was a marvelous good deed, something Jeri might have called a mitzvah.
“It’s interesting to see your father impress a woman he doesn’t want to sleep with,” my mom confessed. “It’s quite amusing.”
My father brought back skeptical reports. “Your mother seems to enjoy herself,” he said. “But she hasn’t made a single collage.”
I saw the twisting gears of epic grinding into motion behind his eyes. Destiny is in the telling, not the doing, he liked to say. Now he saw his chance. Mom was raw-nerved from loss and open to wonder. She might have a vision that could change her forever. He wanted to be part of it.
In the meantime, she came east to help me pack Grandma Lucy’s possessions. “Couldn’t trust you to do it by yourself,” she said. “You’d save everything.” There was honesty in her voice, a rueful knowing, that I appreciated. It felt good to be seen through.
She arrived like the last time, icy-fingered and determined. It was during a cold snap in the middle of May. We weren’t done with winter yet. She had a plan that involved three boxes of garbage bags. “We’re going to give away a lot of stuff,” she said. “And we’re going to throw away a lot of stuff.”
In Grandma Lucy’s closet, we saw a row of beer bottles filled with dirt. Each one was labeled—Maryland, Zurich, Rio de Janeiro. The columns of soil were colored dark rum, brown sugar, reddish clay. The Osaka dirt was jaundiced yellow, like a sick man’s urine.
My mother examined one jar in her palm. “I can’t believe he sent these,” she said. After a moment: “Let’s throw them off the balcony.”
My mother was not always a fun person, but this—the throwing of a bastard’s trophies from the balcony of his deceased and deserted wife—this was definitely fun. We watched the glass jars shatter on the asphalt below. We watched bachelor bankers emerge from their apartments and crane their faces up to the sky.
Later that night, I couldn’t stop myself from sneaking outside and collecting some of the dirt that remained. I had to crawl under a black Mercedes to find it crushed into the pebbled driveway. I’d been a part of my mother’s oldest anger, and now I was part of an even older remembering. I could be every face of this grieving all at once. I funneled the dirt into a single beer bottle and made a new label: Osaka? It said. Maryland + Zurich + Rio de Janeiro?
I waited until the last night of my mother’s visit before I brought up the question of Matilda. I asked if the letter had been sent. My mother said it hadn’t. They were still figuring out the details of the will. What did this mean? I asked. My mother assured me it was complicated. Legal stuff, she said. Legal stuff aside, I said, I really thought Matilda deserved—I had to pause. What did she deserve? I could not say exactly; something other than this.
My mother closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her fingers. “Let’s take a walk,” she said. “I need to get out of this condo.”
We fought while we walked. In the cold of early evening, in the middle of the state of Connecticut, we fought. We fought about faraway Matilda in her desert—whatever kind of woman she was, not yet grieving for what she didn’t yet know. I told my mother it would be cruel to send the letter, almost unthinkable. I said: I wouldn’t want a stranger to tell me you died. She said Matilda had left, did I understand that? When somebody kept leaving, over and over again, there was nothing to do but let her go. I’d been drinking wine and my face was warm with it; my mom had been drinking fizzy water and her face was smooth and white. Her features stayed perfectly still even when her words suggested she was very upset.
She couldn’t understand how I could sympathize with a stranger more than I sympathized with her, the woman who’d raised me. I said I didn’t—I didn’t know, that was all. I didn’t know what to think. My mom said: Go then. Find her. Be a hero. I said I didn’t want to be a hero. I remembered how she’d used that word when I was a kid, like it was shameful to depend on them. All I wanted was to see if we couldn’t fix this thing at least a little. She said: She’ll make you tired, you’ll see. She’ll hurt you.
I left angry—I left her angry, standing in the parking lot—but anger kept my hands steady enough to get my purse from the condo, to buy a ticket back to the city, to get myself on board and sit, knees together, in a nearly empty rail car. It was only once the train started moving that I grew unsteady, watching the darkened suburbs roll by, thinking, How could a woman die—a good woman, a woman who loved as best she could—and leave this mess of bad blood behind, this terrible nest of angry, angry women?
I breathed on the glass and traced figures. I wrote her name, Matilda, like a girl with a crush. I thought of where she was: Was it cold there? Was she alone? I knew it then. I didn’t have to win the argument with my mother. It didn’t matter if I won my arguments with anybody. I had an address. If I wanted to, I could find her.
© 2010 Leslie Jamison
Reading Group Guide
This reading group guide for The Gin Closet includes an introduction, discussion questions, ideas for enhancing your book club, and a Q&A with author Leslie Jamison. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.
