我心中的母親

帕蒂·戴維斯

At some point， to understand our parents， we have to look at theirs.

In 1924， a 3-year-old girl named Anne Frances Robbins， who had been nicknamed Nancy， was taken to her cousins home by her mother and left there for five years. Her mother Edith Davis was a working actress who had gotten divorced shortly after her child was born. She tried taking the baby on the road， putting her backstage in a trunk that served as a cradle while she was onstage. But it became too hard， so she left the child with her older sisters family in Bethesda， Md.， and she would visit occasionally. On one of those visits， after years had passed， she told her daughter that shed gone on an ocean cruise and had met a doctor whom she planned to marry. Nancy was uprooted again and taken to Chicago. She now had a new father and a stepbrother. The definition of family was an ever changing palette1.

The man whom she would eventually call her father， Loyal Davis， was a harsh taskmaster2. He was a neurosurgeon and a rigid perfectionist. Everything had to be orderly， precise and punctual. I was frightened of my grandfather until the day he died. Growing up， my mother desperately wanted to please him. She probably thought he might leave if she didnt.

In fact， I now think the fear of being left alone， abandoned， was a current throughout much of her life. A few years into my fathers descent into Alzheimers， when I was still living in New York， my mothers voice on the phone sounded so threadbare and distraught that I suggested she go out into the garden， sit by herself and talk to God … or the moon， the stars， the night sky. “Just be with yourself for a little while，” I told her.

“No. I cant do that. I dont want to do that，” she said abruptly， closing the door on the subject.

A while after my father died， she told me that she kept the television on all the time because it made her feel less lonely. “It makes the house seem more lived in，” she said. I had， on several occasions， given in to my annoyance and either turned the volume down or turned it off. But after she told me that it filled in some of the loneliness， I never reached for the remote again.

We have had a long journey together， she and I. Over a half-century of memories. Now that the journey has ended， I have a choice which ones to study， which ones to turn over in my hands and dust off.

I choose to look at the ones that ache with a sweet truth not told often enough： there was love between us， it was just hard to find sometimes.

I choose to remember her face on that winter day in Manhattan， when I came to her with a broken heart.

I choose to remember walking on the shore with her in summers when we rented a beach house; somehow the sea always transformed us.

And how she looked on my wedding day when she handed me a bracelet that had belonged to my grandmother. “Something old3，” she said.

I remember how she and my father used to walk along the paths of the garden in the afternoons—both of them older， their steps slow and cautious， his occasional questions splintery4 with Alzheimers， her answers patient and soft. She stopped walking in the garden after his death; I didnt need to ask why.

I remember how her eyes drifted toward the sky when she spoke about wanting to be with my father again when she died. “Im sure God is listening to you，” I would always tell her.

“Well， he certainly better be，” she said once.

Im sure God can take care of himself， but I hope for his sake that he was listening.

有時候，我們需要對父母的父母有所了解，才能真正理解我們的父母。

1924年，一個名叫安妮·弗朗西絲·羅賓斯的三歲女孩——小名叫南希——由其母親帶到姨媽家，并在那里生活了五年。她的母親伊迪絲·戴維斯是一名職業(yè)演員，生下南希后不久就離婚了。伊迪絲曾試著將女兒帶在身邊——登臺表演時，她就把女兒放到后臺的箱子里，把箱子當(dāng)搖籃。但這樣太難了，于是，她決定把女兒托付給在馬里蘭州貝塞斯達生活的姐姐一家，不時會去探望。幾年之后，有一次她去看望女兒時，對女兒說，她在乘游輪出海時邂逅了一位醫(yī)生，打算和他結(jié)婚。就這樣，南希再次離開家園，隨母親來到芝加哥。在那里，她有了一個新爸爸和一個沒有血緣關(guān)系的弟弟。對南希而言，家的概念在不斷變化。

南希最后稱為爸爸的繼父洛亞爾·戴維斯是一個嚴厲的監(jiān)護人，一名神經(jīng)外科醫(yī)生，一位堅定的完美主義者。在其要求下，一切必須井然有序、精確并準(zhǔn)時。面對這樣一位外祖父，我一直心生畏懼，直到他離開人世那一天。成長階段，我的母親南希拼命想討外祖父喜歡，她可能是害怕如果不取悅他，他就會離自己而去。

事實上，現(xiàn)在想來，母親大半輩子都在擔(dān)憂自己會被拋棄，害怕一個人待著。在父親患上阿爾茨海默病幾年后——彼時我還住在紐約——每次和母親通電話，她的聲音聽上去總是那么無力、不安。我讓她一個人到花園去坐坐，和上帝……月亮、星星、夜空說說話。“你就自己待一會兒吧。”我對她說。

“不。我做不到，我不想那么做。”她硬生生地回應(yīng)，不愿再談?wù)撨@一話題。

父親去世后不久，母親告訴我，她在家會一直開著電視機，這讓她感覺不那么孤獨。“這讓家里看起來熱鬧些。”她說。有好幾次，我都忍不住把音量調(diào)小或把電視機關(guān)掉。然而，當(dāng)母親對我說電視開著填補了她內(nèi)心的孤獨后，我再也沒碰過那個遙控器。

我與母親一起走過了漫長的旅程，積攢起半個多世紀(jì)的回憶。如今，這段旅程已畫上句號。我想從過往的記憶中，挖掘出那些值得重新審視、反復(fù)思量的片段。

我選擇記住那些令人心痛的片段，其中蘊藏著我們不常言說的甜蜜：我與母親之間有愛，只是有時難以覺察。

我選擇記住那個冬日當(dāng)我傷心欲絕地去曼哈頓見母親時，她臉上流露的神情。

我選擇記住和母親一起租住在海濱別墅、漫步海灘的那些夏日;不知為何，大海總是悄然改變著我們。

我選擇記住我結(jié)婚那天，母親將外祖母的手鐲交給我時的樣子。“舊的東西。”她說。

我記得母親與父親過去常常在下午時分沿著花園小徑散步——彼時他們已上了年紀(jì)，步履緩慢，每走一步都小心翼翼;父親時而問這問那，因患阿爾茨海默病而口齒不清，母親總是耐心而溫和地回答。父親去世后，母親再也沒有在花園散步。個中緣由我非常清楚。

我記得母親每回說到想去世后和父親重聚時，眼睛總會望向天空。“我相信上帝在聽你說話。”我總是這么告訴她。

“嗯，他最好在聽。”有一回她這樣說道。

我相信上帝對一切自有安排，但我祈求他千萬要聽到母親的心聲。

（譯者為“《英語世界》杯”翻譯大賽獲獎?wù)撸?/p>