People grieve differently, but how does this universal truth play out for both parties in a marriage that is already strained and whose longed-for child is stillborn?

Written from the perspectives of both bereaved parents, Lydia and Dr. John Gabriel, the author offers a “hers and his” account of eleven days following the stillbirth of their son in early-’90s Montreal. 

Lydia Gabriel is the artistically inclined daughter of poor Greek immigrants, while her husband is the ambitious son of a more prosperous Greek family. Lydia’s devastation following her newborn son’s death contrasts sharply with chapters narrated from her husband’s point of view; the oncology doctor’s arrogance and self-centred focus on his own sexual, professional, and egotistic needs sharply contrast with his wife’s devastation. Fortunately, Karafilly’s masterful ability to highlight John’s growing compassion towards his wife, his guilt for his secret infidelity, and his emerging grief as we move through the novel renders human a character that would otherwise veer into cartoon villain territory.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of John’s mistress, a marriage counsellor named Claire, who confronts John with his psychological failings, but whose motives for cultivating their affair (John suspects she is using him to research a character for a novel she is writing) remain somewhat flimsy. Claire serves an important purpose in the novel’s plot; her rejection precipitates John’s resolution to end the affair and reinvest in his marriage, but one is left wondering whether the lesson John has learned is simply to avoid women who criticize him. 

Fortunately, John is not the main protagonist; Lydia is. It is in the depiction of Lydia’s feelings and thoughts following the stillbirth that author Karafilly excels in her aptitude for research and empathy, not surprising to readers of her previous works. While grief is indeed experienced differently by everyone, there are certain experiences common to women who give birth to dead babies, and which tend to be described clinically or anecdotally in non-fiction works passed hand-to-hand, usually by nurses in darkened hospital rooms. How does it feel to go through nine months of pregnancy, labour, and then hold your dead baby in your arms? What happens when your breast milk comes in? How does it feel to see and hear other women’s babies alive and well, when your own has been cremated? How does it feel to face the ravages of pregnancy with empty arms? Will you ever find out why your baby died? What are the self-blaming superstitions (sex during pregnancy, not wearing certain charms) explaining the baby’s death? 

Karafilly addresses these questions tangentially in chapters devoted to John’s point of view, but her chronicling of Lydia’s thoughts and feelings is far richer, supporting the character’s growing sense of autonomy and purpose at the novel’s end. Lydia’s transformation, while subtle, is promising. Her husband’s, not so much. 

Fiction makes experience flesh in a way non-fiction and anecdotes do not. This novel will be a hard read for those who have suffered stillbirth and an instructive read for those who haven’t, because it unflinchingly and accurately describes the common postnatal experiences of women who endure it. This holds true even though the novel is set in the early ’90s, a time during which perinatal loss was even more censured than it is today. 

It’s telling that while chapters depicting Lydia’s and John’s points of view unfailingly alternate throughout the novel, its last two chapters belong to Lydia; “hers and his” becomes hers alone. In Karafilly’s novel, as in life, the ability to carry a child and to let it go belongs to women.mRb