Meet the Troutmans

An aunt embarks on a journey with her 15-year-old nephew and 11-year-old-going-on-41 niece to find their estranged father as her sister lies in the psych ward asking for death. Filled with sarcastic wit, teenage angst, disillusioned romance, poignant memories, and a dictionary for the young curious mind, the Ford Aerostar carries nothing, but entertainment for the reader riding along on this voyage.

We travel with Hattie, the aunt, and Logan, the nephew. But Thebes, the niece, is my favourite passenger in the van. Think Olive Hoover of Little Miss Sunshine and Mary Horowitz of All About Steve packaged into one lovable creature all dressed in royal blue terry cloth, with purple wild hair, and covered in candy necklace powder. The way in which Thebes fuses her imagination and reality to make the world she lives in more bearable is simply delightful and quirky.

On her brother's driving:

Then Thebes went into this strange kind of commentary thing she does, quoting the imaginary people in her head. This time it was a funeral director, I think. She said: With an impact this severe there is not a hope of reconstructing this kid's face. She banged the back window with her fist.
What was that? I asked her.
The lid of my coffin slamming down, she said. Closed casket. I'll be unrecognizable anyway.

Thebes stuffs her suitcase with various art supplies to make over-sized novelty cheques for people, but she doesn't pack clothes. She has an imaginary bandmate named Mojo. Her birthday is Shteltl the Eighth. She lets her brother throw a frisbee through the open van doors while she sits in the seat; the frisbee inevitably hits her in the face, she cries, he apologizes, and she forgives by kicking him in the nuts.

The Flying Troutmans was a hard book to put down; I turned page after page revealing layers of family dynamic masked in dark humour. Author Miriam Toews reminds her readers that everyone, even ones as dysfunctional as the members of this family, desires to belong, to be heard, to be seen as only human.

Thebes and I watched cowboys get thrown off raging bulls and be rescued by clowns. She had pink cotton candy all over her face and arms and hands and legs and feet and shoulders and back....A nice old man sitting next to her let her borrow his watch so she could count off the eight seconds, the length of time the cowboys were supposed to stay on the bull's back. She yelled out the numbers in German and then French and then Spanish. She was very excited and had to be reminded constantly, by the family of haters behind us, to sit down and stay down, they'd paid their money to see the bronco bustin' and dang if they were gonna have some wild foreign retard leapin' up every second and blockin' their view.
...She gave the man his watch.
Thank you very much, she whispered. I'm sorry if it's sticky.
No problem, gunslinger, he said.
She watched the rest of the cowboys silently. Tears were running down her face and getting mixed up with the cotton candy.
...Go ahead, I said.
It's just that..., she said.
I know, I said.
It's just that...I'm not retarded, she said.
I know that, I said.
I just want Min, she said. She never yells at me. She thinks I'm beauti--
You are, I said. She couldn't get very far past that before it all erupted and she was sobbing in my arms and then all the captive little heifers in the barn next to us joined in, crying and lowing like a bovine choir of angels in solidarity with Thebes.