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The Pocket Wife: A Novel
The Pocket Wife: A Novel
The Pocket Wife: A Novel
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The Pocket Wife: A Novel

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

3.5/5

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A stylish psychological thriller with the compelling intrigue of The Silent Wife and Turn of Mind and the white-knuckle pacing of Before I Go to Sleep—in which a woman suffering from bipolar disorder cannot remember if she murdered her friend.

Dana Catrell is shocked when her neighbor Celia is brutally murdered. To Dana’s horror, she was the last person to see Celia alive. Suffering from mania, the result of her bipolar disorder, she has troubling holes in her memory, including what happened on the afternoon of Celia’s death.

Her husband’s odd behavior and the probing of Detective Jack Moss create further complications as she searches for answers. The closer she comes to piecing together the shards of her broken memory, the more Dana falls apart. Is there a murderer lurking inside her . . . or is there one out there in the shadows of reality, waiting to strike again?

A story of marriage, murder, and madness, The Pocket Wife explores the world through the foggy lens of a woman on the edge.

Editor's Note

Deftly plotted debut…

A deftly plotted debut from a new lyrical literary voice. Crawford treats the subject of bipolar disorder with respect as her main character tries to piece together reality and whether she could possibly be a killer.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarperCollins
Release dateMar 17, 2015
ISBN9780062362872
Author

Susan Crawford

Susan Crawford grew up in Miami, Florida, and graduated from the University of Miami with a BA in English and a minor in psychology. She later moved to New York City and then Boston before settling in Atlanta to raise three daughters and work in the field of adult education. A member of the Atlanta Writers Club and the Village Writers, Susan teaches at Georgia Piedmont Technical College and dabbles in local politics. She lives with her husband and a trio of rescue cats in Atlanta, where she enjoys reading books, writing books, rainy days, and spending time with the people she loves.

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Rating: 3.681159420289855 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

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  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I’m left with mixed feelings after finishing THE POCKET WIFE, though overall it was good. This is Susan Crawford’s debut novel, and it’s about a woman with bipolar disorder who may or may not have murdered her neighbor. Dana Catrell was the last person to see Celia alive, and too much alcohol combined with lack of meds has wiped Dana’s mind of the whole terrible situation.The book started off strong, and Dana was an intriguing unreliable narrator. It was difficult to tell for her and for the reader whether her memories were fact or invented. The author did a great job putting readers inside Dana’s mind so they could experience her confusion and frustration too. After a while though, the plot lost the suspense and started to ramble. I’m on the fence over the conclusion of the murder mystery. It was a stretch, though it still worked. 3½-stars.I listened to parts of this book on audio. It was narrated by one of my favorite performers, Cassandra Campbell. Of course, she was wonderful.Disclosure: I received a copy of this book from the publisher through Edelweiss in exchange for an honest review.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The writing was a little off at the beginning but picked up considerably as the book went along. Very good character development and an inner look at the main character's (Dana Catrell) battle with bi-polar disorder. Very good character development of the Detective tasked with solving the case - his ulterior motive for wanting to be on the case and the inner turmoil he faces with possible suspects. Took a while for the first 'aha' moment, but then nicely added new discoveries to the conclusion, without steamrolling the reader over in the process. Overall it was a satisfying read.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    A light, quick read. As a thriller fan I found it somewhat predictable and with too little suspense for my taste. It's a step above cozy but not the best choice for gritty thriller readers.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Murder Mystery. Audible Audio, A Bipolar woman is the last to see her neighbor alive - as the story unfolds it appears that she is the killer, although she doesn't remember anything after the many sangria's her & Celia shared - only, that she showed her photos of her husband with another woman and Celia's anger over it made Dana realize, she too was having an affair with her husband. - Intriguing mystery thriller that in the end.. although I knew who the killer was, it was just not believable to me so I only think its a 3 star - I didn't hate it... I just didn't love it either.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    This book was given to me for free by Goodreads Giveaways.

    The Pocket Wife tried to be a number of things, but didn't fulfill very many of them. It was a pleasant read, with some interest in the plot, although the ending didn't quite satisfy me.

    The very first sentence suggests this book is a murder mystery. The investigation wallowed in the miasma of maybe-romance maybe-exploration-of-mental-illness maunderings. The crime was solved by accident more than anything else; not particularly satisfying to this reader.

    As a romance, it got off to a very, very slow start. The book ended with hope for one relationship resolving well, and the implication of a terrible romance starting. Neither satisfied me.

    As a contemporary slice of life, it had a good sense of place with a terrible sense of character. People's inner and outer selves didn't line up correctly, like 2-page magazine spreads where the pages don't match up. Plot needs drove character action as much as actual character motivation.

    As an exploration of mental illness, it did give a taste of what it might be like to experience clinical mania. That bit of good writing was spoiled for me by the clear bias against psychiatric medication, and by the strong implication that one can get mental clarity by force of will alone. It's entirely possible that's not what the author intended; she was writing about one case, not explicitly stating that this is how every bi-polar person should deal with their illness. However, intended or not, the anti-medication bias was very clearly there.

    The book followed the inner monologue of the two main characters. More than once I had to go back and check who's inner monologue it was; the tone and style were very similar. The male protagonist's inner monologue read like an especially introspective woman, not like the dragged-himself-from-poverty-to-police-detective he was supposed to be. It didn't even read as an introspective man's inner monologue.

