The Same Sky: A Novel, by Amanda Eyre Ward
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The Same Sky: A Novel, by Amanda Eyre Ward
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From the acclaimed author of How to Be Lost and Close Your Eyes comes a beautiful and heartrending novel about motherhood, resilience, and faith—a ripped-from-the-headlines story of two families on both sides of the American border.Look for special features inside. Join the Random House Reader’s Circle for author chats and more.Alice and her husband, Jake, own a barbecue restaurant in Austin, Texas. Hardworking and popular in their community, they have a loving marriage and thriving business, but Alice still feels that something is missing, lying just beyond reach. Carla is a strong-willed young girl who’s had to grow up fast, acting as caretaker to her six-year-old brother Junior. Years ago, her mother left the family behind in Honduras to make the arduous, illegal journey to Texas. But when Carla’s grandmother dies and violence in the city escalates, Carla takes fate into her own hands—and with Junior, she joins the thousands of children making their way across Mexico to America, facing great peril for the chance at a better life. In this elegant novel, the lives of Alice and Carla will intersect in a profound and surprising way. Poignant and arresting, The Same Sky is about finding courage through struggle, hope amid heartache, and summoning the strength—no matter what dangers await—to find the place where you belong.Praise for The Same Sky“The Same Sky is the timeliest book you will read this year—a wrenching, honest, painstakingly researched novel that puts a human face to the story of undocumented youth desperately seeking their dreams in America. This one’s going to haunt me for a long time—and it’s going to define the brilliant Amanda Eyre Ward as a leading author of socially conscious fiction.”—Jodi Picoult, author of Leaving Time “Riveting, heartrending, and beautifully written, The Same Sky pulled me in on the first page and held my attention all the way to its perfect conclusion. I devoured this book.”—Christina Baker Kline, author of Orphan Train “Ward is deeply sympathetic to her characters, and this affecting novel is sure to provoke conversations about immigration and adoption.”—The New York Times Book Review“A deeply affecting look at the contrast between middle-class U.S. life and the brutal reality of Central American children so desperate they’ll risk everything.”—People“Amanda Eyre Ward’s novel of the migrant journey, The Same Sky, is the most important book to come out of Austin this year.”—The Austin Chronicle“After reading The Same Sky, you just might view the world a little differently. And isn’t that the goal of all great art?”—Bookreporter“Emotionally gripping . . . a novel that brilliantly attaches us to broader perspectives. It is a needed respite from the angry politics surrounding border issues that, instead of dividing us, connects us to our humanity.”—The Dallas Morning News“It takes a skilled, compassionate writer to craft an authentic, moving page-turner from a complex social issue like immigration, but Ward nails it.”—Good Housekeeping “Poignant and bittersweet . . . Carla’s journey is powerfully rendered and will stick with readers long after they close the book.”—Publishers Weekly “Ward writes with great empathy. . . . Earnest and well-told. Heartstrings will be pulled.”—Kirkus Reviews
The Same Sky: A Novel, by Amanda Eyre Ward - Amazon Sales Rank: #67456 in Books
- Published on: 2015-09-01
- Released on: 2015-09-01
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 7.92" h x .76" w x 5.17" l, .60 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 304 pages
The Same Sky: A Novel, by Amanda Eyre Ward Review “The Same Sky is the timeliest book you will read this year—a wrenching, honest, painstakingly researched novel that puts a human face to the story of undocumented youth desperately seeking their dreams in America. This one’s going to haunt me for a long time—and it’s going to define the brilliant Amanda Eyre Ward as a leading author of socially conscious fiction.”—Jodi Picoult, author of Leaving Time “Riveting, heartrending, and beautifully written, The Same Sky pulled me in on the first page and held my attention all the way to its perfect conclusion. I devoured this book.”—Christina Baker Kline, author of Orphan Train “Ward is deeply sympathetic to her characters, and this affecting novel is sure to provoke conversations about immigration and adoption.”—The New York Times Book Review“A deeply affecting look at the contrast between middle-class U.S. life and the brutal reality of Central American children so desperate they’ll risk everything.”—People “Amanda Eyre Ward’s novel of the migrant journey, The Same Sky, is the most important book to come out of Austin this year.”—The Austin Chronicle“After reading The Same Sky, you just might view the world a little differently. And isn’t that the goal of all great art?”—Bookreporter “Emotionally gripping . . . a novel that brilliantly attaches us to broader perspectives. It is a needed respite from the angry politics surrounding border issues that, instead of dividing us, connects us to our humanity.”—The Dallas Morning News“It takes a skilled, compassionate writer to craft an authentic, moving page-turner from a complex social issue like immigration, but Ward nails it.”—Good Housekeeping “Poignant and bittersweet . . . Eyre’s wrenching fifth novel is a study in contrasts. . . . Carla’s journey is powerfully rendered and will stick with readers long after they close the book.”—Publishers Weekly “Ward writes with great empathy. . . . Earnest and well-told. Heartstrings will be pulled.”—Kirkus ReviewsFrom the Hardcover edition.
