You Were Made for This

You Were Made for This

Unabridged — 8 hours, 29 minutes

You Were Made for This

You Were Made for This

Unabridged — 8 hours, 29 minutes

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A gripping page-turner for fans of The Woman in the Window and The Perfect Nanny, Michelle Sacks's You Were Made For This provocatively explores the darkest sides of marriage, motherhood, and friendship.

Doting wife, devoted husband, cherished child. Merry, Sam, and Conor are the perfect family in the perfect place. Merry adores the domestic life: baking, gardening, caring for her infant son. Sam, formerly an academic, is pursuing a new career as a filmmaker. Sometimes they can hardly believe how lucky they are. What perfect new lives they've built.

When Merry's childhood friend Frank visits their Swedish paradise, she immediately becomes part of the family. She bonds with Conor. And with Sam. She befriends the neighbors, and even finds herself embracing the domesticity she's always seemed to scorn. All their lives, Frank and Merry have been more like sisters than best friends. And that's why Frank soon sees the things others might miss. Treacherous things, which are almost impossible to believe when looking at this perfect family. But Frank, of all people, knows that the truth is rarely what you want the world to see.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

In Sacks’s haunting first novel, Columbia University anthropology professor Sam Hurley and his set designer wife, Merry, ditch the comforts of Manhattan for a radically different lifestyle in an isolated cottage he has inherited in Sweden. Although the attractive couple and their baby, Conor, present an idyllic picture, deep-rooted problems threaten their relationship. Sam, who never told his wife that he was fired for inappropriate sexual relationships with students, lies to her daily about his activities. Merry chafes at the happy homemaker role Sam insists she was made for, but soldiers on through endless gardening, baking, canning, and tending an infant for whom she feels nothing. But the family loses its shaky equilibrium with a visit from Merry’s glamorous lifelong frenemy, Frank, during which an unthinkable tragedy occurs. Though Sacks (Stone Baby, a story collection) doesn’t give readers anyone to root for, her unblinking look at beautiful people with ugly secrets has the voyeuristic fascination of a Bergman film. Agent: Amy Berkower, Writers House. (June)

From the Publisher

"A worthy page-turner...Sacks stuffs her sentences with intrigue and terror, and her prose effortlessly weaves between each of the narrators, giving them a distinct voice that's all-too-easy to be convinced by. She keeps you on the edge of your seat as the tension ratchets up...A gripping, smart, dire family drama."—David Canfield, Entertainment Weekly

"Haunting...Sacks deftly engages the complexities of motherhood, infidelity, and misconduct in this novel. Her storytelling shines most when Merry's alleged closest friend, Frank, arrives for a visit...Sacks explores the ways in which unhealthy relationships can wreak irrevocable damage on those involved—and everyone surrounding."—Megan McCluskey, TIME Magazine

"An engrossing tale that probes the darker corners of motherhood, friendship, and marriage."—Good Housekeeping

"Riveting...Devastating and unpredictable...Michelle Sacks richly explores marriage and parenting and delivers a brilliant, unflinching look at a household under siege from itself."—Associated Press

"Sacks proves herself to be an expert of both language and atmosphere. By turns mesmerizing and horrifying, You Were Made for This confronts the dark truths behind motherhood, marriage and female friendship with disquieting lyricism...Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye meets the set of a David Lynch film in this haunting, psychological portrait that takes the dark domestic thriller into a new, literary realm."—Alice Martin, Shelf Awareness, starred review

"Beguiling and frightening.... Hard to read but also bewitchingly hard to put down-a fitting contradiction in a novel that explores the corruption at the heart of beauty."—Kirkus Reviews

"Sacks's first novel expertly portrays the dark side of domesticity and motherhood... Fans of dark and twisted psychological thrillers will be swept up in the appearance of domestic bliss and maternal perfection, only to be left off-kilter and breathless with each costume change."
Library Journal

"Haunting...Though Sacks doesn't give readers anyone to root for, her unblinking look at beautiful people with ugly secrets has the voyeuristic fascination of a Bergman film."—Publishers Weekly

"Insightful and skillfully constructed... this will keep readers rapt to the final page."—Booklist

"The horrors of this rural paradise break free into the fresh Nordic air. A brilliant debut: crisp writing, a deliciously dark story."—Sarah Murdoch, Toronto Star

"A sinister, razor's edge of a book. I was, in turn, totally gripped, completely unsettled, and not just a little freaked out by these brutal characters and the damage they did to themselves and each other. Whatever you feel while reading this dark, twisting story, you definitely won't be able to put it down."—Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of The Red Hunter

