Unreliable narrators

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?