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| St. Martin's Griffin |
by Emily Murdoch
5 Stars
Fifteen-year-old
Carey is very protective of her sister, Janessa, and she should be. Their
mother, a former musician and member of the symphony is a mentally ill
drug-addict who has left the two girls abandoned, living in a trailer in the
woods of Tennessee with only a few cans of beans and the heads on their
shoulders to survive. And the girls have survived, despite the abuse and
neglect they have endured, but now the state has found them, and the two are
being sent to live with their father in a world that is foreign to them—a world
that threatens to expose the secrets they are hiding.
Beautifully
written in a fluid and poetic voice, the reader might find themselves riveted
to this story for the appreciation of the writing alone. Yet, readers will more
likely fall in love with Carey. It is hard not to fear for Carey and cheer for
her as she emerges from a world that seems as foreign as the Middle Ages and steps
timidly into the modern world. Taken very young and fed with lies from their
mother, Carey suffers from a sort of Stockholm Syndrome, which makes it
difficult for her to see or understand her mother’s criminal behavior. It is
this that makes the reader want to read on and see how Carey and Janessa grow
after their liberation from the trailer in the woods—however, it’s not the only
curiosity. Carey repeatedly references
the “White Star Night” a night that stole Janessa’s voice, and that Carey fears
will expose her as unlikeable and guilty, and will take her away from this new
life and from Janessa. If the elegant writing and wonderful characterization of
the innocent Carey, sweet Janessa, Delaney (who we hate to love) and Carey’s
new parents aren’t enough to draw the reader in, the mystery of The White Star
Night clenches it. Perhaps best of all is the fact that while the story is
complete, it doesn’t necessarily resolve Carey’s fears or spell out the consequences
of Carey’s past for the reader. Far from being a weakness, it reinforces the
reality that peppers this novel—we know that whatever happens to Carey in the
future, whatever consequences come from her terrible past, she will endure and overcome. Such is the
strength of her character, and the merit of those who love her. This is a
wonderful story that shows how “being close to people [means] hurting sometimes…”
and how that hurt, while devastating and painful, can help us recognize healthy
relationships when they come. It also
reveals the pain and confusion children feel when they are betrayed by those
who are supposed to love them—those who have been consumed by a chemical reality
that skews the parent/child relationship.
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