An Analysis Of Brett Anthony Johnston's 'Remember Me Like This'

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Hardcover: 384 pages Publisher: Random House (May 13, 2014) Language: English ISBN-10: 1400062128 ISBN-13: 978-1400062126 Lost and Found Peter Birkenhead We see them on the news, holding photos of daughters who never came down for breakfast. Or huddled in airports, waiting for information about planes that have mysteriously disappeared. We catch glimpses of them napping on cramped couches in Intensive Care units, or rocking back and forth on courtroom benches — wondering what they did to deserve being cast adrift, within sight but not reach of land; wondering how it’s possible for time to neither continue nor mercifully end, but simply pause. In Brett Anthony Johnston’s quietly devastating novel, Remember Me Like This, “they” are Laura and Eric Campbell, whose son Justin Campbell, 11 at the time of his disappearance, has been missing from his Southport, Texas home for four years. They are still posting fliers in shop windows around town and the neighboring Corpus Christie, still searching missing children websites, still celebrating Justin’s birthday and buying him Christmas presents. But they’re barely hanging on. Their connections to each other are fraying, being eaten away by fatigue, guilt, and corrosive hope. They speak in clipped phrases that barely hint at the cacophony of their inner lives. Laura channels a hyper-attentive, almost frenetic energy into monitoring a sick dolphin at an animal rescue lab. She rides the ferry back and forth across the bay late at night. She steals bottles of nail polish, slashes at her palms and wrists with seashells, and throws sweet tea in the face of a stranger who tells her “I’m still just so broken up about your boy.” Eric, a high school history teacher, has been, in the words of a n... ... middle of paper ... ... there until night fell and he could descend the ladder in the dark. [...] She wanted to slap him across the face to wake him up, for he seemed to have dreamed himself into a life that didn’t exist. And yet she couldn’t remember a time when she loved him more. That’s the kind of love that can, eventually, win the day. Hard fought-for, clear-sighted, humane. The love of people who see each other, and who deserve to be more visible in our literature. Remember Me Like This closes with an epilogue that unites the Campbell’s fulsome, post-storm voices in a tentative series of unanswerable questions, a perfect grace-note that evokes the book’s most arresting and indelible image: of four terrified and broken creatures seated around a kitchen table, moved by an impulse beyond their comprehension to reach for each other’s hands, close their eyes, and bow their heads.

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