"Set in an idyllic Swedish forest straight out of a fairy tale, You Were Made For This is a taut novel of deception, full of heart-wrenching twists and turns. Michelle Sacks shows us that happy families are not always what they seem and explores the dark shadows that lurk within the fairy tale, and in human nature, in this richly compelling debut."—Jennifer McMahon, New York Times bestselling author of The Winter People

"You Were Made for This deftly explores the darkest corners of domestic life through the eyes of three complicated, damaged souls, inextricably connected by obsession, loyalty, jealousy, and unspeakable secrets. The savage beauty of Michelle Sacks's prose nestled within the most chilling of stories will leave you shaken and bereft. It is a stunning accomplishment."—Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Weight of Silence

"You Were Made For This is a thrilling literary fairytale from which you can't escape, not even after you've found your way back to the light of day. The warning is right there in the novel's epigraph: 'You must always go carefully into the dark Swedish woods.' And then in you go, forgetting to leave bread crumbs behind you, until soon you are lost in Sacks' fascinating domestic dreamscape, a dark and deceptive place where old wounds, secrets, and the seeds of violence are cooked up and jarred and stowed in plain sight, yet fill your heart with dread at every turn."—Tim Johnston, New York Times bestselling author of Descent

"You Were Made For This plumbs the darkness that can lie at the core of the most intimate of relationships: between husband and wife, lifelong friends, even mother and child. Michelle Sacks has a gift for empathy, and her broken sinners are so tenderly drawn that even at their worst they remain heartbreakingly human. She's also written the most complex and relatable female friendship I've read in years."—Heather Young, The Strand Critics' Award winner for The Lost Girls

Kirkus Reviews

A young family moves to Sweden to pursue an idyllic life in Sacks' debut novel.When Sam inherits a cottage from his stepgrandmother, he and his pregnant wife barely hesitate but pack up their lives in Brooklyn and move, excited to raise their child in this place of ice-cold lakes and dappled sunlight. Merry spends her days picking fresh produce from the garden and baking homemade treats, taking baby Conor for long outings in the woods, and Sam works to begin a new career in documentary film. But from the very beginning of the novel, as both characters take turns narrating the story, it's clear there's something rotten at the core of this perfection. When Merry's best friend from childhood, Frank, comes for a visit, she can immediately see the ugliness beneath this facade. She knows Merry too well, knows her history of slipping from persona to persona, and she can see Sam for what he is. But Frank has her own secrets, and as her voice joins the others in narrating the story, it becomes clear that she's suffering for her own sins and may not be able—or willing—to save anyone. Sacks has crafted a beguiling and frightening modern fairy tale, an Eden story that presents an Adam and Eve who were never innocent and who try to make over the world on their own terms only to find that evil thrives even in the most ideal of settings. Sacks' writing is at once lush in description but also spare; she uses the white space around the words to nurture a sense of dread.Hard to read but also bewitchingly hard to put down—a fitting contradiction in a novel that explores the corruption at the heart of beauty.

Product Details

BN ID: 2940173556721
Publisher: Hachette Audio
Publication date: 06/19/2018
Edition description: Unabridged

Read an Excerpt



If you saw us you'd probably hate us. We look like the cast of an insurance commercial: shiny, happy us. The perfect little family, living the perfect little life.

Wasn't that another perfect day? is what we always say at the end of days like these. A confirmation. A promise. A warding-off of any days that might be anything less. But most are perfect here in Sweden, many more than I can count.

It's so beautiful, especially now in the middle of the summer, all dappled, dancing light and gentle sun. The little red wooden house we live in is out of a children's picture book — nestled in the forest, snug as a bug, with the trees all around and the garden lush and blooming, an abundance of life — vegetable patches thick with leaves, bushes heavy with sun-ripened summer berries, the smell of blooms everywhere, heady and sweet, drawing in the bees with their charms. The summer evenings are endless and still, the sky bright well past eleven, and the vast lake pale and calm like the very faintest shade of blue on a color wheel. And stillness — everywhere just the sound of the birds and the rustling of the leaves on the branches.

Our lives here involve no traffic, no pollution, no upstairs neighbors blaring music or downstairs neighbors screeching out their misery; no litter on the sidewalk or rotting Manhattan trash or sweaty L-train commutes to work, no crowds, no tourists; no daily encounters with rats or roaches or perverts or street preachers. No. Nothing but this, an impossible life of lightness and dreams. Sam and the baby and me, on our island of three.

