Category: Books

The Cure for Women, by Lydia Reeder (St. Martin’s Press, 286 pages)

Given some of the past practices of medicine, bloodletting and leeches and such, it’s a wonder any of us are alive today. What’s even more disturbing is how recent some of these strange medical practices are.

Take, for example, the “rest cure for women,” a protocol of the 19th century in which women suffering from a raft of maladies — but mainly being thin and “short of blood” — were told to take to their beds, sometimes for months, where they were fed milk and raw eggs, and forbidden social interaction and “brain work.”

While many women were actively harmed by such treatments, there were far worse things done to women under the guise of medicine in that era, even by physicians ostensibly devoted to women’s health. The doctor credited with inventing the speculum, for example, once wrote, “If there was anything I hated, it was investigating the organs of the female pelvis.” This physician was a showman in the vein of P.T. Barnum, performing operations in front of an enthralled audience, sometimes with the patients (often enslaved women) awake and screaming.

All this was occurring in a century in which smart and capable women were being denied entry to medical school because of the belief that they were not intellectually or psychologically equipped for the work, even though female midwives had been delivering babies for millennia.

The first woman to graduate from an American medical school, Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, was admitted by mistake — her male classmates thought they were voting on her enrollment as a joke. Blackwell and her younger sister Emily, who also became a physician, are fairly well known today for their pioneering work improving the prospects of both patients and female doctors.

But Lydia Reeder argues that a lesser-known physician, Dr. Mary Putnam Jacobi, also deserves history’s acclaim. In The Cure for Women, Reeder explains how Jacobi, a contemporary of the Blackwells, took on the established beliefs about women’s monthly cycles, which had been used as “evidence” of women’s inferiority, and refuted them with data.

The daughter of the New York publishing scion George Palmer Putnam, Mary showed her capacity for medicine at age 9 when, after discovering a dead rat in their barn, she asked her mother if she could dissect it. Her mother said no, and her father did not think medicine was a proper career for women, but he had published a book by Elizabeth Blackwell and so consented to let his precocious daughter work at Blackwell’s clinic.

Eventually Mary enrolled at one of the few educational opportunities available to her, the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania, but she left “after she discovered she knew more about medicine than most of her instructors” and went on to graduate from a medical school in Paris. In one funny anecdote, her father sent her money there for a dress — she had to plead with him for permission to use the money to buy a microscope instead.

Upon returning to the States with a medical degree, Mary found work teaching at the Women’s Medical College of the New York Infirmary and dedicated herself to evangelizing “a scientific spirit” among women. Unfortunately for modern sensibilities, that scientific spirit also included justification of vivisection, the dissection of live animals, which Jacobi would defend. It is, perhaps, the one area in which her thinking was not visionary, although it might have helped establish her as a serious medical mind at the time.

She went on to marry a widower, Dr. Abraham Jacobi, a leading pediatrician in New York, and shortly thereafter became pregnant and worked throughout her pregnancy — refuting in real time the prevailing thought that women were suited for domestic life and reproduction solely. She began conducting research to test and challenge views about women’s capabilities during menstruation, and also to counter prescriptions of “the rest cure” as well as other medical practices of the time. She was also an advocate of sports and physical activity — as opposed to rest — to improve women’s health.

Perhaps the best story about her is that she submitted a paper arguing that menstruation does not constitute “any temporary predisposition to either hysteria or insanity” to a prestigious Harvard University competition: the Boylston Medical Prize. Per the competition’s instructions, the entry was submitted anonymously. She won, beating out hundreds of men. The work was later published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons as “The Question of Rest for Women During Menstruation” and was widely praised.

Even as Mary advanced professionally, she was lauded publicly for being an excellent housekeeper, and she had three children, and suffered the loss of two — a daughter who died at birth and a son who died at age 7 from diphtheria — a terrible loss for any parent, but especially for two doctors who could not help their child and who wound up blaming each other. The death, Reeder wrote, created a “fault line between Mary and Abraham that would, ultimately, never heal.”

Almost 20 years later, Mary Putnam Jacobi would diagnose a brain tumor in herself, and spent the last years of her life writing a case study on it titled “Description of the Early Symptoms of the Meningeal Tumor Compressing the Cerebellum, from Which the Author Died.”

Her life was clearly extraordinary and worthy of a biography, and Reeder’s treatment is more than comprehensive — to a fault, at times.

