Synopsis:
The Memory Collectors is a debut novel about two women haunted by buried secrets, yet bound by a shared gift and the power the past holds over our lives.
Ev has a mysterious ability that she feels is more a curse than a gift. She can feel the emotions people leave behind on physical objects and believes that most of those objects need to be handled extremely carefully. If at all possible, destroyed. The harmless ones she sells at Vancouver’s Chinatown Night Market, barely eking out a living. Even that fills her with trepidation.
In another part of town, Harriet hoards thousands of such treasures and is starting to make her neighbors sick. The overabundance of heightened emotions start seeping through her apartment walls, permeating their residences.
When the two women meet, Harriet knows that Ev is the only person who can help her make something truly spectacular out of her collection. She envisions a museum of memory that not only feels warm and inviting but heals the emotional wounds many people unknowingly carry around.
Harriet and Ev only know of one other person like them, and they fear the dark effects the objects had on him. Together, they help each other develop and learn to control their gift so that what happened to him never happens again.
Unbeknownst to them, the same darkness is wrapping itself around another, dragging them down a path that already destroyed Ev’s family once . . . and threatens to annihilate what little she has left.
The story casts the everyday in a new light, speaking volumes to the hold that our past has over us — contained, at times, in seemingly innocuous objects — and uncovering a truth that both Ev and Harriet have tried hard to bury with their pasts: not all magpies collect shiny things — sometimes they gather darkness.
Review:
Inspiration for the book came from a fantastical short story in which the character of Harriet is a witch who hoards magical objects and gets into trouble when she steals a neighbor’s dragon. She wanted to further develop the story and ground it in the real world. “I began thinking about how we as humans relate to physical objects, and what makes an object ‘magical.’ We ascribe meaning to things based on our interactions with them, and our stories about them. I found it so interesting that inanimate objects can hold such power over us. The memories associated with a cherished piece of jewelry or a favorite mug can be so vivid and emotional, that it’s as though the object itself has taken on those emotions.”
That led her to contemplate what life would be like for a person with an acute sensitivity to the impressions left behind on objects, which is the case with her lead character, Ev. In her life, only three people knew about what she thinks of as her sickness — “the way objects speak to her.” Of those three, the only survivor is her sister, Noemi, who disappears for long stretches of time. As the story opens, Noemi has been gone for six months and Ev misses talking with her. With her friend Owen Riley, who works as a bike courier, Ev scavenges through dumpsters and garbage cans in search of items she can sell. Objects have a “stain” on them. Sometimes sweet, sometimes not. Sometimes the stains overpower her senses and cause her to feel ill because she senses the emotions left behind on the objects.
One day Owen shows her the button collection he found in an alley behind an apartment building. There are other treasures there, as well — three boxes full — some of which Owen, an artist, can use to create sculptures and mixed media pieces. In fact, there might be enough items that Ev can use the money she makes to get her through the winter without having to sell at the local flea market.
Maybe you can’t force happiness on a person. But you can build a place where a person could find happiness when they’re ready for it.
Soon Ev and Owen encounter Harriet, the owner of the boxes. Ev recognizes her as a stain hoarder. And Harriet immediately realizes that she and Ev have the same gift. But Ev’s sensitivity is much stronger than Harriet’s. And unlike Ev, who never takes stained items into her apartment, Harriet lives in an apartment literally bursting with them. Ev cannot understand how Harriet can possibly stand the contamination. And Harriet knows that her collection of “bright things” that have made their way into her life is out of control. She is aging and worried that she will not be able to continue keeping people out of her apartment. That she’ll be deemed unable to care for herself and will lose control of her life and her belongings. When Owen marvels at all of the things she has gathered over the years, terming it a “museum of memory,” an idea is born. Harriet has always wanted to create a space where people can gravitate to objects that hold the emotions they need and be healed by the experience.
And so Ev, Owen, and Harriet team up to empty out Harriet’s apartment and create a space where her collection can be seen and appreciated. The museum about which she has dreamed. A place where Owen’s art can be on display and people can leave feeling better than when they entered it. But Ev has to finally come to terms with what happened to her and Noemi when they were children, which Neville gradually reveals through deftly-timed flashes of memory. Those events made Ev into the loner she is, always keeping her distance from others and never allowing herself to become close to people. She is always vigilant, protecting herself from the stains lest she be transformed into a monster because the emotions attached to the objects she encounters overtake her. Noemi doesn’t remember what happened when they were children so, unlike Ev, she doesn’t have to worry that the same kind of monster might be lurking inside her. Harriet too experienced childhood trauma that caused her to live the way she has for more than six decades after, as a teenager, she began collecting objects just as her mother had.
