想你念你每一天

It was early in the morning when the text came. My boyfriend Mike and I had planned a fun fall weekend afternoon， centered on a visit to a pumpkin patch， apple cider sipping， and returning home to carve up the chosen 1）gourds into appropriately 2）ghoulish 3）visages. Minutes before my alarm was set to ring， a 4）vibration from my 5）nightstand 6）rousted me from my lazy Saturday 7）slumber. 8）Squinting at the rectangle of light， I read：

It’s your Mom’s birthday today.

Please think of her today.

Love， Dad.

7：15 AM， Oct. 19

October 19. I hadn’t known that.

My mother died in January of 1997， when I was not quite eight years old. She had always had a tendency of running late—or so my Dad’s parents have told me—and she often sped to make up the difference—according to the usual narrative， anyway. Whatever the circumstances that day， the road was slick， and when Mom passed over a certain patch of ice， at a speed no one was around to 9）gauge， she “played 10）spin the bottle，”as Dad has since referred to it. With a minivan approaching in the opposing lane， it was just her luck that the “bottle” was 11）perpendicular to the other vehicle at the point of 12）impact， and Mom’s tiny white Chevy Corsica—neither well-made nor safe， as Grandma has since 13）chided—was crushed“l(fā)ike a tin can.” So states the 14）simile I grew up with. The 15）editorializing doesn’t even quite stop at the point when the 16）coroner enters the picture. Time of death： Too early. Cause： Lack of punctuality， cheap vehicle. More directly： Internal bleeding. Did she feel pain？ Did she ask for her children at the hospital？ Was she even conscious？ Did she know she was going to die？ Here， the commentary stops.

Today， I have very few clear memories of my mother. Mostly， I know that she sketched. I remember watching her draw figures， mostly women， impossibly 17）lithe and graceful and wearing impossibly beautiful period costumes and 18）ambiguous， parted lipped expressions. There were 19）antebellum Southern belles， medieval ladies in conical 20）headdresses， fringe-bedecked 1920s 21）flappers， and high-heeled modern career women. I could watch her draw for what seemed like hours and often attempted crude imitations of my own. Once， in a hospital waiting room， she showed me how to 22）fashion men and women from a series of interconnected ovals. This， I thought， must be her secret. But still， my own drawings never approached the glamour of the women in my mother’s sketchbooks， all a little mysterious and all dripping in sex appeal.

When I was young and tried to 23）conjure images of my mother， they never looked quite like her photographs. They were more like her sketches： slender， high-heeled， and lipsticked， existing in a state of effortless feminine 24）invincibility that allowed her to 25）juggle career， kids， and personal fabulousness. The mother of my recollection was all-knowing， a talented artist， and a beautiful woman that I envisioned myself someday becoming. With her suit and briefcase， she conquered courtrooms in her career as an attorney and came home to tell the best bedtime stories afterwards. Pictures and relatives would later tell me she was overweight and disorganized， that she kept a messy house and watched too many soap operas. Even my own memory can confirm that after she and my father separated， she did not instantly bounce back onto her feet and continue to live a perfect life， 26）devoid of struggle. Instead， she took my brother and me to live with her sister， and we shared a bedroom for about a year before finally getting a place of our own.

Since her death， connecting with the person that my mother really was has been a struggle. Immediately after the accident， I used to sleep with the 27）afghan her mother made her， rolled up vertically and tucked in next to me on the other side of my bed. It smelled like her， and I would pretend that it was like the months after the separation， with Mom and me sharing a bed each night. I would have conversations with her—or the person I imagined her to be—silently by myself each night. When Grandma finally washed the afghan， unaware that she was also washing away that all-important scent， I was privately furious， not just with her but with the passage of time and the inevitability that this would be just one in a series of similar small personal tragedies. My mother’s loss was not simply one 28）catastrophic event， but a constant process which continues through the distortion and fading of my own imperfect memory. It’s a process that I fight， however imperfectly， to this day. And so when I had thought and mourned and spent most of our time at the pumpkin patch sharing my recollections with Mike， I texted Dad back：

Every day.

3：10 PM， Oct 19

那條短信發(fā)來(lái)時(shí)，是個(gè)大清早。我和男朋友邁克已經(jīng)計(jì)劃好一個(gè)有趣的秋日周末午后行程，主題是到一個(gè)南瓜園參觀，嘗點(diǎn)蘋(píng)果酒，然后選購(gòu)幾個(gè)南瓜帶回家去刻成相宜的鬼怪南瓜燈。就在我調(diào)好的鬧鐘響起之前的幾分鐘，床頭柜上的一陣震動(dòng)將我從慵懶的周六睡夢(mèng)中喚醒。我瞇著眼看著亮著的長(zhǎng)方形屏幕，讀起了信息：

