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A Mother's Place

by Donna Gamache

    Dorothy feels that she is getting old and doubts her place in the family. Now she wants to move out and start a new life. Why does she want to live by herself? Will she really leave her son and daughter-in-law? Read the following story for the answers.

    The rain still fell in a silent gray sheet when Dorothy opened her bedroom curtains to peer outside. "Another gray day, gray and gloomy," she muttered, though really the rain was more than welcome after last year's drought.

    "Old and gray and gloomy, just like me," she added to herself, though it wasn't exactly true. Her hair wasn't completely gray, and she was only in her mid-fifties, middle-aged really, she knew. And usually she acted younger than her years, if anything. She could still do all the work she'd ever done － keep the house going, plant and weed the garden, drive the truck when needed － though maybe she wasn't as speedy at some tasks, as she once was. And Tim, her son, did suggest a couple of years ago, that she needn't bother to drive the tractor anymore. But that was because it wasn't really necessary, anyway, it wasn't because she was getting old. So why, all of a sudden, did she feel old?

    "Blame it on the rain," she muttered. But, watching through the window as Tim hurried through the downpour from pig barn to cattle shed, she knew the answer. She'd known it last night, of course, after the blow up with Jenny, Tim's wife.

    Oh, it hadn't been a real blow up, just an argument over where to plant the garden. Jenny wanted it close to the house, so she could work there once the baby was born. Dorothy argued that the closest garden patch needed fallowing. They'd left the decision to Tim, who sided with Jenny, and Dorothy stumped off to bed at 8.30 p.m., feeling old and lonely, and missing Steve as she hadn't missed him for a long time.

    Steve － Dorothy's husband － had died ten years ago, when Tim was just twenty. Tim had quit his agriculture course at the university and come home to work the farm, toiling like a Trojan to pay off the debts his father left. Dorothy worked alongside him, in the beginning, until he proved himself; then gradually she relinquished more of the work to him and concentrated on her garden and flowers, and the housework.

    Things didn't change much when Tim married Jenny two years ago. Dorothy wondered, in the beginning, how the arrangement would work out, for she stayed in the house and Jenny just moved in. It couldn't have been easy for Jenny, Dorothy knew that, to move into your mother-in-law's house and let her run your life.

    But there hadn't been much change, really. Everybody adapted. Jenny worked at the potato plant in town, and kept her job. Dorothy surrendered some of the house work to her, and occasional meals, but she still did most of the day-to-day household running. Jenny either worked days, or slept, depending on her shifts at the plant. Most often she worked nights and slept until four or so.

    The washing was still Dorothy's responsibility, and the garden work and the flower beds. She still drove dinner out to the fields for Tim, and sometimes she drove the truck, during harvest or spring work. She wasn't ready to retire yet!

    "But it looks like I'll have to," she murmured, turning away from the window to dress. "Last night was just the tip of the iceberg. The rest will show up soon."

    Things were changing now. Tim and Jenny's baby was due in two months, and last week Jenny stopped working at the potato plant. "I can't take all the bending any longer," she said. "And anyway, I need time to get things ready for the baby."

    She'd been home now, full time, for a week. She'd prepared all the meals during that time, and driven Tim's dinner out to him in the west field for the last two days. Last night she'd announced new plans for the garden, and that's when the argument developed.

    "I'm redundant," Dorothy thought, then realized she was speaking out loud. "A relic on this farm. They don't need me here anymore."

    Not that anything had been said to that effect. There had been no suggestions that she should move out and leave the house to them. But they must be thinking that, weren't they?

    The house was small, with only two bedrooms and the study. Originally, of course, she and Steve had planned the study to be a third bedroom. But when Tim was their only child, the study was created instead. Now, Tim and Jenny planned to change it into a baby's room. But she'd noticed Jenny's glance in the direction of her own bedroom. If Dorothy didn't occupy it, then the baby could. And what a pity it was to reconvert the study, with all its space for Tim's farm records.

    The kitchen was small, too, for a farm kitchen. Too small for two women to work there all the time. They'd be in each other's way, Dorothy knew that. How would they ever manage at canning time?

    She sighed, and turned back to look outside once more. A few yards away, the lilacs hung heavy in the rain. She could almost smell them, though her window was shut. While she watched, Tim made a dash for the house, splashing through large puddles as he ran. It must have been pouring all night. Surprisingly, she'd slept, though her mind was churning when she went to bed.

    There was only one possible solution, she had decided: to move out, move into town and establish a new life. Life was full of changes, and this would be one of them. She'd adapted after Steve's death, and after Tim's marriage; she could do it again.

