Last November I needed to borrow a book from my daughter for my flight home from AK; I took “The Story of Edgar Sawtelle” because I’d read a few pages, discovered it held the anguish of miscarriage, and decided my pregnant girl did not need sad scary thoughts swirling through her mind during that long stressful time.
I read more on the long wait on an Anchorage bench, backpack under my neck, reading and sleeping and listening for the reverberating, comforting ‘dong’ of their hourly airport clock. I read the whole flight home, though at times I had to hide my tears facing the clouded window and wiping my face raw with countless rough paper towels.
Once home, I slid the book under the couch, having reached what I thought was the apex, the ultimate heart-wrenching scene—I would have to wait until later to muster up courage to finish the end. My emotions needed a break from this boy, his family, and dog.
I hadn’t thought of the book for many months and couldn’t find it until this week—at the KC airport in June a Delta agent called forth a Korean gal named “Almondine” making me nearly gasp at the name and torturing me with the need to complete this book at once. And if found, I’d finally get to watch young Edgar enact his revenge, to accuse the guilty, become vindicated and whole—and so I’d feel the ultimate relief of an incredible book while finally consoling my heart.
I re-read it entirely, clear to that throat-tightening scene and then continued until it was done. Until I was done.
So unexpected—no. Nope. I shake my head. I keep thinking if I pick it up again and go back to the final chapters the words will rearrange themselves and the REAL ending will form. I was tired after all. I didn’t comprehend correctly. It should be arranged dictionary-like and formulaic where each precise scene remedies the previous and eases the grieving, smooths soothes softens the chest-crushing pain. These chapters can’t be possible when the end was actually quite clear in my mind—I KNEW what would happen, I thought. I’m not prepared for the twist.
Online, some of the reviews gave commentary like: ‘psychological insight and lyrical mastery’; ‘comforting joy of a book’; ‘enchanting debut’; ‘big mesmerizing read’; ‘reluctant to put it down’; ‘stunning, elegant’; ‘completely smitten’; ‘hauntingly impressive’; ‘rare and wonderful’; ‘will leave you crying for more....’
Let me evaluate. ‘Stunning’-yes, nearly a shock to the soul. ‘Insightful’-yes, in a bigger way than you can ever imagine. ‘Smitten’? Not a word I’d use in this case. ‘Smitten’ implies a cute girl, your new Cabbage Patch dolly, the joy of a matchbox car or fuzzy sweater—something causing joy or warmth—I doubt this person dwelled much or even caught an inkling of that current of grief streaming through these pages. (Shallow skimmer/cheater!) ‘Lyrical’-yes, descriptions beautiful and I loved the passages about ‘words’. ‘Impressive’-yes, ‘haunting’-yes. 'Comforting'-no.‘Rare and mesmerizing and elegant’-yes. ‘Enchanting’-yes/no-many parts are, yet enchantment also seems a ‘smiling’ word.‘Will leave you crying for more’? Yet I read no words to describe the clenching of one’s jaws or the inability to swallow as one steadily blinks back tears.
I guess I am ignoring the beauty of this book at the moment, in despair for Edgar's mother. Sadly, the word ‘crying’ will suffice.
