Swallow

By Tonya Plank

A shy, young Manhattan attorney from a small-town, working-class background struggles with Globus Hystericus, the sensation of a ball in the throat, which makes it hard for her to eat, speak, and eventually breathe. This multiple-award-winning novel, at times darkly comical, centers on class privilege, gender equity, and the distance that can separate fathers and daughters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tonya Plank
• Release date: Mar 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452439037

Tonya Plank

After working for many years as a criminal appeals attorney in New York, Tonya Plank now lives and writes in Southern California. A former amateur ballroom dancer, she wrote the dance blog, Swan Lake Samba Girl. Her first novel, Swallow, won several awards, including gold medals in the Independent Publisher and the Living Now Book Awards, and was a finalist in ForeWord’s Book of the Year and the National Indie Excellence Awards. When not writing, she enjoys taking road trips with her rescue dog, Sofia, devouring Mexican food and Cadillac margaritas, sweating to dance-based workouts, cuddling up with her cats and a good book, and of course seeing dance performances of any kind. Her favorite places in the world are Lincoln Center in New York City, the Pacific Coast Highway from Laguna Beach to San Francisco, and the Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Kanab, Utah.

Book preview

SWALLOW

A Novel

TONYA PLANK

Published by Dark Swan Press at Smashwords

Copyright © 2010 Tonya Plank

All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For my mother and father, both of whom have always been wholly supportive of whatever I’ve chosen to do, and neither of whom resembles Sophie’s parents, thankfully.

ONE

Sticky Serendipity

It was like something out of a Freudian case study -- the result of a repressed memory of choking on Herr so and so’s semen at six months of age or something insane. But as a lawyer, I’d always operated in the realm of logic; never cared much for the repressed memory thing, or for the idea that everything is sexual. Which is why I was so nervous about seeing a shrink. They weren’t all Freudians, I tried to reassure myself – only the psychoanalysts, right? It didn’t matter anyway; I was rather desperate at that point. Just focus on the positive, I told myself: with a food neurosis and a psychologist, in your measly nine months here, you’re on your way to becoming the consummate New York woman, Sophie Hegel.

It was early 2001. The World Trade towers were still standing, the economy was crazy strong -- I’d never seen so much exorbitant spending in my life as I had in my first few months in New York -- and I was still in a rather continuous state of nervous excitement about: 1) having managed to graduate from Yale Law the prior May; 2) having managed to win from said school a public interest fellowship with the NYC Public Defender’s Office as an appeals attorney representing indigent defendants; 3) taking and actually passing the New York State Bar Exam; and 4) moving to the city and into the unsettlingly posh Upper-East-Side apartment of my boyfriend, Stephen, whom I’d met in law school.

Anyway, two weeks after it emerged -- it being the ball, as I’d call it, or the fist-ball, FB for short -- I stole into the office library and surreptitiously filched the medical insurance directory, chose a random name under mental, and ended up with Dr. Ames.

Dr. Ames seemed decent. He didn’t mention semen or repressed memories, although he did elicit a clarification when I’d told him I was having problems swallowing: Food, you mean? He was fortyish, a bit pudgy, with a round cherubic face that emanated contentment like a white beluga whale. And he had an eye like Sartre’s -- I always forget the exact term -- lazy eye, deviating eye? I resigned to call it his Sartre eye. At first it threw me a bit because it didn’t seem like he was looking directly at me when he talked. Then, for that very reason, it began to make me feel more at ease. Like he wasn’t staring me down or sizing me up.

I told him about FB. It was a seemingly normal Saturday evening. Stephen had surprised me with a phone call from work. A senior litigation associate trying to make partner at one of the biggest firms in the city, the man was always at the office, and reminding me ad nauseam when I objected to full weekend hours, that they didn’t pay him half a million a year for nine to five. I wondered why he couldn’t ask them for a quarter of a million for a normal life, but, I don’t know, I guess I was young and naïve and unschooled in the ways of New York meta-firms at that point. Anyway, he wanted to take me out for a nice dinner -- nothing special; he was just in the mood for some bistro food, meaning his favorite, Café des Artistes, a capital-lettered entry in the Zagat’s guide, whose poshness sometimes unnerved me but that did have splendid food. He told me to wear a dress with a wide neckline or strapless; said it would nicely complement a tiny little something he just picked up for me at -- Tiffany’s of all places.

