VeganCleopatra

3.5 stars

Wave is a heartbreaking true account of the author who lost her husband, two young sons and parents all in mere moments in the tsunami of 2004. The situation is unfathomable and Deraniyagala tells it with brutal honesty, sometimes uncomfortably so. She was not always likable but her grief was palpable and I could not help but feel how grief-stricken I myself would be. She does not include much on the actual tsunami event itself, it is more a portrayal of how one deals with the fallout of a tragedy of such a magnitude. It is not an easy read and it does leave you thinking of it for long afterward. But I do commend Deraniyagala on her strength, if she did not have it she would not be here today.

Some minor complaints include the fact that she never includes that she was in therapy (who wouldn't be?) and it makes her slow transition seem harder to comprehend, in a way, without knowing she was in fact working through it with a professional. The large time jumps were unexpected and a bit jarring at times. You simply had to get on board and realize that everything was going to be open-ended, even the time gaps. And this was a personal issue: I could not help but continually think about how well-off the author and family was throughout the tale. She would repeatedly mention a home in London, Sri Lanka and at one point an apartment in NY. She was also able to be away from the London home for four(?) years prior to ever going back to it. I just could not help but wonder how people less financially fortunate were able to cope with the aftershocks of the tsunami.

Memorable quotes:

I don’t want it to be tomorrow. I was terrified that tomorrow the truth would start.

I felt crazy, and that’s how I thought I should be. My world gone in an instant, I need to be insane.

And everywhere, on bare ground and between cracks in the floors, tiny pink and white flowers that flourish along the seashore forced their way up. Mini mal, or graveyard flowers, they are called. I resented this renewal. How dare you heal.

A friend will say, I told someone about you, and she couldn’t believe it was true, couldn’t imagine how you must be. And I cringe to be bereft in a way that cannot be imagined, even though I do wonder how impossible this really is.

Now, in this house, I can bring my parents close. For six years I’ve pushed them and their death to the fringes of my heart. That’s all I could tolerate, my focus was on our boys and Steve. How hideous, that there should be a pecking order in my grief.

And now I remember. How Malli would describe and define me. And how I’d protest. “We are three boys and one girl, three boys and one girl,” he’d say, explaining his family, working out our composition as he hopped across the paving stones on the patio. Then he’d recite our names, even referring to himself as Nikhil, his given name, and not Malli, as he was always called. “Stephen Lissenburgh, Vikram Lissenburgh, Nikhil Lissenburgh, and Mummy Lissenburgh.” He’d announce us with aplomb. Mummy Lissenburgh? I’d roar in exaggerated objection. My new credentials. Me having no identity without these three boys to whom I was merely tagged on.