Simply put, this is one of the best books I've ever read. Perhaps it resonated more than it might have at some earlier stage in my life because I've lived on the west coast of Vancouver Island for nine years now, and I read the book on little San Rafael Island overlooking Yuquot on Nootka Island, where only one family remains. (It's certainly the first time I've seen the handful of words we use here - chumiss, klecko, chuu, kakawin, puui - in print.) I've flown over the island named Toomista in the book and wondered why those houses behind the sandy beach sat empty.
Jennifer Manuel does not set a foot wrong. We are quickly inside the mind and thoughts of Bernadette, her main character, our narrator. While there's no doubt that she's firmly entrenched as part of the community after 40 years in residence as the outpost nurse, prickles of doubt arise as to whether we can trust her interpretation of her place within the community. I cringed a little at her certainty that those four decades and the knowledge and intimacies involved in being their nurse made her part of this extended First Nations family. And sure enough, as her time on the Tawakin Reserve is coming to an end, self-doubt and confrontation forces her to question her real place amongst the people she has spent her adult life with.
While dealing with this inner turmoil the young man she is closest to suddenly disappears, his fishing boat left in a protected anchorage. This mystery drives the book as Bernadette conducts her own searches, seeks out the man's mother, living apart from and estranged from the community, and continues to sift through her memories of the past looking for clues and explanations and understanding.
While we begin at the end of Bernadette's 40 years on Tawakin, the arc of her time there is revealed through her memories. Most are positive but there has been heartbreak, betrayal and tragedy as well. She has earned her position of trust, her friendships but, perhaps because of her proximity, she is blinkered, unable or unwilling to see that there are two solitudes and that she will always be part of the one not resident on the reserve. The two can overlap, embrace even, but they will not be one anytime soon.
This may be Bernie's flaw but it's an understandable one and she is a good person, a narrator you're happy to spend time with, and within, for almost 300 pages. And, as with any good mystery, we are free to question her perspective, to come up with our own theories, until all, or at least most, is revealed at the end.
The writing is so strong that The Heaviness of Things That Float has the best qualities of documentary, as if a skilled memoirist had written of her time in this place, to the point that Tawakin becomes real and you're tempted to get on the Uchuck, or the Pacific Sojourn, and visit and see if Patty and Hannah are doing better, if Nan Lily is still alive.. But, of course, 'they' are not there. This is fiction done so well that we think it's true, and it has the drama, the confrontations and tensions, the conflicts in need of resolution, that mark the best fiction.
And the characters: Bernie, at retirement, wondering whether this was a life well lived, Chase, the son she never had, Miranda, his mother, mad with grief or, possibly, just mad, Frank, Bernie's one-time love and, yes, Chase's father... yes, it's complicated, as they say. Deliciously so.
Let the rain, or, this winter, perhaps the snow, fall, let the fog roll in if it desires, let the clouds creep down the mountains, and reflect on the ocean's surface until all the world is grey with a smudge of green forest and throw another log on the fire, a blanket on your knees, and spend your day with this book. That you will know more about our First Nations at the end of it is a bonus. That you will experience the emotional highs and lows, the pleasures, that only a good book can give you, is guaranteed.