I knew something was up. Stephen could have moments of ostentatiousness, but Tiffany’s was definitely out of the ordinary. So there I was, a tangle of nerves in a pink discount slipdress I’d bought at a Woodbury Commons outlet, sitting at our usual candle-lit table below a mural of a blonde Tarzan beating his chest for a naked blushing nymph, opposite my ocean-eyed, urbanely bald, chiseled-jawed former judge.

I’d met Stephen a couple years earlier, in law school. We weren’t students together; he was 37, 11 years older than I. At the end of my first year, I was required to give this horrendously nerve-wracking oral argument for my Appellate Advocacy class. I was a pretty hysterical wreck throughout my entire first year, throughout my entire time, at Yale. They wanted people other than the familiar profs on the mock judicial panels, so Stephen, who’d graduated years earlier, returned to his alma mater and sat as a judge on my court. Well, my trembling voice and jittery stance made it quite clear I was vomitously nervous throughout the entire thing. It didn’t help that I was assigned the conservative side, and had to argue that protestors against the NYPD’s treatment of African Americans didn’t have a Constitutional right to hold a candlelight vigil for a slain innocent suspect in a public park after dusk. Of course the whole panel was dead set against me. Not that I could blame them; I was pretty dead set against myself as well. But the presiding judge, one of our Family Law professors, didn’t have to heckle me so!

Afterward, Stephen went out of his way to approach me in the hall. Told me not to worry; I was simply on the unpopular side. But my analysis of the case law was quite astute, my marshaling of the facts cogent, my presentation very well-articulated; I just needed a little more confidence, and, would I like to go out for a drink so he could give me some pointers?

I found him brilliant. He had a spectacular education -- Harvard undergrad, Princeton grad school, and Yale law. He talked on and on about John Rawls’ theory of justice, agreeing with the philosopher that if the makers of the social contract were hidden behind a veil of ignorance regarding their position in society, things would be much more egalitarian. And then he went on to deconstruct historian Joan Scott’s feminist deconstruction of the equality versus difference binarism, before launching into a comparative analysis of Catherine MacKinnon versus Drucilla Cornell on pornography. I’d just never met a man like that before who spent so much time ruminating, ideating, analyzing -- especially about all of the same issues that had so intrigued me. Suffice it to say, not many of the guys back home were very intellectual. I’d learned so much in that afternoon just listening to him. And he kept telling me how intelligent I was and how extraordinary that Yale accepted me, and how I really owed it to myself to be so much more self-confident. He made me feel really smart, like no one, especially a man, had. I was lonely and didn’t feel I fit in very well at Yale. My closest friend and mentor on the gender and law journal, Samia, being older, was gone by my third year. Stephen became a big part of my life.

Back to dinner: after the waitress served us our Frangelicos, Stephen gave me my little something -- actually two little somethings -- the first was a red herring. I lifted the box’s velvet lid to find a very pretty strand of pearls. At full length it would dangle nearly to my midriff, but could be doubled to hit just above the breast and probably even tripled into a choker. He knelt next to me, cramped though we were at the Lilliputian table, tripled it around my throat and affixed the clasp. Then he told me to close my eyes, began kissing my neck and breathing lightly into my ear – slightly embarrassing given the crowd, but sweet. No one was paying us any mind anyway. Thought he was just about to start unzipping the silly dress, when I suddenly felt something soft and round and slippery skinned slide into my lap.

Open your eyes, he whispered.

I looked down to see a small, blood-red, leathery-looking… thing perched between my thighs. I just stared, unsure exactly what it was.

Open it, honey, Stephen laughed.

Oh of course; it was a case... and oh, in the shape of a heart, I now saw. I turned it around, fingered the crack, pried it apart, and saw the ring.

Ms. Hegel, my beautiful, brilliant intellectual heiress, he whispered in my ear. Marry me.

