相約星期二

米奇·阿爾博姆（Mitch Albom），美國著名暢銷書作家、專欄作家、電臺主持人、電視評論員，此外還是活躍的慈善活動家。迄今為止，阿爾博姆已出版九部暢銷著作，包括《相約星期二》（Tuesdays with Morrie）、《你在天堂遇到的五個人》（The Five People You Meet in the Heaven）、《一日重生》（For One More Day）等。

《相約星期二》是米奇·阿爾博姆的第一部作品，一經出版便在美國引起轟動，曾連續四十周被列入圖書銷售排行榜。本書講述的是一個真實的故事：在作者邁出大學校門十五年后，偶然得知他的老教授莫里·施瓦茨身患重病，時日無多，于是他們相約每個星期二到莫里家里見面，在以后的十四個星期里，他們談論了許多人生課題—遺憾、死亡、家庭、感情……而這本書的出版本身也是一個美麗的故事，原先作者并沒有寫這本書的打算，但莫里的治療花了許多錢，他的家屬欠了不少債，于是米奇決定寫出這本書，所有的報酬都用來償還老人遺留的債務。對于作者米奇·阿爾博姆而言，與恩師“相約星期二”的經歷無疑是一個重新審視自己、重讀人生必修課的機會。這門人生課震撼著作者，也藉由作者的妙筆，感動了整個世界。

It was cold and damp as I walked up the steps to Morrie’s house. I took in little details， things I hadn’t noticed for all the times I’d visited. The cut of the hill. The stone facade of the house. The 1）pachysandra plants， the low shrubs. I walked slowly， taking my time， stepping on dead wet leaves that flattened beneath my feet.

Charlotte had called the day before to tell me Morrie was not doing well. This was her way of saying the final days had arrived. Morrie had canceled all of his appointments and had been sleeping much of the time， which was unlike him. He never cared for sleeping， not when there were people he could talk with.

“He wants you to come visit，” Charlotte said，“but， Mitch…”

Yes？

“He’s very weak.”

The porch steps. The glass in the front door. I absorbed these things in a slow， observant manner， as if seeing them for the first time.

Connie answered the bell. Normally buoyant， she had a 2）drawn look on her face. Her hello was softly spoken.

How’s he doing？ I said.

“Not so good.” She bit her lower lip. “I don’t like to think about it. He’s such a sweet man， you know？”

I knew.

“This is such a shame”

Charlotte came down the hall and hugged me. She said that Morrie was still sleeping， even though it was 10 A.M. We went into the kitchen. I helped her 3）straighten up， noticing all the bottles of pills lined up on the table， a small army of brown plastic soldiers with white caps. My old professor was taking 4）morphine now to ease his breathing.

I put the food I had brought with me into the refrigerator—soup， vegetable cakes， tuna salad. I apologized to Charlotte for bringing it. Morrie hadn’t chewed food like this in months， we both knew that， but it had become a small tradition. Sometimes， when you’re losing someone， you hang on to whatever tradition you can.

I waited in the living room， where Morrie and Ted Koppel had done their first interview. I read the newspaper that was lying on the table. Two Minnesota children had shot each other playing with their father’s guns. A baby had been found buried in a garbage can in an alley in Los Angeles.

I put down the paper and stared into the empty fireplace. I tapped my shoe lightly on the hardwood floor. Eventually， I heard a door open and close， then Charlotte’s footsteps coming toward me.

“All right，” she said softly. “He’s ready for you.”

I rose and I turned toward our familiar spot， then saw a strange woman sitting at the end of the hall in a folding chair， her eyes on a book， her legs crossed. This was a 5）hospice nurse， part of the twenty-four-hour watch.

Morrie’s study was empty. I was confused. Then I turned back hesitantly to the bedroom， and there he was， lying in bed， under the sheet. I had seen him like this only one other time—when he was getting massaged—and the echo of his 6）aphorism “When you’re in bed， you’re dead” began anew inside my head.

I entered， pushing a smile onto my face. He wore a yellow pajama-like top， and a blanket covered him from the chest down. The lump of his form was so withered that I almost thought there was something missing. He was as small as a child.

Morrie’s mouth was open， and his skin was pale and tight against his cheekbones. When his eyes rolled toward me， he tried to speak， but I heard only a soft grunt.

There he is， I said， 7）mustering all the excitement I could find in my empty till.

He exhaled， shut his eyes， then smiled， the very effort seeming to tire him.

“My…dear…friend…” he finally said.

I am your friend， I said.

I’m not…so good today…”

Tomorrow will be better.

