Just before Marilyn had given Lydia that first diary, the university had held its annual Christmas party. Marilyn had not wanted to go. All fall she’d been wrestling a vague discontentment. Nath had just started the first grade, Lydia had just started nursery school, Hannah had not yet even been imagined. For the first time since she’d been married, Marilyn found herself unoccupied. She was twenty-nine years old, still young, still slender. Still smart, she thought. She could go back to school now, at last, and finish her degree. Do everything she’d planned before the children came along. Only now she couldn’t remember how to write a paper, how to take notes; it seemed as vague and hazy as something she had done in a dream. How could she study when dinner needed cooking, when Nath needed to be tucked in, when Lydia wanted to play? She leafed through the Help Wanted ads in the paper, but they were all for waitresses, accountants, copywriters. Nothing she knew how to do. She thought of her mother, the life her mother had wanted for her, the life her mother had hoped to lead herself: husband, children, house, her sole job to keep it all in order. Without meaning to, she’d acquired it. There was nothing more her mother could have wished her. The thought did not put her in a festive mood.
玛丽琳送给莉迪亚第一本日记本之前，大学里举办了一年一度的圣诞派对。玛丽琳不想去。她和坏心情战斗了一个秋天。内斯刚进入一年级，莉迪亚才上幼儿园，汉娜还没出世。自从结婚以来，她头一回意识到自己没有正事可做。她二十九岁，还年轻，身材也苗条。脑子依然灵活，她想。至少有能力重返校园拿到学位，实现她童年时代的计划。然而，她现在已经想不起来怎么写论文、做笔记了，曾经写论文、做笔记的情景仿佛是在梦中。晚饭需要做，内斯需要喂饱，莉迪亚需要有人陪着玩，她哪有工夫学习？玛丽琳翻看报纸上的求助广告，发现都是招聘女服务员、会计和文案的。这些工作她都不会。她想起自己的母亲，她母亲想让她过怎样的生活，她母亲为她设计的人生轨迹：丈夫、孩子、房子。她现在仅有的工作就是管理这三样东西。这就是母亲对她的全部期望，她现在已经实现了，即便如此，她还是没有心情庆祝圣诞节。
James, however, had insisted that they put in an appearance at the Christmas party; he was up for tenure in the spring, and appearances mattered. So they had asked Vivian Allen from across the street to babysit Nath and Lydia, and Marilyn put on a peach cocktail dress and her pearls and they headed to the crepe-papered gymnasium, where a Christmas tree had been erected on the midcourt line. Then, after the obligatory round of hellos and how-are-yous, she retreated to the corner, nursing a cup of rum punch. That was where she ran into Tom Lawson.
詹姆斯却坚持认为他们应该到圣诞派对上露个脸；来年春天，他就要成为终身教授，所以，露脸是必须的。于是，他们请街对面的薇薇安·艾伦帮忙照看内斯和莉迪亚。玛丽琳换了条桃红色短裙，戴着珍珠项链，和詹姆斯来到装饰着彩色绉纸的学校体育馆，一棵圣诞树已经在中场区竖立起来。几圈寒暄过后，她端着一杯朗姆酒退到角落里，就在这时，她遇到了汤姆·劳森。
Tom brought her a slice of fruitcake and introduced himself — he was a professor in the chemistry department; he and James had worked together on the thesis committee of a double-majoring student who’d written about chemical warfare in World War I. Marilyn tensed against the inevitable questions — And what do you do, Marilyn? — but instead they exchanged the usual benign civilities: how old the children were, how nice this year’s Christmas tree looked. And when he began to tell her about the research he was doing — something to do with the pancreas and artificial insulin — she interrupted to ask if he needed a research assistant, and he stared at her over his plate of pigs in blankets. Marilyn, afraid of seeming unqualified, offered a flood of explanations: she had been a chemistry major at Radcliffe and she’d been planning on medical school and she hadn’t quite finished her degree — yet — but now that the children were a bit older —
汤姆给她拿来一块水果蛋糕，开始自我介绍——他是化学系教授；他和詹姆斯负责审查一个修习双学位的学生写的关于一战中的化学武器的论文。玛丽琳立刻紧张起来，害怕听到那个问题——那么，你是做什么的，玛丽琳？——但是，汤姆并没有这样问，他们亲切友好地客套了几句孩子多大了、今年的圣诞树真漂亮。当他提到自己正在做胰腺和人工胰岛素的研究时，她打断他，问他是否需要一名研究助理。他从手中端着的印有披着毛毯的猪的碟子上移开视线，抬头盯着她看。害怕被人轻视的玛丽琳立刻长篇大论地解释：她曾在拉德克利夫学院读化学专业，她打算去医学院，她还没有拿到学位——暂时没有——现在她的孩子长大了一点……
“Please,” she said, putting her hand on his elbow. “I’d really enjoy doing some more academic work again.”
“拜托了，”她说，一只手放在他的肘部，“我真的愿意再次从事学术工作。”
Tom Lawson grinned. “I guess I could use some help,” he said. “If your husband doesn’t mind, that is. Maybe we could meet and talk about it after New Year’s, when term starts.” And Marilyn said yes, yes, that would be wonderful.
汤姆·劳森笑了。“我猜，我的确需要帮助。”他说，“如果你的丈夫不介意的话，那就可以。也许我们可以在新年之后谈谈，新学期开始的时候。”玛丽琳连连答应，表示这是再好不过的了。
In fact, Tom Lawson had been surprised at the tone of her request: it had the murmured, breathless quality of a proposition. Marilyn looked up at him and smiled, and her deep dimples gave her the earnestness of a little girl.
其实，是她提问的语气让汤姆·劳森觉得意外：她是断断续续地嘟囔着提出要求的。玛丽琳抬起头来，微笑着看他，那对深刻的酒窝让她像个虔诚的小女孩。
James was less enthusiastic. He knew what people would say: He couldn’t make enough — his wife had to hire herself out. Years had passed, but he still remembered his mother rising early each morning and donning her uniform, how one winter, when she’d been home from work with the flu for two weeks, they’d had to turn off the heat and bundle in double blankets. He remembered how at night, his mother would massage oil into her calloused hands, trying to soften them, and his father would leave the room, ashamed. “No,” he told Marilyn. “When I get tenure, we’ll have all the money we need.” He took her hand, uncurled her fingers, kissed her soft palm. “Tell me you won’t worry about working anymore,” he said, and at last she had agreed. But she kept Tom Lawson’s phone number.
詹姆斯没有她那么热情。他知道别人会怎么说：他挣得不够多——他妻子不得不出去找工作。尽管已经过去了很多年，他仍然记得他母亲每天早早起来，穿上制服去工作。一年冬天，她因为流感在家里休息了两周，他们不得不关掉暖气裹在两床毛毯里面。到了晚上，他母亲会给自己粗硬的双手涂油，想让皮肤变得柔软一些，见此情景，他父亲会愧疚地离开房间。“不，”他告诉玛丽琳，“等我成为终身教授，我们就不缺钱了。”他拉起她的手，掰开她的手指，吻她柔软的掌心。“告诉我，你不会再想着出去工作。”他说。最后她终于同意了，但是，她还是保留了汤姆·劳森的电话号码。
By then she had not spoken to her mother in almost eight years, since her wedding day. In all that time, her mother had not written once. When Nath had been born, then Lydia, Marilyn had not informed her mother, had not even sent a photograph. What was there to say? She and James had never discussed what her mother had said about their marriage that last day: it’s not right. She had not ever wanted to think of it again. So when James came home that night, she said simply, “My mother died.” Then she turned back to the stove and added, “And the lawn needs mowing,” and he understood: they would not talk about it. At dinner, when she told the children that their grandmother had died, Lydia cocked her head and asked, “Are you sad?”
婚礼那天过后，她已经近八年没和母亲说话，在此期间，她母亲也没给她写过一封信。内斯出生、莉迪亚出生，玛丽琳都没有通知母亲，连孩子的照片都没给她寄过。有什么好说的？她和詹姆斯从未讨论过她母亲在婚礼那天对这场婚姻的评价：这样不对。她根本不想再去回忆。所以，当詹姆斯晚上回到家时，玛丽琳只是简短地说了句：“我母亲死了。”然后她走到炉子那里，又补充道，“草坪需要修了。”他立刻明白，他们不会再讨论这件事。晚饭时，玛丽琳告诉孩子们外婆去世了，莉迪亚翘起脑袋问：“你难过吗？”
Then, in the spring, while James — newly tenured — was at work and the children were at school and Marilyn, at home, folded her second load of laundry, the phone rang. A nurse from St. Catherine’s Hospital, in Virginia, telling her that her mother had died. A stroke. It was April 1, 1966, and the first thing Marilyn thought was: what a terrible, tasteless joke.
