Genre Fiction
![Yael Goldstein-Love - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B0BNM2NMV8.jpg)
The Possibilities: A Novel
A new mother ventures into parallel worlds to find her missing child in this mind-bending novel that turns the joys and anxieties of parenthood into an epic quest.
"An original take on motherhood, The Possibilities taps into those primal feelings every nurturer feels-and fears."-Good Morning America
What if the life you didn't live was as real as the one you did?
Hannah is having a bad day. A bad month. A bad year? That feels terrible to admit, since her son Jack was born just eight months ago and she loves him more than anything. But ever since his harrowing birth, she can't shake the feeling that it could have gone the other way. That her baby might not have made it. Terrifying visions of the different paths her life could have taken begin to disrupt her cozy, claustrophobic days with Jack, destabilizing her marriage and making her husband concerned for her mental health. Are the strange things Hannah is seeing just new-mom anxiety, or is something truly weird and sinister afoot? What if Hannah really did unlock a dark force during childbirth?
When Hannah's worst nightmare comes true and Jack disappears from his crib, she must tap into an extraordinary ability she never knew she had in order to save him: She must enter different versions of her life while holding on to what is most important to her in this one to bring her child back home.
From the intimate joys of parenthood to the cosmic awe of the multiverse, The Possibilities is an ingenious and wildly suspenseful novel that stares down into the dizzying depths of maternal love, vulnerability, and strength.
"An original take on motherhood, The Possibilities taps into those primal feelings every nurturer feels-and fears."-Good Morning America
What if the life you didn't live was as real as the one you did?
Hannah is having a bad day. A bad month. A bad year? That feels terrible to admit, since her son Jack was born just eight months ago and she loves him more than anything. But ever since his harrowing birth, she can't shake the feeling that it could have gone the other way. That her baby might not have made it. Terrifying visions of the different paths her life could have taken begin to disrupt her cozy, claustrophobic days with Jack, destabilizing her marriage and making her husband concerned for her mental health. Are the strange things Hannah is seeing just new-mom anxiety, or is something truly weird and sinister afoot? What if Hannah really did unlock a dark force during childbirth?
When Hannah's worst nightmare comes true and Jack disappears from his crib, she must tap into an extraordinary ability she never knew she had in order to save him: She must enter different versions of her life while holding on to what is most important to her in this one to bring her child back home.
From the intimate joys of parenthood to the cosmic awe of the multiverse, The Possibilities is an ingenious and wildly suspenseful novel that stares down into the dizzying depths of maternal love, vulnerability, and strength.
Editorial Reviews
"An original take on motherhood, The Possibilities taps into those primal feelings every nurturer feels-and fears."-Good Morning America
"The Possibilities had me intrigued, then gripped, and by its end, greatly moved by its exploration of the quite literally existential stakes of loving another person. Within hours of finishing this novel, I found myself quoting it in conversation. . . . A bravura, unforgettable performance."-Namwali Serpell, author of The Furrows
"Unpredictable and a page-turner, equal parts passion and philosophy, The Possibilities is the tense and twisty tale of an imperiled child, a crumbling marriage, and the desperate woman who is trying to save them both."-Karen Joy Fowler, author of Booth
"At once a profoundly insightful exploration of motherhood in all its joys and sorrows and the best kind of speculative fiction . . . The combination will bend your mind and your heart."-Ayelet Waldman, author of A Really Good Day
"The Possibilities hooked me immediately with its ingenious premise and a story so suspenseful that I had no choice but to ignore everything else to read to its stunning conclusion. But more than being compelled by the novel's plot, I was moved and ignited by its profound ideas: that the enormous responsibility of being a parent is at once beautiful and terrifying, and that in order to understand ourselves as parents, we each must also grasp and puzzle out our complicated, painful past. Yael Goldstein-Love is an enormous talent."-Edan Lepucki, author of Woman No. 17
"A unique and clever mash-up of science fiction and relationship fiction, this compelling novel explores the joys and fears of being a parent. . . . Imagine if The Push by Ashley Audrain, met Recursion by Blake Crouch, with a sprinkling of This Time Tomorrow by Emma Straub."-Booklist
"Part thriller, part psychology, part quantum physics-all fun."-Kir...
