The trip had been mother’s idea.
这次旅行是母亲的主意。
A few months earlier, when crisp leaves had begun slipping to the ground, signaling the end of summer, Dad had been in high spirits. His feet tapped show tunes at breakfast, and during dinner he often pointed at the mountain, his eyes shining, and described where he would lay the pipes to bring water down to the house. Dad promised that when the first snow fell, he’d build the biggest snowball in the state of Idaho. What he’d do, he said, was hike to the mountain base and gather a small, insignificant ball of snow, then roll it down the hillside, watching it triple in size each time it raced over a hillock or down a ravine. By the time it reached the house, which was atop the last hill before the valley, it’d be big as Grandpa’s barn and people on the highway would stare up at it, amazed. We just needed the right snow. Thick, sticky flakes. After every snowfall, we brought handfuls to him and watched him rub the flakes between his fingers. That snow was too fine. This, too wet. After Christmas, he said. That’s when you get the real snow.
几个月前，当干枯的叶子开始飘落，预示夏天的结束，爸爸就一直情绪高涨。早饭时，他用脚轻轻打着流行音乐的拍子，晚饭期间，他常常两眼发光，指着那座山说他要铺设管道，把水从山上直接引到家里。爸爸承诺，等下了第一场雪，他要堆一个爱达荷州最大的雪球。他说，只需徒步上山团一个小小的雪球，然后把它滚下山坡，看着它全速翻过山丘，冲过峡谷，三倍三倍地增大。我家坐落在山谷前最后一座山上，等雪球滚到我家，就会和爷爷家的谷仓一样大，到时公路上的人准会抬头凝望，惊叹不已。只要雪质够好，雪花够厚、够黏就行。每次下雪后，我们都捧一把雪给爸爸，看着他放在手指间搓。那雪太细了。这雪太湿了。得过了圣诞节，他说，那时下的才是正儿八经的雪。
No one saw the car leave the road. My brother Tyler, who was seventeen, fell asleep at the wheel. It was six in the morning and he’d been driving in silence for most of the night, piloting our station wagon through Arizona, Nevada and Utah. We were in Cornish, a farming town twenty miles south of Buck’s Peak, when the station wagon drifted over the center line into the other lane, then left the highway. The car jumped a ditch, smashed through two utility poles of thick cedar, and was finally brought to a stop only when it collided with a row-crop tractor.
谁也没注意到汽车离开了马路。十七岁的哥哥泰勒开车时睡着了。那是早上六点，他几乎一整晚都在默默开着我们的旅行车，穿过亚利桑那州、内华达州和犹他州。在巴克峰以南二十英里的一个农业小镇康沃尔，旅行车偏离了中间线，进入逆行车道，然后离开公路，跳过一个沟渠，接连撞倒两根粗大的雪松木电线杆，最后撞上一辆中耕拖拉机才停了下来。
By January Dad couldn’t get out of bed. He lay flat on his back, staring blankly at the stucco ceiling with its intricate pattern of ridges and veins. He didn’t blink when I brought his dinner plate each night. I’m not sure he knew I was there.
到了一月，爸爸就下不了床了。他平躺在床上，两眼空洞地盯着灰泥天花板上错综复杂的起伏和纹理构成的图案。每天晚上我端饭给他，他连眼都不眨一下。我不确定他是否知道我进过他房间。
We arrived a few hours after sunrise. Dad made it as far as Grandma’s porch, where he stayed for the rest of the day, a knitted pillow under his head, a callused hand on his stomach. He kept that posture for two days, eyes open, not saying a word, still as a bush in that dry, windless heat.
我们于日出几小时后到达。爸爸最远也就挪到奶奶家的门廊，在那里待了一整天。他头下枕一个针织枕头，一只长满老茧的手放在肚子上。他一连两天保持着这个姿势，睁着眼睛，一句话也不说，宛如那干燥无风的炎热沙漠中的一株灌木般静止不动。
But after Christmas Dad seemed to deflate, to collapse in on himself. He stopped talking about the snowball, then he stopped talking altogether. A darkness gathered in his eyes until it filled them. He walked with his arms limp, shoulders slumping, as if something had hold of him and was dragging him to the earth.