Going back and forth between history and inventive narrative, in which Reeder imagines what might have happened in a scene, was the wrong approach for a book about women devoted to science. Their imagined thoughts and actions — such as, “Elizabeth Blackwell, M.D., paced back and forth in her drab Lower West Side apartment, stopping occasionally to glance through her parlor window at the blizzard swirling outside” — are simply unnecessary. The occasional asides into this literary construction serve no purpose other than befuddling the reader.

It is also a little odd that the central character of the book is not introduced in any substantial way until chapter 3.

The author is the great-granddaughter of a midwife who cared for women and children in rural Missouri early in the 20th century, at one point plunging her fingers down a child’s throat to remove a safety pin. That midwife, Ellen Babb, no doubt had as many fascinating stories to tell as Dr. Mary Putnam Jacobi, despite the vast differences in their economic circumstances and training. The Cure for Women is a tribute to both of them — and a thumb in the eye to the 19th-century male doctor who wrote, “I said I did not believe it was best either for the sick or for society for women to be doctors.”

B- —Jennifer Graham

Featured Image: Cabin, by Patrick Hutchison

Cabin, by Patrick Hutchison (St. Martin’s Press, 294 pages)

In 2013 Patrick Hutchison was despondent in Seattle, his dreams of becoming a writer going no further than composing marketing emails and doing other copywriting gigs. His twenty-something friends “were going off and doing ridiculous things like getting careers and advanced degrees, husbands, wives, kids, dogs, and other accoutrements of the heavy-responsibility genre.”

In contrast, Hutchison’s long-term plans “ended at knowing when the leftover Chinese food would go bad.”

One day the answer to his dilemma showed up on Craigslist: a listing for a decrepit 10×12 cabin in scenic Snohomish County, about an hour and a half drive away. The price: $7,500.

Despite not having $7,500 — or, for that matter, any handyman skills — Hutchison drove up to see the place and made an offer almost immediately. His memoir, Cabin, recounts the experience of making it habitable and in the process reinventing his life. It’s no Walden, the Henry David Thoreau classic, but it doesn’t aspire to be. It’s more a story of millennial angst in the internet age and the longing for competency, connection and meaningful work.

And, of course, nature. It wasn’t so much the cabin itself that seduced Hutchison as it was the land it was on, and the views.

“I knew people that had larger places to store their lawnmowers. Architecturally, it took inspiration from drawings of houses made by preschoolers. Box on bottom. Triangle on top,” Hutchison writes.

But it was nestled in an area that was thickly conifered, with mature trees and plentiful ferns, near the Skykomish River and an enormous waterfall that Hutchison says looked like something out of the Old Testament.

Not that the neighborhood was ideal. The street was ominously called “Wit’s End Place.” Other tiny cabins nearby were “charming in a dystopian sort of way,” and many were clearly abandoned. The driveway was basically a swamp. There was no electricity, cell service or plumbing. The closest wi-fi was at a McDonald’s 15 miles away. And there were spiders — so many spiders.

Nonetheless, Hutchison only saw its potential, both as a retreat and as an answer to incessant questions about what he was doing with his life. Fixing up a cabin in the woods seemed a pretty good answer to that. “At times, it felt like the cabin and I were partners in a sort of joint self-improvement project. When the cabin was all fixed up, maybe I would be too,” he writes.

Hutchison had friends who bought into his vision and were willing to make the trek and invest their own elbow grease to build a deck and an outhouse, among other projects. As such, this is no story of a self-made man improving his lot (literally and figuratively) in the woods.

While it’s true that Hutchison emerges as a different man at the end of the story, his cabin is not the do-it-yourself project that Thoreau’s was. Even the truck Hutchison used to haul stuff to the site was borrowed from his mother. It took a village and then some. But, to be fair, even Thoreau left Walden Pond every couple of days to eat a meal at his parents’ house and drop off his laundry, and the lot belonged to his friend Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Hutchison is genuinely funny and brings a light touch to his story of back-breaking work, particularly when it comes to his newfound infatuation with power tools. (In one scene he tells a cashier at a hardware store that he’ll also be buying a chainsaw and says he is “half expecting balloons to fall from the ceiling in celebration of such a rad purchase.”) At the same time, he is learning of the pleasures of old ways and old things, at one point bringing to the cabin a typewriter that had belonged to his late uncle, and realizing he had no idea how a typewriter worked.

