Tigertarkla In Your Place

A walk through my mind, oh, we're jogging now, wait is that a couch, I'm going to lie down for a bit

Review: Inamorata by Megan Chance

Content warning:  Rape, Abuse (physical and sexual), Incest?, Suicide, Self-Harm

I read this book several months ago and never got around to reviewing it. (I thought I did but apparently not) I still think about it on occasion so it apparently left an impression on me. Though I am no entirely sure it was a good impression. Warning; there are spoilers ahead though I will try to keep them to a minimum.

The story follows three narrations. One is from the female half of a pair of twins, Joseph and Sophie Hannigan. (random unrelated fact but my mother’s maiden name, Hennigan, is a form of Hannigan, the family changed it when they came over from Ireland for some reason. I think it is because they low key were a bunch of criminals.)  The Twins are on the run from New York and have chosen to come to Venice to launch the brother’s career in art. His sister acts as his muse and there is some weird sexual tension there though nothing happens beyond him drawing her naked a lot. (Which is totally weird, right?) Another narrative follows a man, Nicholas Dane, who is the search for a woman named Odilé Leon, from whom our third narrative follows. Odilé is a sort of vampire who feeds on peoples’ talents. She inspires them to one great work and then they either kill themselves are go mad. It’s a concept I haven’t come across at least. Anyways, Nicholas is after her because a while back they had a brief affair and she stole his talent. (Apparently she can sustain herself on lesser talents between feasting on a large talent every seven years or so.) He wants to stop her from doing it to other people, because he is a bitter busybody.  Anyway all the narratives meet up in Venice where Odilé is on the hunt for a large talent, which Joseph has and Nicholas is trying to prevent from happening. Sophia meanwhile is caught up in the middle trying to save her brother, and I was just really glad when this book came to an end.

I started and stopped this book several times before I gritted my teeth and actually forced myself to finish it. The reason why I had such a hard time getting into this book is that it switches perspectives and worse, it does so in first person. This is especially bad at the beginning because the perspectives tend to switch more often (the beginning chapters are shorter). You barely have time to settle into one perspective before you have to adjust to a whole new narrative. It gets better as the book progresses and the narratives intertwine more closely.

My main objection to this book was the content rather than the actual writing, barring the above objection. The characters are interesting and developed well with their past being revealed in a natural way that doesn’t break up the flow. If you can get past the first few chapters, the narrative switches become less jarring. The plotline is interesting and the climax and conclusion satisfying. Still I didn’t like this book. The depictions of suicide, abuse, self-harm and the implied sexual tension between the twins all put me off.

In the end I give this book 3.5 out of 5 stars because it is a well written book but I simply didn’t care for the subject matter. If you are cool with that kind of stuff though, give it a read.



It’s red, which I suppose is a perfectly respectable color for a minivan, but I hate it. I prefer the dark grey sedan that sits in the garage, boring and reliable. I got it in the settlement. I got the house too, though it was always mine to begin with. I was the only one who lived in it truly. I had seen it three months after our marriage, when we were still living in that condo uptown. His condo, full of his clean sleek furniture, the one I moved into. I couldn’t imagine raising kids there and so for months I had shown him house after house online only to have him give them the barest of glances.

He’d say, “What’s wrong with this place? It’s plenty beg for the two of us?”

I took a wrong turn the day I found it. The for sale sign jumped out at me and I swiveled my head to look and what I saw took my breath away. A brick colonial with a white columned porch. Two stories with an old oak tree in the front, vines on the north side of the house. I knew the instance I laid eyes on it that it was meant for me. James use to joke that I love the house more him. I did, and now that I know everything I am glad he never imprinted on it. Whenever I walk through the place all I can see is me. The drapes I picked out, the hand railing that took weeks to redo, the vines that I stenciled in the dining room. All of it chosen, finished and arranged by me. Even the rooms, meant for children, turned into an extra guest room and an office when I began to accept that I would remain childless.

Two years into our marriage James started wanting kids. I was ecstatic but I was also up for a promotion at work. So I asked to wait, just a year. I got the promotion, then there was the accident, then three years later my fears were confirmed. The thing is, I can’t remember James for any of those events. He had been in Tampa, every single time. I called about the promotion, he congratulated me then he had to go. Later, I think he took me out to dinner, about a week later, but I was already celebrated out. The girls from work had taken me out and my new responsibilities had become a welcome burden.