但圣诞节过后，爸爸似乎像泄了气的皮球，整个人垮了。他不再谈什么雪球，然后连话也懒得说了。他的眼神越来越黯淡，最后完全失去了光彩。他走起路来耷拉着肩膀，胳膊软弱无力，好像有什么东西抓住了他，把他往地面拖。
That’s when Mother announced we were going to Arizona. She said Dad was like a sunflower — he’d die in the snow — and that come February he needed to be taken away and planted in the sun. So we piled into the station wagon and drove for twelve hours, winding through canyons and speeding over dark freeways, until we arrived at the mobile home in the parched Arizona desert where my grandparents were waiting out the winter.
就是在这时，母亲宣布我们要去亚利桑那州。她说爸爸就像一株向日葵，会在雪地里冻死，来年二月需要把他带走，种在阳光下。于是我们一家挤进旅行车，穿过蜿蜒的峡谷，沿漆黑的高速公路一路疾驰十二小时，终于来到炎热的亚利桑那州大沙漠。我的祖父母在那里的活动房里等待着冬天过去。
On the third day he seemed to come back into himself, to become aware of the goings-on around him, to listen to our mealtime chatter rather than staring, unresponsive, at the carpet. After dinner that night, Grandma played her phone messages, which were mostly neighbors and friends saying hello. Then a woman’s voice came through the speaker to remind Grandma of her doctor’s appointment the following day. That message had a dramatic effect on Dad.
第三天他似乎有所恢复，开始注意周围发生的事，听我们吃饭时的闲聊，而不再只是盯着地毯，毫无反应。那天晚饭后奶奶播放电话留言，大部分是邻居和朋友的问候。接着，话筒里传来一个女人的声音，提醒奶奶不要忘了第二天和医生的预约。这则留言对爸爸产生了戏剧性的影响。
At first Dad asked Grandma questions: what was the appointment for, who was it with, why would she see a doctor when Mother could give her tinctures.
一开始，爸爸问了奶奶一些问题：为什么预约，和谁一起去，母亲可以给她药剂，为什么她还要去看医生。
Dad had always believed passionately in Mother’s herbs, but that night felt different, like something inside him was shifting, a new creed taking hold. Herbalism, he said, was a spiritual doctrine that separated the wheat from the tares, the faithful from the faithless. Then he used a word I’d never heard before: Illuminati. It sounded exotic, powerful, whatever it was. Grandma, he said, was an unknowing agent of the Illuminati.
爸爸一直热切信任母亲的草药，但那晚感觉不一样了，就像他内心的什么东西在改变，一则新的信条生根发芽。他说，药草学是一种精神教义，它能区分麦子和稗子，区分忠实信徒和背信弃义之人。然后他用了一个我从未听过的词：光明会[5]。不管是什么意思，这个词听上去奇特，有力。他说，奶奶无意中充当了光明会的代理人。【注：[5]Illuminati，又称“光照派”，意欲合谋控制世界的秘密组织，是虔诚的摩门教徒排斥的对象。】
Mother was staring at her food. At the word “whore” she stood, threw Dad an angry look, then walked into her room and slammed the door. Mother didn’t always agree with Dad. When Dad wasn’t around, I’d heard her say things that he — or at least this new incarnation of him — would have called sacrilege, things like, “Herbs are supplements. For something serious, you should go to a doctor.”
母亲正盯着食物，一听到“婊子”这个词，她霍地站起身来，生气地瞪了爸爸一眼，走进她房间，砰的一声关上门。对于爸爸的观点，母亲并不总是赞同。爸爸不在的时候，我听见她说一些他——至少是他的新化身——认为是亵渎上帝的话，比如，“草药只是补充，病情严重了还是要去看医生”。
“Doctors and pills,” Dad said, nearly shouting. “That’s their god, and they whore after it.”
“医生和药片，”爸爸几乎是在吼叫，“成了他们的神，他们像婊子一样蜂拥而上。”
God couldn’t abide faithlessness, Dad said. That’s why the most hateful sinners were those who wouldn’t make up their minds, who used herbs and medication both, who came to Mother on Wednesday and saw their doctor on Friday — or, as Dad put it, “Who worship at the altar of God one day and offer a sacrifice to Satan the next.” These people were like the ancient Israelites because they’d been given a true religion but hankered after false idols.