About the Author Amanda Eyre Ward is the critically acclaimed author of five novels, including the bestseller How to Be Lost. She has spent the last year visiting shelters in Texas and California, meeting immigrant children and hearing their stories. This novel is inspired by them.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
Carla
My mother left when I was five years old. I have a photo of the two of us, standing in our yard. In the picture, my mother is nineteen and bone-thin. The glass shards on the top of our fence glitter in the afternoon sun and our smiles are the same: lopsided, without fear. Her teeth are white as American sugar. I lean into my mother. My arms reach around her waist. I am wearing a cotton dress, a dress I wore every day until it split along the back seam. When the dress fell apart, my grandmother, Ana, stitched it back together with a needle and thread. Finally, my stomach pushed against the fabric uncomfortably and the garment was just too short. By that time, my mother was in Texas, and for my sixth birthday she sent three new dresses from a store called Old Navy.
When I opened that box, it seemed worth it—growing up without being able to touch my mother, to press my face against her legs as she fried tortillas on the gas stove. One dress was blue-and-white striped; on one, a cartoon girl ice-skated wearing earmuffs; the last was red. My friends with mothers—Humberto, Maria, Stefani—they stared at my outfits when I wore them to school. Maria could not take her eyes off the picture of the girl on my dress. “She’s ice-skating,” I said.
“Your mother?” said Humberto, scratching at his knee. Though Humberto was always covered in mud and didn’t wipe his nose, I loved him and assumed we would be married in due time.
“Probably, yes, her too,” I said, lifting my chin. “But I meant the girl on my dress. See? She wears earmuffs and gloves. Because it’s cold. And the ice skates, obviously.”
“Ice is frozen water, but a lake of it,” added Stefani, whose mother had been my mother’s best friend. Only my mother had been brave enough to leave, once my grandmother had saved enough for the coyote.
My mother sent money regularly and called every Wednesday at 12:45 p.m. Wednesday was her day off from working in the kitchen of a restaurant called Texas Chicken. I imagined her wearing a uniform the color of bananas. There was a movie we had watched standing outside the PriceSmart electronics store where an actress with red hair wore a banana-colored uniform and a tidy waitress hat, so when my mother described her work, I dressed her in this outfit in my mind. My mother told me her feet hurt at the end of her shift. My feet hurt, as well, when I wore the high-heeled shoes she’d sent. I needed shoes for running, I told her, and not three weeks later, a package with bright sneakers arrived.
There just wasn’t much for any of us in Tegucigalpa. We lived on the outskirts of the city, about a twenty-minute walk from the dump, where the older boys and men from our village worked, gathering trash that had value. Humberto’s older brother, Milton, left early in the morning. In the dark, he returned, his shoulders low with exhaustion and his hair and skin holding a rancid scent. Still—and to me, inexplicably—he had girlfriends. Though I had imagined what it would be like to kiss almost every boy in our village, I never closed my eyes and pictured Milton’s lips approaching—it seemed impossible to want to be close to someone who smelled so bad. He was handsome, however, and supported his family, so there was that.
My grandmother took in laundry, and we always had enough food, or most of the time. Mainly beans. I had twin brothers who were babies when our mother left and were starting to walk around uneasily when I turned six. They had a different father than I did, and none of our fathers remained in our village. Who knew if they were alive or dead and anyway, who cared.