There are, of course, challenges and dangers along the way, to include mudslides and falling trees. And Hutchinson, daydreaming of the cabin while he’s at his day job, doesn’t devote his whole life to the project — he is in and out of the woods while pursuing other adventures, including travel with a girlfriend who shares his distaste for the sort of life where you moor yourself to a job and a place.

He worries as the project progresses that the tiny cabin might be getting too comfortable, even in its simplicity. And 16 pages of color photos, which show the work and the results, do in fact make the place look like what has been called “cabin porn” — daydreams of a simpler existence off the grid with a wood stove glowing and light snow falling outside well-insulated windows.

These days you can buy a brand-new tiny house on Amazon for under $10K without all the work that Hutchison undertook. But his journey wasn’t about finding a place to live so much as it was about finding a reason to live, and in this his quest was like that of Thoreau, who famously wrote, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life….”

Like Thoreau’s cabin, Hutchinson’s cabin will not be a permanent part of his life but serves as a stationary vehicle that transports him to a different way of being. Don’t look to Cabin for advice on how to restore a dilapidated tiny house or downsize your life, but as inspiration for going down the road less traveled, a well-oiled chainsaw in hand. B+ —Jennifer Graham

Featured Image: Cabin, by Patrick Hutchison

The Magnificent Ruins by Nayantara Roy (Algonquin Books, 448 pages)

When I start reading a book that I know I’m going to review I immediately start looking for words, sentences, passages to use as examples of good or bad or mediocre writing. In the first 20 pages of The Magnificent Ruins I wanted to mark up dozens of sentences, meaningful words put together thoughtfully, examples of sharp, witty dialogue.

Nayantara Roy’s debut novel follows Lila De, an Indian American who lives in New York City and is dedicated to her job as an editor at a publishing house. She came to America to live with her dad and stepmom when she was 16, leaving behind her mom and the rest of her extended Lahiri family, and had no plans to return to India.

But that changes when Lila’s grandfather dies and she inherits her family’s crumbling, palace-esque home in Kolkata, India. Upon her return, she’s thrust back into the world of her complicated family, including her mom, who angers quickly and will stop talking to Lila for the smallest of perceived slights, sometimes for months at a time, until her wounds are forgotten and she calls her daughter as if no time has passed.

“The first conversation would be stilted on my end, exuberant on hers. I would revel in a universe where my mother wanted me. Over time, she would begin calling regularly again. Those weeks would inevitably lull me, slightly tipsy from the largesse of her motherhood, into a maternal buzz. And then I would say something that would hurt her feelings, which always meant the punishment of disappearance.”

Her mom, along with her grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins, all still live in the house Lila has inherited, and none are happy that it’s been left for her — yet they’re genuinely happy to see her. In fact, all of the relationships in the family are messy and complicated, but their love for each other runs deep.

Throughout the book we see the juxtaposition of Lila’s experiences as an American and as an Indian. Before leaving for Kolkata, she visits her dad and stepmom and two half-siblings in Connecticut.

“My siblings were regularly hugged by my father, but he and I had the language of nods and unspoken affections that passed between Indian children born in the ’80s and their fathers. I dreamed of crossing over into the land of effortless holding and kissing that my siblings were citizens of.”

In a more American way, Lila goes to therapy every two weeks, something her family in Kolkata would never understand.

“Therapy felt like a shape-shifting myth across cultures. So acceptable in the Brooklyns and Manhattans of the world that it would be an aberration to not have a therapist, to not have problems. Everyone in New York was ravaged by their love affairs and debt and childhoods, by race and geography and loneliness. In Kolkata, people had fewer problems, because one did not talk about them.”

Those “New York” problems, as it turns out, are alive and rampant in Kolkata. As we meet the Lahiri family, we see these problems unravel slowly: domestic abuse, alcoholism, love affairs and all manner of generational trauma. And Lila isn’t exempt. Along with being a victim of these traumas, she’s at times a perpetrator, engaging, for example, in an affair with a married man — her childhood love, Adil — with seemingly little remorse.

It’s hard to be mad at her, though, given her complicated history with love. She seems to know what she “should” want — namely her American lover, Seth, who is also her star author and whom she openly refuses to commit to. That gets a little messy, though, when Seth comes to Kolkata in an attempt to win her over. (I appreciated that this plot twist supports Lila’s character development and doesn’t feel contrived like similar plot twists in romantic storylines often do.)

