Marshmallow by Victoria Hannan
Following the success of her debut novel, Kokomo (2020), Australian author Victoria Hannan is back with another tender, heart-breaking ode to the ways in which we deal with emotions, heartbreak, loss and love. Marshmallow (2022) chronicles the story of a group of five friends in the aftermath of a terrible accident that changes everything. The ripples of grief, loss and pain that tear through their seemingly perfect lives bring to the surface their deepest and rawest emotions. If the novel could be summarised in one sentence, this is it: grief looks different for everyone, and showing up is the real test of friendship.
Annie, Nathan, Claire, Al and Ev are part of a friend group that formed throughout the years and endured university degrees, new and old relationships, marriage and parenthood. They are forever bound not only by the glue that holds friendships together, but also a tragedy that marked each of their lives in different ways. The story is told through each of their perspectives, and as the anniversary of the accident approaches, we gain an insight into the struggles and secrets of each character – the lies they tell each other and themselves, over and over again.
“But sometimes we tell ourselves the things we need to believe. It’s how we survive.”
Grief is a persistent, ugly companion, and the unassuming sixth character that steals the show in this novel. Hannan writes with such depth of empathy and honesty that you begin to feel as though it was you who’d lost someone you loved too early, too quickly, too unjustly. It is in her strokes of visceral sorrow and bone-aching denial that the story comes to life, and the ways in which we all deal with loss, pain, guilt and each other are explored with care and attention. Her writing is steeped in heartache and a numb kind of silence: filled with things unsaid, and things impossible to say.
“Can silence change the shape of things? All that air casting a secret spell.”
Marshmallow’s one downfall is that 294 pages are simply not enough to develop five completely different people, and five completely different perspectives. While the change in narration craftily follows the lines of both past and present, what is lost in these gaps is greater than the overall effect. The result is characters who are unfortunately under-developed, with too many names and supporting characters playing too little a part. To me, Marshmallow should have been a book about Al, as it is through his narration that we get an insight into the life-altering guilt that follows tragedy, and how blaming yourself can slowly but surely eat away at every aspect of your life. Al’s character is developed with nuance and heartache, and I would’ve preferred to stick with him for the entire ride.
At one point, Nathan goes on a drive to a rainforest as a way to expel the many things he’s feeling. It is on a trek that he encounters a lyrebird that, just like in a fairy tale, comes very close to providing some sort of revelation.
“He wanted it to speak. If he were in a film or a book, the bird would speak to him. The bird would have come to him with a message. It would forgive him, it would bury his grief in its nest, it would set him free.”
It doesn’t, of course, but Marshmallow’s characters entertain the thought, and then so do we as readers.
Overall, Marshmallow is a fairy tale in more ways than one – outside of the accident, most other things in Marshmallow feel perfect in an unbelievable way. Such as the pitch-perfect friend group whose relationships problems solve themselves without any significant input from the characters.
And yet! You long to be part of it – the shared victories, the supporting hand squeezes, the reliable shoulders to cry on – all the while being thankful that this experience of grief isn’t yours. Hannan positions the reader perfectly, capturing the raw and painful in vivid details, while also silently serving up a dose of quiet hopefulness.
Marshmallow leaves you wet with tears, both happy and sad – and a newfound, invigorating lust for life, a feeling that Annie sums up perfectly in the last few pages:
“Maybe that’s the only thing to do when someone dies. Live more life. Live the most amount of life possible.”
Fruzsina Gál is an aspiring writer, born in Hungary but living in Australia. She has been a reader all her life, and her first short story, 'The Turul' was published in Griffith University's 2018 anthology, Talent Implied. Her writing is often focussed on identity and the effects of immigration on the self. You can find her online at www.fruzsinagal.com or @thenovelconversation.