We Need to Talk About Kevin_ A Novel - Lionel Shriver [10]
“Motherhood,” I condensed in the park. “Now, that is a foreign country.”
On those rare occasions when it seemed as if I might really want to do it, you got nervous. “You may be self-satisfied with your success,” you said. “Location scouting for Madison Avenue ad clients hasn’t brought me to an orgasm of self-actualization.”
“All right.” I stopped, leaned on the warm wooden rail that fenced the Hudson, and extended my arms on either side to face you squarely. “What’s going to happen, then? To you, professionally, what are we waiting and hoping for?”
You waggled your head, searching my face. You seemed to discern that I was not trying to impugn your achievements or the importance of your work. This was about something else. “I could scout for feature films instead.”
“But you’ve always said that’s the same job: You find the canvas, someone else paints the scene. And ads pay better.”
“Married to Mrs. Moneybags, that doesn’t matter.”
“It does to you.” Your maturity about my vastly outearning you had its limits.
“I’ve considered trying something else altogether.”
“So, what, you’ll get all fired up to start your own restaurant?”
You smiled. “They never make it.”
“Exactly. You’re too practical. Maybe you will do something different, but it’ll be pretty much on the same plane. And I’m talking about topography. Emotional, narrative topography. We live in Holland. And sometimes I get a hankering for Nepal.”
Since other New Yorkers were so driven, you could have been injured that I didn’t regard you as ambitious. But one of the things you were practical about was yourself, and you didn’t take offense. You were ambitious—for your life, what it was like when you woke up in the morning, and not for some attainment. Like most people who did not answer a particular calling from an early age, you placed work beside yourself; any occupation would fill up your day but not your heart. I liked that about you. I liked it enormously.
We started walking again, and I swung your hand. “Our parents will die soon,” I resumed. “In fact, one by one everyone we know will start pitching their mortal coils in the drink. We’ll get old, and at some point you’re losing more friends than you make. Sure, we can go on holidays, finally giving in to suitcases with wheelies. We can eat more foods and slug more wines and have more sex. But—and don’t take this wrong—I’m worried that it all starts getting a little tired.”
“One of us could always get pancreatic cancer,” you said pleasantly.
“Yeah. Or run your pickup into a concrete mixer, and the plot thickens. But that’s my point. Everything I can think of happening to us from now on—not, you know, we get an affectionate postcard from France, but really happen-happen—is awful.”
You kissed my hair. “Pretty morbid for such a gorgeous day.”
For a few steps we walked in a half embrace, but our strides clashed; I settled for hooking your belt loop with my forefinger. “You know that euphemism, she’s expecting? It’s apt. The birth of a baby, so long as it’s healthy, is something to look forward to. It’s a good thing, a big, good, huge event. And from thereon in, every good thing that happens to them happens to you, too. Of course, bad things, too,” I added hurriedly, “but also, you know, first steps, first dates, first places in sack races. Kids, they graduate, they marry, they have kids themselves—in a way, you get to do everything twice. Even if our kid had problems,” I supposed idiotically, “at least they wouldn’t be our same old problems . . . ”
Enough. Recounting this dialogue is breaking my heart.
Looking back, maybe my saying that I wanted more “story