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Summary
Summary
WHEN DORA, ELENA'S older sister, is diagnosed with depression and has to be admitted to the hospital, Elena can't seem to make sense of their lives anymore. At school, the only people who acknowledge Elena are Dora's friends and Jimmy Zenk-who failed at least one grade and wears blackevery day of the week. And at home, Elena's parents keep arguing with each other. Elena will do anything to help her sister get better and get their lives back to normal-even when the responsibility becomes too much to bear.
Author Notes
Julie Schumacher received an undergraduate degree from Oberlin College and an MFA degree in fiction from Cornell University. She is a professor of English at the University of Minnesota. A short story she wrote while attending Oberlin College was reprinted in The Best American Short Stories. She is the author of several books for adults and younger readers including The Book of One Hundred Truths, The Chain Letter, Grass Angel, and Dear Committee Members.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Lena Lindt and her older sister, Dora, have always been close, like "right and left hands laced tight together." They and their parents accept that Dora is the moody but fun one, "a storm on the horizon, [Lena] the needle that always pointed to steady," a formula that works until Dora is overcome by severe depression in her junior year of high school. Schumacher's (The Book of One Hundred Truths) characterizations are humane yet shaded: to combat the effect of Dora's illness, Mr. and Mrs. Lindt send the outwardly coping Lena to a therapist but treat Dora's eventual hospitalization like a shameful secret. Lena, meanwhile, feels an us-against-the-parents bond with her sister, who uses their intimacy to pressure Lena to keep secrets that may be endangering her recovery. The title refers to the drugs prescribed for Dora; at least one comes with a "black box" warning, meaning that the person taking it is at increased risk for suicide and needs to be watched closely--traditionally, Lena's job in the family. An expert use of metaphor, combined with sympathetic insight into the impact of depression on families, turns a painful subject into a standout novel. Ages 12-up. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* Elena and her older sister Dora are opposites Elena is quiet and stoic; Dora is funny and unpredictable but they are still best friends. After Dora is hospitalized for depression, Elena can't understand why she didn't confide in her. While her parents spend their nights arguing, Elena does her best to deal, finally striking up a quirky relationship with the school bad boy, Jimmy, who says his older brother went through the same thing. Dora returns from the hospital a different person, one who skips class, hoards her pills, and lies to her parents. Elena can't reconcile this new sister with the one she's always known, especially when glimpses of the old Dora surface, but she's determined to save her, even if that means taking responsibility for Dora upon herself. Schumacher beautifully conveys Elena's loneliness and guilt as she tries to protect her sister without betraying her, as well as the emotional release she experiences upon finding someone to trust with her own feelings. The spare prose is loaded with small, revealing details of the relationships that surround Elena and how they change through Dora's illness. This novel is a quick read, but it will leave a lasting and ultimately hopeful impression.--Hutley, Krista Copyright 2008 Booklist
School Library Journal Review
Gr 7 Up-Stable and stoic Elena is a high school freshman when her beloved older sister, Dora, is hospitalized for depression. Elena takes it upon herself to look after her sibling when she comes home, while Dora and, ultimately, the entire family fall to pieces. In the end, Elena, with the help of her friend Jimmy Zenk, comes to realize that she alone can't make her better and that Dora has to help herself. With few words, characters are expertly fleshed out. For example, telling details reveal Elena's personality: "Matching socks was generally acknowledged to be my specialty." Schumacher eloquently describes the devastating effect that depression can have on a family. The writing is spare, direct, and honest. Written in the first person, this is a readable, ultimately uplifting book about a difficult subject.-Ragan O'Malley, Saint Ann's School, Brooklyn, NY (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
Sisters Dora and Elena had been as close as "right and left hands laced tight together," but temperamentally they were completely different; Dora was the "storm on the horizon," while Elena was "the needle that always pointed to steady." When Dora begins suffering from a depression so profound that she becomes suicidal, Elena, who is starting a new school and lacks social support, puts her own life on hold as she struggles with the impossible task of trying to save another. Elena's one friend and sounding board is the boy down the street, a nonconformist with a devastating secret, and their oddball, off-center dialogue is the high point of this heartrending novel. As Dora's condition worsens, Elena is forced to choose between competing loyalties. Fittingly, the novel doesn't resolve neatly; although it ends on a note of healing and hope, its strength is in the way it allows readers to see the messy, ugly complexities of mental illness and witness the collateral damage it wreaks on the entire family. (Fiction. 12 & up) Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