    I would only suggest reading this if you're specifically looking for examples of first person portrayals of mental illness, or if you're bored and have nothing else to read.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This novel is mainly about an investigation into the murder mystery of a woman who lives a couple of doors away from the protagonist, Dana. As seems to be the norm in most psychological thrillers these days, the protagonists can't remember what happened due to their past mental illness or the amount of drinking they now do. Dana has bi-polar, a breakdown in her past, and she now drinks too much and also takes pills. Of course, she is horrified to find that she was the last person to see her neighbor alive and her memory is so blurred, she can't remember whether or not she killed her.Like in most of these kind of novels, the husband is up to no good, makes his wife feel trivial, is probably having affairs, etc. Yep, that is Dana's husband who may or may not have been involved with the deceased.A bright spot was Detective Jack Moss investigating the murder. His character had a lot of problems which the author incorporated nicely into the plot. He was one of the characters I could connect with since he was a flawed human being trying so hard to do his job well despite the obstacles, i.e., his boss putting pressure on him to get the murder solved.Overall, I was just glad to get through this book with its all too-familiar characters and can't give it more than 3 Stars.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The Pocket Wife by Susan Crawford is a highly recommended psychological thriller. The suspense in this debut mystery novel is going to sneak up on you and become quite intense by the end.

    After spending an afternoon drinking too much at a neighbor's house, Dana Catrell goes home and naps, only to wake up and discover her neighborhood, Celia Steinhauser, is now dead. Dana was the last known person to see Celia alive, but Dana can't remember much of what happened that afternoon. Between the alcohol and her worsening bi-polar disorder, for which she has stopped taking her meds, Dana is unsure of what is real and what is a by-product of her own psyche. Could she possibly have murdered Celia? She vaguely recalls an argument. She doesn't think she could possibly be capable of murder, but she can't be sure. And what happened to Celia's phone and the picture on it, of Dana's husband leering at another woman?

    Detective Jack Moss is investigating, but he's got problems of his own. His second wife just left him. It looks like Dana is the most likely suspect, but Kyle, his son from his first marriage, might be involved with the case in some way. Celia was Kyle's GED teacher. Adding to the suspense is the increasing pressure to hurry and solve the case by the prosecutor's office. Chapters alternate between Dana and Jack. While Dana's mania is building and her thoughts are becoming more scattered, Jack is plodding forward with the case, dreading the clues that seem to point to some involvement by his son.

    My appreciation of Crawford's The Pocket Wife increased as I continued reading. Dana's mental state seems to make her an unreliable narrator, but one who also seems to have an acuity and awareness of what is going on around her. I knew she was heading toward a breakdown because she knows she is. Because of this, there is almost a surreal quality to what Dana sees and how she perceives it. Are the notes she finds real? Did she really see a figure in a hoodie? And is her husband really the total jerk he seems to be? (And he really is a complete jerk.)

    The writing quality and descriptiveness is wonderful in this literary thriller. Crawford excels at setting the tone and pace, which helps to slowly build the suspense. This is a character driven mystery and the characters are all well developed, completely unique individuals. I found the conclusion to be satisfying.

