So as I was falling asleep last night I started to write this review in my head. It went something along the lines of “This book puts me happily back in my wheelhouse – it’s a well-written story about lives so utterly removed from my own” and then my eyes SNAPPED open and I suddenly realized I had 100% inherited my mother’s taste in books. Is that something you can inherit? Sure seems like I have.
The more I thought about this book, the more I realized it’s not as far removed from me as, say, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, though, again, I see very little of my own life here. The story is told from multiple perspectives mostly revolving around Lucia Bok and her older sister Miranda. They are Chinese-born, American-raised, with the much older Miranda standing in as a mother-like figure for Lucia. As it becomes gradually more apparent and then suddenly utterly unavoidable that Lucia is living with serious mental illness, Miranda expands her role as caretaker. The book follows Lucia from New York to Ecuador and is deeply moving and tragic. Everyone involved is so desperately human. It becomes harder and harder to tell what is Lucia the person and what is the illness inside her and you understand why she lashes out as much as you understand why Miranda comes down hard which makes her lash out.
This is a good one. It’s not a light read by any means, but it is one you will just inhale.