I had only made modest headway in accommodating myself to her n e w appearance. T h e burns spattered on her cheek and streaked across her temple, though starting to heal, were still crusty, and I begged her not to pick at t h e m lest she make the scarring even worse. She was good about it, and I thought ofVioletta.
Hitherto out of touch with monocular fashions, I'd expected her eye patch to be black, and Shirley Temple flashbacks of The Good
— 3 5 6 —
Ship Lollipop may have comforted me with anodyne visions of my little blond pirate. I think I'd have preferred a black one, too, so that I might have run out to buy her a three-cornered hat and made some pathetic attempt at turning this macabre nightmare into a fancy-dress game to distract her.
Instead, the flesh color of those stick-on 3M Opticlude patches turned the left-hand side of her face blank. Swelling on the left side obliterated any defining structures like her cheekbone. It was as if her face wasn't quite three-dimensional anymore, but rather hke a postcard, with a picture on one side and clean white paper on the other. I could catch a glimpse of her right-hand profile, and for a m o m e n t my cheerful moppet was unchanged; with a glimpse of the left, she was erased.
This now-you-see-me, n o w - y o u - d o n ' t quality to her c o u n -
tenance gave expression to my painful n e w awareness that children were a perishable consumer good. T h o u g h I don't think I had ever taken her for granted, once she came h o m e I pretty m u c h gave up on whatever effort I had ever made to disguise my preference for one child over the other. She could never bring herself to leave my side any longer, and I allowed her to shadow me softly around the house and j o i n me on errands. I ' m sure you were right that we shouldn't have let her shp any further behind in school and that the sooner she got used to her disability in public the better, but I still t o o k some time off from AWAP and kept her h o m e for two more weeks. Meanwhile, she lost some of the skills she had mastered, for instance, tying her tennis shoes, and I'd have to go back to tying them for her and start the lesson from scratch.
I watched her around Kevin like a hawk. I admit that she did not act afraid of him. A n d he went right back to issuing her a plenitude of bored orders; ever since she'd gotten old enough to run and fetch, he'd treated her hke a pet w i t h a limited range of tricks. But even in response to some small, harmless request hke to grab h i m a cracker or toss h i m the TV remote, I thought I n o w detected in his sister a momentary hesitation, a litde freeze, like a
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hard swallow. And though she had once begged to carry his quiver and felt honored to help him prize his arrows from the target out back, the first time he casually suggested that she resume these duties, I put my foot down: I k n e w he was careful, but Celia had only one eye left and she was n o t to go near that archery range.
I had expected Celia to whimper. She was always desperate to prove of use to him and had loved to watch her brother stand Hiawatha-tall and release those arrows unerringly into the bull's-eye. Instead she shot me a glance that looked grateful, and her hairline glistened from a light sweat.
I was surprised w h e n he invited her out to play Frisbee—play with his sister, n o w that was a first—and even a little impressed.
So I told her it was all right so long as she wore her safety glasses; my relationship to her good eye n o w was hysterical. But w h e n a few minutes later I looked out the window, he was playing with his sister only in the sense that one plays with the Frisbee itself. Ceha's depth perception was still very poor, and she kept grabbing for the Frisbee before it had reached her, missing, and then it would hit her in the chest. Very funny.
Of course, the hardest part at first was addressing that hole in Celia's head, which had to be swabbed frequently with baby shampoo and a moistened Q - T i p . W h i l e Dr. Sahatjian assured us that the secretions w o u l d subside once the prosthesis was fitted and the healing complete, at first the cavity oozed that yellowish discharge continually, and sometimes in the m o r n i n g I'd have to soak the area with a wet Kleenex because the lid w o u l d have crusted shut in her sleep.The lid itself sagged— sulcus, her oculist called it—and was also puffy, especially since it had b e e n damaged by the acid and had been partially reconstructed w i t h a small flap of skin from Ceha's inner thigh. (Apparently eyelid augmentation has developed into a fine art because of high demand in Japan for anghfication of Oriental features, w h i c h in better days I'd have f o u n d a horrifying testimony to the powers of Western advertising.) T h e swelling and slight
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purpling made her look like one of those battered children in posters that encourage you to t u r n in y o u r neighbors to the police. W i t h one eyelid depressed and her other eye open, she seemed to be w i n k i n g hugely, as if we shared a lurid secret.