    There were a couple of houses available in town, she knew, small houses suitable for a middle-aged widow who didn't need much space. And there were suites available, if she could stand living in an apartment without a yard or garden. The solution was there. And yet － to leave the farm where she'd spent the last thirty years? To leave these fields and pastures where she'd worked first with Steve, later with Tim? To leave behind the poplar grove where she liked to bird-watch; the small creek where she and Steve walked, in younger years, and made their plans; the swimming hole where Steve taught Tim to swim? How could she leave these memories behind?

    Opening the curtains wider, to let in what light there was, she turned and went out to the kitchen. Tim and Jenny were there, Tim working on his usual big breakfast, Jenny relaxing with a cup of coffee. Dorothy saw the look that passed between them as she came out. What were they planning? Had they decided to ask her to move? To leave the farm? Well, she'd fool them. She'd have her say first!

    "Coffee, Mom?" Tim asked, and poured her a cup without waiting for a reply. He knew her habits well.

    "Thank you," she grunted, settling into her chair. Then, the decision made, she looked at him sharply. "I guess we have to talk, don't we? There have to be some changes made here, don't there?"

    "Mom, please," Tim interrupted. "About last night, we're sorry. We weren't thinking properly. With the baby and all, you'll probably be doing most of the garden work still. So we'll leave the garden up to you. Where it is and what you want to plant. You'll be officially in charge, Garden Manager, if that's okay."

    Dorothy closed her mouth, the wind gone from her sails for a moment. Then she squared her shoulders and started again. "But the garden's not all, is it? Let's face it. Around here, I won't be needed anymore. More than that. In this house, I'm in the way."

    "Mother － "Tim started, but she spoke above him.

    "The way I see it, the answer is for me to move into town, give you and Jenny the house, and a life of your own without your mother always looking over your shoulder. And I'll make a new life for myself." Abruptly she stopped, took a gulp of coffee, though it was almost too hot, and stared out the window at the rain.

    For a few minutes silence reigned. Then Tim spoke again. "Is that really the way you want it, Mother? If it is, okay. But I don't believe it is. I think you're making a sacrifice because you think that's what we want. And you don't have to, you know. It's not necessary." He paused to chew on his toast for a moment but Dorothy didn't answer.

    "We have another idea, Mom," Jenny said quietly, hesitatingly. "If you don't like it, say so. But we'd like to tell you."

    "Say what you want," Dorothy grunted. She knew she sounded old and crabby. She didn't want to sound like that. It just came out that way.

    "Jenny and I," Tim began, "we know it isn't easy for you with another woman in your house. But we don't want you to leave. We need you here, even if you don't realize it. We'll need you more, once the baby comes. We'll need you to help babysit, if Jenny is working with me. Or we'll still need you to help me, if Jenny is busy with the baby." He paused. "But we have another idea."

    Dorothy turned away from the window where she'd been staring resolutely at the rain, and looked at him. He looked so much like Steve when he set his chin in that determined way.

    "Jenny and I went to look at a trailer that Jim Briscoe is selling. We thought maybe we'd buy it and move it into the yard here for us. Only, it's small. Not really big enough for us, with the baby and all. So, well, we wondered, what about using the trailer for you?"

    "We could set it up on the other side of the lilac bushes," Jenny broke in. "It would be a little closer to the garden, and you could still have your own piece of land and flower beds."

    "You'd be close to us, but not with us," Tim said. "I know this is your house, and if you don't like that idea, well," he shrugged, "we could look for a bigger trailer for ourselves, and you could still stay here. But we don't want you moving to town, leaving the farm, unless that's what you want." He stopped abruptly, as though he had run out of words, and turned back to his breakfast.

    There was a long silence, broken only by the patter of rain on the window. There must be a wind starting up, Dorothy thought momentarily. And it's blown a weight off my shoulders.

    Then, through the sudden lump in her throat, she spoke. "I like the idea fine, Tim. And Jenny. When can I look at the trailer to see what I'll need?" She smiled, hoping they wouldn't notice the moisture in her eyes.

    "Better wait until this rain stops and things dry up a bit," Tim said. "We don't want to track it up with mud. It's just newly painted."

    "What rain?" asked Dorothy, the day's gloom suddenly gone. "What rain?"