"The Possibilities had me intrigued, then gripped, and by its end, greatly moved by its exploration of the quite literally existential stakes of loving another person. Within hours of finishing this novel, I found myself quoting it in conversation. . . . A bravura, unforgettable performance."-Namwali Serpell, author of The Furrows
"Unpredictable and a page-turner, equal parts passion and philosophy, The Possibilities is the tense and twisty tale of an imperiled child, a crumbling marriage, and the desperate woman who is trying to save them both."-Karen Joy Fowler, author of Booth
"At once a profoundly insightful exploration of motherhood in all its joys and sorrows and the best kind of speculative fiction . . . The combination will bend your mind and your heart."-Ayelet Waldman, author of A Really Good Day
"The Possibilities hooked me immediately with its ingenious premise and a story so suspenseful that I had no choice but to ignore everything else to read to its stunning conclusion. But more than being compelled by the novel's plot, I was moved and ignited by its profound ideas: that the enormous responsibility of being a parent is at once beautiful and terrifying, and that in order to understand ourselves as parents, we each must also grasp and puzzle out our complicated, painful past. Yael Goldstein-Love is an enormous talent."-Edan Lepucki, author of Woman No. 17
"A unique and clever mash-up of science fiction and relationship fiction, this compelling novel explores the joys and fears of being a parent. . . . Imagine if The Push by Ashley Audrain, met Recursion by Blake Crouch, with a sprinkling of This Time Tomorrow by Emma Straub."-Booklist
"Part thriller, part psychology, part quantum physics-all fun."-Kir...
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One
Eight Months Earlier
That was when the worlds split.
When she was open on the table, paralyzed from the waist down. When they held her child up for her to see.
You, she thought, but the sight of him, twisted rigid in a howl that never came, cut off the thought.
Then he was gone. Someone had taken him.
Instead of his cry, there was the tinny hospital PA paging one neonatal team and then another.
Instead of his cry, the voices of competent, confident people creeping toward alarm.
A doctor's narrow head was bent in concentration, sewing her back into a body.
"What's happening?" she asked.
"They're trying," Adam said, from somewhere behind. Then he was just above and kissed her forehead. His lips felt dry and chapped.
The room was small, too small for all these people. She didn't know the situation but understood that it was dire. Someone had held her child up, then taken him away, and he hadn't made a sound yet, and the room kept filling with more people.
"It's cold in here," she said. "They need to wrap him."
"It's warm, Hannahbelle," said Adam's voice, but not from near her ear where she expected. "They've got him warm, don't worry, they're doing everything correctly."
He must have been straining to see, must have been craning, she could hear it in his voice. It was happening near the door, she was almost certain, somewhere past her feet, whatever they were trying, and the door was letting in a draft; she felt it blowing over her.
She didn't try to see. She wouldn't have been able to, her view partially blocked by the paper draping meant to shield her from an eyeful of her insides. But also seeing had never been a part of what they shared, she and this child. In their nine months together, she had only ever seen him for an instant: tiny body twisted rigid in a silent howl, eyes not yet open. That was seconds ago or minutes or hours and every second without oxygen killed more of him, the tiny brain that had been growing all along inside her, the one she somehow felt she knew, so much so that the unfamiliar look of him surprised her. The situation seemed to her quite obviously, quite awesomely a bad one, but also somehow muted, in the way that time mutes even the worst pain. It felt to her this had been going on for longer than the life she'd lived until now.
In the corner of her vision, something moved. She tilted up her chin and caught the blur as it moved past her. Held cradled in a nurse's arms-the blue-smudged lips, the way one tiny arm trailed as a doll's would. The clipped, efficient sorrow in the way the nurse grabbed at the arm and tucked it in. The clipped, efficient sorrow of the quiet that descended.
Then she was looking at the obstetrician's narrow head still bent behind the curtain, the hair so glossy black it cast its own strange dulled reflection of the overhead fluorescents.
"Is he OK?" she asked.
"Is he going to be OK?"
There was no answer.
Chapter Two
Eight months later, I stood on the top level of an open parking structure, watching fog roll in from the Oakland Hills and longing for a cigarette.
Jack was regarding me through heavy eyes. He looked like he could sleep.
I smiled at him, and then, unable to resist, though I knew it would perk him up and make a car seat nap less likely, I bent and nuzzled the top of his small head. The silky brown waves that tightened into ringlets near the base of his neck smelled of absurdly expensive baby shampoo mixed with a musk like a cat's just-licked fur. The smell soothed my nerve endings like nicotine.
Well, not quite like nicotine. It made no sense to stand outside a car, contemplating the view from the top level of an open parking garage, if you weren't smoking a cigarette. But so many of my habits were like this, obsolete cocoons of pre-baby behavior, the butterfly long gone.
