I was fortunate enough to get a copy of Magdalena by Candi Sary. I don't know what made me want to read this, but I am glad I did. First, a synopsis:
A haunting and lyrical novel that subverts expectations, Candi Sary’s MAGDALENA (Regal House Publishing; July 11, 2023) pulls the reader into the small and secluded Sam’s Town, a place shrouded in fog and thriving on gossip and superstition. Dottie offers plenty of both when the scandal breaks about a missing girl, a ghost, and the affair that started it all. She recounts her story from within her small room in the nursing home, “a holding cell for the dying,” though Dottie isn’t dying. The town simply has nowhere else to put her.
Dottie begins to write her story. On paper, napkins, bedsheets, whatever they will give her, she feverishly recounts her reclusive existence in Sam’s Town, her tragic history of miscarriages, her longing for the baby that never was, the mysterious disappearance of an almost lover, and the day that the 15-year-old neighbor girl, Magdalena, showed up at her door. Over time, Dottie develops a strange motherly interest in the girl. “I admit I’ve done some terrible things, but I swear on my life,” Dottie writes, “I swear to all my accusers, I did nothing to harm Magdalena.”
And, now, before my two cents, read on for an excerpt:
Magdalena once told me she knew how to cure sadness. She read on that little phone of hers
that we all need fifteen minutes of sun every day and without it, depression could set in.
Those of us here on the peninsula barely get fifteen minutes a week. The fog comes in over
the cliffs in the morning, creeping through town, shrouding all neighborhoods with a thick
graveyard effect. We don’t have an actual graveyard, but the landslide all those years
ago took enough lives and left enough ghosts behind to bring on that kind of fog.
If it does lift around midmorning, a heavy cloud cover still stays most of the day,
keeping things gray. I’d always thought my sadness came from the unfortunate
things that happened in my life, but according to Magdalena, my gloom
might simply be a lack of vitamin D.
From the day she got the phone, she stared into it constantly, seeking answers
to all of her questions and even finding new questions she would have never
thought of on her own. She fed on its information like meat.
“Mushrooms,” Magdalena said. “We need to eat mushrooms.” The girl was my
only visitor. When she spoke, I hung onto her every word. “If we eat enough
of them, we’ll get the vitamin D we’re missing from the sun.”
I didn’t question her. For weeks, I based all my meals around mushrooms.
I made mushroom casseroles, salads, risotto, soups, but I’m not sure it
changed me. I’m not sure it changed her. How many mushrooms would
it take to replace the sun? I wish I could ask the girl, but she’s gone.
Three weeks ago, I lost her for good.
I pull up my sleeves and roll up my pants. My arms and legs are so pale
in this light. They look like white maps with long blue roads leading to nowhere.
The lighting in my house is soft enough to disguise my pallor, but here
in the rest home, the deficiency is glaring. I quickly lower my sleeves
and pants again.
“Focus, Dottie.” My command is quiet.
I swallow down one of the tiny white pills and sit up straight in my chair.
Pen in hand, I look around the dismal room I currently share with Mario.
It is a holding cell for the dying. We aren’t dying like the old people in this
nursing home. But our town is small. They had nowhere else to put my
husband after the accident a decade ago. And they had nowhere else to put
me after the devastating incident at my house last week. So now we live together
again in room eleven with the beige walls, the brown and yellow floral comforters
on our beds, and the slim, dark wood secretary desk beside the bathroom door.
The old desk is where I currently sit as I tap my pen on the blank page, trying
to gather my thoughts.
Now the cold distracts me. I pull a blanket from the bed and wrap it around
me. The air conditioner is dreadfully high. They say it’s to keep germs down,
but I sometimes wonder if they’re trying to weed out the weakest of us.
“Focus, Dottie, focus,” I say a little louder, closing my eyes.
“What do you need to focus on?” someone asks.
Startled, I tighten the blanket around me and turn toward the voice.
There is a white-haired lady in a wheelchair at my door. Her face is all wrinkled
up like fingertips after a long bath, and her lips seem to be growing inward
around her teeth. Thick bifocals, wrapped around her head like goggles,
magnify her wet and cloudy eyes. There are some really old people here,
but she has to be the oldest.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she says, her ancient voice slowly rattling
out the words. “I heard you from the hall.”
I wasn’t trying to be heard. I place my hand over my mouth to show her
I’ve no interest in a conversation. I’m hoping my hand gesture will make
her leave, but it doesn’t. Instead, she wheels through the small space between
the two beds and parks next to me at the desk. Her nightgown is purple
and far too big on her. She smells like leftover broccoli.
“I’m curious. What do you need to focus on?” she asks again.
It’s going to take some time getting used to this place. I’m not in the habit
of answering to anyone, having lived alone for so long. “A letter,” I finally say.