    (1 860 words )

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课文一

母亲的位置

唐娜•加玛科

    多萝西觉得自己老了，开始怀疑起自己在家里的位置。现在她想搬出去住，开始新生活。为什么她要一个人生活？她真的想离开儿子和儿媳吗？阅读下面这篇文章，找找问题的答案。

    多萝西掀起卧室窗帘，看看窗外，天灰蒙蒙的，雨还在无声无息地下着。“又是灰蒙蒙的天,又阴又暗，”她喃喃自语道。实际上，去年的干旱后,这雨是大受欢迎的。

    “老气横秋，灰不溜秋，郁郁寡欢，像我一样，”她对自己又说了这些，然而事实并非如此。她的头发并未全白，只有五十多岁，实际还是中年——这一点，她自己也清楚。她平日的行为举止，远远看不出实际年龄——无论从哪方面都看不出。她象过去一样能干——忙家务,在花园里种花、除草，开着拖拉机帮忙干农活——尽管有些事情她做起来不如以前那样利索。她的儿子蒂姆两三年前就建议她不必再开拖拉机了。不过那是因为确实没有必要，而不是因为她老了。那她为什么会突然觉得自己老了呢？

    “都怪这场雨，”她嘟囔着。可是，当她透过窗户，看到蒂姆冒着大雨匆匆从猪圈跑到牛棚时，她就知道是为什么了。当然，昨晚与蒂姆的妻子詹妮吵架过后，她就知道了缘由。

    哦，那也不是真的吵架，只不过是争论花园该建在哪儿。詹妮想让花园靠近住房，孩子出生后她也能兼干些活儿。多萝西认为，屋子旁边的那块园地应该空着。她俩让蒂姆作最后决定，结果蒂姆支持詹妮。于是多萝西晚上八点半就气冲冲地上床了，感到苍老无力，孤立无助，从来没有这么想念过史蒂夫。

    史蒂夫——多萝西的丈夫——10年前去世了，那时蒂姆年仅20岁。蒂姆中断了大学的农学课程，回到农场干活。他象特洛伊人一样辛苦地工作，偿还父亲欠下的债务。最初多萝西和他一块干，一直干到他能完全上手；于是，她就逐渐把更多的农活交给蒂姆做，自己专心伺弄花园，种些花草，操持家务。

    两年前蒂姆结婚了，但情况并没有多大改变。刚开始，多萝西还在想如何安排才算妥善，因为她呆在家里，詹妮又搬来住。多萝西知道：对詹妮来说，住到婆婆家，还让婆婆来掌管自己的生活，不是一件容易的事情。

    但是他们婚后，一切真的并没有多大的改变。每个人都适应了。詹妮婚前在镇上的土豆加工厂工作，婚后还继续在那里上班。多萝西主动把一部分家务活让詹妮做，偶尔还让她做几顿饭，但是家里大部分的日常家务仍由她自己操持。詹妮白天有时上班，有时睡觉，得看她在厂里上什么班。大多数时候她上夜班，白天她一直睡到下午四点左右。

    洗洗涮涮仍是多萝西的事，还有整理园子和花坛的活。她照旧开车到田里给蒂姆送饭。秋收或春耕时她有时候还开卡车。她还没准备退休呢！

 
    “但看来我得必须退休了，”她喃喃自语，一边转过身去穿衣服。“昨晚只露出了冰山一角。剩下的很快就会都显露出来，”她想。

    现在情况正在发生变化。蒂姆和詹妮的孩子还有两个月就要出世了。上个星期，詹妮辞去了土豆加工厂的工作。“我再也弯不下腰了，”她说。“不管怎么说，我也需要时间为孩子的出生做做准备。”

    现在，詹妮整天都呆在家里，已经一个星期了。这段时间里，每一餐都是她做的，前两天她还开车到农场西部的田里给蒂姆送晚饭。昨晚她宣布重新布置园子，于是就发生了争吵。

    “我是多余的，”多萝西心想，随后才发觉自己大声说了出来。“我在农场派不上用场了。他们不再需要我了。”

    事情还没到那个地步。从未有人提过要她离开。但是他们一定是这样想的，不是吗？

    房子不大，只有两间卧室和一个书房。原先她和史蒂夫曾计划把书房用作卧室。既然蒂姆是他俩唯一的孩子，房间就成了书房。如今，蒂姆和詹妮打算把它改成婴儿房。但她曾经注意到詹妮的目光瞥向她的房间。要是多萝西不住着这间房子，那么孩子就可以住了。改装书房是件令人伤感的事，里面都是蒂姆的农场记录。

    作为一个农场的厨房，厨房也不大。根本容不下两个女人整天在那儿干活。多萝西明白，她们会彼此碍事。做罐头的季节她们怎么办呢？

     她叹了口气,又转身望着窗外。几码远的地方，丁香花在雨里沉甸甸地挂在枝上。她几乎能闻到花香，尽管窗子关着。这时，她看到蒂姆正往房子这边跑过来，身后边溅起大滩的雨水。雨一定是下了一整夜。奇怪的是，昨夜她居然睡着了，去睡觉时她心里还难受着呢。

