Most think of self-storage as a mini-garage, the final resting place of closet clutter. And though the plot of “Self Storage” includes these facilities, Gayle Brandeis is playing with a far more literal interpretation of the phrase. This second novel, from the author who won Barbara Kingsolver’s Bellwether Prize for “The Book of Dead Birds,” is focused on mental, not physical, baggage and asks just where the sense of self resides. And as a corollary concern, if the self has been lost, how might it be found.
The last thing Flannery remembers her dying mother saying is “Take. Care. Of. Your. Self.” The 7- year-old almost certainly didn’t understand what her mother was trying to say: “I thought of the cultured pearls she kept in a soft cloth bag, the teapot she rubbed with silver polish every month, even though she never went anywhere fancy and none of us drank tea. I thought my self must be some expensive and high-maintenance object like that, something rarely, if ever, used. I wondered where I could find it, what sort of care it might require.”
Her father was unable to cope with the girl who grew into a rebellious teen. As soon as she could, she high-tailed it to California, with a mediocre musician boyfriend. The only meaningful object she carried was a slim volume that had belonged to her mother: Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass.” For 10 years, its heavily underlined passages have been a touchstone and a frame of reference that have both anchored and inspired her life.
Flan Parker, now almost 28, has landed in Riverside, Calif. The mother of a 6-year-old son, Noodle, and a toddler daughter, Nori, she is married to a doctoral student. It’s a bit past 9/11, and student housing is a diverse mix of families. The topic of husband Shae’s supposed dissertation is “The Self. Selfhood. Virtual Selfhood. Original Selfhood,” but he spends most of his day stretched out on a couch in their tiny home, watching soaps and taking notes.
She supports her family with societal detritus liberated from abandoned storage lockers. Scouring the classifieds for news of auctions, she is a self-admitted bottom-feeder, going for “Flan’s lots,” those from the most unpromising lockers, frequently selling for $10 or less. Her money is made by selling the better finds on eBay, the lesser in weekly yard sales.
She is beginning to wonder just how she has come to her current situation and about what the essence of her self might be when she comes across an unlikely but irresistible auction lot. It’s a single box in a large space. She bids much more than her usual, and certainly more than is wise, but when she opens her prize, she finds gloriously illustrated interior walls and a single piece of paper. The note simply reads, “Yes.”
Tracking down the original owner of the box inspires Flan to seek her own internal “Yes”: “Walt Whitman thought the self was expansive, transcendent, divine; he thought the self was everything. I wanted to feel that way, I really did, but I wasn’t so sure. My self felt pretty small most of the time.” This search for self causes marital friction, but it also leads Flan down paths that expand her life in ways she could never have anticipated.
“Self Storage” is not as emotionally raw as Brandeis’ debut novel, and for this reason its punch is a little softer. Flan is fully imagined, but her husband is initially a bit of a cipher. He is redeemed as the book unfolds, and Flan’s search for self ends up being a thought-provoking journey. That said, much of “Self Storage” feels a little too pat. If discovery of self unlocks happily-ever-after, then this novel holds the key that most seek. But real life usually isn’t quite that linear. It would have been nice to see this search for self, and the conflicts that arise from it, pushed harder and to more logical conclusions.
Robin Vidimos is a freelance writer who reviews books for The Denver Post and Buzz in the ‘Burbs.
—————————————-
Self Storage
By Gayle Brandeis
Ballantine, 270 pages, $23.95
