Ausgezeichnet: Friends of American Writers Book Award, 2021. Ausgezeichnet: Nautilus Award, 2021. Ausgezeichnet: Ohioana Book Award - About Ohio or an Ohioan, 2021. Ausgezeichnet: Society of Midland Authors Award, 2021

NAUTILUS BOOK AWARD WINNER
THE SOCIETY OF MIDLAND AUTHORS AWARD WINNER
OHIOANA LIBRARY READERS CHOICE AWARDS WINNER
FRIENDS OF AMERICAN WRITERS CHICAGO WINNER
LONGLISTED FOR THE DUBLIN LITERARY AWARD

“Innovative . . . devastating. . . . A brilliant, expansive exploration of family and grief.” 
**—The Guardian**

“The book is rich with the texture of everyday living. It’s these details that sing Betty to life and bring readers fully into the Appalachian landscape and the social milieu of Breathed.” 
**—The Los Angeles Times**

“Breathtaking.”
**—Vogue**

“Prepare to be undone. . . . This is one of those rare books . . . that is so stunning, so beautiful, so piercing, you could never forget it. . . . Wow, wow, wow.”
**—Goop**

“Sumptuous and intimate.”
—O, The Oprah Magazine

“This book will break your heart open, in the best way.”
—Good Housekeeping

“A traditional beach read this is not — unless your idea of a beach read involves ugly sobbing for a few hundred pages. But [Betty] is so beautiful you won't care about the tears.” 
**—Entertainment Weekly**

“Gorgeous. . . . A plaintive coming of age narrative.” 
**—Glamour**

“Fierce, vividly realized.” **
—The Columbus Dispatch *

“Members of this hardscrabble family stride through their Ohio community like minor gods, leaving amazement in their wake. Highly recommended; a coming-of-age novel that is a treat for lovers of stylistic prose.”
—Library Journal

“Epic, lyrical . . . McDaniel’s sophomore work is a sweeping and heart-wrenching exploration of how we understand our parents’ lives and how our children will one day understand our own.”  
—Booklist, (starred review)*

Autorentext

TIFFANY McDANIEL is a novelist, poet, and visual artist born and raised in Ohio. She is the author of The Summer That Melted Everything.

Klappentext

A "novel set in the rolling foothills of the Appalachians about a young girl and the family truths that will haunt her for the rest of her life"--Provided by publisher.

Leseprobe
3

Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden.
Song of Solomon 4:16

Ozark, Arkansas. A place of deep green wilderness on the edge of mountains. It is where I was born and where we returned to after Lint came into the world. We lived in a small house Dad had partially built on a concrete foundation. The walls were not yet up, so the insulation showed while tarp hung from the unfinished roof. In between building the house, Dad sold moonshine and worked underground like a mole along with the other coal miners.

The only one of us kids not living at home was Leland. He was twenty by then and had already been gone two years after enlisting in the army at eighteen. He was currently stationed in Korea. He would write letters to Mom and Dad. Leland never wrote about anything related to the army or the reasons he was stationed in any particular place. He would write about things that made it seem like he was on a trip.

I did some fishing the other day, he wrote. I used a Korean fishing pole. It s called a gyeonji. Caught a fish that looked like one of the bass back home.

In his own letters, Dad would update Leland on where we were.

In Arkansas now, Dad wrote in his sideways cursive. Lots of blue sage and coneflowers. I don t see much of it. Underground, there is only rock and crust. That s what I get for being a miner.

The mines were not near to our house, so Dad would take the train and stay in a tent outside to save on expense. Days would go by before we d hear from him again.

The afternoon he called, I was on my belly on the plywood floor. Scattered around me were crayons Dad had molded out of beeswax and tinted with things like coffee or blackberries. When the phone started to ring, I picked up the red crayon and continued writing.

Jesus Crimson. Get the goddamn phone, Betty. Mom s voice came from the kitchen.

I grabbed the receiver.

I was writin , I said to whoever was on the line before I even said hello. You ve interrupted me.

Betty?

Oh, hi, Dad. I m writin a story about a cat. The cat has a tail made of violets. I ve made the violets red because you never remember they re purple. It s the tail that eats the mice, not the cat itself. Ain t that somethin ? I ve never seen a cat s tail eat mice. It s always the mouth, but I don t see why it can t be the tail that eats the mice as long as the tail has teeth.

When I stopped to take a breath, Dad took the opportunity to ask where Mom was.

She s in the kitchen with Lint, I said.

Go get her. I need her to come pick me up from the mines. His voice was unusually tight, like wound-up wire.

Why ain tcha ridin the train back? I asked.

It s not runnin until late tonight. Now go get your momma. They re about to let the mine monster out. You don t want the monster to eat your dear ol dad, do ya?

I hollered to Mom that Dad was on the phone. Once I heard her coming, I slipped the red crayon into my pocket and ran outside.

Trustin and Flossie were in the backyard using sticks as guns to shoot one another, while Fraya sat on the grass chewing on a dandelion.

Pretending I would turn to stone if any of them saw me, I snuck out to our Rambler station wagon parked in the yard. I made sure to slap the raccoon tail hanging from the car s antenna like I did every time for luck.

Quietly, I climbed up on the bumper and crawled through the open tailgate window. I hid beneat