I couldn’t put ‘The Museum of Human History’ by Rebekah Bergman, down. I was so enraptured in the storytelling as we bounced around in time and between the lives of individuals and families. A perfect (for me) blend of science fiction, introspective contemplation and anthropology — with themes of memory, connection and loss. Ugh, it was beautiful. I kept thinking, at the end of each chapter; “this is beautiful“.

It tells the story of Maeve, an 8 year old girl in a strange coma for 25 years, never aging, as the world around her becomes more and more obsessed with the idea of youth, “wellness”, and long life. But is that possible? And what is the cost? Scientific discoveries, seemingly, provide a way— and through a large cast of characters and the distant history of an island, we go on a philosophical journey to explore these promises and questions. It’s empathetic and hard hitting and massively impressive, only compounded in this by the fact that it is a debut. It left me thinking… and crying.

I won’t spoil it, but there is one chapter from the perspective of an unexpected character and it really moved me.

As always, check the trigger warnings, but I highly recommend this one! And I cannot wait to read more from Rebekah Bergman in the future.

[Thank you Tin House for gifting me this copy of The Museum of Human History, it was such a gift!] ( )

There’s a mystery at the heart of Bergman’s skillful and intriguing work of speculative fiction. Twenty-five years before the story opens, an eight-year old girl, Maeve Wilhelm, was retrieved from the bottom of a swimming pool, having spent an indeterminate period of time under water. After initial treatment in hospital, she was sent home with a dire prognosis. Defying the odds, she’s been “undead” for a very long time. Hooked up to monitors and receiving nutrition through a nasogastric tube, Maeve can breathe on her own. To all appearances, she is simply asleep. (the tale of Briar Rose is alluded to more than once.) What is most remarkable is that the child has not aged. Only her hair and nails grow.

Shortly before the accident that left Maeve in this vegetative state, her mother died. Since her twin sister, Evangeline, was too young to assist, it was left to Maeve’s oddball father, Lionel, to manage her care. Early on there was medical support, and a half-dozen researchers studied her. A cult of worshippers—the orange-robed “Congregants”— also formed around Maeve. The latter were permitted entry into the home to breath in bedside synchrony with the child.

The story of Maeve’s mother is significant. Before being hired by Genesix, one of three biotech firms in Marks Island City, Naomi Clarke Wilhelm had been a promising paleobiologist. She’d completed a doctorate on the complex ecosystem around nearby Marks Island, an area subject to seismic activity. Years before Naomi began her studies, the remains of members of an ancient indigenous tribe had been recovered from caves there. A peculiar doll carved from red rock was also unearthed. Dr. Wilhelm had been particularly interested in the role of phosphorescent red algae in the waters around the island, and she’d hoped for a post-doc that would allow her to continue her investigations. With funding for academic work in “the ancient sciences” drying up, however, the young woman was forced into pragmatic compromise: she accepted a senior research position with Genesix. The project assigned to her was highly specialized, tightly controlled, and secretive, its purpose hidden from Dr. Wilhelm herself. Communication among the biotech’s departments was strictly forbidden. Ultimately, the company would launch Prosyntus, a procedure to arrest aging.

In addition to Evangeline, Maeve’s identical twin, Bergman has created a well-developed cast of characters, all within six (or fewer) degrees of separation from the Wilhelms. Among them is Kevin Marks, founder-curator of the Marks Museum, situated on the site of the original caves; he’s the grandson of the paleoanthropologist who discovered the ancient tribe. Monique Gray, a performance artist and indigenous refugee from an island ravaged by an addiction epidemic, is another interesting character. Finally, there are two couples who play important parts in the story. Luke and Tess are trying to cope with the latter’s terminal illness. Syl and Abe have a nine-year-old son, a classmate of Evangeline’s. Abe, a historian, is 23 years older than his wife. These characters allow Bergman to explore a number of themes. The novel includes reflections on history, impermanence, aging, loss, and memory. There are penetrating insights sprinkled throughout. Bergman has a distinctive voice—philosophical with a dash of mystical and a pinch of quirky.

Those who prefer chronological storytelling may find the author’s shifting backwards and forwards in time frustrating. In many ways, the novel compares to a jigsaw or mosaic. Each chapter provides pieces or tiles which gradually fill in the picture. Prospective readers should be forewarned that if they expect to understand the formulation of Prosyntus or its physiological mechanisms, they’ll be disappointed. Bergman addresses these things in only the vaguest of ways. This may be considered a weakness by some. Having said that, I think there’s much to appreciate overall. I really liked this novel and would certainly read more by Bergman. ( )