I enjoyed this novel so much. I had seen it floating around Instagram for some time before its release, the cover catching my eye initially – stunning, isn’t it? – and added it to my wish list long before it was out. It’s a really beautiful novel, a deep exploration of the way in which our memories can be both true and false – depending on upon the historical lens through which we gaze upon them.
‘The wife, the mother, and the daughter, the doctor, the lover, and the friend; the list goes on. We are tired. All those versions of me have been made to please others; have been constructed in response to the myths of dead men. My father, my grandfather, hundreds of years of powerful dead men. My decisions have come from deception. So many choices idolising lies.’
When Layla drops everything a few days before Christmas to travel from Queensland to Tasmania in response to a call from her mother indicating she plans to end her own life, Layla is existing within her own state of domestic disarray. Suspended from work, embroiled in a brief affair, her marriage in a toxic state – life couldn’t get much worse. But it does – a whole lot more. As she journeys south, amidst flight cancellations and rental car dramas, memories of her life unspool: childhood, teenage years, the early years of her marriage; all painting a picture for the reader of who Layla is within the present day. I actually really liked Layla; despite some dicey decisions she’d made. Her husband, Gabe, was the pits, and that’s putting it mildly. The type of man to demand his wife go back to work full-time after having children yet complain non-stop that said wife was never home to take care of the household, children, and his pathetic ego. I actually hated him, and I never feel that strongly about characters, usually. He didn’t improve as the novel progressed.
A toxic marriage is not the only toxic relationship within Layla’s life. There’s toxic mothering as well, and her relationship with her own sister is on shaky ground. She feels enormous guilt at abandoning her aunt to a nursing home, and once the details of this are revealed, I have to say, she deserved to feel guilt over that move. Her aunt and her mother have their own toxic sibling relationship, and then there is her parents, or at least, her memories of their marriage, which are wholly slanted in her father’s favour. When the ground shifts beneath Layla’s feet, regarding her memories of the type of man her father was, Layla finds herself re-evaluating everything about her life, her decisions, her relationships, her own sense of identity.
‘That’s what happens when your reality gets questioned. You take apart everything you thought you knew and look at it again, like peeling a mandarin, holding the pieces up to the light, looking for pips before eating.’
There’s a lot of misery in this novel, in the sense that happiness is fleeting and the very worst of human behaviour at a domestic level is on full display. And yet, I never once felt the weight of that misery. Megan Rogers has a sort of magic about her writing that seemed to infuse even the worst moments with a degree of hope, even if it was just for recovery or resolution. What fascinated me the most out of this story, and this is a topic in general I have a high level of interest in, is memory, and how elastic it is. Two children from the same household having entirely different versions of the same memory. A couple participating in life together, yet each remembering things differently. The exploration of memory within this novel was done so well, so meticulously, and with a deft balance between science and raw emotion.
The Heart is a Star was a compulsively readable novel, memorable and deeply affecting. I highly recommend it to those who enjoy a more literary reading journey.
Thanks to the publisher for the review copy.