This book, this BOOK, THIS BOOK!

​I couldn't put it down.

It's the 80s. June Elbus is 14, trying to get along with her older sister Greta, and her uncle is painting their portrait. 

June thinks she's in love with him.
He also happens to be dying of AIDS.

Junie's love for her uncle Finn is at once fascinating and heartbreaking. From the first interaction we read about, we know that their relationship is a special one: it transcends the typical familial relationship into something more like a true friendship, in spite of June's clouded romantic feelings. Yes, she knows it's wrong to feel that way about her uncle, but she can't help it. He is magical: an artist, living in an apartment in New York City, removed from the suburban Westchester June and her family inhabit. Finn smokes, paints, takes June around to different places in the city... it's easy to understand how a girl could fall for him.

It isn't until his death that she finds out the secret: he had a boyfriend.

Now this wasn't exactly a surprise to me as a reader (and June did know he was gay), considering the little bits the author had sprinkled in the book up until this point, but June's family (and Finn himself) does a good job of hiding it from the kids. Why, well, at first I wasn't sure. But as the story develops and we get to see into the strained relationship between Finn and his sister (June's mother), we begin to see that sometimes those who know us best can still misunderstand - or flat out refuse to comprehend - the decisions we make.

After Finn's death, his boyfriend Toby contacts June, unbeknownst to her family. Thus begins the real story: June comes to know who Finn really was, and to people outside of her circle. She learns the truth about the man she only saw through a rose-coloured lens; she starts to see that he was so much more than just her uncle and object of her affection.

Her relationship with Toby is really something. At first, her perception of him is clouded by the labels her family threw his way, with the largest one being that he's the man responsible for Finn's death. Well, not quite... but I'll leave that to you to discover. As months and secret meetings come and go, June begins to feel a kinship with Toby and realizes that in sharing Finn with him, she is able to grow something new from the death that occurred. 

Of course, while all of this is happening, we have June's relationship with Greta to look at. The portrait of the two girls, titled 'Tell The Wolves I'm Home,' ends up being appraised and with such great value, is set in a safety deposit box in a bank in the city. Both girls commit small acts of vandalism on the painting (sounds more sinister than it is) and it's almost as if they communicate with each other through these. While I grew annoyed with Greta's brushing off of June so often, as the older sister who never seems to have time to just be a child (and who develops a bit of a drinking problem at the tender age of 16!), as things progress there are little moments where you can see the love the girls have for each other. They're quite sweet and actually quite realistic to what I think sisters go through.

The poignancy of the writing really got to me. I felt for June. I alternately cursed and cried for Greta. But the author's way of examining loss and heartache through the eyes of these young women stirred something in me, that sense of emptiness I too-often feel when I have that ache of wanting to talk with my mother: "[W]hat I really wanted to do was cry. Not only because Finn had never told me about this guy, but because there was no way to ask him about it. And until then I don't think I really understood the meaning of gone."

Yes, it's a cliché (and a Joni Mitchell line that Janet Jackson ripped off) that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. But it's true. I recently went away for a few days with my aunt and it was only when we were chatting about my mom's history and what she was like when I was a kid that I realised that I have so many questions that only she would have been able to answer. I even tried asking my dad, but he doesn't remember... it really was a lifetime ago. And there isn't anything you can do to fill up that void, it's just kind of... there. I try to piece together a picture as best I can with the people who knew her and the memories I still hold on to, but, well, it isn't the same. It's mostly speculation. So is this blog.

In taking my aunt around London at the beginning of her visit, I saw more and more of my mom (this aunt is sort of related to me by marriage - so I don't mean biologically). The more I walk around this fair city, the more I show it to other people and allow them to delve into the nooks and crannies I have so lovingly discovered, the more I wish to share it with my mom. I've said before that she would have loved it here, and I still think so. Readers, I've gone through a massive transition in my life over the last few months - which may or may not be revealed at some point - and now that I'm on the other side of things, well, everything reminds me of her. The passage below exemplifies this:

​I understood how just about anything in the world could remind you of Finn. Trains, or New York City, or plants, or books, or soft sweet black-and-white cookies, or some guy in Central Park playing a polka on the harmonica and the violin at the same time. Things you'd never even seen with Finn could remind you of him, because he was the one person you'd want to show. "Look at that," you'd want to say, because you knew he would find a way to think it was wonderful. To make you feel like the most observant person in the world for spotting it.

