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A Letter from a Stange Daughter

我的母親當(dāng)時很想把她留下來，認(rèn)為她是某種野生的小鳥，一旦飛走就再也不會回來了；而我卻認(rèn)為她是一只信鴿，不管飛得多遠(yuǎn)，終有一天會掉頭飛回來，就像人類發(fā)明的回力鏢一樣。雖然我已經(jīng)很長時間沒有再想過這件事了，但是當(dāng)我走過那條石子車道去查看郵箱，發(fā)現(xiàn)里面有一封薄薄的蓋著達(dá)拉斯市郵戳的信件時，我絲毫不覺得意外。那個信箱被我漆成了木瓜黃，我認(rèn)為這樣可以給我?guī)�來好消息。我在達(dá)拉斯，甚至德克薩斯州都沒有什么認(rèn)識的人，但是信封上的字跡讓我覺得似曾相識。對，就是我自己的字跡。我回到屋里。

“外面還在下雨嗎？”母親問道。她正坐在她新買的電動輪椅上看電視，一邊還在涂氖紫色的指甲油�！坝陝偼＃�”我說，“太陽已經(jīng)露頭了。媽媽，你在達(dá)拉斯有認(rèn)識的人嗎？”“如果我沒記錯的話，應(yīng)該是沒有�！彼�用棉球小心地擦了擦小手指。母親對自己修長的雙手頗為自負(fù)。我已經(jīng)習(xí)慣了她現(xiàn)在的樣子，但是我注意到醫(yī)生候診室的人們都會盯著她看。在接受化療手術(shù)后，她瘦了一圈，頭發(fā)幾乎掉光了。我猜讓大家感到吃驚的是，像她這樣一個應(yīng)該身穿壽衣，胸前放著鮮花躺在棺木里的年邁女人竟然還留著長長的尖指甲�！盀槭裁催@么問？”她說。

我打開信封，一張照片從里面滑落到我的大腿上。那是一張寶麗來拍立得的照片，上面是一個長相甜美的金發(fā)女郎懷抱著一個用藍(lán)色毯子包著的新生嬰兒。還沒有開始讀信的內(nèi)容，我就已經(jīng)知道這是誰了。那是一種在躲避了很長時間之后被發(fā)現(xiàn)行蹤的不可言狀的震驚。

“你手上拿的是什么？”母親說。

我把她推到我對面，然后把那張照片遞給了她。她認(rèn)真看了一會兒，接著抬起頭，一反常態(tài)地不說話，等著我先開口。

“是她，”我說，“她的名字叫琳達(dá)•羅斯•卡斯韋爾�！�

我們再次看著照片。這個金發(fā)女子坐在一張用鮮花裝飾的沙發(fā)上，她的卷發(fā)正好落在一張用廉價鑲金畫框裝裱的海景圖的邊緣。

母親指了指信封：“她在信上說了些什么？”

我把信展開。那封信只有薄薄的一頁紙，上面的字跡工整清晰�！八�說她得知我的名字和地址已經(jīng)有一段時間了，但是想等到孩子出生后再和我聯(lián)系。嬰兒的名字是布萊克，出生的時候體重是7斤6兩。孩子是剖腹產(chǎn)的。她說她們希望能夠很快收到我的回信�！�

“就說了這些？”我點(diǎn)點(diǎn)頭，把信遞給了她。信的內(nèi)容很簡短，一副公事公辦的口吻，但是我知道這封信寄出前她一定反復(fù)寫了很多長信，但是最終卻把它們?nèi)喑梢粓F(tuán)，扔進(jìn)了垃圾桶。

“我想這封信意味著你成曾外祖母了�！蔽艺f。

“你呢？”她哼了一聲，翹起蘭花指指著我說，“你成外祖母了�！�

我們難以置信地?fù)u搖頭。我靜靜地坐著，過去的一幕幕開始在腦海中一頁頁翻過。我今年50歲，感覺自己好像剛剛才和死神握過手。我覺得任何女人都很難接受自己成為外祖母的事實(shí)。但是如果按事情發(fā)展的正常順序來看，你應(yīng)該有充裕的時間去慢慢接受這個事實(shí)，而不是突然某天從郵箱里拿到一張由24年前你丟棄的小女嬰寄來的快照，并且對你說：“恭喜，你當(dāng)外祖母了！”

“這太不公平了，”我說，“我甚至還沒有過當(dāng)母親的感覺呢�！薄昂昧�，這就是活生生的證據(jù)�！蹦赣H用指甲輕輕敲了敲那張光滑的照片。“她長得很像你，不過她的鼻子更有貴族氣質(zhì)�！�

“我要回去工作了�！碑�(dāng)我站起來的時候，我的膝蓋吱吱作響，“你一個人在這里沒問題嗎？”母親點(diǎn)點(diǎn)頭，仔細(xì)審視著放在她腿上的那張照片。“你打算給她回信嗎？”

