I am a huge Olive Kitteridge fan, so I assumed I must be a huge Elizabeth Strout fan. Unfortunately, My Name is Lucy Barton was a disappointment, mostly because of the fundamental questions it did not answer for me. Lucy spends the whole first half of the novel in the hospital – but there is never the slightest hint what is wrong with her. That bothered me enough to over shadow the charming parts of the book. While she is in the hospital, her mother, from whom Lucy as been estranged for a long time, comes to visit. She sits at the foot of her daughter’s bed, calls her by her childhood nickname, Wizzle, and the two recount old stories and reminisce about forgotten personalities from the old neighborhood. Occasionally a doctor or nurse comes in to check on something ? ? and abruptly her mother announces she must leave.
Lucy has a husband and daughters, who play very minimal roles in the story. And even Lucy herself never rises to the role of a fully fleshed character in my mind. She goes to classes to learn to write from a legendary teacher, Sarah Payne, who teaches her that we each have one single story to tell. But Lucy Barton’s story is told in fragments, always with some necessary portion hidden behind the mysterious hospital curtain.