Every Last One: A Novel (Random House Reader's Circle)

Every Last One: A Novel (Random House Reader's Circle)

Anna Quindlen

Language: English

Pages: 333

ISBN: 0812976886

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Mary Beth Latham has built her life around her family, around caring for her three teenage children and preserving the rituals of their daily life. When one of her sons becomes depressed, Mary Beth focuses on him, only to be blindsided by a shocking act of violence. What happens afterward is a testament to the power of a woman’s love and determination, and to the invisible lines of hope and healing that connect one human being to another. Ultimately, as rendered in Anna Quindlen’s mesmerizing prose, Every Last One is a novel about facing every last one of the things we fear the most, about finding ways to navigate a road we never intended to travel.

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“You need to talk to him,” Glen says quietly as we finish the dishes. “Ruby will be home next week.” There is the faint rumble of deep voices in the next room; Kiernan and Max are watching television together. “You can’t speak for yourself?” “Mary Beth,” Glen says. “You know I won’t say what you want me to say. You know you want to do this yourself. You live for these mother moments.” “That’s a terrible thing to say. I hate this. I hate it. He’s such a nice kid. He’s been like a part of our

poke his stick through the bleachers into the shins of spectators. “One day she came downstairs in purple corduroy overalls. I kept my mouth shut because I was convinced that if I said anything she would tromp back up and put the tutu on again. But when Glen got home he said right away, ‘Ruby, what happened to your tutu?’ And she said, ‘I threw it away. It was yucky and I didn’t like it anymore.’ ” “From your mouth to God’s ear.” “How’s Aidan? Ben said he was sick.” “Strep,” says Olivia

uses. “Alex is coming home tomorrow. Alex is coming home tomorrow. Do you understand?” She looks fuzzy, and when I nod her face seems to shimmer in the fluorescent light. I realize my mouth is open, and I close it. She puts her face next to mine. I feel her cheek, wet. I want everything to be still. “Max and Ruby and Glen,” she whispers. “Someone,” I finally say, and she nods. “They don’t know who.” And suddenly I remember. I remember that I thought it was Max, Max who came into my room, who

still inside me because Nancy has said aloud only what has been a whisper ever since I half woke in the hospital. Now it is screaming, the voice that says my children and my husband are dead because I was not careful enough, attentive enough, good enough, awake enough. Not enough. When I pull into the driveway of the guesthouse I’m breathing hard, and I put my head on the steering wheel, and then I look up to make certain Alex is not watching from the window. Sometimes I live so much in my mind

Some dinners are full of conversation, others silent. A photographer from the local paper takes his picture from the sidelines. It’s a warm October afternoon, more summer than fall, and Alex’s face is slick with perspiration. He holds the ball. If the photographer is any good, it will be a great picture. I’m wearing a loose dress and a long cardigan. (“You’re wearing that?” Ruby asks. “Shut up,” says Max.) My hair needs cutting. That’s how I will fill Thursday. I will get a haircut. “That was

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