The Gin Closet recounts the story of a family stricken by grief, loss, and addictions. Told from the perspective of two narrators—Stella, a young cosmopolite searching for meaning, and Tilly, her estranged alcoholic aunt—the story follows what happens when Stella and Tilly meet after decades of separation, and tracks the unlikely friendship that forms between them. Both women struggle with addictions—Tilly abuses alcohol and Stella is a recovering anorexic. In the midst of their hardships they come to understand what it means to love the family you’re given, no matter the cost.
Questions for Discussion
1. The novel opens with the decline and eventual death of Grandma Lucy, as told from Stella’s point of view. Stella describes her Grandmother’s declining quality of life: “You couldn’t yearn like this unless you’d been lonely for years, practicing” (5). Consider how the sickness and death of Lucy illuminates the yearning for love and understanding in Lucy, Stella, Dora, and Tilly. Do you think Tilly is the character most in need of love? How so? If not Tilly, who?
2. Do you forgive Lucy for not taking Tilly back? Why or why not? Turn to pages 65-67 and discuss. Would you have done something differently?
3. Compare Stella and Tilly. How are they alike? How are they different? Do you sympathize with one more than the other? Who needs whom the most: Does Tilly need Stella or does Stella need Tilly?
4. Names play an interesting role in the story. The word “mom” is not often used—Abe calls Tilly by her first name and both Dora and Tilly refer to Lucy as “Lucy.” Why do you think the author chose to have her characters refrain from using the word mother? What does it suggest about the nature of relationships in this family?
5. Tilly says: “People were always hidden behind their faces. I knew I never was” (p. 175). In light of this quote, think about the ways in which the characters in the story hide behind different ‘faces.’ Consider Stella, Tom, Dora, & Abe. Do you agree with Tilly that she could never hide behind her face? Why or why not?
6. Almost every character has an addiction of some sort that they struggle with in the novel. Stella has an eating disorder, Tilly has alcohol and Dora and Abe have work. What role do you think addictions play in the novel? Do you see these addictions as a cause or effect of the problems in the story? Does one character’s addiction lead to the other character’s addictions? Why or why not?
7. How would you describe Abe’s character? Do you see him as sympathetic? Do you like him? Do you hate him? How does Stella see him? How does Tilly? Consider these questions in light of the fact that we never get Abe’s point of view directly, and only come to know him through his relationship with Stella.
8. Tilly describes a bird that got caught in the trailer she shared with Fiona, saying “I felt sorry for it, I couldn’t understand why it was stupid enough to stay” (77). Like the bird, Tilly decides to continue living in a place where she feels trapped—trapped by Fiona and trapped by her addiction and prostitution. Why do you think Tilly stayed? Do you think she had a choice?
9. Consider the structure of the story. What effect do the dual narrators have on the story? Why do you think the author used two narrators? Was it successful? Stella begins and ends the story. To what extent does the story become Stella’s?
10. Discuss Tilly’s relationship with Fiona. Their bond is protective and claustrophobic at once, intertwining elements of sisterly, maternal, and sexual love. Is Fiona filling a void for Tilly? What do you make of their eventual correspondence, once Fiona is in prison?
11. Turn to the epigraph and read aloud the excerpt from the Sylvia Plath poem “Nick and the Candlestick.” In light of this poem, discuss how you think pregnancy acts as a catalyst in the story. Consider Tilly, Stella, and Dora in your response.
12. Revisit the Thanksgiving scene and Tilly’s relapse on pages 190-197. Why do you think Tilly begins to drink again? Were you surprised? Why do you think the dinner party acted as a catalyst for her to binge?
13. Were you surprised by Abe and Stella’s relationship, and their reaction to it? Turn to pages 222-224 and discuss.
14. Stella returns home to her mother after her physical relationship with Abe ends. She crawls into her mother’s bed and falls asleep with her hand on her shoulder, “feeling the rise and fall of her chest” (249). Did this moment give you the feeling that Stella’s journey has been resolved? Has she found what she has been searching for? Why or why not?
15. Discuss the ending of the story. Did it surprise you? Were you surprised at Tilly’s suicide? At the continuation of Abe and Stella’s relationship?
Enhancing Your Book Club
1. The Gin Closet lets readers glimpse into the world of a troubled family struggling with addictions, abandonment, and death. Explore this topic further by having each member of your book club read a copy of The Visibles (Free Press, 2008) by Sara Shepard. Can you find any comparisons between Summer Davis and Stella? Between Summer and Tilly? How does Summer deal with a difficult home life, as compared with Tilly? To Stella? To Dora?