The Memory Collectors is a unique, heartbreaking story imbued with rich imagery and a compelling exploration of her characters’ inner lives. Ev is a young woman who does not know how to unburden herself so that she can be free to pursue the kind of relationships that other people take for granted. She knows she is different from others and Neville compassionately portrays her struggle to survive and the courage it takes for her to slowly permit herself to be just a bit vulnerable. Her relationship with Noemi is tense and complicated, as are most sibling relationships, and their bond is threatened by the revelation of long-buried secrets. The mysterious Harriet is revealed by Neville to hold the key to Ev’s future.
Nevile employs magical realism to tell a riveting story that is, at its core, about overcoming childhood trauma and learning to accept one’s past in order to create a life from which one can draw happiness and peace. Her characters are empathetic and Neville’s affection for them is apparent throughout. Each of the three strong female characters — Ev, Harriet, and Noemi — has had to invent mechanisms to cope with the past and keep it from destroying them. But when they come together, they find themselves at a crossroads and they must resist the darkness that threatens to overtake and destroy all of them. Along with Owen, a gentle spirit who cares deeply about Ev and wants to help Harriet, they have an opportunity to reconcile and make peace with the past, and accept their unusual gift. And perhaps find the courage to pursue the dreams that, until now, they’ve barely dared to dream.
The Memory Collectors is eloquently crafted and emotionally satisfying, showcasing the depth of Neville’s talent.
Excerpt from The Memory Collectors
Chapter 1
Ev squats on a heap of garbage, one hand on the edge of the dumpster to keep her balance, and listens for ghosts. Something inside this bin has a sweet stain. It’s strong enough that she could sense it when she skimmed past on her bike. Feels like love, or close enough that people will pay good money for it. It doesn’t matter if the stain belongs to a wedding band, an old photograph, or a doll with matted-up hair. Ev’s gonna find it.
She yanks the broken seat of a vinyl kitchen chair out from underneath some bags. A hint of resentment clings to it, muted but still sour. It’s been buzzing against her boots, rattling her nerves and interfering with the hunt. She chucks the seat over the side of the bin. Down the alley she hears Owen’s voice calling out to her. She ignores him, focusing on her prize. Where are you? There’s still something blocking her, causing confusion, and making it hard to concentrate.
“Evelyn?” Owen knocks on the side of the bin. The sound reverberates in her ears.
“Quit it. You’re giving me a headache.” She feels ill, in fact, but she’s too close to give up.
“Find something good?”
“Maybe.”
“Whatever it is, I bet I’ve got better.”
“Hey, can you take these?” Ev dangles a six-pack of empty beer bottles over the side. She feels the weight of them ease.
“Got ’em.”
Ev digs deeper, tossing out the occasional empty as she works. She grabs the knotted top of a plastic grocery bag. It’s heavy, with the soft lumpiness of used cat litter. In here. Ev tears into the bag. Flamingo-colored sand spills over her gloves, along with shards of broken glass and five pearly seashells that radiate a solid vibe: affection, longing, and tenderness. They hold a bitter note at the end—betrayal—but it only lends the rest of the stain a satisfying poignancy.
Jackpot. She picks the shells out of the bag and drops them into a lead-lined pouch belted at her hip. She can sell them for ten bucks each. She grabs hold of the edge of the bin and vaults her body over, landing in a squat, boots slapping on wet pavement. A wave of dizziness clouds her head. She stays put and inhales deeply through her nose. She’s mastered the shallow mouth breathing required for this kind of work but could be she was in there longer than she thought. Sometimes she loses track of time when she’s on the hunt.
The feeling doesn’t pass. If anything, it gets worse, a low-grade fuzz scrambling her brain and turning her stomach upside down.
Owen’s voice floats past. “Are you all right?”
She tries to nod but it only shakes things up more. Her head is a snow globe, a blizzard of glitter, a thousand tiny plastic flakes reflecting too many colors for her mind to track. She closes her eyes and waits for the settling.
“Ev, honey.” Owen puts his hand on her arm and she’s too sick to shrug it off. She retreats further, finding that empty place inside. The quiet spot in the center of the globe where the snowman stands alone. She breathes into it. She is the snowman.
