Bieker explores the nexus between patriarchal control, environmental contamination and women’s bodies, here found in Clove’s focus on corporeal purity as a rejection of her chaotic past ... A thoroughly modern addition to feminist fiction about mental illness and motherhood ... As the cadence of the book quickens from commonplace to catastrophic, Clove goes off the rails in a spectacular series of bad decisions that make no sense except within the frenetic constraints of her desperation.
Chelsea Bieker breathes thrilling, risky energy into the familiar trope of the madwoman ... Bieker’s women are no fragile Ophelias or Madeline Ushers... they are complex and shrewd, claiming an agency that lends the novel much of its twisty, propulsive plot ... Exposition breaks some of the novel’s spell. But the prose crackles with tiny shocks and arresting images that more than make up for these brief lapses ... Bieker’s writing is raw, breathlessly confessional, brilliant in its depiction of the long shadows cast by domestic violence ... A well-paced and absorbing page-turner that’s worth the price of a couple of fair-trade coffees and probiotic coconut yogurts.
Uneven ... She’s better with the character work, especially in her exploration of how Clove’s childhood trauma causes her to worry she’ll be deemed unfit for parenthood. It’s a mixed bag.
Bieker is trying a more conventional plot with her third book, stuffing this story in the container of a thriller when it doesn’t quite fit. But what Bieker has always been best at is creating female characters with vivacity and precision, and she does that again in Clove, painting an indelible portrait of what living with intergenerational trauma and a legacy of abuse can look like. In the guise of a suspense story, Bieker delves into the heart of what it really means to survive violence.