2. “It was one of the moments I loved her most……I wasn’t sure why—because I was safe, because I was home, because I looked like I was doing alright even though I’d been away, or because I didn’t look alright, I looked wrong” (55). The Gin Closet ultimately explores the idea that love is an extremely complicated notion, and that this life and this family is all we really have. Have a show-and-tell with your reading group. Have each member bring in photos, keepsakes, books or any other objects associated with their family. Share a time that your family grew closer in the wake of a difficult situation or tragedy.
3. Have a movie night with your book club and rent “21 Grams” (2003). Discuss how the characters in the movie learn the same harsh lessons as the characters in The Gin Closet. What parallels can you find between the two stories? What are the differences between the book and the film?
4. Abe and Tilly discover a dying baby dolphin washed up on shore. The discovery disturbs them both, and acts as an omen for Tilly’s eventual demise. Reread this section aloud with your group. Then, read the poem “The Wellfleet Whale” by Stanley Kunitz. Compare the two. Do Tilly and Abe feel similar to the speaker of the poem? What effect does a dying dolphin and whale have on the characters in the book and the poem?
A Conversation with Leslie Jamison
1. This is your debut novel. Describe how you came to write this story, and why you think it is important. What inspired you? Were any of the characters based on people you know in real life? On yourself?
When I was a 23-year-old living in New York, trying to temp enough to pay my West Village rent, most of my writing happened in early-morning sessions at mid-town coffee shops. I was plugging away at an ambitiously (misguidedly) conceptual novel about a museum. It was full of intricate ideas about aesthetics and imagination, but I couldn’t have told you what the characters wanted from their lives, or what they ate for breakfast. The novel was going nowhere. And I wasn’t happy writing it in chunks of time scraped from the edges of my cubicle life.
When I finally decided to move back to Los Angeles so I could devote myself more fully to writing, I felt like I had failed at the test of young urbanity. I moved back to the house where I’d grown up and spent my days tutoring students from my former high school and trying to help care for my ailing grandmother and generally feeling lonely. I realized that I couldn’t bring myself to write about anything but the gravity and fear of living with a dying woman I loved.
When my grandmother died, I realized the only novel I wanted to write would be a novel that sprung from her death. I have an aunt, like Tilly, who has been estranged from my family for many years. I wanted to explore what that kind of rupture can do to a family, and to probe my own sense of loss at my aunt’s absence. I abandoned my museum novel and spent several months doing little but writing the first draft of this one.
As for Tilly and Stella, the boundary between myself and these women is a porous one. My life looks more like Stella’s, we’ve both experienced disenchantment with the terms and rules of young urban posturing, but in many ways I identify more with Tilly. Sometimes I think I made her life “exotic,” removed from mine by age and money, in order to shield myself from our psychic common ground. There was a kind of deluded geographic logic in this refuge: she felt too close, so I banished her to a trailer far away.
2. How did you come to be a writer? What is your background and who are your influences?
I started writing before I was literate, which made things tricky in the beginning. I have two older brothers to whom I would tell stories (usually about princesses) that they wrote down. Whenever my brothers got tired of transcribing, my characters usually met with premature deaths—so I learned a sense of tragedy early.
Decapitated princesses aside, I was lucky enough to grow up with a family who supported my writing aspirations from the beginning. I think this is part of why so much of my writing is about family, and why so many of my favorite writers (everybody from Virginia Woolf to Anne Carson) find themselves reckoning, and re-reckoning, with family in their works.
I’ve always felt certain that I wanted to write. It was figuring out how to make money that gave me trouble. Along the way, I’ve worked a pretty wide variety of jobs: juice barista, coffee barista, clothing retail, dyslexia tutoring, SAT tutoring, travel writing, college instruction, temping, and inn-keeping. I currently work in a bakery. The necessity of finding work to support my writing habit has actually served me quite well—kept me in touch with the world beyond my own head, for starters, and given me ample fodder for characters and dramatic mishaps.
3. You were born in Washington, D.C. and grew up in L.A., and have also lived in Boston, Iowa City, and Nicaragua, among other places. Did living in such disparate places help you write this book?
I’ve always felt my youth in Los Angeles as a strong part of my identity, even though, as a teenager, I felt very estranged from many aspects of its culture. I saw myself as bookish and homely in a world of beauty, which was very LA of me, looking back: I found the script synopsis that fit. I think we get attached to the first things we feel alienated from; they help us sculpt ourselves in opposition, thrust us into relief.
