A Year and a Day: A Novel by Leslie Pietrzyk

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By Leslie Pietrzyk

Fifteen-year-old Alice desires of her first kiss, has sleepovers, auditions for Our Town, and attempts to move highschool biology. it truly is 1975, and first and foremost glance, her existence would appear to be general and unexceptional. yet on this planet that Leslie Pietrzyk paints, each second she chronicles is printed in the course of the kaleidoscope of loss, stained through the truth that Alice's mom, all at once, observe, or apology, intentionally parks her motor vehicle at the railroad tracks, within the direction of an oncoming train.

In the emotional 12 months that follows, Alice and her older brother locate themselves within the care in their nice aunt, compelled to manage and stream ahead. Lonely and pressured, Alice absorbs herself in her mom Annette's usual rituals, attempting to recapture their connection -- purely to be surprised via the sound of her mother's voice talking to her, attractive Alice in ''conversations'' and providing a few perception into the existence that she had led, past her position as Alice's mother.

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Extra resources for A Year and a Day: A Novel

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I mean, how long could it stay in there? “Mama’s special recipe,” I mumbled. Something shifted in the garbage can, making a slight rustle. The open refrigerator cast a glow across Aunt Aggy as she stood in front of me, pitcher in her hand. It was easy to return the juice to the refrigerator and close the door. ” I crossed my arms and stared out the window, but couldn’t describe what was out there because I didn’t see it. I didn’t see anything. After a moment, she spoke softly: “Orange Kool-Aid.

She gave the bag a little shake, letting the clothes settle deeper. ” I thought she meant about the train, so I nodded, but she set the bag down, reached into the closet. “We should check these pockets,” but she didn’t before stuffing another armload of clothes—hangers and all—into the bag. I sat on the bed and watched. She didn’t ask for help, and I didn’t want to help—I didn’t want to watch, but also I didn’t want to leave the room. This was the last time I’d see Mama’s things: the red blouse she wore to my birthday picnic last year when it was so unseasonably hot that the frosting melted off the cake; the silky black slip she slept in on summer nights when waves of sweet honeysuckle scent drifted through our open windows; the corduroy jumpsuit she’d made off the cover of the Vogue pattern book; the man’s ski sweater she’d bought at Mrs.

The room suddenly didn’t feel like Mama had ever been here. I crossed my arms; Aunt Aggy pulled the dress into her lap, folded it once, twice. It was just a stupid dress. “If I’d been wearing it that day,” Aunt Aggy said. ” “It was my dress,” she said. “I’d bought it up in Iowa City at Siefert’s, special for the trip to Chicago. ” There was silence except for the rain pelting the roof and windows. I should let Aunt Aggy keep the red dress—Mama had probably forgotten it was in her closet. Let Aunt Aggy be the one going around saving baby birds and dresses.

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