That is so true. I can't think of someone I want to share my new life with more than her - and yes I know that perhaps somewhere out there she is watching, but it just ain't the same. I do know, however, that she is still very present in myself and my sister, and I guess all we can do is just allow that to come through in us and hope that it diminishes the ache - and brings forth a smile.

Katey Kontent (I know, right... don't even say it) tells us her story as an older woman looking back at her youth in late 30s Manhattan. It is a world of glitz, glamour, champagne and well, if you must know, a bit of intrigue and suspense. Born Katya, a daughter of a Russian immigrant, Katey lives the kind of life a girl like me frankly adores. Dinners out, drinks on the terrace sort-of-thing. In retrospect, I suppose I do tend to enjoy the finer things... on a teacher's budget... ahem. Anywho.

Katey's story centres around Tinker Grey, a young banker whose eyes catch Katey's attention - and also those of her roommate, Eve. Tinker ends up getting into a car crash with Katey and Eve in the vehicle, and while nobody is killed, Eve becomes disfigured and thus sets in motion a course of events that change the relationships - romantic and otherwise - of our protagonist and those she cares about. Tinker and Eve become a couple and Katey isn't the only one left wondering if this is out of guilt or real love; nothing is ever so simple, is it? As the novel progresses we find out that there is a grander force at work here, and Katey must steel herself for the truth... dun dun dunnnnnn!

This book was delicious. A very fun read which I think Mom would have enjoyed... moreso than the last few, I would hope. Yes, it borrows from some other books of a similar nature. But hey, I don't think that's a bad thing. It's far enough removed that it stands alone as an entertaining read. And what more can you ask for these days?

There wasn't too much in here that linked the content with Mom, which is fine. The point of the blog, after all, is to just have a read of things Mom had jotted down as worth a look, and see how I feel about them. I did liken a section of the book to Mom - one detailing a butterfly exhibit Katey was visiting. She discusses the colours of the wings presented, and the nature and purpose of some of the colours. Then, with some insight:  

​Le sigh. 

I did not like this book. 

(One indicator of that is probably the fact that it has taken me over a year to post about it.)

(Still wasn't as blah as Tigers in Red Weather. Oy.)

​I'm not averse to short stories. In fact, I've been known to write a few here and there, though I always give up before I reach anything worth noting. Perhaps that's why I find it so difficult to keep focused on short story anthologies. Now, this isn't exactly one of them, to be fair. This book is made up of four sections, each written from a particular character's point of view, with one central character and plot line woven throughout. Kind of like Amores Perros. Or Babel. But without Iñàrritu.

The story begins innocently enough with a dinner party. It quickly takes a turn when one guest Miles, locks himself in the upstairs toilet and refuses to exit. The rest of the book deals with the aforementioned four characters who are linked to Miles in some way: Anna, whose email address is found in Miles' phone and therefore is contacted by the diner hosts in the hope that she might get him out of the bathroom; Mark, a photo-researcher who invited Miles to the dinner party and has some serious mommy issues (like her-ghost-talks-to-him kind of issues); May, a woman who lives in a care home that is visited by Miles once a year; and Brooke, the daughter of two party guests who makes contact with Miles while he is in the bathroom. 

I did find a few bits I enjoyed in each of the four sections. Perhaps if each character had their own story more fully realised and we left out the main thread, I would have liked it better, in a way. I don't know. But Anna has a few musings on "stuff" that I found interesting: 

"Imagine if people decided at birth never ever to throw away any of the shoes they wore over the whole course of a life, and had a special cupboard where they kept all these old shoes they'd walked about the world in. What would there be in such a shoe museum, when you opened its doors? Row upon row, perfectly preserved, the exact shapes we took at certain points in our lives? Or row upon row, rack upon rack, of nothing but old soiled leather, old stale smell?"

