Tennessee Hill’s debut novel “Girls with Long Shadows” plunges readers into the murky, humid world of Longshadow, Texas, where identical triplet sisters navigate the treacherous waters of identity, desire, and communal judgment. With a voice as distinctive as a fingerprint and prose that ripples with the same hypnotic cadence as the bayou waters central to the story, Hill crafts a Southern Gothic narrative that lingers long after the final page.
The novel follows the Binderup triplets—referred to only as Baby A, Baby B, and Baby C—who were born as their mother Murphy died, leaving them in the care of their grandmother, Isadora (known to townspeople as “the Manatee”). Nineteen years later, the sisters work at Isadora’s struggling golf course, serving patrons and swimming in the neighboring bayou, all while existing under the watchful gaze of a town that sees them as interchangeable curiosities rather than individuals.
The Crushing Weight of Shared Identity
At its core, “Girls with Long Shadows” is a meditation on identity—specifically, what happens when your identity is inextricably bound to not one but two other people who share your face. Hill articulates this existential dilemma through Baby B, our primary narrator, who reflects:
“We shared a truck, a phone, chores, a face, a body, a life, a body, a face. That was how it reeled in my head when I thought of us. I prided myself on the idea that it bothered me the most out of us girls, the sharing, though I knew it destroyed us all, just differently.”
The sisters’ interlinked experience extends beyond the physical; they share sensations, emotions, and sometimes even thoughts. When Baby A engages in risky behavior with a local boy, Baby B and Baby C feel the physical sensations in their own bodies. This visceral connection serves as both comfort and curse, binding the girls together while simultaneously fueling their desperate desire for individuality.
A Town’s Voyeuristic Gaze
Hill masterfully employs a Greek chorus-like device with sections titled “[ENTER] Front Porch Chorus,” giving voice to the collective consciousness of Longshadow. These sections reveal how the town views the triplets as spectacle, as oddity, as a reminder of tragedy. The town’s perspective creates a suffocating pressure on the sisters:
“The town was the same, but now stilled, as we begged revelations of it, driving ten miles over the limit. The halfway house beside the realtor’s office, the string of auto shops across from First Baptist Church next to the Upchurch funeral home, the post office, the trophy shop inside the tailor’s; I wanted to claw back the glycerin that held the place frozen to reveal its oddities, to perceive this space as if I’d never seen it.”
The community’s inability to distinguish between the sisters becomes both metaphor and catalyst for the novel’s tragic events, revealing the dehumanizing consequences of being seen as fragments of a whole rather than complete individuals.
The Violence of Mistaken Identity
When Baby A begins impersonating Baby B to engage with Pete, a local boy with whom Baby B has been developing a tentative relationship, the narrative takes a sinister turn. The deception spirals into an act of horrific violence that ruptures the sisters’ shared existence forever.
Hill navigates this tragedy with unflinching precision, examining how Baby A’s desperate bid for distinction leads to her death at Pete’s hands—an act made possible by his inability to distinguish between the sisters and understand the gravity of what he’s doing. The resulting court case becomes a grotesque display of the town’s conflicted loyalties, as Pete’s defenders try to paint Baby A as manipulative while ignoring his ultimate responsibility.
Lyrical, Atmospheric Prose
Hill’s prose is the novel’s greatest strength. Her sentences curl and twist like the bayou itself, dense with imagery and metaphor:
“The water separated for me as I swam, pulling myself through with cupped hands. For a moment I considered stopping at Aunt Rachel’s and trying to talk this through with her, but then I’d have to betray my sister, which, even as angry as I felt, would only worsen the muddle of my feelings. So I swam past the house and farther, farther, until I was clutching the side of the midway buoy and the sun was rising to pierce my eyes.”
The atmospheric quality of Hill’s writing evokes the works of Karen Russell and Lauren Groff, particularly in how the natural world reflects and intensifies the emotional landscape of the characters. The bayou, with its murky depths and unpredictable currents, becomes a physical manifestation of the sisters’ complicated relationship—beautiful, dangerous, and impossible to fully understand.
Strengths That Shine
- Characterization: Each sister emerges as distinctly individual despite their identical appearance. Baby A is bold and reckless, Baby C is intuitive and spiritual, and Baby B (our narrator) is cautious and observant. Secondary characters like Gram, Aunt Rachel, and young brother Gull are equally well-developed.
- Sense of Place: Longshadow feels viscerally real, from the run-down golf course to the dangerous allure of the bayou. Hill creates a setting that is simultaneously beautiful and menacing.
- Voice: The narrative voice is distinctive and haunting, shifting seamlessly between lyrical descriptions and raw emotional honesty.
- Thematic Depth: The novel explores complex themes of identity, autonomy, grief, and the dual nature of sisterhood as both sanctuary and prison.
Room for Growth
Despite its considerable strengths, “Girls with Long Shadows” occasionally suffers from:
- Pacing Issues: The middle section feels somewhat repetitive, with similar conversations and interactions occurring multiple times.
- Uneven Character Development: While the sisters and immediate family members are richly drawn, some of the town’s young men (particularly Pete) remain somewhat opaque, making it difficult to fully understand their motivations.
- Overreliance on Metaphor: At times, the lushness of Hill’s prose threatens to overwhelm the narrative, with metaphors stacked upon metaphors until the meaning becomes momentarily obscured.
In the Tradition of Southern Gothic and Beyond
“Girls with Long Shadows” stands firmly in the tradition of Southern Gothic literature, with its emphasis on place, family secrets, and the grotesque aspects of human nature. It shares DNA with Flannery O’Connor’s moral vision, William Faulkner’s complex narrative structures, and the haunting atmosphere of Toni Morrison’s “Beloved.”
More contemporary comparisons include Jeffrey Eugenides’ “The Virgin Suicides,” with its collective narration and exploration of doomed femininity; Karen Russell’s “Swamplandia!,” with its evocative wetland setting and coming-of-age themes; and Emma Cline’s “The Girls,” with its examination of dangerous group dynamics and the vulnerable position of young women.
Final Verdict
“Girls with Long Shadows” announces Tennessee Hill as a formidable new literary voice. The novel’s exploration of identity, belonging, and the dangerous desire to be seen as an individual resonates beyond its specific setting, touching on universal human longings. Hill’s ability to balance lyrical prose with raw emotional truth creates a reading experience that is both aesthetically pleasing and deeply affecting.
For readers who appreciate atmospheric settings, complex female characters, and narratives that blur the line between beauty and horror, “Girls with Long Shadows” offers a mesmerizing, if sometimes devastating, journey. The novel asks difficult questions about how we define ourselves in relation to others and the sometimes terrible consequences of our desperate need to be seen as ourselves.
In the end, Hill leaves us with the image of the two remaining sisters swimming as far as they can into the Gulf of Mexico before returning to shore, a powerful metaphor for how we might venture away from what defines us without ever fully escaping it. It’s this nuanced understanding of human nature—our simultaneous desire for connection and separation—that elevates “Girls with Long Shadows” from a simple thriller to a work of significant literary merit.