There are plenty of other storylines that support Lila’s main character development too, and I had some real feelings — good and bad — for many of Nayantara’s well-developed characters, like Rinki, a friend from Lila’s childhood who serves as a breath of fresh air outside of the Lahiri family.

Within the family, Lila’s grandmother is both loving and terrifying — not unlike Lila’s mom — and the relationship between her mom and grandmother is tenuous. Among other aunts, uncles and cousins, there’s the charming uncle Hari, his subdued wife Mishti, and their daughter Biddy, whose wedding is another plot point and gives the family something to talk about other than what Lila is going to do with the mansion.

Ah, and back to that pesky inheritance. Despite their love for Lila, the family fears betrayal, and Lila is forced to lawyer up to protect what is rightfully hers — even as she herself questions her grandfather’s decision to leave it to her.

The Magnificent Ruins is a beautiful, messy journey as Lila searches for her identity among two very different cultures and within a family defined by each other in the best and worst of ways. A- —Meghan Siegler

Time of the Child, by Niall Williams (Bloomsbury, 287 pages)

Irish noveliest Niall Williams’ latest book is Time of the Child, which revisits the fictional town of Faha, where much lauded 2019 book This is Happiness and another Williams novel, History of the Rain, are set.

It is a holiday novel in that the events take place during the season of Advent and involve lots of holly and a child born under mysterious circumstances. But nothing is lost by reading it in January, and in fact, that timing is possibly better since Time of the Child is a slow-cooker of a book, best read at a leisurely pace. Nothing moves very quickly in Faha, where one of the residents is a dog named Harry whose favorite place to sleep is the middle of the road, requiring drivers to wait for the mutt to move, “in dog-time and untellable weariness,” before they can proceed.

It is that sort of delightful detail that makes Williams such a pleasure to read.

The central characters in this story are a widowed doctor, Jack Troy, and his adult daughter Ronnie (for Veronica), who live at a pace that moves not much faster than the town dog. Troy is 59 and is pretty much going through the motions of life, having lost both his wife and another woman he had fallen in love with after his wife’s passing. As Faha’s only doctor, Troy has little time for despair, though; he is constantly beset with people bringing him their physical complaints, and those of others, everywhere he goes.

Ronnie is his faithful companion and professional assistant, the budding loves of her past unrealized and her two sisters having left town. (“Why would anyone want to live here? … It’s just rain and muck and beasts?” one sister had said.) Father and daughter dwell mostly in companionable silence as they go to Mass at the local Catholic church — where the pastor is slowly slipping into dementia in front of his congregation — and they make house calls throughout the region, visits for which Troy may or may not be compensated.

Enter the child — an abandoned infant, seemingly lifeless, brought to Troy by a 12-year-old boy who found her by a church gate. Dr. Troy is able to resuscitate the baby, and he and Ronnie quickly become attached to her — observing his daughter care for the infant, the doctor realizes, “It was not second nature to her, it was first.”

The presence of an infant changes everything in the household — Ronnie takes on a glow foreign to her father, and in a particularly poignant scene, she watches her usually emotionless father dance to Sinatra holding the baby. “What had come over him was as old as life on earth — a pulsed response to another, outside of and even before the existence of reason, a prime and primal engagement that took its continuance from the expression in the baby’s features. She liked it! And that was everything.”

They are reluctant to relinquish her to the state, which has a poor track record of taking care of children and the elderly (which is the same reason that Troy is so protective of the clearly failing priest), but they also know they cannot keep the child hidden — in Faha, “the lid never stayed on a story.”

And so, casting about desperately for a solution, Troy concocts a scheme to keep the child — the logistics of which also involve the doctor correcting a sin of his past — sending away a young man whom Ronnie had loved years ago. This man, named Noel Crowe, is now living in America, complicating things. (Readers of This is Happiness will recall Noel from that earlier book.)

Like Harry, the weary canine king of Faha blocking traffic in the street, Williams is in no hurry to get where he’s going; the first half of Time of the Child is character development that can frustrate readers who want things to happen. It’s not unusual for dialogue between characters to be interrupted by one or two pages of incidental information before Williams brings us back to the conversation, which a reader might have reasonably thought had ended.

It’s not until the baby arrives more than a hundred pages in that the pace picks up, and then the narrative moves almost too quickly. But Williams knows what he’s doing, and the richness of detail, which might seem unnecessary at times, bestows an intimacy with the characters that pays off — not only the father and daughter and priest, but other residents of the town, including the boy who finds the baby on the day of the town’s Christmas fair, Jude Quinlan, and the adult twins that the townspeople had given up on identifying correctly, so they just combined their names and call both of them Tim-Tom.

