In 2011 New York, Rachel is one step away from becoming invisible. Half a century earlier, confined in the clean, white walls of a mental hospital, Anna wishes she could be.
Rachel and Annaâs lives are woven togetherâone desperate to be seen, to find out who she is in the bright sunlight of New York and the dark shadows of her family history, and one frantically trying to sort reality from the fantasy in her head, to be known as a person before sheâs lost to dull hospital labyrinths and the sharp tang of medicine on her tongue. Figurines is a deep exploration of self, of family, of mental illness, and the thin line between invisibility and nakedness. Between desperation and madness.
In 2011 New York, Rachel is one step away from becoming invisible. Half a century earlier, confined in the clean, white walls of a mental hospital, Anna wishes she could be.
Rachel and Annaâs lives are woven togetherâone desperate to be seen, to find out who she is in the bright sunlight of New York and the dark shadows of her family history, and one frantically trying to sort reality from the fantasy in her head, to be known as a person before sheâs lost to dull hospital labyrinths and the sharp tang of medicine on her tongue. Figurines is a deep exploration of self, of family, of mental illness, and the thin line between invisibility and nakedness. Between desperation and madness.
Dear Guest,
Please be advised that activity in your hotel room may be visible from the outside with the curtains open. We appreciate your consideration of the patrons of the High Line park and the residential neighborhood below.
âThe Standard Hotel Management
Printed on gold-embossed stationery, the note reads as an invitation. I kick off my shoes, slip off my dress, and stand naked before the floor-to-ceiling window. Iâm not an exhibitionist, not really; I just want to be seen, thatâs all. To prove Mom wrong. Turning thirty-eight means youâre one step closer to becoming invisible, she had said. Itâs what happens to a woman. Youâll see.
It was just another one of Momâs lame attempts at scaring me into finding a husband and having kids. But it did sting when she said it, and I do worry a little when no one in the park looks up at me. The ninth floor might be too far away for anyone to notice, so I stand closer and tap a few times on the double-paned glass with my fingernail.
Nothing.
The only eyes I catch belong to my pale reflection, hovering above the crowd like a green ghost.
Pulling back my hair, turning side-to-side, I study my face. Push my cheeks, tug a bit of flesh beneath my chin. I cup my breasts, pat my belly, try to reassure myself. Wasnât the desk clerk surprised when she saw my ID?Â
âHappy Birthday!â sheâd said, as she slid the keycard across the counter. âI would have thought you were twenty-four.â
She was exaggerating, of course, but I thanked her anyway.
âDonât thank me,â she said. âThank your mom and dad for those good genes.â
I could have told her the truthâthat the people I grew up calling Mom and Dad have nothing to do with my genes, and thereâs little to thank them forâbut instead, I just took the key and smiled.
Is looking young the same as looking good? As being hot? Other people have told me I was hotâbeautiful, evenâand sometimes people still do. You should be a model, they sometimes say. I rarely admit that, years ago, I had been. When I think back on it now, I canât help but hear the words Mom always said to me: Youâre not as pretty as you think you are. If I ever thought I was pretty, nothing did more to disabuse me of the notion than modeling.
I run my fingers across the window and tap it again. With my knuckles this time, but with the same result. Whatâs it going to take to get someone down there to see me? Perhaps if I run as fast as I can from down the hall and careen full force through the glass, thatâll do it. I picture my naked body falling in slow motion, engulfed in a swirl of twinkling shards like glitter in a snow globe.
See me now?
Or how about when I hit the parkâs boardwalk? A crowd is sure to gather then.
What a shame, theyâll whisper, she had such good genes.
Startled by a knock at the door, I cross the room and squint through the peephole. On the other side, a delivery man is bouncing in the hall, holding an extravagant bouquet of pale-pink ranunculus, ballooned by the lens.
âOne second,â I say, throwing on one of the plush white robes I find hanging in the closet.
When I swing open the door, Iâm instantly overwhelmed by a floral scent almost too strong to be realâlike walking into a fancy soap store. The deliveryman breezes into the room and carefully places the heavy vase on the dresser. I rummage through my bag for a tip and give him the crisp five-dollar bill Mom and Dad sent me for my birthday.
