Monday, February 1, 2021

Social Distance with Vesta Gul in "Death in Her Hands"


It’s February 2021, and most of us in the United States have grown accustomed to a lifestyle of isolation. I’ve been quarantining with my husband since March. We quarantined in Texas, and then moved to D.C. where we quarantined some more. It’s been lonely. You get it. Well, so does Vesta Gul. Sure, she may be a fictional character living in a fictional world, but she chose to quarantine before it was cool. Ottessa Mosfegh’s newest book Death in Her Hands was released in June 2020, and it serves as an indirect homage to the limitations of human sanity when in near-complete isolation.

We meet Vesta, our main character, after she’s lived in a cabin in the woods for nearly a year. She’s chosen a locale in the northeastern US, and she only leaves her house for daily walks with her dog Charlie and a trip into town once a week. At the start of the novel, Vesta finds a note on her walk with Charlie. It reads: “Her name was Magda. Nobody will ever know who killed her. It wasn’t me. Here is her dead body.” But there is no body to be found. Vesta takes the note home, and the resulting story follows her train of thought. Her mental spiral due to isolation and a new, perceived threat reminded me a bit of my own life experience this year.

This book is a thrilling joyride of both suspense and confusion. Shortly after the onset of the story, I began to realize how unreliable the narrator Vesta was. Though the events recounted to me by Vesta were fascinating – and kept the pages turning quickly – I found myself questioning every situation. Is Vesta imagining this, or is this real? Her descriptions of her response to the world grow more concerning as the book progresses. What starts out as anxiety due to a murderous note turns into several days without bathing or eating and perceiving threats in places they likely don’t exist. Mosfegh’s use of these details made me wonder if I’d ever find out the truth. With only Vesta’s voice as my source, I figured probably not, but I couldn’t stop reading anyways. Rather than a murder mystery, this book is the story of a woman reaching the end of her sanity. Though it is an exhilarating read, it also is an uncomfortable one.

Once Vesta perceives the threat of a murderer on the loose, everything changes. A perceived threat coupled with her isolation pushes her past the brink. Sound familiar? It felt like a hyperbolic metaphor for my experience in the COVID-19 pandemic. Isolated from friends and family? Check. Long walks with dog? Check. Terrified of dying? Check. A silent killer on the loose? Check. Mosfegh has a clear understanding of the inner thoughts of an anxious person, either because she has experienced anxiety herself or studied it thoroughly. As Vesta navigates her days, we follow her train of thought. Intrusive thoughts appear randomly and suddenly, reminding me of my own all-too-real daily encounters with anxiety.

I recently heard a writer named Molly Young speak on a podcast called Nerdette. She shared her theory that there are two types of people: there are people who read books for an escape. These people want to read the opposite of what they’re dealing with so they can detach. Then there are people who read books relevant to what they’re going through. If you are one of the latter, Death in Her Hands might be for you. Still, if anxiety is a frequent friend in your life, I would encourage you to approach this story with caution. There is no shame in taking a break from the story for a bit or putting it down altogether if you find it troubling.

Vesta is a misanthrope. She harshly judges every human she sees on the rare occasion she ventures into town, and she even judges her neighbors who she has never met but seen from afar. She disdains people for a variety of reasons: their appearance, their intelligence, their food choices at the grocery store, their shoes, the way they talk. “Bethsmane wasn’t for ladies. It was for people who hunted or drove trucks. It wasn’t an elegant place…The place wasn’t cultured by any measure. People ate fast food…Women mostly dressed in cheap synthetic materials. The blouses they wore were tie-dyed and glittery, and many women had tattoos on their arms,” she muses when thinking of the town she lives near. “She was…chubby. From behind she reminded me of a clapping seal, the way her buttocks flattened, her hands raised as if in prayer at her chest,” she remarks about a woman she encounters in a public bathroom.

Multiple users on Goodreads wrote that Vesta’s distaste for people is a turn-off for them in the book. “Word of warning: This woman hates fat people and it’s mentioned over and over and over again,” Goodreads user Michelle laments. “People don’t want to talk about how they relate to a character’s more unsavory qualities,” Mosfegh shared with the New York Times, “so they’re like, ‘God, she was really gross.’ Everybody’s so obsessed with being liked.” To me, Vesta’s harsh perceptions are meant to reflect the truth. That we all have ugly parts. We’re human. As a reader who deals with anxiety on a daily basis, I can unfortunately and admittedly see a bit of myself in Vesta. When I am at my lowest, and I’m just trying to get my groceries so I can get home and finally rest after a long day, the people around me are my metaphorical punching bags. Sure, the attacks are only in my mind and will forever stay there, but I still catch myself judging the occasional dawdling woman who won’t get out of my way as I try to navigate aisle number five. As the entirety of the book works as hyperbole, so does Vesta’s perception of humankind. I think Mosfegh’s portrayal of Vesta is meant to be a challenge to the reader: how much of Vesta resides in you?

With each passing year, I realize more and more how powerful the human brain is. It is a frightening thought at times: how little we understand about our brains, how mental illness can gradually and sneakily creep up on us, how careful we must be to take care of ourselves, our minds. The situations we choose to stay in, the people we choose to surround ourselves with, the places we choose to live, the food and drink we choose to consume. People always say that teenagers think they’re invincible. It’s true, at least in my experience. I’m still young, but I’m at the age now in which my mortality feels real, and I can see and feel the impact of even small daily choices. Another glass of wine? Another cancelled FaceTime (or in non-pandemic times, coffee date) with a friend because “I’m too tired”? Vesta had the chance to harness her anxiety and depression. She didn’t take it. She chose to burrow herself further into it. Death in Her Hands surprised me. I went in expecting a murder mystery and came out on the other side reminded of what could happen to me – or anyone – if I neglected myself long enough. 

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