My own migrations have certainly given me a sense of the emotional stakes of location—how we construct ourselves around places, how I’ve done this over and over again—and place was certainly a huge part of this book for me. One of the novel’s many abandoned titles was This West, which spoke to my sense of two kinds of geography operating simultaneously for its characters: the geography of desire (the places they mythologize) and the geography of disappointment (the places they find). I wanted to write a modern narrative of disillusioned manifest destiny: Stella flees to the west in an attempt to disavow her old identity and claim a new one; Tilly keeps flunking the test of reinvention and returning to the desolate inland center.
Many of my characters feel torn between living on the margins and putting themselves inside communities. Tilly hides in a trailer in the middle of the desert, Abe finds comfort in the empty nocturnal streets, Stella finds herself taking a train out of the city. In a way, the novel is less about any place in particular and more about the impulse to keep moving between places—and the way in which this between-ness becomes a source of despair as well as refuge.
4. This novel touches on many serious and heavy issues such as eating disorders, alcoholism, prostitution, abandonment, abortion, incest, depression and suicide. Describe how you came to include these topics in the story. Did you set out to write about all of them, or did the characters ‘speak’ to you while you were writing? Was it difficult to talk about some of these topics?
As best I can tell, this novel fails many of the unspoken tests to which debut novels are subjected. It’s ambiguously autobiographical, for starters, and, at least in certain writing communities, there is a sense that writing autobiographical fiction is cowardly, aesthetically unambitious, or at least pretty tedious. So I was a bit horrified to find myself writing a novel about a jaded young woman whose family looked suspiciously like my own. Was I tedious? Was I a coward? I didn’t know. I only knew this was the novel I needed to write.
I’ve always been a bit self-conscious about my recurring themes. I often feel like a DJ mixing various lyrics of female teenage angst, these bald and melodramatic concerns. I write about food. I write about “being a woman.” I write about varieties of sadness that elude our practices of naming and reckoning. I write about the body, always. I can’t get away from it. A woman in one of my workshops suggested I title my first story collection Eating and Body Issues, and I was at a point in my writing—still am, actually—where I couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not.
I set out to write a novel about two women saving each other’s lives, and ended up writing about how they couldn’t. How could these women make their pain visible? It’s a terrible kind of privacy, despair, and I wanted to look at intimacy as the violation of that privacy—awkward and stuttering and often hurtful. The realm of the body becomes an essential vocabulary for suffering, and this notion—the body as language, as visceral utterance—is what connects many of the novel’s disparate “issues” in my mind: suicide and alcohol and anorexia. These women articulate pain by starving or drinking or selling themselves. I wanted to look at their physical damage as a kind of self-inflicted alchemy—something that could turn unseen despair into visible communication—and one of the biggest emotional challenges for me, as a writer, was to empathize with these self-destructive impulses without glorifying them.
5. Describe the research that went into the making of this novel. What was easier, doing the research or writing the story?
Most of the time I write drafts before I do much research. Perhaps this is a wildly irresponsible practice, but I find that I feel a bit constrained when I’ve done too much research too early, as if I’m simply playing connect-the-dots with useful bits of information I’ve found. I like to feel out my characters in early drafts. I’ll do my most extensive research once my characters exist, then fold it into a novel whose psychology already exists on the page.
The “research” for this novel consisted of two very different veins of exploration. One of the most rewarding parts of this book was investigating mysteries that had lain dormant in my own family for quite some time. The other kind of research was much more traditional: reading first-person accounts of lives quite far-removed from mine. I remember one day I staggered up to the Yale library check-out counter with about twenty-five books about prostitution. These accounts were interesting and often quite surprising: many women were much less inclined to cast themselves in victim roles than I might have imagined. It’s for exactly this reason, the constant unfolding of surprises, that research feels necessary and enlivening; it constantly sends me back to old drafts with a new sense of purpose and possibility.
6. Why did you decide to tell the story from both Stella and Tilly’s points of view? Did you ever consider telling it from only one of their perspectives? From any other character’s points of view?
The first draft of the novel was written entirely in Stella’s voice, in a fever dream of composition that lasted several months. In this version, Tilly had a different name and a slightly different role to play: she was crazier, more fully tragic, less fully human. As I kept writing and re-writing and listening to both women, I realized that I’d turned Tilly (nee Madeline) into a flatter character than I wanted her to be: more extravagant in her gestures, less generous in her affect. I decided I wanted to flesh her out. I kept trying to find ways to fold her voice into the narrative: inserting fragments from her letters or diaries.