Once the man is gone, I read the notecard: Happy Birthday, Love, Eric. Nothing on the other sideâno apologies, no overtures. I rotate the vase a few times. Iâd chided Eric for giving me half-dead flowers from a corner bodega last Valentineâs Day, and it seems that as a result, heâs gone overboard. Is he trying to make me feel guilty? Maybe. But no, Iâm sure he ordered the flowers before our fight. Who knows why he didnât keep the room for himself, but after Iâd spent all week fawning over pictures of the âteacup bath for twoâ on the hotelâs website, Iâm glad he let me have it.
The room is small, but uncluttered. Crisp and clean, like a well-appointed makeup trailer. Or a cruise ship cabin, where everything is designed with rounded corners, so you wonât get impaled should the ship keel over. The bathtub looks nothing like a teacup, of course. It would be absurd if it did. Taking up half the room, Itâs more like a terra cotta cauldron. It will be a while before itâs full enough for me to cook my bones, so I turn the tap and get it started while calling Mom and Dad to thank them for the birthday card. I call them every Saturday at five oâclock. Thatâs the routine, or it has been for about a year. Any other day and neither of them will pick up the phone. Any later than five oâclock, and Dad will ramble through all the terrible things he imagined must have happened to meâa mugging, a car crash, a murder. How about falling nine stories from a hotel window?
Funny how things change. During the ten years that we went without talking, no one seemed worried about me then. Eric was concerned when he found out Iâd been estranged from my parents for so long, even though I hinted at why. âTheyâre still your parents,â heâd said, âThey raised you. They were there for the most formative time of your life. You canât just pretend they donât exist. You should call them.â
The thought had crossed my mind over the years, and I figured Iâd get around to it eventually. Still, I didnât expect Ericâs words to persuade me so quickly.
The first time I called, no one answered, so I sent a letter instead.
Itâs hard to remember what I wrote. Doubtless, some poorly polished version of the truth, which was that my life had changed less for the better over the past decade than I wanted them to believe. I know what I didnât tell them: that I still couldnât hold an office job, still couldnât keep a menial job either, thus was hoping to pay off debt collectors by trying to sell cumbrous, unwieldy custom dinnerware to the same gay husbands of day traders whoâd been buying up creations from my studio mates. I was still trying to mold clay into meaning. Still ambivalent about my boyfriend, if thatâs what Eric ever was. Still drinking. Whatever it was that I mustered up in my letter, it broke the ice. Dad wrote back, probably omitting as much truth as I had done, which led to a phone call, then another, until we fell into our little routine. It has continued in this way for over a year. Not the worst of my habits, I suppose.
Our conversations can still be rocky at times and inspire fits of rage to rival the old days. More often than not, however, the calls are just dull. Dad only likes to talk about three things: the lawn, the dogs, and God. Mom isnât much better, the way she rambles about the birds that come to her feeder. She gives them names: Lilâ Peeper, Tammy Faye, Jellybean, Rambo, and so on. Itâs kind of cute, but I find it impossible to follow along. Itâs better when I can get her to talk about cooking instead. Since the kitchen was strictly off-limits to me as a kid, I never learned how to prepare anything beyond punching a few keys on a microwave. But after telling Mom Iâve been trying to teach myself how to cook, sheâs finally opening up, offering tips and sharing recipes. Real mother-daughter stuff, at long last. She tells me funny stories about Dad as well, something we both can laugh at. Dad tends to overshare with strangers, eliciting varying degrees of discomfort in his audiences, be they a supermarket cashier or a mailman, whoever is unfortunate enough to cross his path.Â
Thatâs the extent of it, though. Mom has yet to ask me about life in New York. Dad is the same way. I donât know why they arenât interested in what Iâve been up to all these years, but it doesnât matterâI wouldnât tell them anyway, as I have so little to show for it.
Dad waits for the third ring every time.
âOh, hi, Rachel, hi,â he says.
He repeats himself whenever heâs nervousâand he is always nervous.
âHappy birthday,â he says. âWhat are you doing to celebrate?â
As tempting as it is to tell him Iâm standing naked in front of a hotel window, trying to get the attention of total strangers, I donât want to get off track so soonâespecially since Iâm eager to know how Mom is doing. If sheâs feeling better, I can end the call early and relax in the tub, so I get right to it: âHow did Mom make out with the doctor?â
âI didnât take her to the doctor,â Dad says. âShe didnât go.â
âWhy not?â
âOn account of the dogs and all.âÂ
âIâm tired of that excuse,â I say. âYou guys use it for everything. Forget about the fucking dogs for once.â
âRachel! Donât use that word. Thatâs not how we raised you. What happened? You used to dance all up in the Spirit.â
Doesnât he know by now? When I used to dance, sing, and speak in tongues the way Dad does, I wasnât caught up in any spirit. I only ever jerked around in violent spasms that way to sublimate my pent-up frustrations.