第二年春天，詹姆斯——新晋终身教授——开始上班，孩子们开始上学，玛丽琳待在家里折叠洗好的衣服，这时，电话响了——弗吉尼亚州圣凯瑟琳医院的一位护士告诉玛丽琳，她母亲去世了。那天是1966年4月1日，玛丽琳的第一个反应是：真是个可怕的、没有品位的笑话。
There were things to be taken care of: papers to be signed, burial arrangements to be made. So Marilyn left the children with James and drove to Virginia — she’d long since stopped thinking of it as home — to sort out her mother’s things. As mile after mile of Ohio, then West Virginia, streamed past, her daughter’s question echoed in her mind. She could not answer for sure.
她母亲的后事需要处理：签署文件、安排葬礼。所以，玛丽琳离开詹姆斯和孩子们，开车去了弗吉尼亚——她早已不把弗吉尼亚当作自己的家——整理母亲的遗物。出了俄亥俄，进入西弗吉尼亚，大小河流闪过车窗，女儿的问题一直在她脑中回响。她无法给出肯定的回答。
Marilyn glanced at her husband. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am.”
玛丽琳看了丈夫一眼。“是的，”她说，“难过。”
Was she sad? She was more surprised than anything: surprised at how familiar her mother’s house still felt. Even after eight years, she still remembered exactly how to wiggle the key — down and to the left — to get the lock to open; she still remembered the screen door that slowly closed itself with a hiss. The light in the foyer had burned out and the heavy curtains in the living room were closed, but her feet moved by instinct despite the dark: years of rehearsal had taught her the dance step around the armchair and the ottoman to the table beside the sofa. Her fingers caught the ribbed switch of the lamp on the first try. It could have been her house.
她难过吗？更多的是惊讶，惊讶于自己竟然还是如此熟悉母亲的房子。即使过了八年，她仍然记得怎么晃动钥匙——先向下，再向左——才能打开门锁；仍然记得纱门会自动缓缓关闭，发出嘶嘶的声音。前厅的炉火燃尽了，起居室的厚窗帘拉上了，但她能够凭直觉在黑暗中前进。她在扶手椅、搁脚凳、桌子和沙发之间灵活地穿行，一下子就准确地摸到电灯的棱纹开关。这里本可以成为她的家的。
“Thank you,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’d rather take care of it myself.”
“谢谢，”她抬起下巴，“我还是自己处理好了。”
When the light came on, she saw the same shabby furniture she’d grown up with, the same pale lilac wallpaper with a grain, like silk. The same china cabinet full of her mother’s dolls, whose unblinking eyes gave her the same cold tingle on the back of her neck. On the mantel, the same photographs of her as a child. All the things that she needed to clear away. Was she sad? No, after the daylong drive, only tired. “Many people find this job overwhelming,” the undertaker told her the next morning. He gave her the number of a cleaning company that specialized in making houses ready to sell. Ghouls, Marilyn thought. What a job, clearing the homes of the dead, piling whole lives into garbage bins and lugging them to the curb.
灯光亮起，她看到自己小时候那些熟悉的破旧家具，褪色的淡紫墙纸，上面有丝绸一样的纹理。瓷器柜里装满了她母亲的玩具娃娃，它们的眼睛一眨不眨，依然让她觉得脖子后面发凉。这些东西都需要她清走。她难过吗？不，赶了一天的路，她只觉得累。“很多人都觉得难以胜任这项工作。”第二天早晨，殡仪馆的工作人员告诉她。他给了她一个公司的电话号码，他们专门帮客户打理需要卖掉的房子。食尸鬼，玛丽琳想。真是个贴心的服务，清理死者的房子，把他们的一生扔进垃圾桶，再把垃圾桶拖到马路边上。
But when she tried to sort her mother’s things, she could find nothing she wanted to keep. Her mother’s gold ring, her twelve settings of china, the pearl bracelet from Marilyn’s father: mementos of an ill-fated wedding day. Her demure sweater sets and pencil skirts, the gloves and hat-boxed hats: relics of a corseted existence that Marilyn had always pitied. Her mother had loved her doll collection, but their faces were blank as chalk, white china masks under horsehair wigs. Little strangers with cold stares. Marilyn leafed through photo albums for a picture of herself with her mother and couldn’t find one. Only Marilyn in kindergarten pigtails; Marilyn in third grade with a missing front tooth; Marilyn at a school party, a paper crown on her head. Marilyn in high school in front of the Christmas tree in a precious Kodachrome. Three photo albums of Marilyn and not a single shot of her mother. As if her mother had never been there.
但是，当她试图整理母亲的遗物时，却找不出自己想要留下的东西。她母亲的金戒指，她的十二件瓷器套装，玛丽琳的父亲送她母亲的珍珠手镯：这是她父母的失败婚姻的纪念物。她严肃庄重的毛衣和铅笔裙、手套和装在帽盒里的帽子。它们本来是和一套束腰的衣服搭配的，玛丽琳有些不忍心扔掉。她的母亲很喜欢那套瓷器娃娃，它们一律面无表情，头上的假发是马毛做的。一群冷眼旁观的小陌生人。玛丽琳打开相册，想找一张自己和母亲的合影，却发现没有。只有玛丽琳上幼儿园时梳着马尾辫的照片；玛丽琳参加学校派对，头上戴着纸王冠；高中的玛丽琳站在圣诞树前，这张是用珍贵的柯达彩色胶片拍的。她翻了三本相册，连她母亲的一张单人照都找不到，她母亲像根本没有存在过一样。
Was she sad? How could she miss her mother when her mother was nowhere to be found?
她难过吗？她的母亲根本无处可寻，她又怎么会难过？
And then, in the kitchen, she discovered her mother’s Betty Crocker cookbook, the spine cracking and mended, twice, with Scotch tape. On the first page of the cookie section, a deliberate line in the margin of the introduction, the kind she herself had made in college to mark an important passage. It was no recipe. Always cookies in the cookie jar! the paragraph read. Is there a happier symbol of a friendly house? That was all. Her mother had felt the need to highlight this. Marilyn glanced at the cow-shaped cookie jar on the counter and tried to picture the bottom. The more she thought about it, the less sure she was that she had ever seen it.
随后，她在厨房里发现了母亲的《贝蒂·克罗克烹饪书》，开裂的书脊曾经修补过两次，用思高胶带粘着。在“饼干”部分的第一页，引言旁边的空白处有一条线，玛丽琳上大学的时候，会用这种线标出书上的重点。这段话并非制作饼干的说明。饼干罐里一定要有饼干！这段写着，难道除此之外，还有更能表现家庭友好气氛的东西吗？就是这些话。她母亲觉得，需要把它们当作重点划出来。玛丽琳瞥了一眼柜台上奶牛形状的饼干罐，想看看它是不是空的，结果越是打量，越不确定自己曾经见过这件东西。
She flipped through the other chapters, looking for more pencil lines. In “Pies,” she found another: If you care about pleasing a man — bake a pie. But make sure it’s a perfect pie. Pity the man who has never come home to a pumpkin or custard pie. Under “Basic Eggs”: The man you marry will know the way he likes his eggs. And chances are he’ll be fussy about them. So it behooves a good wife to know how to make an egg behave in six basic ways. She imagined her mother touching the pencil tip to her tongue, then drawing a careful dark mark down the margin so that she would remember.
她翻到其他章节，寻找更多的铅笔线。在“派”的部分，她发现了一条线：如果你想取悦男人——烤个派吧。但是，一定要做得完美。下班回家后从未吃过南瓜派或者蛋奶派的男人是多么的可怜啊！在“蛋的基本烹饪”部分划出的句子是：你嫁的男人会知道他喜欢吃什么样的蛋。他可能不喜欢你做的蛋，所以，一位好妻子，应该掌握蛋的六种基本烹饪方式。她想象着母亲咬着铅笔头读到这里，然后认真地划下来，希望能够记住的样子。
You’ll find your skill with a salad makes its own contribution to the quality of life in your house.
你将发现，你的色拉制作技巧，决定着全家的生活质量。
Betty’s pickles! Aunt Alice’s peach conserve! Mary’s mint relish! Is there anything that gives you a deeper sense of satisfaction than a row of shining jars and glasses standing on your shelf?