Around this time, I was caught in a blizzard while flying across the country. I ended up alone in a hotel in Detroit, sitting down with scraps of paper and napkins that held pieces of the aunt’s perspective—the story of giving birth to Abe, turning her first trick—and I felt like I kept hitting a wall, over and over again, trying to bring her perspective to the page. I finally realized that I needed to give her a full voice. So I did, along with a new name and her own half of the book.
7. Who is your favorite character, and why?
I like Abe. I like his beard and his penchant for dominoes. I like that he often thinks of other people. I like that he is willing to love damaged people without glorifying their damage.
8. The image of the closet appears frequently throughout the novel, first when Stella describes her apartment and later when Tilly is drinking. Describe the importance of the closet, and why you chose to use it as a motif of sorts in the novel.
For me, one of the important themes of this book is the function of addiction as a form of isolation—and, ultimately, an examination of this isolation as its own mythology, how impossibly relational addiction becomes in its impact and its wreckage. The closet is our classic architectural trope of secrecy, and here I imagine it as a symbol of the desire to take our darkest selves and hide them—hide them in cramped urban apartments or gin-soaked closets or the bony cages of starved bodies. The mythology lies in any sense that the closet can grant integrity or autonomy or true seclusion—addiction always leaks under the door, hurts beyond the perimeter, draws other bodies into the darkness.
Someone once told me the story of a very successful businessman whose alcoholism had gotten so bad he resolved to drink himself to death. He found an empty old barn and camped out there with enough whiskey to do the trick. This impulse is exactly what I’m trying to dramatize in the book: a sense of loneliness and self-loathing that runs so deep it seeks absolute isolation from the care or vision of the world. The businessman made it, by the way, and made a full recovery—despite his best intentions. I make myself remember this part too. Not every story has the same ending. There is no inevitable horizon point for trajectories of addiction.
9. What do you consider the major theme(s) of this story?
To put it bluntly, and a bit simply, I tried to write a book about the difficulty of intimacy. People are self-absorbed and self-pitying. They hurt other people in ways they can’t explain or justify. They hurt themselves. They want to heal other peoples’ wounds, or else they want to crawl inside these wounds and taste them. They treat each other with tenderness sometimes, and then recoil from this touch or the aftertaste of its long-fled ghost. People find a thousand ways to injure themselves with closeness, even as they crave it, and my characters are no exception. Stella carries around crucifixes she can’t explain, and Tilly turns other people into crucifixes she can martyr herself upon. They both turn their bodies into walking ledgers of their pain and find visceral vocabularies for their desperation: drinking and binging and starving and sex.
There is a quiet terror in this book, for me, about the persistent gap that exists between any two people, a fundamental state of loneliness that even love and effort can’t dissolve. That said, my characters find moments of reprieve, when they manage to care for each other, to really see each other. And these are the moments that make me love them most—to thrill for how they help each other, and ache for how they can’t.
10. Who are you reading now? Who is your favorite author? What is next for you as a writer?
I just completed oral examinations for my doctoral program, which meant I spent months reading everything from Milton to Melville. I found myself getting particularly attached to dreams: Chaucer’s visions and Berryman’s songs. They spin strangeness into sadness so seamlessly. I like works that leave me aware of my nerve endings, whose beauty and surprises don’t distract me from their ability to break my heart.
Faulkner has been my favorite author for about ten years now. I had major jaw surgery when I was seventeen and spent several months with my teeth wired together. During this month I read Faulkner almost continuously. Because I wasn’t able to talk, I listened; and I lost myself absolutely in the hurt and beautiful landscape of his prose.
What next? I am currently working on a novel about the 1979 Sandinista Revolution in Nicaragua.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Jamison paints a brutally honest portrait of a woman in crisis. Tilly is a tragic, memorable character, and her struggle to maintain her sobriety and fit in with 'decent' society is so real and sad. Anyone who has dealt with alcoholism in their own family will no doubt recognize this battle. Tilly had built a wall around herself, and Jamison has the perfect line to describe Tilly's life. "Tilly told me once about the experience of giving birth. She said she screamed louder than she'd known was possible. "it was the first time I really heard my own voice," she said. "I wanted it to keep on hurting forever."" The book is also about the damage of keeping secrets. After Tilly reveals one that changed her life forever, the reader has to wonder how different her life would have been if she felt she could have told someone. Would her mother and sister have believed her? Would they have helped her? If she had found her own voice as a child, would she still have been banished from her family? The Gin Closet is not an easy book to read; it will hurt your heart. But it will also make you more empathetic to people in your lives, people you feel don't live up to your expectations. Jamison made a wise decision to alternate narrators, Tilly and Stella, allowing the reader insight into two fascinating characters.
