Looking at the reviews of The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown, I feel a little out of sync. It seems like everyone who read it, loves it and I most definitely did not love it. I did not like the three sisters, I didn’t like their parents and I most definitely did not like the choral voice of the narrator, since I was constantly trying to figure out which “sister” was doing the narrating when speaking about “our” experience.
Rosalind, Bianca and Cordelia are the three daughters of a Shakespeare scholar who all end up coming home to help their father care for their mother who is undergoing cancer treatment. They don’t like each other very much and each is struggling, in her own self-obsessed way, to get her life back in order. I didn’t like them and I found it very hard to root for them to do the right thing, or make the hard choice, or mostly just pay attention to what was going on around them and get on with things. I did not find anyone in this book to be funny or endearing.
I will admit that I have a sister, whom I do not see very much, even though she lives less than two miles from my house. We have very different outlooks on life and disagree on just about everything. This is probably why I found The Weird Sisters to be so tiresome. It was nauseatingly close to my personal experience of having a sister I will never be able to relate to or understand. I don’t blame Eleanor Brown, I blame myself, but I really did not like this story.
Three Sisters, Oil on canvas, 2009, by Timothy Joseph Allen