贝蒂的腌菜！爱丽丝姑姑的桃子蜜饯！玛丽的薄荷酱！除了架子上盛着这些东西的闪亮的罐子和玻璃瓶，还有什么能给你更深的满足感？
Does anything make you feel so pleased with yourself as baking bread?
除了烤面包，还有什么能让你对自己如此满意？
Marilyn looked at Betty Crocker’s portrait on the back cover of the cookbook, the faint streaks of gray at her temples, the hair that curled back from her forehead, as if pushed back by the arch of her eyebrow. For a second, it resembled her mother. Is there anything that gives you a deeper sense of satisfaction? Certainly her mother would have said no, no, no. She thought with sharp and painful pity of her mother, who had planned on a golden, vanilla-scented life but ended up alone, trapped like a fly in this small and sad and empty house, this small and sad and empty life, her daughter gone, no trace of herself left except these pencil-marked dreams. Was she sad? She was angry. Furious at the smallness of her mother’s life. This, she thought fiercely, touching the cookbook’s cover. This is all I need to remember about her. This is all I want to keep.
烹饪书封底印着贝蒂·克罗克的照片，太阳穴那里有些浅淡的灰色条纹，前额的头发向后卷曲，仿佛是被她挑起的眉弓顶回去的。乍一看，还真有点像玛丽琳的母亲。还有什么能给你更深的满足感？她母亲当然会说：没有，没有，没有。怀着对母亲尖锐而痛苦的同情，她想。她母亲梦想着过上金光闪闪、萦绕着香草味道的生活，最后却孤独终老，像一只困在这座空荡荡的小房子里的可怜苍蝇。女儿离开了她，除了书上的铅笔划痕，她生命的印迹无处可寻。她难过吗？她愤怒。愤怒于母亲人生的渺小。“这个。”她气愤地想，摩挲着烹饪书的封面：只有这个是我需要记住的，我只需要保留这个。
By dinnertime, the men had emptied the entire house. One of them tipped his hat to Marilyn; the other gave her a polite little nod. Then they stepped out onto the stoop, and the truck’s engine started outside. She moved from room to room, the cookbook tucked under her arm, checking that nothing had been left behind, but the men had been thorough. Her old room was hardly recognizable with the pictures peeled from its walls. The only signs of her time there were the thumbtack holes in the wallpaper, invisible unless you knew where to look. It could have been a stranger’s house. Through the open curtains she could see nothing, only panes of dusk and her face faintly reflected back to her in the glow of the ceiling light. On her way out, she paused in the living room, where the carpet was pockmarked with the ghosts of chair feet, and studied the mantel, now a clean line under a stretch of bare wall.
晚餐时间之前，他们就清空了房子。其中一人朝玛丽琳抬抬帽檐，另一个冲她礼貌地点点头。然后，他们就走出门廊，发动了外面的卡车。她从一个房间走到另一个房间，胳膊下面夹着烹饪书，检查有没有落下的东西，但他们清理得很彻底。拿下了墙上的照片后，她的旧房间简直面目全非，难以辨认。她童年时代的唯一印记只剩下图钉留在墙纸上的小洞，除非你知道它们原本在哪里，否则根本找不到。顺着敞开的窗帘望出去，她什么也看不见，只有昏暗的窗玻璃和灯光照耀下她那模糊的脸。她离开时，在起居室逗留了一下，地毯上还有椅子腿压出的小坑，原本是壁炉架的地方只剩下光光的墙面上的一条直线。
The next morning, she called the housecleaning company the undertaker had recommended. The two men who arrived at her door wore blue uniforms, like janitors. They were clean-shaven and courteous; they looked at her with sympathy but said nothing about “your loss.” With the efficiency of movers they packed dolls and dishes and clothes into cartons. They swaddled furniture in quilted pads and trundled it to the truck. Where did it go, Marilyn wondered, cradling the cookbook — the mattresses, the photographs, the emptied-out bookshelves? The same place people went when they died, where everything went: on, away, out of your life.
第二天早晨，她给殡仪馆工作人员推荐的房屋清理公司打电话，对方派来两个穿蓝色制服的人。他们像看门人一样，胡子刮得干干净净，谦恭有礼，两人同情地看着她，但没说“节哀顺变”之类的话。他们以搬家工人的专业效率迅速把瓷娃娃、碗碟和衣服打包进纸箱，用棉衬垫裹住家具，挪到卡车上。“它们要去哪里呢？”玛丽琳怀抱着烹饪书想，“那些床垫、照片、清空了的书架？”去人死后去的地方，一切都将归向那里，远去，消失，离开你的生活。
As she pulled onto the highway, heading toward Ohio and home, those empty rooms kept rising in her mind. She swallowed uneasily, pushing the thought aside, and pressed the gas pedal harder.
她上了高速路，朝着俄亥俄州、朝家中驶去。那些空房间不停地在她脑海中冒出来。她心神不安地把这些画面甩到一边，更加用力地踩下油门。
Outside Charlottesville, flecks of rain appeared on the windows. Halfway across West Virginia the rain grew heavy, sheeting the windshield. Marilyn pulled to the roadside and turned off the car, and the wipers stopped midsweep, two slashes across the glass. It was past one o’clock in the morning and no one else was on the road: no taillights on the horizon, no headlights in the rearview, only farmland stretching out on either side. She snapped off her own lights and leaned back against the headrest. How good the rain would feel, like crying all over her body.
出了夏洛特斯维尔，车窗上出现了雨点。西弗吉尼亚走到一半，雨下大了，盖住了整个挡风玻璃。玛丽琳停在路边关掉引擎，雨刷停止了清扫，玻璃上留下两条痕迹。时间是凌晨一点多，路上没有别的人。前方没有汽车尾灯，后视镜里也看不到头灯，只有成片的农田在路的一侧绵延。她关掉自己的车灯，靠在椅背上，这场雨下得真是痛快，她感觉自己好像倾尽全力地哭了一场。
She thought again of the empty house, a lifetime of possessions now bound for the thrift shop, or the garbage dump. Her mother’s clothes on some stranger’s body, her ring circling some stranger’s finger. Only the cookbook, beside her at the other end of the front seat, had survived. That was the only thing worth keeping, Marilyn reminded herself, the only place in the house there was any trace of her.
她又想起了那座空房子，那些一生积攒下来的东西，现在恐怕已经进了旧货店或者垃圾场。她母亲的衣服可能穿在了陌生人身上，戒指套上了陌生人的手指。只有放在前排座位上的那本烹饪书幸存了下来。它是唯一值得保留的东西，玛丽琳提醒自己，那座房子里唯一留下母亲印迹的东西。
It struck her then, as if someone had said it aloud: her mother was dead, and the only thing worth remembering about her, in the end, was that she had cooked. Marilyn thought uneasily of her own life, of hours spent making breakfasts, serving dinners, packing lunches into neat paper bags. How was it possible to spend so many hours spreading peanut butter across bread? How was it possible to spend so many hours cooking eggs? Sunny-side up for James. Hard-boiled for Nath. Scrambled for Lydia. It behooves a good wife to know how to make an egg behave in six basic ways. Was she sad? Yes. She was sad. About the eggs. About everything.
她如梦如醒，似乎有人在她耳边叫喊：你母亲死了，最终，唯一值得纪念的就是她烹调的食物。玛丽琳忧心忡忡地想起她自己的人生：一连几个小时准备早饭、晚饭，把午饭放进干净的纸袋。给面包片抹花生酱需要那么长时间吗？做鸡蛋需要那么长时间吗？单面煎的给詹姆斯，煮熟的给内斯，炒鸡蛋给莉迪亚。一位好妻子，应该掌握蛋的六种基本烹饪方式。她难过吗？是的。她难过。为鸡蛋难过。为一切难过。
She unlocked the door and stepped out onto the asphalt.
她打开车门，来到马路上。
The noise outside the car was deafening: a million marbles hitting a million tin roofs, a million radios all crackling on the same non-station. By the time she shut the door she was drenched. She lifted her hair and bowed her head and let the rain soak the curls beneath. The drops smarted against her bare skin. She leaned back on the cooling hood of the car and spread her arms wide, letting the rain needle her all over.
