Even in the middle of this godawful conversation, that comment makes him laugh, unexpectedly— and so his back heaves beneath her with that breath, Gwenaëlle rising and falling atop him. (Still an odd sensation, although not quite so much as when he was inside her at the time.)
Once Stephen settles, he starts talking. “You mentioned your mother’s deathbed as she slowly died. You mentioned patching up your father when he was drunk, looking after him.” Gwenaëlle Baudin, the dutiful daughter. He takes another deep breath, as if he’s preparing to rip off a band-aid, and continues:
“I was on the other side of the country when they fell ill. Victor was the one left at home alone, both looking after the farm and then taking care of our parents as each of them… deteriorated. Our mother died first, then two years later our father was going the same way. Victor begged me to come home, to visit, to say goodbye, but I kept making excuse after excuse. My studies, I said. My work was too important.
“But in reality, I just didn’t want to see it happening. I was selfish, didn’t want to watch them slowly die when there was nothing I could do to fix it. I told myself there wouldn’t be any point. I never went home. He came out to New York after, furious; we fought, we argued about it. He stormed out of my apartment. That’s when he got hit by the car.”
It’s not quite as simple as declaring it’s my fault — he’s aware enough of all the different pieces of causality, it’s not like he directly shoved Victor into the street — but there is some of that guilt writhing inside him still. If only they hadn’t argued quite so viciously. Then Victor wouldn’t have been so upset, so careless, when he ran out into Manhattan traffic.
no subject
Once Stephen settles, he starts talking. “You mentioned your mother’s deathbed as she slowly died. You mentioned patching up your father when he was drunk, looking after him.” Gwenaëlle Baudin, the dutiful daughter. He takes another deep breath, as if he’s preparing to rip off a band-aid, and continues:
“I was on the other side of the country when they fell ill. Victor was the one left at home alone, both looking after the farm and then taking care of our parents as each of them… deteriorated. Our mother died first, then two years later our father was going the same way. Victor begged me to come home, to visit, to say goodbye, but I kept making excuse after excuse. My studies, I said. My work was too important.
“But in reality, I just didn’t want to see it happening. I was selfish, didn’t want to watch them slowly die when there was nothing I could do to fix it. I told myself there wouldn’t be any point. I never went home. He came out to New York after, furious; we fought, we argued about it. He stormed out of my apartment. That’s when he got hit by the car.”
It’s not quite as simple as declaring it’s my fault — he’s aware enough of all the different pieces of causality, it’s not like he directly shoved Victor into the street — but there is some of that guilt writhing inside him still. If only they hadn’t argued quite so viciously. Then Victor wouldn’t have been so upset, so careless, when he ran out into Manhattan traffic.
And that atop all the other unsaid goodbyes.