Carrie, the protagonist of Claire Cameron's debut novel The Line
Painter, is consumed by grief after the sudden death of her
boyfriend Bill. She takes off in Bill's car, headed, she decides,
for the western reaches of Canada. Friends and family,
worried--both about her state-of-mind and for her safety--call
repeatedly on her cell phone, leaving messages that give us, as
readers, insight into Carrie's plight and hint at a darker reason
for her sudden departure.
In a remote area, north of Lake Superior, Carrie's car breaks down
in the middle of the night. She hasn't passed another car for
hours, her friends and family have no idea where she is, her cell
phone can't find service, and most immediately pressing of all, she
has an overfull bladder. Universal law dictates that as soon as she
squats, headlights appear. But--no ordinary headlights--these
belong to the truck of a line painter. In the remotest regions of
Canada, Frank works the night shift, alone, tranforming dingy grey
road lines into bright white reflective ones, with the help of
millions of tiny glass beads suspended in the paint. He offers
Carrie a (very slow) ride into the nearest town.
Carrie, we soon realize, is an enigmatic character: she takes up
smoking again, because it seems like the thing to do; she tells us
she tried, earnestly, to make herself "grow up" by moving in with
her boyfriend, wearing suits, and playing house; and she alternates
between naivete and world-weariness. Early on, her inability to
distinguish real danger from imagined, her impulsive attempts to
establish control over the situation, and her refusal to face her
problems are a source of readerly frustration. But as the story
unfolds, her doubts and anxieties begin to make perfect sense. By
the end of the book, I was captivated by Carrie's experiences and
by her heart, which was larger than I ever expected. The layers of
guilt, regret, grief and loss that emerge in the last third of the
book expose the beating heart of this unusual story.