车外的噪音震耳欲聋，仿佛有几百万颗弹珠砸在锡皮屋顶上，几百万个广播电台同时发出嘶哑空白的背景音。她关上车门的时候已经全身湿透了。她掀起头发，低下头，雨水向下流在皮肤上，传来刺痛的感觉，她斜靠在冷却罩上，展开双臂，让雨滴刺遍全身。
Never, she promised herself. I will never end up like that.
决不，她对自己发誓，我决不能活得像她那样。
Under her head she could hear water thrumming on the steel. Now it sounded like tiny patters of applause, a million hands clapping. She opened her mouth and let rain drip into it, opened her eyes and tried to look straight up into the falling rain.
她听到脑袋下方传来水滴敲打钢板的声音，仿佛细小的掌声，几百万双手在为她鼓掌。她张开嘴，让雨水流进嘴里，睁大眼睛，直视着倾盆而下的雨帘。
Back in the car, she peeled off her blouse and skirt and stockings and shoes. At the far end of the passenger seat they made a sad little heap beside the cookbook, like a melting scoop of ice cream. The rain slowed, and the gas pedal was stiff under her bare foot as she coaxed the car into motion. In the rearview mirror she caught a glimpse of her reflection, and instead of being embarrassed to see herself stripped so naked and vulnerable, she admired the pale gleam of her own skin against the white of her bra.
她脱下上衣、裙子、长袜和鞋，湿漉漉地堆在烹饪书旁边，好似一摊融化的冰淇淋。雨势变小了，光脚踩着的油门踏板质感坚硬。她发动车子，从后视镜中看到了自己的倒影，看到自己如此赤裸和狼狈，她没有觉得尴尬，反而赞赏地审视着自己白色内衣映衬下更加苍白闪光的皮肤。
At home, James did not know how to make eggs behave in any way. Each morning, he served the children cereal for breakfast and sent them to school with thirty cents apiece for the lunch line. “When is Mom coming home?” Nath asked every night, crimping the foil tray of his TV dinner. His mother had been gone for nearly a week, and he longed for hard-boiled eggs again. “Soon,” James answered. Marilyn had not left the number at her mother’s, and anyway, that line would soon be disconnected. “Any day now. What shall we do this weekend, hmm?”
留在家里的詹姆斯任何一种鸡蛋的烹饪方式都不会。每天早晨，他都给孩子们麦片当早餐，然后发给每人三十美分，让他们中午在学校里自己买饭。“妈妈什么时候回家？”内斯玩着他的电视餐盒上的锡纸，每天晚上都会问起。他母亲出门还不到一个星期，他又想吃水煮蛋了。“快回来了。”詹姆斯回答。玛丽琳没留下她母亲家的电话号码，而且，反正那个号码很快就要取消。“随时都会回来的。我们这个周末干点什么，嗯？”
She drove on into the night, homeward, her hair weeping tiny slow streams down her back.
她驱车钻进夜幕，朝着家的方向开去，贴在她脖子后面的头发缓缓地流下了眼泪。
Never, she thought again. I will never end up like that.
决不，她再次想到，我决不能活得像她那样。
What they did was head to the Y to learn the breaststroke. Lydia hadn’t yet learned to swim, so James left her across the street with Mrs. Allen for the afternoon. All week he had looked forward to some father-son time. He had even planned out how he would begin: Keep your arms underwater. Whip your legs out. Like this. Although James himself had been a swimmer in high school, he had never won a trophy; he had gone home alone while the others piled into someone’s car for celebratory hamburgers and milkshakes. Now he suspected that Nath had the makings of a swimmer, too: he was short, but he was wiry and strong. In last summer’s swim class, he had learned the front crawl and the dead-man’s float; already he could swim underwater all the way across the pool. In high school, James imagined, Nath would be the star of the team, the collector of trophies, the anchorman in the relay. He would be the one driving everyone to the diner — or wherever kids would go in the far-off 1970s — after meets.
他们决定到游泳池学蛙泳。莉迪亚还没学过游泳，所以，詹姆斯下午把她寄放在街对面的艾伦夫人家。过去的一周，他一直想和内斯度过一些父子独享的时间。他甚至想好了游泳课的开场白：胳膊一直放在水下，向外蹬腿，像这样。虽然詹姆斯本人在高中时是游泳运动员，但他没有得过奖牌；当其他人钻进获奖者的车里，去享用汉堡和奶昔以示庆贺时，他只能独自回家。现在，詹姆斯觉得内斯可能具备同样的游泳天赋，虽然他个子矮，但身体结实强壮。去年夏天的游泳课上，内斯学会了自由泳和漂浮，已经能游着从水底穿过游泳池。詹姆斯觉得，到了高中，内斯就会成为游泳队的明星、奖牌的包揽者、游泳比赛的王牌。赢得比赛之后，他将开车请大家吃饭——或者去做七十年代孩子们喜欢做的事情来庆祝。
That Saturday, when they got to the pool, the shallow end was full of children playing Marco Polo; in the deep end, a pair of elderly men glided in laps. No space for breaststroke lessons yet. James nudged his son. “Go in and play with the others until the pool empties out.”
那个星期六，他们来到泳池边，浅水区全是些玩“马可波罗”的孩子；深水区有两个划水的大人。还没有地方练习蛙泳。詹姆斯推推儿子：“先进去和大家玩，等着泳池空出来。”
“We came here to swim,” James said. “Mrs. Allen is watching your sister just so you could learn the breaststroke, Nathan. Don’t waste everyone’s time.” He tugged the towel from his son’s grasp and steered him firmly toward the water, hovering over him until he slid in. Then he sat down on the vacant poolside bench, nudging aside discarded flippers and goggles. It’s good for him, James thought. He needs to learn how to make friends.
“我们是来游泳的，”詹姆斯说，“艾伦夫人看着你妹妹，好让你能学习蛙泳，内斯。不要浪费大家的时间。”他用力拽掉儿子手中的毛巾，坚决地领着他走向水池边，紧逼着他，直到儿子滑进水里。他随后在池边的空地上坐下来，把别人扔在那里的脚蹼和护目镜推到一边。这对他有好处，詹姆斯想。他需要学学怎么交朋友。
“Do I have to?” Nath asked, pleating the edge of his towel. The only other kid he recognized was Jack, who by then had been living on their street for a month. Although Nath had not yet come to hate him, he already sensed that they would not be friends. At seven Jack was tall and lanky, freckled and bold, afraid of nothing. James, not attuned to the sensitivities of the playground, was suddenly annoyed at his son’s shyness, his reluctance. The confident young man in his imagination dwindled to a nervous little boy: skinny, small, hunched so deeply that his chest was concave. And though he would not admit it, Nath — legs twisted, stacking the toes of one foot atop the other — reminded him of himself at that age.
“非得去吗？”内斯摆弄着毛巾的边缘。那群孩子里面，他就认识杰克。杰克家搬到街上才一个月。虽然那时内斯还没开始讨厌杰克，但已经感觉到他们不会成为朋友。七岁的杰克长得又高又瘦，满脸雀斑，胆大妄为，目空一切。詹姆斯对小孩子之间的气氛并不敏感，儿子的羞怯和迟疑激怒了他，他心目中的那个自信的年轻人一下子缩小成紧张的小男孩，瘦弱、矮小、像个驼背一样畏畏缩缩。尽管他不愿承认，内斯——那个扭着腿，一只脚踩在另一只脚上的小家伙——让他想起了自己这么大的时候。
Nath circled the girl who was It with the other children, bouncing on his toes to keep his head above water. It took James a few minutes to recognize Jack, and when he did, it was with a twinge of admiration. Jack was a good swimmer, cocky and confident in the water, weaving around the others, shining and breathless. He must have walked over by himself, James decided; all spring, Vivian Allen had been whispering about Janet Wolff, how she left Jack alone while she worked at the hospital. Maybe we can give him a ride home, he thought. He could stay to play at our house until his mother finishes her shift. He would be a nice friend for Nath, a good role model. He imagined Nath and Jack inseparable, rigging a tire swing in the backyard, biking through the neighborhood. In his own schooldays, he’d been embarrassed to ask classmates to his house, afraid that they’d recognize his mother from the lunch line, or his father from mopping the hallway. They hadn’t had a yard, anyway. Maybe they would play pirates, Jack as the captain and Nath as the first mate. Sheriff and deputy. Batman and Robin.
