#jami attenberg
I’ve always wanted a sister. I think this is true of every girl who grew up either alone, or with brothers (probably especially, in that case). There was always something so magical about having what seemed like a built-in friend and support system, especially when they were so close in age. As a late-twenty-something now, though, sisterhood doesn’t seem as far as it once did.
In the last couple of years, I’ve been ravenously reading books about sisters and adult women friends, friends whose lives are so enmeshed that they are the family that you create. Books like Rufi Thorpe’s The Girls From Corona Del Mar, Emily Gould’s Friendship, and Kirsty Logan’s The Gracekeepers are all books that spring to mind. Jenny Han’s To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before and sequel depend so thoroughly on the three sisters, something so unexpected that I loved.
Thorpe recently wrote a piece for The Toast, “What Writing a Novel Taught Me About Female Friendship,”in which she says:
I was just trying to write about young women by using my own experience, and in my experience, young women have best friends and those relationships are some of the most profound and abidingly meaningful of their lives. But it turned out that speaking about the bond between young women was a cliché. Everyone assured me this was so.
Maybe writing about best friends, or sisters, isn’t about being a cliché. Maybe it is, as Thorpe writes later, about the human condition, what all novels are at some point boiled down to. I think it is.
None of the friendships or sisterships in these books are without tragedy. This furiously complicated and fiercely beautiful relationship relies on a level of tension that only works when there exists a certain push and pull, a quasi-rivalry that is present only in siblings.
And then there’s Jami Attenberg’s Saint Mazie, a book that so purely distills this sister relationship. When I picked up this book, I didn’t know it was significantly about sisters. Sure, it’s about Mazie Phillips-Gordon and the people who knew her. But to me, the pure heart of part one of this book is the relationship of the Phillips sisters, and how they cobbled together their lives in the midst of hard times.
Through everything that happens to them, including finding out that their mother is dying, almost certainly from their father’s abuse, the Phillips sisters hold each other closer, tighter. When they have nothing else, they have each other and the family they’ve created. Rosie, Mazie, and Jeanie are, at the core, all pieces of the same puzzle, no matter how much heartbreak there is between them. Family is always a two-sided coin, though, and the other side holds all of their secrets, everything they keep from each other until it’s no longer possible to hide. And, oh, the secrets they keep.
Attenberg doesn’t write these sisters as a cliché. They’re strong but still second-guess themselves, reckless but mostly well-intentioned, sensible and smart but with moments overtaken by emotion. They’re human. They’re real. Like every set of fully-fleshed women I know or have read about, they hold tight to each other until they can’t. The Phillips sisters held tight until they couldn’t, until Jeanie couldn’t.
But if there’s one thing I know about sisters and family, it’s that they almost always come back, even if it’s not how you expect.
“If Mazie was the wild sister, then Jeanie was the free one.” Wild and free don’t sound so different to me, almost like they were two parts of a whole.
The dog barking woke her up and she cursed its little yappy mouth while reaching for the light switch. It couldn’t have been later than four in the morning and what was the little thing doing making so much noise, there better be a good reason. And yes, there it was, the clock ticking on the wall, it showed the time: 4:45. Dark and empty outside, except for the noise of the dog barking, filling the air with its rancor, filling her stomach with sickness, filling her mouth with hot angry words. She cursed Mrs. Thomson, cursed the shitty duplex with its blistering walls and thin cheap windows, cursed the fact that she was thirty-four and still had to wake up to this kind of shittiness, and worse yet, had to do it alone in a twin-sized bed without a companion who she could cling to and whine to and generally float with in this sacredfuckedup situation. She imagined roasting the dog on a spit and then felt the hot dizzy feeling of shame because, after all, she loved animals, she even loved this dog most of the time, but her brain ached and her stomach hurt and she just couldn’t deal with this bullshit right now, it was goddamn 4:45 in the morning.
(The Middlesteins by Jami Attenberg, pg. 93)
She did not look at the man sitting below her because she was aware that he was staring up at her, like a dog, and she wasn’t sure what he looked like, but he was probably god awful, probably had a goatee or some fuzzy facial hair, and she could feel his glance on her. She knew he was watching her not because she could see him out of the corner of her eyes but because there was that prickly knowledge that comes whenever somebody is watching. She had been completely unaware of everybody around her, full of the music, just watching the sight in front of her, when she knew, just knew in that way that always presents itself. She could feel him looking at her and she wasn’t sure if it was a friendly look or leering, it really didn’t matter because it was unwelcome all the same, so she stared ahead and purposefully scrunched her forehead hoping that he would see that she was too enraptured in the music to notice or care for his presence.
(The Middlesteins by Jami Attenberg, pg. 92)