And she reevaluates the framework as time passes:
“When I was a child this block had been a universe to me, its borders unknowable, and it was unsettling to see how finite it was, how easily escapable.”
Dialogue is not simply heard, it is studied and contemplated:
“This is a summary. The actual speech was scattered and angry, and Robin kept interrupting him, defending Canada and Canadians – I think? – and her own life, her commitments, her ideology.”
And because there have been some fractures in her life – literal and metaphorical – she is even further distanced from her own surroundings, her own world:
“I asked how the weather was in Montreal, about which she harbored endless comments. In those years I often knew more about the forecast there than where I lived.”
So Dual Citizens is about two sisters, but it’s also about how one might tell a tale of two sisters.
It’s about the way that one might frame the telling, the process by which readers can examine the shape of the frame for clues about the architect.
If this isn’t the kind of fictional landscape you enjoy inhabiting, you’d do better to apply for citizenship in some other writer’s country.
(You can see all the shadows for the sticky-notes in my reading, in the image alongside, as part of the bigger shadow. That’s an indication of how enjoyable it was to assemble my understanding. But because this process reveals some unexpected truths, it would be spoilery to say much more about it.)