I did not enjoy the storyline. There was an effort for poetic language, but nothing striking.
I read the first few pages and I was suddenly afraid. Afraid to put this down even for a quick break because it deserved my complete focus on it, each tortured character demanding that I listen to their voice, their story. I didn't want to miss a thing, no matter whether disturbing or unsettling, and I certainly didn't want to forget a single moment that the characters experienced. The book is told from two perspectives in the first person: Stella and Tilly. Stella is the daughter of a high-powered immigration lawyer, Dora, and the granddaughter of Lucy, who in her ailing years reveals a secret that no one has talked about. There is another, a daughter of Lucy's that has never been spoken of. Stella, broken though she may be, is determined to find this aunt, someone named Matilda who goes by Tilly. When she finds her, Tilly is surrounded by empty bottles of gin in a run-down trailer in the middle of the desert. But it's something that Stella can grasp onto in the mired sadness of her life -- again, maybe someone she can try to help. She convinces Tilly that they should pack everything up, get her dry and sober on the trip, and move together to San Francisco, where Tilly's son is a rich banker with plenty of space in his home, and plenty of his own quiet grief to share. Stella and Tilly really almost are the same person, their experiences painfully different and similar all at the same time. Is that possible? It almost felt like I was reading a song. I felt guilty as I read this book -- each character's troubled story touched me and I felt ashamed that I was enjoying reading about their terrible miseries, rooting though I may have been for them to overcome their tragedies. This is a story of grief, sadness, isolation. There were scenes that were uncomfortable and troubling but they were real, completely authentic and believable to each character, and I never felt tricked into any part of this story -- I was a willing reader who wanted a happy ending, but instead I got life's truth. Leslie Jamison's debut will render you speechless and amazed, and leave you thinking about it for days.
Sometimes you pick up a book and it ends up being one of those truly amazing pieces of writing, the kind you wish you could have created when you were in your early twenties with college-angst. The kind professors yearn for and literary critics swoon over. Leslie Jamison makes me green with writers-envy. Her ability to take a string of simple words and turn them into a profound sentence blew me away on (what felt like) every page. On the material surface, The Gin Closet is a novel about two women, one trying to find herself, one trying to survive. When Stella learns she has an estranged aunt she packs up her meaningless New York City existence and moves to the desert to help this broken woman cope with alcoholism and loneliness. Tilly is a mess, she seems to only hurt the people around her and has been that way she since she was young. She hasn't had an easy life so when Stella turns up Tilly surfaces from her gin-induced waking-coma to think of the life she could possibly have, a life that means something, a life near her son in San Francisco. Together, Stella and Tilly embark on a trip, not a journey to somewhere even though they have a destination; more a sort of movement, fumbling many times along the way. Told from both women's first-person points of view, Stella is damaged, and Tilly is lost. The dueling narratives juxtapose these women, and give the reader a unique sense of being each of them, as well as watching each of them. This is a novel about family paradigms, but more specifically, female family paradigms: what it means to be a mother, a daughter, or a sister; what we do to our family and what is done to us. Jamison draws a true, poignant portrait of the dichotomy between female relations. The Gin Closet is about the things we live with and survive through. How we perceive the one body we are given and what we choose to do with, and to, our life. What definitions do we place upon ourself? Anorexic, Alcoholic, Loner, Dreamer? What do we make of the people around us? Stella expects to be used, expects to be abandoned, but she is hardened and does the same to others. Tilly pushes everyone away until she decides to pull them close, but too close. A beautiful, heartbreaking portrait of the female soul, a novel with an exquisite use of language, Leslie Jamison's debut is remarkable in its simplistic truth. She doesn't pander to the audience, she doesn't mince words, she's obvious but understated. Like Marilyn Robinson's Housekeeping, or Alice Munro's The Beggar Maid, The Gin Closet is unsettling but utterly remarkable.