The intellectual heiress thing was a joke of course. I’m no relation to the philosopher. Stephen was being sweet. He didn’t know about my dad; knew he was some kind of filmmaker, but didn’t know the type of films. I’d told him they were small independents -- which wasn’t a lie. Stephen had met only Mom at graduation. Dad was filming and Bebe was in labor with…can’t remember, one of them. Stephen had found Mom charmingly bucolic; said I should be exceedingly proud of myself for having come so far.

The trouble began when we went to discuss the wedding over dessert at Serendipity -- my favorite eatery. I could be little girlish at times, which I think was part of my initial appeal to him. I ran to the ladies’ room to make sure I didn’t look like a raccoon from tearing up in the cab, and when I returned to the table, my usual Chewy Chocolate Marshmallow Mudslide Delight was setting across from Stephen’s slice of carrot cake.

I gazed into Stephen’s deep blue eyes. So when and where are we going to have it? I gushed.

Stephen looked bemused for a moment before flashing a devilish grin. I hadn’t really thought about it yet, Sophie, he snickered, boyish dimples spreading across his virile face. Let’s be wholly unconventional.

Well, I don’t know how unconventional this is, I giggled, but I was thinking Central Park, since, you know, I’m a, quote unquote, real New Yorker now! They rent out the zoo for private affairs.

‘Private affairs’ -- I think that means private children’s parties, honey, he laughed.

Not always. Francie’s office had their holiday party there. Come on, we can have the altar by the polar bear. He’s on Prozac; he needs some festivities, I semi-joked. And afterward we could take a horse-drawn carriage to the Plaza?

Yes, sweetie, I can see the sea lions barking their mating call to the violins as you walk down the aisle, he said with a smirk, before going on about thinking outside of New York: Tad had his at a seaside resort near home in Hyannis, but Stephen’s not his brother, hence, we’d be having ours nowhere remotely near the Cape; we could do an elegant Caribbean island or, how about a beautiful European town like Bruges or Krakow, or maybe somewhere warm – the Venezuelan Riviera… I had to ask myself what in the world I thinking suggesting the Park.

Stephen’s been nearly everywhere the planet over. Family vacations consisted of world travel and deep sea dives. He’d been to the Sistine Chapel, the Taj Mahal, and the Great Wall, all before his tenth birthday. And they went on dives all over the world: the South Pacific, French Polynesia, even the Great Barrier Reef. That worldliness shone through every time I gazed into his eyes, which seemed to have taken on the color of the sea itself. Not that I knew which sea; I didn’t exactly share his background. My childhood travels consisted of a couple short trips from Arizona all the way to Los Angeles to visit my dad, and pastimes a few pre-divorce ballet classes then free local girls’ softball. Yes, I should leave the wedding venue to Stephen, I was thinking, when he interrupted.

Honey? he said, sounding strangely far away.

I looked up at him.

You’re going to be wearing that in a minute. He pointed to the melted mess that had become my sundae.

Oh, my cup overfloweth. I scooped up as much soupy, marshmallow-covered ice cream as would fit onto my oversized spoon and topped it onto a chunk of brownie. Just as the first bite neared the back of my mouth, I peered into Stephen’s eyes. I began to feel a lump form in the base of my throat. The chewed food was so close to my pharynx that my swallowing reflex pushed it on down, where it met the lump and merged into a larger ball. The lump-ball was about the size of a fist; it was like a fist had grabbed the food. I couldn’t move either up or down. Stephen continued jabbering blithely about -- I think -- sun, water, Cunard…

With the food stuck in this fist-ball, I began to panic. I tried to calm down, breathe through my nose. But either the ball or the panic exacerbated the blockage and I couldn’t get any air through.

Or we could be really venturesome…

Good, I thought, the horror in my eyes wasn’t apparent to Stephen. I knew this was lunacy and all I had to do was talk myself out of it. I knew there was really nothing there. I knew that because I’d felt this ball before, three times to be exact. I’d willed it away then; I was sure I could do the same now. I simply needed to force myself to be calm. It’s okay, it’s okay, I repeated in my head while Stephen talked.

It didn’t seem to be working.

