You learn about the narrator and you cluck-cluck at her adolescent mistakes of judgment (if that’s what they are, as in they were generated by her fervent love for her complicated and beautiful mother); you grow up with her and her inner anguish; you break away with relief and happiness for her.
The world that Byrne has created is intensely brittle, manipulated, multidimensional and polymorphous, but less focus on the possibilities of pastiche and paranormality and a little more on the meaning and yield even of shifting positions and subjectivities in a compressed time-space would have made the novel more readable and enjoyable.
Taxes. We’ve understood how it goes. Some of us report it. Some of us don’t. Some of us pay it. Some of us don’t. How do you live through tax season and tell of it? There’s only one way. Go vote out those who don’t pay their taxes despite occupying highest office in the USA. Then return, and tell of it, smiling.