My Name is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout

When I was just 26 weeks pregnant with my twins, I went into labor on an airplane flying home from Chicago. When the plane landed, I went home, called my doctor and ate a small ramekin of pretzels on my bed. I said calmly to my then husband, with only a tinge of worry, “We should get to the hospital.” Once at the hospital I was placed on immediate bed rest and given drugs to stop my contractions. From my hospital bed, I looked out at my babies’ father and said, “Get my mother.” He said,  “I called, and she said she would come up in two or three days.” I snapped back in fear,  “Get her right now!” And that very day, my mother flew up from Los Angeles with her needlepoint and a stack of magazines tucked in her Pierre Deux fabric tote. She then sat at the end of my hospital bed and read “Vanity Fair” magazine out loud to me. She stayed until my water broke, suddenly, 10 days later.  The rest of this story is my own, but smacks sweetly of Elizabeth Strout’s new book “My Name is Lucy Barton.” The author of “Olive Kitteridge” and “The Burgess Boys” has written a slight book filled with deep grooves and complicated characters. Only one person can ease the struggle of Lucy’s nine-week hospital stay. “It was the sound of my mother’s voice I most wanted; what she said didn’t matter.” The book is a fast read that explores the slow mother-daughter relationship, and also the necessity for distance, separation and independence. The plot of “Lucy Barton” is so simply drawn yet also covers a gigantic ball of twisted rubber bands well worth the reader’s time to untangle. I’m desperately trying to read more fiction, and this book was a good start. To purchase this book on Amazon click here.