    她认定，解决的办法只有一个：搬出去，搬到镇上，开始新生活。生活总是变化多端，这只是一个变化而已。史蒂夫死后她适应了变化，蒂姆结婚后她也适应了；她可以再适应一次。

    她知道，镇上还有几座空房子。小型的房子是适合一个中年寡妇住的，不需要多大空间。要是她能忍受没有院子、没有花园的公寓，还有空着的套间可以住。这就是解决的办法。可是——离开她度过了三十年岁月的地方吗？在农田和牧场，她最初跟史蒂夫，后来又跟蒂姆一起工作过，要抛下这些不顾吗？她喜欢在小树林里看鸟；她和史蒂夫年轻时曾在小溪边漫步，在那儿他们计划过未来；在那个小池子里，史蒂夫曾教蒂姆游泳；把这些全抛下吗？她怎么能把这些记忆全都抛在脑后呢？

    她把窗帘拉开一些，让光线多少照进来，然后就转身去厨房。蒂姆和詹妮都在。和往常一样，蒂姆专心吃着一大份早餐，詹妮悠闲地喝着一杯咖啡。多萝西注意到，她出来时他们两人对望了一眼。他们在策划什么？是不是要让她搬走？离开农场？好吧，她要愚弄他们一下。她要掌握发言权！

    “妈，要咖啡吗？”蒂姆问道。不等她回答就给她倒了一杯咖啡，他很了解她的习惯。

    “谢谢，”她喃喃着，边说边坐到椅子里。然后，她心意已决，目光锐利地看着蒂姆。“我想我们得谈谈，对吧？家里得有点变化，不是吗？”

    “妈，”蒂姆打断她。“关于昨晚的事，我们向您道歉。我们考虑不周。孩子出生后会有好多事情，所以大部分园子里的活，可能还得由您干。我们想由您全权打理园子。您想把它建在哪儿就建在哪儿，您想种什么就种什么。如果可以，您正式负责，园子总管。”

    多萝西闭着嘴，好像帆一时没了风一样，不知道说什么好了。然后她正了正身子，再度开口。“但是除了园子之外，还有事情，对吧？我们还是面对问题吧。家里没人需要我了。不止如此，在这座房子里，我碍手碍脚了。”
    “妈妈——”蒂姆想开口，但是她的声音更高。
　

    “依我看呢，解决的办法就是我搬到镇上去住，房子给你和詹妮，你们过自己的生活，不用我整天在后面盯着你们。我也要开始自己的新生活。”她突然打住了。虽然咖啡很烫，她喝了一大口，然后盯着窗外的雨。

     沉默好一会儿后，蒂姆又开口了：“妈妈，您真的想过那样的生活吗？如果是，那好吧。但我不信。我想您在作出牺牲，因为您以为那就是我们想要的。您知道，您不必非得如此，大可不必。”他停下来吃了会儿吐司，但多萝西没有说话。

    “妈，我们还有一个主意，”詹妮轻声说，有点迟疑。“要是您不喜欢就直说，但我们想告诉您。”
    “想说什么就说，”多萝西嘟哝着。她知道自己的声音听起来又老又冲，她也不想那样，但话一出口就成那个样子了。

    蒂姆说：“詹妮和我都清楚，对您来说，在自己家里和另一个女人住在一起并不容易。但是我们也不想让您走。我们需要您，也许您还没有意识到。孩子一出生，我们会更需要您。如果詹妮和我一块儿干活，我们就需要您帮着看孩子。要是詹妮忙着看孩子，我们也需要您来帮我。”他停了停。“但我们还有一个想法。”

    多萝西眼睛一直牢牢地盯着窗外的雨，这时转过头来，看着他。他看上去真象史蒂夫，那样坚毅地昂着下巴。

    “我和詹妮看过布里斯格正在出售的车拖活动住屋。我们想，也许可以买下来，放到咱们的院子里。只不过，活动住屋不大。我俩用的话，确实小了点，还有孩子什么的。所以，哦，我们想，活动住屋给您用，可以吗？”

    詹妮插话说：“我们可以把活动住屋搭在丁香丛的另一面，这样离园子更近些，而且您仍然有自己的一块地和花坛。”

  “我们住得很近，又不用住在一起，”蒂姆说。“我知道这是您的房子，要是您不喜欢这个想法，那么，”他耸耸肩。“我们可以找个大一点的活动住屋，我们住，您还住在这里。可是我们不喜欢您搬到镇上去，离开农场，除非您真的想那么做。”他突然停住了，好象没话可说了一样，就接着吃早餐。

    一阵长时间的沉默，只有雨拍打在窗户上的声音。一瞬间，多萝西想：“一定起风了，风把我肩上的重荷都吹走了。”

     然后，象是喉咙里有东西突然卡住一样，她开口了：“我认为这主意很好，蒂姆，詹妮。什么时候我可以去看看活动住屋，看我还有什么需要添置的？”她笑了笑，希望他们没看到自己的眼睛湿润了。

    “最好等雨停了，地面干点再说，”蒂姆说。“我们不想让活动住屋沾上泥。活动住屋是新漆的。”

     “什么雨？”多萝西问道，白天的抑郁一扫而空。“什么雨？”
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

    （1860个单词）

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Text 2

To Grandmother's House We Go

      by Barbara Wahlberg

    It's a beautiful summer morning. The girls pile out of the car. I shoo them, tell them to behave. They are at that silly age; nine and seven. Their laughter is so genuine, so full of life. No one should reprimand this sort of fun. We walk into the building. I stop at the front desk to sign in and then we head toward the elevators. The girls are squirming, poking at each other, softly screaming, gleeful. "They are full of the devil," as the old expression goes. They are familiar with this trip.

