My Name Is Lucy Barton: A Novel by Elizabeth Strout is a compelling narrative that reads like a memoir. The first-person story takes place in New York in the 1980s, with reminisces of Lucy Barton’s childhood in Amgash, Illinois.

Lucy was in a New York hospital for nine weeks. It started with a routine appendectomy, followed by complications and various infections. Lucy’s husband, who hated hospitals, called her mother and paid for her to fly to New York to be with Lucy. While in the hospital Lucy desperately misses her two daughters, five and six years old, but is thankful to have her mother there. The mother never seems to rest but sits in a chair at the foot of Lucy’s bed, always ready for conversation.

Lucy had a difficult childhood. The dysfunctional family—mother, father, and two older siblings—was not only poor but devoid of love and laughter. The children went to school unclean, in ill-fitting, dirty clothes. Classmates did not want to sit near them because they smelled bad. The family of five lived in a garage on property next to a large house. This information comes out in between conversations with her mother while in the hospital.

Although Lucy loves her mother, love isn’t something they talk about. Their conversations consist of gossiping about other people; sometimes with humor, at times evoking awkwardness between the two. They rarely speak of Lucy’s childhood, only about people they knew during those years.

Lucy’s dream is to become a writer, and as that becomes a reality other parts of her life shatter. Longings from childhood surface and become part of the fabric that is her new life.

I loved this unusual, riveting novel. Although I came from a middle-class family, I knew of families similar to what the author described. In third grade, I sat next to a girl who smelled bad. I didn’t really understand it then, but I imagine her childhood was much like Lucy Barton’s. When I was about ten, a family in our neighborhood had a new baby and I used to visit them and hold that sweet baby girl, the youngest of four siblings. Their run-down house was in shambles, with dirty clothes, food, and trash scattered everywhere. When I’d come home my mother complained I smelled bad! This book reminded me of that experience. My Name Is Lucy Barton is a compelling, thought-provoking novel that made me thankful for my childhood. I intend to read more of Elizabeth Strout’s work. I hope I enjoy it as much as I did this novel.