{"product_id":"within-arms-reach-isbn-9780593949016","title":"Within Arm's Reach","description":"\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER • The tender and perceptive debut novel from the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eHello Beautiful\u003c\/i\u003e, about three generations of a large Catholic family jarred into crisis by an unexpected pregnancy\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“This stunning . . . exquisite, skillfully written gem addresses serious issues–e.g., guilt vs. loyalty, the past vs. the present—[but] remains hopeful and includes ample doses of humor and wit.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNo one in my mother’s family ever talks about anything that can be categorized as unpleasant or as having to do with emotions. . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis spellbinding novel by bestselling author Ann Napolitano is a poignant reminder of how connected we are to those we love, even when we cannot find the words to say it. The unforgettable story of three generations of an Irish American family, \u003ci\u003eWithin Arm’s Reach\u003c\/i\u003e is another rich and deeply satisfying novel from the author who captured the many dimensions of grief in \u003ci\u003eDear Edward \u003c\/i\u003eand the unbreakable bonds of sisterhood in \u003ci\u003eHello Beautiful\u003c\/i\u003e.“Napolitano writes with beauty and power, skillfully bringing her characters within   arms’s reach until your heart is taken and this family becomes your own. This novel   is a must-read for any book group.”\u003cb\u003e—Hannah Tinti, author of \u003ci\u003eAnimal Crackers\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Napolitano   has created a fascinating family in crisis. . . . Successfully skirting melodrama,   [she] gives us a family drama that says even the most contentious can find a bit   of happiness.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eHartford Courant\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “As if we are friends she brought home for the   holidays, Ann Napolitano plops us onto the living room sofa of a big family with   big problems and gives us an intimate view of what goes on behind closed doors. \u003ci\u003eWithin   Arm’s Reach\u003c\/i\u003e is a deft, vivacious novel whose author compels us to stay seated until   the very last word.”\u003cb\u003e—Helen Ellis, author of \u003ci\u003eEating the Cheshire Cat\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A fresh and   exceptionally strong family portrait.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eDenver Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eAnn Napolitano is a graduate of Connecticut College and received her MFA from New York University, where she studied with Paule Marshall and Dani Shapiro. She lives in New York City.GRACIE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My grandmother gave birth often, which I suppose increased her odds for tragedy.   Her first born, a sweet, chatty daughter, died when she was three years old from   dehydration and the flu. My mother had become the oldest McLaughlin child by default,   and three more of my five aunts and uncles were already walking or crawling, climbing   over furniture and driving my grandfather, whose heart had broken with the death   of his first baby, crazy when my grandmother became pregnant with twins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Today twins   are considered a high-risk pregnancy. I'm sure they were then too, but my grandmother   had four kids under the age of six to clean, dress, feed and teach manners to with   the help of Willie, the live-in black maid. My grandfather was a lawyer and on the   weekends he played golf and in the evenings he drank scotch. This was long before   the days of co-parenting, long before it was even a word.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My grandmother had to   get my mother and Pat into neatly pressed uniforms and off to single sex catholic   schools every morning. She had to keep the two youngest home with her while she and   Willie split the cleaning, laundry and cooking. She had to write letters to her mother   and her husband's mother each week, updating them on the family's life. On Sundays,   out of respect for the Lord, she met the challenge of keeping all of the children   quiet and prayerful in their bedrooms without toys or any books other than the bible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pregnancy, even of twins, did not get in the way of the daily routines. It couldn't,   really, since my grandmother was, for the first eleven years of her marriage, more   often pregnant than not. So, she picked up toys and assigned the children chores   and shushed them around their father and kept an eagle eye on their manners at the   dinner table and supervised prayers before bedtime as her five foot two, petite body   swelled. She occasionally allowed herself a small nap while she sat upright at the   kitchen table, a bowl of peas waiting to be shelled under her fingertips. But that   was it. Birthing children, making a big family, raising it up right was her main   job. She ignored all sharp pains, any warning signs that something might be wrong.   She was never one to complain. Even now, at the age of seventy-eight, she refuses   novocaine at the dentist's office. She lies perfectly still, hands folded on her   waist, while the dentist, shaking his head in amazement, drills into her teeth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My grandmother went into labor very suddenly one night after she and Willie had finished   serving the evening meal. She set down a bowl of broccoli and pressed the heels of   her hands hard against the edge of the table. Children, she said. Meggy, elbows off   the table. Your father and I will be eating later tonight. Kelly—her sharp blue   eyes on my mother, the oldest now that the true oldest was gone—You're in charge   here, understood?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She walked carefully out of the dining room, aware of the children's   eyes on her, turned the corner, and collapsed. The doctor didn't make it in time.   Willie boiled water and carried a stack of clean towels to the bedroom and wept while   my grandfather, scared and therefore annoyed, stood by the head of my grandmother's   single bed and told her to keep it down. He cursed the doctor for his slowness. He   cursed Willie for moaning under her breath at the sight of blood. He cursed his pipe   for not lighting on the first try. He cursed the children in the other room for their   existence. He cursed his first child, his sweet baby girl, for dying on him and leaving   him here like this. Shipwrecked and lonely. Useless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The doctor, his pockets filled   with lollipops for the McLaughlin children, showed up just as the twins were born.   