I've been hearing for a while at writing conferences how unreliable narrators are all the rage. It took me a bit to wrap my mind around the idea, but now I'm seeing them popping up everywhere. I think my own moral conscience objects to a narrator who is purposely deceptive, but there are a couple of novels where the unreliable aspect comes from part of who the narrator is or something that happens to them.
Take for example, WHAT ALICE FORGOT by Liane Moriarty (can we all admit, that's an awesome last name to have?!). Alice bumps her head at the gym at the age of 39 and wakes up thinking she's 29. She's lost ten years of her life, which means she's suddenly in a trim, fit body, which she's never had before, she doesn't know her children, and she's in the middle of a messy divorce. I spent the whole book wondering whether all the changes she made would last when she got her memory back.
I won't spoil the end for you, but I thought it was a great example of an unreliable narrator.
The challenge this week: Unreliable narrator
Enjoy!
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My response:
(My brain immediately went to a friend I had when I lived on the East coast. She tried one day to explain to us what it's like to have dissociative disorder. I'll try to do her description justice.)
It took a minute for everything to come into focus. Kind of like waking up, but I rarely actually wake up in my bed. I know that's a little odd, but when I think about it too much, my head starts to buzz and my stomach clenches, so I don't let my thoughts linger there. I stick to safer topics.
It's lunch. Or dinner, maybe. I'm at the only chain food/grill restaurant in town. A quick glance up and down the table, and the sun streaming in the windows tells me it's lunch. Namely, the Ladies' Luncheon my friend, Barb, hosts every month with the women from church. Barb is sitting next to me. I thought she was going to Hawaii ... why is she here?
Anne sits across the table. I smile. Anne is sweet. She's young, new to town, and completely friendless. Barb offered a flippant invite to her, and she glommed onto us like a barnacle. She's pregnant, and her baby should be due anytime, but she's got another child on her lap and is feeding her bits of bread from the plate. I look around for the baby's mother. I recognize seven of the eight women sitting around the table, and the one I don't know has thick, silver hair. I don't know who the baby belongs to.
My lunch arrives: a big, southwest chicken salad slathered in guacamole sauce. I object.
"I didn't order this."
The waitress looks at me with wide eyes. "Southwest grilled chicken salad with extra guac? Are you sure?"
Barb give me a thoughtful look, but she doesn't speak up. She's my best friend. She should know I wouldn't order something like this.
"I'm allergic to avocado." I frown.
The waitress's eyes search the rest of the table. "I'm so sorry, who had the salad with extra guac?"
No one answers. To the waitress's credit, she drops it, and turns back to me with another apology on her lips. No problem, I tell her. I'd like the fried cod with French fries. That shouldn't take too long.
The waitress leaves and the conversation at the table picks back up. Someone makes a comment about the Christmas program at church and something one of the kids did. Everyone laughs, but my brain flounders. Didn't I just put Alice back in school? Only three days ago, I'm sure. It can't be after Christmas already.
I look up across the table at Anne and realize her pregnant belly is gone. Can that really be her own baby?
Unreliable Narrator
ReplyDeleteThe breeze was cool but not too cold; brisk, but not too strong. That’s why I was sitting outside at a teeny table sipping my chocolat chaud, not inside like most of the café’s other patrons on a blustery day in early April. Coming down off of a massive migraine, I liked the cool air that played with my hair, blowing it into my face.
Paris is supposed to be amazing this time of year. It’s not. At least, it hasn’t been for me.
Kyle left me. Or I left him, I don’t remember. Or care. I think.
The waiter brings me my check. He’s eyeing me with annoyance. I dared to sit out in the open, forcing him to leave the comfort of his warm café and the sparkling dark eyes of the waitress with bright red lips who is clearly flirting with him. Quel dommage, you sad little man with your pencil-thin French stereotype of a moustache! Suck it up or you don’t get a tip.
When my phone rings, I don’t recognize the ringer. Some classical stuff. It’s strange. Eyeing the screen while I shrug on my coat, I read the name: Raoul. Wrong number? I don’t answer. Instead, I head to the Orangerie museum, the one Kyle always raved about. There’s this entire room filled with only one gigantic painting of flowers. Monet’s water lilies. So French. Whatever.
But I go. After all, I’m in Paris, and what else am I going to do? Kyle is gone but I may as well do the “Paris thing.” Visit museums and pretend I know what the heck I’m looking at. Eat overpriced crepes and take the subtle abuse of the tourist-hating locals. Pretend I’m enchanted with…something.
In the giant water lily room, there is white carpet on the floor. And no talking allowed. So, when my phone rings again, every single person in that darned room turns around and glares.
Raoul again.
This time, I answer while I wander to other rooms where you’re actually allowed to speak and not expected to stand there like a mime and stare in awe at some dead French guy’s overlarge paintings.
“Tessa,” a voice sobs. Raoul, I guess. “How could you do this to me?” I detect the hint of a Spanish accent.
“Who is this?”
“You know who this is!” Raoul says, his voice raw with tears. “Cara, I don’t understand! You promised me…” his voice dissolves into wails. Wow.
“Look, I don’t know who this is, but I don’t appreciate the joke. Go…mop yourself up or something, okay? And man up a little!” I hung up.
I was too weirded out to stay and stare at paintings, so I left and wandered aimlessly. I’d just found a promising-looking bookstore when someone touched my arm.
“Tessa?” a man said. His long blond hair hung in his eyes and he had a silver eyebrow ring that clashed with his tweed-with-leather patches jacket. He hugged me while I just stood there.
“So great to see you! I’d wondered if I’d find you again!” He stepped back and regarded me with twinkling eyes, while I scoured my brain for his name. I swore I’d never seen him before in my life.
“Now don’t think I’ve forgiven you for standing me up Tuesday at Henri Bessard’s,” he said. “But I’m so thrilled to see you I’m willing to forget if you’ll come with me, now. I’ve so much to tell you, love.”
I was in so much shock I simply walked with him as he chattered, leading me away from the bookstore to who knows where. Last Tuesday? I was with Kyle all that day. Wasn’t I?
My phone rang again.
“Uh, excuse me, I…” I still couldn’t remember that guy’s name! But he waited, his face crinkling into a dimpling smile while I answered.
“Tessa! Where are you?” Kyle says.
“Kyle?” I gasp.
“The play is starting and I have our tickets! Are you coming?”
I had to reach out to a nearby lamppost to steady myself. For the first time, I realized I was wearing stilettos. I hate heels. My feet were killing me! The stiff breeze blew bits of paper into a swirling storm that floated about my head. A napkin with a perfect kiss in crimson lipstick landed at my feet.
Kyle. Raoul. And this guy… what’s his name?
What had Paris done to me?
Oops, I wrote in both present and past tense! Quel horreur!! :-)
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