Tamara Anderson has too much to worry about for a 15-year-old girl in 1954: a sick mother, a detached, dreamy father, needy younger siblings, and - most oppressively - a life as nomadic as a family's on the lam. "We move each spring, like birds migrating, except we don't go back to a familiar place. We never go back. We pack up who we are and the few things that cling to us, and drive away. We are good at packing. Good at leaving behind." It's her father's fault, his self-imposed occupational hazard. "He paints pictures that get hung in galleries in New York City," Tamara explains. "He paints landscapes. . . . We find houses to rent, then leave them behind like a snake sheds its skin. My father outgrows the landscapes. He needs new lines, new hues, new inspiration."
What makes Sarah Willis's first novel, "Some Things That Stay," such a prize is precisely the endearing form of dysfunction the family practices, and the voice that reports it. As the teenage daughter of two free spirits, Tamara is both pragmatic and prickly. "My mother doesn't know how to carry on a normal conversation either, but that doesn't stop her. . . . People think she's charmingly eccentric. My mother loves my father, more than us, more than herself, and he loves her, even more than art, so I forgive him his trespasses. He loves us, too, but we come after art.
By: Elinor Lipman|Date: Feb 6, 2000