上帝不容忍背信弃义，爸爸说。这就是为什么最为可恶的罪人正是那些犹疑不决的人，既用草药又用西药，周三来找母亲开药，周五又去找医生看病——或者用爸爸的话说：“今天敬拜上帝的圣坛，明天又去献祭撒旦。”这些人就像古以色列人，被赐予真正的宗教，却热衷于虚假的神像。
Dad took no notice of Mother’s empty chair. “Those doctors aren’t trying to save you,” he told Grandma. “They’re trying to kill you.”
爸爸没有注意到母亲的椅子空了。“那些医生不是想救你，”他对奶奶说，“他们是想害死你。”
When I think of that dinner, the scene comes back to me clearly. I’m sitting at the table. Dad is talking, his voice urgent. Grandma sits across from me, chewing her asparagus again and again in her crooked jaw, the way a goat might, sipping from her ice water, giving no indication that she’s heard a word Dad has said, except for the occasional vexed glare she throws the clock when it tells her it’s still too early for bed. “You’re a knowing participant in the plans of Satan,” Dad says.
回想起那顿晚餐，那一幕仍然历历在目。我坐在桌子旁，爸爸在急切地说话。奶奶坐在我对面，弯曲的下巴山羊似的一遍一遍嚼着嘴里的芦笋，时不时地喝几口冰水，她到底听没听进去爸爸的只言片语，不得而知。她偶尔恼火地瞅一眼时钟，可是上床睡觉时间尚早。“你是撒旦计划的知情参与者。”爸爸说。
Grandma had a memorable way of laughing at the end of these sermons. It was a sort of sigh, a long, drawn-out leaking of breath, that finished with her eyes rolling upward in a lazy imitation of exasperation, as if she wanted to throw her hands in the air but was too tired to complete the gesture. Then she’d smile — not a soothing smile for someone else but a smile for herself, of baffled amusement, a smile that to me always seemed to say, Ain’t nothin’ funnier than real life, I tell you what.
听完这一大段说教，奶奶发出令人难忘的笑声。她长叹一声，慢慢呼出一口气，最后恼火地翻着眼珠，仿佛想把手伸向空中，但是太累了，无法完成这个手势。接着她微笑了——不是安慰别人的微笑，而是给自己的微笑。在我看来，这个微笑既带着困惑，又饶有兴致，似乎在说：我说得对吧，没有比现实生活更有意思的了。
This scene played every day, sometimes several times a day, for the rest of the trip. All followed a similar script. Dad, his fervor kindled, would drone for an hour or more, reciting the same lines over and over, fueled by some internal passion that burned long after the rest of us had been lectured into a cold stupor.
这次旅行接下来的日子里，这个场景每天都在上演，有时一天好几次，都是类似的脚本。爸爸的激情又被点燃，他会一口气说上一个小时或更久，一遍又一遍地讲着同样的话。讲到我们都冰冷麻木了，他内里的热情仍久久不灭。
“They’re called Apache tears,” she said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small black stone, dirty and jagged, covered in veins of gray and white like cracked glass. “And this is how they look after they’ve been polished a bit.” From her other pocket she withdrew a second stone, which was inky black and so smooth it felt soft.
“它们叫阿帕奇眼泪。”说着，她把手伸进口袋，掏出一块脏兮兮的黑色小石头，上面凹凸不平，布满碎玻璃一样的灰白色纹理。“它们抛光后是这个样子。”她从另一个口袋掏出又一块石头，这块石头又黑又滑，给人柔软的感觉。
It was a scorching afternoon, so hot you couldn’t walk barefoot on the pavement, when Grandma took me and Richard for a drive through the desert, having wrestled us into seatbelts, which we’d never worn before. We drove until the road began to incline, then kept driving as the asphalt turned to dust beneath our tires, and still we kept going, Grandma weaving higher and higher into the bleached hills, coming to a stop only when the dirt road ended and a hiking trail began. Then we walked. Grandma was winded after a few minutes, so she sat on a flat red stone and pointed to a sandstone rock formation in the distance, formed of crumbling spires, each a little ruin, and told us to hike to it. Once there, we were to hunt for nuggets of black rock.