    The elevator doors open, we step out onto the second floor and pass the nurses' desk. There are four older women sitting in wheelchairs facing the nurses' station. One is almost comatose； two are shrunken with age, and one seems too young and spry to be here. They all notice the girls. You can't miss them with their flowing strawberry blond hair. The children are like two beacons of light flashing through their day, which would otherwise fade within the fog of yesterday and tomorrow.
    "Come here, sweeties," the spry woman calls to them. "How beautiful." Eleanor, my youngest, runs up to the woman and hugs her. It's all right, we know her. She is always sitting here. Her name is Evelyn, and she loves the girls. She reaches out, touches Eleanor's hair like it is some elixir of life, and smiles. "Beautiful," she repeats.

    "Here to see Grandma?" someone else pipes in.

    "Yes," I say.

    "Nanny," the girls correct in unison.
    The comatose woman next to Evelyn begins to moan. Eleanor fidgets uncomfortably, slips out of Evelyn's arms, and runs down the hall. Corinne runs after her. I wave my hand good-bye and follow them.

    Nanny is in her room. I can hear the sounds of surprise and happiness as I near the door. The girls are hugging and kissing her when I walk in. She is crying ...as usual.
    "Barbara!" she shouts, "Ah, how nice, how nice."
    I understand this communication, half garbled as it is. There are so few words I understand the first time she says them. She usually has to repeat herself a few times before I get it.
    "Hi, Nann." I bend down to kiss her, hug her. 

    "Give Nanny her present, girls."

    Corinne hands Nanny the gift bag. In their excitement, the two girls start tearing the tissue paper out of the top.
    "Slow down," I tell them, "Nann can do it."
    "We just want to help, Mom," Eleanor retorts.

    "Okay, okay," Nanny reassures me.

    "Look, Nanny, perfume," Eleanor holds up a bottle of cologne.

    "Yeah, and powder, and lotion, and shampoo," adds Corinne. She pulls the bag open wide so her great-grandmother can see inside.

    "Oh, my favorite. Oh, you shouldn't do this." She starts to cry, again.

    "Don't cry, Nann." I get up from the side of her bed to comfort her. "You know I always keep you supplied in Soft Musk."

    She loves Avon's Soft Musk. She has worn it for as long as I can remember. I've been giving it to her for Christmas for years. Now, when I visit, I always bring her a few things to cheer her up. I remember how she used to cover herself with this scent. When you walked into her apartment, the air was filled with this subtle fragrance. When I dropped by for lunch, she would still be fresh from her shower. I could smell the musk cologne mingling with talcum powder and mint toothpaste when she put her arms around me to say hello, and to give me a big kiss. She smelled so fresh and clean. So good. Now, as I pull away to smooth down her wiry gray hair, she no longer smells so familiar. Her breath is not so sweet. No longer is she a melange of pleasant aromas； she smells of soap, and hospital and urine.

    I dry her eyes with a tissue. The girls mill around. They are used to her tears by now. She begins to smile, again.

    "How are you?"

    "Good, Nanny, busy."

    "Are you with your mother?"

    "Yes, for a few days."

    "How's your husband?"

    "Good, Nann, working hard in Boston."

    We converse back and forth like this for a few minutes. The simple sentences are easier to deal with. Once in a while I ask her to repeat what she has said. I can see her frustration mounting. Usually, I try to dominate the conversation so she doesn't have to speak.

    "Do you want to take a walk outside?" I ask.

    "Yeah, let's go outside. I can show Nanny my gymnastics." Eleanor jumps up and down, eager to show off her skills.

    "You're such a show-off, Eleanor," says Corinne, reproachfully.

    "Shut-up," I say, in that natural way that mothers say shut-up, "She can show Nanny what she can do."
    "Well, what about me?"
    "You can show Nanny how you can dance." I smooth the edges of their sibling rivalry.

    Nanny shakes her head and smiles at their feuding. Some things never change.

    I unlock her wheelchair and secure her paralyzed leg onto the footrest so it doesn't get dragged along on the floor.

    "Can I push, can I push?" pleads Eleanor.