内斯和其他孩子绕着一个女孩游，她正在闭着眼睛捉人。他用脚尖踩着水，以便让脑袋浮在水面之上。詹姆斯花了几分钟才认出杰克，霎时，充满嫉妒的羡慕涌上心头。杰克游得很棒，姿态从容自信，动作优美，在孩子群中非常显眼。他一定是自己走过来的，詹姆斯想；春天的时候，薇薇安·艾伦一直在八卦珍妮特·伍尔夫的琐事，比如她去医院上班，把杰克独自留在家里什么的。也许我们可以开车送他回家，詹姆斯想，他母亲下班之前，他可以在我们家玩。他将成为内斯的好朋友、理想的学习榜样。他甚至设想内斯和杰克形影不离，在后院玩轮胎秋千、到街上骑自行车的情景。詹姆斯上学的时候，根本不好意思请同学到家里玩，怕他们认出自己的母亲是食堂帮厨，或者发现他父亲是擦走廊的保洁员。而且，他们家也没有院子。也许他们可以假扮海盗，杰克是船长，内斯当大副。还可以扮演警长和副警长、蝙蝠侠与罗宾之类的。
By the time James focused his attention back on the pool, Nath was It. But something was wrong. The other children glided away. Silently, stifling giggles, they hoisted themselves out of the water and onto the tile surround. Eyes closed, Nath drifted all alone in the middle of the pool, wading in small circles, feeling his way through the water with his hands. James could hear him: Marco. Marco.
等詹姆斯回过神来，他发现内斯成了“捉人者”。但情况有些不对劲。别的孩子都游到池边去了，他们纷纷忍着笑钻出水面，爬到岸上。内斯闭着眼睛，一个人漂浮在池水中央转着小圈，双手在水中探路。詹姆斯听到他说：“马可。马可。”
Then an older girl — maybe ten or eleven — shouted, “Chink can’t find China!” and the other children laughed. A rock formed and sank in James’s belly. In the pool, Nath paused, arms outstretched on the surface of the water, uncertain how to proceed. One hand opened and closed in silence.
然后，一个稍大一点的女孩——也许十一二岁——喊道：“中国佬找不到中国啦！”其他孩子哈哈大笑。詹姆斯的心猛地一沉。水池里的内斯不动了，胳膊漂在水面上，不知道该不该继续。他展开一只手，随后又默默握紧。
Polo, the others called back. They circled the shallow end, splashing the water with their hands, and Nath moved from one side to the other, following the sounds of motion. Marco. Marco. A plaintive note in his voice now.
“波罗。”别的孩子叫道，他们围着浅水区转来转去，把手伸进水里扑腾，循着水声，内斯从一边挪到另一边。“马可。马可。”他的声音里透出了哀怨的动静。
It wasn’t personal, James told himself. They’d been playing for who knows how long; they were just tired of the game. They were just messing around. Nothing to do with Nath.
这不是针对儿子个人的，詹姆斯告诉自己。他们一直是这么玩的；他们只是在玩游戏。只是在胡闹而已。不关内斯什么事。
“Polo,” Jack shouted. The sound echoed off the tiled walls: Polo. Polo. Polo. Giddy with relief, Nath lunged, and Jack held still, treading water, waiting, until Nath caught his shoulder. For a moment, James saw sheer joy on his son’s face, the dark furrow of frustration wiped away.
“波罗。”杰克叫道。他的声音在瓷砖墙壁上回响：“波罗。波罗。波罗。”内斯松了一口气，有点眩晕地朝声音传来的方向猛扑过去，杰克没有动，边踩水边等着，直到内斯抓住他的肩膀。那一个瞬间，詹姆斯看到儿子脸上闪现出纯粹的喜悦，懊恼的表情一扫而空。
Then Nath opened his eyes, and the glow vanished. He saw the other kids squatting around the pool, laughing now, the pool empty except for Jack in front of him. Jack himself turned to Nath and grinned. To Nath, it was a taunt: Joke’s on you. He shoved Jack aside and ducked underwater, and when he reemerged at the edge, he climbed straight out without shaking himself. He didn’t even wipe the water from his eyes, just let it stream over his face as he stalked toward the door, and because of this James could not tell if he was crying.
内斯睁开眼睛，得意的神情立刻不见了，他看到其他孩子都蹲在池边笑他，水池里只有杰克在他眼前，正朝他咧着嘴笑。内斯觉得那是奚落的笑容：只是逗你玩玩而已。他把杰克推到一边，潜进水中，一口气游到池边，径直上岸向门口走去，他没抖去身上的水，连眼睛上的水也不擦，就那么让它顺着脸颊流下来，所以，詹姆斯根本看不出他哭了没有。
On the sidelines, his father, too, was uncertain. Could he make the children get back in the pool? Saying anything would draw attention to the trick. He could call his son. It’s time to go home, he might say. Then Nath would open his eyes and see nothing but water all around him. The smell of chlorine began to bite at James’s nostrils. Then, on the far side of the pool, he saw the blur of a body sliding silently into the water. A figure glided toward Nath, a sandy head broke the surface: Jack.
水池边，他的父亲也不知该如何是好：把孩子们赶回水里？戳穿他们的阴谋？或者告诉儿子该回家了？这样内斯就会睁开眼睛，发现水里只有他一个人。泳池里的氯气味道侵蚀着詹姆斯的鼻腔，非常难受。这时他看到，水池的另一头有个模糊的人影无声地滑进水中，游向内斯，一颗浅棕色的脑袋冒出水面：杰克。
In the locker room, Nath refused to say a word. He refused to put his clothes or even his shoes on, and when James held out his slacks for the third time, Nath kicked the locker so hard he left a dent in the door. James glanced back over his shoulder and saw Jack peeking through the door from the pool area. He wondered if Jack was about to speak, maybe apologize, but instead he stood silent and staring. Nath, who hadn’t spotted Jack at all, marched out into the lobby, and James bundled up their things and let the door swing shut behind them.
内斯在更衣室里一言不发，他拒绝穿衣服和鞋。詹姆斯第三次把他的裤子递过去时，内斯用力踢了更衣橱一脚，上面出现一个凹痕。詹姆斯回头看了一眼，发现杰克正从泳池区透过门缝朝里看。他觉得杰克可能想说点什么，也许是道歉，然而，那孩子只是沉默地站在那里注视着他们。内斯根本没有看到杰克，他径直走进大厅，詹姆斯卷起他们的东西跟在后面，门在身后自动关闭。
Part of him wanted to gather his son into his arms, to tell him that he understood. Even after almost thirty years, he still remembered P. E. class at Lloyd, how once he’d gotten tangled up in his shirt and emerged to find his pants missing from the bench. Everyone else had already dressed and was stuffing gym uniforms into lockers and lacing shoes. He had tiptoed back into the gym, hiding his bare thighs and calves behind his knapsack, looking for Mr. Childs, the P. E. teacher. By then the bell had rung and the locker room had emptied. After ten minutes of searching, mortified at being in his undershorts in front of Mr. Childs, his pants were revealed under a sink, legs tied around the U-bend, dust bunnies caught in the cuffs. “Probably just got mixed up in someone else’s things,” Mr. Childs had said. “Hurry along to class now, Lee. You’re tardy.” James had known it was no accident. After that, he had developed a system: pants first, then shirt. He had never told anyone about it, but the memory clung.
他有点想把儿子揽进怀里，告诉他，自己明白他的感受。虽然已经过去了近三十年，他依然记得劳埃德的体育课。一次换衣服的时候，等他对付好难穿的衬衣，却发现搁在长凳上的裤子不见了，其他人则早已穿好衣服，把体育课的制服和运动鞋塞回了橱柜。詹姆斯只好踮着脚尖回到体育馆，拿背包挡住裸露的双腿，寻觅体育老师蔡尔德先生。这时，铃声响了，更衣室里已经没人了。十分钟后，穿着内裤的他终于找到了蔡尔德。原来，他的裤子被人打了个结，系在洗手池下面的水管上，裤脚沾着几团灰球。“可能是和别人的东西混在一起了，”蔡尔德先生说，“快去上课吧，李，要迟到了。”詹姆斯知道，这并非偶然。自那以后，他就养成了习惯，先穿裤子，再穿衬衣。他从未对任何人提起这件事，却一直记忆深刻。
That afternoon, though, he let Nath run up to his room and slam the door. At dinnertime, when he knocked to offer a Salisbury steak, Nath did not respond, and downstairs, James allowed Lydia to nestle against him on the couch and watch The Jackie Gleason Show. What could he say to comfort his son? It will get better? He could not bring himself to lie. Better just to forget the whole thing. When Marilyn arrived home early Sunday morning, Nath sat sullen and silent at the breakfast table, and James said merely, with a wave of the hand, “Some kids teased him at the pool yesterday. He needs to learn to take a joke.”