It requires commitment to read Time of the Child — not only because you’ll want to read slowly to savor the writing, but because for all practical purposes, you’ll be a citizen of Faha when you’re done, emotionally anyway. Which means you’ll be reading This is Happiness and History of the Rain next — not a bad way to while away the gloom of winter. A —Jennifer Graham

Books of the future

Here are some scheduled 2025 releases book-lovers can get excited about.

• Simply Jamie: Fast & Simple Food by Jamie Oliver (Jan. 7) Jamie Oliver generally permits such cheats as jarred sauces and “cook everything in one pan no really just the one pan.” This book promises recipes such as Gochujang Chicken Noodle Bake and Jarred Pepper Pasta.

• Old School by Gordon Korman (Jan. 14) Middle grade author Korman returns with this novel about a 12-year-old who has lived half his life at his grandmother’s retirement village where he has been home-schooled and schooled in music and culture by the other retirees and now has to attend a kid-filled middle school, according to the book’s description.

• Hope: The Autobiography by Pope Francis (Jan. 14) It’s the first autobiography ever published by a pope!

• Onyx Storm by Rebecca Yarros (Jan. 21) This third novel in the Empyrean series (Fourth Wing, Iron Flame) set in a military college for dragon riders has the author on a big-city book tour and readers signing up for midnight release parties at bookstores.

• Source Code: My Beginnings by Bill Gates (Feb. 4) One of the world’s richest men writes about his early years, before he co-founded Microsoft. “I’m planning to write two more memoirs, one about my work with Microsoft and one about philanthropy,” he says at gatesnotes.com. “But Source Code is my origin story, and I’m looking forward to sharing it.”

• Three Days in June by Anne Tyler(Feb. 11) It’s a new Anne Tyler novel, her 25th. In this one, “a socially awkward mother of the bridge navigates the days before and after her daughter’s wedding,” the publisher says.

• The Art of the SNL Portrait Photography by Mary Ellen Matthews (March 4) The 50th anniversary of Saturday Night Live marches on with this book of images from the show’s bumper photos featuring hosts and musical guests, according to the book’s description.

• I Survived the Great Molasses Flood, 1919 (the Graphic Novel) by Lauren Tarshis, illustrated by Karen De la Vega (March 4) If this graphic novel series is how you introduce your kids to historical events, check out this one set in Boston.

• Sunrise on the Reaping: A Hunger Games Novel by Suzanne Collins (March 18) This second prequel is set after The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes but before the original trilogy and focuses on the Hunger Games of Haymitch Abernathy.

• When the Moon Hits Your Eye by John Scalzi (March 25) He won a Hugo award for Redshirts, he was creative consultant for the Stargate TV series, and now he’s back with a novel about the moon actually being made of cheese.

• The Choi of Cooking: Flavor-Packed, Rule-Breaking Recipes for a Delicious Life by Roy Choi with Tien Nguyen and Natasha Phan (April 15) Sample pages feature Kimchi Steak Tacos and Lo Mein Spaghetti — which paints a picture of the approach of this chef who is serious about food but not fussy about rules. In the meantime, check out Choi’s MasterClass, which has a commendable amount of swears.

• Great Big Beautiful Life Emily Henry(April 22) The #1 NYT Bestselling author of Beach Read, People We Meet on Vacation and other contemporary romances gives us a fresh competitors-to-lovers tale.

• Matriarch: A Memoir by Tina Knowles (April 22) She’s a fashion designer, a businesswoman, and mom to Beyonce and Solange. Is it any wonder her new memoir comes in at 448 pages, longer than the Pope’s and Bill Gates’?

• Mark Twain by Ron Chernow (May 13) The Pulitzer-winning biographer (Washington: A Life) comes out with 1,200 pages on the life of the 19th-century humorist, steamboat pilot and writer.

• My Friends by Fredrik Backman (May 20) Teenagers and art and a cross-country journey from the author of A Man Called Ove and so many other novels, whose Instagram you should check out for more self-deprecating humor and German shepherd antics.

