In her first work of fiction in more than a decade, award-winning novelist Hilma Wolitzer brilliantly renders the intimate details of ordinary life and exposes a host of hidden truths. The Doctor's Daughter is a haunting portrait of a woman coming to terms with her family history and the fallibility of memory.
One morning, Alice Brill awakes with a sudden awareness that something is wrong. There's a hollowness in her chest, and a sensation of dread that she can't identify or shake. Was it something she's done, or forgotten to do? As she scours her mind for the source of her unease, she confronts an array of disturbing possibilities.
First, there is her marriage, a once vibrant relationship that now languishes stasis. Then there's her idle, misdirected younger son, who always needs bailing out of some difficulty. Or perhaps Alice's trepidation is caused by the loss of her career as an editor at a large publishing house, and the new path she's paved for herself as a freelance book doctor. Or it might be the real doctor in her life: her father. Formerly one of New York's top surgeons, he now rests in a nursing home, his mind gripped by dementia. And the Eden that was Alice's childhood-the material benefits and reflected glory of being a successful doctor's daughter, the romance of her parents' famously perfect marriage-makes her own domestic life seem fatally flawed.
While struggling to find the root of her restlessness, Alice is buoyed by her discovery of a talented new writer, a man who works by day as a machinist in Michigan. Soon their interactions and feelings intensify, and Alice realizes that the mystery she's been trying to solve lies not in the present, as she had assumed, but in the past-and in the secrets of a marriage that was never as perfect as it appeared.
Like the best works of Anne Tyler, Sue Miller, and Gail Godwin, The Doctor's Daughter is private yet universal, luminous and revelatory-and marks the reemergence of a singular talent in American writing.
A keen observer of the drama inherent in family dynamics, Wolitzer (Ending; Hearts; etc.) returns after a 12-year hiatus with this novel about Alice Brill, a 51-year-old wife, mother, frustrated writer and "book doctor" who wakes one morning with a disturbing pressure behind her sternum. The daughter of a once renowned but now senile surgeon, Alice initially thinks her symptom might be a sign of breast cancer, which took her mother's life 30 years before. Or could it be psychological: a reaction to being downsized as senior editor at a book publisher? or a premonition that the recent squabbling with her husband, Everett, signals a point of no return in an often competitive marriage? Is it unfulfilled creative impulse? In her attempt to diagnose her symptom, Alice scours her childhood relationship with her then imperious father, her mother's poetry, Everett's motivations for harshly disciplining their youngest son, and her own unexpectedly erotic response to a talented new writer who comes to her for advice on his first novel. With her customary grace and perspicacity, Wolitzer reveals her characters' humanity as they alternately flirt with and shun the very truth they seek about themselves, until escalating complications force them to choose to grow or be left behind. (Feb. 28)
Copyright (c) Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.
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March 26, 2007
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Excerpt from The Doctor's Daughter by Hilma Wolitzer
The moment I awoke I knew that something was terribly wrong. I could feel it in that place behind my breastbone, where bad news always slides in like junk mail through a slot. It was there that I first acknowledged my parents would die someday ("Oh, sweetheart, but not for such a long, long time!"); where I knew I was ugly and would never be loved; where I suffered spasms of regret about my marriage and my children, and fear of their deaths and of my own. God knows there were plenty of things wrong in the larger world I could easily have named, and that aroused a similar sense of dread, but whatever was lodged in my chest that April morning was personal, not global. I knew that much, at least.
Was it something I'd done, or forgotten to do? There was a vague suggestion of amnesia, of loss, but when I tried to pin down its source, it proved to be elusive, a dream dissolving in daylight. In fact, I'd had a dream just before waking, but the content was obscured by a kind of white scrim. The only thing I could remember was the whiteness. And I couldn't discuss any of this with Everett--we'd quarreled again the night before and were being stonily polite. And what if my awful feeling turned out to be about him?
So I put it all aside while we ate breakfast, chaperoned by CNN and the Times, and chatted about Iraq and the weather and the eggs on our plates. I told myself that this was what long-married people do, even when things are good between them. Then I had a flash of my parents in their nightclothes, slow-dancing to the radio in their Riverdale kitchen.
After Ev left for work, I grabbed my bag and left the apartment, too. I had to go to the bank, and then I was going to buy a sandwich and sit near the East River to read manuscripts. Maybe the bank would be my last stop--it wasn't safe to walk around this crazy city with that much money.
Our doorman and the doorman from the building next door were outside in the sunlight, taking a breather from the bell jars of their lobbies. It must have rained the night before; the drying pavement gave off that sour-sweet musk I love, and up and down York Avenue, the ginkgo and honey locusts were suddenly, lushly budding. At fifty-one and with everything I knew, I was still such a sucker for spring. I probed for that sensitive spot in my chest as I walked, almost jogged, along in my jeans and Reeboks, outpacing kids in business suits, and it seemed diminished by then, practically gone. It probably really was only the residue of a bad dream.
Outside Sloan-Kettering, patients tethered to their IVs were smoking, the way my girlfriends and I used to smoke near our high school, looking furtive and defiant at once. My father drove by in his Lincoln one day and caught me. "Alice!" he yelled. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Oh, shit," I muttered, feeling my face and neck blotch, that curse of redheads. I dropped the cigarette--a stylish, mentholated Kool--and tried to make a run for it. But he grabbed my arm and pulled me into the car, where he bellowed and shook me, while my friends gaped at us through the tinted windows as if we were fighting fish in an aquarium.
It was the worst thing I could have done; my father was a surgeon, the venerated chief of surgery at Mount Sinai Hospital. He drove me directly there that day, and waved lurid photographs of cancerous lungs in my face, and made me look through his microscope at cells gone amok, like adolescent girls.
That wasn't the first time I'd disappointed him. I wasn't a boy, to begin with; I wasn't even the next best thing, a girl with an aptitude for science. And I didn't look like my mother. That day in the lab, I gravely promised him I'd never smoke again. "Daddy, I won't, I swear," I said. "I don't even like it." I think I even coughed a few times, for dramatic effect. Sin upon sin. In truth, I loved smoking, the deliciously acrid taste and how worldly I thought I looked with a cigarette drooping from my ragged, ink-stained fingers.
I was fifteen years old then and I still called him Daddy. I never stopped calling him that. And my Mother was "Mother," always, like the benevolent queen in the Grimms' fairy tale "The Goose Girl," which she often read to me at bedtime. I'm still haunted by its recurring lament:
Alas! Queen's daughter, there thou gangest.
If thy mother knew thy fate,
Her heart would break with grief so great.
As a child, I didn't really get all that archaic usage, or other words in the story, like cambric and knacker. But listening to my mother read "The Goose Girl" aloud as she lay next to me at night initiated my lifelong romance with language. The plot was electrifying, with its drama of switched identities, talking drops of blood, and a decapitated horse's head (also verbal), more than a century before Mario Puzo.