Stephen’s mouth was busy, but in my panic I couldn’t hear what was coming out. If I focused on what he was saying, I might be able to take my mind off the ball and it’d disappear. So focus I did. I picked up on something about removing something from something else -- could have been wedding from family, honeymoon from country, or multi-state trademark violation lawsuits from state to federal court -- he’d been working like a loon on those damn briefs. But listening required looking into his eyes -- his omniscient, über-sophisticated ocean blues -- his most intense physical feature, and the one that originally most drew me to him. Not only did they emanate wisdom and savoir-vivre born of good-breeding, they were just so arresting, focused, trenchant, and above all penetrating. Very penetrating. When they stopped and fixed on me, sometimes I got all tingly, sometimes a bit queasy, usually a combination of the two. And they were capable of the most amazing peripheral vision -- always catching a subtle expression on my face or the way I’d be slouching, even when they didn’t seem to be concentrated at all in my direction. Looking at him looking at me, expecting me to listen and converse like a normal, refined, educated adult, and not a nutter afflicted by some bizarre problem emanating from a screwed-up childhood experience, just made me all the more aware of the fist-ball.

The second Stephen’s eyes shifted from me to the waitress to motion her for more coffee, I opened my mouth widely and gasped in as much air as I could, so as to force the ball down with air. It didn’t work; the air still couldn’t get around him. Don’t know why I was thinking of him in the male gender but I was. I tried coughing him down, but still nothing. I was starting to feel light-headed. I forced my throat muscles as hard as I could into a downward drive. And then, amazingly, I felt the sticky liquid crawling down the inside of my chest. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so relieved, although the relief was fleeting, as Stephen’s ocean blues right then returned to me, and I felt my cheeks burning and eyes flooding. I blinked hard a few times, trying to dry up the stress-induced tears. Stephen simply stared, looking a bit bewildered. He was so together, so rational, so lawyerly. I felt like an oaf.

I’m sorry, I finally managed to mumble, my cheeks still full of the rest of the mouthful.

Ah, it’s okay? Stephen’s stare turned to a perplexed frown, which deepened as his eyes focused on my left cheek, which held the remaining marshmallow brownie soup. After a few seconds, though, he shook off his confusion, lifted his brows, looked down at his carrot cake, and began to gather another forkful.

With his eyes thus directed, I tried quickly to swallow the next chewed portion. But the same blasted thing happened: just when the food was at the back of my throat, the ball knuckled up again. Stephen’s chin bobbed back up just as I struggled for breath again. I knew he could now see the panic. He looked befuddled. I bent my head down and tried to swallow hard again. Not that holding your chin to your neck while trying to force food down your throat makes any sense, of course, but, desperation can produce irrationality. I peeked up to catch him staring at me gasping. The food was now stuck longer than before, and I felt I really would faint if I didn’t escape his gaze and pull myself out of it. So, pretending I heard something behind me, I turned my head over my left shoulder, closed my eyes, and thrust down hard as I could.

Sophie, what are you doing?

I felt the cold drizzle inside again. Oh thank you, lord. I hesitantly turned back around to Stephen. He was frowning, but his lips were slightly curled up at the edges, bemused. I still had one more evil swallowful.

What are you doing? he repeated.

I couldn’t speak, so I just smiled dumbly and shrugged.

Well, are you okay?

Mum-huh, I managed.

Om, okay. So, how about it?

Huhm? I really didn’t want to try swallowing again but I couldn’t talk too well with the last bit of food in my mouth.

What do you think of an African safari?

Safari? Brilliant! I loved wild animals! Mmm-hum, tigews, gowewas, I nodded profusely, well aware it was probably not possible to look more adolescent. Another tear of sweat began tickling its way down my cheek.

Okay then, he said with a tinge of frustration and a final raise of his eyebrows before glancing down at his plate.

With his gaze thus averted came my chance to get it all down. I tongued a little more of the sticky concoction toward the back of my mouth, swallowing just as he placed his fork into his, and returned his eyes to me. Again, I felt my little friend. Absurdity uncontained though it was, I had no choice but to re-conjure an imaginary distraction. Again, I peered over my shoulder.

Sophie, Stephen said, this time completely without perplexed inflection at the end. This was his patience-becoming-spent tone.