My mother called him after the accident. I had made her my emergency contact since James was back and forth to Tampa so often that I couldn’t depend on him. I don’t remember James throughout the entire six-month ordeal. I remember my mother, sitting by my side for weeks on end. I remember my secretary, Michelle, bringing me work to do and the office gossip. I remember the whispers but no James.

The day I got the news, I didn’t even try to call. I went home and cried. Michelle came over, she helped me decide what to do with the two spare rooms. She stayed with me that night, her hand curled over mine, head resting where James’ should have been.

I found out a few months later, a stray letter. Followed by investigation. A family in Tampa, a house, two kids, a dog, another woman and a cherry red van. I didn’t call him first. I called a lawyer. I was entitled to things. I called him then, I didn’t even say hello.

“I want the house, my house, and my car, and her van. Don’t fight me on this James because you’ll lose, you know you will.”

Six month later I have a minivan and my maiden name. I wish I could say I was hurting, but I wasn’t. The more I think about it the more I realize James and I were never in love. We were just doing what we were supposed to do, go to college, get married, start a family. Except I couldn’t do that last part. I couldn’t really fault him for finding something to make him happy, after all, I had the house.

The neighbor from across the street comes out of her house, toddler and 7-year-old in tow. Her belly is just starting to show the pending arrival of a third. She pauses as she sees the van.

“Hey Ness. You got a van?”

“Yeah, actually I am looking to sell it. You wouldn’t happen to know anybody who would be interested in buying?”

She glances at her white 4-door.

“I could go real cheap.”

She smiles then.

“Sure, I’ll talk to Robert about it.”


Nightshade, belladonna, hen bane
No poison can drive a woman insane
More than the sound of his tongue
Tangled with my name

Candles in a circle
Candles down the lane
If I light this candle
I’ll never be the same

Lavender, sage, maybe wolf’s bane
Into the cauldron go again
Thorn of thistle, thorn of rose
Thorn of cacti growing there
Drop of blood to bind it all
Counter-clockwise stir the pot
Say the words so love’s forgot

Belladonna, belladonna,  hen bane
Let my tongue forget his name



When he screams
My shoulders become rock and
I grit my jaw, refusing to move

He paces, things crashing in waves in his wake
His mouth spewing anger like spittle spraying forth
His neck ligaments are suspension bridge cables

She yells back, her voice as high as a soprano’s
Her resolve as strong as his fury, a brick wall
Back and forth with bull elephant steps

A silver pan goes flying, dog food scattered
I pick it up, grip it so tight that
My nails dig crescents into my palms

When his fist lands on her face, I act
A cougar pouncing, the fastest I’ve moved
The clang as the pot bounces off his skull

Clang, clang reverberates in the small space
I am gushing curse words like a fountain
I am so angry

When he reacts and starts to hit me
My brother, no longer sits on the sidelines
With loud screeches he attacks, I fall

I kick, I flail I yell
I feel like a berserker, without a mace
I am so angry

When the bulk of me and my brother
Finally push him out the door
He pounds off in a cloud of heavy anger

I begin to shake
Like an aspen when the wind blows
I am so angry

Snow Tires

Falling in love with you
Was like driving during a snowstorm
In the dark

The kind of storm that makes me panic
Because the headlights don’t pierce
The enclosing darkness

The kind that makes me want
To scream
Because I am suffocating
At least that is what I think
As my foot hovers over the brake

I would be calmer
If I could see the lights of my destination
Or perhaps the lines on the road
Or maybe if I wasn’t driving
In this car alone

