The nursery A novel

Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Molnar's entrancing debut captures the volatile inner life of a woman with postpartum depression. The narrator, a literary translator, feels isolated while caring for her baby girl, Button, and, as her days blur into each other, she has a hard time seeing herself as more than a "milk bar," and her mind frequently reverts to thoughts of hurting Button. Molnar braids the narrator's gloomy reflections on motherhood ("Women have done this before me and nothing changed. And women will do this after me") with accounts of visits from an elderly neighbor who is mourning the death of his wife, and interactions with her husband, John. In one of the most powerful passages, the narrator studies John and finds him completely unchanged while her body has been torn apart, her career put on hold, and her time fully dedicated to raising her daughter. Though it's unclear how some of the pieces are meant to fit, such as the visits from the neighbor, Molnar brings a cutting verisimilitude to her portrayal of the narrator's fuzzy state of mind, and she's equally unsparing with her vivid descriptions of childbirth, recovery, and the physical demands of early motherhood. It amounts to a powerful look at what a new mother endures. Agent: Kate Johnson, Wolf Literary. (Mar.)

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Review by Library Journal Review

DEBUT The unnamed narrator in literary agent Molnar's debut novel is an in-demand translator happily married to the supportive, loving John and eagerly awaiting the birth of their daughter, affectionately called Button. Then the narrator switches from blissful anticipation of Button's birth to shock at childbirth's assault on every intimate part of her body and mind, which plunges her into a dangerous downward spiral of exhaustion, pain, and depression. John, who is ineffective in addressing the severity of his wife's distress, returns to work, and their upstairs neighbor, a frail older man named Peter, steps in to help. As the narrative alternates between events before and after Button's birth, the narrator's unwanted thoughts of harming Button increase, and John's inability to take decisive action imperils this little family. VERDICT Molnar offers a harrowing cautionary tale about postpartum depression and the terror it can cause as it strips away any sense of control over mind and body. Some descriptions are so raw and graphic that one almost wants to read them with eyes half-closed. An important, unromanticized look at the instant, drastic changes new motherhood can bring, though a caveat: it does not address the relief that early medical intervention can provide.--Beth E. Andersen

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

An overwhelmed new mother vents. The mood in this debut novel is claustrophobic, and no wonder, since the unnamed narrator refuses to leave her apartment, much to the chagrin of her supportive but increasingly concerned and frustrated husband, John. She won't even go to the first two checkups for their daughter, Button--well, that's not her real name, the woman informs us: "The baby I hold in my arms is a leech, let's call her Button." Molnar grittily conjures the exhaustion and disorientation of the first weeks with a first child in a narration that voices furious resentment of Button's insatiable demands and some scary thoughts about harming her. John's cheerful acceptance of their new routine is easy for him, she bitterly muses; he gets to go to the office and sleep through the night while she gets up to nurse yet again. Miffo (the narrator's name for her floundering postpartum self) lost her own mother as a girl and painfully feels the lack of a maternal role model; John and well-meaning friends try to help, but she pushes them all away, becalmed in severe depression. Only an elderly upstairs neighbor, who initially knocks on her door to complain about the baby crying, becomes an odd sort of confidant, and then dies. Wistful memories of time with John "before" and of her work as a translator, when "I could choose between this word or that [and] linger in silence," will strike a chord with anyone who remembers the difficult adjustment to life ruled by someone else's needs, but Miffo seems never to experience the moments of joy that, for most new parents, at least occasionally alleviate the equally powerful exhaustion, anger, and sorrow. She strikes one dreary note throughout, and by the time she finally emerges from her depression and steps outdoors, readers may well be very tired of her. Commendably honest but not compelling fiction. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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As hard as it can, the August sun pushes itself into our small apartment on the third floor. The baby I hold in my arms is a leech, let's call her Button. Button is crying. She recently entered the world, violently and directly. We are alone and cocooned in our two- bedroom apartment until we are not, because there's a knock on the door. The foreign sound makes Button cry harder and makes me unsure of what to do. I have been a mother for as long as Button has been outside of me, and I have yet to embrace the title as much as I have had to embrace her. Here, the air is motionless, the light is direct, and sounds echo off the walls. I'm sweating. I place Button in a cushioned container by the couch in the living room and she makes disappointed sounds, large and unkind. I make a different decision. I pick her up and move my robe to the side as I bring her body across my chest. It's a motion that I still fumble through, her weight is alien to what my mind expects to hold and my own body heats up another notch. Smells on us and around us bring attention to themselves, I am brought to discomfort and cringe at my current state. The day has been long and lonely. One arm and a hand control the body of the baby, the other unclicks the nursing bra to get the breast out. My nipple shines dark brown in the late afternoon light and I am reminded that the golden hour is my favorite hour to walk around in the city where we reside. ### Before Button arrived, I walked everywhere and leaving the apartment was a simple undertaking. During a break from the library or my writing desk where most of my work takes place, I often ventured out onto the busy streets and hoped that the beat of the city would kick a word or two out in front of me, some phrase, idea, or feeling that could be of use for whatever text I was translating at the time. After almost ten years as a translator, my work was still mostly a struggle. Not necessarily the work itself, because there was pleasure in trying to get it "right" (a faulty concept that is still thrown around among fellow colleagues). Chameleoning my way forward was enjoyable, but the continuous fight for more money, grants, or God- forbid a royalty check was tiring. I wasn't the kind of translator to care but needed money as much as the next. Being in the periphery of the industry was also fine-- the peculiar competitiveness mostly amused me. By now I knew a handful of editors who found me reliable and writers who liked my way of working. My recent translations were even getting accolades in the general press, which meant my name also occasionally appeared on book covers. Sometimes I would find the authors profiled in glossy magazines wearing thick wool sweaters, posing with brooding looks directed into the rugged Scandinavian landscape. Like any other ordinary person, I am too vain to deny that I didn't want to be photographed in the same cool milieu, but ultimately, I'm not the competitive kind. Visibility is not my desire. I wasn't yet an orphan, but I had been moving away from family for so long that at some point I was walking away from the past, perhaps only to find myself content in the present. In literal terms, this meant making a modest life for myself in the States as a translator of Swedish literature. As the sun is setting, I must leave these thoughts behind; I am here with Button and this is all I am. This is the doing, me being here. With a hand on the back of her head, I put her face toward my nipple and a toothless mouth opens. She latches on with lips soft as a fish. I squirm from the initial discomfort of her bite. Most of the time I don't know what I am doing. Button gets pushed so close to the breast that she may have a hard time breathing. Frustration arrives in her small bundle of a body and she screams, but her squeal is not loud enough to overpower the second round of knocking on the door. She makes me nervous. I wrangle with my arms. Again, there's knocking, harder. Again, I don't know what to do. In a different state and in a different world I would have ignored the interruption and moved on with my life, and if I was expecting someone, I would have been prepared. Perhaps I can pretend that I'm getting ready for bed, make the robe appropriate and retie my hair. Perhaps I can blame my disheveled appearance on Button. Perhaps I can decide to never deal with the outside world again and perhaps whoever is behind the door can relieve me of this discomfort. Perhaps, in this battle, the choice has already been made for me. I maneuver us toward the entrance and Button finally sucks rhythmically in between breaths. Her repetitive movements remind me of breaststrokes under water. As she slowly fills on the comfort brought from the milk, her body turns tranquil and gives in to satisfaction. I take a deep breath. Excerpted from The Nursery: A Novel by Szilvia Molnar All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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