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240 pages, Hardcover
First published January 9, 2024
‘I expect great things of you, Margaret Murphy. Because you have suffered. There will come a day when you will get your chance. You will atone. You will save a life. You will change the world for the better. I believe it. I’ve prayed over it. One day God is going to put the chance right there in front of you.’
‘My idea of God was very fairy tale-like. Sometimes it was mixed up with The Wizard of Oz. So, it seemed very natural to me to write that way. A child would have this fairy tale-like understanding of the world, and of God, and of sin and forgiveness…Catholicism has zero answers for this little girl. If you’re 4 and you kill someone, that’s not a sin. You’re not capable of mortal sin. So, how could she even confess it? It’s outside of the religion entirely. And yet, of course, she’s gonna carry that guilt forward forever. So, I wanted to explore that too, the way faith totally fails her. It has no answers for her.’
‘When I finally did find a way to untie that impossible knot, then all the most important questions in life would be answered. Why we love. Why we suffer. How we make sense of the happenings in our lives. The stories we tell ourselves to make it through to the next day. Why we press on, even after all hope is lost.’
Margaret’s first memory is of the day the local school ground flooded. This was also the day when four-year-old Margaret’s life changed forever. With a burden too great for her little shoulders to bear, she turned to fairy tales, both on paper and in her mind, to escape her loneliness.
Now at sixteen, Margaret is penning her confession, goaded by Poor Deer, a strange creature who seems to have great power over Margaret, as she knows her too well.
How much of the confession is true? Is Margaret able to differentiate between fact and fiction in her mind? Who is Poor Deer and why does she have such a hold over Margaret?
Most of the plot comes to us through the frame story of Margaret writing her 'confession' about the past from the contemporary time.
Poor Deer came to me when I was small, and scared, and alone, and in need of hope, however fragile, that one day I would find a way to make up for what I’d done. Her hooves kick out at my shins. She nips and hurts. She clings and sighs. She demands justice. She never forgives. A tooth for a tooth, and a claw for a claw, she always says. A life for a life, she always says. She leaves scat on the rug, and cries easily. She is my oldest friend.
I’ve been telling made-up stories for so long that the unadorned truth feels ugly and ungrammatical and the facts feel like borrowed broken things picked out at random from a jumble of hearsay and old gossip. Once I tried to tell my mother the truth about the day of the schoolyard flood and she slapped me and said: “MARGARET MURPHY, YOU WILL NEVER REPEAT THAT AWFUL LIE AGAIN!” and I never did.
I feel an ominous turn in this story coming. It’s looming over my future. I’m running out of time to find my happy ending. Poor Deer is giving me no guidance. She no longer interrupts my progress with caustic interjections or snide objections. At the moment my musty nemesis is nodding off in the corner. Her soft exhalations fill room 127 of Little Ida’s Motor Lodge with a pastoral peacefulness. She mumbles something incoherent in her sleep and sticks her long slow tongue out and licks her black nose and then she snuffles and sighs and tucks her head back under one hoof. Penny and Glo are sleeping the way they always do, all tangle-legged and a-tumble with their hair flung across the pillows. I’m rubbing the tip of my missing finger. I’m remembering the smell of bacon grease. I’m remembering a time when my mother loved me.