那是一个炙热的下午，天气热到你无法赤脚走在人行道上。奶奶开车带我和理查德去沙漠里兜风，她费了好大劲儿才给我们系好了安全带，我们之前从未系过。我们一直往前开，路面开始变陡，轮胎下面的柏油路变成了土路，还是继续向前。车在起伏发白的山丘间越攀越高，直到土路到了尽头，出现一条登山步道，我们才停下来。然后我们开始徒步。几分钟后，奶奶便气喘吁吁。于是她坐在一块平坦的红石头上，指向远处的一块砂岩岩层，上面是废墟一样的剥落的尖顶，她让我们徒步过去。一旦到了那里，我们就要寻找宝物：黑色石头。
According to Grandma, a hundred years ago a tribe of Apaches had fought the U. S. Cavalry on those faded rocks. The tribe was outnumbered: the battle lost, the war over. All that was left to do was wait to die. Soon after the battle began, the warriors became trapped on a ledge. Unwilling to suffer a humiliating defeat, cut down one by one as they tried to break through the cavalry, they mounted their horses and charged off the face of the mountain. When the Apache women found their broken bodies on the rocks below, they cried huge, desperate tears, which turned to stone when they touched the earth.
据奶奶说，一百年前，一支阿帕奇部落曾在那些褪色的岩石上与美国骑兵交战。部落人数不占优势，战斗以他们的失利而告终。剩下能做的便是等死。战斗开始后不久，勇士们就被困在了一块岩脊上。他们不愿遭受战败的耻辱，在奋力突破骑兵队时被一个个砍死，于是骑上马背冲下了山崖。当阿帕奇的女人们在下面的岩石上找到丈夫们的碎尸时，她们放声痛哭，绝望的眼泪一落到地面，便化作了石头。
Richard identified both as obsidian. “These are volcanic rock,” he said in his best encyclopedic voice. “But this isn’t.” He kicked a washed-out stone and waved at the formation. “This is sediment.” Richard had a talent for scientific trivia. Usually I ignored his lecturing but today I was gripped by it, and by this strange, thirsty terrain. We hiked around the formation for an hour, returning to Grandma with our shirtfronts sagging with stones. Grandma was pleased; she could sell them. She put them in the trunk, and as we made our way back to the trailer, she told us the legend of the Apache tears.
理查德认出这两块石头都是黑曜石。“这些是火山石，”他用他那百科全书式无所不知的声音说，“但这块不是，”他用脚踢了踢一块褪色的石头，挥手指着那块岩层说：“这是沉积物。”理查德有研究科学冷知识的天赋。往常我不大理会他的讲解，但今天很感兴趣，被这片奇异、焦渴的地面深深吸引。我们绕着岩层走了一个小时才回到奶奶那里，用衬衣兜了很多石头。奶奶很高兴，她可以卖掉它们。她把石头放进后备厢，在开车返回活动房的路上，给我们讲了阿帕奇眼泪的传说。
Grandma never told us what happened to the women. The Apaches were at war but had no warriors, so perhaps she thought the ending too bleak to say aloud. The word “slaughter” came to mind, because slaughter is the word for it, for a battle when one side mounts no defense. It’s the word we used on the farm. We slaughtered chickens, we didn’t fight them. A slaughter was the likely outcome of the warriors’ bravery. They died as heroes, their wives as slaves.
奶奶从未告诉我们那些女人的结局。阿帕奇部落身陷战事却没有了战士，所以也许是她觉得结局太残酷，没有说出口。我的脑海闪现“屠宰”一词，因为这个词就是为此，为一方毫无抵抗的战斗而设。这是我们在农场用的词。我们屠宰鸡鸭，并不需要与它们战斗一番。勇士们的英勇很可能换来一场屠杀。他们是英雄，死了，而他们的妻子成了奴隶，也死了。
As we drove to the trailer, the sun dipping in the sky, its last rays reaching across the highway, I thought about the Apache women. Like the sandstone altar on which they had died, the shape of their lives had been determined years before — before the horses began their gallop, their sorrel bodies arching for that final collision. Long before the warriors’ leap it was decided how the women would live and how they would die. By the warriors, by the women themselves. Decided. Choices, numberless as grains of sand, had layered and compressed, coalescing into sediment, then into rock, until all was set in stone.
