The Brooklyn Rail

In Maria Hummel’s new novel, two women (Edith and Lacey) form a friendship as children that lasts into adulthood, but at the start of the novel, they’ve been estranged for more than forty years. Chapters shift across time, the novel focusing mostly on the privileged Lacey Crane. Born in Prague, when she’s very young, Lacey’s family moves to the United States where her father becomes a successful hotelier. When Lacey’s German-Czech Jewish mother travels back to Prague, leaving Lacey alone with a loving but neglectful father, Lacey grows ill. She’s sent to a camp in the woods for her health where she meets the poor but robust Edith. The two girls become fast friends despite their differences: “Once there were two girls in a dark forest and they pledged to care for each other, no matter what came.”

The novel opens in the story’s present (1990)—a woman has come to “the city” where she is going to visit a “friend.” She plans to stay briefly, “To arrive, to have the conversation, and to stalk off.” In these opening pages, Edith is referred to as “the stranger.” It’s a conceit that perhaps is meant to disorient the reader, mimicking Edith’s disorientation, but it’s unclear. “The stranger” travels to a hotel, and worries about her appearance—with less than stylish clothes, she sees herself as “countrified … winter-pale.” Note, there’s a lot of time spent describing female characters’ appearance and interior decor—likely because both are important to Lacey. When Edith arrives at the hotel, she’s rebuffed—Lacey doesn’t “receive visitors.” Leaving “the stranger” waiting in the lobby, the novel switches to Lacey’s point of view. For Lacey, the hotel is home. She’s waiting for “her visitor” but stalling. “The problem … was that Edith wouldn’t care for elegance.” Lacey muses on her former sex appeal, acknowledging that “Women didn’t seem to think it fun anymore, inviting the swivel, capitalizing on it to get what you wanted.” We learn that, “She hadn’t decided on exactly how long to make Edith wait. Not overnight, certainly.” Lacey has something she wants to say, too.

Lacey’s privilege is shadowed by grief. She muses about the loss of her parents, how they changed “after the war”—her mother “lost eight relatives total, including her parents, to labor camps and to the ovens.” After a check-in with Edith—still in the lobby—where she does some ageist musing about being “elderly,” the novel shifts to the girls’ past and their developing friendship. Lacey reveals all of her secrets to Edith but Edith isn’t as quick to share. When Lacey learns that Edith’s mother is dead and her father expects her to care for the other kids, Lacey invites Edith to come live with her. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, Lacey’s mother takes her to Prague where the novel shifts briefly to a sort of awkward YA romance. When Lacey returns from Prague, she’s received goldenseal elixir from Edith that she’s made for Lacey’s cough.

Returning to the present, Lacey waits alone in her suite, suspicious of Edith’s motives, reminiscing about how she “rescued” Edith. Finally, the two women are together, withholding, the air thick with tension. Edith mentions her late husband and her life as headmistress at a private school; Lacey responds with bitterness. Lacey talks about her life as a recluse in her father’s hotel, her family’s grief, and the collapse of her marriage. Her privilege and reclusion have left Lacey with deep prejudices, including adopting her mother’s view of Edith, “a country girl, an American with crude manners, a native cunning.” But Edith has built a successful life for herself despite the horrors of her childhood. About halfway through the novel, the women finally get to the wound at the heart of their friendship. In Lacey’s view, she “never hurt Edith the way Edith had hurt her.” She positions Edith as the jealous fairytale sister—wanting everything Lacey had: family, wealth, husband. But Edith’s tale is very different, and likely more aligned with reality. Lacey’s version is rife with misogyny, she believes that “true, devoted friendship between women is a fantasy that life dismantles.” For Edith, life isn’t that binary: “Can’t there exist a woman who desires never to marry or bear children?” And yet, Edith bargains her body for a chance to write scripts and tragedy strikes. The novel wraps up with a semi-happy ending, but for Lacey, not Edith. It’s a melodramatic tale and one that positions both Lacey and Edith as victims of their own desire to be (or not be) mothers, lovers, and wives. There’s a brief moment when Edith seems to rise above this limited definition but ultimately, that shifts and fails too. And while this is a compelling enough read, sadly, the women in it fail to rise to honor themselves or their friendship.