THE RIVER IS WAITING

“Can a man who caused the death of his child ever atone enough to be forgiven?” That is the central question raised by Lamb’s novel of every parent’s worst nightmare.

That nightmare becomes a reality for unemployed commercial artist Corby Ledbetter, who cares for toddler twins Maisie and Niko while his wife, Emily, works. One morning in 2017, Corby pops a couple of Ativans, pours rum in his coffee, plays peekaboo with the kids, burns the toast, and ruminates about his marriage, all before backing his car over Niko in the driveway. In these horrific yet riveting opening 12 pages, Corby’s narration is as blatantly unreliable—“It’s not like I’m addicted”—as his character is unsympathetic. His denial and self-pity are infuriating compared to Emily’s raw despair over Niko’s death. But during the course of the next three years, Corby gradually earns more trust. The first turning point occurs when he realizes that lying about his responsibility devalues Niko’s life, and he chooses to confess his intoxication to both Emily and the police. Found guilty of second-degree involuntary manslaughter, he heads to prison for three years, the future of his marriage uncertain. The almost day-by-day recounting of his prison experience makes up the bulk of Corby’s narration. Expect familiar tropes: racist white inmates; sadistic guards; a gossipy gay cellmate who evolves into a genuine, trustworthy friend; a saintly prison librarian who gives Corby space to create art. Corby’s self-education about systemic inequality and racism, however earnest and accurate, tends toward the didactic. But Lamb expertly shows his arduous, bumpy progression toward maturity and creates equally complex characters in Emily and especially in Solomon, an emotionally fragile young inmate Colby takes under his protection, probably saving his life—an ironic parallel neither lost on readers nor overstated.

This sometimes-gripping, sometimes-labored story of grief, guilt, and healing is uneven, like the recovery it chronicles.