This novel is about a girl's journey to maintain her authentic self to adulthood regardless of attempts to alter her core.
Brooklyn, 1942
Leah was awakened from a deep sleep by the wails of a screaming baby. Cupping her hands over her ears to muffle the sounds, which were a cross between a howling cat in heat and the chortling of a hyena, was no match for the insistent noise. It was as if her hands were mere fishnets with open holes, trying to barricade the continual oncoming assault from the baby's lungs.
Rolling over, Leah tried to find the time on the windup clock next to the bed, but the sun hadn't risen. Even the constant rhythms of the ticktock were drowned out, and she fumbled to turn on the lights to read the clock. The bright light from the lamp went through her brain like a saber: 4:03 a.m. Lying there in despair, she was relieved when, all of a sudden, there was silence.
Pulling the blankets over her head, she tried to return to sleep, to no avail. The lamplights, coupled with the continual crying, had created the beginning of a massive migraine. She lay on the couch, knowing the next occurrence.
As if by clockwork, Shanna waddled into the living room, eight months pregnant with baby number three.
