Why? This question holds open a gaping hole in the lives of a husband and four children for decades after a woman -- his wife, their mother -- gets into the back seat of a car on Christmas Eve, 1967, and disappears, evidently forever and without explanation.
As Chapter One of this fine novel opens, the reader becomes immersed in the twenty-first century lives of the children, now adult, and their aging father, Alex. How have they managed? How have they coped, each one, with this unexplained loss?
Set in her home country by Australian novelist Kate Veitch, this is an engrossing story of depth, color, and complexity that deals with universal feelings.
As my trust in the author's compassion and insight grew, I became increasingly eager to see what the children had been able to make or would be able to make of their lives.
The oldest, Deborah, her brothers Robert and James, and Meredith, a toddler when Mummy flees, struggle with the questions you and I would have had, surely. Why did she leave? How could she, and on Christmas Eve? Was it my fault, did I drive her away? Didn't she love me?
We are not dragged through the immediate traumas of the motherless child or the abandoned husband. Instead, we are introduced by Veitch to five distinct, well-drawn personalities in a complex family sharing a central, mysterious loss. (And, eventually, to a sixth.) Masterful in shifting speech patterns and tone as she moves from one character to another, Veitch gives her characters such life that I began to read slowly, not wanting to reach the end.
Sisters and brothers share knowledge and memories not accessible to others, and Veitch understands the profound power and inevitable exasperations of being close to siblings. I was drawn to these four. I was less sympathetic to the aggrieved father/husband and the mostly absent mother/wife.
In fact, by the end of the book, a part of me longed for punishment to be meted out for the crime that begins the story. Perhaps because I am male, I wanted Veitch to provide an ending to the story as dramatic as its start. I wanted, finally, action, catharsis, maybe even justice, some balancing of the scales. But what, in adult life, could equal the profundity of a child being deliberately abandoned by a mother?
I suspect the movie version of this novel (surely there will be one and it could become a classic) will give me what my emotions craved, but my reasoning mind knows the "big finish" I missed in the book will not be an improvement.
Veitch wrote this right and true, providing an ending populated with people who are no longer who they were in 1967, people less interested in sorting out what WAS than in getting on with what IS, with each other and with their own families and careers. How very like life. I think you’ll love this book and recommend it to friends.