I had a lot of them back then.
Still do.
âNever mind all that,â I say. âYou can leave the dogs alone for a couple of hours. Theyâll be fine.â
âThem crittersâll get into everything. Chew my socks. Get germs.â
âPut them in the basement.â
âTheyâll get into the sump basin and get sick.â
âFind a kennel.â
âThem places never do what we say.â
âIf you mean they donât feed the dogs cottage cheese and peaches, of course they donât.â
âThatâs what they eat, Rachel. Besides, we ainât got money for no kennel, anyhow.â
âWhat about Jack? Heâll watch them. Heâs right next door.â
âJack says he can only come by to feed them and take them for a short walk.â
âThatâs all they need!â
âI keep telling you, Rachel, if the dogs get into trouble, Iâll never forgive myself. Your mother donât want to leave them dogs, neither. Theyâre everything to her.â
I want to reach through the phone and strangle him. Strangle Mom, too. Iâd be doing the dogs a favor. Mom and Dad keep them on a short leashâliterallyâand are as overprotective of the dogs as they once were of my brother Mike and me. In fact, this whole conversation is starting to feel like an argument over my own childhood. Hearing the dogs yelping and whining in the background isnât helping. Itâs easy to picture us siblings as two excitable Shih Tzus, dusty, matted, and spinning in circlesâdeluded, sheltered to the point of suffocated, dancing in the Spirit.
âHow about Uncle Nick?â I say. Clearly, Uncle Nick is not the best candidate, with his Parkinsonâs, paranoid delusions, back pain, and so on. To hear Mom tell it, heâs taking so many medications for so many things, heâs nearly catatonic. But heâs also Momâs older brother and perhaps the only person alive she truly trusts. âAll he has to do is sit in a chair and watch TV,â I say. âThen Jack can come by to feed and walk the dogs the way he offered to.â
âI donât know. Maybe Monday.â
âLet me talk to Mom.â
While Dad carries the phone to Mom, I adjust the water temperature as it flows into the tub. I glance outside and see darkness on the horizon over the Hudson Riverâa storm, maybe.
Dad gets back on the line. âYour mother donât want to talk to no one. Her stomach still hurts.â
âTake her to the Emergency Room, will you please.â
âItâll be dark by the time we get back. I donât like to drive at night.â
âThen call an ambulance. If you donât, I will.â Am I overreacting? Something feels wrong, but when it comes to Mom and Dad, something always does. âOkay, listen,â I say. âGet Mom to the ER first thing tomorrow morning. Donât wait any longer than that. You hear me?â He doesnât answer, but I can hear him mutteringâtalking to the dogs, maybe. âPromise me, Dad.â
âYes, yes, weâll see.â
Frustrated and unconvinced, I hang up the phone and stare out the window. Clouds are creeping closer. Silent pulses of lightning begin to flash along the velvet Hoboken skyline. Itâs as if the dismal purple clouds that hung over me as a child are coming east to swallow me again. A crack of lightning chisels through the sky. The Hudson River is a murky green, nearly black. The crowd of tourists on the High Line boardwalk grows thin under a light drizzle. When the rain suddenly falls in earnest, the last of them hunch their shoulders and scurry for cover. I trace the angled streaks of rain on the window with my fingertips. The robe slips from my shouldersâno one in the park remains to notice.
The tub is still only half-full as I ease into it. The hot water slowly rises around me. When itâs finally deep enough, I submerge my head. The running tap sounds like a torrid rush of river, the white noise of rain. I break the surface, inhale deeply, and re-submerge. Reaching with my toes, I shut off the water and coax the stress from one place to anotherâfrom my gut, to my shoulders, to my neck. Eventually, it holds up directly behind my eyes in a gnarled mess, the way it always does.
Growing dizzy from the heat, I eventually climb out. Steam rises from my arms, belly, thighs, as if I am about to spontaneously combust. I read about it somewhere. It happens.
A few guests laugh in the hallway, perhaps headed upstairs to The Boom Boom Room or downstairs to The Biergarten. If I could get motivated to dry my hair and put on my dress, I might follow them. Instead, I pluck a small bottle of gin and a bag of potato chips from the minibar, find the TV remote and nestle into bed.
