Genre Fiction
![Jodi Picoult - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B000AP7PGM.jpg)
The Book of Two Ways: A Novel
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • From the author of Small Great Things and A Spark of Light comes a "powerful" (The Washington Post) novel about the choices that alter the course of our lives.
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY MARIE CLAIRE
Everything changes in a single moment for Dawn Edelstein. She's on a plane when the flight attendant makes an announcement: Prepare for a crash landing. She braces herself as thoughts flash through her mind. The shocking thing is, the thoughts are not of her husband but of a man she last saw fifteen years ago: Wyatt Armstrong.
Dawn, miraculously, survives the crash, but so do all the doubts that have suddenly been raised. She has led a good life. Back in Boston, there is her husband, Brian, their beloved daughter, and her work as a death doula, in which she helps ease the transition between life and death for her clients.
But somewhere in Egypt is Wyatt Armstrong, who works as an archaeologist unearthing ancient burial sites, a career Dawn once studied for but was forced to abandon when life suddenly intervened. And now, when it seems that fate is offering her second chances, she is not as sure of the choice she once made.
After the crash landing, the airline ensures that the survivors are seen by a doctor, then offers transportation to wherever they want to go. The obvious destination is to fly home, but she could take another path: return to the archaeological site she left years before, reconnect with Wyatt and their unresolved history, and maybe even complete her research on The Book of Two Ways-the first known map of the afterlife.
As the story unfolds, Dawn's two possible futures unspool side by side, as do the secrets and doubts long buried with them. Dawn must confront the questions she's never truly asked: What does a life well lived look like? When we leave this earth, what do we leave behind? Do we make choices . . . or do our choices make us? And who would you be if you hadn't turned out to be the person you are right now?
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY MARIE CLAIRE
Everything changes in a single moment for Dawn Edelstein. She's on a plane when the flight attendant makes an announcement: Prepare for a crash landing. She braces herself as thoughts flash through her mind. The shocking thing is, the thoughts are not of her husband but of a man she last saw fifteen years ago: Wyatt Armstrong.
Dawn, miraculously, survives the crash, but so do all the doubts that have suddenly been raised. She has led a good life. Back in Boston, there is her husband, Brian, their beloved daughter, and her work as a death doula, in which she helps ease the transition between life and death for her clients.
But somewhere in Egypt is Wyatt Armstrong, who works as an archaeologist unearthing ancient burial sites, a career Dawn once studied for but was forced to abandon when life suddenly intervened. And now, when it seems that fate is offering her second chances, she is not as sure of the choice she once made.
After the crash landing, the airline ensures that the survivors are seen by a doctor, then offers transportation to wherever they want to go. The obvious destination is to fly home, but she could take another path: return to the archaeological site she left years before, reconnect with Wyatt and their unresolved history, and maybe even complete her research on The Book of Two Ways-the first known map of the afterlife.
As the story unfolds, Dawn's two possible futures unspool side by side, as do the secrets and doubts long buried with them. Dawn must confront the questions she's never truly asked: What does a life well lived look like? When we leave this earth, what do we leave behind? Do we make choices . . . or do our choices make us? And who would you be if you hadn't turned out to be the person you are right now?
Editorial Reviews
"A thrilling adventure . . . With Picoult's stories, there is always something new to learn, and The Book of Two Ways is no exception. . . . A fun and interesting read, one that will lead readers to both learn a lot and also ask themselves key questions about how to create happy lives for themselves during the short time we have on earth."-Associated Press
"The Book of Two Ways is a return for Picoult to the themes of her earliest books-motherhood, complicated romantic love. . . . Picoult, at this point in her career, could skillfully build tension in a broom closet, but the best part of this book is not the suspense; it's the look at the complexity of a woman as she enters middle age. . . . Picoult always tells both sides of a story not with judgment, but with grace."-The Washington Post
"Jodi Picoult fans rejoice! . . . The Book of Two Ways is one story you won't be able to put down."-CNN
"Asking life or death questions in perfect Picoult fashion."-Parade
"[A] delightfully escapist, high-concept novel . . . The Book of Two Ways nearly spills over in its earnestness and emotion. . . . This is a book of big, burning questions such as what defines a great life."-BookTrib
"Picoult's fans will appreciate this multifaceted, high-concept work."-Publishers Weekly
"Picoult's fans will be more than ready for this puzzle of a novel. . . . [They] will find heady themes to consider."-Booklist
