《我的名字是露西·巴頓》：何所來，何所向

陳榕

美國(guó)當(dāng)代小說家伊麗莎白·斯特勞特（Elizabeth Strout） 1956年出生于緬因州波特蘭市，父親是大學(xué)教授，母親是中學(xué)老師。她大學(xué)就讀于緬因的貝茨學(xué)院，后進(jìn)入雪城大學(xué)法學(xué)院學(xué)習(xí)，畢業(yè)后在紐約生活，開始從事文學(xué)創(chuàng)作。她的小說以對(duì)人物心理的細(xì)膩描寫見長(zhǎng)。1998年出版長(zhǎng)篇處女作《艾米與伊莎貝爾》（Amy and Isabelle），獲《洛杉磯時(shí)報(bào)》最佳首作獎(jiǎng)。2006年出版《與我同在》（Abide with Me），入選美國(guó)獨(dú)立書商協(xié)會(huì)選書。2009年則憑借《奧麗芙·基特里奇》（Olive Kitteridge，又譯為《微不足道的生活》），獲得普利策獎(jiǎng)，該小說于2014年被HBO改編為電視劇。她近期的作品有《伯吉斯家的男孩們》（The Burgess Boys， 2013）、《我的名字是露西·巴頓》（My Name Is Lucy Barton， 2016）以及《一切皆有可能》（Anything Is Possible， 2017）。

Excerpts1）

To begin with， it was a simple story： I had gone into the hospital to have my appendix2） out. After two days they gave me food， but I couldnt keep it down. And then a fever arrived. No one could isolate any bacteria3） or figure out what had gone wrong. No one ever did. I took fluids through one IV4）， and antibiotics5） came through another. They were attached to a metal pole on wobbly wheels that I pushed around with me， but I got tired easily. Toward the beginning of July， whatever problem had taken hold of me went away. But until then I was in a very strange state—a literally feverish waiting—and I really agonized. I had a husband and two small daughters at home； I missed my girls terribly， and I worried about them so much I was afraid it was making me sicker. When my doctor， to whom I felt a deep attachment—he was a jowly-faced Jewish man who wore such a gentle sadness on his shoulders， whose grandparents and three aunts， I heard him tell a nurse， had been killed in the camps， and who had a wife and four grown children here in New York City—this lovely man， I think， felt sorry for me， and saw to it that my girls—they were five and six—could visit me if they had no illnesses. They were brought into my room by a family friend， and I saw how their little faces were dirty， and so was their hair， and I pushed my IV apparatus6） into the shower with them， but they cried out， “Mommy， youre so skinny！” They were really frightened. They sat with me on the bed while I dried their hair with a towel， and then they drew pictures， but with apprehension， meaning that they did not interrupt themselves every minute by saying， “Mommy， Mommy， do you like this？ Mommy， look at the dress of my fairy princess！” They said very little， the younger one especially seemed unable to speak， and when I put my arms around her， I saw her lower lip thrust out and her chin tremble； she was a tiny thing， trying so hard to be brave. When they left I did not look out the window to watch them walk away with my friend who had brought them， and who had no children of her own.

My husband， naturally， was busy running the household and also busy with his job， and he didnt often have a chance to visit me. He had told me when we met that he hated hospitals—his father had died in one when he was fourteen—and I saw now that he meant this. In the first room I had been assigned was an old woman dying next to me； she kept calling out for help—it was striking to me how uncaring the nurses were， as she cried that she was dying. My husband could not stand it—he could not stand visiting me there， is what I mean—and he had me moved to a single room. Our health insurance didnt cover this luxury， and every day was a drain on our savings. I was grateful not to hear that poor woman crying out， but had anyone known the extent of my loneliness I would have been embarrassed. Whenever a nurse came to take my temperature， I tried to get her to stay for a few minutes， but the nurses were busy， they could not just hang around talking.

About three weeks after I was admitted， I turned my eyes from the window late one afternoon and found my mother sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed. “Mom？” I said.

“Hi， Lucy，” she said. Her voice sounded shy but urgent. She leaned forward and squeezed my foot through the sheet. “Hi， Wizzle，” she said. I had not seen my mother for years， and I kept staring at her； I could not figure out why she looked so different.

“Mom， how did you get here？” I asked.

“Oh， I got on an airplane.” She wiggled her fingers and I knew that there was too much emotion for us. So I waved back， and lay flat. “I think youll be all right，” she added， in the same shy-sounding but urgent voice. “I havent had any dreams.”

Her being there， using my pet name， which I had not heard in ages， made me feel warm and liquid-filled， as though all my tension had been a solid thing and now was not. Usually I woke at midnight and dozed fitfully， or stared wide-awake through the window at the lights of the city. But that night I slept without waking， and in the morning my mother was sitting where she had been the day before. “Doesnt matter，” she said when I asked. “You know I dont sleep lots.”