    Disclosure: My Kindle edition was courtesy of HarperCollins for review purposes.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Poor Dana, suffering from mental health issues and a cheating husband, after getting drunk with a neighbor, can’t seem to remember if she killed her or not. It is obvious that someone did, but who? Dana? Her cheating husband? The victim’s husband? The detective’s son? A random killer? Or someone else? Filled with twists and turns, this is a good one. I did not see the true killer until the end!
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Not great but really pretty good
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I won The Pocket Wife via the Goodreads First Reads program. Thanks to the publisher for sending me a copy.I really liked this! Dana was a likeable character. I was worried the mental illness would be overdone or unrealistic but it seemed believable. The characters were original and interesting, and overall this book was very engrossing. I finished it in two sittings. I figured out the mystery but I don't think it was terribly predictable.As for the bad: some of the sentences were really clunky and it was sometimes difficult to figure out what was being said. And I noticed a mixed metaphor or two, but I don't know whether that's the sort of thing that gets fixed at this stage of the book's publication.But anyway. Really good read. Would recommend to fans of psychological mysteries. It's being compared to books like Before I Go to Sleep and Girl on the Train, and I enjoyed Pocket Wife better than those two, so there you go.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    A good, fast-paced mystery concerning the death of a suburban housewife and her mentally-ill neighbor who just might be the murderer, if only she could remember the events of the day. A fun read that was definitely a chance of pace for me, but good nonetheless. This book does not quite measure up to the twists and turns of Gone Girl, but I would recommend it to anyone who enjoyed that novel.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This book is definitely for fans of "The Girl on the Train," it is soo similar! A woman with mental issues tries to piece together the last time she saw Celia, her neighbor, before she was brutally murdered. According to the police, she was the last time to Celia alive, but between all the drinks and the mental instability, she can't remember how it went down. Did she really murder Celia?! Told between alternating viewpoint of Dana and Jack Moss, the detective, this story is sure to keep readers at the edge of their seats as they try to figure out what really happened. The webs of deception are thick and the plot keeps you guessing. A great mystery/ thriller and I can't wait to read more by this author. What a fantastic debut!
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    My Review:Boom...WOW. This is an amazing book into the mind of Dana Catrell. This is crazy engrossing, has major suspense and was written beautifully. You are going to go a on journey (or crazy awesome ride) through murder mixed with mental illness. This book was one you will tear through, will keep you up late at night and one you will be thinking about long after you finish. This would be a great book club pick!!!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Here's another great read for those who love psychological fiction - The Pocket Wife by Susan Crawford. Dana's neighbour Celia has been found murdered - and Dana was apparently the last person to see her. Apparently - because Dana can't remember much of their visit. Sure, they were drinking, but....But, Dana is also bi-polar and off her meds. And she's scared - because what if she's the one who killed Celia? But her husband is acting oddly as well. And so is Celia's husband. What about the nosy neighbour?Oh yes, we have got ourselves a wonderfully unreliable narrator! Which of Dana's memories are the truth? What is imagined? Who is the actual murderer? Crawford captures Dana's fractured thinking extremely well. I love this type of narrator - there is no way to predict which way the story is going to go. I enjoy watching for subtle clues in behavior or dialogue that would perhaps point the way to the truth.Celia's death is at the heart of the novel, but Crawford also explores a marriage in trouble, mental illness and familial relationships in The Pocket Wife - all to great effect. Detective Jack Moss is investigating Celia's death, but he has a rich personal storyline of his own and his own narrative, rife with doubts as well.But I have no doubt you're going to enjoy The Pocket Wife. Definitely recommended. I'll be watching for the next book from this author!
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Dana Catrell has a history of manic episodes due to bipolar disorder. Her husband and son know that she's in a manic phase and are encouraging her to see her therapist. Dana knows that she's close to spiraling out of control, but she also thinks that she just needs to find certain answers before she commits to treatment. Dana needs to find out if she murdered her neighbor and whether or not her husband is having an affair. The Pocket Wife begins with Dana waking up with little memory of her afternoon. She hears a siren and discovers an ambulance at her neighbor Celia's home. Dana knows that she was at Celia's home earlier in the day, but she doesn't remember coming home or going to sleep. Finding out that Celia was murdered causes Dana to question whether or not she's capable of extreme violence. The primary reason behind this thinking is that Celia has indicated that Dana's husband was having an affair and the evidence was a cell-phone picture. These memories are what send Dana off on a haphazard quest for the truth. But will searching for answers to these questions give Dana peace of mind or send her off the deep end.I found The Pocket Wife to be a rather fast-paced and enjoyable albeit disturbing read. Dana's thoughts and actions jump around quite a bit due to her mania and, as a result, the story jumps around. Is Dana paranoid or is someone sending her threatening notes? Is she seeing things or was there a person in a hoodie in her backyard? It's difficult to separate fiction from reality since she's also hearing the voice of her mother and her Saint Christopher statue is winking and nodding at her. Her husband Peter recognizes that she needs help but doesn't really do anything to help her. There were times when I felt just as unhinged as Dana simply because it felt as if I was falling down the rabbit hole with her. Ms. Crawford does an incredible job at portraying the behavior of a person in a manic phase of bipolar disorder, down to the notion that "I don't need/want medication" way of thinking. If you enjoy reading psychological suspense thrillers then you'll definitely want to read The Pocket Wife.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A dead neighbor, the last one to see her alive, and Dana can't remember anything about that afternoon she spent with Celia.Did she handle the heavy vase that killed Celia the day she died or does she remember that from when they bought it at a garage sale? Was Celia alive when she left that afternoon? Could she have killed her neighbor?Dana keeps questioning herself about what happened that afternoon and has herself convinced that she did kill Celia. Dana wishes she could remember. If this wasn't worry enough with her fragile state and her former mental problems, Dana had to worry about her husband who she knew was having an affair.The writing style of Susan Crawford is exquisitely descriptive and takes you right into Dana's mind making you wonder along with her just what actually did happen.For me Dana wasn't likeable. Peter, Dana's husband, is a sneak. Celia even in death is mysterious. Celia's husband, Ronald, seems guilty. So many suspects to choose from. You will go back and forth and be stumped until the end. Jack the policeman seems to be the only honest and likeable one.If you enjoy psychological thrillers, a range of unlikeable, but interesting characters, and a book you don't want to put down, THE POCKET WIFE fits the bill. The ending is great. 4/5
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Dana, can't remember much of the last afternoon she spent with her friend. Much can be blamed on the drinking they both did, but to make it even more difficult, Dana is bi-polar, off her meds and slightly manic. Yet, her friend is dead and she remembers only bits and pieces. Could she possibly have killed her?Can't say this was the most suspenseful read but it was different and I sympathized with Dana's struggles. Not only is her husband cheating on her, but as she tries to stay ahead of her mania to find out what actually happened to her friend, she finds herself in a defensive position with the police. Now that was my favorite character, Jack the detective assigned to this case. He has personal problems of his own but he is dogged and sympathetic, regretting past mistakes and trying to do the right thing.The ending, not too sure of, don't think it could have played that way, someone in that particular line of work wouldn't be that naïve. Can't say more because I don't want to spoil it for future readers. A good read, less mystery than character study, but an interesting one.ARC from publisher.