This is a dark and troubled story. Stella is a bit adrift in her life. She works as a personal assistant for an inspirational writer who is more of a barracuda in her out of the spotlight life. She's dating a married man. And she spends her evenings at alcohol and drug soaked parties in New York City. She's never quite decided what to make of her life, marking time until her indomitable grandmother starts to fail. Giving up her unsatisfying existence in the city to be the caretaker for her grandmother, she discovers that her mother had a sister, Tilly, about whom Stella knows nothing. After her grandmother's death, she feels honor-bound to tell Tilly face to face that her mother is dead and so she sets off to find this wayward aunt, estranged from the family for so many years. Tilly has had a hard life. She's a serious alcoholic, living in a trash-filled trailer, hoarding gin and she is reluctant to let Stella into her life. But Stella pushes her way in and Tilly and Stella create a fragile family as Stella tries to help Tilly finally get her life on track.Stella and Tilly both narrate the story alternately, offering the reader glimpses of their broken souls. Tilly's back story, her time as a prostitute, the birth of her son Abe, her inability to break her dependence on alcohol, and the secrets and lies that drove her out of her family are all powerful and terrible stories. Stella is not quite a counterpoint to Tilly's unrelentingly bleak and doomed person. She details her own disappointments and the mind-numbing stagnation of her life. Really, the misery and dysfunction that infuse this novel is overwhelming. Jamison has captured the despair and pain of alcoholism, the death-grip with which the addiction holds its sufferers and she has accurately portrayed the futility and hopelessness that can thread its way into the lives of the people around the alcoholic. This is not a comfortable read. It is not a happily ever after. It is tragedy on a personal scale. And it can be hard to read but equally hard from which to turn away.
Leslie Jamison's debut novel, The Gin Closet, opens with Stella, a twenty-something woman working for an inspirational writer who treats her horribly. She is dating a married man who also treats her badly. Stella has been caring for her beloved grandmother, who is in failing health.After a bad fall, her grandmother calls for Matilda, a name Stella does not know. Stella asks her mother about the name, and her cold, methodical mother matter-of-factly confirms the fact that Stella has an aunt. Tilly has been estranged from her family for over thirty years.With her life stagnating, Stella decides to go to Nevada to find Tilly and tell her of her mother's passing. Although her mother has told her that Tilly was a wild teenager, heavily into drugs, alcohol and men, Stella was shocked when she found a drunken Tilly living in a filthy trailer filled with trash.Stella moves in with Tilly and tries to help her get her life on track. She learns about Tilly's son, Abe, born to Tilly when she was working as prostitute, and raised by Abe's father. Abe wants his mother to come live with him in San Francisco, and Stella goes along too.Abe, Tilly and Stella form a family of their own, albeit one that is tenuous at best. Stella works at a Bed & Breakfast, and Abe gets a Tilly a job at the bank where he works. The reader pulls for these people to make a family life that works, but reality soon intercedes.Jamison paints a brutally honest portrait of a woman in crisis. Tilly is a tragic, memorable character, and her struggle to maintain her sobriety and fit in with 'decent' society is so real and sad. Anyone who has dealt with alcoholism in their own family will no doubt recognize this battle.Tilly had built a wall around herself, and Jamison has the perfect line to describe Tilly's life."Tilly told me once about the experience of giving birth. She said she screamed louder than she'd known was possible. "it was the first time I really heard my own voice," she said. "I wanted it to keep on hurting forever.""The book is also about the damage of keeping secrets. After Tilly reveals one that changed her life forever, the reader has to wonder how different her life would have been if she felt she could have told someone. Would her mother and sister have believed her? Would they have helped her? If she had found her own voice as a child, would she still have been banished from her family? The Gin Closet is not an easy book to read; it will hurt your heart. But it will also make you more empathetic to people in your lives, people you feel don't live up to your expectations. Jamison made a wise decision to alternate narrators, Tilly and Stella, allowing the reader insight into two fascinating characters.