This was how it was: most days our teacher came to school and some days he did not. When he had not come for three days, Humberto and I decided to go and find him at his house. We did not have bus fare and so we walked. We passed the city dump and watched the birds and the men and the boys. We split an orange Humberto had stolen from the market. We plodded through the hot afternoon, and around dinnertime (if you had any dinner) we reached our teacher’s address.
The front door was open. Our teacher and his wife were dead, lying next to each other on the kitchen floor. The robbers had taken everything in the house. Our teacher, like me, had a mother in America, in Dallas, Texas, a gleaming city we had seen on the television in the window of the PriceSmart electronics store. The point is that our teacher had many things—a watch, alarm clock, boom box, lantern. Luckily, our teacher did not have any children (as far as we knew). That would have been very sad.
Humberto cried out when he saw the bodies. I did not make a sound. My eyes went to my teacher’s wrist, but his watch was gone. His wife no longer wore her ring or the bracelet our teacher had given her on their one-year anniversary. The robbers had taken our teacher’s shoes, shirt, and pants. It was strange to see our teacher like that. I had never seen his bare legs before. They were hairy.
Humberto and I walked home. We were not allowed to be out after dark, so we walked quickly. We wondered whether we would get another teacher. Humberto thought we would, but said he might stop going to school and start going with his brother to the dump. They needed more money. They had not had dinner in two nights, and he was hungry.
“If you smell like your brother,” I said, “I cannot be your girlfriend anymore.”
“Are you my girlfriend?” said Humberto.
“Not yet,” I said. “Not ever, if you smell like Milton.”
“When?” asked Humberto.
“When I’m eleven,” I told him.
He walked ahead of me, kicking the dirt. He shook his head. “I’m too hungry,” he said finally. “And that’s too long.”
“Race you,” I said. As we passed the dump, the birds shrieked: awful, empty cries. Yet the air on my skin was velvet, the sky magnificent with stars.
“Go,” said Humberto. We ran.
2
Alice
Jake and I weren’t sure what to do about the party. Benji had sent out an e-vite to all our friends and the whole Conroe’s BBQ staff before Naomi changed her mind about giving us her baby, and what else were we going to do with the afternoon? Just not show up? Just stay home and stare at Mitchell’s empty crib? (An aside: it was also possible that Mitchell was no longer named Mitchell. Naomi might have changed her mind about that as well.) In short, we went to Matt’s El Rancho on South Lamar.
Benji had gone all out. It was fantastic: a cake with blue frosting, baby presents piled high. There were margaritas and nachos, beef flautas and queso flameado. Jake ordered tequila shots like the old days. For about twenty minutes there was small talk, and then Lucy DeWitt said, “Well? Where is the little cutie?”
“Oh, Christ,” I said. “Well, it didn’t work out, in the end.”
Jake raised his arm to signal the busboy, pointing at our empty shot glasses. “Dos más,” said Jake.
“Oh, honey,” I said, putting my hand on Jake’s shoulder and looking at the busboy apologetically. It was offensive to assume he didn’t speak English, and also offensive to speak Spanish as badly as Jake did. I didn’t speak Spanish at all, but I was going to immerse myself some summer soon.
“More tequila?” said the busboy.
“Yes, please,” I said.
Jake said, “Sí, sí.”
“What didn’t work out?” said Benji, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean, Alice?”
“The birth mother has forty-eight hours to change her mind,” explained Jake. “And our . . . and we . . .” Jake’s eyes grew teary, and he put his palm over his face. I stared dully at the burn scar on his thumb.
“She took the baby back,” I said. “She just . . . we had him at our house. We had him on the couch, and even on top of our bed. We put him in clean diapers and a swaddling blanket. He slept in his crib. And then she . . . she changed her mind.”
“They came and got him this morning,” said Jake.
“Oh my God,” said Lucy.
“Maybe she’ll . . . maybe it’s not . . . ,” sputtered Carole, an English teacher at Chávez Memorial High School, which was located three blocks from Conroe’s BBQ.
“Anyone want a flauta?” I said, passing the tray. We didn’t mention Mitchell again, and Jake and I left the restaurant without the baby gifts. We were pretty drunk, so Jake called Austin Taxi from the Matt’s El Rancho parking lot. On the ride home, I rested my head on my husband’s shoulder, watching the bright signs outside the cab window as we crossed the interstate to the Eastside: We Buy Gold Emporium, Churros Aqui!, Top Dawg’s Bar and Grill. I told the driver to hang a right after Frank’s Coin Laundry, where I brought our clothes every Monday when Conroe’s was closed. Two blocks later, Jake said, “Here we are.”