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    THE POCKET WIFE by Susan H. Crawford, an absorbing psychological thriller debut-an exploration into the mind of a troubled woman, as she questions her actions of reality versus fiction. Dana Cantrell, is a pocket wife, meaning her husband, Peter is too busy for her. On occasion, when she calls, he has a nasty habit of placing the cell phone in his pocket, until he can excuse himself to speak in private. She feels he can store her away in his pocket, pretending she does not exist; at times emotionally absent. Everyone and everything comes first—he is also very secretive with his own private cell phone conversations, running to another room; Dana suspects he is up to no good and suspects he may be having an affair—she does not trust him. Dana also has a history of mental illness, mania, bi-polar, and most of the time she is not on her meds; instead in a fog of Xanax and alcohol. However, she is better now, right? Her marriage is not what it was in the early stages, but she feels she is stable, and sees a psychologist, always reassuring. As the novel opens her neighbor, Celia also her garage sale buddy, has invited her over with some exciting news. Over lots of wine, and talking, Dana is unsure the events of the afternoon. All seems to be a blur the drunker they become. The only thing she recalls is Celia’s interest in showing her a blurry cell phone picture. Was it her husband or possibly Celia’s husband?Now, she finds out her neighbor, Celia has been murdered. Dana is so upset, not being able to recall the events of the day. Could she have killed her? After all, she has a key to her house. Could she have gone back later? Something having to do with the cell phone picture must have led to more tragic events, or possibly she had nothing to do with the murder. However, she was most likely the last one to see her alive.An investigation soon begins. She has to put her detective hat on and even hosts a brunch in order to dig into clues in order to put the pieces of the day together. She begins to suspect everyone around her leading to an intense mystery. She is obsessed to solve the mystery. Her husband, Celia’s husband, a lover, perhaps? If she could only recall the events through her haze of confusion. . . . She begins questioning reality versus fiction…is she crazy, and is she a cold-hearted killer? What if something drove her to commit murder? Detective Jack Moss is investigating the case, and readers learn about his past and personal life. His second wife has left him and Kyle, his son from his first marriage is always in trouble with the law, and they have an estranged relationship. When prints show up, and they turn out to be Kyles, he has to dig deeper, as surely his son did not kill this woman. How are these two connected? In the meantime, Jack’s suspect list grows longer as he is unsure who is lying. Dana becomes paranoid, second guessing herself, suspecting everyone, scrutinizing their every move. As she cooperates with Jack, the suspense and intensity builds for a powerful and emotional mystery of whodunit.From the stylish front cover "promiscuous tart", the title, to the well-developed characters-- a perfectly paced, complex crime suspense mystery of betrayal, marriage, murder, madness, bi-polar, and intrigue. A mix of bunny boiler, suburban desperate housewives, and garage sale buddies!Cassandra Campbell delivers an outstanding performance, perfectly matched for all voices, for an intense page-turner, keeping you on the edge-of-your-seat, from beginning to end.I enjoyed THE POCKET WIFE, more than Girl on the Train, The Silent Wife, and Gone Girl, as Crawford creates her main protagonist likable, smart, intuitive, and someone you can relate to, a character driven mystery. You sympathize with her, as Crawford interjects humor, versus whinny and totally wacky, as most psychological thrillers—holding your interest with a nice pace, twists and turns, and some surprises. You will want to read this one in one sitting, a page-turner. Set aside the time—settle in for hours of entertainment; highly recommend the audio version. If this is a debut, I am looking forward to see what comes next –delighted to discover another talented Atlanta author!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Dana’s neighbor and friend, Celia, has been murdered and Dana is a suspect. But Dana, who suffers from bipolar disorder, hasn’t been taking her medicine, resulting in manic episodes. And there are so many things now that she can’t remember.For Dana, the day Celia died is all a blur. Could she have killed Celia? They had too much to drink that afternoon, and then there was an argument, and that photo – did Celia really show her a photo of her husband with another woman? And now the threatening notes – or did she write them to herself? Is someone lurking outside her house, watching her? Does someone want to kill her too?Using multiple points of view and written in the third person, the reader experiences both the confusion and jumbled thoughts of Dana, a very unreliable narrator, and Jack Moss, the level-headed detective assigned to solve the case. There are plenty of potential suspects and interesting characters including Dana’s unlikable and uncaring husband, a neighbor obsessed with his volunteer job as the head of the neighborhood watch, and even Celia’s own husband, to keep the pages turning on this fast-paced, tightly-framed mystery.Multiple plot twists divert suspicion among the characters and keep the reader on edge. And although new information is routinely uncovered, we keep coming back to Dana in her manic, frenzied and confused state as she tries to remember what happened and make things clear in her clouded mind. The ending went in a direction I wasn’t expecting, but it was an acceptable twist in an enjoyable debut novel.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I picked up this book because one it sounded good and two because this book was compared to The Silent Wife and Before I Go to Sleep. Two books that I have read. I did not care for The Silent Wife but I really liked Before I Go to Sleep. If this is Susan's debut novel then I can't wait to see what her second one will be like. She writes like a professional with years of experience under her belt. This book does mess with your mind a little. While I would not say there are any really big surprises involved in the solving of the murder. It was the way that the truth was revealed that got me. I was with Dana on her side but than I even had a brief period of my doubts about her. Especially when the story was progressing and it did seem like Dana had imagined the whole truth about what happened. It was almost really easy to imagine that she was capable of killing someone. When you suffer from a mental disease it is hard to tell the real world of your own. I brought this book along for a road trip and had it finished in a matter of a few hours. The Pocket Wife is one of going to be one of the hottest books to keep an eye on for 2015. A roller coaster ride of murder, mayhem, and an all out fun psychological thriller to read!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The Pocket Wife by Susan Crawford will be released in March 2015 and is an absolute must read for those who enjoy a deeply intense psychological thriller. Dana Catrell’s neighbor is murdered and Dana was the last person to see Celia alive, but could she have murdered her friend? Dana suffers from Bi-Polar Disorder and tends towards mania, which unfortunately has left holes in her memory, and she cannot clearly recall what happened that day. As Dana struggles internally, she also must deal with trying to clear her name, if she is indeed innocent, which she is not even certain of, as with most things currently happening in her life. The Pocket Wife is filled with intriguingly complex characters, the right combination of clarity and doubt, expertly crafted with just the right amount plot twist to keep the reader up long into the night. I would not hesitate to recommend The Pocket Wife to anyone looking for an extremely well written psychological thriller.
  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    The characters were unbelievable. The idea of it was great but I couldn’t finish it
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This raw take on bipolar illness was masterfully crafted from a first person narrative, which fully engaged the reader in the kaleidoscopic, fractured brain of Dana Catrell. What a breath of fresh air. This novel provides the perfect balance of psychoeducation and entertainment, seamlessly woven and artfully delivered.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    estuvo my cool para my igual que el titanic
    pero esta muy pero muy genial
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Found this little gem just browsing while waiting on other books to become available. Kept me hooked and totally didn't guess the ending.
  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    This book is the worst I have ever read. I love to read and I don't remember the last time I just stopped reading a book. But I can't go on with this one. The main character is obviously crazy and the author spends way too much time trying to convince the reader of that. It was not necessary. She spends too much time in crazy' ahead. And the dialogue is terse. You are with this one crazy character for what feels like fucking forever. I can't. I am at chapter 18 and this is after struggling to get there. There are 42 chapters. I am just going to read the last chapter and lose my credit. I can't and you shouldn't.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Good story of a women whose neighbor is killed. Good story, but seemed a lot of the writing, description was extraneous.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This was a very good mystery. I really wasn’t sure of the killer until the end, which is what I like. I loved how it all came together in the end.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I won The Pocket Wife via the Goodreads First Reads program. Thanks to the publisher for sending me a copy.I really liked this! Dana was a likeable character. I was worried the mental illness would be overdone or unrealistic but it seemed believable. The characters were original and interesting, and overall this book was very engrossing. I finished it in two sittings. I figured out the mystery but I don't think it was terribly predictable.As for the bad: some of the sentences were really clunky and it was sometimes difficult to figure out what was being said. And I noticed a mixed metaphor or two, but I don't know whether that's the sort of thing that gets fixed at this stage of the book's publication.But anyway. Really good read. Would recommend to fans of psychological mysteries. It's being compared to books like Before I Go to Sleep and Girl on the Train, and I enjoyed Pocket Wife better than those two, so there you go.

