A couple of weeks ago, I found myself crying in the park. It was supposed to be just a typical summer day. I was enjoying my usual stroll with my dog, Boni. The sun was shining, and the shade of the trees provided a very welcoming shelter from the burning sun. Children were running and laughing, and their joy drew me in. Two of them, tiny three-year-olds, were squealing, all happy, wearing Hawaiian-style skirts and flowers around their necks.
Her madness seeps into the everyday: a shower caddy's arrangement becomes proof of conspiracy, and breakdown coexists with term papers, hookups, and trips to TJ Maxx. Avoiding romance and melodrama, deBoer writes in an affectless register that mirrors Alice's dissociation. The novel's power lies in its relentless banality-the mind churning while life's machinery grinds on. During a halting recovery, Alice develops "deep intuitions" about her medications, which, she suspects, interact "like hot-tempered roommates in the shabby apartment of her brain."