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Alterations by Kate Maruyama is a novel exploring multi-generational family trauma, secrets, failures, and sacrifice. It’s a story of complicated family dynamics rooted in obligation and heteronormativity. Through the lens of four generations of women in a family, we’re asked where the line is between selfish and selfless? In life, love, and motherhood, where is the balance between obligation and self-preservation?
The story follows two different timelines with three different point-of-view characters. We’re pulled between the glitz and shadows of 1940s Hollywood and the emotionally charged present of 1998 Baltimore, following the lives of three women: Adriana, Laura, and Lizzie. Each voice is distinct, each story a thread in a larger, intricate pattern.
Maruyama weaves a multi-generational saga, a tapestry of trauma, love, and the inescapable bonds of family. Adriana, in her 80s, is a great-grandmother wrestling with the “what ifs” of a life lived. In her youth, she was a talented costume designer at Paramount Pictures, working alongside the legendary Edith Head.
But more importantly, she was deeply, passionately in love with Rose, a beautiful bit part actress. Their clandestine romance, a beacon of queer joy in the shadow of the Hays Code, is both exhilarating and heartbreaking.
The book is inspired by the complex relationships of Cary Grant and Randolph Scott during an era when studios owned their talent and controlled every aspect of their lives. Maruyama captures the tension of that era, the constant fear, the knowledge that at any moment, the hammer could fall, outting the lovers and destroying everything.
The biggest difference between the true story of Grant and Scott, and the fictional account of Adriana and Rose is that the misogyny of the era made it nearly impossible for women to live independently of men. While spinsters and Boston marriages did exist, they were often limited to women who were heiresses or found a means of becoming independently wealthy. Many relationships between women at the time held a looming cloud overhead that at some point, a man would be needed for their economic survival.
In the present day, 1998, there’s Laura, 29, a failed movie executive who’s retreated to Adriana, her grandmother in Baltimore. Her life is in shambles after a failed relationship and losing her job, forcing her to turn to the only stable family member she had. I’ve been there, that feeling of being adrift, of losing your footing but still feeling important and needing to be humbled. She’s forced to confront her past and her patterns as she navigates her complicated relationship with her mother and her second cousin, Lizzie.
Lizzie, 13, is a biracial teenager reeling from the sudden loss of her parents and being forced to move states away and live with Adriana, her great-grandmother. She’s in the throes of grief and feeling like a burden while trying to find some semblance of a new normal in a life surrounded by adults who never wanted children of their own, or her.
There are several themes throughout the novel, but two main themes hit as universally relatable. The first is the idea that family, wanted or not, shapes us. You can’t choose them, but you can’t escape them either. We are the product of our upbringing, but also of the context of our environment and the people who came before us.
We tend to see our parents and grandparents as existing to satisfy our own needs. We see them like characters in a TV show, void of the context of the world and the people they came from. Maruyama explores the complex dynamics of obligation, resentment, and love, particularly the idea that we often see our elders as characters in our own stories, forgetting they had lives, loves, and struggles long before we were born.
Each woman in this story is complex and well-developed, making life-changing decisions that are self-absorbed and dramatically impact the rest of their family. Then, turn around and make altruistic choices that are self-sacrificing.
Fair warning, there will be some spoilers here, but I’ll try to keep them to a minimum.
The second theme found in dozens of contexts throughout the novel is that life is a choose-your-own-adventure story. Our actions or lack thereof – have consequences to those around us.
Adriana’s decision to be swept up in the engagement to Sal, despite her queerness and love for Rose, is a masterclass in the slow erosion of self. One that women of that era were encouraged to participate in and celebrated for.
If you’ve ever been to a funeral of an older woman, you’ll know what I mean. Each person gets up to the altar and gives a grand speech about how their wife/mother/grandmother gave everything up for her family, as if self subjugation is a virtue to extole.
Adriana believes she is choosing her career over her queerness, but in reality, she allows people around her to drive the vehicle of her life. While she’s a passenger in that journey, she can jump out of the car; her choice to passively go along for the ride has generational implications. It’s a painful reminder that inaction is a form of action, that choosing to let things happen, without getting out of the vehicle, is still a choice.
I wish the author had dove a bit deeper into the role Adriana’s boss, the infamously queer Edith Head played in the down fall of her younger protege. This is a true to life narrative that we see played out to this day in the queer community. An older person’s self-loathing homophobia results in them committing homophobic attacks on their peers and subordinates out of the fear that their proximity to queerness will expose them publicly. This is a recurring theme in the Republican Party.
Adriana’s neglect of “Sal’s daughters,” and her failure to recognize her responsibility in their upbringing create ripple effects that echo through generations. Maruyama lays bare the consequences of these choices, the wounds that fester, and the secrets that poison.
And Sally, Laura’s mother, is a small side character. But towards the end, we see her own quest for bliss over parental responsibility as a harsh reminder of the damage that can be inflicted when love is withheld. It’s a raw, unflinching look at the complexities of motherhood and how our desires can clash with our obligations.
Maruyama’s writing is evocative, drawing you into the world of old Hollywood, the glamour and the darkness, the hidden lives and the whispered secrets. Her love for classic black and white films shines through, adding another layer of richness to the story. Her exploration of Italian-American culture, food, traditions, and fierce loyalty adds a grounding sense of place.
“Alterations” is more than just a historical novel; it’s a meditation on love, obligation, what it means to be selfless, and the enduring power of family. It’s a story that stays with you long after you’ve turned the final page. It’s a reminder that our stories, our queer stories, are worth telling, worth remembering.
So, if you’re looking for a novel that will make you think, make you feel, and make you question your own assumptions about family and love, pick up “Alterations.” You won’t be disappointed.
