Who Says You Can't Go Home Again?

Erin Bartels, The Girl Who Could Breathe Under Water: a Novel

Kendra Brennan has returned to the upstate Michigan cabin where she spent her childhood summers, in order to write her overdue second novel. Her first was a runaway success, and she fears she can’t match it. This fear is exacerbated by a “fan letter” she’s received, accusing her of exposing years of deeply buried secrets in her literary breakout. Whoever wrote this letter must know Kendra’s personal story. Whoever it is must know this Michigan cabin.

The back-cover copy on Erin Bartels’ fifth novel somewhat implies a twisting thriller, perhaps a Gone Girl about early traumas and the platonic bond between women. What we get is quieter and more nuanced, less Gillian Flynn, more Thomas Wolfe. Not that Kendra’s return to the site of childhood trauma (which Bartels basically admits is semi-autobiographical) isn’t thrilling. But the journey is more internal that I would’ve anticipated.

Kendra retells her story in the form of a letter to her childhood BFF, Cami, who spent summers in a similar vacation home across the lake. Kendra grew up with a single mother, and a very old-school grandfather who mastered the art of stuffing his emotions. Cami’s father, by contrast, was a star novelist who embodied the phrase “mo’ money, mo’ problems.” These girls came from different worlds, but in Kendra’s telling, her lakefront summers were her real life.

As an adult, however, she’s confronted with the realization that she saw Hidden Lake through a child’s eyes. She didn’t understand what her fast-paced, glamorous BFF might be enduring when the world wasn’t looking. And when she suffered a life-changing trauma on the water, one she finally exorcized ten years later in her first novel, she didn’t realize that it wasn’t her trauma alone. It’s difficult to see how one’s choices inevitably influence others.

One of Kendra’s summer goals is to confront Cami’s brother, who caused her life-changing trauma. And yes, that trauma is exactly what you expect it is. I feel comfortable spoiling this revelation, because the confrontation which Kendra expects to solve everything actually happens less than halfway through the book, and actually creates more confusion than it resolves. Especially as further old family secrets continue percolating toward the surface.

Erin Bartels

In many ways, Bartels’ message with this novel, is that life doesn’t work like a novel. Healing from adolescent trauma isn’t like Freytag’s Pyramid; there’s no climax, followed by morally pat resolution. Instead, each question Kendra answers invites three more. Before long, she realizes that her childhood summers, which looked straightforward to a child’s eyes, concealed a Peyton Place-like nest of lies, secrets, and damaging escapades.

Full disclosure: Erin Bartels is generally known as a Christian novelist, and this novel comes from a dedicatedly Christian publisher. There’s no cussing or violence, and one subplot involves a romance that remains remarkably chaste. Even as Kendra pursues her childhood trauma—and, piece by piece, that of others—Bartels never uses language you would feel uncomfortable repeating in front of your grandmother. Bartels’ writing is simultaneously frank, and demure.

This isn’t, however, a “Christian novel.” In over 300 pages, Bartels references church twice, God three times, and one transient reference to prayer. None drive the plot. Instead, this is a novel about facing, and moving beyond, the trauma that once seemed monolithic, a novel of psychological depth and complexity, which just happens to have been written by a Christian author. Bartels’ moral code is present, but it isn’t what the book is about.

Indeed, if this novel contains a Christian message, it’s that there’s a difference between fairness and justice. Kendra returns to the lake, expecting that her childhood tormentor will be thunderstruck with guilt, she’ll receive recompense, and the universe will restore balance. Instead, she learns that every terrible act comes from somewhere; and while her tormentor should’ve made better choices, it’s still not her place to pass judgment.

That’s sometimes a bitter pill to swallow, for us as much as Kendra. I almost stopped reading this novel because there’s an extended passage that, to modern progressive readers, sure looks like victim-blaming. I’m glad I kept reading, though, because Bartels reminds us that context matters. She also reminds us that one transgression, even one that causes trauma, doesn’t make individuals evil. We all have to atone for something, to somebody.

This isn’t an easy novel, but it’s a gripping one. Bartels’ message is bracing to Christian and non-religious readers alike. And I can pay no better compliment than that stayed up past my bedtime to finish reading.