“那是當(dāng)然，”我有些不悅地說，“我可能為人苛刻，但是卻不粗魯�！薄澳銜�邀請她們到這里來嗎？她和寶寶？”她轉(zhuǎn)了轉(zhuǎn)眼睛，瞥了我一眼。“我還沒有想那么多，”我說�！昂冒�。這件事不要再拖了�！彼�把視線移回電視上，“她已經(jīng)等了25年。你是不是擔(dān)心她會成為你的負(fù)擔(dān)，或者怕她跟你要錢？據(jù)我們所知，她嫁給了一名腦

外科醫(yī)生，他們已經(jīng)擁有凱迪拉克轎車了。”

“她根本就沒有提到什么丈夫�！蔽艺f，雖然我不愿提到這一點(diǎn)，但還是說了出來。“你可能是在擔(dān)心她會對你感到失望吧，”母親說，“你知道的，這些年她一直在幻想著你或許是格蕾絲•凱利或者瑪格麗特•米德，但是有誰能夠達(dá)到這種期望的標(biāo)準(zhǔn)呢？沒有人可以做到。但是你也沒有必要如此，弗蘭，這是事實(shí)。你是她的親生母親，這就夠了，這足以讓你們相處得非常和諧。”

A Letter from a Stranger Daughter

Mother, who wanted to keep her, always thought of her as some wild little bird,but I knew she was a homing pigeon. I knew that at some point in her flight path,sooner or later, she would make a U-turn. A sort of human boomerang. So even though I had long since stopped expecting it, I was not surprised when I walked down the gravel drive to the mailbox, which I’d painted papaya yellow to attract good news, and found the flimsy envelope with the Dallas postmark. I didn’t know a soul in Dallas, or Texas for that matter, but the handwriting reminded me of someone’s. My own.

I walked back inside the house.

“Still raining?” Mother asked. She was sitting in her new electric wheelchair in front of the TV, painting her fingernails a neon violet.

“Just let up,” I said. “Sun’s poking through. You know anyone in Dallas,Mother?”

“Not so as I recall.” She dabbed at her pinky with a cottonball. Mother was vain about her hands. I was used to how she looked now, but I noticed people staring in the doctor’s waiting room. She had lost some weight and most of her hair to chemotherapy, and I guess people were startled to see these dragon-lady nails on a woman who looked as if she should be lying in satin with some flowers on her chest.

“Why do you ask?” she said.

I opened the envelope and a picture fluttered into my lap. It was a Polaroid of sweet-faced blond holding a newborn baby in a blue blanket. Before I even read the letter I knew. It’s the shock of being found after waiting so long.

“What’s that?” Mother said.

I wheeled her around to face me and handed her the Polaroid. She studied it for a minute and then looked up, speechless for once, waiting for me to set the tone.

“That’s her,” I said. “Her name’s Linda Rose Caswell.”We looked at the picture again. The blond woman was seated on a flowered couch,her wavy hair just grazing the edge of a dime-a dozen seascape in a cheap gilt frame.

Mother pointed to the envelope. “What’s she say?”I unfolded the letter, a single page neatly written.

“She says she’s had my name and address for some time but wanted to wait to contact me until after the birth. The baby’s name is Blake and he weighs eight pounds,eight ounces, and was born by cesarean. She says they are waiting and hoping to hear back from me soon.”

“That’s it?”

I nodded and handed her the letter. It was short and businesslike, but I could see the ghosts of all the long letters she must have written and crumpled into the wastebasket.

“I guess that makes you a great-grandmother,” I said.

“What about you?” she snorted, pointing a Jungle Orchid fingernail at me.

“You’re a grandmother.”

We shook our heads in disbelief. I sat silently, listening to my brain catch up with my history. Fifty years old and I felt as if I had just shaken hands with Death. I suppose it’s difficult for any woman to accept that she’s a grandmother, but in the normal order of things, you have ample time to adjust to the idea. You don’t get a snapshot in the mail one day from a baby girl you gave up twenty-four years ago saying“Congratulations, you’re a grandma!”

“It’s not fair,” I said. “I don’t even feel like a mother.”“Well, here’s the living proof.” Mother tapped her nail against the glossy picture. “She looks just like you. Only her nose is more aristocratic.”

“I’m going to work.” My knees cracked when I stood up. “You be all right here?”

Mother nodded scrutinizing the picture in her lap.“You going to write to her?”

“Of course I am,” I bristled. “I may be some things, but I am not rude.”

“You going to invite them here? Her and the baby?” She swiveled her eyes sideways at me.

“I haven’t thought that far,” I said.

“Well, don’t put if off.” She slid her eyes back to the television. “She’s been waiting twenty-five years. You worried she’s going to be trouble or ask for money?

For all we know, she’s married to a brain surgeon with his and her Cadillacs.”

“She didn’t mention any husband at all,” I said, getting drawn into it despite myself.

“Maybe you’re worried she’ll be disappointed in you,” she said. “You know, that she’s had this big fantasy for all these years that maybe you were Grace Kelly or Margaret Mead and who could live up to that? No one. But you don’t have to, Fran, that’s the thing. You’re her flesh-and-blood mother and that’s enough.

That’s all it’ll take.”