Dawn is thriving as a mom and wife with a fulfilling career when a plane crash leaves her second-guessing everything. Patti Murin admirably narrates this complex novel, providing a strong yet pleasant voice for Dawn at this crossroads. Dawn’s early adulthood as an Egyptian archaeologist took a sudden turn many years before when she returned home to her dying mother and stayed to become a wife and death doula. But her own near-death experience results in deep yearning for her former life in Egypt—and her true love, a British colleague. Murin portrays his smarmy superiority and eventual commitment to Dawn with a light accent. The novel’s extensive details about quantum physics and Egyptology are interesting rather than cumbersome, thanks to Murin’s conversational narration. N.M.C. © AudioFile 2020, Portland, Maine
The Book of Two Ways: A Novel
Narrated by Patti Murin
Jodi PicoultUnabridged — 15 hours, 47 minutes
The Book of Two Ways: A Novel
Narrated by Patti Murin
Jodi PicoultUnabridged — 15 hours, 47 minutes
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Overview
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY MARIE CLAIRE
Everything changes in a single moment for Dawn Edelstein. She's on a plane when the flight attendant makes an announcement: Prepare for a crash landing. She braces herself as thoughts flash through her mind. The shocking thing is, the thoughts are not of her husband but of a man she last saw fifteen years ago: Wyatt Armstrong.
Dawn, miraculously, survives the crash, but so do all the doubts that have suddenly been raised. She has led a good life. Back in Boston, there is her husband, Brian, their beloved daughter, and her work as a death doula, in which she helps ease the transition between life and death for her clients.
But somewhere in Egypt is Wyatt Armstrong, who works as an archaeologist unearthing ancient burial sites, a career Dawn once studied for but was forced to abandon when life suddenly intervened. And now, when it seems that fate is offering her second chances, she is not as sure of the choice she once made.
After the crash landing, the airline ensures that the survivors are seen by a doctor, then offers transportation to wherever they want to go. The obvious destination is to fly home, but she could take another path: return to the archaeological site she left years before, reconnect with Wyatt and their unresolved history, and maybe even complete her research on The Book of Two Ways-the first known map of the afterlife.
As the story unfolds, Dawn's two possible futures unspool side by side, as do the secrets and doubts long buried with them. Dawn must confront the questions she's never truly asked: What does a life well lived look like? When we leave this earth, what do we leave behind? Do we make choices . . . or do our choices make us? And who would you be if you hadn't turned out to be the person you are right now?
Editorial Reviews
07/13/2020
Picoult (A Spark of Life) explores age-old questions about a possible parallel universe in this shrewd tale. The life of narrator Dawn McDowell, a specialist in the ancient Egyptian coffin text the Book of Two Ways, has taken two paths, indicated by alternating chapter titles. In “Water/Boston,” Dawn is a death doula facing an impasse in her marriage to quantum mechanics professor Brian Edelstein, after he missed his daughter’s birthday to spend time with an adoring student. The “Land/Egypt” path begins with Dawn’s life before Brian, when she was on a PhD track as an Egyptologist, worked at a Yale-sponsored dig, and developed a connection with fellow student Wyatt Armstrong. In the present, Dawn returns to Egypt to see if she can pick up the life with Wyatt she left behind, and the trip is described in two ways that mirror one another with a few key differences. Along the way, Picoult unloads a great deal of info on quantum mechanics, parallel worlds, Egyptian history, religion and hieroglyphics, the machinations of archeological digs, and the process of dying. The dual-life construct can be confusing, and readers may find it not sufficiently explained, but Dawn’s story offers keen insight on the limits of love. Picoult’s fans will appreciate this multifaceted, high-concept work. (Sept.)
A thrilling adventure . . . With Picoult’s stories, there is always something new to learn, and The Book of Two Ways is no exception. . . . A fun and interesting read, one that will lead readers to both learn a lot and also ask themselves key questions about how to create happy lives for themselves during the short time we have on earth.”—Associated Press
“The Book of Two Ways is a return for Picoult to the themes of her earliest books—motherhood, complicated romantic love. . . . Picoult, at this point in her career, could skillfully build tension in a broom closet, but the best part of this book is not the suspense; it’s the look at the complexity of a woman as she enters middle age. . . . Picoult always tells both sides of a story not with judgment, but with grace.”—The Washington Post
“Jodi Picoult fans rejoice! . . . The Book of Two Ways is one story you won’t be able to put down.”—CNN
“Asking life or death questions in perfect Picoult fashion.”—Parade
“[A] delightfully escapist, high-concept novel . . . The Book of Two Ways nearly spills over in its earnestness and emotion. . . . This is a book of big, burning questions such as what defines a great life.”—BookTrib
“Picoult’s fans will appreciate this multifaceted, high-concept work.”—Publishers Weekly
“Picoult’s fans will be more than ready for this puzzle of a novel. . . . [They] will find heady themes to consider.”—Booklist
“Jodi Picoult knows how to write allll the feels, and The Book of Two Ways is no exception.”—Cosmopolitan
“Unputdownable.”—E! Online
“Riveting.”—Womendotcom
“If you didn’t already see Jodi’s name and preorder this one, let us convince you.”—Good Housekeeping
04/01/2020
On a plane about to crash-land, Dawn Edelstein finds herself thinking not about her husband but about Wayne Armstrong, whose work as an archaeologist unearthing ancient burial sites was something she had aspired to as well. On the ground, she's offered transportation to the location of her choice and must decide whether to head home or head for Egypt to reconnect with Wayne and perhaps pick up her research on a book mapping the afterlife. With side-by-side plots.
