Chapter One

I plunge my thumb between the folds of the incision, then hook my forefinger deep into her neck. Unlike most of the bloodlines, which offer perfunctory resistance, the carotid artery doesn't surrender itself willingly. Tethered between the heart and head, the sinewy tube is often weighted with years of plaque, thickening its resolve to stay. More so now that rigor mortis has settled deep within the old woman.

Each time I tug on that vessel, I think of my mother. I imagine other daughters are reminded of their dead parents whenever they hear the refrain from an old song, or feel the heft of a treasured bedtime story resting on their own child's nightstand. My trigger is the transformation of a battered corpse back to someone familiar. I was too young when she died to remember her scent, and I have no memory of her voice. But her wake--like the accident--plays in my head like a movie reel, some frames taut and crisp, others brittle, fluttery things. Though always her face is clear: before, after, and then after again at the funeral.

I remember my grandmother's friends clustered near the Easter lilies, whispering their doubts about my mother's eternal salvation. My grandmother, her frayed black slip hanging just beyond the hem of her dress, bringing me to kneel on road-burned knees before the casket (don't look!) and then hurrying me along, leaving me alone in the family room. I remember holding fast to my doll, a gift from one of my mother's many boyfriends. He said he chose her because she resembled me. Even then I knew better. The doll was elegant and slight, with porcelain cheeks and delicate lashes, lips like my mother's and eyes that clicked shut when I laid her beside me at night. She wore a red flamenco dress, gold earrings I once tried to pierce through my own lobes, and a parchment calling card tied to her wrist, her name in curvy script: Patrice. But what I remember best of all from that day was Mr. Mulrey, the undertaker. The mourners huddled in an adjoining room, their fingers clinging to rosary beads, their souls lashed to prayers, their drumbeat-chants vibrating within me. I ran from that room, desperate to escape, and rushed headlong into Mr. Mulrey. He was standing in the doorway of my mother's room, filling it, appearing as bewildered as I felt. I clutched at his suit coat and he turned to me, hands worrying at his own set of beads. All of him stooped as if to avoid a raised hand: shoulders sunk, chin nearly resting on his chest, eyes buried deep beneath a low, dark brow meeting mine.

"I want to go home," I said. I told him about my grandmother's house, a place much like the funeral parlor with its heavy drapes and multitude of crucifixes, with long silences interrupted only by longer prayers. The way she pressed me to her bosom, suffocating with her old lady smell, vowing to protect me from my mother's fate. I fingered the thick gauze that bound my head and asked if he'd take me to where my mother was.

He pocketed his beads then and folded my hand inside his enormous one. We walked away from the hum of mourners and stopped within a few feet of where my mother lay tucked in a lit alcove at the far end of the room. She appeared pink and rested. Her usual red lips were softened with the palest shade of coral, her pillowy bosom hidden beneath a lace collar. But there she was. With candles casting hypnotic shadows against my mother's face, the room seemed kinder than the one I'd left earlier.

"Don't be afraid," said Mr. Mulrey, ushering me over to the coffin.

He allowed me to touch my mother for the first time since the accident. I stroked her hand, but it was hard and cold. So...

 

After being gang-raped in high school, having a stillborn baby, and being shamed by her grandmother, the adult Clara Marsh becomes an undertaker who relates only to the dead. She's haunted by the memory of an unidentified murdered child, "Precious Doe," whose body she prepared for burial three years earlier. Another child looks to Clara for affection and is later seen in a kiddie-porn film. Narrator Rebecca Lowman adds to the gloom, reading in a soft, lackluster voice with ominous portents. Lowman's reading is flat, but MacKinnon doesn't give her much to work with. Clara is terminally depressed, and not even handsome detective Mike Sullivan can cheer her. Unrelentingly grim, without the dark humor of, say, "Six Feet Under," undertaker Clara's melodramatic miseries overwhelm the mystery. S.J.H. (c) AudioFile 2008, Portland, Maine

 

"...[an] hypnotic debut... There's a quiet, almost stealthy quality to the writing...Clara is an astonishing character, and with language as blunt as the death she sees every day, she expresses herself with devastating simplicity."

 

"This is a brilliant debut from a gifted author, who has created an unforgettable central character...Amy MacKinnon is definitely a writer to watch."

 

"Clara's perfectly rendered cold, cautious, frightened voice lifts the novel above mere entertainment...an elegant illustration of a nature that letting nothing in, gives nothing out"

 

"Clara is an intriguingly drawn character....By the final pages, I found myself thoroughly absorbed in Clara's journey."

 

"[A] haunting read...[Tethered] is rich in sensory details without losing immediacy in its plotting."

 

Armchair Interviews.com...

"A new talent who shines as bright as a star. Highly recommended"

 

"MacKinnon's fascination with the inner workings of her uncle's funeral business inspired this haunting, gracefully rendered, debut."

 

"Fans of Kathy Reichs will relish this haunting and multi-layered debut novel, which contains a killer twist." --Marie Claire, Australia
"Haunting, thrilling, and beautifully drawn, Tethered is a novel full of heart. Love, and the search for love, fuels MacKinnon's cast of characters. Settle somewhere comfortable: you'll be reading all night."

 

"In Tethered, Amy MacKinnon starts with an unlikely narrator and an unlikely setting and delivers up that most unlikely (and sought-after) of results: a deeply engaging and memorable book. Brava."

 

"Amy MacKinnon is a rarity among debut authors. Not only does she possess the raw talent, she already knows how to use it. Tethered is as good as it gets: a haunting plot, an exquisitely flawed heroine, and sophisticated, powerful prose that deftly explores the ties that bind us all--to each other, and to the complex worlds around us. A brilliant debut."

 

Tethered by Amy MacKinnon
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