I'd told Sahatjian that I wasn't sure I could bring myself to clean that hollow daily; he assured me that I'd get used to it.
He was right in the long run, but I fought a swell of nausea w h e n I first lifted the lid myself w i t h my t h u m b . If it wasn't quite as harrowing as I'd feared, it was disturbing on a subtler level. No one was h o m e . T h e effect recalled those almond-eyed Modiglianis w h o s e absence of pupils give the figures a hypnotic mildness and tranquillity, t h o u g h a dolorousness as well, and a hint of stupidity. T h e cavity w e n t f r o m pink at the r i m to a merciful black toward the back, but w h e n I got her under the light to administer her antibiotic drops, I could see that incongruous plastic conformer, w h i c h kept the socket from collapsing; I might have been staring into a doll.
I k n o w you resented my fawning over her so m u c h , and that you felt bad for resenting it. In compensation, you were firmly affectionate w i t h Celia, drawing her into your lap, reading her stories. Me, I recognized t o o well the mark of deliberateness about these efforts—so this was trying to be a good father—but I d o u b t that it looked to Kevin like anything other than surfaces w o u l d suggest. Clearly his little sister's injury had w o n h e r only m o r e d o t i n g — m o r e Do you need an extra blanket, honey? m o r e Would you like another piece of cake? m o r e Why don't we let Celia stay up, Franklin, it's an animal show. C h e c k i n g o u t the tableau in the living r o o m as Celia fell asleep in the crook of y o u r arm and Kevin glared at " M y Granny H a d My Boyfriend's Baby" on Jerry Springer, I thought, Didn't our little stratagem backfire.
In case you're wondering, I did n o t ply Celia unduly for details about that a f t e r n o o n in the b a t h r o o m . I was every bit as shy of discussing the matter as she was; neither of us had any desire to relive that day. Yet o u t of a sense of parental obligation—I didn't want her to think the subject taboo, in case its exploration would prove therapeutic—I did ask her just once, casually, " W h e n you got hurt? What happened?"
"Kevin—." She pawed at the lid with the back of her wrist; it itched, but lest she dislodge the conformer she had learned to always rub toward her nose. "I got something in my eye. Kevin helped me wash it out."
That's all she ever said.
M A R C H 1 1 , 2 0 0 1
Dear Franklin,
It looks as if that Andy Williams thing sparked off a rash of copycat crimes. But then, they're all copycat crimes, don't you agree?
There were four more School Shootings that spring of 1998.
I remember clearly w h e n news came in of the first one, because that was the same day Dr. Sahatjian did the drawings for Celia's prosthesis and then took a mold of her socket. Celia was entranced w h e n he painstakingly painted the iris of her good eye by hand; I was surprised that it wasn't scanned by computer, but still limned with fine brushes in watercolors. Iris-painting is apparently quite an art, since every eye is as unique as a fingerprint, and even the whites of our eyes have a distinctive color, their fine red veins a personal skein. It was certainly the only element of this agonizing process that could have passed for charming.
As for the mold making, we'd been assured that it would
n't be painful, though she might experience "discomfort," a t e r m beloved of the medical profession that seems to be a synonym for agony that isn't yours. T h o u g h the stuffing of her socket with white putty was indisputably unpleasant, she merely mewled a little; she never really cried. Celia's bravery was peculiarly disproportionate. She was a stoic little trooper w h e n she lost an eye. She still screamed bloody murder if she spotted mildew on the shower curtain.
As his assistant restored the conformer and applied a fresh eye patch, I asked Krikor Sahatjian idly what drew h i m to this niche occupation. He volunteered that at age twelve, w h e n taking a shortcut through a neighbor s yard, he had climbed over a spiked fence; he shpped, and the tip of an arrow-shaped iron rod...Leaving the rest mercifully to my imagination, he said, "I was so fascinated by the process of making my o w n prosthesis that I decided I'd found my calling." Incredulous, I looked again at his soulful brown eyes, reminiscent of O m a r Sharif s. "You're surprised," he said amiably. "I hadn't noticed," I admitted. "You'll find that's common," he said. " O n c e the prosthesis is in, many people will never k n o w that Celia is monocular. And there are ways of covering it u p — m o v i n g your head instead of your eyes to look at someone. I'll teach her, w h e n she's ready." I was grateful. For the first time her enucleation didn't seem like the end of the world, and I even wondered if the distinction the disability conferred, and the strength it could summon, might help Celia grow into herself.