我们开车回活动房时，夕阳西下，最后一抹斜阳洒在高速公路上。我想起了阿帕奇的女人们。和她们的埋骨之地砂岩祭坛一样，她们生命的形状早在多年以前——在战马疾驰，拱起栗色的身躯准备迎接最后一击之前，在勇士们最后一跃之前——就已注定。女人们如何生存，又如何死去，命运早已注定。由勇士们决定，也由女人们自己决定。像沙粒般数不清的选择，层层压缩，聚结成沉积物，变成岩石，直到最后化为坚固的磐石。
I had never before left the mountain and I ached for it, for the sight of the Princess etched in pine across the massif. I found myself glancing at the vacant Arizona sky, hoping to see her black form swelling out of the earth, laying claim to her half of the heavens. But she was not there. More than the sight of her, I missed her caresses — the wind she sent through canyons and ravines to sweep through my hair every morning. In Arizona, there was no wind. There was just one heat-stricken hour after another.
之前我从未离开过山，很是想念，渴望看见群山中印第安公主蚀刻在松林间的身影。我瞥了一眼亚利桑那州空荡荡的天空，希望看到她黑色的身影从大地上隆起，宣示她对半边天空的主权。但她不在那里。我不仅想念她的身影，更想念她的爱抚——每天早上她遣风穿过峡谷吹拂我的头发。亚利桑那州没有风，有的只是一阵接一阵的热浪。
I spent my days wandering from one side of the trailer to the other, then out the back door, across the patio, over to the hammock, then around to the front porch, where I’d step over Dad’s semiconscious form and back inside again. It was a great relief when, on the sixth day, Grandpa’s four-wheeler broke down and Tyler and Luke took it apart to find the trouble. I sat on a large barrel of blue plastic, watching them, wondering when we could go home. When Dad would stop talking about the Illuminati. When Mother would stop leaving the room whenever Dad entered it.
我每天都从活动房的一头走到另一头，接着从后门出去，穿过院子，走到吊床那儿，然后绕到前面的门廊，跨过半睡半醒的爸爸，再返回屋里。到了第六天，爷爷的四轮车坏了，泰勒和卢克把它拆开，看看哪里出了问题，这真令我欣慰。我坐在一个蓝色大塑料桶上看着他们俩忙活，心想什么时候才能回家。得等爸爸不再谈论光明会。得等他迈进房间而母亲不再走开时。
Mother’s eyes darkened with worry, but she said nothing.
母亲眼神黯淡，很是担心，但什么也没说。
That night after dinner, Dad said it was time to go. “Get your stuff,” he said. “We’re hitting the road in a half hour.” It was early evening, which Grandma said was a ridiculous time to begin a twelve-hour drive. Mother said we should wait until morning, but Dad wanted to get home so he and the boys could scrap the next morning. “I can’t afford to lose any more work days,” he said.
那天晚饭后，爸爸说该走了。“拿好你们的东西，”他说，“半小时后我们就上路。”那时天色已晚，奶奶说这么晚了还要开十二个小时的车，太荒唐了。母亲也说等第二天早上再走，但是爸爸想早点回家，这样他和哥哥们第二天早上就可以拆解废品了。“我得干活，一天也耽误不了。”他说。
I awoke when the car hit the first utility pole. I’d been asleep on the floor under my sister’s feet, a blanket over my head. I tried to sit up but the car was shaking, lunging — it felt like it was coming apart — and Audrey fell on top of me. I couldn’t see what was happening but I could feel and hear it. Another loud thud, a lurch, my mother screaming, “Tyler!” from the front seat, and a final violent jolt before everything stopped and silence set in.
车子撞上第一根电线杆时，我醒了过来。我睡在姐姐脚下的地板上，头上蒙着一条毯子。我想坐起来，但车子摇晃着向前冲去——感觉它快要散架了——奥黛丽摔到了我身上。我看不清发生了什么，但我能感觉到，也能听见。又是砰的一声巨响，一个倾斜，坐在前排的母亲尖叫了一声“泰勒！”最后是一阵剧烈的颠簸，之后一切戛然而止，四周鸦雀无声。
Then I heard Audrey’s voice. She was calling our names one by one. Then she said, “Everyone’s here except Tara!”
然后我听到了奥黛丽的声音，她在一个接一个地喊我们的名字。最后她说：“除了塔拉，其他人都在！”
Several seconds passed in which nothing happened.