尽管如此，那天下午，他还是默许内斯跑回他的房间，用力关上门。晚饭时，他端着索尔斯伯利牛肉饼去敲门，内斯没回应。下楼后，詹姆斯同意抱着莉迪亚坐在沙发上，和她一起看《杰基·格黎森秀》。他能说些什么安慰儿子呢？“情况会好起来的？”他不想撒谎。还是把这件事忘了吧。星期天早晨，玛丽琳回到家，发现内斯闷闷不乐地坐在早餐桌前，詹姆斯摆了摆手，简短解释道：“昨天一群孩子在游泳池逗他玩，他需要学会接受玩笑。”
So part of him wanted to tell Nath that he knew: what it was like to be teased, what it was like to never fit in. The other part of him wanted to shake his son, to slap him. To shape him into something different. Later, when Nath was too slight for the football team, too short for the basketball team, too clumsy for the baseball team, when he seemed to prefer reading and poring over his atlas and peering through his telescope to making friends, James would think back to this day in the swimming pool, this first disappointment in his son, this first and most painful puncture in his fatherly dreams.
所以，他想要告诉内斯，自己理解他的心情：被戏弄的屈辱，无法合群的挫败感。同时，他还想摇晃儿子，扇他一巴掌，硬把他逼成不同的人。后来，当内斯因为“太瘦”不能参加橄榄球队，“太矮”不能打篮球，“太笨”不能打棒球，只能靠读书、研究地图、玩望远镜来交朋友的时候，詹姆斯就会想起那天下午在游泳池发生的事。这是儿子第一次失望，也是他的父亲之梦遭受的第一次和最痛苦的一次打击。
The next morning, after the children went to school, Marilyn pulled a scrap of paper from her dresser drawer. Tom Lawson’s phone number still stood out, sharp black against the pale blue college rule.
第二天早晨，孩子们上学后，玛丽琳从梳妆台抽屉里拿出一张字条，汤姆·劳森的电话号码还在上面，淡蓝色的大学信纸映衬着黑色的字迹，非常刺眼。
It was clear to the entire family, however, that something had changed in their mother. For the rest of the day, her mood was sulky and stormy. At dinner, though they all anticipated a roast chicken, or a meat loaf, or a pot roast — a real meal at last, after so many Swanson’s dinners warmed in the oven — Marilyn opened a can of chicken noodle soup, a can of SpaghettiOs.
但全家人都明白，玛丽琳发生了变化，她一整天的情绪都不好。晚饭时，虽然大家都想吃烤鸡、肉糜或者炖菜——受够了加热食品的他们希望吃到真正意义的饭菜，但是，玛丽琳却打开一个鸡汤罐头和一罐圆形意面。
Nath bristled and glared at his father, but James, cringing at the memory of all he had left out — Chink can’t find China — didn’t notice, and neither did his mother, who, preoccupied, set bowls and the box of cornflakes in front of them. At this last outrage, finally, Nath broke his silence. “I want a hard-boiled egg,” he insisted. Marilyn, to everyone’s surprise, burst into tears, and in the end, subdued and unprotesting, they all ate cereal anyway.
内斯愤怒地盯着父亲，但詹姆斯一心回想着那句嘲笑“中国佬找不到中国啦”，没注意儿子的目光，玛丽琳也没看到，她正忙着把碗和麦片盒摆在桌上。愤慨的内斯终于打破了沉默，“我要水煮蛋。”他强硬地要求道。然而，出乎大家意料，听到这句话后，玛丽琳竟然哭了起来，最后，他们只得顺从地接受了麦片。
Marilyn hung up without bothering to reply. For a long time, she stood in the kitchen by the phone, staring through the window. Outside, it no longer felt like spring. The wind had turned biting and dry; the daffodils, tricked by the warm weather, bent their faces to the ground. All across the garden, they lay prostrate, stems broken, yellow trumpets withered. Marilyn wiped the table and pulled the crossword puzzle toward her, trying to forget the amusement in Tom Lawson’s voice. The newsprint clung to the damp wood, and as she wrote in her first answer, the pen tore through the paper, leaving a blue “A” on the tabletop.
玛丽琳没再多问就挂了电话。她在电话旁站了很长时间，眼睛望着厨房窗外。外面已经没有了春天的感觉，风又干又硬，日渐升高的气温让院子里的水仙花低下了头，茎秆残破，无精打采地趴伏着，黄色的花瓣已然凋谢。玛丽琳抹了一下桌子，拿来报纸开始做填字游戏，想要忘掉汤姆·劳森忍俊不禁的语气。报纸粘在潮湿的木头桌面上，写下第一个答案时，她的笔尖穿透了纸面，在桌子上留下一个蓝色的“A”字。
A pause. Then, to Marilyn’s surprise: laughter. “I hired an undergrad months ago,” Tom Lawson said. “I had no idea you were actually serious about that. With your children and your husband and all.”
对方沉默了一下，接着，玛丽琳惊讶地听到了笑声。“几个月前，我雇了一个本科生。”汤姆·劳森笑着说，“我不知道你是认真的，因为你还有孩子和丈夫要照顾。”
“Tom?” she said when he answered. “Dr. Lawson. It’s Marilyn Lee.” When he didn’t reply, she added, “James Lee’s wife. We met at the Christmas party. We talked about me maybe working in your lab.”
“汤姆？”对方接起电话，玛丽琳说，“劳森博士，我是玛丽琳·李。”见对方没反应，她补充道，“詹姆斯·李的妻子，我们在圣诞节派对上见过，我们谈过我去你实验室的事。”
She took her car keys down from their hook and lifted her handbag from the entry table. At first she told herself she was just going out to clear her head. Despite the chill, she rolled the window down, and as she circled the lake once, twice, the breeze snaked its way beneath her hair to the nape of her neck. With your children and husband and all. She drove without thinking, all the way through Middlewood, past the campus and the grocery store and the roller rink, and only when she found herself turning into the hospital parking lot did she realize this was where she’d intended to come all along.
她摘下挂钩上的车钥匙，拿起放在门边的挎包。起初，她告诉自己说，她只是出去透透气。尽管外面挺冷，她还是放下车窗，绕着湖边转圈，一圈，两圈，微风掀起她的头发，灌进她脖子后面。你还有孩子和丈夫要照顾。她茫然地开着车，横穿米德伍德，经过大学、杂货店、旱冰场，等她发现自己转进了医院的停车场，才意识到自己一直打算到这里来。
Inside, Marilyn settled in the corner of the waiting room. Someone had painted the room — walls, ceiling, doors — a pale, calming blue. White-hatted, white-skirted nurses glided in and out like clouds, bearing syringes of insulin, bottles of pills, rolls of gauze. Candy stripers buzzed by with carts of lunch trays. And the doctors: they strode unhurried through the bustle like jets cutting their steady way through the sky. Whenever they appeared, heads turned toward them; anxious husbands and hysterical mothers and tentative daughters stood up at their approach. They were all men, Marilyn noticed: Dr. Kenger, Dr. Gordon, Dr. McLenahan, Dr. Stone. What had made her think she could be one of them? It seemed as impossible as turning into a tiger.
玛丽琳走进候诊室的角落里坐着。有人在粉刷房间——墙壁、天花板、门——刷成具有镇静效果的淡蓝色。白帽白裙的护士像云朵一样穿梭往来，携带着胰岛素注射器、药瓶和纱布。护工们推着午餐车走过。还有医生，他们从容不迫地大步穿过喧闹的人群，犹如喷气式飞机沉稳地划过天空。他们在哪里出现，人头就往哪个方向攒动。焦虑的丈夫们、歇斯底里的母亲们、犹豫不决的女儿们随着医生的走近纷纷起立。玛丽琳注意到，他们都是男的：肯戈尔医生、戈登医生、麦克勒纳医生、斯通医生。她是怎么会觉得自己也能成为他们的一员的呢？简直如同猫变老虎一样，门都没有。
Then, through the double doors from the emergency room: a slender dark-haired figure, hair pulled back in a neat bun. For a moment, Marilyn could not place her. “Dr. Wolff,” one of the nurses called, lifting a clipboard from the counter, and Dr. Wolff crossed the room to take it, her heels clack-clacking on the linoleum. Marilyn had seen Janet Wolff only once or twice since she’d moved in a month before, but she would not have recognized her anyway. She had heard that Janet Wolff worked at the hospital — Vivian Allen, leaning over the garden fence, had whispered about late shifts, the Wolff boy left to run wild — but she had pictured a secretary, a nurse. Not this graceful woman, no older than she, tall in black slacks, a white doctor’s coat loose around her slim frame. This Dr. Wolff, a stethoscope looped around her neck like a shining silver necklace, who with expert hands touched and turned the bruised wrist of a workman, who called clear and confident across the room, “Dr. Gordon, may I have a word with you about your patient, please?” And Dr. Gordon put down his clipboard, and came.
