We Need to Talk About Kevin_ A Novel - Lionel Shriver [159]
“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.
“Hey, Mister Plastic,” Kevin offered. “Want one?” You demurred.
“I didn’t know you liked lychees,” I said tightly once he’d started on a second one.
“Yeah, well,” he said, stripping the fruit bare and rolling the