几秒钟过去了，什么动静都没有。
I tried to shout but my face was wedged under the seat, my cheek pressed to the floor. I struggled under Audrey’s weight as she shouted my name. Finally, I arched my back and pushed her off, then stuck my head out of the blanket and said, “Here.”
我想大喊，但我的脸被挤在座位底下，脸颊紧贴着地板。奥黛丽喊我名字时，我还在她的重压下挣扎。最后，我弓起背把她推开，把头伸出毯子说：“我在这儿。”
I looked around. Tyler had twisted his upper body so that he was practically climbing into the backseat, his eyes bulging as he took in every cut, every bruise, every pair of wide eyes. I could see his face but it didn’t look like his face. Blood gushed from his mouth and down his shirt. I closed my eyes, trying to forget the twisted angles of his bloodstained teeth. When I opened them again, it was to check everyone else. Richard was holding his head, a hand over each ear like he was trying to block out a noise. Audrey’s nose was strangely hooked and blood was streaming from it down her arm. Luke was shaking but I couldn’t see any blood. I had a gash on my forearm from where the seat’s frame had caught hold of me.
我环顾四周。泰勒扭动着上半身几乎是爬进了后车座，看着每个人的伤口、瘀青和惊呆的双眼，他的眼睛瞪得越来越大。我能看见他的脸，但那张脸不像是他的了。血从他的嘴里涌出来，流到了衬衫上。我闭上眼睛，试图忘记他沾满鲜血歪歪曲曲的牙齿。我再次睁开眼睛，看了看其他人。理查德正两手捂着耳朵抱住头，像是在努力堵住一阵噪音。奥黛丽的鼻子弯曲成了奇怪的钩状，鲜血从鼻子里流出来，沿着胳膊往下淌。卢克浑身颤抖，但我没看见他身上有血。我的前臂有个口子，是被车座框夹伤的。
“Everyone all right?” My father’s voice. There was a general mumble.
“每个人都好吗？”是父亲的声音。大家都咕哝了一声。
“There are power lines on the car,” Dad said. “Nobody gets out till they’ve shut them off.” His door opened, and for a moment I thought he’d been electrocuted, but then I saw he’d pitched himself far enough so that his body had never touched the car and the ground at the same time. I remember peering at him through my shattered window as he circled the car, his red cap pushed back so the brim reached upward, licking the air. He looked strangely boyish.
“车被电线缠住了，”父亲说，“都先别下车，等着断电。”车门开了，一时之间我还以为他会被电死，但接着我看见他向前倾，跌了足够远，极力避免身体同时与车子和地面接触。我记得透过破碎的车窗凝视他，看他绕着车转圈，他的红帽子被推向脑后，帽檐迎着风向上伸着。真奇怪，他看上去有些孩子气。
There was a glare on the windshield from the morning sun. I saw crisscrossing patterns of fissures and cracks. The sight was familiar. I’d seen hundreds of shattered windshields in the junkyard, each one unique, with its particular spray of gossamer extruding from the point of impact, a chronicle of the collision. The cracks on our windshield told their own story. Their epicenter was a small ring with fissures circling outward. The ring was directly in front of the passenger seat.
清晨的阳光照在挡风玻璃上，反射出一道强光。我看见纵横交错的裂缝。这个场景很是熟悉。我在废料场见过上百块破碎的挡风玻璃，每一块都独一无二，从撞击点向外发散的独特的蛛丝网是撞击的记录。我们这块挡风玻璃上的裂缝讲述了它们自己的故事。裂缝正中心是一个向外延伸裂开的小圆圈，圆圈就在副驾驶座正前方。
I leaned over the seat to see who he was talking to, and only then realized how serious the accident had been. The front half of the car had been compressed, the engine arched, curving back over itself, like a fold in solid rock.
我斜靠在座位上看他在跟谁说话，接着才意识到事故有多严重。车的前半部被挤成一团，发动机呈拱形，像坚硬岩石上的褶皱一样向后弯曲。
He circled the car then stopped, crouching low, bringing his head level with the passenger seat. “Are you okay?” he said. Then he said it again. The third time he said it, his voice quivered.