Like most mornings after I put the baby down for his nap, I went into the kitchen to bake. Today, a pie from the blueberries we'd picked in the forest this past weekend. I made the dough myself and rolled it out, pricked it with a fork, baked it blind to crisp it. The sun was already streaming in through the big open windows, rays of light casting themselves across the floors of our bright glass house. The ripened berries I cooked low and slow, excising out the juices over the heat with maple syrup and a stick of cinnamon, careful not to let it all burn and spoil. Sam in his studio smelled the butter and the sugar and the sweetness of the fruit; he came out to the kitchen to see what I'd made. He looked at me and grinned, just as pleased as punch.

See, he said, don't I always tell you. You were made for this.

The pie was good; we ate it still warm with mugs of coffee as we sat out in the garden under the early-afternoon sun. The baby tasted a spoonful of the innards and dribbled it all out again, like a miniature office worker who'd just chewed his blue pen. Sam laughed and scooped it back up into the spoon.

Isn't this kid the best? he said. He lifted him and jiggled him about, so the baby laughed and squealed and spit up some more. I observed them together. The boys. My boys. Father and son. I smiled, and felt the warmth of the sun against my skin.

Down the dirt road that connects the houses on the reserve, one of the neighbors has a paddock full of prize-winning horses nursing their young. The spring foals wobble about on spindly, unsteady legs; the mares nudge them up with their muzzles, coaxing their offspring gently into the world. They are good at mothering. Patient and instinctive. Fierce with love for their young, as nature demands.

Sam and I walked the baby over to watch them in the field. Horse, Sam said, and he pointed and neighed, and the baby was in hysterics. I reached out a hand to a chestnut brown mare who had approached the fence, felt the quiver of life and taut muscle under my fingers. She was beautiful. Strong and certain. Her black eyes were fierce.

Careful, Sam warned. New mothers can be dangerous.

We left the horses and made our way slowly back to the house. Our home for a little under a year. It's around forty-five minutes outside of Stockholm, on a nature reserve bordering Sigtuna, the oldest town in Sweden. The reserve covers a fairly large stretch of land, mostly fields and forest nestled around the lake, with the odd house dotted in between the pines. Many of the homes have been in a single family for generations, the same red wooden cabin extended or repaired over the years as necessary; the walls within witness to the constant comings and goings of the newly born and the newly departed.

Sam inherited the house from his grandfather's second wife, Ida, who was born and raised here. She had no children of her own, but always had a soft spot for Sam, who knew even as child how to charm her, how to compliment her on her rose garden or her spiced cookies or the gentle Swedish accent that made all her words sound like songs. When she died some years ago, Sam discovered she'd left him the house, with the stipulation that it could never be sold, only passed down.

We'd never visited before last year, never even thought much about the house or the country. Actually, our sole point of reference for all of Sweden was one of those little red Dala horses Ida brought back for us after one of her visits. It sat atop the spice rack in our Brooklyn apartment, next to the pepper grinder and the unopened jar of saffron strands I'd bargained for at a night market in Marrakech.

Of course, moving here was Sam's idea.

All the good ones are, he likes to joke.

He said it would be like a fairy tale. That we'd be happier than we've ever been.

He was right. He always is. Pointing us in the right direction; the compass that leads me away from the storms. How lucky I am to have him.

Later in the afternoon, the three of us took a long walk through the forest, the baby in the backpack carrier, hitched snugly to Sam. As we walked, we named the trees and birds we've learned to identify this past year — a spruce, a nest of finches, Fraxinus excelsior, a common ash. These are our newfound pleasures and hobbies, the things we busy ourselves with over here. We laugh at ourselves sometimes, imagining the people we once were.

In the little town of Sigtuna, we stopped for thick rye-crumbed herrings and potato salad at the café by the pier; listened to the sounds of the seagulls and the lapping water as they blended hypnotically with the low chatter of the well turned-out Swedes. The waitress tickled the baby's cheek and took our order in flawless English. Tack, we said. Tack.

Back home, I gave the baby his bath and rocked him gently to sleep in my arms. I breathed into his neck and traced a hand gently over his downy golden hair, which was slowly beginning to thicken. I touched a hand to his chest, felt the thud of his beating heart, steady and miraculous every time; doof doof, the echo of life. Sam and I, tired out from the walk and the fresh air, climbed in between the crisp sheets before it had turned dark outside. I curled into my husband's arms, gazed at his handsome face, the dark eyes, the sharp jaw, that chest of his that feels plated in armor. A solid man, a man who can carry the weight of you, and does.