A Second Cup of Coffee

It is Saturday morning and I find myself ensconced in the corner of Green’s cafe. It seems to me that the name isn’t the only thing that has changed over the years as I make my quiet observations while sipping at my Earl Grey tea and picking at the weird pastry concoction I had to settle for when they stopped offering scones. Learn to make scones. I add this to the growing list of self-appointed tasks I have for myself in the small blue notebook that sits by my plate. It is a pitiful list really and if I was pressed to sum it up into one item it would simply say grow up. Marring the properties of the list are the doodles that fill the margins, caricatures of the people who visit the café. The writer with his old-fashioned glasses and smug looks, who lounges in the corner waiting for someone to recognize him and approach him with the reverence of a worshipper. I have rendered him with a crown of outdated ball point pens and a lapel pin that reads “New York Times Bestseller”. The gaggle of teenagers in their yoga pants, gazing at their phones while somehow holding a conversation with each other occupy another corner of the shop and my notebook. The artists still wander in and out, better fed now that the shop offers organic sandwiches and salads. Their hands still stained with paints, their eyes still lost in their personal worlds. The baristas are kinder now, younger too. They cheerfully offer up my cup of hot water, understanding my need to provide my own tea, and try to cajole me into buying one of their healthier treats.
There are some things that haven’t changed, I am still waiting for KC. I have chosen a larger table that could easily seat four but I know we will need the extra space. I have substituted my ever present sketchbook for the blue notebook with its lists. I stopped bringing my sketchbooks when the last one was ruined beyond repair. They cost me considerably more than this notebook I bought for just under a dollar. Just a small change really to shore myself up against the inevitable chaos that KC brings with her these days. The bell on the door tinkles and I look up to catch KC enter the store, large bag slung over her shoulder and a small child balanced on her opposite hip. An exiting patron props open the door and she gives him an enthusiastic thanks before scanning the room. When her eyes land on me they fill with relief and she weaves her way over to the table. She plops down the bag in one empty chair.
“Oh, thank god you are here before me. You wouldn’t believe the day I have had so far. I will tell you about it but first I need coffee. Here.”
She thrusts the squirming child in my direction.
“You be good for Aunt Nicky” she instructs the thing before turning to make her way back towards the counter.
I am left holding a squirming baby at arm’s length, it is looking at me with an expression of blank awe and an alarming amount of drool is coming from its mouth. This is Butler and despite being my god-child I have absolutely no idea how to deal with him. His legs start to kick and it occurs to me that I should probably bring the child in closer to myself. I balance him delicately on my right knee which puts him in grabbing distance of my pastry which is what he does with little hesitation. He has two fistfuls of raspberry and icing covered puff pastry in the time it takes for me to realize that I should have pushed the plate away from him. At once he tries jamming one fist into his mouth.
The panic that has begun to build in me from the moment KC thrust this chaos in my arms becomes full blown. I try to pull the fist away from his mouth while holding the ever squirming mass secure on my lap. How old is this child? Eight, no nine months. Is that too early for food? I don’t know. It seems too early. I get one fist away from his mouth and he immediately jams the other in. I also extricate it and make a grab for the pile of napkins that sits towards the middle of the table. I wipe at his mouth, sticking a finger in to remove the mush that he has managed to get in there. I don’t want him to choke. Butler takes offense to me ridding him of his prize though and lets out a squeal of indignity before biting down on my finger. I let out a yelp.
“You have teeth, since when do you have teeth?”
I pull my finger from his mouth and look at the small indentations he has left behind. I look back down and Butler who has jammed another fist into his mouth and sigh. He has managed to wipe whatever pastry he had in his hands into the front of his pale blue outfit. It now sports red streaks, one which is smeared near the mouth of the tiger decorating the shirt, giving the beast a macabre appearance. He looks up at me and gurgles through his fist. I shake my head at him.
“You are a strange child.”
He responds my gurgling some more and squirming his way closer to me. I let him. I look up to find KC. She is still in line waiting for her turn at the counter. I sigh again. I reach for my tea and take a large gulp of the luke-warm concoction before pushing it and the desecrated pastry back from the edge of the table, out of Butler’s reach. I glance down at him. For now he seems content to keep drooling on his fist while gazing about the shop in wonder. He seems to like to people watch, which for now is the only thing we have in common. I reach over for my notebook and add another item to the list. Stop buying pastries. The movement catches Butler’s attention and he makes a grab for the book. I push it away and shove the pen behind my ear before he can get it.
“When you are older and learn to hold a pen, I will teach you to draw.” I tell him sternly.
Keep pens away from Butler is on one of the pages of my list. I still remember the one Saturday he managed to cover himself in ink while in my brief moment of care. I hear a chuckle to my left and swivel my head to meet the gaze of the man sitting there.
“Your son is cute” He tells me.
For a second I am alarmed. My son? Butler looks nothing like me, his blue eyes and sandy hair are all a product of KC.