    "No!" I say as firmly as possible.

    When we get outside, we settle under some large maple trees. The breeze is wonderful and the late morning sun is perfect. Eleanor immediately begins to perform her gymnastics. Nanny watches, laughs.

    "Be careful," she shouts clearly, as Eleanor turns multiple cartwheels. Nann almost sounds like her old self, "My God, look at her." She looks toward me with her eyes wide open in amazement at what Eleanor can do.

    "I miss you," I say to her as she focuses her attention once more on my daughter. She hasn't heard me. She is deaf in her left ear, even with a hearing aid. Maybe she has heard me － I don't know, but she hasn't acknowledged my statement. "I miss you," I think to myself, especially now that it is summer. The zucchini are ready in the garden. I wish you were visiting me, instead of me coming... here. I wish you were cooking away in my kitchen. Fresh tomato sauce, fried zucchini over steaming pasta in garlic and oil. I think I gained ten pounds every time you came to stay with me. You are the best cook in the world. Everything I know I learned from you. I stop thinking and turn to her, I take her hand.

    "Richard's garden is beautiful this year." I tell her. "I made zucchini and pasta last week. I can't resist it even if I do have to fry. It was delicious, I thought of you as we feasted."

    She laughs, but I can see I made her sad for one moment. "What else is he growing?"

    "Tomatoes, lots, so I can make fresh sauce. Cabbage, onions, fenocchio, eggplant, green beans. Too much for me to cook."

    "It's all good for you," she tells me. "Eat all those good things." She lifts her other arm in a flourish as she gives me this advice. It is in a brace to keep it from curling in on itself because she does not have full use of it.

    I watch her as she watches my children. I remember her as she was, strong and opinionated, always busy, cooking. I remember lunches at her apartment, sitting around the table with my cousins and aunts, my mother, all the women. The little ones eating cookies or half eaten sandwiches. The table full of food: roasted peppers in garlic and oil, cold cuts, contadina salad, Italian bread and onion rolls. There was laughter and gossip.

    The spirit of my grandfather hovered about us. I could hear him. "Ba-ba-ra-ba, (his pet name for me), eat, EAT!!"

    He's not here, anymore. Papa Joe cannot come here. We left him behind in the apartment when Nanny had her stroke and went into the nursing home. We remember him, we cannot forget him. But his spirit cannot live here in this uniform and sterile place without the smell of coffee and garlic. We are truly alone.

    "Mom, I'm hungry," Eleanor leans into my lap and makes her appeal face to face. "Can we go to McDonald's?"

    "Yes," I say, almost unconsciously, as I force myself back to reality. I look at my watch. It is eleven thirty. I must get Nanny back to her room for lunch. I get up from the bench reluctantly, not because I am sad to be going, but because I know what will happen next.

    We roll Nanny back to the second floor and bring her down the hall to her room. She is clutching Corinne's hand. When we get to her room, I ask her if she wants me to turn on the television. Her head is bent over, she shakes her head "no." I remind her that lunch will be here soon, but she doesn't look at me. She starts to sob into her hand.

    "Nanny," I say, like I’ve said dozens of times before, "please don't cry. Please ..." That's all I can say. I can't say "you'll be home soon," or "we'll see you soon," because that wouldn't be true. I might not see her for six more months. I live too far away.

    And she will not be going home because home is no longer there. No one can take her home, either. It's not that her children's lives are too busy, it's because no one really has the strength and endurance to handle the difficulties involved with taking care of a woman who is incontinent and partially paralyzed. I understand that. She doesn't. She cries. I know she feels like she has been deserted. She hasn't. This is just how it must be.

    I give her a hug. The girls hug and kiss her good-bye. Sweet, sweet Eleanor tells her to stop crying because she is making her sad. I tell the girls to wait for me by the nurses’ station, I will be right out. I bend down one more time to say good-bye. "You're my best friend," I remind her, something I once told her when I was four years old. She used to visit me on her way home from work. I loved her so much, I love her even more, now. She chuckles through her tears. I head out the door without turning around.

    My mother once called me on the phone. She told me Nanny was giving her three grown daughters a hard time. She is also uncooperative with the nurses, and always upsets her roommates.

    My mother is very upset about what has happened to her mother. She told me this was not the mother she remembered. Her mother always cared about herself, always looked her best, cared about her body to the point of being fastidious. She told me how Grandpa had told his daughters on his deathbed that their troubles were just beginning. "Your mother," he told them, "is a very pampered woman. I gave her everything. I did everything for her. She is going to expect the same from you girls." Then, he died.

    She never really took care of herself after that, healthwise, that is. The doctor told my mother and aunts that she did not take her high blood pressure medicine as prescribed. He believed that was the cause of her stroke. Her daughters believe she brought the stroke on herself so someone would have to take care of her. What she didn't count on was the severity of the stroke. Now, someone is taking care of her. It's just not one of her daughters.