W h e n Celia and I returned from the U p p e r East Side, you'd gotten h o m e before us and were setded in the den with Kevin in front of one of those N i c k at Night back-to-back binges of Happy Days. I commented in the doorway, "Ah, the 1950s that never were. I keep waiting for somebody to tell R o n Howard about Sputnik, McCarthyism, and the arms race." I added ruefully,
" T h o u g h I see you two are bonding!'
In those days, I always lavished a laden irony on trendy American buzz phrases, as if picking t h e m up with rubber gloves. In kind, I had explained to Kevin's English teacher that the misuse of the word literally was " o n e of my issues" with an exaggerated w i n k - a n d - n o d that must only have perplexed the woman. I'd always thought of American culture as a spectator sport, on which I could pass j u d g m e n t from the elevated bleachers of my internationalism. But these days I join in aping beer advertisements w h e n my workmates at Travel R Us cry in unison, Whass uuuuup?, I use impact as a transitive verb, and I omit prissy quotation marks. R e a l culture you don't observe but embody. I
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live here. As I would soon discover in spades, there is no o p t - o u t clause.
O u r son, however, could read all the above and more into my disdainful pronunciation of bonding. "Is there anything, or anybody," he asked, looking me in the eye, "you don't feel superior to?"
"I've been candid with you about my problems with this country," I said stiffly, leaving little doubt that this candor was the source of regret, and making perhaps my sole allusion since to our disastrous dinner at H u d s o n House. "But I don't k n o w what gives you the idea that I feel 'superior.'"
"Ever notice you never talk about Americans as 'we'?" he said. "It's always 'they.' Like you'd talk about the Chinese or something."
"I've spent a large amount of my adulthood out of the country, and I probably—"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Kevin broke eye contact and stared back at the screen. "I just want to k n o w what makes you think you're so special."
"Eva, grab a seat and join the fun!" you said. "This is the one where Richie's forced to blind-date the boss's daughter, so he gets Potsie—"
"Meaning you've seen it twenty times," I chided affectionately, thankful for your rescue. " H o w many Happy Days has it been in a row now, three or four?"
"This is the first one! Five more to go!"
"Before I forget, Franklin—I got Dr. Sahatjian to agree to glass." Petting Celia's fine blond hair as she h u n g on my leg, I refrained from citing glass-what. It had fallen to me earlier that afternoon to disabuse our daughter of the expectation that her n e w eye would be able to see.
"E-va,"you sang, not in the m o o d for a fight. "Polymer is state of the a-art."
"So is this G e r m a n Cryolite."
"Fewer infec-tions, less chance of brea-kage—"
— 3 6 3 —
"Polymer's just a fancy name for plastic. I hate plastic." I closed the argument, "Materials are everything."
"Look at that," you pointed out to Kevin. " R i c h i e sleazes out of the date, and it turns out she's a hottie."
I didn't want to p o o p your party, but the mission from w h i c h I'd just returned was pretty grim, and I couldn't immediately start m u n c h i n g your visual j u n k food. "Franklin, it's almost seven. Can we please watch the news?"
"Bor-ing," you cried.
" N o t lately it isn't." Monica-gate was still breaking in prurient slow motion. "Lately it's X-rated. Kevin?" I turned politely to our son. "Would you m i n d very m u c h if, after this episode is over, we switched to the news?"
Kevin was slumped in the easy chair, eyes at half-mast.
"Whatever."
You sang along with the signature tune, Monday, Tuesday, happy days...! as I knelt to pick white putty from Celia's hairline. At the hour, I switched to J i m Lehrer. It was the lead story. For once our president would have to keep his fly zipped to make way for two unpleasant little boys in his h o m e state, the older of w h o m was all of thirteen, the younger only eleven.
I groaned, flopping onto the leather couch. " N o t another
>>
one.