这时，急诊室的两扇门敞开了，一个深色头发的瘦削身影出现，发髻挽在脑后。玛丽琳一时间没弄明白这个女人是干吗的。“伍尔夫医生。”一个护士叫道，举起柜台上的一个记事板。伍尔夫医生穿过候诊室，接过记事板，她的高跟鞋敲打着地毡。自从珍妮特·伍尔夫一个月前搬过来，玛丽琳只见过她一两次。她听说珍妮特·伍尔夫在医院工作——薇薇安·艾伦趴在花园的篱笆上小声告诉她，伍尔夫经常在医院值夜班，对儿子放任不管，结果，他成了野孩子。但玛丽琳以为伍尔夫是个秘书或者护士，而眼前这个优雅的女人，年龄不比她大，个子高挑，身材苗条，穿着黑色的宽松长裤，医生的白大褂，不可能是那个伍尔夫。这个伍尔夫医生，脖子上挂着听诊器，好似一条银光闪闪的项链，正手法娴熟地检查着一个工人青肿的手腕。只听她清晰自信地对诊室另一头说：“戈登医生，我能和你谈谈你的病人的情况吗？”戈登医生放下他的记事板，走了过来。
How was it possible? How had she managed it? She thought of her mother’s cookbook: Make somebody happy today — bake a cake! Bake a cake — have a party. Bake a cake to take to a party. Bake a cake just because you feel good today. She pictured her mother creaming shortening and sugar, sifting flour, greasing a pan. Is there anything that gives you a deeper sense of satisfaction? There was Janet Wolff striding across the hospital waiting room, her coat so white it glowed.
这怎么可能？她怎么做到的？她想起母亲的烹饪书：想让某人开心吗——烤个蛋糕吧！烤个蛋糕——开个派对。烤个蛋糕带去派对。烤个蛋糕，只因为你今天心情好。她想起母亲搅拌奶油和糖、筛面粉、给烤盘涂油的样子。还有什么能给你更深的满足感？珍妮特·伍尔夫大步流星，穿过医院候诊室，她的外套是那么的白，白得闪闪放光。
It was not her imagination. Everyone repeated it, like a mantra. Dr. Wolff. Dr. Wolff. Dr. Wolff. The nurses, bottles of penicillin in hand: “Dr. Wolff, a quick question.” The candy stripers, as they passed by: “Good morning, Dr. Wolff.” Most miraculous of all, the other doctors: “Dr. Wolff, could I ask your opinion, please?” “Dr. Wolff, you’re needed in patient room two.” Only then did Marilyn finally believe.
这超乎她的想象。大家都在重复那个称呼，像念咒一样。伍尔夫医生。伍尔夫医生。伍尔夫医生。拿着青霉素的护士说：“伍尔夫医生，我有个小问题。”路过的护工说：“早上好，伍尔夫医生。”最不可思议的是，其他的医生也说：“伍尔夫医生，我能问一下你的看法吗？”“伍尔夫医生，二号房间有病人需要你。”直到这时，玛丽琳才相信眼前的一切都是真的。
Of course it was possible for her: she had no husband. She let her son run wild. Without a husband, without children, perhaps it would have been possible. I could have done that, Marilyn thought, and the words clicked into place like puzzle pieces, shocking her with their rightness. The hypothetical past perfect, the tense of missed chances. Tears dripped down her chin. No, she thought suddenly. I could do that.
对她来说，当然是可能的，她没有丈夫。她放任儿子成为野孩子。没有丈夫，没有孩子，也许这样就有可能了。“我原本也能做到的。”玛丽琳想，这句话像拼图一样拼凑到一起，敲打着她的神经，她认为它时态正确，并没有什么语法错误，她只是错过了机会而已。泪珠滚下她的脸庞。不，她突然想，应该是“我能做到”。
And then, to her embarrassment and horror, there was Janet Wolff before her, bending solicitously in front of her chair. “Marilyn?” she said. “It’s Marilyn, right? Mrs. Lee?”
然后，令她觉得既尴尬又恐惧的是，珍妮特·伍尔夫出现在她面前，热情地朝坐在椅子上的玛丽琳弯下腰。 “玛丽琳？”她说，“你是玛丽琳，对吗？李太太？”
To which Marilyn replied the only words in her mind: “Dr. Wolff.”
玛丽琳不知如何回答，她机械地说：“伍尔夫医生。”
“What’s wrong?” Dr. Wolff asked. “Are you ill?” Up close, her face was surprisingly young. Beneath her powder, a faint constellation of freckles still dotted her nose. Her hand, gentle on Marilyn’s shoulder, was steady and assured, and so was her smile. Everything will be fine, it seemed to say.
“你怎么了？”伍尔夫医生问，“你病了吗？”从现在的角度看，她的脸惊人地年轻，透过粉底，还看得到她鼻子上的雀斑。她的手轻柔地搭在玛丽琳肩膀上，沉稳坚定，她的微笑亦是如此。“一切都会好起来的。”这些动作似乎在说。
Marilyn shook her head. “No, no. Everything’s fine.” She looked up at Janet Wolff. “Thank you.” And she meant it.
玛丽琳摇摇头，“不，不，没事。”她抬头看着珍妮特·伍尔夫，“谢谢你。”她的感谢是真心的。
The next evening, after a dinner of canned ravioli and canned vegetable soup, she planned it out in her mind. She had all of her mother’s savings, enough for a few months; when her mother’s house was sold, she would have more, enough for a few years, at least. In a year, she could finish her degree. It would prove that she still could. That it was not too late. After that, at last, she would apply to medical school. Only eight years later than planned.
第二天晚上，吃完意大利饺子罐头和蔬菜汤罐头，她心中形成了一个计划。她继承了母亲的全部存款，足够支持几个月，等她母亲的房子卖掉，她会得到更多的钱，足够支持几年，至少。在一年内，她就能拿到学位。这将证明她仍然能做到。现在还不晚。然后，她就申请就读医学院。只不过比原计划晚了八年而已。
While the children were at school, she drove an hour to the community college outside Toledo and enrolled in organic chemistry, advanced statistics, anatomy: everything she’d planned for her last semesters. The next day, she made the drive again and found a furnished efficiency near the campus, signing a lease for the first of May. Two weeks away. Every night, when she was alone, she read the cookbook again, steeling herself with her mother’s small and lonely life. You don’t want this, she reminded herself. There will be more to your life than this. Lydia and Nath would be fine, she told herself again and again. She would not let herself think otherwise. James would be there. Look how they had managed while she was in Virginia. It was still possible.
趁孩子们还没放学，她开车一个小时，来到托莱多城郊的社区大学，报了有机化学、高级统计学、解剖学三门课：这是她大学最后一个学年的课程计划。第二天，她又开车过来，在校园附近租了一套带家具的小公寓，五月一日就能搬进来。还有两周。每天晚上独自一人时，她就读那本烹饪书，回想母亲渺小、孤独的一生。“你不想要这样的生活，”她提醒自己，“你的人生不止如此。”不用担心莉迪亚和内斯，她一遍一遍地对自己说，尽量不去想别的。詹姆斯会替我分担的。她去弗吉尼亚办事时，他不是处理得很好吗，所以，她的梦想是有可能实现的。
In the quiet dark, she packed her old college textbooks into cartons and tucked them in the attic, ready to go. As May approached, she cooked lavish meal after lavish meal: Swedish meatballs, beef Stroganoff, chicken à la king — everything James and the children liked best, everything from scratch, just as her mother had taught her. She baked a pink birthday cake for Lydia and let her eat as much as she wanted. On the first of May, after Sunday dinner, she sealed leftovers in Tupperware and put them in the freezer; she baked batch after batch of cookies. “It’s like you’re preparing for a famine,” James said, laughing, and Marilyn smiled back, a fake smile, the same one she had given to her mother all those years. You lifted the corners of your mouth toward your ears. You kept your lips closed. It was amazing how no one could tell.