He pushed out another breath and forced a nod. He was struggling with something beneath the sheets， and I realized he was trying to move his hands toward the opening.

“Hold…” he said.

I pulled the covers down and grasped his fingers. They disappeared inside my own. I leaned in close， a few inches from his face. It was the first time I had seen him unshaven， the small white 8）whiskers looking so out of place， as if someone had shaken salt neatly across his cheeks and chin. How could there be new life in his beard when it was draining everywhere else？

Morrie， I said softly. “Coach，” he corrected.

Coach， I said. I felt a shiver. He spoke in short bursts， inhaling air， exhaling words. His voice was thin and raspy. He smelled of 9）ointment.

“You…are a good soul.” A good soul.

“Touched me…” he whispered. Moved my hands to his heart. “Here.”

It felt as if I had a pit in my throat. Coach？

“Ahh？”

I don’t know how to say good-bye.

He patted my hand weakly， keeping it on his chest.

“This...is how we say...good-bye…”

He breathed softly， in and out. I could feel his ribcage rise and fall. Then he looked right at me.

“Love...you，” he rasped.

I love you， too， Coach.

“Know you do...know...something else…”

What else do you know？

“You...always have…”

His eyes got small， and then he cried， his face contorting like a baby who hasn’t figured how his 10）tear ducts work. I held him close for several minutes. I rubbed his loose skin. I stroked his hair. I put a palm against his face and felt the bones close to the flesh and the tiny wet tears， as if squeezed from a dropper.

When his breathing approached normal again， I cleared my throat and said I knew he was tired， so I would be back next Tuesday， and I expected him to be a little more alert， thank you. He snorted lightly， as close as he could come to a laugh. It was a sad sound just the same.

I leaned in and kissed him closely， my face against his， whiskers on whiskers， skin on skin， holding it there， longer than normal， in case it gave him even a split second of pleasure.

Okay， then？ I said， pulling away.

I blinked back the tears， and he smacked his lips together and raised his eyebrows at the sight of my face. I like to think it was a fleeting moment of satisfaction for my dear old professor： he had finally made me cry.

“Okay， then，” he whispered.

Morrie died on a Saturday morning.

His 11）immediate family was with him in the house. Rob made it in from Tokyo， he got to kiss his father good-bye， and Jon was there， and of course Charlotte was there and Charlotte’s cousin Marsha， who had written the poem that so moved Morrie at his “unofficial” memorial serve， the poem that 12）likened him to a “tender 13）sequoia.” They slept in shifts around his bed. Morrie had fallen into a 14）coma two days after our final visit， and the doctor said he could go at any moment. Instead， he hung on， through a tough afternoon， through a dark night.

Finally， on the fourth of November， when those he loved had left the room just for a moment—to grab coffee in the kitchen， the first time none of them were with him since the coma began—Morrie stopped breathing.

And he was gone.

I believe he died this way on purpose. I believe he wanted no chilling moments， no one to witness his last breath and be haunted by it， the way he had been haunted by his mother’s death-notice telegram or by his father’s corpse in the city 15）morgue.

I believe he knew that he was in his own bed， that his books and his notes and his small 16）hibiscus plant were nearby. He wanted to go serenely， and that is how he went.

The funeral was held on a damp， windy morning. The grass was wet and the sky was the color of milk. We stood by the hole in the earth， close enough to hear the pond water lapping against the edge and to see ducks shaking off their feathers.

Although hundreds of people had wanted to attend， Charlotte kept this gathering small， just a few close friends and relatives. Rabbi Axelrod read a few poems. Morrie’s brother， David， who still walked with a limp from his childhood 17）polio， lifted the shovel and tossed dirt in the grave， 18）as per tradition.

At one point， when Morrie’s ashes were placed into the ground， I glanced around the cemetery. Morrie was right. It was indeed a lovely spot， trees and grass and a sloping hill.

“You talk， I’ll listen，” he had said.

I tried doing that in my head and， to my happiness， found that the imagined conversation felt almost natural. I looked down at my hands， saw my watch and realized why.

It was Tuesday.

天氣又濕又冷，我踏上了莫里家的門階。我注意到一些小細節，一些以往來訪時從未注意過的地方—山的輪廓、房子的石墻立面、富貴草、低矮的灌木叢。我慢慢地走著，不慌不忙，踩著腳下潮濕的枯葉走去。

前一天，夏洛特打電話告訴我莫里的狀況不太好了。這是她的表達方式，意思是莫里快不行了。莫里取消了所有的預約，大多數時間都在睡覺，這不像是他會做的事。