    "She's suffering," my mother cried into the phone. "Why didn't she just die? Why does God let her go through this torment?"

    "I don't know," was all I could say. It was all the comfort I could give her.

    I pull out of the parking lot. "McDonald's?" I shout.

    "McDonald's!" the girls agree.

    "Here we go."

    "Mom?" asks Eleanor. "Is Nanny okay?"

    "Yes." I reassure her. "Don't worry, she'll be all right." And I wonder if Nanny will be. I ran out so fast I don't think she saw me leave. I imagine she is still looking down into her hands, or perhaps she is now calmly eating her lunch. I remember how she looked when she was young, when I was three and four. Beautiful, in her early fifties, stopping by in her yellow and white ’59 Dodge, black, cat's eye sunglasses shading her Latin eyes, red lipstick, black hair neatly coifed, sweet-smelling, laughing as I toddled toward her, holding out her long slim arms. She was my best friend.

    (2 125words )

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课文二

去外婆家

              巴巴拉•瓦尔贝格

    这是夏季一个美丽的早晨。孩子们从车里挤出来。我发出嘘、嘘的声音，告诫她们要注意自己的举止。她们正值那种傻乎乎的年龄，九岁和七岁。她们的笑声如此纯真，发自内心，又如此具有感染力。谁都不应该呵斥那种顽皮。我们步入大楼。我在前面的桌子旁停下来，进行出入登记，然后我们朝电梯走去。孩子们叽叽喳喳地说笑着，互相推来搡去，不时地发出轻柔的尖叫声，她们真是兴奋。正如俗话所说的，“她们被恶魔缠住了”。她们对此种旅行，早已熟悉了。

    电梯门开了，我们走出电梯，到了二楼，经过护士的办公桌。4位年迈的老太太坐在轮椅里，对着护士们的办公室。一位老太太几乎处于昏迷状态，2位年事已高，形容枯槁，另一位看上去既年轻又活跃，似乎这儿并不是她呆的地方。她们四人全都注意到了这对女孩；她们一头飘逸的草莓黄的头发，你根本不可能不注意她们。孩子们就象是在她们这一天闪过的两道光，要不是这光，这一天就会因为昨天和明天的迷雾而黯然失色。

    “过来，亲爱的，”那位活泼的老太太喊她们。“多漂亮啊。”我的小女儿埃莉诺跑过去，拥抱了一下老太太。没关系，我们认识她。她叫伊芙琳，总是坐在那儿，她喜欢这两个孩子。她伸出手，轻轻抚摸着埃莉诺的头发，仿佛那是生命中的灵丹妙药一样。她微微一笑，“真漂亮 ，”她又说了一遍。

    “来看外婆吗？”有人插了一句。

    “是的，”我回答。

    “太婆，”孩子们异口同声地纠正道。

    伊芙琳身旁那位处于半昏迷状态的老太太开始呻吟起来，埃莉诺不自在地扭动着身子，从伊芙琳的臂弯里溜出来，沿着大厅跑开了，科琳跑上去追她。我挥挥手再见，也跟上她们。　

    太婆在房间里，走近门口，我就听到充满惊讶和兴奋的喊叫声。我进去时，孩子们正拥抱太婆，吻太婆。太婆在哭……跟往常一样。

    “巴巴拉！”她大声叫着，“噢，太好了，太好了。”
    我明白这种交流，虽然有一半是猜出来的。第一次听她这么说的时候，我能听懂的词没几个。她总要重复好几遍，我才懂。

    “你好，外婆。”我俯下身去，吻她、拥抱她。

    “孩子们，把礼物给太婆。”

    科琳把礼物袋递给了外婆。两个孩子激动地撕扯着上面的包装纸。

    “慢一点”，我说，“太婆能行。”

    “我们只是想帮太婆，妈妈，”埃莉诺反驳说。

    “没事，没事，”外婆安慰我。

    “太婆，看，香水，”埃莉诺举起了一瓶香水。

    “是呀，还有香粉，润肤露，洗发水，”科琳补充道。她把袋子拽得大开，好让太婆看到里面的东西。

    “噢，都是我最喜欢的东西。噢，你们不该这样。”她又开始哭起来。
    “别哭，外婆。”我从她的床边起身安慰她，“你知道，我不让你缺少润肤霜。”