I could see his eyes in my periphery, so I turned my head back further, when I saw the waitress walking briskly toward us. Then, so thankfully, I felt the fluid in my chest. It was over. Oh my gosh, are you okay? she said.

I was so relieved to have nothing in my mouth, I couldn’t think of what to say. So, looking like a perfect Stepford wife -- or wife-to-be -- I turned to my fiancé.

Ah, I think so, he said, with a slightly self-conscious snicker.

Okay, she said, continuing to eye me over her shoulder as she walked away.

I returned to Stephen’s gaze. Um, I just… My throat muscles had been stressed and now my voice was scratchy. I just felt something get stuck. I mean, I felt kind of like I was choking, I squeaked.

But it was all soft, right, he said. I mean, there was nothing sharp in it?

No, no, nothing sharp. Just a big ole pounding, throbbing fist.

Yeah, I said, trying to laugh. I don’t know, I really don’t. I shrugged and smiled bashfully, trying to be demure and cute so he’d let me off the hook.

Okay, he shrugged. At least finish your cappuccino.

I should be able to handle that -- it was only liquid, right? Wrong. I took a sip, glimpsed Stephen, and FB came right back, on automatic return.

Well? Stephen asked, cocking his head and squinting, while the warm liquid burned my cheeks.

I took a lengthy inhalation through my nose, praying something would distract him. But no such luck. Again, head around my shoulder, strained throat muscles pushing downward, and down it went. But not without a hitch. Part of it went into my trachea, resulting in a mini coughing frenzy.

Check, please, Stephen called to the waitress, this time not taking his eyes off me.

Sorry, it’s really hot, I found myself apologizing again.

Shouldn’t be. It’s been sitting there forever, honey.

Then the most absurdist episode of the evening, as if there hadn’t been enough thus far: before the waitress could arrive with our check, though I didn’t dare take another sip of the coffee, an excess of saliva had collected in my mouth. I couldn’t even get that down. I gasped, coughed -- the whole thing again. On saliva! I jumped up, snatched my purse and coat, and fled down the spiral staircase, past the throng of cherub-faced children and glass-enclosed retro-toys, straight out onto 60th Street. Very graceful exit.

I really don’t understand what happened in there, Stephen said in the cab. I mean, there really wasn’t any foreign object in the food, right – you weren’t just trying to be nice and avoid a scene? Because if there was…

I considered using the excuse he was giving me, but knowing Stephen, there’d be a lawsuit.

No, no, I said. I don’t know what it was. It was weird. But it’s over. I’m okay now.

I thought I was telling the truth.

When we got home, I tried to resume the wedding discussion. But Stephen was more interested in watching me model the fully extended strand of pearls next to my pale, goose-bumped, bare skin.

Mmmm, dazzling, he said, lifting his brows, his pupils piercing every pore of me.

The first time I felt the fist-ball was on my seventh birthday. We -- that is, Mom, big sis Bebe, and I -- had recently moved from Phoenix to Florence -- a town almost as lovely as its Italian namesake, except that its most notable architectural achievement is not the Duomo or the Uffuzi, but the Arizona State Penitentiary. It was about six months after the separation and my father was visiting from California, where he’d just embarked on his new film career. He wanted to make sure we were safely ensconced in our new home -- as safely ensconced as an all-female family could be, I guess, in a prison town. He brought his girlfriend with him. I don’t remember much about her, except that she had blonde hair and an unbelievable tan, like all of them. And that she was all phony smiles with us; her front teeth were so big and white, I remember thinking she looked like Bugs Bunny. Anyway, for such a grimy city, Mom had found us a pretty charming cottage -- tan with pink window shutters, and white, frosting-like trim framing the roof; I thought of it as our gingerbread house.

Bebe and I were all decked out in new polka dot bikinis -- mine with cherry bubbles, hers aqua, sitting on lawn chairs in the backyard, the cozy May sun pouring down on our already tanned little bodies and golden-streaked heads, chattily nibbling away on corn on the cob, dangling our feet in the mini plastic Doughboy. Even on our lower-middle-class block, I think we were the only ones without a built-in pool. Mom had baked me a gorgeous cake shaped and decorated to look like a Raggedy Ann doll -- more Bebe’s favorite than mine: not only was Raggedy Ann raggedy, but she was so ubiquitous I thought it completely unimaginative to choose her as a favorite. But I didn’t care -- back then Bebe and I were still close; my birthday was practically hers as well. I remember how much I just wanted to sink my gums into that cake -- which meant that I had to finish at least half of my plate. Mom’s orders I’m sure; can’t imagine Daddy ever issuing such a directive.