She’s so close now, there’s no escaping her. “I’m writing a letter. A story really.
The rumors are terrible and—” I catch myself before it all comes flooding back.
Their ugly words. All the lies. “I need to tell my story. It’s the only way to get the truth out.”
Her face lights up. “You must be Dottie,” she whispers. I nod. “I should have known.”
Her eyes travel the length of me. “I heard about you, the young woman living in
the old people’s home.” It sounds strange out loud but worse things have been said
about me. “How old are you, dear?”
“Forty-three.”
“So young.” She shakes her head. “It’s just awful what happened to you.
How long will you be staying with us?”
“Well.” I look over at Mario in his bed. His eyes are open, but there’s no telling
what he’s thinking as he stares at the ceiling tiles. “The Sisters say I can stay
with my husband as long as I need. I’ve nowhere else to go.” She leans over
the side of her chair to get a closer look at him.
“Does he even remember who you are?” “I haven’t let a day go by without coming
to see him.” “But with what happened to him, do you think he can remember?”
“Oh, he remembers me.” I won’t let anyone convince me otherwise.
“That’s nice.” Her smile is kind. “Sometimes I think I remember too much,” she says.
“Some things I wish I could forget, but the pictures are there in my mind, clear as day.”
She sets her bony hands in her lap, and the veins bulge like soft worms. She smiles.
Her demeanor is pleasant; it’s just the broccoli smell that’s bothersome.
I notice a pin on her nightgown. It’s gold with blue letters spelling out centenarian.
I point to it. “You’re a hundred?”
“A hundred and two.”
“That’s incredible,” I say, feeling a new respect for her.
She’s not just an old lady—she’s National Geographic material.
“It’s a curse, old age. The lucky ones die young. Freed from these bodies,
they can move on. Or, of course, they can stick around.”
She raises the few hairs left of her eyebrows, as if I know something about this.
I feel her words in my stomach. I don’t respond. She whispers,
“The ghosts of Sam’s Town are persistent, aren’t they, Dottie?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my letter.”
“But we haven’t talked about what happened to the girl yet.”
She laces her fingers together under her chin.
“We need to talk about what really happened to Magdalena.”
Hearing her name almost makes me lose my breath.
I close my eyes and indiscriminate memories resurface—her blue nail polish,
those stolen sunglasses on her head, lemon juice dripping from her fingers,
her blood on the linoleum.
“Do you know what happened?” the old woman asks.
“I mean what really happened to her?” She’s staring at me, waiting for an answer
. I reach for my pen, gripping it like a weapon.
“Until I write it all down, I’m not talking about it to anyone.”
“You can trust me, Dottie.” She wheels closer.
“I don’t even know you,” I say.
She smiles. It’s a sad smile. “Then let’s get to know one another.”
She glances toward my husband before leaning forward.
The smell is strong, her voice is soft. “Is it true that the man,” she asks,
“who started it all was your lover?”
I close my eyes again, to escape her question,
but now there he is behind my eyelids—Benjamin.
His hand creeps under my dress and he’s massaging my leg. I squeeze my eyes tighter.
“Go away!” I shout. “Go away!” I am talking to Benjamin, but when I open my eyes,
the old lady in the wheelchair is hunched over, wheeling away
as fast as her bony arms will take her. I should explain
that I was not yelling at her. But I don’t. I stay quiet.
While I feel a bit guilty, I’m relieved to see her go. The poor woman looks so frail
heading for the door, like her arms might snap. That’s the other effect
of vitamin D deficiency—frail bones. This town is killing all of us.
Excerpted from Magdalena by Candi Sary © 2023 by Candi Sary, used with permission from Regal House Publishing.
Now, for my two cents. I really enjoyed this story. It was really different from what I usually read. I found myself invested in Dottie and the other characters quickly and wanted to see where it was going. You do have to suspend belief if you don't already believe in the spirit world and the afterlife, but if you are good with that, there won't be any issue.
I found the writing to be easy, flowing and just enough description. I saw another reviewer saying that she felt Dottie annoying because of decisions she was making. However, I think when people are in bad situations or suffer from depression or loneliness, there's no telling what people may do. The reviewer also said that Dottie should have just sought help for these ailments, but sometimes the person doesn't even know they are suffering from it, they just want relief. I say all that to say I really didn't feel that Dottie needed slammed like that. Maybe you will, maybe you won't. I did find her a little delusional regarding Magdalena at first, but then Dottie admits she knows what she is doing is not healthy.
Anyway, the characters and story kept me very interested. The only thing is I wish I would have read this on a chilly October/late November rainy day. am glad I got to read this story and I think you will like it, too. Let me know if you read it and what you think. Thank you so much to the publisher for this opportunity!
