A Mouthful of Air is the realistic story of an upper-class woman struggling with postpartum depression. On the rebound after a suicide attempt following the birth of her first child, Julie suddenly finds herself pregnant again despite her best precautions. After the second baby arrives, she is faced with a harrowing choice: she can either accept the orders of her doctor and the expectation of her husband to resume taking her antidepressants (which means bottle-feeding), or she can deceive them and secretly breastfeed her baby.
The book is made up of an infinite number of such choices, though most would not initially seem as significant: whether or not to go to the market; whether to pick up her son or let him stay in the arms of the capable nanny. Like air, this book finds its voice in the ether of what is normally unseen—what is taken for granted and invisible. For Julie, each day is a minefield of obligation and failure, each moment a new opportunity to disappoint herself and those she loves.
The success of this novel comes in Koppelman’s ability to make readers empathize with a woman who outwardly seems to have every advantage. She and her husband first share a city residence with a view of Central Park, then an enormous home in the suburbs. She has a live-in nanny for their son, a live-in nurse after her second child is delivered. A support team of doctors, seats on the floor at the Knicks game. Essentially, everything that money can buy.
But to its credit, this book is distinctively focused on what cannot be bought. Thus the narrative—which could initially seem like a laundry-list dialogue of wealth filled with thoughts and words that inherently display privilege—slowly, magically inverts itself. Suddenly, everything is far more painful because the vast amounts of money, hired help, and objects still cannot make Julie’s life alright. There is so much expenditure, all in her name, and still it does no good: Julie’s father will never reunite with her mother, or be the man she wants him to be. Julie will never be as capable as her husband Ethan, or be able to parent her children without other, more qualified women coming over to guide her. Julie’s mother will never be young again; she will die without knowing a fairy tale. Julie will never want to leave the house.
Although there are moments of lyricism, A Mouthful of Air is not driven by language. The supporting characters in the book are largely unremarkable, their daily events neither outstandingly funny nor tragic. Instead, everything except the narrator functions like a placid lake, a mirror to reflect Julie’s inward paralysis. The straightforward prose allows admissions to the horror of Julie’s everyday life without seeming melodramatic: “At times, when it’s really bad, when she can’t figure out what there is left to hope for or even what can actually come from any of that hope, life, the mere idea of living, of caring, of walking with her son to the market seems impossible.”
This impossibility, this contrast between what Julie feels capable of vs. what must happen for a normal life to occur—even a highly privileged one—provides the suspense that keeps the pages turning. The terror that comes at the end of the book is heartbreakingly believable, and rings outstandingly true.