The audacity of this novel is that its wisest voice belongs to an octopus, and within three pages the choice feels less like a gimmick than a gift. Marcellus narrates from his tank at the Sowell Bay Aquarium in short, imperious chapters, counting down the days of a giant Pacific octopus's brief life, unimpressed by the humans who tap his glass and quietly fond of the one who doesn't. That one is Tova Sullivan, seventy, recently widowed, who cleans the aquarium at night not for the money but because scrubbing floors is the only grief ritual that has ever worked for her. Van Pelt writes their growing acquaintance, a woman and a mollusk trading small courtesies through glass after hours, with such tenderness that the book's central image, one of his arms wrapped around hers, comes to stand for every unlikely thing that keeps a person going.
Tova has been carrying a locked room for thirty years: her son Erik, eighteen, vanished on a boat in Puget Sound one night, and the not-knowing has calcified into a life of Swedish stoicism, dishcloths, and a social circle of ladies who mean well and land wrong. What she doesn't know, and what Marcellus does, is where the story of that night actually leads. Into this arrives Cameron, a thirty-year-old Californian with a talent for losing jobs and a childhood-shaped hole where his parents should be, who drifts north chasing a rumor of a father. The novel braids the three of them slowly. You will likely see how the strands connect well before the characters do, and Van Pelt seems untroubled by that, because the book's suspense was never whodunit. It is whether these particular wounded people will let the truth reach them in time.
What elevates the novel is how much respect it has for competence and routine as expressions of love. Tova's cleaning, Ethan the grocer's fussed-over produce, Marcellus's meticulous escape runs timed to the security cameras, each is a character telling the truth sideways. Van Pelt's prose stays plain and unhurried, with a gentle comic timing that peaks whenever Marcellus reviews humanity's flaws like a disappointed professor. Cameron is the book's gamble. He arrives self-pitying and careless, the kind of young man readers write off, and his growing up under the patient attention of near-strangers is deliberately slow; a few of his backslides test the middle chapters. The payoff is a portrait of how mentoring actually works, incremental and unglamorous, nobody transformed overnight.
Why you should read
- Fans of A Man Called Ove and Eleanor Oliphant
- Readers who love unlikely-friendship stories
- Animal lovers open to a nonhuman narrator
- Book clubs that want warmth with real grief underneath
What to expect
- Chapters narrated by a sardonic, brilliant octopus
- A gentle mystery you may solve before the characters
- Unhurried pacing built on small-town routines
- A tearjerker ending that lands softly
Underneath the charm this is a book about the endings people choose when they think no one needs them, and it treats an old woman's future as a question worth an entire plot, which remains rarer in fiction than it should be. The final movement, as Marcellus's day count runs low and Tova's house fills with boxes, manages to be both inevitable and surprising, and it sent me back through earlier chapters to watch the machinery of kindness I had missed. Few recent novels argue so persuasively that it is never too late to be found, or that the finding can come from the last creature you would think to ask.