他绕着车子转了一圈，然后停下来，俯下身，头与副驾驶座平齐。“你没事吧？”他问。接着他又问了一遍。第三遍时，他的声音颤抖了。
“You okay?” Dad pleaded. “Honey, can you hear me?”
“你没事吧？”爸爸用恳求的语气问，“亲爱的，你能听见我说话吗？”
Mother was in the passenger seat. Her body faced away from the window. I couldn’t see her face, but there was something terrifying in the way she slumped against her seat.
在副驾驶座上的是母亲。她的身体没有面向窗户，我看不见她的脸，但她靠在座位上的样子有些可怕。
“Can you hear me?” Dad said. He repeated this several times. Eventually, in a movement so small it was almost imperceptible, I saw the tip of Mother’s ponytail dip as she nodded.
“你能听见我说话吗？”爸爸说，他重复问了好几次。最后，我看到母亲的马尾辫梢微微动了动，似乎是微微点了点头，但动作轻得几乎觉察不到。
I think I heard him say that. And if he did, which surely he must have, Mother must have whispered a reply, or maybe she wasn’t able to whisper anything, I don’t know. I’ve always imagined that she asked to be taken home.
我想我听到他这么说了。如果他说了，他一定是这么说了，那母亲肯定也低声回答了一句，或者也许她已经不能低声说什么，我不知道。我一直想象她要求被带回家。
Dad stood, looking at the active power lines, looking at the earth, looking at Mother. Looking helpless. “Do you think — should I call an ambulance?”
爸爸站在那里，看了看还通着电的电线，再看看地面，又看看母亲。他看上去很是无助。“你觉得——我该不该叫救护车？”
I was told later that the farmer whose tractor we’d hit rushed from his house. He’d called the police, which we knew would bring trouble because the car wasn’t insured, and none of us had been wearing seatbelts. It took perhaps twenty minutes after the farmer informed Utah Power of the accident for them to switch off the deadly current pulsing through the lines. Then Dad lifted Mother from the station wagon and I saw her face — her eyes, hidden under dark circles the size of plums, and the swelling distorting her soft features, stretching some, compressing others.
后来有人告诉我，我们撞上了一个农民的拖拉机。他从家里冲了出来，打电话报了警。这下麻烦大了，因为我们的车没上保险，而且当时我们没一个人系安全带。那个农民将事故通报给犹他州电力公司之后过了大约二十分钟，他们才关掉了流经电线的致命电流。爸爸这才从旅行车里把母亲抱了出来，我看见她的脸——她的眼睛藏在李子大小的黑眼圈下面，柔和的五官变得肿胀扭曲，有的地方拉长了，有的地方收缩了。
Mother was laid on the sofa. She mumbled that the light hurt her eyes. We closed the blinds. She wanted to be in the basement, where there were no windows, so Dad carried her downstairs and I didn’t see her for several hours, not until that evening, when I used a dull flashlight to bring her dinner. When I saw her, I didn’t know her. Both eyes were a deep purple, so deep they looked black, and so swollen I couldn’t tell whether they were open or closed. She called me Audrey, even after I corrected her twice. “Thank you, Audrey, but just dark and quiet, that’s fine. Dark. Quiet. Thank you. Come check on me again, Audrey, in a little while.”
母亲被抱到沙发上。她喃喃地说，光线太刺眼了，于是我们把窗帘拉上。她想待在地下室，那里没有窗户，于是爸爸把她抱下楼。几个小时里我都没见到她，直到那天晚上我打着暗淡的手电筒给她送晚饭。见到她时，我都快认不出她了。她双眼呈深紫色，深得发黑，肿得让我分不清是睁着还是闭着。她叫我奥黛丽，甚至在我纠正了她两次后依然如此。“谢谢你，奥黛丽，只要黑暗和安静，就很好。黑暗，安静。谢谢你！过一小会儿再来看我啊，奥黛丽。”
I don’t know how we got home, or when, but I remember that the mountain face glowed orange in the morning light. Once inside, I watched Tyler spit streams of crimson down the bathroom sink. His front teeth had smashed into the steering wheel and been displaced, so that they jutted backward toward the roof of his mouth.
