By Isla Morley
WINNER OF THE JANET HEIDINGER KAFKA PRIZE FOR FICTION FINALIST FOR THE COMMONWEALTH PRIZEAbbe is a stressed younger mom residing at the outskirts of Honolulu along with her husband, Greg, the pastor at a small church. Their lives are all at once riven via tragedy whilst their three-year-old daughter, Cleo, is struck and killed through vehicle. As Greg turns to God and neighborhood for convenience, Abbe turns inward and displays upon her personal past. Isla Morley brilliantly weaves the tale of Abbe’s grief with a gripping story of her tempestuous formative years in apartheid South Africa---and how Abbe’s father, a villainous under the influence of alcohol, held her kin hostage for many years together with his rage, till they ultimately started to plot their break out from him. Come Sunday is a spellbinding drama a few girl breaking freed from her grief and of her earlier, and what it takes to restore wish whilst all turns out lost.
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Extra resources for Come Sunday (Basic)
She latches Cleo to her hip and reaches for the shopping bag on the couch. When Cleo peers in, she exclaims with delight. ” She grins. Theresa winks at me. “Thank you,” I say. She shakes her head. ” “We won’t be later than nine-thirty,” I promise. “Greg’s got to get up for Good Friday. ” “Nah, too morbid for me. ” she orders me out. I bend down. “Cleo, have fun; be a good girl, okay? And remember to put your hand over your mouth when you cough. ” But she ignores me. ” Instead, she takes Theresa’s hand and asks her to help her put on the dress.
The toilet flushes and Greg reemerges. ” Which is what does it. The argument is explosive and brief, and Greg picks up Cleo, who begins to cry, and takes her and the decapitated Barbie out to the garden. Upstairs, I slam the bedroom door, take two slugs from the NyQuil bottle, and get into bed. Pulling the covers over my head, I do the arithmetic, but every calculation ends with us further in the red. IT IS PAST NOON when I wake up, my cheek damp in the pool of drool on my pillow. My eyes are swollen and my head feels thick with fur, but I get up just as the guilt seeps through my feet like the chill of cold cement.
Gillian doesn’t need to name the specific “she” to whom she refers; it is pronounced as a proper noun, thereby confirming my suspicion: Mrs. Chung. “She’s upset about him—ahem—defecating on her front lawn. ” “Gillian, our dog is enclosed in a yard. It’s our lawn he shits on,” I say, choosing a word I know will set Gillian’s sanctified soul on edge. ” “You know she is mad at me because I won’t stop giving Mr. ” “Yes. Well. She feels that this sort of thing encourages the, um, how shall we say?