2215 Mildred Street—our home. We’d bought it from an elderly black woman who was moving to Pflugerville, joining the exodus of black families from downtown Austin’s Eastside to the sprawling suburbs. It was a cottage, really: one thousand square feet of termite-nibbled hardwood. Jake and his father had painted the house a glossy white, added black shutters to the windows, erected a picket fence around the yard. I’d bought two brass lanterns to hang on either side of our hunter-green door. On one of our evening walks around the neighborhood, we’d found a broken porch swing. Jake used his welding equipment and a few cans of Rust-Oleum to restore the swing, hanging it on the front porch. In the backyard, we’d planted a lemon tree and a row of bamboo. We could be poster children for Eastside gentrification, but we were not ashamed. We’d made a home for ourselves on Mildred Street, same as the crazy lady at 2213 and the young family at 2217. Same as Omar Martinez, who lived across the street and worked at Juan in a Million, home of the best hangover breakfast in town.
Our house was dark. As the cab pulled away, Jake sank into the porch swing and I let myself inside. This had been, we’d vowed, the last chance. I was infertile, and our hopes for adoption had about run out. We had borrowed every last dime available to try to impregnate a kind but stoic surrogate in Detroit named Janeen. After Jake and I had flown to Michigan seven times, Janeen said—kindly and with stoicism—that she needed to close this chapter and move on. She was now pregnant with a Brooklyn man’s sperm. I knew because I read her blog.
In the decade we’d been trying to have a baby, our life had become a symphony of failure, almost rapturous with dramatic and dashed hopes. Pregnant women contacted us through our adoption agency, but then chose another couple, kept the baby, or (in one case) turned out to be a nut job who’d never been pregnant in the first place. I’d maintained a website advertising our cheery life and happy home (writing corny stories about how we’d met; what our days at Conroe’s BBQ were like; and what sports, religion, and hobbies we’d teach our youngster), but though we received emails aplenty, none of the desperate people perusing the site had decided to bless us with a baby.
In the Detroit airport, after Janeen’s announcement, Jake told me he was done. In the Fuddruckers restaurant next to Gate C17, he grabbed my hand and begged me to stop. Exhausted and low, I agreed to deactivate our adoption file, to close this chapter, to move on with grace, gratitude, and all that crap. We embraced, ignoring the stares of the other Fuddruckers patrons. I felt, when we were aloft and sailing through the sky toward Austin, that maybe we would be okay. But then Naomi had chosen us, and baby Mitchell had come.
The night before, I’d fed him. Small and dark, with a cap of black curls, Mitchell had opened his brown eyes and looked at me. “I’m your mommy,” I said, tasting the precious words. I fit a bottle between his lips and watched him suckle, felt his body ease. As I held him, he passed with a tiny shudder from wakefulness to sleep. The moon outside his window was full. I was full. And then the agency called.
I went to Jake, brought him a beer. He opened it and drank, then I grabbed the can and took my own mouthful. The beer made the pain a bit less sharp, just for the evening. “Oh, God,” I said, sitting down next to Jake, breathing the sultry air. The moon was still round and bright.
“I wish I knew what the point of this was,” said Jake. “Or would you say were?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “and I don’t care.”
“Fair enough,” said Jake.
People always seem surprised when they first meet me and Jake. He’s good-looking and sure of himself, a blond former football star. In contrast, I’m nervous and dark-haired, more comfortable in the backcountry than at a country club. If Jake is a lion, regal and handsome, I’m a wren: fragile, easily spooked, ready to take flight. Somehow, though, it works. At night, I tuck myself into a ball, and Jake surrounds me, and I am warm.
In the moonlight, I saw a figure emerge from Beau and Camilla’s house next door. “Hello?” called Camilla. As she approached, I could see she was carrying a metal pot.
“We’re drinking on the swing,” admitted Jake.
“I am so sorry,” said Camilla. Her Nigerian accent made the words especially sad somehow.
“Did you see them take the baby?” I asked.
Camilla hesitated, then nodded. Camilla and Beau had two daughters who had inherited their father’s light hair and their mother’s feisty attitude. “I made soup,” said Camilla, unlatching our gate.
