What do you think?
Rate this book


Paperback
First published May 3, 2022
By way of parable she told the story of her own family, of her stepmother. Because if I were to marry Joe, I’d be a stepmother too. It was a story she recounted often, with only minor variations in fact and tone, but the take-away? What she was actually telling me? This is how we love.
He didn’t see the knife. The knife came when he was being kicked in the head. He saw the boot coming and confused the sensation of the knife with the kick to his skull. There was a synaptic misfire and he felt the knife slide through his skull. But it had punctured his jeans and skin and maybe organs and wasn’t anywhere near his head. It went deep. He could hardly believe it happened twice but at the same time he believed it.
She meant I should pay attention if I wanted something and I’d have to act and that it wouldn’t be easy. Of course, she was right. Because this is a story about my son and how he was stabbed at a party and beaten by a handful of monsters and how nobody chooses yearning, it chooses you.
I felt it was me. I was generating the storm, making it happen with my rage. The rage was as big as the storm, just as malevolent, tearing out of my chest. Or the storm had entered me. It was inside me, freezing everything, starting with my womb, which was frozen, breaking up like an iceberg, pieces sliding off. It was my womb or my heart, or the balancing fluid in my inner ear. I’d lost any sense of balance. The cold crept through me.