"Jodi Picoult knows how to write allll the feels, and The Book of Two Ways is no exception."-Cosmopolitan
"Unputdownable."-E! Online
"Riveting."-Womendotcom
"If you didn't already see Jodi's name and preorder this one, let us convince you."-Good Housekeeping
"The Book of Two Ways is a return for Picoult to the themes of her earliest books-motherhood, complicated romantic love. . . . Picoult, at this point in her career, could skillfully build tension in a broom closet, but the best part of this book is not the suspense; it's the look at the complexity of a woman as she enters middle age. . . . Picoult always tells both sides of a story not with judgment, but with grace."-The Washington Post
"Jodi Picoult fans rejoice! . . . The Book of Two Ways is one story you won't be able to put down."-CNN
"Asking life or death questions in perfect Picoult fashion."-Parade
"[A] delightfully escapist, high-concept novel . . . The Book of Two Ways nearly spills over in its earnestness and emotion. . . . This is a book of big, burning questions such as what defines a great life."-BookTrib
"Picoult's fans will appreciate this multifaceted, high-concept work."-Publishers Weekly
"Picoult's fans will be more than ready for this puzzle of a novel. . . . [They] will find heady themes to consider."-Booklist
"Jodi Picoult knows how to write allll the feels, and The Book of Two Ways is no exception."-Cosmopolitan
"Unputdownable."-E! Online
"Riveting."-Womendotcom
"If you didn't already see Jodi's name and preorder this one, let us convince you."-Good Housekeeping
Readers Top Reviews
B. BrownD. BurtonCla
I only got part way into this book - the writing was so intellectually over my pay grade. I have worked in the newspaper business my entire life so I am pretty good with words, etc. but when I have to look up every other word or have no idea for pages what I am reading, then the book certainly doesn't meet my criteria for entertaining. So far I haven't found much of a story to the book. Maybe someday I will go back and try again. For now I put it down.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Prologue
My calendar is full of dead people.
When my phone alarm chimes, I fish it out from the pocket of my cargo pants. I've forgotten, with the time change, to turn off the reminder. I'm still groggy with sleep, but I open the date and read the names: Iris Vale. Eun Ae Kim. Alan Rosenfeldt. Marlon Jensen.
I close my eyes, and do what I do every day at this moment: I remember them.
Iris, who had died tiny and birdlike, had once driven a getaway car for a man she loved who'd robbed a bank. Eun Ae, who had been a doctor in Korea, but couldn't practice in the United States. Alan had proudly showed me the urn he bought for his cremated remains and then joked, I haven't tried it on yet. Marlon had changed out all the toilets in his house and put in new flooring and cleaned the gutters; he bought graduation gifts for his two children and hid them away. He took his twelve-year-old daughter to a hotel ballroom and waltzed with her while I filmed it on his phone, so that the day she got married there would be video of her dancing with her father.
At one point, they were my clients. Now, they're my stories to keep.
Everyone in my row is asleep. I slip my phone back into my pocket and carefully crawl over the woman to my right without disturbing her-air traveler's yoga-to make my way to the bathroom in the rear of the plane. There I blow my nose and look in the mirror. I'm at the age where that's a surprise, where I still think I'm going to see a younger woman rather than the one who blinks back at me. Lines fan from the corners of my eyes, like the creases of a familiar map. If I untangle the braid that lies over my left shoulder, these terrible fluorescent lights would pick up those first gray strands in my hair. I'm wearing baggy pants with an elastic waist, like every other sensible nearly-forty woman who knows she's going to be on a plane for a long-haul flight. I grab a handful of tissues and open the door, intent on heading back to my seat, but the little galley area is packed with flight attendants. They are knotted together like a frown.
They stop talking when I appear. "Ma'am," one of them says, "could you please take your seat?"
It strikes me that their job isn't really very different from mine. If you're on a plane, you're not where you started, and you're not where you're going. You're caught in between. A flight attendant is the guide who helps you navigate that passage smoothly. As a death doula, I do the same thing, but the journey is from life to death, and at the end, you don't disembark with two hundred other travelers. You go alone.
I climb back over the sleeping woman in the aisle seat and buckle my seatbelt just as the overhead lights blaze and the cabin comes alive.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice announces, "we have just been informed by the captain that we're going to have a planned emergency. Please listen to the flight attendants and follow their directions."
I am frozen. Planned emergency. The oxymoron sticks in my mind.
There is a quick rush of sound-shock rolls through the cabin-but no screams, no loud cries. Even the baby behind me, who shrieked for the first two hours of the flight, is silent. "We're crashing," the woman on the aisle whispers. "Oh my God, we're crashing."