“He’s not my son.”
I respond as Butler twists in my lap and I find myself struggling to support him as he uses my body to climb his way into a standing position. He squeals in triumph as he reaches for the pen and manages to clasp it and a chunk of my hair. I let out another yelp and try to get the pen before Butler manages to get it into his mouth. He finds my efforts amusing though and squeals again while bouncing up and down a bit. I have to abandon my attempt to regain my pen in order to support him. He squeals again and increases his bouncing now that he feels more secure.
The man chuckles again and I shoot him a quelling look. Butler is waving my pen in his fist and it is coming closer to his mouth and just as he is about to chomp down on it a hand reaches over plucks it from him. I glance up at KC who is setting down her coffee and pulling on of the café’s high chairs over to settle her child in. Thank god. Butler, who is mildly upset about losing his toy, gurgles at his mother as she plucks him from my grasp and plops him into the chair. I let out a sigh of relief and glance over at the man again. He is still watching us so I scowl at him till he adverts his eyes.
“Sorry about your pastry.” KC says.
She sits down opposite of me, extracting a bag of odd shaped cereal stuff and pouring it out on the tray for Butler. He squeals in delight and begins to fist the stuff into his mouth.
“It’s fine, I wasn’t going to eat it anyway. Sorry about the mess.” I motion to Butler’s sticky red streaked shirt.
“It’s okay.”
“No, every time you leave him with me he somehow ends up covered in something. I am so bad at this.”
“Really Nic, it’s fine. I can’t leave him alone with Dave for five seconds without him being covered in something.”
“Yeah, but that’s Dave.”
Dave is KC’s husband, a bit of a dork in my opinion but he makes KC happy and so I am alright with him. I think he kind of just tolerates me but I am not the easiest person to like. There are some days where I feel like KC is the only person who truly does like me, well and Butler for whatever reason.
“So, tell me about this day of yours.”
KC launches into a spirited retelling of her day so far. The broken dishwasher, the new puppy digging holes in her backyard, Dave forgetting where his golf clubs are kept, the car seat struggle and Butler already on is third outfit of the day. I nod along and offer comments where they are needed. She needs this, small outlet to vent about the chaos of her life. I need this, a small connection to something outside of myself. I could never maintain sanity in the amount of chaos that KC seems to thrive on but I need a little bit to pull me from the stagnant routine of my life.
“So, what about you, anything exciting this week?”
I shrug. I still live in my same apartment, I still come down to this shop every morning, still spend the majority of my days hunched over my drawing tablet getting things done before the deadline. The only difference is that I no longer have Mitzi to help stave of the loneliness of the routine. She’s been gone six months now.
“Have you considered getting a new dog yet?”
KC was there when I had to put Mitzi down. I think I scared her because it was the first time she ever saw me cry.
“I’m not ready yet.”
She nods. She stopped trying to push me to do stuff a while ago, sometime after she met Dave. I glance at my notebook and think about my list. Grow up.
“I’m thinking about moving.”
KC starts.
“Out of town?” She asks
I shake my head.
“Just a small move, a different area perhaps. I would never leave Sante Fe though.”
“Oh, good.”
I reach into my bag and pull out a real estate flier to show her.
“This place is small but I could afford it and it has a yard.”
“Oh, it is pretty, plus this is closer to where we live now.”
“Yeah. It makes more sense to buy a place and it is kind of ridiculous for you to have to come all the way across town for coffee just because we are use to this place.”
She nods.
“Right.” There is a pause. “What is this about Nic?”
“I need to change a bit, need to shake up my routine, grow up maybe. I feel like everything is changing and I am still just the same as I was five years ago. I’m afraid I am going to get left behind.”
“Well, I think a little change is a good idea Nic. Plus it will be nice to have you closer for this pregnancy.”
I blink.
“Are you pregnant again?”
She nods.
“Just found out this morning.”
Butler squeals along with me.
“Who knows with this change, maybe you will meet someone and you will have kids soon too.”
I stop and look over at Butler with is drool and stickiness.
“Yeah, maybe not.”
I catch the man looking over at us again out of the corner of my eye. Maybe.


The first story featuring these characters can be found here


Pick me up and dust me off
I believe I’m a little lost
A lone rebel without a cause
Roaming the streets and breaking laws

I want to go back home
But who I was is already gone
And I told myself to move on

Loving you was the worst quest yet
I lost my sword but I gained a shield
And I’m not sure I can venture forth

I can see that I’m wasting time
But there’s tasks to keep me occupied
Slowly I pay down my debt
And hope hasn’t conquered fear yet

These rocky roads are no good for
They are course and make me mean
You said I don’t belong to you
Set me free and said we’re through

I had to believe it was truth
And my heart could only lie
For how else could I survive


He tells me I’m beautiful
As if I didn’t know
I shudder
When his fingers brush my scalp

He wants to hold me at night
And I want him to go home
So that whole expanse
Is all mine to have

When he’s inside
He whispers love in my ears
Then he patiently waits
For what he wants to hear

I wanted it easy
I wanted it hard, mindless
Bent over, from behind
Against the wall of a bathroom stall

I’d been told he wanted that too
But when he looks into my eyes
He’s begging for more
Than I am willing to give

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