Dawn is thriving as a mom and wife with a fulfilling career when a plane crash leaves her second-guessing everything. Patti Murin admirably narrates this complex novel, providing a strong yet pleasant voice for Dawn at this crossroads. Dawn’s early adulthood as an Egyptian archaeologist took a sudden turn many years before when she returned home to her dying mother and stayed to become a wife and death doula. But her own near-death experience results in deep yearning for her former life in Egypt—and her true love, a British colleague. Murin portrays his smarmy superiority and eventual commitment to Dawn with a light accent. The novel’s extensive details about quantum physics and Egyptology are interesting rather than cumbersome, thanks to Murin’s conversational narration. N.M.C. © AudioFile 2020, Portland, Maine
2020-07-01
An Egyptologist-turned–hospice worker contemplates the mysteries of fate, mortality, and love.
Picoult’s obsession here is the power of choices and what can happen when they are made under pressure. Dawn, a graduate student in Egyptology, is abruptly called back to Boston from a dig in Egypt by a family emergency. Her mother, who raised her and her brother, Kieran, alone, is in hospice, dying. This death and other circumstances conspire to derail Dawn’s cherished career—now she must raise Kieran, who is only 13. Security is offered by Brian, a physicist at Harvard, whom she marries after discovering she's pregnant. For 15 years, she curates a different life than the one she had planned. She’s now a “death doula,” a concierge hospice worker contracted by the moribund to help wind up loose ends. For Dawn’s client Win, winding up involves getting in touch with a lost love, abandoned for another life. Win’s situation evokes in Dawn renewed longing for her own lost love, Wyatt, an English earl she left behind at the dig. When fault lines emerge in her marriage and teenage daughter Meret is being extra surly, might-have-beens beckon. The nonlinear narrative ricochets between Dawn’s Boston life and her sojourns—past and present—in Egypt. The chronology can be confusing—and, in the case of the prologue, deliberately misleading, it seems. There are no datelines or other guideposts except for periodic headings like "Water/Boston” and “Land/Egypt.” Water and Land reference the “Two Ways,” alternate routes to the afterlife in Egyptian mythology. Whether on death and dying, archaeology, or quantum physics, Picoult’s erudition overload far exceeds the interests of verisimilitude or theme. Do lectures on multiverses bring us any closer to parsing Dawn’s epiphanous epigram—“We don’t make decisions. Our decisions make us”? This much is clear: The characters’ professions are far better defined than their motivations.
A midlife crisis story stifled by enough material for several TED talks.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940179048121 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Random House |
| Publication date: | 09/22/2020 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
| Sales rank: | 1,020,681 |
Read an Excerpt
Prologue
My calendar is full of dead people.
When my phone alarm chimes, I fish it out from the pocket of my cargo pants. I’ve forgotten, with the time change, to turn off the reminder. I’m still groggy with sleep, but I open the date and read the names: Iris Vale. Eun Ae Kim. Alan Rosenfeldt. Marlon Jensen.
I close my eyes, and do what I do every day at this moment: I remember them.
Iris, who had died tiny and birdlike, had once driven a getaway car for a man she loved who’d robbed a bank. Eun Ae, who had been a doctor in Korea, but couldn’t practice in the United States. Alan had proudly showed me the urn he bought for his cremated remains and then joked, I haven’t tried it on yet. Marlon had changed out all the toilets in his house and put in new flooring and cleaned the gutters; he bought graduation gifts for his two children and hid them away. He took his twelve-year-old daughter to a hotel ballroom and waltzed with her while I filmed it on his phone, so that the day she got married there would be video of her dancing with her father.
At one point, they were my clients. Now, they’re my stories to keep.
Everyone in my row is asleep. I slip my phone back into my pocket and carefully crawl over the woman to my right without disturbing her—air traveler’s yoga—to make my way to the bathroom in the rear of the plane. There I blow my nose and look in the mirror. I’m at the age where that’s a surprise, where I still think I’m going to see a younger woman rather than the one who blinks back at me. Lines fan from the corners of my eyes, like the creases of a familiar map. If I untangle the braid that lies over my left shoulder, these terrible fluorescent lights would pick up those first gray strands in my hair. I’m wearing baggy pants with an elastic waist, like every other sensible nearly-forty woman who knows she’s going to be on a plane for a long-haul flight. I grab a handful of tissues and open the door, intent on heading back to my seat, but the little galley area is packed with flight attendants. They are knotted together like a frown.
They stop talking when I appear. “Ma’am,” one of them says, “could you please take your seat?”