She must be wrong; there hasn't even been turbulence. Everything has been normal. But then the flight attendants station themselves in the aisles, performing a strange, staccato ballet of safety movements as instructions are read over the speakers. Fasten your seatbelts. When you hear the word brace, assume the brace position. After the plane comes to a complete stop you'll hear Release your seatbelts. Get out. Leave everything behind.
Leave everything behind.
For someone who makes a living through death, I haven't given a lot of thought to my own.
I have heard that when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes.
But I do not picture my husband, Brian, his sweater streaked with inevitable chalk dust from the old-school blackboards in his physics lab. Or Meret, as a little girl, asking me to check for monsters under the bed. I do not envision my mother, not like she was at the end or before that, when Kieran and I were young.
Instead, I see him.
As clearly as if it were yesterday, I imagine Wyatt in the middle of the Egyptian desert, the sun beating down on his hat, his neck ringed with dirt from the constant wind, his teeth a flash of lightning. A man who hasn't been part of my life for fifteen years. A place I left behind.
My calendar is full of dead people.
When my phone alarm chimes, I fish it out from the pocket of my cargo pants. I've forgotten, with the time change, to turn off the reminder. I'm still groggy with sleep, but I open the date and read the names: Iris Vale. Eun Ae Kim. Alan Rosenfeldt. Marlon Jensen.
I close my eyes, and do what I do every day at this moment: I remember them.
Iris, who had died tiny and birdlike, had once driven a getaway car for a man she loved who'd robbed a bank. Eun Ae, who had been a doctor in Korea, but couldn't practice in the United States. Alan had proudly showed me the urn he bought for his cremated remains and then joked, I haven't tried it on yet. Marlon had changed out all the toilets in his house and put in new flooring and cleaned the gutters; he bought graduation gifts for his two children and hid them away. He took his twelve-year-old daughter to a hotel ballroom and waltzed with her while I filmed it on his phone, so that the day she got married there would be video of her dancing with her father.
At one point, they were my clients. Now, they're my stories to keep.
Everyone in my row is asleep. I slip my phone back into my pocket and carefully crawl over the woman to my right without disturbing her-air traveler's yoga-to make my way to the bathroom in the rear of the plane. There I blow my nose and look in the mirror. I'm at the age where that's a surprise, where I still think I'm going to see a younger woman rather than the one who blinks back at me. Lines fan from the corners of my eyes, like the creases of a familiar map. If I untangle the braid that lies over my left shoulder, these terrible fluorescent lights would pick up those first gray strands in my hair. I'm wearing baggy pants with an elastic waist, like every other sensible nearly-forty woman who knows she's going to be on a plane for a long-haul flight. I grab a handful of tissues and open the door, intent on heading back to my seat, but the little galley area is packed with flight attendants. They are knotted together like a frown.
They stop talking when I appear. "Ma'am," one of them says, "could you please take your seat?"
It strikes me that their job isn't really very different from mine. If you're on a plane, you're not where you started, and you're not where you're going. You're caught in between. A flight attendant is the guide who helps you navigate that passage smoothly. As a death doula, I do the same thing, but the journey is from life to death, and at the end, you don't disembark with two hundred other travelers. You go alone.
I climb back over the sleeping woman in the aisle seat and buckle my seatbelt just as the overhead lights blaze and the cabin comes alive.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice announces, "we have just been informed by the captain that we're going to have a planned emergency. Please listen to the flight attendants and follow their directions."
I am frozen. Planned emergency. The oxymoron sticks in my mind.
There is a quick rush of sound-shock rolls through the cabin-but no screams, no loud cries. Even the baby behind me, who shrieked for the first two hours of the flight, is silent. "We're crashing," the woman on the aisle whispers. "Oh my God, we're crashing."
She must be wrong; there hasn't even been turbulence. Everything has been normal. But then the flight attendants station themselves in the aisles, performing a strange, staccato ballet of safety movements as instructions are read over the speakers. Fasten your seatbelts. When you hear the word brace, assume the brace position. After the plane comes to a complete stop you'll hear Release your seatbelts. Get out. Leave everything behind.
Leave everything behind.
For someone who makes a living through death, I haven't given a lot of thought to my own.
I have heard that when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes.
But I do not picture my husband, Brian, his sweater streaked with inevitable chalk dust from the old-school blackboards in his physics lab. Or Meret, as a little girl, asking me to check for monsters under the bed. I do not envision my mother, not like she was at the end or before that, when Kieran and I were young.
Instead, I see him.
As clearly as if it were yesterday, I imagine Wyatt in the middle of the Egyptian desert, the sun beating down on his hat, his neck ringed with dirt from the constant wind, his teeth a flash of lightning. A man who hasn't been part of my life for fifteen years. A place I left behind.
