Anxiety is just a speed bump, a temporary setback, we tell ourselves. Of course it never feels that way at the time. This is how author Laura Zigman creates her distinctive amalgam of relatable grief and parodic humor.
She introduces us to Judy Vogel, seriously hollowed out by loss. Both of her parents died slowly of cancer within the past five years. Now, her best friend Glenn is on that same route of decline. Her career has been stalled for a long time. After initial celebrity with her children's self-esteem book, what she calls her "embrace your weirdness manifesto,” writer's block has derailed her creative impulse. She is now 50. Her son Teddy is transitioning from voluble childhood to tight-lipped adolescence. Her husband Gary was once a musician. He too has been derailed. An anxiety disorder severe enough to warrant prescriptions for both Klonopin and medical marijuana has been worsening. His current job is to supply the assortment of snacks to an office of twenty-somethings at a high-tech startup. Hard to find any room for humor here, but that is exactly what Zigman gently offers.
Judy confronts her situation with self-deprecating conviction: “Life eventually takes away everyone and everything we love and leaves us bereft. Is that a sad lesson? That's the only explanation I have for why I now wear the dog; my version of magical thinking; little tiny cracks are forming inside me every day and only the dog is keeping me from falling apart.” (p.8) She is literally wearing the dog. She carries it nearly everywhere in the long ago baby shower gift of a sling she unearthed from the basement.
Zigman's take on Cambridge, Massachusetts is pitch perfect. The Vogel family clings to the house they bought in better times, alternately embracing and wryly critiquing the town's progressive-intellectual ethos. They are financially stressed, but not wolf-at-the-door stressed. Their son Teddy is in middle school, but still attending Morningside Montessori where a peace gong chimes daily to express a peace and kindness mantra with the aggressiveness one might expect from a preschool. Parent participation is, of course, not merely encouraged but expected. As the narrative unfolds, the Vogels will shelter members of the Puppet People, a troupe of costumed and masked performers who decline to break character even when off stage. There will also be an ill-considered trek to a rural retreat conducted by an online creative coach whom Judy has been following. The tuition credit for hosting the Puppet People is handily offset by the steep cost of the creativity jump-start workshop which Gary decides at the last minute to attend along with Judy. In between is a half-hearted stab at couples counseling. Both Judy and Gary are veterans of the drill. Like conspiring pranksters, they sabotage the session with eye rolls, private jokes and deflections. Inevitably, the subject of Judy's book, “There's a Bird on my Head,” comes up. Predictably, the therapist is drawn by curiosity to Judy's writers block, disregarding the irony of her inability to accept her own “weirdness.” On the contrary, the therapist struggles to fit the couple into an easy classifying box.
Zigman leaves two jokes for her readers to discover on their own. “Vogel” is German for bird (recall the title of Judy's book). Later, a repurposed book of poetry by Emily Dickinson turns up. Gary recites, only half-ironically: “'Hope' is the thing with feathers/ That perches in the soul/And sings the tune without words/And never stops – at all.” (p.39) It is a succinct appraisal of their current married state – half in, half out. He lives in the finished basement, euphemistically referred to as the “snoring room,” a subterfuge for Teddy's benefit.
Zigman provides a near perfect balance of serious grief and humor in the novel. Glenn's illness and close relationship with both Judy and Gary keeps the humor centered on the genuine pain and perplexity of the characters. This was the selection of our local book club. The blurb does not do it justice.