Wow. Imagine that. You know, as a woman with a US 11/UK 9 shoe size (shoutout to Jenn, Sarah and Emma), it can be very hard for me to find shoes, let alone get rid of them once they've done their time. And actually, I tend to remember where I've been and what I've done in each pair. My memory is very odd in that I can remember what I spent on an item and what I did on a particular day in said item, without having to check photographs. Very odd indeed. So this idea of a shoe museum kind of appeals to me. It's more tangible than photographs and I think, in a more literal sense, surely, it helps you to retrace the steps you took over the course of your life. It would be really interesting, I think, to have a look at the shoes you owned over, say, the first 25 years of your life. If we looked at mine, I can think of a few stand-out pairs... baby shoes to start, some cute little ballet slippers at age 4 or 5, followed by gold spray-painted Kids for dance when I was probably 6 or 7, epic purple velcro trainers at 7ish, sparkly jelly sandals around 8, imitation red Converse (more like  clown shoes, really) at 9-10 to be cool and fit in (nope), some forgettable and practical flats for school between 12-15 (yay uniform), my first pair of heels (off-white with a road toe and a bow, from Payless) at 15 (super profesh for a receptionist gig), then a bunch of whatever from Payless until I found out about Shoedazzle and bought 6-7 pairs of superbly impractical (but gorgeous) heels. Follow that up with some Birkenstocks (yup - flat feet and proper alignment overruled) and a few more expensive, well-made shoes (not so many heels now, thanks cobbles), and here we are. 

(If you didn't think that last part was cool, then sorry. But I hope it led you down your own shoe-lined memory lane, even just a li'l bit. RIP all of those pairs of shoes that have come and gone in my life.)

I have written about Mom's obsession with shopping before, and if you looked at her wardrobe over the course of her life, I think you'd definitely be able to pick out when she was young and carefree, when she was pregnant (the massive smocks would be the clue here - I mean, she had twins, okay?), when she worked in an office, when she had chemo and reconstructive surgery and lost a bunch of weight, and when she and my dad split up. All of these chapters in her life would be well-documented, just in clothing and accessories. Morbidly fascinating, isn't it? Perhaps this is why I enjoy the history of fashion so much (check out the V & A for more about that): you can really see how necessity and desire and society shaped how people dressed and imagine what their lives would really have been like while wearing these garments. I love it.

You might find my take on Mark's story - with his mother's ghost as a central figure - is telling. As he walks around Greenwich, he revisits time the two spent together, noting details that swirl around him in the breeze: "His mother's sleeve on her tweed dogtooth coat, the one with the big vapes, is turned back on itself at the cuff and the rough cuff is rubbing his wrist as they hurry along. The wisps of her hair beyond her hat are wet, pretty in the rain." I liked that, but not because I revisit those types of memories. Rather, slightly depressingly, I suppose, I like to imagine what memories my mom and i could have had here in London (perhaps even in Greenwich itself) should she have fought the cancer off for good (or at least a bit longer). Especially over the last year, I have experienced some incredible highs both personally and professionally, and as I walk the Thames I wish she could be there with me. I know exactly what she'd wear, and what she might say, and how excited she would be to just be in those moments with me. I don't know if I've written about it before, but I still have the urge when something great happens to call Mom, even though she has been gone for four and a half years. It's just one of those aches, I guess.

So all in all, a resounding meh from me - though to be fair, it hasn't stopped me from picking up an actual anthology of short stories by the same author that I saw at the library a little while back - aptly titled Public Library and Other Stories. It is actually a defence of public libraries, and I think it couldn't have come at a better time than in these last few years as more and more libraries seem to be closing up. It opens with an anecdote about the author and one of her editors (I think) going into a place in London with the word "Library" over the door, only to find that it's a boutique hotel and shop.

Not a library at all, then.

​It's quite good, so far, actually. So there's that.

Generally speaking, I pride myself on my ability to express my thoughts. I do have a tendency to ramble; most of the time my blog posts are long and winding. I suppose it's just the path my mind takes.
​
But today, I don't have too many words to offer. So I'll just say that four years is an awfully long time. Miss you, Mom.