“Thanks,” I said. I made a move to stand, but Camilla shook her head.
“I’ll put it in the kitchen,” she said, climbing our three front steps, opening the door. I heard her set the pot on our stove, and then she reappeared. “We’re here, if you need anything,” she said. “I mean, we’re there,” she said, pointing.
“Thanks,” Jake and I said in unison. We watched Camilla walk across the alley back to her home, where her family waited for her.
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19 of 20 people found the following review helpful. you always like one better than the other By dannan I wish authors wouldn’t try to have two stories going at once—one chapter for each character, back and forth, as if it’s fair. It’s never fair, and it never fails: you always like one better than the other. There’s the Good Story and then there’s The Other One. I just wanted The Other One to stop interrupting, to stop sticking its nose in my face when I’m trying to find out what happens in the Good Story.Here, the Good Story is terrifying, riveting, heart-wrenching. Carla is telling the story. She’s a young girl living in abject poverty in Honduras. In charge of her younger brother, she forages for food at the dump, dreams of escaping to America, and then makes a harrowing run for it.The Other One is boring. Alice tells her story. She’s a middle-class, 40-year-old woman in Texas whose husband owns a popular restaurant. She desperately wants to adopt a baby and has just had to give an adopted baby back. Here’s a couple of things Alice and her family do: They go to parades and say grace. Alice’s husband gets interviewed for a story in a food magazine. The story has a Hallmark feel. See? No contest! Why not just make the story all about Carla?Okay, Carla’s story. I’ve never read a book that describes poverty so vividly. You feel like you’re right there with Carla, walking in her shoes as she barely finds enough food to stay alive and as she endures horrible events during her trek to America. I was on the edge of my seat, waiting to see what horror she would face next and how she would survive. I’ll never look at immigrants in the same light again. When I hear of people trying to cross the border, I’ll think of Carla’s frightening struggles, her desperation, and her determination to get out of her country. It’s a treacherous journey, and not for the weak. Hunger, rape, theft, death, and pure and constant fear—this is what immigrants face.The author does an amazing job of making it feel real. Carla is very well developed, the scenes are vivid, the pacing of the novel is excellent. There are no wasted words.I have one criticism of the Good Story, which is Carla’s voice. Occasionally, she sounds like an American writer.For example, she says:“I tried to push down my anger, the sense that I had been abandoned, a fledgling left to founder in a disintegrating nest.”And this:“What do you want?, he said, leaning back against the door frame of my house, looking insouciant.”Okay, embarrassing truth: I had to look up “insouciant.” (It means “nonchalant”, if you were as clueless as I was.) So Carla, who isn’t a native English speaker, uses “insouciant”? I don’t think so. I realize that she was probably an adult telling her story, looking back at her life in Honduras and her journey, but I sometimes didn’t buy her vocabulary and sentence structure. Did she get her M.A. in English or creative writing?I don’t have a lot to say about the Other One. Besides being a mundane story, the relationship between Alice and her husband just didn’t ring true. Several actions seemed out of character. For example, Alice tries to help a troubled teenager, Evian, and Alice’s husband doesn’t approve. Then suddenly he is gung-ho Evian, with no explanation of why he changed his tune. Evian even contacts him, which seems totally out of character. I didn’t buy it. Another example: Alice insinuates that her husband is flirting with a person interviewing him, and it’s never addressed. Also, the dialogue is often stilted. The author keeps the story moving, but I wasn’t interested. I was dying to get back to Carla. The way the two stories intersect is cool but somewhat predictable.I did like many of the metaphors used (“Her teeth are white as American sugar.”). I always love a good metaphor, and it made me see that the writer was clever when it came to creating good images.I wish some reviewer had mentioned that the book has a God bent. God works in mysterious ways; you must have faith, etc. etc. I didn’t want to hear it. I felt like I was listening to a famous person who, when interviewed, thanks God (instead of giving themselves credit) for whatever he or she has achieved—which lessens my admiration of the star.I’m going to pay careful attention when a book blurb says that the book is about “faith.” It usually means there’s God stuff, which will send me running the other way. In the acknowledgments, the author thanks a priest who provided much of the info on Carla’s story. No wonder the book has a religious bent. The characters in Alice’s story are also religious (though I must admit, not in a major way). Given that the family is apple-pie America, the inclusion of religious just turned me off more. I prefer edgy, not mundane straight lives of god-fearing people in middle America. But this is just my opinion.I’ve recently read two other books, "Calling Me Home" and "Five Days Left," both of which also had two alternating stories, and in both cases I liked one story and not the other. I just don’t understand why the authors aren’t happy sticking with the strong story and ditching the other. The books would be so much better.The Carla story was great, but the Alice story wasn’t. It was a fast read. I know most people raved about this book, but I can’t gush. All I can give it is a 3.Thank you NetGalley for giving me a copy of this book in exchange for an unbiased review.