1. 節(jié)選部分主要講的是主人公露西·巴頓（Lucy Barton）因闌尾炎住院，對(duì)孩子十分思念，丈夫因不能陪床請(qǐng)來了她許久不見的媽媽來醫(yī)院做看護(hù)，這讓她感到很欣慰。

2. appendix [??pend?ks] n. [解剖學(xué)]闌尾

3. bacteria [b?k?t??ri?] n. [復(fù)] 細(xì)菌

4. IV：靜脈點(diǎn)滴

5. antibiotic [?ntiba???t?k] n. 抗生素，抗菌素

6. apparatus [??p??re?t?s] n. 儀器，設(shè)備

作品賞析

《我的名字是露西·巴頓》是一部以女主人公露西·巴頓為第一人稱敘述者的傳記體小說。如果我們根據(jù)她的敘述回溯她的成長(zhǎng)，可以看到她有十分苦楚的童年。她的父親曾經(jīng)在參戰(zhàn)時(shí)失手殺過人，自此被內(nèi)疚折磨，形成了扭曲的性格，對(duì)家人十分苛刻，有暴力傾向。他的妻子為了維系家庭辛苦勞作，既要面對(duì)壞脾氣的丈夫，又要撫養(yǎng)三個(gè)孩子，被生活磨去了溫柔，變得易怒、不茍言笑。露西的童年不僅缺少父母的溫情關(guān)愛，而且缺乏物質(zhì)保障。她們家沒有穩(wěn)定的經(jīng)濟(jì)收入，一家五口人住在親戚家的車庫(kù)里，在伊利諾伊寒冷的冬天里，只能靠熱水袋取暖，沒有錢付暖氣費(fèi)。在二戰(zhàn)后美國(guó)國(guó)力上升的繁榮時(shí)代，這一家人掙扎在社會(huì)底層，家里沒有電視機(jī)，孩子們的衣服鞋帽來自于救濟(jì)。露西上學(xué)后因此受到了同學(xué)的排斥，她不懂流行文化，和同學(xué)們沒有共同話題，而且穿得十分寒酸，是如同丑小鴨一樣的存在。

像一只丑小鴨一樣的露西，渴望長(zhǎng)出天鵝雙翼，展翅飛翔，離開這個(gè)家，離開小鎮(zhèn)。她拼命讀書，刻苦學(xué)習(xí)，憑借優(yōu)秀的成績(jī)上了大學(xué)，畢業(yè)后嫁給了來自中產(chǎn)階級(jí)的丈夫，生了兩個(gè)孩子，后來成為一名小說家。她徹底擺脫了伊利諾伊小鎮(zhèn)寂寞寒冷的冬天，生活在紐約這個(gè)繁華都會(huì)，成為這個(gè)光鮮城市中的一員，擺脫了原生家庭的窘迫境遇。

對(duì)照露西從童年到成年的人生軌跡，我們會(huì)發(fā)現(xiàn)這個(gè)故事?lián)碛凶兂蓜?lì)志類小說的潛質(zhì)：就像《安吉拉的灰燼》《哈佛風(fēng)雨路》等小說的主人公一樣，露西憑借堅(jiān)韌意志和勤奮學(xué)習(xí)改變了命運(yùn)。然而，作者斯特勞特沒有將主人公的階級(jí)躍升視為獲得了成功和幸福，整部小說中，我們找不到一句雞湯類的勵(lì)志金句。相反，主人公的紐約生活與伊利諾伊的童年形成了對(duì)位關(guān)系，紐約的生活不是離開伊利諾伊冰冷童年之后的“幸福永遠(yuǎn)”，小說關(guān)注的是我們與過去千絲萬縷的聯(lián)系，是歷史在我們的生命中的烙印，以及我們?nèi)绾螏е@樣的烙印生活下去。

因此，小說一開篇，我們所看到的是處于人生中段的露西·巴頓。當(dāng)時(shí)是20世紀(jì)80年代，她30多歲，是兩個(gè)孩子的母親，還沒有離婚。她因闌尾炎住了院，闌尾炎卻轉(zhuǎn)為某種病理機(jī)制不明的疾病，讓她在醫(yī)院里住了九個(gè)星期。她的丈夫不愿到醫(yī)院陪護(hù)，打電話叫來了遠(yuǎn)在伊利諾伊的丈母娘。正是在露西最脆弱無助的時(shí)候，她的媽媽坐在了她的床邊。

