LUNGFISH

A young family in crisis returns to an isolated family property in an attempt to survive.

Tuck’s grandmother is dead, and Tuck knows she left her house—“halfway out to sea” on a tiny island in the Gulf of Maine—to Tuck’s father in her will. The problem is that Tuck’s father is missing and has been for years, having struck out for Mexico when Tuck and her brother were just teens growing up in Indiana. The other problem is that Tuck’s life in Pittsburgh has fallen apart. She’s disoriented by new motherhood, and, worse, her husband, Paul, is disappearing for long stretches at a time and draining their finances. Soon, they have no choice but to load up their Volvo with their toddler daughter, Agnes, and the meager possessions remaining to them and squat at the Maine property, hoping to stay one step ahead of the executor of Tuck’s grandmother’s will, who is searching for the rightful next of kin, Tuck’s dad. Soon after arriving on the island, Tuck learns Paul’s secret: He is addicted to kratom, an herbal extract that mimics opioids. While Tuck does everything she can think of to keep herself and Agnes alive, including foraging seaweed, mushrooms, and mussels from the beach, the threads of her past and present tangle in increasingly dire ways. Gilliss is an extraordinary writer; passages of her debut novel read like poetry, and others read like a lyric essay, making use of surprising juxtaposition and associations, especially ones—lobster, lungfish—that derive from the harsh setting in which Tuck finds herself. With some writers, such style can disguise plot weaknesses, but Gilliss sidesteps that, too: The peril the family is in keeps the pages flying.

As startling and intense as the windswept landscape the book depicts.