One abandoned schoolhouse, decades old, stands on the coast of Ireland. Shunned by neighbors, the focus of many a ghost story, and home base for a commune called “the Screamers,” it has also housed three generations of Dooley women, each of whose lives have been knowingly and unknowingly defined by the choices of the others.
The family saga opens with Cora, a 16-year-old left orphaned in New York City after her father is killed at the twin towers on 9/11. In her disorienting grief, with little left tethering her to the city, a letter from her mysterious aunt Róisín in Ireland comes as a surprising relief. Cora leaves all she’s ever known and hops on a plane to join her aunt in County Donegal. From here, author Catherine Airey jumps into Cora’s late mother Máire’s history, and the novel thereafter opens up into an expanse of alternating narratives that stretch back to Ro and Máire’s early childhood.
Airey’s technical ability in Confessions is thoroughly impressive. She writes one section completely in the second person and another solely in letters; she exquisitely captures the attitudes, atmospheres and language of communities spanning five decades and two coasts of the Atlantic; and she tackles mental health, rape, exploitation, abortion rights and political imprisonment with serious and heartfelt tact that never edges into preachiness. The range of what Airey takes on in Confessions is astonishing, and every element is carefully woven together.
Confessions recalls the structural uniqueness of Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, the generational intertwining of Tara Stringfellow’s Memphis, and the emotional complexity of Sally Rooney’s Normal People; it feels in some way reminiscent of each. This is a firecracker of a debut novel that never gives up any slack.
