A GOOD DISTANCE

Dying mother, guilt-stricken daughter.

Having fun yet? Jennifer certainly isn’t, and neither is her second husband Todd. Jazz, her teenaged daughter from the first marriage, makes caustic remarks and flounces around. No one is happy. Yet Jennifer keeps her Alzheimer’s-afflicted mother at home, in hopes of atoning for some unnamed sin of hers and of somehow making up for Rose’s difficult, Depression-era–haunted life. Rose seldom recognizes even the most familiar faces anymore, and confuses Jennifer and Jazz. Her memories intertwine with Jennifer’s narrative, not that either woman ever amounted to much or did (or does) anything out of the ordinary. A remember-this, remember-that singsong deadens the clipped prose, abetted by grim or portentous details: Remember when Nana had her first stroke. Remember how we used to make love. Remember the dinosaurs at the museum. Finally, Todd is discovered going on-line to chat with old school friends. Jennifer asks, in measured tones, whether some of them are women. Yes. But he isn’t having an affair. Yet. Will he? Todd feels left out. Isn’t he special to her anymore? He used to feel special, like he was the only one who could figure her out. She was so mysterious and stuff. A powerful, inexplicable feeling suddenly swells inside her. Could it be love? They embrace. Yes. It is love. Jennifer even says so. Out loud. Todd is mollified. One epiphany follows another: Jennifer realizes it’s time to put her mother in a home. But, first, more remember-this, remember-that. The secret sin is revealed. Nothing much to it, but still. And so life goes on. Her mother lingers in the nursing home for two more years, then dies. Funeral guests say kind things. The cold weather makes people shiver. What does it all mean?

Carefully crafted, dreary third from Willis (The Rehearsal, 2001, etc.).