Book preview

The Pocket Wife - Susan Crawford

CHAPTER 1

The ambulance is still miles away when Dana awakens to the near dark of evening. It wails ribbon-thin in the smog over the highway as she opens her eyes where she lies sprawled across her couch in a suburb of Paterson, a stone’s throw from Manhattan but a different world entirely. She wakes to a headache throbbing at the backs of her lids, a library book lying beside her. She sits up and reaches for the book, marking her place with a tiny corner fold, giving it a little pat as she sets it on the coffee table.

Lately she can read a novel in two hours. She has always been an avid reader, but these days she can read much faster. The colors, the conversations, everything is much more vibrant and inclusive, as if opening a book releases genies trapped inside. The scenes and people between their covers sometimes seem more vivid than real life, with their sunny, pearl-toothed characters, the witty conversation, the handsome stranger squeezed into a subway car or knocking about on the street. Sometimes, when she finishes a book at record speed, Dana feels a slight letdown, as if a good friend has hung up the phone in the middle of a conversation.

Sometimes her house seems quiet as a tomb with Jamie gone. She’d hoped her son would choose a school in New York, but instead he’s chosen Boston College. He’s packed his things and gone away, and although Boston isn’t all that far, it seems to Dana that he’s journeyed to the edges of the earth. He could have gone to Idaho, her husband says when she complains to him, so she no longer does. Instead she bites her tongue, paints walls, and rearranges furniture; she reads books and lies awake at night and understands she wasn’t ready to be alone with Peter in a house without their son. When she allowed herself to think of it at all in the months before Jamie left, she told herself they’d be like couples on TV, empty-nesters walking hand in hand across exotic beaches, cooking gourmet meals, and falling into bed. She sighs. Peter comes home late most nights and often doesn’t even eat, let alone cook gourmet meals.

She struggles off the couch, crossing the room in tentative steps as the ambulance careens toward her neighborhood, its siren now a whisper in the heavy summer air of Ashby Lane. The afternoon comes back to her in tiny waves—her argument with Celia down the street, the way they both had far too much to drink, a faint memory of stumbling home to fall across her sofa in a deep, sangria-induced sleep. If Celia’s not an alcoholic now, she soon will be. Lately she always has a glass in her hand, sloshing liquid here and there as she teeters on her high-heeled wedges. Dana rubs her temples and thinks she might point out the benefits of AA the next time she and Celia get together. The two of them could go to a meeting in Manhattan, nearby but more anonymous than the ones in Paterson. She’ll offer. She won’t push, though. They aren’t close enough for that.

Her head throbs, and she remembers her aspirin is in the purse she left in her car when she ran down to Celia’s house at breakneck speed. The front door is still ajar, and she pushes through the screen, grabs her purse from the front seat, and rummages through it for the bottle. Outside, the ambulance is audible; its siren pierces the hum of traffic on the highway, and Dana glances up the street again, squinting in the thin light of a foggy evening. Something isn’t right. She feels it, this offness of things, and seconds later the siren’s wail is deafening. Standing by her car, she swallows the aspirin dry, watching as an ambulance rounds the corner and grinds to a halt in front of Celia’s house. Three paramedics run toward the front door, where Celia’s husband leans against the screen. Ronald. She can just make out the glare of light bouncing off his glasses as he throws the screen door wide. She doesn’t stop to think; she hurries down the street, past the three houses between hers and Celia’s, walking quickly on the hot concrete. By the time she gets to their yard, she’s running, and her sandals slip in a wet spot, a puddle, as she turns in to the driveway. She falls against Ronald’s car, throws her hands out hard against the hood to catch herself.

She rushes up the steps to the Steinhausers’ and nearly collides with Ronald in the doorway. He looks at her, but he doesn’t speak. He folds his arms over his chest as Dana slips across the threshold, where paramedics kneel on the new wood of Celia’s recently renovated living room. Their heads are bowed as if they’re praying, as if they’re studying the grain of the bamboo floor, and Dana is aware of a pungent odor in the air, a smell she recognizes. God, she says. What— And then she sees Celia.

She wasn’t breathing, Ronald says. He’s whispering, as if his wife is only resting here across the foyer, her dark hair splayed out in a puddle of her own blood, as if he doesn’t want to wake her. I called 911, he says, uncrossing one arm long enough to point out the medics, crouched on either side of Celia, who lies pale and still, an oddly colored aura forming from the blood around her head, but it was the strangest thing. I couldn’t think of our address. It was only the old Wilmont one I remembered— 3189 Wilmont. From where I grew up, he continues, in Cedar Rapids. His voice buzzes like a fly. Dana pushes in close beside Celia and feels a sorrow so intense that for a moment she can’t breathe. Her neighbor looks so small and helpless lying on the floor. She must be cold—she must feel lonely with only these strange men around her, and Dana reaches out her hand to smooth back Celia’s hair.

Hey! The paramedic closest to her grabs her arm. Get her outta here, he says to Ronald, but Dana is already backing away as Ronald says, There was an accident on the highway. A texter. A stupid fucking texter! Two hours we waited, sitting in traffic while my wife was lying here bleeding to—

Got a pulse, one of the paramedics says, but it’s weak.