我不知道我们怎么回的家，也不知道什么时候回的家，但我记得那座山在晨曦中泛着橙色的光芒。一回到家，我就看见泰勒把一口口红色血水吐到卫生间洗手池里。他的前门牙猛撞上方向盘错位了，所以牙齿朝后向上腭突起。
Mother didn’t come out of the basement for a week. Every day the swelling worsened, the black bruises turned blacker. Every night I was sure her face was as marked and deformed as it was possible for a face to be, but every morning it was somehow darker, more tumid. After a week, when the sun went down, we turned off the lights and Mother came upstairs. She looked as if she had two objects strapped to her forehead, large as apples, black as olives.
母亲整整一周都没从地下室出来。她的脸肿得越来越厉害，瘀青也越来越严重。每天晚上，我都确信她脸上的痕迹不可能更触目了，但每天早晨，不知为何她的脸却更黑更肿。一个星期后，等太阳下山，我们关上灯，母亲上楼了。她的额头就像绑着两个东西，大得像苹果，黑得像橄榄。
There was never any more talk of a hospital. The moment for such a decision had passed, and to return to it would be to return to all the fury and fear of the accident itself. Dad said doctors couldn’t do anything for her anyhow. She was in God’s hands.
没有人再提医院。做这种决定的时刻已经过去了，再谈论这些，就是重温车祸发生后的愤怒和恐惧。爸爸说反正医生也帮不上她什么忙。她的生死掌控在上帝手中。
In the coming months, Mother called me by many names. When she called me Audrey I didn’t worry, but it was troubling when we had conversations in which she referred to me as Luke or Tony, and in the family it has always been agreed, even by Mother herself, that she’s never been quite the same since the accident. We kids called her Raccoon Eyes. We thought it was a great joke, once the black rings had been around for a few weeks, long enough for us to get used to them and make them the subject of jokes. We had no idea it was a medical term. Raccoon eyes. A sign of serious brain injury.
接下来几个月，母亲用许多名字称呼我。她叫我奥黛丽我倒不怎么担心，但我们交谈时她把我叫成卢克或者托尼，就让我很不安。全家人包括她自己一致认为，自从车祸后，她便再也不复从前。我们孩子都叫她“浣熊眼”，觉得这个外号很好笑。她有黑眼圈已经好几周了，我们早习以为常，以至于开起它们的玩笑。当时我们丝毫不知道这竟然是一个医学术语。浣熊眼，严重脑损伤的征兆之一。
Tyler’s guilt was all-consuming. He blamed himself for the accident, then kept on blaming himself for every decision that was made thereafter, every repercussion, every reverberation that clanged down through the years. He laid claim to that moment and all its consequences, as if time itself had commenced the instant our station wagon left the road, and there was no history, no context, no agency of any kind until he began it, at the age of seventeen, by falling asleep at the wheel. Even now, when Mother forgets any detail, however trivial, that look comes into his eyes — the one he had in the moments after the collision, when blood poured from his own mouth as he took in the scene, raking his eyes over what he imagined to be the work of his hands and his hands only.
泰勒被内疚吞噬。多年以来，他为这次事故，之后又不断为此事造成的每一个决定、每一声铿锵有力的回响责怪自己。他紧紧抓住那一刻和之后的一切后果，仿佛时间本身起始于我们的旅行车驶离公路的那一瞬，没有历史，没有缘起，没有任何外力，直到十七岁的他在开车时睡着，时间才被开启。即使是现在，只要母亲忘记了任何不管多么微不足道的细节，他的眼里就会流露出那个神情——他在撞车后的神情，他自己嘴里流着鲜血，对现场遍览无遗，他用目光扫视着他自认为出自他手且只出自他手的这幕作品。
Me, I never blamed anyone for the accident, least of all Tyler. It was just one of those things. A decade later my understanding would shift, part of my heavy swing into adulthood, and after that the accident would always make me think of the Apache women, and of all the decisions that go into making a life — the choices people make, together and on their own, that combine to produce any single event. Grains of sand, incalculable, pressing into sediment, then rock.
而我，我从不把那次车祸归咎于任何人，尤其是泰勒。那只是众多事件之一。十年后我的理解会发生转变，我沉重地步入成年，那之后，那次车祸总会令我想起那些阿帕奇女人，想起汇而构成人一生的所有决定——人们共同或者独自做出的那些决定，聚合起来，制造了每一桩单独事件。沙粒不可计数，叠压成沉积物，然后成为岩石。
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