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Overview
Meanwhile, the guilt-stricken driver of the truck attempts suicide—but is unable to die. Henry Denton instead finds himself in a place of darkness, somewhere between this world and the next, invisible to all but a group of mysterious and downtrodden men. Haunted by his shame, Henry struggles to understand this mysterious limbo.
As word of Sherry's powers spread, her parents must decide how best to shelter their daughter and help the many sick and dying who are drawn to her side. At the same time, a larger battle is brewing— one that has been raging for two thousand years, and one that might yet claim the lives of Sherry and her family.
Robert J. Wiersema's brilliant debut novel sheds light on the inner lives of characters struggling against tragedy, who find each other and themselves in the darkness. Before I Wake reveals the power of forgiveness, and the true nature, and cost, of miracles.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780312381059 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 07/22/2008 |
| Series: | Reading Group Gold |
| Edition description: | First Edition |
| Pages: | 336 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
I only looked away for a moment.
That one phrase haunts a parent when something tragic happens to their child. It echoes in the mind like an accusation. Or a curse.
“I only turned my back for a second, but somehow he managed to reach the handle of the frying pan . . .”
“I just went inside to answer the phone. I thought the gate to the pool was locked . . .”
It’s a cry for understanding, a challenge to the universe. I hear the guilt, the recrimination, and I understand: If only I had been paying attention . . .
He wouldn’t be burned.
She wouldn’t have drowned.
I didn’t look away.
We believe that vigilance can prevent tragedy, that if we pay attention, we will be strong enough, wise enough, fortunate enough to counter fate.
“If I had been watching . . .”
It’s a lie.
It’s a trick that the universe plays, a way of increasing the guilt and despair while seeming to explain it away.
I didn’t look away. I wish I had.
Sometimes we can only watch, mute witnesses as our lives change in a moment, in a heartbeat, in the time it takes a three-year-old girl to take a single step from our side.
I let go of her hand.
I didn’t look away.
And my baby is gone.
April 1996
“Jubilee, this is A32. We have two, repeat two, en route. Hit and run. ETA four minutes. Clear.”
“Copy, A32. Please advise condition. Clear.”
“Copy,Jubilee. Advise one adult female. Some bleeding. Shock. Holding stable. Clear.”
“Copy, A32. Advise.”
“Copy, Jubilee. Advise one female child, three years. Severe head trauma with decreased level of consciousness and spontaneous respirations. Severe bleeding from cranium. Clear.”
“Copy, A32. Trauma One will meet you at the gate. Clear.”
KAREN BARRETT
Sherry and I were walking to the mall, holding hands.
Hillside Shopping Centre is only a few blocks from the house, and every Wednesday morning in the food court clowns and jugglers and musicians perform for the kids. I had dressed Sherry in her little blue dress, the one with Winnie the Pooh on the front. She had chosen it herself: “my sky-blue dress, because it matches the sky.” I zipped up the back carefully, so as not to catch any of her wispy hair between the metal teeth. I tickled her gently under the arms as I finished.
Was that the last time I heard her laugh?
Sherry loved the clowns, and the noise of all the other children packed into the food court was like a wall of pure joy. We usually had a snack, a muffin or some french fries, before we walked home, and by the time we got back it would be nap time for both of us.
It was a beautiful spring day. The sky was a clear, cold blue, but there was no chill to the air. In fact, the air was heavy with warmth and growth and green and flowers as we walked through our neighborhood. We stopped to pet familiar cats, to smell the lilacs just in flower, to pick up stones that weighed down my pockets.
I checked both ways before we stepped into the crosswalk on Hillside. I always do. The street is too wide to take any risks: three lanes in each direction with a concrete median, and the cars and buses just roar through. There’s no light at the crosswalk, so I’m always careful to check. Better that we wait a few seconds than take any chances.
We waited for a station wagon to pass from the left and I saw a truck a good distance away on the right, but it was perfectly safe. I took her small hand in mine.
Perfectly safe.
We walked quickly. Six lanes is pretty far for a three-year-old, but we’d done it plenty of times.
We should have waited at the median.
The next time I looked up, the truck was right there, maybe 100 yards away. It was old and beat up, red with white fenders. And it was roaring toward us.
I felt her fingers slip from mine. Felt her moving.
“Sherry,” I called as she skipped away. We were in the same lane as the truck, so all we had to do was get to the next lane. It wasn’t far. No more than a couple of feet.
I should have picked her up. I don’t know why I didn’t pick her up.
She turned to look at me.
“Sherry!”
I watched her pudgy white legs scamper across the pavement, her little white shoes, her little blue dress.
Her sky-blue dress.