Ronald squats on the rug with his arms dangling loose at his sides. He squints at something under the sofa, and then he half crawls toward it. A phone. Celia’s phone, Dana notices, and she is unpleasantly reminded of their argument earlier that day.

We better get her to the hospital, one of the EMTs says. We’re losing her.

No! Ronald collapses sideways, nearly knocking Dana down. He crumples up like a flower on a broken stem, and she guides him to a chair, where he sits, his watery eyes riveted on the paramedics as they rush the stretcher through the door. Dana’s crying, too, but in a distant, disconnected way. It isn’t real at all, this pool of blood that used to be Celia, this assault on a room she helped redecorate, these booted men stomping through, barking orders, bruising the shiny bamboo with their muddy feet. Get out! she wants to tell them, but they’re already running the gurney to the ambulance. Ronald streaks across the room and out the door.

I’m riding with my wife! he yells, but no one answers.

The ambulance wheels struggle and whir in the stones of the driveway; the siren shrieks. Celia’s rescuers speed down Ashby Lane and disappear around the corner, heading for the hospital, but Dana knows from the way they looked at one another, from the way they were all business, that they think it’s futile.

The paramedics are no sooner out the door than one set of shoes replaces another, all of them coming and going across the blemished, blood-smeared porch; policemen from an investigation unit scrape and scratch along the throw rugs in the living room, filling tiny plastic bags with items Dana can’t quite see. They usher her outside, taking down her name, her address, who she is, what she’s doing there, as if she’s the one who is extraneous instead of all of them with their black gestapo boots, their cigarette breath. We’ll be in touch, they say.

Dana stands fidgeting on the Steinhausers’ porch and takes a last look through the picture window at the living room, bright in the lights. She studies the drapes and squints at the cushions, as if the evidence is stuck inside the hard, rough cushion of the estate-sale chair or slumped along the corners of the couch—Celia would surely leave clues—and suddenly Dana feels certain she’s the likely one to find them. In the house a cell phone jingles. A young policeman with red hair holds a phone up to his ear.

She and Celia were friends, neighbors, sharing piecrust recipes and gossip and yard-sale outings, an occasional languid conversation over coffee or an afternoon trek through the mall with bags in hand. But not secrets. Not until today. She closes her eyes, and images from that afternoon crowd her mind—sangria, bloodred in a glass; Celia’s high, sand-colored shoes, the dog flopped beside the kitchen sink, a tiny rip in Celia’s screen door; her own hand pushing on the thin wood bridge across its middle; her own feet on the sidewalk, on the street, on her driveway; Celia lying in a pool of blood, the broken vase beside her head, the kitchen knife just so above her hand. But there are gaps—the memories are quick, sharp images of sights and sounds, like puzzle pieces scattered on a slippery, shifting floor.

She didn’t make it, she hears the red-haired cop announce to the room at large. The detective on the case’ll be here in five. He lowers the phone and extends his boot, nudging the front door shut. Dana hurries home, her heart pounding in her ears, her breath a ragged, frantic sound in the stifling summer night. The reality of her neighbor’s death settles into her bones and splinters through her skin. Collapsing on her front porch, she hugs her knees, rocking back and forth on the harsh, hot cement, and images of Celia’s sons flit across her mind—Tommy and John Jr., spending the summer with Celia’s ex on Martha’s Vineyard. They’ll stay there now, of course; they won’t come back—they’ll probably never set foot on Ashby Lane again. Her tears spot the gray flat of the porch. They make her heart beat far too fast, all these losses, these holes inside her soul. Lately every aspect of her life is blowing off like petals in a breeze. She feels as if she’s in a constant state of watching them fly away, of holding in her spread arms nothing more than empty stems of missing things.

She’ll call Peter, she decides, and for a second she feels a tiny bit better. Despite what she learned about him from Celia today, her husband is still a quintessential lawyer—down to earth, even though lately he’s become another empty stem, another missing thing. Dana sighs. He’s late again.

Hello. His voice is dull in the clamor of what sounds like an airport bar.

Where are you? she says, and there’s a scratching sound as Peter shifts the phone.

I’m in a meeting.

Celia’s dead, Dana says, and she thinks of hanging up, of leaving him with this earful of drama.

What?

Celia’s—

No, he says, "I heard you. I just . . . Jesus. Dead?"

Dead. God. There was blood all over the— Dana’s voice catches. She stops.

Listen. Let me . . . I’m just going to stick you in my pocket for a second till I can—you know—till I can get out into the hall and—

Wait! she says, but all she hears are the scratching, shuffling sounds of cloth against the phone, and finally she hangs up.

It isn’t the big things Peter does that make her want to leave him; it’s more the smaller things, like sticking her inside his pocket in the middle of a thought—these demeaning, shrinking things he does that make her feel as trivial as a sneeze.

She sets the phone down and tries to piece together moments from the afternoon, to put things in some kind of order. She was there. She was involved in Celia’s day, although she isn’t sure exactly how. She had far too much to drink. And then the incredible death—the shocking, horrible, inconceivable death, sticking like a dagger in her heart. She closes her eyes and tries to remember the last thing she said to Celia. She thinks it was I don’t ever want to see you again.

CHAPTER 2

Love is such a muddle, Dana thinks, especially for people like her and Peter in lengthy, problematic marriages—difficult enough without neighbors butting in and, now, dying. Celia had served quite a nasty little tidbit to her that afternoon, amid a lot of drunken rambling, and Dana shoves it to the back of her mind to be dealt with later. The night is oppressive; tall buildings downtown trap the heat, leaking warm air into the suburbs even at nearly nine o’clock, and streaks of pink zig and zag through the gray sky. She leans back on her hands and squints, remembers that summer in New York, staring over the Hudson River at a pink sky. Look! she’d shouted, pointing.

What? Her companion was an earnest poet from the East Village.