I let out a contented sigh. Wasn't that another perfect day, I said.

Sam kissed my forehead and closed his eyes. I moved my arm to turn over onto my front.

No, he said, stay.

Yes, it's just as Sam said. A fairy-tale life in the woods.



Today is our one-year anniversary of moving to Sweden. Hard to believe. A full year, a new country, a new home, a new child. A whole new life. A better one, that's for sure. To celebrate, I returned home from my meeting in Stockholm with a bunch of fresh spring flowers, a bottle of wine, and a knitted Viking hat for Conor that I picked up in one of the tourist stores in the old town.

Merry was in the kitchen, her long dark hair bundled on top of her head, her apron tied around her waist. She smiled when she saw me. I kissed her and she went to fetch a vase for the flowers.

Beautiful, she said.

As is my wife, I replied. I know she likes it when I call her that.

She put her arms around me and I breathed in her smell; perfume and something recently fried. Happy Swede-iversary, she said. Look, I made Swedish meatballs to celebrate.

Where's my boy? I asked, and went to find Conor. He was on the activity mat in the living room, lying on his back, trying to get at the frog that hangs suspended from the green plastic bar. This child. I can't get enough of him. Eight months and counting. He's growing by the day, a little evolution at the speed of light; always changing, always in motion.

How's my champ today, I said, lying down beside him. He smiled at me, the smile that turns my heart on its head: gummy and pink and pure love. I nuzzled my face into his belly, inhaled the smell of talcum powder and diaper cream.

I put the hat on his little head and lifted him up to show Merry. Two blond Viking braids hung down from the hat. Conor grabbed one and put it in his mouth.

Great, Merry laughed, now he's ready to lead an invasion.

She's so happy here. Light and happy. Unburdened. I love to see her like this. It's all I've ever wanted for her. For us.

I handed her the baby so I could go and wash up for dinner. She cradled him close, and I paused a minute to frame the scene.

Beautiful, I said again.

We sat down together around Ida's old oak table, Con in the high chair I built for him, Merry and I across from one another. She'd unpinned her hair, parted it to the side just as I like best. She was wearing a blue blouse that made her gray eyes appear almost translucent, as though they were portals to some other world, or altogether empty behind.

I poured the wine; Merry dished up the food and wiped the rim of the plates where the sauce had spilled. She'd lit candles even though it would still be light out for hours, and set the flowers on the far end of the table.

To Sweden, I toasted.

Merry held up her wine and we clinked our glasses together.

So good, I said, eating a mouthful.

Remember when we met, I laughed, you could hardly make a slice of toast.

It can be hard sometimes to remember that Merry. So much has changed since then.

Another lifetime, Merry said.

Yeah, I agreed. And this one's a far better fit.

She was radiant, the evening light from outside streaming in, painting her edges in a soft golden glow.

She was trying to feed Conor, but he kept turning his head away.

What have you got for him?

Broccoli, carrot and chicken, she said.

Lucky guy. I smiled. Let me.

I took the blue plastic spoon from her.

Vrooom, vroooom. He opened his mouth wide and was done in no time.

See? I winked. He just wants you to work a little harder for it.

Later, after Con was asleep in his crib, Merry and I lay out on the lawn and finished the bottle of wine. I pulled her to me and kissed her deeply.

The stars above us blanketed the sky in light. The lavender in the garden floated its scent in the air, a little too overpowering. I could make out Merry's eyes, watching me, and within them, the edges of my reflection. I lifted her blouse and moved her down beneath me.

Sam, she protested.

Shhh, I said, we're in the middle of nowhere.

She relaxed under me and shuddered slightly as I pried her open and apart.

Besides, I reminded her, we're supposed to be trying for another baby.


This is the life.

This is exactly how it's meant to be.



Today my project was jam and baby food. There's a surplus of produce from the garden and the refrigerator is almost empty of the little pots of food I make for the baby's meals. Sam and I agreed that he should eat as much organic and homemade food as possible, so we grow most of the vegetables ourselves, and I cook it up and turn it all into puree to bottle and store. It's not that much more work, really. I suppose nothing is when it comes to your children.

