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Unstitched is riveting, compassionate, topical, and one of the best books Ive read this year. Stanciu, in beautiful prose, takes on the impact of the opioid epidemic on a small Vermont town with the gusto and suspense of a fine mystery novel, and the empathy that only a truly fine observer of the human condition could muster. Highly recommended.
Thomas Christopher Greene, author of The Perfect Liar
The shift in scale throughout Unstitched from a tiny Vermont library, from one persons annoyance with one addicts break-ins, to the global scope of the opioid epidemic is gut-wrenching. In a memoir that is generous and capacious at the same time that it is intimate, difficult, and finely wrought, readers will be carried by this deftly woven investigation into addiction in a small town. I didnt want to read this book, given my own familys loss, and then I couldnt put it down. Unstitched is the book about addiction that everyone needs to read if we are ever to understand what needs to be done.
Kerrin McCadden, author of Keep This To Yourself
Unstitched should be mandatory reading. It is a heartbreaking, raw, tender and revelatory look at addiction and its pervasive grip on ourselves, our families, our communities, and our rural towns. This book undid me as I read taking me into the heart of suffering, revealing my own habits, biases and fears and then it gathered those pieces together and braided them into something new: a vision of hope, connection, possibility and healing for us all.
Robin MacArthur, author of Heart Spring Mountain and Half Wild
While Unstitched begins as a true crime memoir set in an idyllic small Vermont town, soon it explodes into an exploration about the ugliness of poverty, the ravages of drug addiction as Stanciu studies our nations and her own addiction crises. Stanciu shines a light on the things we dont want to see: drug and alcohol abuse spread throughout our hometowns, including her own. Stancius beautiful light, and stunning writing, transforms those who are considered once a junkie, always a junkie, into our friends and neighbors where recovery is possible and we are alike.
Sean Prentiss, author of Finding Abbey and Crosscut: Poems
With this thoughtful and thought-provoking book, Brett Stanciu shines a light on the twin tragedies of addiction and suicide that have infiltrated every family in America, even more so during the pandemicAddiction, and all the dark aspects associated with it, is a subject Id like to ignore. But ignoring it isnt going to help or make it go away, and Bretts book has led me to re-examine what I could do to be part of the solution. This book may provide a lifeline to someone in need, and might begin a conversation that saves a life.
Natalie Kinsey-Warnock, author of As Long As There Are Mountains and The Canada Geese Quilt
Beautifully crafted and researched, this book is for everyone, whether youve known the secret pain of addiction in your family or seen it ravaging your community. A luminous act of compassion and courage.
Diana Whitney, author of You Dont Have to Be Everything
With compassion, curiosity, and a fine eye for detail, Brett Ann Stanciu takes us on an unforgettable journey into the world of addiction and recovery in rural Vermont. The result is a beautiful and affecting story about the resilience of spirit and of community, at precisely the time we most need an abundance of both.
Ben Hewitt, author of The Town That Food Saved and Homegrown
I took a sobering read through this book because it focuses a lot on community, conversation, Vermont and the effects/impacts of substance abuse on all lives involved.
Jason Broughton, Vermont state librarian and commissioner
Copyright 2021 by Brett Ann Stanciu
A LL R IGHTS R ESERVED
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to:
Steerforth Press L.L.C., 31 Hanover Street, Suite 1
Lebanon, New Hampshire 03766
Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the Library of Congress
Ebook ISBN9781586422707
a_prh_5.7.0_c0_r0
For Molly and Gabriela, beloved daughters.
And, again, for my father.
The past is the present, isnt it? Its the future, too.
We all try to lie out of that but life wont let us.
Eugene ONeill, Long Days Journey into Night
A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.
Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part One
contents
BODY
one
Seeking Shelter
On a cold-throttled Thursday afternoon in January, shortly after the holidays, library trustee Susan Greene walked in on an intruder in the Woodbury Library. Minutes before, a neighbor had messaged Susan after spying a local man named John Baker hurrying around the back of the library. Though the library was closed, the lights had blazed on briefly, and she guessed Baker had broken in again. When Susan rushed through the front door and saw Baker, she grabbed the desk phone and shouted that she was dialing 911. Baker fled through the side door. Then Susan called me, the librarian of this one-room rural Vermont library.
I was home folding laundry. That day, with a forecast high of fourteen degrees below zero, the superintendent had canceled school. At that temperature, buses couldnt run reliably, and some kids who lived in the village and walked to school lacked winter clothing. When I hung up the phone, I told my twelve-year-old daughter, Gabriela, who was rolling out biscuit dough, that I would be back as soon as I could.
She paused, her floury hands on the marble pin. You okay?
Ill call. Your sister will be home soon.
Rushing out of the house, I forgot my gloves. As I drove the seven minutes from Hardwick, where I live, to Woodbury, I blew hard on one hand, then the other, to warm my fingers.
Over the past year, John Baker, a rumored heroin user, had repeatedly broken into the library. I hoped the camera Id hidden in the library bookshelves had snapped a photo of him; the states attorney had bungled a previous charge, and I needed evidence to reopen the case.
When I arrived at the library, Susans husband, Randy, and their two teenagers were standing just inside the front door. Her willowy hips leaned against my desk. The fluorescent lights glared. With the heat turned down and the day so cold, clumps of snow tracked in by our boots hadnt melted into the hard-worn gray carpet.
What happened? I asked.
Each of them stared at different places Randy at his wife; their daughter, Rachel, at a spider plant on the windowsill but avoided my eyes. No one said anything.
I had known Susan for several years and knew she had a habit of pausing to stare right or left before she spoke, judicious with her words.
I repeated, What happened?
Randy answered, The dispatcher on the neighbors scanner said Baker shot himself. The ambulance is on its way.
What? John Baker shot himself?
Randy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Thats what was called in.
But he was just here?
He ran home and shot himself.
Less than half an hour had elapsed since Susan called me. I pulled my hat off my head and turned it around and around in my hands. My daughter had crocheted it from chunky turquoise yarn. He shot himself over such a minor crime?