The sky! It looks like Oz if Oz were pink instead of green!

The Poet had tucked his hair behind an ear, long hair, poetic hair, and puffed on the dying ash, the sweet heat of his pipe from Chinatown, exhaled his answer with a stream of smoke. It’s only the pollution, he said. Good old New York filth. She hadn’t married the Poet. She’d married Peter instead, his fresh good looks, his blue-eyed blondness seeping underneath her skin, erasing nights spent with the dark, sad Poet in his room with the broken wall. Where is he now? she wonders sometimes, nights when the sky is streaked with pink and she is nothing but a pocket wife. She glances at the trace of color still clinging to the sky and thinks she might reread her son’s collection of the Oz books—Ozma and Glinda and The Patchwork Girl—but it’s too sad; it makes her think of the Poet and of Jamie growing up and moving off to Boston.

A set of headlights bounces over the small hill at the end of their street. Seconds later Peter’s Lexus purrs in the driveway and Dana watches as he moves around inside it. The light of his Bluetooth fades away from his ear, dims in the dark car.

I made a couple of calls from the office after we spoke, Peter says, talking as he tromps up the driveway. Apparently Donald almost tripped over his wife in the entrance to their living room. It’s a good thing Jamie’s back at school. Until they find out what the trouble is, no one’s really safe. His voice is strained; it splatters out around his breathing, his huffing and puffing. He stops beside where she sits, leaning back on her hands. The police. Until they uncover what it is.

"What what is? And it’s Ronald, by the way."

What killed Celia. Peter fishes in his pockets for a cigarette, and Dana breathes in the sulfur smell of the spent match, the smoke she craves tonight, although she hasn’t in years. It’s only when her body speeds up and her mind click-clacks like a runaway train that she even thinks of cigarettes and now, suddenly, of Peter beside her in bed, the two of them smoking after sex a million zillion years ago.

It isn’t what, Dana points out. It’s who. It wasn’t a meteor or a tractor that struck her down in the prime of her life. It was definitely a who. Her words sound silly, bouncing back at her from the thick night, and she crosses her arms over her chest. She shakes her head to clear it, fighting the confusion, the helplessness of not remembering exactly what happened earlier that day. Surely Peter will notice; he is a lawyer after all. I saw her right before she died.

He turns to look at her. She feels his eyes on the side of her face. Oh, yeah? How come?

I was borrowing some sugar for dessert, but we didn’t get that far. We started talking, and we just . . . She inhales deeply, holding her breath. A sudden unexpected rage tickles the back of her throat.

What about?

This and that. She almost says, You! She almost says, We talked about the picture Celia took of you at a table in Gatsby’s, leering down the blouse of your little tart of a secretary, but she doesn’t. Do people still say tart, she wonders? She has always liked the word. It sounds like what it is.

What were you going to make for dessert? Peter puffs out a row of smoke circles and pushes himself up off the porch.

Tarts, she says.

Peter snubs out his cigarette with the toe of a shiny, pricey shoe and stretches. Let me put the car in the garage.

At first she’d thought Celia was crazy—that she’d doctored the photo somehow out of jealousy. Ronald seemed like such an unfun, squirrelly little guy, running to the sink to wash up after their introduction, his handshake like an eel sliding over her palm. Still, the hungry look in Peter’s eyes was obvious, even in the totally inferior pixels of Celia’s cell, so there was no denying what she saw, no matter how or why it came to sit amid the badly taken photos that rolled ad nauseam throughout the Pic File section of Celia’s phone. Look! Celia had screeched that afternoon, stumbling across the room in her wedge shoes. Celia was only five-one and had recently taken to pumping herself up on these silly shoes that, Dana thought, she hadn’t mastered yet and so should save for emergencies.

I’m looking, Dana told her. They probably work together, and she vaguely remembers Celia making an unflattering, horsey sound and tottering back to the kitchen.

"They’re working you together," she’d said.

Dana watches her husband from the front porch; she wishes she could talk to him the way she used to. If she could, she’d tell him that not remembering everything she did that afternoon terrifies her—these blank spots. She would say she’s lately felt the familiar and unnerving energy of her madness nudging at the edges of her brain, pulsing against the backs of her eyes; she’d share with him the doubts and questions jammed inside her, but she doesn’t. She can’t. Celia’s voice rattles in her brain, how she stood in the doorway to the kitchen, how she said, Peter looked at me like he’d slit my throat if he had the chance. For a moment Dana sees a coldness in his eyes that makes her turn away.

CHAPTER 3

Dana waits for the sound of her husband falling into bed. She won’t bother with dinner; it’s far too hot to cook and lately eating has become a hassle. There are so many more important things to do, so many more interesting things to do; she has such energy now that there’s little time and, really, little need for food. And anyway, Celia is everywhere, slipping through the walls and air—Celia laughing at a yard sale, Celia handing her sangria, Celia lying silent in a bloody pool across the foyer. Dana reaches for her book on the coffee table, and a shudder moves like a current through her body. She sobs on the sagging couch cushion, dappling it with small wet dots as Peter’s snores slice through the silence of the house.

She turns the air conditioner lower and makes herself a cup of tea, sits down at the dining-room table with his cell phone. It takes her a minute to figure the thing out. It’s locked, but she fiddles with it until she finds the right combination of numbers—their anniversary date—and green arrow; the tiny icon of a padlock disappears, and she thumbs over to his contact list, looking for the Tart’s number—or photo, maybe. She isn’t really sure what she’s looking for. Affairs are clandestine by nature, and Celia wasn’t exactly lucid by the time Dana got to her house. Daanaaa! she’d called from her front porch. Come on over! It’s life or death! She’d yelled so loudly that their neighbor Lon Nguyen had stopped washing his car, his sponge midway between a sudsy bucket and the left front fender of an aging Miata, his rubber flip-flops sinking in the mud. Celia reeked of alcohol and something fruity, standing there in her doorway. She’d rushed Dana over to a chair and shoved the picture so close to her that at first she couldn’t make it out. "They’re fucking!" Celia yelled.

