Remembering ‘how to see joy and possibility’
Still
by Joanna Cockerline
Erin: The Porcupine’s Quill, 2025
$22.00 / 9781774221709
Review by Janet Pollock Millar
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In her debut novel, Still, CBC Literary Award winner Joanna Cockerline tells the story of Kayla, a young woman recently arrived in Kelowna, where she lives on the street and supports herself with sex work. The novel opens with the disappearance of Little Zoe, a friend and fellow sex worker, and Kayla’s quest to find Zoe provides the through line of the novel. Additional suspense is created by another question for readers: How did Kayla end up on the street? By alternating chapters about past and present, Cockerline skillfully weaves these threads together as she takes Kayla on a journey of discovery.
Her current circumstances aside, Kayla seems like an ordinary young woman. She is an effective choice of protagonist, as her very ordinariness enables a wider range of readers to empathize with her. When Kayla first arrives in Kelowna, the language she uses to describe people on the street reflects her initial status as an outsider: “nearby was a bag lady with a cart. A guy on a bike, with a pit bull on a chain, was talking to a girl Kayla assumed was a hooker, from her sparkly mini dress and stiletto boots.”
The integration of this ordinary character into the life of the street helps readers develop compassion for its inhabitants—and perhaps also suggests troubling thoughts such as, If she could end up on the street doing sex work, maybe I could, too. Kayla’s transformation is revealed by a scene where she and Zoe take some time to relax:
They passed hikers and people walking dogs. Dressed as Kayla and Little Zoe were, with no hint of work on them, they could have been students out for a hike. Tourists even. Or people who lived in this pretty neighbourhood.
She comes to see the world of the street from the inside.
Cockerline’s adept characterization also helps build reader empathy and prevents the characters from merely being puppets in service of social commentary. Kayla serves as readers’ eyes, taking in a world of homelessness, addiction, sex work, and hunger, but focusing on individual characters—a reminder that social issues are made up of people. Kayla declines an offer of tea from Gloria, an older woman who looks out for the others: “Though she was tempted by the promise of its warmth, she could see the empty water bottle beside Gloria’s foot. There would be just enough water in that kettle for Gloria and Ally, and to get more they would have to trek over to the public washrooms in City Park. So Kayla wouldn’t impose.” This simple exchange conveys the sensitivity and generosity of both characters.
In addition to literal homelessness, the novel explores belonging more generally. Kayla’s childhood security is shattered both with the early death of her father and subsequent sexual abuse by her mother’s boyfriend. As a teenager, she takes solace in working on a horse farm, eventually becoming a live-in employee. She loses this home after she defends herself against sexual assault by one of the farm owners, and she must flee. The divide between those who belong and those who don’t is exacerbated by capitalism. Kayla notes a vivid juxtaposition: “She passed a construction site beside a mural depicting a wolf, ravens, salmon, and a grizzly. Not far from it were a crane and construction trucks, a blocked-off area and a sign with a glass high rise and SALES CENTRE — LIVE ABOVE IT ALL — CONDOS COMING SOON.” Capitalism holds out the promise that some of us will be able to afford to live our lives without concern for others.
The human need to belong is powerful, however, and the characters in the novel insist on claiming what space they can. After finishing with her first-ever client, Kayla beds down for the night in an under-construction house in his tony neighbourhood:
She could see the twinkling valley of the city, the amber-lit stripes of roads stretching towards downtown. She could see the dark curve of the lake, the west side beyond. Whoever lived in this house would have quite the view. For now, it was hers.
The next morning, Kayla encounters an outreach worker she knows, Livia, who invites her back to her home nearby for something to eat. Kayla finds herself not knowing how to act in this house, but all is not as it might seem at first; Livia reveals that she has a drinking problem. When Livia comments on Kayla’s limp, and Kayla insists, “I’m fine now,” Livia responds, “I know about being fine. What happened?” This exchange underscores that the characters’ differing circumstances are more a matter of degree and luck rather than anything innate or earned.
Connection with others is the key to survival for the characters in the book and, arguably, for us all. Kayla’s early childhood connection with her grandmother remains a source of strength long after the older woman’s death. Kayla and Livia connect across socioeconomic lines when Livia reveals her own vulnerability. Kayla’s friendship with little Zoe is the most important of her relationships while living in the street; Kayla’s character arc is driven by her struggle to accept not only that she might have lost Zoe but also all that Zoe means to her. Kayla has not allowed herself the vulnerability of deep connection for a very long time. That she now does so opens the door to her healing.
For the most part, language is a strength of the novel. Vivid description creates emotional resonance, such as in this scene, where Zoe looks longingly through a café window at her daughter with her daughter’s foster mother:
Through the window, they could see a little girl and a woman at one of the laminate tables. The little girl had pigtails and red rubber boots, a crayon in her hand. Her face was down towards the page in front of her. Her tongue was slightly out at the side, concentrating as she coloured. The woman she was with was looking down at her artwork, a slight smile on her face. When the girl looked up, she smiled back at the woman. Smiled and then laughed at something the woman said. She still had all her baby teeth.
Additionally, Cockerline’s use of repetition often creates a pleasing rhythm in the text, as with the words “those eyes” in this passage, where Kayla gazes at a poster of her friend:
She zoomed in, past MISSING, and focused just on that smile with the gap where her tooth was pulled, and those eyes that crinkled into crescent moons, those eyes that knew how to bring kindness because some kindness was needed in this world, those eyes that had seen so much but still, somehow, knew how to see joy and possibility.
However, some passages in the novel seem overwritten. Aware of Livia’s troubles beneath the façade of her well-heeled life, Kayla observes the interior of Livia’s house, thinking “about how she had started the day in the half-built skeleton of Livia’s new house and was now in her home, with all the good and bad it held. She spent a long time walking around, touching surfaces that only looked shiny until she got up close.” The symbolism and explanation seem a little heavy-handed at times. I feel that if the author had pulled back somewhat, I would have enjoyed figuring out for myself what she explains overtly.
Overall, though, Cockerline’s skilled characterization and plotting provide an enjoyable reading experience. The book’s value also lies in its representation of the humanity and lives of people who find themselves where none of us wants to end up.
[Editor’s note: Joanna Cockerline will launch Still in Kelowna on Friday, September 19, 7-9pm, at Alternator Gallery (103-421 Cawston Avenue).]
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Janet Pollock Millar is a writer, educator, and editor living on lək̓ʷəŋən territory in Victoria, British Columbia. Her fiction, poetry, essays, creative nonfiction, and book reviews have appeared in various publications. Exploring topics such as the natural world, grief and loss, relationships, and human rights, Janet writes to render the world as it is and to nudge it toward what it could be. She is pursuing an MFA at UVic. [Editor’s note: The above piece is Janet’s inaugural review for BCR. We’re pleased to welcome her as a contributor.]
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The British Columbia Review
Interim Editors, 2023-26: Trevor Marc Hughes (non-fiction), Brett Josef Grubisic (fiction and poetry)
Publisher: Richard Mackie
Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an online book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.
“Only connect.” –E.M. Forster