On Sunday right after breakfast we went back to the hospital. We walked through a sudden rain to the double doors of the main entrance, then shook the water from our clothes and crossed through the emergency room waiting area, where people with dislocated arms or broken fingers-things that were probably easy to fix-waited their turns the way we had done two days before. My mother pushed the button for the elevator and turned to me as if discovering my existence for the first time. "Are you sure you're up for this?" My mother was short, like me, and I worried I would grow up to be a lot like her: determined, chubby, and a pain in the neck. "That was traumatic yesterday," she said. "You can wait in the lobby if you don't want to come." "Of course she wants to come." My father put his hand on my shoulder. I felt like their private puppet. Let me make her talk! The elevator opened. Everyone else who filed in with us was carrying flowers and GET WELL! balloons. A little girl was dressed as if she were going to a birthday party. We got off on the fourth floor (no one else got off with us) and nodded to the security guard. "Let's not say anything to upset her," my mother said. "We 'll just be ourselves." Who else would we be? I wondered. We stowed our jackets in a locker, walked through the metal detector, and buzzed the bell by the door. I had brought Dora's favorite pajama pants and a sweatshirt that said IOWA SURF CLUB, but the nurse who answered the door and let us in said Dora couldn't have them because the sweatshirt had a hood on it and the pants had a string. "No ropes, no strings. And nothing sharp," the nurse said. "I'll keep these behind the desk so you can take them home." Beyond the desk where the nurses worked, I saw a group of kids-maybe a dozen of them-sitting in gray plastic chairs in a semicircle. One girl was asleep sitting up. The others didn't seem to be doing anything. A boy lifted his head and stared at me blankly, and I thought of the animals at the zoo, living their lives behind glass while a series of spectators either ignored them or hoped they would get up and do something worthwhile. The nurse-her name tag identified her as Bev-said that Sunday mornings weren't technically set up for "socializing," but since we hadn't been able to see Dora yet, she supposed we might stay for a short visit. Where is she?" My mother hugged her arms to her chest. One of the kids-he had short blond hair and what appeared to be fifteen or twenty stitches in his forehead-pointed toward a set of open doorways on the right: "She's in her room." My sister's new bedroom, like every other bedroom on the adolescent psychiatric ward at Lorning Memorial Hospital, had two narrow beds, both of them bolted to the vinyl floor, two wooden cubbies bolted to the wall, a gray smeared window that didn't open, and a bathroom door that didn't lock. She was reading a comic book on the bed nearer the window, her long legs straddling the mattress. She was wearing jeans and a hospital gown. The gown was printed with teddy bears holding stethoscopes. "Dora," my father said. "Hey. It's great to see you." My sister turned toward us where we were clustered in the doorway. There was something different about her, I thought. There was something new about the way she looked at us, as if we weren't the family she had expected. I thought my mother was going to cry again; instead, she rushed forward. "We tried to visit you yesterday but you were . . . upset." She sat down on the bed next to Dora and touched the side of her face, her arms, her hair. "You look good, sweetheart." Dora put down her comic book. Her skin was blotchy and her hair was braided. Dora never wore braids. "They locked me up," she said. "I wasn't 'upset.' I was throwing a fit. They wanted me to eat something disgusting and when I wouldn't eat it they decided I was anorexic." My father told her that throwing a fit was probably a bad idea and that she might want to maintain an even keel. One of the nurses from the desk poked her head through the doorway, seemed to count us, and nodded. "Ten-minute checks." Dora picked at her fingers. "Someone sticks their head in here and stares at me every ten minutes, even at night." She tugged on the hem of my T-shirt. "What do you think, Lena? Nice place, huh?" "Great," I said. "It's really elegant." Dora's expression changed slowly; she almost grinned. "Let me show you around." She swung her leg over the bed and stood up. "Closet," she said, pointing with a flourish at the wooden cubbies. "For all those up-to-date hospital fashions. And look in the bathroom: no hooks. And no shower rod. They don't want you to hang yourself. I can't even hang up my towel." My father was standing in front of the window, facing out, even though there was nothing but a parking lot to look at. "No blinds on the windows," Dora said, still posing like a game-show hostess. "No shoelaces, no razors, no scissors or pencils. No cell phones. No music." I was waiting for her to say that she didn't need to be there; I was waiting for my parents to tell her it was time to come home. "I know this is hard," my mother said. "Just do what the doctors and the nurses tell you. We're supposed to meet with the doctor on Wednesday." "Why aren't we meeting with the doctor until Wednesday?" my father asked without turning around. "Because," my mother said. Her voice was taut. "That's when they told us we could get an appointment." Dora sat down on the bed again. She flopped face first against the sheets and let my mother scratch her back. Dora loved to be scratched. "I wanted more clothes," she mumbled. "I thought you would bring some." "We'll bring them next time," my mother said. "And I want my hairbrush." Dora's eyes were closed. "And I want underwear and socks and a pile of T-shirts. And some gum and a book. I need something to read." "Your father's writing this down," my mother said. My father searched for a pen. "And bring me a sandwich?" Dora asked. "The food here is terrible." From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from Black Box by Julie Schumacher All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.