今天是你媽媽的生日。

今天請(qǐng)緬懷她。

愛(ài)你的，爸爸。

10月19日上午7時(shí)15分

10月19日。我并不知道這天是母親的生忌。

我的母親是在1997年1月去世的，那時(shí)我還不到八歲。她老愛(ài)遲到——或者說(shuō)祖父祖母是這樣告訴我的——她時(shí)常開(kāi)快車，好彌補(bǔ)被拖延的時(shí)間——總之，這是我通常聽(tīng)到的說(shuō)法。無(wú)論那天的實(shí)際情況怎樣，那時(shí)的路面濕滑，當(dāng)媽媽駛過(guò)某處結(jié)冰的路面時(shí)，周圍并沒(méi)有目擊者可以估測(cè)她當(dāng)時(shí)的車速，她的車像“轉(zhuǎn)瓶子”一樣打轉(zhuǎn)，爸爸后來(lái)是這么形容那次意外的。對(duì)面車道有一輛小貨車迎面駛來(lái)，這就是命運(yùn)吧——她的車正好被小貨車垂直撞上了，媽媽那輛嬌小的白色雪佛蘭科西嘉小車——質(zhì)量既不好也不安全，奶奶至今仍這么責(zé)備道——像“鋁罐”那樣給撞扁了。這就是我從小便聽(tīng)到的比喻。即便驗(yàn)尸官登場(chǎng)，仍不乏揶揄評(píng)判。死亡時(shí)間：出門太早。死因：不守時(shí)，廉價(jià)車。更直接的原因：內(nèi)出血。她感覺(jué)得到痛苦嗎？在醫(yī)院時(shí)她要求見(jiàn)見(jiàn)她的孩子了嗎？她那時(shí)還有意識(shí)嗎？她知道她可能會(huì)死嗎？就在這里，評(píng)論終于停息了。

如今，我對(duì)母親的記憶尚存無(wú)幾。我就記得她懂素描。我記得自己看過(guò)她畫(huà)人像，大多畫(huà)的是女人，展現(xiàn)無(wú)比輕盈和優(yōu)雅的姿態(tài)，穿著華美的古裝，雙唇微張，一幅欲拒還迎的表情。畫(huà)中人有的是南北戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)前的南方美人，有的是戴著圓錐形發(fā)飾的中世紀(jì)淑女，也有穿著流蘇衣飾的20世紀(jì)20年代的摩登女郎和蹬著高跟鞋的現(xiàn)代職業(yè)女性。我似乎能一連幾個(gè)小時(shí)看她畫(huà)畫(huà)，時(shí)常也會(huì)試著粗略地模仿。有一次，在醫(yī)院的候診室里，她教我如何通過(guò)一系列相連的橢圓形來(lái)畫(huà)出男人和女人。我想，這一定是她的秘訣。可是，我自己的畫(huà)始終無(wú)法畫(huà)出媽媽素描本上那些女人的魅力——她們?nèi)紟в幸环N神秘感，渾身上下散發(fā)著性感氣息。

小時(shí)候，每當(dāng)我試著想象母親的形象時(shí)，那些形象看起來(lái)并不像她的照片，反而更像她的素描：身材苗條，穿著高跟鞋，涂著口紅，總是一副不費(fèi)吹灰之力的女王姿態(tài)，事業(yè)、孩子、個(gè)人魅力，完美掌控。我記憶中的母親是一個(gè)無(wú)所不知、才華橫溢的藝術(shù)家，是一個(gè)我夢(mèng)想著自己有朝一日能夠成為的美人。她穿上套裝，拎起公文包，作為一名律師，征戰(zhàn)法庭，無(wú)往不勝；脫下戰(zhàn)袍，回到家中，她能講出最棒的睡前故事。照片和親戚們隨后會(huì)告訴我，她實(shí)際上體重超標(biāo)，欠缺條理，家里亂得一團(tuán)糟，并且癡迷肥皂劇。甚至我也確實(shí)記得她和父親分開(kāi)之后，她并沒(méi)有立即振作，重拾完美生活，遠(yuǎn)離困苦。相反地，她帶著哥哥和我搬去跟小姨住在一起，我們四個(gè)人同住一個(gè)房間大約一年時(shí)間，直到我們最終弄到自己的房子。

自從母親去世后，要想起母親的真正模樣一直是件難事。那次意外剛過(guò)后，我常常抱著外婆織給母親的針織毛毯一起睡，毛毯被打橫卷起，掖在我身旁的床的另一邊。毯子聞起來(lái)有她的味道，我會(huì)假裝像父母分開(kāi)后的那幾個(gè)月那樣，我和母親每一晚都同睡在一張床上。我會(huì)跟她談心——我想象中的她——每一晚，自己輕聲訴說(shuō)。當(dāng)外婆最后把毯子拿去清洗時(shí)，她并沒(méi)有意識(shí)到她同時(shí)把那份非常重要的氣息也沖洗掉了，我私下里怒火中燒，不僅僅是對(duì)她，也是對(duì)時(shí)光流逝的憤怒，對(duì)這最終淪為人生中相似的小悲劇之一的那份無(wú)可奈何而感到憤怒。母親的離去并不只是一場(chǎng)純粹的災(zāi)難性事件，還是我那不完美的記憶力在扭曲與淡忘中長(zhǎng)久回放的過(guò)程，是我至今也努力要去回憶的過(guò)程，無(wú)論有多少欠缺。因此，當(dāng)我回想著、悼念著，在游玩南瓜園的大部分時(shí)間里和邁克一起分享我的回憶時(shí)，我給父親回了短信：

每一天都想念著。

10月19日下午3時(shí)10分