"Get in the car, Hannah," I said out loud because when a day has already beaten you down before nine a.m., it's nice to have someone give you clear directions, even if it's yourself.
But I kept on standing there. The air was the perfect cool of one foot stuck out from sweaty blankets, and with the fog now burning off in the morning glare, I felt outside of time, outside of space in the best possible way, like at the airport. Just standing there was luxurious because there was no purpose to it. I was ignoring everything I had to face about this day. I was standing there simply because I wanted to and that felt better than sex, better than drugs. Slightly less good than a massage. Nowhere ne...
Eight Months Earlier
That was when the worlds split.
When she was open on the table, paralyzed from the waist down. When they held her child up for her to see.
You, she thought, but the sight of him, twisted rigid in a howl that never came, cut off the thought.
Then he was gone. Someone had taken him.
Instead of his cry, there was the tinny hospital PA paging one neonatal team and then another.
Instead of his cry, the voices of competent, confident people creeping toward alarm.
A doctor's narrow head was bent in concentration, sewing her back into a body.
"What's happening?" she asked.
"They're trying," Adam said, from somewhere behind. Then he was just above and kissed her forehead. His lips felt dry and chapped.
The room was small, too small for all these people. She didn't know the situation but understood that it was dire. Someone had held her child up, then taken him away, and he hadn't made a sound yet, and the room kept filling with more people.
"It's cold in here," she said. "They need to wrap him."
"It's warm, Hannahbelle," said Adam's voice, but not from near her ear where she expected. "They've got him warm, don't worry, they're doing everything correctly."
He must have been straining to see, must have been craning, she could hear it in his voice. It was happening near the door, she was almost certain, somewhere past her feet, whatever they were trying, and the door was letting in a draft; she felt it blowing over her.
She didn't try to see. She wouldn't have been able to, her view partially blocked by the paper draping meant to shield her from an eyeful of her insides. But also seeing had never been a part of what they shared, she and this child. In their nine months together, she had only ever seen him for an instant: tiny body twisted rigid in a silent howl, eyes not yet open. That was seconds ago or minutes or hours and every second without oxygen killed more of him, the tiny brain that had been growing all along inside her, the one she somehow felt she knew, so much so that the unfamiliar look of him surprised her. The situation seemed to her quite obviously, quite awesomely a bad one, but also somehow muted, in the way that time mutes even the worst pain. It felt to her this had been going on for longer than the life she'd lived until now.
In the corner of her vision, something moved. She tilted up her chin and caught the blur as it moved past her. Held cradled in a nurse's arms-the blue-smudged lips, the way one tiny arm trailed as a doll's would. The clipped, efficient sorrow in the way the nurse grabbed at the arm and tucked it in. The clipped, efficient sorrow of the quiet that descended.
Then she was looking at the obstetrician's narrow head still bent behind the curtain, the hair so glossy black it cast its own strange dulled reflection of the overhead fluorescents.
"Is he OK?" she asked.
"Is he going to be OK?"
There was no answer.
Chapter Two
Eight months later, I stood on the top level of an open parking structure, watching fog roll in from the Oakland Hills and longing for a cigarette.
Jack was regarding me through heavy eyes. He looked like he could sleep.
I smiled at him, and then, unable to resist, though I knew it would perk him up and make a car seat nap less likely, I bent and nuzzled the top of his small head. The silky brown waves that tightened into ringlets near the base of his neck smelled of absurdly expensive baby shampoo mixed with a musk like a cat's just-licked fur. The smell soothed my nerve endings like nicotine.
Well, not quite like nicotine. It made no sense to stand outside a car, contemplating the view from the top level of an open parking garage, if you weren't smoking a cigarette. But so many of my habits were like this, obsolete cocoons of pre-baby behavior, the butterfly long gone.
"Get in the car, Hannah," I said out loud because when a day has already beaten you down before nine a.m., it's nice to have someone give you clear directions, even if it's yourself.
But I kept on standing there. The air was the perfect cool of one foot stuck out from sweaty blankets, and with the fog now burning off in the morning glare, I felt outside of time, outside of space in the best possible way, like at the airport. Just standing there was luxurious because there was no purpose to it. I was ignoring everything I had to face about this day. I was standing there simply because I wanted to and that felt better than sex, better than drugs. Slightly less good than a massage. Nowhere ne...