Sometimes you pick up a book and it ends up being one of those truly amazing pieces of writing, the kind you wish you could have created when you were in your early twenties with college-angst. The kind professors yearn for and literary critics swoon over. Leslie Jamison makes me green with writers-envy. Her ability to take a string of simple words and turn them into a profound sentence blew me away on (what felt like) every page.On the material surface, The Gin Closet is a novel about two women, one trying to find herself, one trying to survive. When Stella learns she has an estranged aunt she packs up her meaningless New York City existence and moves to the desert to help this broken woman cope with alcoholism and loneliness. Tilly is a mess, she seems to only hurt the people around her and has been that way she since she was young. She hasn¿t had an easy life so when Stella turns up Tilly surfaces from her gin-induced waking-coma to think of the life she could possibly have, a life that means something, a life near her son in San Francisco. Together, Stella and Tilly embark on a trip, not a journey to somewhere even though they have a destination; more a sort of movement, fumbling many times along the way.Told from both women¿s first-person points of view, Stella is damaged, and Tilly is lost. The dueling narratives juxtapose these women, and give the reader a unique sense of being each of them, as well as watching each of them. This is a novel about family paradigms, but more specifically, female family paradigms: what it means to be a mother, a daughter, or a sister; what we do to our family and what is done to us. Jamison draws a true, poignant portrait of the dichotomy between female relations.The Gin Closet is about the things we live with and survive through. How we perceive the one body we are given and what we choose to do with, and to, our life. What definitions do we place upon ourself? Anorexic, Alcoholic, Loner, Dreamer? What do we make of the people around us? Stella expects to be used, expects to be abandoned, but she is hardened and does the same to others. Tilly pushes everyone away until she decides to pull them close, but too close.A beautiful, heartbreaking portrait of the female soul, a novel with an exquisite use of language, Leslie Jamison¿s debut is remarkable in its simplistic truth. She doesn¿t pander to the audience, she doesn¿t mince words, she¿s obvious but understated. Like Marilyn Robinson¿s Housekeeping, or Alice Munro¿s The Beggar Maid, The Gin Closet is unsettling but utterly remarkable.
When Stella goes to visit her Grandmother Lucy for Christmas, she finds her on the kitchen floor, where she¿d fallen earlier in the day. As Stella was helping her up, Lucy says, ¿I need Matilda.¿ Stella has never heard of anyone named Matilda and asks her brother if he knows who Matilda is.Seeing that her grandmother needs help, Stella decides to spend every other night with her, helping to take care of her. While she¿s taking care of her grandmother, Stella discovers that Matilda is her mother¿s sister and is curious as to why she¿s never before heard of her aunt. When Lucy passes away, Stella offers to deliver a letter to Matilda to let her know of the death of her mother, thus beginning their tenuous relationship.The Gin Closet by Leslie Jamison is the story of a family¿s dysfunction and the struggles of two members of that family to form a family of their own. The story is told in alternating viewpoints by Stella and Tilly (Matilda), so sometimes you get the same story told twice. Jamison tackles some tough issues, many of which will make the reader uncomfortable, in this beautifully written book. It¿s hard to believe this is her debut novel.I was drawn into this book right from the start. I was really curious about who Tilly was and wanted to know her story. The story mostly focuses on Tilly and at times I wanted to know more about Stella¿s background, so I would know how she got to be in this place in her life. Tilly¿s life is sad and she really frustrated me at times, yet my heart broke for her. The ending of the book left me sad and reflective. Overall, for me, this was a good (but not great) solid read.
I read the first few pages and I was suddenly afraid. Afraid to put this down even for a quick break because it deserved my complete focus on it, each tortured character demanding that I listen to their voice, their story. I didn't want to miss a thing, no matter whether disturbing or unsettling, and I certainly didn't want to forget a single moment that the characters experienced.The book is told from two perspectives in the first person: Stella and Tilly. Stella is the daughter of a high-powered immigration lawyer, Dora, and the granddaughter of Lucy, who in her ailing years reveals a secret that no one has talked about. There is another, a daughter of Lucy's that has never been spoken of. Stella, broken though she may be, is determined to find this aunt, someone named Matilda who goes by Tilly. When she finds her, Tilly is surrounded by empty bottles of gin in a run-down trailer in the middle of the desert. But it's something that Stella can grasp onto in the mired sadness of her life -- again, maybe someone she can try to help. She convinces Tilly that they should pack everything up, get her dry and sober on the trip, and move together to San Francisco, where Tilly's son is a rich banker with plenty of space in his home, and plenty of his own quiet grief to share. Stella and Tilly really almost are the same person, their experiences painfully different and similar all at the same time. Is that possible? It almost felt like I was reading a song.I felt guilty as I read this book -- each character's troubled story touched me and I felt ashamed that I was enjoying reading about their terrible miseries, rooting though I may have been for them to overcome their tragedies.This is a story of grief, sadness, isolation. There were scenes that were uncomfortable and troubling but they were real, completely authentic and believable to each character, and I never felt tricked into any part of this story -- I was a willing reader who wanted a happy ending, but instead I got life's truth. Leslie Jamison's debut will render you speechless and amazed, and leave you thinking about it for days.
By the author of "The Empathy Exams," the characters in this novel are unrelentingly real and raw in their humanity. The writing is a writing course in itself. Exquisite prose that never hits a wrong note. I felt the isolation of each of these characters and their deep need to connect. I will read this book again and again.