Review:
My Real Children, by Jo Walton
| Publisher: |
Tor |
| Copyright: |
May 2014 |
| ISBN: |
0-7653-3265-5 |
| Format: |
Hardcover |
| Pages: |
317 |
Patricia, the one form of her name that she's never used, is what the
staff in the nursing home call her. "VC" is the frequent annotation on
her daily chart: very confused. She's old, and forgetful, and trying very
hard not to be her mother, and she remembers two lives. Not only
remembers but lives: the nursing home isn't the same from day to day.
They keep misplacing the lift, and the staff keep changing. But the
memories are the strongest. She has two lives, two sets of children, all
of whom she recognizes. When someone from one life visits, the other
feels like a dream, but both of them persist. Two lives that divided at
the most significant decision of her life.
My Real Children is one of those books that fits in the broader
speculative fiction genre as alternate history, but also has many of the
virtues of mimetic fiction. It's the story of one woman's life, told,
except for the opening frame, chronologically from start to finish. At
the start, it's simple biography, telling Patty's story from childhood,
through World War II, until the moment of her fateful decision in 1949.
From there the narrative splits, and she lives two lives. And the world
splits as well: in one, Kennedy was assassinated by a bomb; in another,
the Cuban Missile Crisis escalated into something much worse. Much is
still unchanged, including the general lives of people Patty knew well in
one life and not in another, but the worlds keep diverging from each other
and from ours.
The exact nature of the divergence is not, however, a significant part of
the book. This is not the type of alternate history that is obsessed with
the point of change, or even the implications for the world. Rather, this
novel is about one woman, one decision, and two very different paths
through life. Different friends, different challenges, different
careers... different hopes and dreams, and different children. But always
the same person, the same sense of practicality, the same ethics. It's
beautifully told, striking just the right balance of showing important
moments in detail and passing quickly, but smoothly, over some years.
And, as with
Among Others, Walton
strikes the perfect emotional balance, leaving some reactions understated,
letting the reader bring their own reactions to the book, and filling it
with small bits of telling, factual detail rather than internal
monologues.
This is also one of the most heart-wrenching books I've ever read.
My Real Children is a whole life, and not an easy one, complete
with the heartaches and betrayals, the good and bad decisions, care for
elderly relatives, dementia, tragedy, and even abuse. And moments of
shining joy or profound satisfaction, but made all the more poignant
because they're fleeting. The reader knows, in a sense, how the story
ends, which casts a shadow over the rest of the book. But, even without
that shadow, life can be hard, or cruel, alongside the wonder and joy.
And it ends, and the ending is not neat and clean and uplifting, although
one can choose how one meets it. This is the story of a life, all of it,
and how choices can divide that life, and how they can cast a long shadow
over how one later defines oneself.
This book hurts. A lot. Enough that I want to warn you in advance I
was in tears through the last third of the book. But it hurts because
it's so very real and deep, not via a blow-by-blow description of daily
actions, but by striding unafraid into the deep complications of choice
and consequence.
It's also a profoundly feminist book, in a quiet and descriptive way. It
shared the Tiptree award for 2015 and fully deserved it. Both of the
protagonist's lives are struggles against expectations, around gender,
sexuality, and the role of women in society. Those struggles take very
different forms, but they share some deep similarities. Walton shows the
impact from the bottom up: the effects on specific lives, specific people,
specific situations. It's brilliantly done. One can't help but think of
The Female Man given the telling of
parallel lives, but this is a case study, whereas Russ's novel was a
battle cry. It gets under your skin instead of in your face. (Use of
subtlety on this topic is easier now, forty years of occasional progress
past when Russ wrote her classic.)
This is a much harder book to read than
Among Others. It's less
forgiving, less reassuring, less willing to provide a happy ending. Lives
rarely have clean, happy endings; one has to construct them, by choosing
the material to build the ending on. But it's a brilliant, profound book,
in that way that stories about people in all their complexity can be. Be
cautious about your mood when you read this, particularly if you've had
the experience of caring for a dying relative, but it's a book I will
remember for a very long time.
Rating: 9 out of 10