When we arrived last year, everything was wild and overgrown, fifteen years of neglect, of unweeded lawn and trees beset with rot. We pulled down the rotted spruces, heaved out the gnarl-rooted bushes and the lawn overrun with chickweed and black grass. We bought books on horticulture and planted rows and rows of seedlings from the nursery. Sam custom-built bricked-in vegetable patches and cold frames for the winter to guard against the frost. There were plagues of snails and fungus, seedlings that refused to sprout, mis-planted produce that we tried and failed to grow in the wrong seasons. Slowly, eventually, we worked out the rhythms of planting and picking, the time it takes to nurture a cabbage, the optimal alkalinity of the soil. We are quite expert now, or at least I am. Like the kitchen, the garden is my domain.

There is no shortage of produce these days. Every morning, I am outside sowing the seeds, removing the weeds, harvesting the vegetables from out of the soil. The smell of earth sits heavy in the air; the smell of something wholesome and good. Back to basics, Sam says. He likes to pretend he can taste the difference; he'll take a bite of salad and rule it home-grown or market-bought. I usually lie if he guesses wrong. I hate for him to feel silly.

For the baby's food, I boil the vegetables in pots on the stove, one for carrots, one for broccoli, one for zucchini. I write labels for the jars, as though the baby might be able to read them and choose his own dinner. Sam likes to open the refrigerator and see them all lined up in a row, a little army of food soldiers ready to serve.

Who's been a busy little wife? he'll say.

Oh, that would be me, I'll reply, with a wink. Coy and cute.

I sure am a busy little wife. It is the role I was born for, according to Sam. He cannot get enough of me like this, wifely and domestic and maternal. Perhaps he is right, and I was built for it. I certainly seem to excel at it. A natural, you might say, if you didn't know how hard I work to pull it all off.

Never mind; it's worth it, isn't it. What more could I hope for. What more do I need? The love of a husband, the gift of a child. It is enough — it is everything.

Sometimes this new life makes me feel as though I am living as a quaint eighteenth-century settler wife. Growing things, baking bread, going to the weekly farmer's market to choose my box of greens, zucchini, kale, celery, whatever I can't grow in my own garden. Sam marvels at the offerings — the freshness of wild Norwegian salmon, the taste of real farm butter or eggs plucked right out from under a hen.

How did we ever survive in the States, he says.

You'd wonder, I reply.

We do this frequently, compare life before and after; new world and old. Sweden always wins. There is seldom much need for debate. Sweden is Sam's gift to me, to us. It is the answer to everything; it has been the cure for all that ailed us before. Paradise, he calls it, and waits for me to agree.

I always do. How could I not.

As well as jam and baby food, it was a bathroom and kitchen day, so after finishing with the food, I made my homemade cleaning paste, of vinegar and baking soda — the recipe courtesy of a blog Sam found for me. It's full of household tips, like how to make scented candles and the best ways to remove stubborn mold from the grouting. He subscribed me to the newsletter so I need never miss a single tip.

He's good like that. Proactive. I admire that quality in a person, the ability to decide and do, to set plans in motion. It has never been something I'm particularly good at. I often wonder what my life might look like if I was.

On my knees in the bathroom, I started with the bath. Scrubbing and shining the taps till I could see myself reflected back, distorted and inverted; pulling our week of collective shed hair out of the drain in a single swampy ball. The toilet next, finicky work, head in the bowl. What would my mother say if she could see me now? In the mirror, I looked at myself. Unkempt, that's what my mother would say. Or, more likely, hideous. Unwashed, no makeup, skin slicked in oil. A thin trickle of sweat pooling down my T-shirt. I sniffed under my armpits.

Then I smiled into the mirror, dazzling and wide. I opened my arms in a gesture of gracious welcome.

Welcome to our home, I said aloud. Welcome to our lives.

The woman in the mirror looked happy. Convincing.

There was a phone call earlier this morning from Frank. She woke the baby.

I'm coming to Sweden, she said.


I'm coming to visit!

I've said it to her again and again in the year we've been here, at the end of every email and phone call. You must visit, it's wonderful; we'd love to have you.

And now she is coming. She will be here in a few weeks.

Your best friend, Sam said when I told him. That's great news.

Yes, isn't it, I said, smiling.

I'd emailed her just a few days ago. Another missive about my wonderful Swedish life, with photographs as proof. Something home-baked, a smiling child, a shirtless husband. She replied almost immediately, informing me of her new promotion, a sparkling new penthouse in Battersea. She attached a photograph of herself from a recent break to the Maldives. Frank in a pineapple-print bikini, sun-kissed and oiled, the lapping Indian Ocean in the background, a coconut cocktail in her hand.

I wonder what she'll make of all this. The picture of my life, when she sees it in the flesh.


Excerpted from "You Were Made For This"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Michelle Sacks.
Excerpted by permission of Hachette Book Group.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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