I wasn’t expecting this at all; I certainly didn’t expect it to thump my heart around like it did. Look at the cover. I bought it because it’s written by a fraternity brother’s sister-in-law. I figured, hell, she’s got the guts to drop everything and freelance fulltime, I should support the cause. I figured I’d get around to it someday, would read about 30 pages, find that it wasn’t my thing (I mean look at the cover!), and maybe let my girlfriend or sister read it or something.
And the funny thing is, I’m still not sure why I did start reading it over all the other books ahead of it in the queue. Did I want to get it over with, so I could say I gave it a shot? I have no clue. It was sitting in front of me and I picked it up and started reading. That’s all I know.
But God I’m glad I did. It is a beautiful, beautiful novel, and it touched me in a different way than most novels do. From the get-go the narrator was an interesting and likable (though flawed) person; someone that could entertain me, someone I genuinely liked. And Bessette was perfect with the slow reveal: you learn information as you go; slowly your questions are answered and the holes filled. “Babysitting? At thirty-four years old? Well, maybe that’s my widow style. My awesome widow style.” See the personality in the voice? You want to have a conversation with this person. But the quote is revealing, too -- and given the context, completely seamless.
I talked to myself while reading, saying weird, embarrassing things like, “I had to get healthy before my heart would grow, so I could appreciate this.” I said that to myself out loud! It’s kind of a “yuck” thing to say: it sounds cheesy, right? But it’s g.d. true.
(I also talked like a pirate a few times….)
So why did this book make my eyes moist? And what makes it so beautiful? It’s still coming to me, but I’ll try to impart what I can. Part of it, for sure, is its realness. A story about a widow, whose husband died while helping in New Orleans after Katrina, could have easily been written coldly, in a painfully detached manner by someone who didn’t “get it.” Or it could have been too soppy and dramatic, and therefore unrealistic. It’s the little things that are shown, and over a year after the narrator’s husband’s death, it’s those little things that still affect her and continue to make life difficult.
And you know what? That’s pretty much how life goes. Life is full of memory smacks of past situations. Life is the slow reveal. Life is growth; and real growth is always slow. Life is the coffee brewing in the morning, and your dog by your side while you try to cook. It’s those little details of everyday life that we take for granted; that we don’t even realize. It’s calming to be reminded of these things, because as unreliable as life is, there’s much consistency in a day: the wooden edge of the desk will always be so; the evaporation of my breath showing in the cold is always going to look the same. Reliable but then again slightly different: even that desk, despite being the same, will always be a little different too, because you’re always different. Your feelings, your perceptions, are never the same as they were the moment before, and the interplay of all of this is everyday. And that is utterly beautiful.
Bessette knows that people aren’t perfect; that things don’t always work out. Yet she remains optimistic; her view of human nature is a positive one. I can tell she loves most of her characters. She gets that the small, unexpected events in life that involve other people are the events that we remember; that those are the events that shape us and impact the trial of our lives, and impact who we are: not the who we are in the moment, but the who we are thirty years from now; that part deep inside us that never fully goes away … the real us.
And life is about the slow aches we hold in our hearts, too, isn’t it? The little aches that never fully go away, but are brought to our full attention through memory smacks. This novel gave me a slow ache in my heart from early on. It was slight, but it never fully went away; just as it never fully went away for Zell, the narrator.
Finishing up, I want to say one last thing here. I have to say it, and I think Alicia may read this and hate me for the comparison, but it's what’s in the cage in my chest and it's gotta come out. Her novel affected me the way John Irving novels do. I know, you say she may very well HATE John Irving. And that's fine. I'm talking about affect here, anyway -- and I'm talking about me. I’ll try to illustrate it this way:
For me, Dostoevsky and Greene are scotch; Woolf and Kundera are wine; and Irving is beer. And Bassett to me is beer. When I drink beer and read, I want a slow calm -- a reality based, slow moving wisdom. And the reality of this novel -- the everydayness of it when someone has to live with a slight, ongoing sadness, is there. And that ongoing sadness is life.
“EJ closes his eyes at the sound of her warm-honey voice. He feels washed with sudden gratitude: Dogs go missing; people fight, divorce, and die; but he can call Charlene any time, day or night, and she consoles him.”
You see, though, life is also full of other people; people that can help us make it through. People leave your life, and new people enter it. But that person you no longer hear on the phone isn’t replaced. They’ll never be replaced: they’re a part of who you are, and they’re a part of your heart. And what you hold in your heart will never fully go away.
And you know what? Even that inescapable sadness that we all have, has love in it. And I'll take a slow, wise, ongoing sadness that has love in it, any day of the week. And I think I'll crack open a beer and just think about my life tonight.