Outside Westside Middle School in Jonesboro, Arkansas, Mitchell Johnson and Andrew Golden had lain in wait, huddled in the bushes in camouflage outfits after setting off the school's fire alarm. As students and teachers exited the building, the two opened fire with a R u g e r .44-caliber rifle and a 30.06 hunting rifle, killing four girls and one teacher, and injuring eleven other students. Himself wounded, if only by romantic disappointment, the older boy had apparently warned a friend the day before with cinematic swashbuckling, "I got some killin' to do," while little Andrew Golden had sworn to a confidant that he was planning to shoot "all the girls who'd ever broken up with him." A single boy was injured; the other fifteen victims were female.
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"Fucking idiots," I growled.
"Yo, Eva!" you abjured. "Watch the mouth."
" M o r e drowning in self-pity!" I said. "Oh, no, my girlfriend doesn't love me any more, I'm gonna go kill five people!"
" W h a t about all that Armenian shit?" asked Kevin, cutting his eyes toward me flintily." Oh, no, like, a million years ago the Turks were big meanies and now nobody cares! That's not self-pity?"
"I'd hardly put genocide on a par with being jdted," I snapped.
" N y e h nyeh- nyeh nyeh N Y E H - n y e h - n y e h nyeh-nyeh nyeh nyeh nyehnyeh NYEE-nyeeh!" Kevin mocked under his breath.
"Jesus, give it a rest."
" — A n d what's this about wanting to kill all the girls who'd ever broken up with him?" I jeered.
" C o u l d you shut upT' said Kevin.
"Kevin!" you scolded.
"Well, I ' m trying to follow this, and she said she wanted to watch the news." Kevin often spoke of his mother as I spoke of Americans. We both preferred the third person.
"But the brat's eleven years old!" I hated people w h o talked over the news, too, but I couldn't contain myself. " H o w many girlfriends can that be?"
" O n average?" said our resident expert. " A b o u t twenty."
"Why," I said, " h o w many have you had?"
"Ze-ro." Kevin was n o w so slumped as to be nearly supine, and his voice had a gravelly creakiness that he would soon employ all the time. " H u m p ' e m and d u m p 'em."
" W h o a , Casanova!" you said. "This is what we get for telling a kid the facts of life at seven."
"Mommy, w h o are H u m p u m and D u m p u m ? Are they like Tweedledum and Tweedled
ee?"
"Celia, sweetheart," I said to our six-year-old, w h o s e sexual education did not seem so urgent. "Wouldn't you hke to go play in the playroom? We're watching the news, and it's n o t m u c h f u n for you."
"Twenty-seven bullets, sixteen hits," Kevin calculated appreciatively. "Moving targets, too.You know, for litde kids that's a decent percentage."
"No, I want to stay with you!" said Celia. "You're my friennnd!"
"But I want a picture, Celia.You haven't drawn me a picture all day!"
"Oh-kay." She lingered, fisting her skirt.
"Here, first give me a hug, then." I drew her to me, and she threw her arms about me. I wouldn't have thought a six-year-old could squeeze so hard, and it was painful to have to pry her fingers from my clothing when she wouldn't let go. Once she had shuffled out of the room, after pausing in the archway and waving with a cupped hand, I caught you rolling your eyes at Kevin.
In the meantime, a reporter on screen was interviewing Andrew Golden's grandfather, from w h o m some of the kids'
stockpile of weapons had been stolen, including three high-powered rifles, four pistols, and a trove of ammunition. "It's a terrible tragedy," he said unsteadily. "We've lost. They've lost.
Everybody's lives are ruined."
"You can say that again," I said. "I mean, what was ever going to happen but they'd be nabbed and nailed and put away for eternity? What were they thinking?"
"They weren't thinking," you said.
"You kidding?" said Kevin. "This stuff takes planning. 'Course they were thinking. Probably never thought harder in their whole crummy lives." From their first occurrence, Kevin owned these incidents, and whenever the subject arose he assumed an air of authority that got on my nerves.
"They weren't thinking about what comes next," I said. "They may have thought out their stupid attack, but not the next five minutes—much less the next fifty years."
We Need to Talk About Kevin Page 38