Meet the Cooke family: Mother and
Dad, brother Lowell, sister Fern, and our narrator, Rosemary, who
begins her story in the middle. She has her reasons. “I spent the first
eighteen years of my life defined by this one fact: that I was raised
with a chimpanzee,” she tells us. “It’s never going to be the first
thing I share with someone. I tell you Fern was a chimp and already you
aren’t thinking of her as my sister. But until Fern’s expulsion, I’d
scarcely known a moment alone. She was my twin, my funhouse mirror, my
whirlwind other half, and I loved her as a sister.
Rosemary was not yet six when
Fern was removed. Over the years, she’s managed to block a lot of
memories. She’s smart, vulnerable, innocent, and culpable. With some
guile, she guides us through the darkness, penetrating secrets and
unearthing memories, leading us deeper into the mystery she has dangled
before us from the start. Stripping off the protective masks that have
hidden truths too painful to acknowledge, in the end, “Rosemary” truly
is for remembrance.
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