母女在露西成年后第一次這么近距離地相守，有難得的溫情時(shí)刻。露西的丈夫曾經(jīng)勉強(qiáng)抽了半天時(shí)間來陪露西，卻十分不稱職地躺在她的病床上呼呼大睡。作為對(duì)比，她的母親有嚴(yán)重的失眠癥，卻不肯去住旅館，一天24小時(shí)衣不解帶地守著她。她半夜被醫(yī)生帶走接受身體檢查，因醫(yī)療設(shè)備故障耽誤了時(shí)間，等她出了診室的門，發(fā)現(xiàn)母親深夜在偌大的醫(yī)院里靠問詢找到了她的診室，正坐在門外默默等待。

在陪護(hù)時(shí)，母女談起過去，終于能夠溫和地交流。然而，母女兩人無論談及什么話題，都有著字斟句酌的謹(jǐn)慎，這不僅是因?yàn)樗齻兌嗄隂]有生活在一起，生怕講話魯莽傷害了對(duì)方，更是因?yàn)槲羧盏膫厶?，時(shí)時(shí)需要回避，而未來的生活也沒有太多精彩可以期待：母親還是困在伊利諾伊的家中，露西的紐約人生也有很多煩惱。而且，即便是這樣難得的溫情時(shí)刻也很快就結(jié)束了：醫(yī)生告知露西她出現(xiàn)了腸梗阻癥狀，需要立刻手術(shù)。就在她被匆忙推上手術(shù)臺(tái)時(shí)，她的母親卻提出要回家，不顧女兒的懇求，匆匆啟程返鄉(xiāng)，事后拒絕再談及這個(gè)話題。

母親到底愛不愛露西？如果愛，為什么要在手術(shù)時(shí)離去？如果不愛，為什么要趕來陪伴？從字里行間我們可以看得到，答案顯然是愛。陪伴是出于愛，離開也是因?yàn)閻?，從母親傷人的自私的決然離開的背影中，我們能夠讀出母親的恐懼：她在惶恐女兒的手術(shù)結(jié)果，為了躲避焦慮，她選擇逃走。這是一位從不善表達(dá)也拒絕表達(dá)的母親。在她臨終時(shí)，當(dāng)露西回鄉(xiāng)要求陪護(hù)她，她用帶著淚的眼睛望著露西，請(qǐng)她離開，她在無言懇求女兒為自己保留死亡的孤獨(dú)與尊嚴(yán)，以及免除女兒與她之間在人生最后一程過于深入且更加痛苦的牽絆。為此，露西將自己與父母兄妹的親情解讀為一種根系性的盤根錯(cuò)節(jié)：它是痛苦之源，是愛之源，是力量之源，也是脆弱之源。

這種復(fù)雜的情感經(jīng)歷成為一種內(nèi)驅(qū)力，使露西選擇了寫作尋找理解和表達(dá)。她的人生經(jīng)歷，尤其是她的童年經(jīng)歷，以及她與親人的關(guān)系，成為她寫作的素材與靈感的來源。在寫下這些故事的時(shí)候，她其實(shí)是在重新審視自己的人生。她學(xué)會(huì)了直面一切，不回避、不粉飾、不妄下斷語。也在這種直面中，她體會(huì)到了生活的復(fù)雜性。她為了彌補(bǔ)自己童年的缺憾，對(duì)她的兩個(gè)孩子盡心盡力，從不吝嗇對(duì)她們的親吻和擁抱，在她的孩子長(zhǎng)大后，她們還保持著友好的關(guān)系。然而，她沒有成為她理想中的完美母親。當(dāng)丈夫婚內(nèi)出軌，請(qǐng)求她原諒時(shí)，她堅(jiān)決離了婚，深層動(dòng)因是她不再愿意被家庭所束縛，想要追尋寫作生涯。她如愿以償?shù)爻蔀樾≌f家，她的孩子們卻和她疏遠(yuǎn)了。她們接納了繼母，從來不來她的新家留宿，這讓她心中酸楚。她意識(shí)到在她孩子的心中，她是拋棄她們的那個(gè)人。

“我的名字是露西·巴頓”，這是自我介紹，也是自我宣告——“這就是我”。露西努力改變命運(yùn)，告別了故鄉(xiāng)，卻發(fā)現(xiàn)自己的根依然在那里；她生活在紐約，得到了她所追求的，卻也失去了一部分她的所愛。人生是復(fù)雜的，情感是復(fù)雜的，她成為一位作家，一個(gè)體悟這種復(fù)雜性、捕捉這份復(fù)雜性的人。小說看似一則勵(lì)志故事，卻沒有它安慰心靈的圓滿結(jié)局；看似一則與家人和解的心靈雞湯，卻不寫小確幸。它讓我們看來時(shí)路，觀今日行，直視歸途，細(xì)細(xì)體會(huì)五味雜陳的人生。