When I turned to check, I could almost see the face of the driver in the truck. He had shifted lanes to go wide around us, weaving into the next lane, the lane in front of us, the lane that Sherry had just quickstepped into. The roar of his engine blocked out all other noise.
I reached for her, my fingers just brushing her blond hair before the truck pulled her away from me.
I could hear, over the roar of the engine, the sound of her body hitting the bumper as the truck took her beyond my reach.
I could feel the wake of the truck as it sped past me, as I threw myself toward her. Tried to reach her.
There was a squealing of tires. A scream.
And the next thing I saw was the ceiling of a hospital emergency room.
“9—1-1 Operator. How should I direct your call?”
“I just killed a little girl . . .”
“Sir–”
“I swerved . . . I swerved around her . . .”
“Sir, where are you?”
“I’m at the Hillside Mall . . .”
“Where are you at Hillside Mall, sir?”
“I only looked away for a minute. I checked my mirror. I changed lanes. I swerved, but she . . .”
“Sir, where are you calling from?”
“I just killed a little girl . . .”
“Sir . . . Sir? Sir?”
Reading Group Guide
After an unthinkable tragedy happens, an unbelievable miracle begins. . . Three-year-old Sherry is the adored only child of Simon and Karen Barrett. But when Sherry is critically injured in a hit-and-run accident, the fault lines in the Barretts's marriage begin to show. As her parents' marriage falls apart, it is discovered that Sherry has miraculous healing powers.
As word of Sherry's powers spread, her parents must decide how best to shelter their daughter and help the many sick and dying who are drawn to her side. At the same time, a larger battle is brewing— one that has been raging for two thousand years, and one that might yet claim the lives of Sherry and her family.
Robert J. Wiersema's brilliant debut novel sheds light on the inner lives of characters struggling against tragedy, who find each other and themselves in the darkness. Before I Wake reveals the power of forgiveness, and the true nature, and cost, of miracles.
IN HIS OWN WORDS
The Roots of Before I Wake
An Original Essay by the Author
Before I Wake is a novel about miracles in an age without faith.
It's a novel about a family in peril from without and within.
It's a novel of how lives can be changed in a moment—shattered by a moment of indiscretion or inattention, and how, maybe, those lives can be put back together.
It's a novel in which the fantastic, the mythic, rubs up against the everyday world.
It's a novel I never anticipated writing.
It all began with the newspapers. The morning paper is a procrastinating writer's best friend. I make a habit of getting up at 4 am, every morning, to write. And, unfortunately, I also got into the habit of reading the morning paper before I sat down at the desk.
It started of with "I'll just read the headlines while the coffee perks," and before I knew it I was subscribing to four dailies and getting no writing done whatsoever. It's hard to bemoan that lost time, though, considering that the roots of Before I Wake lie in those morning papers.
I read a story—just once, and pretty superficially—about a family in the United States. Their daughter, ten years old or so, had been involved in a terrible accident and was catatonic, and was being cared for at home. This family was very religious, and after they brought the girl home from the hospital they noticed strange things happening around the house, things they connected to some change in the girl. Once word got out, people wanted audiences with this miraculous child, and her parents would take her out to the yard once a week, and people would line up for a few brief moments with this child they felt was touched by God.
The newspaper quickly found its way to the recycle box (I think—I have some dim recollection of keeping the article), but the content of the piece stuck with me.
The two great motivating questions of a writer's life—this writer's life, at any rate—are "why" and "what if." And the "why" presented itself in simplistic, though fairly deep-if-you-think-about-it way: Why do miracles only happen to religious people? To expand on that: If miracles are real and quantifiable and scientifically confirmable, why are they limited to the faithful?
And from that question came the "what if": what if miracles—confirmed and quantifiable—began happening in a family which not only had no religious faith but was, in some ways, almost anti-religious? What would happen then?
And that's how Before I Wake was born.
KEEP ON READING
John Crowley, Little,Big
A beautiful, haunting novel, Little, Big is part fantasy, part family history, part fever dream. Since I discovered this book in a used bookstore, more than a decade ago, it's become something of a talisman, and a crusade. I've read it probably a half-dozen times, and I carry it with me whenever I travel. When I find a copy in a used bookstore I buy it, without fail. I've given away more copies of it than I can recall, and I've made great friends through the shared experience of reading it. More than anything, though, Little, Big is a source of constant revelation, with each reading opening up Crowley's world of the Faeries' Parliament a little more. It's truly, profoundly good, with an ending that never fails to reduce me to tears.