在寂静的黑暗中，她把大学时的课本装进纸箱，把纸箱运进阁楼，做好了准备。快到五月的时候，她每天都准备丰盛的饭菜——瑞典肉丸、俄式炒牛柳丝、皇家奶油鸡——都是詹姆斯和孩子们最喜欢的，也是母亲教给她的。她给莉迪亚烤了一个粉色的生日蛋糕，允许她想吃多少就吃多少。五月的第一天，星期天的晚餐结束后，她把剩菜装进保鲜盒，放入冰箱。她烤了很多饼干。“你好像在为大饥荒做准备一样。”詹姆斯笑着说。玛丽琳也朝他微笑，不过是假笑，那些年里，她一直对母亲这么笑——对着你的耳朵，扯起你的嘴角，嘴不要张开，别人很难看出这是假笑。
That night, in bed, she wrapped her arms around James, kissed the side of his neck, undressed him slowly, as she had when they were younger. She tried to memorize the curve of his back and the hollow at the base of his spine, as if he were a landscape she would never see again, beginning to cry — silently at first and then, as their bodies collided again and again, more fiercely.
那天晚上，她在床上搂着詹姆斯，亲吻他的脖颈两侧，缓缓褪下他的衣服，像他们年轻时一样。她试着记住他背部的曲线和脊柱底端的凹陷，仿佛他是一处她再也领略不到的风景，想到这里，她哭了起来——最初是沉默地哭，后来，随着身体间的不断碰撞，她哭得更加厉害。
“What is it?” James whispered, stroking her cheek. “What’s wrong?” Marilyn shook her head, and he pulled her close, their bodies sticky and damp. “It’s okay,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Everything will be better tomorrow.”
“你怎么了？”詹姆斯小声问，摸着她的脸，“怎么回事？”玛丽琳摇摇头，他把她拉近一点，他们的身体又湿又黏。“没关系，”他亲亲她的额头，“明天一切都会好起来的。”
In the morning, Marilyn burrowed beneath the covers, listening to James dress. The zip as he fastened his trousers. The clink as he buckled his belt. Even with her eyes closed, she could see him straightening his collar, smoothing the cowlick in his hair, which still, after all these years, made him look a bit like a schoolboy. She kept them closed when he came to kiss her good-bye, because if she saw him, she knew the tears would come again.
早晨，玛丽琳埋在被单下，听詹姆斯穿衣服。他拉上裤子拉链，扣好皮带。即便是闭着眼睛，她也能想象出他竖起衣领、徒劳地想要抚平那撮头发的样子。这么多年来，正是这撮头发让他看上去一直有点像个学生。他过来吻别她的时候，她还是闭着眼睛，因为她知道，要是睁开眼看他，眼泪就会再一次流出来。
At the bus stop, later that morning, she knelt on the sidewalk and kissed Nath and Lydia each on the cheek, not daring to look into their eyes. “Be good,” she told them. “Behave. I love you.”
后来，她在车站跪在人行道上，亲了内斯和莉迪亚的脸，不敢直视他们的眼睛。“要好好的，”她告诉他们，“听话，我爱你们。”
After the bus had disappeared around the curve of the lake, she visited her daughter’s room, then her son’s. From Lydia’s dresser she took a single barrette, cherry-colored Bakelite with a white flower, one of a pair she seldom wore. From the cigar box beneath Nath’s bed she took a marble, not his favorite — the cobalt with white specks like stars — but one of the little dark ones, the ones he called oilies. From the inside of James’s overcoat, the old one he’d worn in her college days, she snipped the spare button from the underside of the lapel. A tiny token from each, tucked into the pocket of her dress — a gesture that would resurface in her youngest child years later, though Marilyn would never mention this small theft to Hannah, or to anyone. Not something treasured and loved; something they might miss but would not grieve. No need to tear another hole, even a pinprick, in their lives. Then Marilyn took her boxes from their hiding place in the attic and sat down to write James a note. But how did you write something like this? It seemed wrong to write to him on her stationery, as if he were a stranger; more wrong still to write it on the scratch pad in the kitchen, as if it were no more important than a grocery list. At last she pulled a blank sheet from the typewriter and sat down at her vanity with a pen.
校车沿着湖岸消失后，她去了女儿的房间，又去了儿子房间。她从莉迪亚的梳妆台上拿走一只樱桃色的塑料发夹，上面有朵白花。这发夹有一对，但莉迪亚很少戴这只。她从内斯床底下的雪茄盒子里拿走一只弹珠，它并非他的最爱——他最爱的那一只弹珠深蓝色底，点缀着白斑点，好像天上的星星——这只弹珠颜色更深一点，内斯叫它们“奥利”。她还从詹姆斯在她大学时代常穿的那件旧大衣的翻领下面剪下一颗备用纽扣。玛丽琳把这三样纪念品塞进衣袋——后来，她最小的孩子也继承了她的这个习惯，但玛丽琳从未向汉娜或者任何人提起过今天的举动。这些东西都算不上珍贵，并非主人的最爱，找不到它们的话，主人会怅然若失，但不会难过。玛丽琳随后从阁楼拿出她藏起来的纸箱，坐下给詹姆斯写信。不过，这样的信该怎么写呢？不能用她自己的信纸，好像把他当成了陌生人，更不能写在厨房的便笺本上，像写购物清单一样随便。最后，她从打字机上扯下一张白纸，拿着笔坐下来。
I hope you can understand why I have to leave. I hope you can forgive me.
我希望你能够理解我为什么不得不离开。希望你能原谅我。
For a long time Marilyn sat, ballpoint in hand, unsure how to finish. In the end she tore up the note and tossed the shreds into the wastepaper basket. Better, she decided, just to go. To disappear from their lives as if she had never been there.
玛丽琳拿着圆珠笔坐了很长时间，不知道该怎么收尾。最后，她把这张纸撕成碎片，扔进废纸篓，决定还是直接走人为好，消失在他们的生活中，假装从未出现过。
I realize that I am not happy with the life I lead. I always had one kind of life in mind and things have turned out very differently. Marilyn took a deep, ragged breath. I have kept all these feelings inside me for a long time, but now, after being in my mother’s house again, I think of her and realize I cannot put them aside any longer. I know you’ll be fine without me. She paused, trying to convince herself this was true.
我意识到，我现在的生活并不快乐。我头脑里总是憧憬着另一种生活，但实际情况却事与愿违。玛丽琳颤抖着呼出一口气，我的这些感受在心底压抑了很久，但是现在，重新造访我母亲的屋子之后，我想到了她，意识到我再也不能继续压抑下去了。我知道，没有我，你也可以过得很好。她顿了一下，想说服自己这些字句都是真的。
To Nath and Lydia, who that afternoon found themselves unmet at the bus stop, who let themselves into an unlocked and empty house, that was exactly how it seemed. Their father, when he came home two hours later to find his children huddled on the front steps, as if they were afraid to be in the house alone, kept asking questions. “What do you mean, gone?” he asked Nath, who could only repeat: gone, the only word he could find.
下午放学后，内斯和莉迪亚发现母亲没来车站接他们，他们回到家，发现门没锁，房子里没有人。两小时后，他们的父亲回到家，发现孩子们坐在前门台阶上，似乎害怕独自待在房子里。他问内斯：“你说的‘走了’是什么意思？”因为内斯只会重复这两个字：“走了。”这是他唯一知道的答案。
Lydia, meanwhile, said nothing at all during the confused rest of the evening, in which their father called the police and then all the neighbors but forgot about dinner, and bedtime, as the policemen took note after note until she and Nath fell asleep on the living room floor. She awoke in the middle of the night in her own bed — where her father had deposited her, shoes still on — and felt for the diary her mother had given her at Christmas. At last something important had occurred, something that she ought to write down. But she did not know how to explain what had happened, how everything had changed in just one day, how someone she loved so dearly could be there one minute, and the next minute: gone.
莉迪亚倒是什么也没说，父亲给警察和所有邻居打了电话，但忘记了做晚饭和送孩子上床睡觉。警察来做笔录的时候，她和内斯已经在起居室地板上睡着了。半夜时，莉迪亚在自己的床上醒来——是父亲把她放上去的——脚上还穿着鞋。她起身去摸索母亲在圣诞节时送给她的日记本。终于发生了重要的事情，值得她记录的事情。但她不知道该怎么解释这件事，为什么短短一天之内一切都变了样，为什么她如此珍爱的人前一分钟还在那里，下一分钟就“走了”。
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