Still born. My grandmother must have felt it. After the long last shudder of labor   she turned her head to the wall, shut her eyes and began to wail. My grandfather   and the doctor were shaken by the noise. The doctor bent over the babies, one boy   and one girl, making sure that there was nothing he could do. There was nothing he   could do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My grandmother's cries got louder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now Catharine, my grandfather said,   looking from the still, purplish babies to this woman whose contorted face he did   not know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The doctor gathered the infants in his arms. Get them out of here, he   said to my grandfather. She can't take the sight of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My grandfather grabbed   the babies and, glad to have something to do, an answer to the misery in that room,   an order to follow, rushed through the house. He stumbled two steps at a time down   the stairs. He strode through the living room where Kelly, Pat, Meggy and Theresa   sat on the couch and on the floor where Willie had told them to Keep Quiet and Pray.   The children watched, frozen in their places as their father moved past them, blood   covering his crisp white work shirt, two purple babies held against his shoulder.   He was in their sight for only a few seconds, but that was long enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then my   grandfather was in the kitchen, where Willie had gone to hide after the doctor arrived.   He yanked open the door to the garage and rounded the corner to where the huge metal   garbage cans were kept. He lifted off one of the metal lids, and dropped the babies   inside. They fell one after another onto a cushion of broken eggshells and milk gone   bad and a few potatoes that had sprouted knobs and spuds too unsightly to just cut   off and ignore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e The story of the twins' birth is a strange comfort to me. I recognize   myself in the story; I recognize the people I come from and am surrounded by. It   proves that even when the worst thing imaginable happens, the individuals involved   still survive. The McLaughlins were able to limp away from the death of those babies.   They remained a family. Daily routines, petty arguments, and relationships continued.   I run this story over and over in my head because I need the convincing right now.   I need to know that my world is not about to explode, in spite of any surprise or   botched plan I throw at it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The twins' stillbirth is just one of the refracted images   that has made its way down through the communal memory of my family, breaking over   each of us like a wave. My mother witnessed that day with her own eyes, and then   twenty years later those same eyes saw my birth. She never spoke of the twins—because   my mother, like her own mother, never speaks of anything important. But still I was   aware of what she had seen from her seat on my grandparents' living room floor long   before I was able to put words to it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That has become my obsession, and sometimes   livelihood, putting words to sensations, inklings, feelings. Looking for the back-story.   I write a daily advice column for the Bergen Record. I used to date the editor of   the paper, and Grayson both came up with the perfect job for me and let me keep it   after we broke up. He is probably my favorite ex-boyfriend. I love to come up with   the right phrase, and to pinpoint the stories that have made people who they are.   I enjoy working out other people's problems. I like to come up with the final word,   the right answer, and to see that printed indelibly in black and white.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No one in   my mother's family ever talks about anything that can be categorized as unpleasant   or having to do with emotions, and, as a result, they no longer have anything to   say. My mother has no idea how to carry on a normal conversation; my Aunt Meggy never   stops talking and yet never says anything constructive; and getting more than four   words out of my Uncle Pat is a major feat. For them it's not a matter of keeping   secrets; it's a matter of being polite, mannerly, and tough. The McLaughlins couldn't   spill their woes or ask for help even if they wanted to, because they don't have   the vocabulary. They are stranded within themselves; convinced that the only way   is to silently persevere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My last name is Leary, but I have a lot of McLaughlin   in me. It's like looking at a reflection in a broken mirror; I can see the sharp   corners and growing cracks of my family. I see pride fix my thin lips shut. I see   the irony of my profession where I ask everyone to come to me with their heart on   their sleeves, while not allowing anyone a good look at who I am. I spend my nights   at the Green Trolley, laughing, drinking, making eye contact with some man I've never   met before and feeling that lightness spread through me, but I know this is not—was   not ever—a step towards revealing myself. I tell lies in that bar. I sometimes give   a false name. I tell men whatever I think they want to hear, and once the words are   out of my mouth I half believe them. I never tell anything close to a whole truth,   to anyone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Unfortunately, I now have a secret that I won't be able to hide for much   longer. There's no lie, fib or narrative that will keep people from knowing this   truth. Everyone will take one glance in my direction and know my story. My belly   will give me away. Twenty-nine year old woman, not enough steady income, no husband,   pregnant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tonight I picture my dead grandfather hugging his dead infants to his   shoulder, ruining his fine white shirt forever. Breathing steadily, in and out, aware   of the muscles in his calves as he pumps down the stairs, aware of the throbbing   at his temples, the dryness in the back of his throat which means he will have a   drink at the first chance he gets. He clutches the babies and feels all these things   and thinks, At least I am alive. Then he thinks it as a question, as he rushes past   the living children sitting tight as balls on the floor and on the couch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Am I alive?   Is this my life?New York Times bestselling author of Hello Beautiful","brand":"Random House Large Print","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301868327141,"sku":"NP9780593949016","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593949016.jpg?v=1767744442","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/within-arms-reach-isbn-9780593949016","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}