He has lost his daughters, but he has also lost the memory of losing them. But he has not lost the loss. [loc. 2867]
An odd, unsettling and (for me) unsatisfying novel. It's set in Idaho, mostly in an isolated house, high on a mountainside, that's cut off by snow every winter.
Ann is married to Wade. She is his second wife: his first wife is in prison, having murdered one of their daughters. The other daughter fled the murder scene and was never found.
But Wade cannot remember this. He has dementia -- as did his father -- and is losing his memories and his internal logic. He cuts cat-doors all over the house so that a stray cat can come and go (or perhaps as a metaphor for the gaps in his own memory). When Ann innocently mentions something from his past, he punishes her as he would punish a dog: but he cannot tell her why.
In some ways Ann is the central character: she longs to piece together what happened that long-ago summer day. But she wasn't there, and the only person who can remember it is Jenny, who barely speaks, and has never explained her actions.
It's hard to be sure, here, whether the flashback narratives of the two little girls (May and June) are 'true', or whether they are Ann's imaginings. And there is no way for the characters or the reader to know whether Ann's fears of her own, unwitting involvement are imaginary or real.
Ruskovich writes beautifully, with an ear for a poetic line and a startling way with imagery. There is a sense of closure at the novel's end, but it was insufficient for me: still, I will read Ruskovich again for the beauty of her prose.
Outside, the coyotes' howls bore tunnels through the frozen silence. The ravens in the trees anticipate the spring, when they will nudge their weakest from their nests, this act already in their hearts, as if already committed. The garter snakes, deep in the ground, hibernate alert. Bodies cold, unmoving; minds twitching, hot. So many secret, coiled wills, a million centers spiraling out, colliding into a clap of silence that is this very moment in the house, this beautiful oblivion in which they love each other. [loc. 1759]
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