“Why are you laughing?” asks Owen.
“I’m a snowman.”
Keep the dirt out, Evelyn.
The intrusion in her mind knocks her off balance again, makes the nausea rise. She clenches the muscles in her face, tightly curls her arms around her body. Squeezes the voice out. When she opens her eyes, she sees the jar. A mason jar with a dented lid. It sits at Owen’s feet, filled to the top with buttons. Brass buttons. Plastic buttons. Satin-covered wedding dress buttons. A blue button with a Dalmatian puppy painted on it. A gold button in the shape of an anchor. Every one of them stained.
Each button contains a unique set of emotions imprinted upon it by a past owner. They are, all of them, tiny ghosts, carriers of desire, sadness, lust, and pride. None of them radiates particularly strongly, but the overall effect is similar to watching two hundred television channels simultaneously. No wonder she feels like puking.
“Here.” Owen presses a stainless-steel bottle into her hands. She takes it. The water tastes soapy, but she drinks anyway. It gives her time to center herself. Owen has taken the refundables she found and lined them up against the side of the bin, offerings left for the next binner who passes through.
As she regains control, questions begin to flood her mind. Who collected those buttons? How? Why? What are they doing in the garbage? This isn’t a jar of odds and ends, spares kept in a sewing box. Someone went through the trouble of tracking these down one by one. It wouldn’t have been easy. Ev knows this well, having just spent twenty minutes knee-deep in dirty diapers and greasy week-old chow mein for the sake of five seashells. It takes a serious emotional connection for an object to get stained. Most trash is just trash.
Someone built this collection over time, button by button—someone who can feel the stains attached to each one. In twenty-two years, Ev has only known one other person who could sense stains like she can. She’s not ready to meet another.
She points at the jar. “Where’d you get that?”
“Eighth and Woodland. Alley out back of an apartment building.” Owen rubs his salt-and-pepper beard as he regards it. “Wonderful, isn’t it? I think I’ll make a mosaic.”
A fucking mosaic. Sure, it’ll be gorgeous, like the rest of Owen’s work, but it won’t sell. It’ll end up on the wall of some café in Kits, its eight-hundred-dollar price tag collecting dust and espresso stains. Ev can earn a couple hundred dollars off those buttons if she packages them right. Owen would give her the jar if she asked. But she won’t ask.
“Did you find anything else?”
“This. I thought of you.” He pulls a handkerchief out of the pocket of his jeans and unwraps it. Inside lies a stone, smooth and flat, the color of bone except for one black splotch in the middle that resembles a bird perched on a hilltop. The stone fits neatly in Owen’s palm. It has a soft, comforting energy. Protection. Peace. He smiles at it, crinkling the skin around his eyes.
“It seemed like an Evelyn thing to me,” he says. “All the things seemed like Evelyn things, but this one especially.”
Ev disagrees. The stone is an Owen thing. She’s tempted by it. It would be a nice weight in her pocket, a thing to carry with her always. When he offers it to her, she pinches it delicately and drops it immediately into her pouch. The stone will sell in a heartbeat at the market.
“How much more is there?”
“Three boxes. I tucked them behind the recycling bins, but that was an hour ago.”
Ev’s throat dries up. That much stain gathered in one place equals a psychic bomb waiting to be triggered. Also, the potential for a lot of money. She studies Owen’s face, thinking. He doesn’t know stains, but he’s done enough salvage missions with Ev that he’s gotten good at guessing at the kinds of things she likes. If she gets her hands on three boxes of stained goods, she could take some time off come winter. At the moment business is good. The Night Market is thriving this year after a couple of dead summers. Ev won’t need to set foot in the stuffy chaos of the flea market until September. But the weather has turned wet and cool over the last few days, a reminder of what picking trash during the rainy season feels like. Bloated cardboard that falls apart in your hands. Water mixed with rust, mud, stale beer, and rotten fruit seeping under your gloves. Oily puddles. Soggy, lipstick-stained cigarette butts.
Some cash in the bank to ride out the cold months is awfully appealing. Appealing enough to quell the fear that rises every time Ev wonders who the hell is out there in her city collecting stains. If it’s been an hour, by now the boxes have probably been picked over. Still, if there’s anything left…
“Show me,” she tells Owen.
Comments are closed.