Where were you when you took this? was all Dana could think to say. And, Could I have one of whatever’s on your breath? She squinted over the photo of her husband and gulped down one sangria and then another, polishing off the bottle of vodka for good measure and feeling unusually calm until the drinks hit her all at once, making her fuzzy and far away, and she gagged on the burn of the two colliding liquors. "So where were you?" Dana said again.

Across the room. I snapped the picture before they noticed me.

And after you snapped the picture?

Celia laughed a humorless little laugh. They noticed me. Peter did. Later, in the parking lot, he tried to get me to delete the photo. He never actually saw it. I wouldn’t show it to him. If he’d seen how bad it was—how unclear—he wouldn’t have been so worried. ‘This was about work,’ he told me. ‘You could have come over there. You could have met her.’ He was kind of shouting, and people were beginning to stare.

When was this?

Monday, Celia said. I was going to just delete it. I wasn’t even going to mention it to you, but then I . . .

Got drunk?

Yeah, she says. I guess.

"But why— I mean, it’s nice you care and all, but why exactly do you care?" By this time the room was swimming, and she’d wondered how she was going to get out of the chair, let alone back home. Celia’s face was nothing but a smudge, and all Dana can really remember after that is a lot of ranting about yard sales and women sticking together, struggling out of the estate-sale chair, weaving, trying to keep her balance in the spinning room, and at some point falling through the front door into the muggy summer afternoon. The next thing she remembers is waking up on her couch to a blinding headache and the realization that she’d left her purse in the car.

She scrolls through her husband’s phone. She isn’t at all sure what she’s looking for. Pictures, maybe, that he’s taken on his own. She shivers in the damp room. A chill falls like a shadow over her, and she remembers why she all but stopped drinking years before. She remembers the headaches, the migraines, the madness, and the fear that at heart she was an alcoholic like her father.

She scrolls over to his files, and Peter’s pictures pop up. There are several shots of Jamie and even a couple of her—a few from his last work picnic—ordinary photos, images of pedestrian moments in a pedestrian life. She yawns. She moves to his contact list and scrolls down, trying to remember the Tart’s name. Anna, was it? Hannah? And then there’s a mysterious initial. C. Celeste? Cynthia? On impulse she hits the number beside it, and there’s a faint click as her call goes straight to voice mail.

Hello, an oddly familiar voice says. This is Celia. You know what to do.

Dana hits redial and listens to the recording, and then she hits redial again. Peter’s hidden Celia’s number in his phone. She’d never think to look for it here, under C. She wouldn’t think to look for it at all. She feels sick. She feels as if she’s been punched in the stomach; she feels duped. She closes her eyes and sees Celia, bloody and dying at the edge of her living room while her dedicated, docile husband sat, oblivious and mired in traffic, while Dana dreamed sangria dreams four houses down. It makes sense now, the way Celia acted, her fury over Peter ogling his secretary in the restaurant. Dana shakes her head to clear it, but the images remain, the sounds and sights, the blood, the babbling husband, Celia’s stupid voice so easily retrieved from Peter’s phone. Kaleidoscopic, they separate and move and form again, each image less appealing than the one before.

She didn’t marry the Poet because she couldn’t slow herself down. Lying beside him on the dingy mattress in that place with the broken wall, she couldn’t relax. Night after night she lay awake, watching the rise and falling of his hairy chest, the shadows underneath his eyes, the neon light from a liquor store across the alley blinking at the sky. Like a signal, she’d told him, like a warning, and the Poet laughed. Have a toke, he said. It’ll relax you. It will help you sleep, and the Poet stuffed his Chinese pipe with small, soft lumps of hash. It didn’t make her sleep, though. Nothing did. Every week she slept less, walking through the downtown streets with the Poet, arm in arm, until late into the night, until his eyes were closing and he fell asleep exhausted on the mattress, leaving her to pace and write. Her classes flew by in a confusion of voices and raised hands—of papers written in the middle of the night, so brilliant, so esoteric. I think I’m channeling God, she told the Poet, her body nothing more than flesh on bones. He tells me what to say. But they didn’t understand—her professors, the other students. Only her dark Poet understood, and finally not even he could catch the words that tumbled from her brain onto the page in tiny, oddly slanted script that even she could barely read. The night he came home and found her on the roof, squatting at the edge in nothing but a slip—the night she said Jesus told her she could fly, the night she floated hundreds of handwritten pages into the winter sky over Avenue D, he’d driven her to Bellevue in a borrowed car.

The tea burns her throat. She hits redial once more and listens to Celia’s voice, torturing herself with the nasal, slightly southern sound of her dead neighbor. You know what to do.

She sinks onto the floor of the dining room and stares at the cell phone in her hand, scrolling through the contact list until she finds her son’s dorm number. Celia’s dead, she whispers into his voice mail, although she doesn’t think Jamie has ever actually met her. She stops; she counts to ten inside her head. Never mind, she says. I love you, and she holds her thumb down on the red arrow until the tiny screen goes mercifully black.

She blows on the cup, on the cooling tea, and thinks again of what Celia said—that Peter looked like he could slit her throat. Or does Dana only think she said that? She takes another sip of tea and feels a familiar rush of energy. She needs it now, this energy, this magic that has her staring at the ceiling many nights, that wakes her from her sleep and stuffs itself inside her days. It began when Jamie left for Boston, she thinks now, sitting cross-legged on the floor—after that endless, agonizing journey home from parents’ weekend, peppered with Peter’s mysterious phone calls at rest stops between Boston and New Jersey, her successful husband sitting on a picnic bench or standing in a clump of trees, his fleshy hand curved like a shield around his phone—A client, he said, or this case I’m working on, but Dana knew

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