A psychological thriller, sort of. More like a creep-you-out psychological study of a woman who suddenly can’t remember all kinds of things, like that her sister is dead, and that her twins are …. well, not. Twins. Kind of like Diary of a Mad Housewife meets anything by Gillian Flynn.
Told in first person, we are dragged behind this chick as she slowly unravels, dribbling out pieces of information bit by bit. She seems to have the stupidest/most naive/most gormless husband in the history of intelligent people marrying, and quite frankly, there are times when I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and scream into his face, “Can I buy you a clue?”
I found it compelling up to the point where it stopped being compelling and started being tedious. As my grandmother from the prairie used to say, (that is she would have said it if I actually had a grandmother from the prairie), I don’t truck with twittering around. Cut out the bullet, let it heal and be done with it.
We find out most of the story near the end after watching this gal stumbling around bumping into walls and seeing hallucinations for about three-quarters of the book, when we are then privy to the private tapes of her sessions with a shrink where she tells all. Wasn’t much of a tell all, because we had already figured most of it out anyway, and anyway-the-second, by this time, we no longer really cared all that much, and are just hoping they get her meds adjusted and that she actually takes them. Some neighbors you just don’t want to know, ya know what I mean?
Oh, and the memory box of the title? She keeps stuff in a box hidden away. Big whoop.