Lionel Shriver - We Need to Talk About Kevin

“All right,” I said. “We’ll call it an accident. You can even tell him, ‘I’m afraid your mother forgot to put the Liquid-Plumr away on Saturday.’ After all, he knew I unclogged that drain. But in return you promise me: that we will never again leave Kevin alone with Celia. Not for five minutes.”

“Fine. I bet Kevin’s none too keen for more baby-sitting jobs right now anyway.”

I said I’d see you at home; a civil farewell was an effort.

“Eva!” you called at my back, and I turned. “You know I’m not usually big on shrinks. But maybe you should talk to somebody. I think you need help. That’s not an accusation. It’s just—you’re right on one score. This is getting serious. I’m afraid it’s beyond me.”

Indeed it was.

The following couple of weeks were eerily quiet around the house, with Celia still recovering in the hospital. You and I spoke little. I’d ask what you’d like for dinner; you’d say you didn’t care. In relation to Celia, we largely addressed logistics—when each of us would visit. Although it seemed sensible for us to go separately so that she’d have companionship for more of the day, the truth was that neither of us was anxious to share your overheated 4x4 once more. Back home, we could discuss the particulars of her condition, and though the particulars were distressing—an infection subsequent to her enucleation , a vocabulary lesson I could have skipped, had further damaged the optic nerve and ruled out a transplant— facts fed the conversational maw. Shopping for an oculist for her follow-up, I seized on a doctor named Krikor Sahatjian on the Upper East Side. Armenians look out for each other, I assured you. He’ll give us special attention. “So would Dr. Kevorkian,” you grunted, well aware that the godfather of assisted suicide was one Armenian my conservative community was reluctant to claim. Still, I was grateful for an exchange that almost qualified as banter, in conspicuous short supply.

I remember being on my best behavior, never raising my voice, never objecting when you barely touched a meal that I’d have gone to great trouble to fix. Cooking, I tried not to make too much noise, muffling the clang of a knocked pot. In respect to Celia’s uncannily sunny disposition in Nyack Hospital, I swallowed many an admiring remark for seeming somehow indecorous, as if her improbable good nature were an affront to lesser mortals who quite reasonably wail from pain and grow irascible during convalescence. In our household, my praise of our daughter always seemed to get confused with bragging on my own account. Throughout, I made a concerted effort to act normal, which, along with trying to have fun and trying to be a good mother, we can now add to our list of projects that are inherently doomed.

That remark you made about my “needing help” proved disquieting. I had replayed the memory of putting that Liquid-Plumr away so many times that the tape was worn and I couldn’t quite trust it. I would review my suspicions and sometimes they didn’t… well, nothing would seem clear-cut. Did I put that bottle away? Was the injury too severe for the story the way Kevin told it? Could I point to a single shred of solid evidence that would hold up in court? I didn’t want to “talk to somebody,” but I’d have given my eye teeth to be able to talk to you.

It was only a couple of days after the accident when you convened our roundtable of three. We’d just had dinner, loosely speaking; Kevin had shoveled his food directly from the stove. Humoring you, he assumed his rueful, sideways slouch at the dining table. Having been unwillingly summoned to this convocation as well, I felt like a kid myself, once more forced at age nine to formally apologize to Mr. Wintergreen for pilfering drops from the walnut tree in his front yard. Sneaking a glance at Kevin, I wanted to say, Wipe that smirk off your face , this isn’t a joke; your sister’s in the hospital. I wanted to say, Go put on a T-shirt that isn’t five sizes too small for you, just being in the same room with that getup makes me itch . But I couldn’t. In the culture of our family, such commonplace parental admonitions, from me anyway, were impermissible.

“In case you’re nervous, Kev,” you began (though he didn’t look nervous to me), “this isn’t an inquisition. We mostly want to tell you how much you impressed us with your quick thinking. Who knows, if you hadn’t called those medics in right away, it could have been even worse.” ( How? I thought. Though I suppose she could’ve taken a bath in it.) “And your mother has something she wants to tell you.”

“I wanted to thank you,” I began, avoiding Kevin’s eye, “for getting your sister to the hospital.”

“Tell him what you told me,” you prompted. “Remember, you said you were concerned, that he might feel, you know… ”

This part was easy. I looked at him straight on. “I thought you probably felt responsible.”

Unflinching, he squinted back, and I confronted my own widebridged nose, my narrow jaw, my shelved brow and dusky complexion. I was looking in the mirror, yet I had no idea what my own reflection was thinking. “Why’s that?”

“Because you were supposed to be taking care of her!”

“But you wanted to remind him,” you said, “that we’d never expected him to watch her every single minute, and accidents happen, and so it wasn’t his fault. What you told me. You know. In the truck.”

It was exactly like apologizing to Mr. Wintergreen. When I was nine, I’d wanted to blurt, Most of those stupid walnuts were wormy or rotten, you old coot , but instead I’d promised to harvest a full peck of his crummy nuts and return them fully shelled.

“We don’t want you to blame yourself.” My tone duplicated Kevin’s own, when he’d spoken to the police— sir this, sir that. “I’m the one at fault. I should never have left the Liquid-Plumr out of the cabinet.”

Kevin shrugged. “Never said I blamed myself.” He stood up. “I be excused?”

“One more thing,” you said. “Your sister’s going to need your help.”

“Why?” he said, ranging into the kitchen. “Only one eye, wasn’t it. Not like she needs a guide dog or a white stick.”

“Yes,” I said. “ Lucky her .”

“She’ll need your support,” you said. “She’s going to have to wear a patch—”

“Cool,” he said. He came back with the bag of lychees from the refrigerator. It was February; they were in season.

“She’ll be fitted with a glass eye down the line,” you said, “but we’d appreciate your sticking up for her if neighborhood kids tease her—”

“Like how?” he said, carefully pulling the rough salmon-colored husk off the fruit, exposing the pinkish-white flesh. “Celia does not look like a geek?” When the pale translucent orb was peeled, he popped it in his mouth, sucked, and pulled it back out.

“Well, however you—”

“I mean, Dad .” Methodically, he splayed the lychee open, parting the slippery flesh from the smooth brown seed. “Not sure you remember too good, being a kid.” He angled the mangle into his mouth. “Ceil’s just gonna have to suck it up.”

I could feel you internally beaming. Here was your teenager trotting out his archetypal teenagery toughness, behind which he hid his confused, conflicted feelings about his sister’s tragic accident. It was an act, Franklin, a candy-coated savagery for your consumption. He was plenty confused and conflicted, but if you looked into his pupils they were thick and sticky as a tar pit. This teenage angst of his, it wasn’t cute .