I remember sliding my teeth up and down the buttery cob, and when I looked down at my reflection in the water, the story of the cornhusk dolls we’d just made in school popped into my mind. We’d had Native American culture week, and we made the dolls the day we studied the Iroquois. The husks were difficult to manipulate and I was one of the only students to finish, for which I’d received a high commendation from my favorite teacher, making me very proud. I hadn’t seen Daddy in a while, and we’d always had a bizarre communication barrier, so I was suddenly very excited to have something specific and good to tell him. He was talking to Mom but there was a lull in the conversation, so I turned around toward him, my jaw probably covered with corn.

I got an A+ on my cornhusk doll last week! I shouted.

He looked up at me, somewhat startled.

Do you want to know the legend of the cornhusk people? I said.

His blank stare turned to a frown. I decided that was my cue to continue. There were three sisters, and one of them was named Corn. Her sisters had done great things, so Corn decided she wanted to as well. So she made some little people out of cornhusks, and they were supposed to help bring brotherhood and peace between the Iroquois and Senecas. But one pretty cornhusk lady saw her reflection in the water and became vain. The Great Spirit warned her that was bad for peace but she didn’t listen. So he blanked out her face, and then she couldn’t talk to the Senecas or even the birds. And she’d always be roaming the earth trying to get her face back. That’s why you make cornhusk dolls without faces.

I vividly remember how he looked at his girlfriend, then at my mom, then back to me, his expression more than adequately conveying that he thought I was completely off my nut. I felt I’d just said the most insipid thing humanly possible. With all now eyes on me, I had to try to return to my pre-inane-statement-state. The only thing I could think of was to continue doing what I was doing before. So, although I still had a mouthful of corn, I put my teeth to the cob for another bite.

Dad’s face blanched, his eyes widened, and he erupted, For God's sake, Sophie, what are you doing to yourself? Are you trying to choke to death?

I didn’t really understand his words; I was just so startled by the sound of that last one, and that fulminating voice. The corn was at the base of my throat at that point, and my swallowing reflex automatically pushed it down. But because I subconsciously second-guessed my decision to swallow, my throat muscles automatically began pushing it back up. I tried to push it back down but it felt like a fist was clenching my throat beneath my skin, grabbing the corn, keeping it there. I couldn’t breathe, and I felt my cheeks heat up, my eyes water, and, then, the chair’s metal as it scraped the inside of my left thigh as I took a sideways dive, landing flat on my behind in the center of the shallow pool, where that bite along with practically everything I’d eaten that day came up, right into the cold water.

I remember bawling while my mother poured a stinging half bottle of rubbing alcohol down my leg -- still have the scar, Bebe’s screaming from I guess the sight of blood, and my father saying

Reviews for Swallow

[swivelgal · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Great book! At times I could totally relate to the main character. Actually, the entire cast of characters was well done. Yes, I would recommend this book to a friend.