Brightly Shining, by Ingvild Rishøi (Grove Press, 192 pages)

It’s been 181 years since A Christmas Carol was published, and so it’s past time for another author to give us a compact, memorable holiday book that becomes as much a part of the season as shopping and eggnog. The Dickens classic was a marvel of brevity, coming in at just about 30,000 words, which is surely one reason it remains popular. No one has time to read, say, Richard Powers in December.

Three years ago, I had hopes for Small Things Like These, a slim novel written by the Irish novelist Claire Keegan, which turned up as Oprah Winfrey’s book club pick this month even though it was published in 2021. That book (Grove Press, 118 pages) wasn’t about Christmas, per se, but is set around Christmastime and has, at the heart of its deeply affecting story, a working-class man who was born to a teenage housekeeper. Furlong never knew who his father was, and yet grows up to be happily married with five daughters and becomes a sort of social justice warrior by accident when he makes a disturbing discovery while delivering coal, a reliable staple of Christmas stories.

Small Things Like These has a Truman Capote “A Christmas Memory” vibe to it, in the telling of Furlong’s back story, with passages like this:

“On Christmas morning, when he’d gone down to the drawing room [his mother’s employer] occasionally let them share, the fire was already lighted and he’d found three parcels under the tree wrapped in the same green paper: a nailbrush and a bar of soap were wrapped together in one. The second was a hot water bottle … And from Mrs. Wilson, he’d been given A Christmas Carol, an old book with a hard red cover and no pictures, which smelled of must.”

Or maybe that is a Little Women vibe. At any rate, there are letters written to Santa, and a Christmas Mass, and an ending with the kind of wild and irrational hope befitting a good Christmas story. A Christmas Carol it’s not, but it was Dickensonian enough that I decided to add the book to my Christmas collection when I finished it last year.

Now Grove Press has published another slim Christmas-themed novel, Brightly Shining, by the Norwegian author Ingvild Rishoi (translated into English by Carolina Waight). In Norway, where the book was published in 2021 under the title Stargate, the author has been compared to Dickens and also Hans Christian Andersen (who, lest we forget, gave us “The Little Mermaid” before Disney did).

Brightly Shining is the story of a 10-year-old girl (who, in Victorian times, would have been characterized as a waif) and her struggle to maintain hope in seemingly hopeless circumstances. Ronja lives with her 16-year-old sister Melissa, in an impoverished household ostensibly headed by their father, who is addicted to alcohol, has trouble holding down a job, and is usually failing to provide support of any kind for his daughters. Most of the time, there is nothing for the girls to eat but cereal, and there is no mother in the home, although Melissa tries as best as she can to be a mother to her sister.

One day, a caretaker at Ronja’s school, who is aware of the situation, points out a flier advertising a job selling Christmas trees, and she takes it home to her father. After at first dismissing it as “a job for country bumpkins,” he relents and is hired, giving wings to Ronja’s hopes: that there might be enough money for food and gifts and a Christmas tree of their own. Her biggest dream, though, is that the family may one day have a cabin of their own in the woods.

As Ronja, the narrator, recounts: “ ‘Miracles do happen,’ the caretaker used to say. ‘Sometimes there just isn’t any other way out, and that’s when a miracle happens.’”

But that’s not how things transpire. Old patterns repeat, and Melissa takes over the job selling Christmas trees, with Ronja showing up at times just to watch, and eventually getting involved in the operation.

A bully of a boss turns into the story’s villain, and Ronja befriends a widowed man living in their building, leading to one of the book’s most poignant scenes, at a holiday pageant at Ronja’s school. The old man, Aronsen, does what he can to help Ronja, feeding her a real breakfast, ironing a dress for the school pageant and even buying greenery at the Christmas tree lot, but his efforts, and Melissa’s, cannot make up for the loss of functioning parents in the child’s life, even though, as she says, “I can’t not hope. That’s just the way my brain is.”

As in Small Things Like This, Brightly Shining attempts to give us the happiest ending possible while being honest about reality, which is to say, it’s not really a happy ending at all, especially after all the talk about miracles. Let’s just say it’s as happy an ending as O’Henry gave us in “The Gift of the Magi,” meaning it requires aggressive spin to cast either book as a feel-good Christmas story.

Not to say that both books aren’t beautifully crafted — they are. Not to say that they’re not memorable — they are. It’s just that I’ve been forever ruined by the last chapter of A Christmas Carol and seek that level of merriment in my Christmas reads, which Brightly Shining and Small Things Like These refuse to supply. God bless them, anyway. B+