John Irving, The World According To Garp
The first time I read it, I was twelve years old. I actually stole that copy... (I strongly discourage the theft of books, by the way. Call me a hypocrite.) I was a lonely, weird kid whose parents were getting divorced, who was terminally unpopular, who had these dreams of becoming a writer.
Reading Garp changed my life. It gave me permission to be an odd-ball, and encouraged me to relish my strangeness. It comforted my loneliness, and reminded me that there were others like me, out there somewhere. And it suggested to me that it was possible, maybe, to make a life as a writer. When I grew up, I wanted to be TS Garp... I've re-read Garp every summer since, and it never fails to reveal more of itself, and of me.
Neil Gaiman, Sandman
Okay, this might be a little unfair, considering the Sandman is, in fact, 75 issues of a monthly comic (plus a special issue), but given that the whole run is available in collected editions (and is currently getting the deluxe, slipcased hardcover treatment), I think you'll forgive me. Sandman is more than the story of Dream of the Endless (an archetypal figure, older than any god); at heart it's a fundamentally human story, of time and choice, lives and dreams, art and love. Gaiman draws on everything from faerie lore to Christian (and other) mythology to pop culture to the legends around William Shakespeare to develop a rich panorama of human achievement and confusion. There are several different story arcs, but Sandman truly dazzles in its entirety, with 76 issues forming what I consider to be one of the finest novels—in any medium—of the twentieth century.
Mark Helprin, Winter's Tale
I'm starting to notice a trend in this list. A couple actually: big books, and works rooted in fantasy. Well, here's another one, a magical novel about New York City, a place I've come to love. It's a romance, a fable, an epic of city-building and a truly beautiful, haunting work. There are images here that still come to me in my dreams.
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
Aha! A short book, and one not rooted in the fantastic in the slightest. Hemingway wrote better books than this one, but none that speak to me quite so directly. This impressionistic collection chronicles Papa's proto-bohemian life as a struggling, utterly destitute writer in Paris, his relationship with Fitzgerald and Stein, and his developing prose style. To my mind, there is no better account of a writer's day-to-day life than "A Good Café on the Place St.-Michel," balancing gritty reality with sheer romanticism, and inspiring generations of coffee-shop scribbler.
Raymond Carver, Where I'm Calling From
You probably won't notice a lot of Carver influence in my work (I'm more prone to emotional soul-baring than minimalist epiphanies or lack thereof), but it's there, I can assure you. I have long admired Carver's skill to say more with less, to "play the silences," as Miles Davis once said of his trumpet technique. It's something I try to do in my own work, but one look at the stories in this collection reminds me of Carver's utter mastery of the single word, the perfect sentence, the weight of a single glance or sigh.
The Short Stories of Alice Munro
No, this isn't actually a book, but how can you pick just one Alice Munro collection? As a writer, she's the polar opposite of Carver, packing an entire novel's worth of life into even the shortest of her stories. Despite years of study, I still have no idea how she does it.
Salman Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories
And we're back to the fantastic. I'm a great admirer of Rushdie's work—I think he's probably one of the finest living writers in the English language—but this fable holds a special place in my heart. Whimsical and touching, funny and sad, it is a reminder of the power those books we read as children once had on us, and the pure power of reading to allow us glimpses of other worlds. It's an inspiring book for a writer, and a gift for a parent to share with a young child.
Michael Chabon, Wonder Boys
This is a wonderful book, about growing up even in middle age, about finding yourself even when you aren't really looking. It's speaking to me rather loudly at this point, as I find myself, like Grady Tripp, caught up in the middle of writing a new book. Chabon captures the pressures and frustrations of the blank page as only someone who has been there himself can. Which reminds me... time to go back to work. Happy reading.
1. Forgiveness and redemption form one of the themes of Before I Wake. How does this theme apply to Henry? To Simon? To other characters?
2. In keeping with the above, do you think Simon had done enough to redeem himself, to earn Karen's forgiveness?
3. Tim and the stranger both have what could be called secret identities. How early in the novel did you first become aware that Father Peter was not who he claimed to be? Who did you think he really was? Was the eventual revelation of his identity a surprise?
4. Before I Wake uses multiple first-person points of view to tell the story of its characters. What did you like about this use of multiple voices? Were there particular advantages to this approach? Disadvantages?
5. At one point, Tim tells Henry that "the cost of miracles is dear." In what ways do the characters of Before I Wake pay for the miracles around them?
6. The question of religious belief is central to the book. Both Simon and Karen are agnostic: what impact does this have on their actions in the story? Do you think they would have reacted differently had they been religious?
7. There are several narrative twists in Before I Wake. Was there one particular moment, event, or outcome that surprised you more than others?
8. The novel ends on a note of ambiguity. What do you think happened in Sherry's sickroom?