11 of 12 people found the following review helpful. ~~ IN WHICH THEY COULD BEGIN A NEW LIFE By Pamela A. Poddany THE SAME SKYCarla is an eleven year old girl living in below poverty conditions in Honduras. Her mother left the entire family and made the trip to Austin, Texas, to save money to help her family. Carla helps her ailing grandmother take care of her twin brothers. They barely have any food and are lucky to have a roof over their heads. Carla works in the dump going through trash to make a few bucks to help support her brothers and grandma. What a life. The conditions are hard, cruel, and never ever get better. Even though their mom sends money from Texas, it isn't much help. Crime is horrible and constant, the streets are swimming with criminals, murderers, druggies -- Carla can trust few people. One day Carla decides to put her fate in her own hands and decides to make the illegal trip to America to find her mom and hopefully get a shot at a better life.Alice and her husband, Jake, live in Austin, Texas, and operate a popular BBQ joint. Wow, just reading about their meals made this reader crave BBQ! Jake and Alice desperately would love to have children and have tried adoption. They are both very involved in their thriving business, the local community, are totally in love with each other, but due to the fact there are no children in their lives, they feel as if a link is missing for them.Told in the oscillating voices of Alice and Carla, this is a great book. It really opens your eyes as to the conditions others in foreign countries live in and how these people will literally do ANYTHING to get to America. Carla has quite the story to tell -- she speaks in a clear voice, recounting the horrors of her daily 'normal' life. Alice's story is also well told.From the minute I started this book, I knew how this story would end. While very predictable, this is still a great and eye-opening book, filled with hope, love, and the human condition. Come and meet Alice and Carla and see what life has in store for these very two different women. Ward has always been a favorite author of mine and she did not disappoint with her latest.Thank you.Pam
14 of 16 people found the following review helpful. Quick read but just OK. By Lauren H. (Obsessive Book Nerd) The Same Sky was a pretty quick read for me, but unfortunately I just couldn’t give it a stellar review. I’m actually pretty torn about what to say. The story follows two characters, Clara on her journey from Honduras to Texas and Alice dealing with the disappointment and numerous failed attempts of becoming a mother. I knew at some point the two characters would cross paths, but it just didn’t happen quick enough for me.I enjoyed Clara’s story so much more than Alice’s. Clara and her supporting characters seemed real. I felt that her journey was genuine. The struggles and hardships she endured were heartbreaking. There times however, when modern technology was mentioned (a.k.a. the internet) by Clara and this was confusing because Clara was living in a village where she slept on a pallet, robbed of cooking pots, had to walk miles to use the only phone in town, and ate flour paste for meals. So I’m assuming that she is referring to using the internet once she is older and living a better life in America. But, why even refer to it? I was just confused.Alice’s part of the book felt disconnected. Her character was more well rounded than the others but didn't feel fully developed. Just when I thought I had a good read on each of the supporting characters, they did/said something abrupt and out of character. It went completely against the already developed character. I found myself re-reading paragraphs because I didn’t understand why a character just did/said the thing they did/said because it didn’t make any sense. Every single character in Alice’s story fell into this category of disappoint me for me.I’m a little concerned that this book is getting such great reviews on Goodreads. My review and rating does not follow suit. So I kind of feel like I’m not being fair, but I’ve thought long and hard about this book and I’m just not happy about it. The second I finished it, the first feeling I had was utter disappointment. I could tell at about 65% through the book that I might not like where the book ended, but I kept reading on. Overall, I probably would have given the novel a better rating had it just been Clara’s story.I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. To read more reviews like this one, check out ObsessiveBookNerd.com.
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