The End We Start From

The narrator’s longing for R intensifies until she convinces herself that she must take Z back across the sea and go find him. This desire for her husband is both described in organic, animalistic terms—coming during “those nipple-head-twist urine-musk-times [they] spend together in the dark” (92)—and artistic ones, her dreams for a future with her husband and son “unfurl[ing] in their allotted small space. They are origami, they are Japanese pod hotels. They fit it all in” (92). Just as these small-yet-perfect items contain multitudes, the narrator’s fantasy for her future holds the quiet, vast expanse of her hope. Her hope is also infused with bravery that invokes The Vulnerability and Resilience of Humanity because traveling alone with her baby puts them in a very vulnerable position. Nonetheless, the risk feels worth it, though her friends won’t let her go alone. O “calls [her] logic stupid in the friendliest way possible. She uses words like drown” (94). This lighthearted discussion of danger and the narrator’s acceptance of H’s help once again highlights the value of community in perilous times.

Thanks to H’s company, the journey is uneventful, in contrast to the narrator’s journey alone with O. Sexist gender norms and power disparities are examined again when they pass through the same military checkpoint and encounter the same guards. They are more respectful of the narrator’s body and her personal space on their second search because “they call [her] H’s wife. He doesn’t correct them” (98). Male protection is powerful, and the change seen through H’s presence highlights the risks R inadvertently created when he left the narrator alone. Attempting to be a protector in his own way, his actions highlight that individualistic actions are less effective than sticking together.

On the other hand, the new world the narrator encounters at the refugee camp makes her wonder if the guards’ behavior changed because the world is becoming more normal again. When officials at the camp tell her there are buses to take people home, the narrator thinks, “[W]e are in the after. It is tangible, like a smell or a constant background hum” (98). The concept of returning to their old lives feels both foreign and thrilling to the narrator as she and Z adjust to their new life in the camp, which has “the atmosphere of a jumble sale” (102). Just as a jumble sale offers the odds and ends of one’s life for public consumption, the narrator feels that all the flood survivors are living in a chaotic aftermath and piecing together normalcy. Hope is on the horizon, but the narrator doesn’t feel stable yet.

Feeling untethered and confused, the narrator attempts to find a new community by reaching out to the other mothers in the camp. However, she can’t find anyone like O, who embodies The Healing Power of Female Friendship by supporting the narrator’s decision to pursue a reunion with R. Additionally, “Z seems too big. He is always calling [her] away, pointing and making sounds that need my ears to make sense” (106). Her sense that Z is “too big” indicates that her son’s development and presence in her life have undergone a substantial shift since their last stay in a refugee camp. Although she has always focused on Z and his needs, he is now getting bigger, developing more of his personality, and attempting to form words. His development creates a timeline in the novel, establishing the crisis’s duration when the narrative seems to exist outside of time. It also demonstrates the way life continues during catastrophes, hinting at the novel’s hopeful ending.

Still, that hope is hard won. While awaiting news for R, the narrator sees “R’s face in the following objects: empty drink cans, rain splash on river, the heads of spoons. Cars left for dead, each headlight an eye that asks [her] questions” (115). These haunting images plague her, and the consistent comparisons of her husband to inanimate objects emphasize the distance between them and the isolation she feels. When they do reunite, it is not what she hoped for; instead, it’s “edging readjustment to an old face, squeezing past each other’s words like customers in a too-small shop” (120). This awkwardness emphasizes the way each person has grown separately from the other, and the aftermath of the flood comes to symbolize her fractured family. Although she and R have missed each other and worked to find each other, their experiences have distanced them and made them feel like strangers. Still, when they travel home and survey the damage, they find hope amid the wreckage. The narrator and R hold hands, and she thinks, “[W]e have this touch, our fingers in the ruined room, the new slow light drifting around us, our child squirming in my arms” (126). The family’s hope for the future is symbolized by Z taking his first steps in his destroyed nursery, walking toward both of his parents in their old home that feels suddenly new.