It strikes me that their job isn’t really very different from mine. If you’re on a plane, you’re not where you started, and you’re not where you’re going. You’re caught in between. A flight attendant is the guide who helps you navigate that passage smoothly. As a death doula, I do the same thing, but the journey is from life to death, and at the end, you don’t disembark with two hundred other travelers. You go alone.
I climb back over the sleeping woman in the aisle seat and buckle my seatbelt just as the overhead lights blaze and the cabin comes alive.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice announces, “we have just been informed by the captain that we’re going to have a planned emergency. Please listen to the flight attendants and follow their directions.”
I am frozen. Planned emergency. The oxymoron sticks in my mind.
There is a quick rush of sound—shock rolls through the cabin—but no screams, no loud cries. Even the baby behind me, who shrieked for the first two hours of the flight, is silent. “We’re crashing,” the woman on the aisle whispers. “Oh my God, we’re crashing.”
She must be wrong; there hasn’t even been turbulence. Everything has been normal. But then the flight attendants station themselves in the aisles, performing a strange, staccato ballet of safety movements as instructions are read over the speakers. Fasten your seatbelts. When you hear the word brace, assume the brace position. After the plane comes to a complete stop you’ll hear Release your seatbelts. Get out. Leave everything behind.
Leave everything behind.
For someone who makes a living through death, I haven’t given a lot of thought to my own.
I have heard that when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes.
But I do not picture my husband, Brian, his sweater streaked with inevitable chalk dust from the old-school blackboards in his physics lab. Or Meret, as a little girl, asking me to check for monsters under the bed. I do not envision my mother, not like she was at the end or before that, when Kieran and I were young.
Instead, I see him.
As clearly as if it were yesterday, I imagine Wyatt in the middle of the Egyptian desert, the sun beating down on his hat, his neck ringed with dirt from the constant wind, his teeth a flash of lightning. A man who hasn’t been part of my life for fifteen years. A place I left behind.
A dissertation I never finished.
Ancient Egyptians believed that to get to the afterlife, they had to be deemed innocent in the Judgment Hall. Their hearts were weighed against the feather of Ma’at, of truth.
I am not so sure my heart will pass.
The woman to my right is softly praying in Spanish. I fumble for my phone, thinking to turn it on, to send a message, even though I know there is no signal, but I can’t seem to open the button on my pants pocket. A hand catches mine and squeezes.
I look down at our fists, squeezed so tight a secret couldn’t slip between our palms.
Brace, the flight attendants yell. Brace!
As we fall out of the sky, I wonder who will remember me.
Much later I would learn that when a plane crashes and the emergency personnel show up, the flight attendants tell them how many souls were on board. Souls, not people. As if they know our bodies are only passing through for a little while.
I would learn that one of the fuel filters became clogged midflight. That the second filter-clogging light came on in the cockpit forty-five minutes out, and in spite of what the pilots tried, they could not clear it, and they realized they’d have to do a land evacuation. I would learn that the plane came in short of Raleigh-Durham, sticking down in the football field of a private school. As it hit the bleachers with a wing, the plane tipped, rolled, broke into pieces.
Much later I would learn of the family with the baby behind me, whose row of three seats separated from the floor and was thrown free from the aircraft, killing them instantaneously. I would hear about the six others who had been crushed as the metal buckled; the flight attendant who never came out of her coma. I would read the names of the passengers in the last ten rows who hadn’t gotten out of the broken fuselage before it erupted in flame.
I would learn that I was one of thirty-six people who walked away from the crash.
When I step out of the examination room of the hospital we’ve been taken to, I’m dazed. A woman in a uniform is in the hallway, talking to a man with a bandaged arm. She is part of an emergency response team from the airline that has overseen medical checks by physicians, given us clean clothes and food, and flown in frantic family members.
“Ms. Edelstein?” she says, and I blink, until I realize she is talking to me.
A million years ago, I had been Dawn McDowell. I’d published under that name. But my passport and license read Edelstein. Like Brian’s.
In her hand she has a checklist of crash survivors.
She puts a tick next to my name. “Have you been seen by a doctor?”
“Not yet.” I glance back at the examination room.
“Okay. I’m sure you have some questions . . .?”
That’s an understatement.
Why am I alive, when others aren’t?
Why did I book this particular flight?
What if I’d been detained checking in, and had missed it?
What if I’d made any of a thousand other choices that would have led me far away from this crash?
At that, I think of Brian, and his theory of the multiverse. Somewhere, in a parallel timeline, there is another me at my own funeral.
At the same time, I think—again, always—of Wyatt.
I have to get out of here.
I don’t realize I have said this out loud until the airline representative responds.
“Once we get the doctor’s paperwork, you’re clear to leave. Is someone coming for you, or do you need us to make travel arrangements?”
We, the lucky ones, have been told we can have a plane ticket anywhere we need to go—to our destination, back to where the flight originated, even somewhere else, if necessary. I have already called my husband. Brian offered to come get me, but I told him not to. I didn’t say why.
I clear my throat. “I have to book a flight,” I say.
“Absolutely.” The woman nods. “Where do you need to go?”
Boston, I think. Home. But there’s something about the way she phrases the question: need, instead of want; and another destination rises like steam in my mind.
I open my mouth, and I answer.
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