Awakened by a sharp knock, I wrap myself in a cold, damp towel and open the door.Â
âExcuse me, Miss, check-out is at noon.â
âWhat time is it?â
âQuarter past. If youâd like a late check-out, it can be arranged.â
âNo, sorry, I overslept. Iâm not feeling well. Give me a minute.â
The bed is littered with snack wrappers and miniature booze bottles. Two Heineken cans lie empty on the left side table, and an empty wine bottle on the right. Shoes, dress, sunglasses, and purseâit doesnât take long to get dressed and collect my things. When I untwist the bedcovers and give them a shake, salted peanuts rain to the floor. Thereâs an unopened bottle of Chivas underneath one of the pillows. I throw it into my bag and side-step the maid, who has been standing impatiently by the door. Waiting for the elevator, I remember my birthday flowers and rush back to grab them. Theyâre so much heavier than they look.
Steam wafts from the streets as I shuffle down 14th Street to the L train. Settling into an open seat, I rest the vase on my lap and hide behind my sunglasses. The train squeals and grunts from the station. As it chugs crosstown toward Brooklyn, I drop my face deep into the fragrant blooms to mask the humid train carâs summer stench. Rocking gently, I whisper to myself in rhythm with the train: Hang on, youâll be home soon. Hang on, youâll be home soonâŚ
On the street, while fumbling with my keys, the vase drops to the cement in a slow-motion explosion, water sloshing and splashing as in a soft drink commercial, the porcelain cracking like an ice cube. Hangovers give me a kind of temporary arthritisâI basically donât have the energy to control my muscles enough not to spill stuff. Aside from a few scattered eucalyptus petals, the flowers somehow hang together in a soggy cluster. I nearly topple over as I reach down to salvage them. Once inside, I toss the tattered bouquet onto the kitchen counter and make a beeline to the toilet. The bathroom tumbles and spins. My knees buckle. Out spews a gurgling mire of hotel snacks and minibar drinks in a burning arc of relief.
At 4:30 in the afternoon, half-asleep, sweaty, and still nauseated, my phone rings. I donât recognize the number, but seeing itâs a Pennsylvania area code, I answer.
âOh, hi, Rachel, hi, itâs your dad. Weâre at the hospital. Theyâre taking your mother in for surgery. The doctor did a rectal exam. His finger came out all covered in cancer!â
Jamie Boud illustrates Figurines with skilled sketches guiding us through a story where reality, fantasy, and dreams are interchangeable. Parallel casts are introduced, and four different mothers emerge from the mix, but the story will be told by one mother (Anna) and her biological daughter (Rachel). Sorting the tangled threads of family dysfunction, adopted children, and the specter of mental illness is a tall order. When two very similar narrators (mother and daughter) compete to tell their stories, distinguishing between their voices is a challenge for readers who may get impatient with these ambiguities.
As Rachel and Anna unravel in tandem, thereâs a missed opportunity to unpack changing approaches to mental health care. Modern psychiatric methods fail Rachel, who turns to self-medication. Anna, diagnosed in 1955, endures shock treatments to stop the voices in her head. Misguided therapies destroy Anna but failing to treat her is also an abuse. Rachel, fending for herself against depression, receives no professional help and never sees this paradox, ever unable to get better or worse. Deeper resonances are obscured by the minutiae of a teenagerâs journal and the listlessness of untreated chronic depression.
Figurines is a womenâs story, but men direct it. Domineering mothers aside, the plot hinges on the opinions of men in authority. Anna and Rachel both try modeling (and other means) to reassure themselves they are desirable. Anna pines for her brother, Frederick, to rescue her from the male doctors who wonât release her. Rachelâs adopted father repeatedly devalues her. To get started on her quest to find lost relatives, she needs her boyfriend to do the first Google search. But is he a boyfriend? She doesnât know until he reassures her. It is too late in history to raise these issues without acknowledging decades of feminist activism and the modern movements they inspire. Rachel doesnât see herself controlled by men, but the book wonât resonate with readers who do.
Boud provides all the pieces of this novel but leaves his readers to make them fit. Long passages of detailed narration demand careful attention, but when the time comes to draw a conclusion, we are left on our own to discover meaning. The author trusts us to make sense of what we are reading. But when readers have that kind of license, they might use it to find a more approachable novel.