Cassandra Trout narrates her days as a retail associate at an Eileen Fisher store in Philadelphia and her sleepless nights alone in Hidden River, Sara Lippmann’s sharp second novel. When she receives a wedding invitation from her childhood friend, Sally Sellers, Cass is brought back to the intimate relationship she experienced with Sally’s father that began in middle school and continued until his sudden death during the girls’ freshman year in college. Lippmann suggests that isolation and loneliness are not only dangerous preconditions for abuse, but also its long-lasting, self-perpetuating consequences, providing an artful reflection on the culture that allows such mistreatment to exist.
Cass’ image of Sally’s childhood home is idyllic, particularly compared to the apartments that Cass shared with just her mother, Rosie, an astrological artist who flits between boyfriends. Rosie’s aversion to tradition does not in itself trouble Cass. She seems to understand Rosie’s love for her, unconventional and unique as it may be. Still, Cass felt alone throughout her youth, like “a child short on affection, starved for attention, a child unable to see [her]self as a child, a child without childhood.” Her search for belonging placed her in the unsafe hands of Len Sellers. Forced to live not only with the pain of that abuse but also with the guilt of a secret from her best friend, Cass turns infinitely inward.
Sally’s wedding invitation prompts a plunge into Cass’ early memories, and the first ones to arise are weighted with guilt. She remembers her absence from Sally’s life in the time immediately following Len’s death during the girls’ freshman year in college. In Lippmann’s singular style, Cass’ remorse is expertly, unsentimentally rendered. Cass remarks that “other people are laden with tote bags of purple kale or hip-slung babies or freshly groomed dogs, with mortgage payments or credit card debt or boxes of cold pizza, but shame is the weight that I carry.”
Also inescapable in these early recollections is the sense of Cass’ infatuation with Len. In her memory of Sally’s father, “[w]hen he lived, he lit up the world.” As the book progresses and the memories continue to pour out, Cass’ image of Len grows increasingly complex. She begins to recall not only the loving father at the breakfast table, but also the man who dismissed Cass and confused her. In a single passage, Lippmann captures the complexity of Cass’ understanding of Len:
I loved him. I loved him with the single-minded obsession of a child … I was a child, full stop. I was twelve. He was Sally’s dad! And he chose me.
Despite being a deeply internal piece, this work’s most profound success is as a humble but forceful social reflection. Only after we are unequivocally submerged into Cass’ world does Lippmann ask how to define consent and remember assault. She goes further still, prompting us to recognize the trauma embedded into American culture and its citizens.
The whole time, the novel appears to marvel at how life can progress under unbearable circumstances. As Cass puts it, “left and right people were skinning their teeth, getting lucky—or unlucky. Without rhyme or reason. Life is a heartache. Shit happens. So it goes.” Cass, like her compatriots, finds ways to redirect her pain and take “comfort” in the televised, sensationalized pain of others.
Lippmann provides a lens through which to see the pain and pressure of a modern female experience. Throughout Cass’ flashbacks, we learn of Sally’s struggles with food, in high school more intense than those of Cassandra. When Cass sees Sally on video call years later, however, Cass finds that while she has “spent the last fifteen years trying to preserve [her] pubescent body,” her childhood friend “has yielded to her full shape.” Cass has not yet been able to grow out of self-imposed deprivation, and she wonders whether fueling oneself “is what it’s like to love oneself, to be loved enough, to let go.” Even in these most tender moments, there is no dramatic breakdown. Instead, Cass’ physical body and mental seclusion serve as the evidence of the impact of Len’s abuse.
The stories in both timelines—Cass’ youth in the Eighties and Nineties and her adult life in 2008—are full of endearing characters. Her young life is told almost exclusively in quick flashbacks, but most of the present-day story is told in concise slices as well. With each narrative burst, we grow more invested in each version of Cass until these images cohere into one fully knowable person. Cass’ telling of her abuse may initially appear passive, but in fact, the wit and comedic self-awareness that define her voice form the lens through which she is finally able to see her pain.
Hidden River, by Sara Lippmann. Chicago, Illinois: Tortoise Books, May 2026. 254 pages. $19.99, paper.
Mia Carroll is a writer and engineer. She lives in Manhattan with her husband.
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