[bookishdame · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Tanya Plank is a fantastic writer of the young, priviledged, slightly disturbed and disoriented New York professionals. She's the voice of the over-educated, preppie, ivy-leagued-to-the-max, "now what do I do to one-up everyone" generation. She "gets it" and she's telling!! LOL I thought her author's voice--her book was hilarious and riveting! It helps to know these Harvard-types she writes about, but I think anyone can understand a pompous person when they see or hear one...or read about them. Her characterizations are golden. Sophie, the swallower in question, is a loveable and genuine young woman for whom I immediately took a liking. I was on her side right away and kept by her like a glove to her hand throughout her struggles and humorous/humiliating revelations. Tanya is right on in her dialog and descriptions; particularly in her scene at the fancy art show with Sophie's fiance's Harvard friend, Alana. Oooo, as slick and slimy as they come in a tightly wrapped ivy package. As well as with Sophie's own would-be friend, Samia, who keeps referencing herself and Sophie as "when you're young," as if to say she is now so mature and beyond it all--and that living and working in New York for even a short time has jaded and matured them like hot house roses....which it may, in fact, have done. At the very least it's caused Sophie to choke, hasn't it? It's caused Sophie to revisit a childhood dysfunction...a fist-sized ball (FB) that blocks her esophagus and causes her to choke, actually not being able to swallow anything but tiny bits of food, drink or even her own saliva. Sophie is struck again by her swallowing FB shortly after her boyfriend proposes, and prior to a big Public Defender's Office advocacy case that she must orally present before a presumably hostile, multiple Justice panel. Sophie is diagnosed with a psychological problem called Globus Sensate, but not before it has run amock within the strictly held confines of her fragile life. Sophie's secrets of the pornographer father, the wacky sister who pops in to humiliate and horrify...and the fiance' who can't believe his eyes, ears and understanding about the FB!!!...all make for a fun ride!! I loved Tanya Plank's book. I loved NYC through the eyes of the Arizona girl and the Yalie mix. I loved the story through the words of a choking, swallowing dysfunctional lawyer!!! LOL What could be better than the image of a poor lawyer who can bearly talk for choking on her words! (with apologies to my sons) This is a wild and fun romp full of satire, symbolism and insight into the lives of the educationally priviledged and spoiled vs the "real" people. It's a look into the workings of the public defender's life and the big city lawyer's mindset. It's a glance at the young bucks and brave girls who come to Town with all the credentials and hautier but missing some of the heart and raw bones of real life. And, a look at the other young "brave ones" who come hoping to make a difference against some mighty odds that aren't in their favor. This is a book that's easy to swallow. Though, I have to admit, I suffered with Sophie when she was having problems swallowing. I felt myself closing up. I found myself putting my hand to my throat and getting a smothering feeling and practicing swallowing, myself. That's how good Tanya Plank is at writing! You have to get this book. Ms Plank is going to be heard from again, and you're going to be listening and loving her!! Just like I do.

[hazel1123_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed this book far more than I expected. It is a good story about an accompished young woman who need to learn to quit living her life in relation to what others think of her. I really enjoyed reading it.

[cajunbooklady · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This was an enjoyable read for me! There was a psychological tone to the book which really tied everything going on together. Once you meet "FB" in the book you really start to see how other people affect you in ways that you wouldn't think.I enjoyed Sophie's character for the most part. At first, I kept wondering why heck she didn't stand up for herself! There were a few characters that I totally despised through the entire book. But...these characters are what make a story interesting. *shrug*All in all, I was happy with the way the story turned out and delighted in watching the main character grow. I liked the message of the book also as I think it's an important one for all of us. Standing up for yourself and realizing that yes, you are important and in charge of your life.

[mesmericrevelation · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I had a very hard time putting this book down. I could not stop reading it. I found that I could relate to Sophie because we have similar problems. What she goes through is a lot like Selective Mutism, which is what I have. To me, Sophie is a strong, passinate and brave character, that I actually can see myself looking up to her in a way. This is a must read! I was hooked from the first page.

[carolee888 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is a great read. Kudos for the author. Sophie is a shy appeals attorney in New York City. She develops what she calls a FB (fist ball) in stressful situations. This feels to her like a fist sized ball in her throat and prevents her from talking, eating and eventually even breathing. This story alternated between narration and conversation making it very easy to follow what happens. I was hooked from page one and could barely lay the book down. When you read the book, you are right there with Sophie in the situations that brought on her stress like her self-possessed boyfriend and her porn movie making father, her mixed up sister and her angry mother. Sophie didn’t fit in with her family. She does have good friends like her very frank and self confident girl friend and her very intuitive gay friend. This is a black comedy but it will not make you depressed. There are moments of situations so funny that you can do nothing but laugh and there are times when you just wanted to hit the person who is hurting Sophie. I don’t want to tell you too much about the story because I do not want to spoil it for you. I am already looking forward to reading Tonya Plank’s next book. I recommend this book for women mostly and especially those who have to struggle with a disability, psychologically, physically or in some other way.