    她喜爱雅芳牌的化妆品。从我记事起，她就一直用这个牌子。多年来，我一直送她这个作为圣诞礼物。现在，每次来看望她，我总会给她带几件让她高兴高兴。我仍然记得，她过去经常使自己浑身上下都散发着这种香味。你一走进她的公寓，便能闻到空气中弥漫着这种淡淡的香味。每当我随意来吃午饭，她会仍然一副浴后爽清的样子。她用双臂搂着我，向我问好，然后重重地吻我一下，这时我便能闻到麝香香水、爽身粉、薄荷牙膏混合在一起的味道。她的气味是如此清新，如此爽洁，真好。现在，当我用手指滑下她那粗硬而卷曲的灰白头发时，她身上已不再有那种熟悉的香味，她的呼吸也不香甜了，她的身上不再有沁人心脾的混合香味，而是一种混有香皂味、医院里的气味和尿味的难闻气味。

    我用纸巾擦干她的眼泪。孩子们在绕圈圈，她们对太婆流泪已司空见惯。她又开始绽开微笑。
    “你好吗？”

    “好，外婆，挺忙。”

    “和妈妈在一起吗？”

    “是的，有几天。”

    “你丈夫好吗？”

    “好，外婆，在波士顿工作很忙。”

    就这样，我们你问我答地交谈了几分钟。简单的句子比较容易应付。我偶尔要求她重复一下她说过的话。看得出，她的失望情绪在加重。通常情况下，我努力控制我们之间的谈话，好让她没有必要开口。

    “你想出去走一走吗？”我问她。

    “好，我们到外面去吧。我可以让太婆看我表演体操。”埃莉诺跳上蹦下，急着要炫耀她的本领。
    “你真爱表现，埃莉诺，”科琳责备她说。
    “住嘴，”我说，尽量象母亲们在说“住嘴”时一样，态度自然。“她可以让太婆看看她能做什么。”

    “噢，那我呢？”
    “你可以让太婆看你跳舞呀，”我在平息她们姐妹之间的敌对情绪。

     外婆摇摇头，笑吟吟地看着她们在争斗。有些东西永远改变不了。
    我打开轮椅，把她那条已经瘫痪的腿放到脚踏上，她就不用拖拽着走路了。

    “我能推吗？我能推吗？”埃莉诺央求着。

    “不行，”我尽量果断地说。

    我们来到外面，在几棵大枫树下停下来。微风轻拂，清爽宜人，已近中午，阳光非常充足。埃莉诺立刻开始表演她的技艺。外婆边看边笑。

    “当心，”她看着埃莉诺连续侧身翻筋斗，清楚地叫道。外婆的声音象以前一样，“天哪，看她。”她看向我，双眼瞪得圆圆的，惊讶地看着埃莉诺表演。

    “我想你，”在她又一次把注意力集中在我女儿身上时，我对她说。她没听见，她的左耳聋，即使带着助听器也不行。也许她听见了 ——我不知道，但是，对我的话她没作出反应。“我想你，”我默默地想着，尤其是现在，夏天已到。园里的小胡瓜已经熟了。我希望你能来看我，而不是我来……这儿。我希望你在我的厨房里做饭。新鲜的西红柿酱、热气腾腾的葱油拌面，上面还放着清炒的小甜瓜。我想，每次你到我们家来我都会胖上十磅。你是天底下最棒的厨师。我的知识全是从你那儿学来的。我不再沉思，转向她，抓住她的手。

    “理查德的菜园今年真美。”我对她说，“上星期我还做了小甜瓜和面糊。即使我非得炒一下，也无法抗拒小甜瓜。味道美极了，我们吃饭的时候想起了你。”

    她笑了，但我看得出，我的话让她难过了片刻。“他还种了些什么？”

    “西红柿，很多很多，这样我可以做新鲜果酱了。还有白菜，洋葱，fenocchio,茄子，青豆，多得我做不完。”
    “这些菜都有利你的健康，”她告诉我，“只吃那些有利健康的东西。”她给我提这条建议时，还举起另一只胳膊挥舞了一下，为防扭曲，这只胳臂放在一个支架里，因为她并不常用这只手臂。

    她看着孩子们，我看着她。记忆中，她和过去一样，身体健壮，固执己见，总在忙着烹呀，调呀。我记得在她的公寓里吃的顿顿午餐，桌子四周坐着表姐、姑妈、母亲、全是女性。孩子们吃着饼干或剩了一半的三明治。桌子上摆满了好吃的：烤葱油辣椒，凉切牛肉，康塔迪娜色拉，意大利面包和洋葱卷。餐桌旁笑声、谈话声不绝于耳。

    外祖父的兴奋劲就在我们周围。我能听见他在说：“巴-巴-拉-巴（他给我起的昵称），吃，吃吧！”
    他已不在了。老爸乔不能来了。外婆中风住进医院时，我们把他留在了公寓。我们记得他，我们无法忘记他。但是他的兴奋劲无法呆在这没有咖啡和大蒜味，千篇一律、没有活力的地方。我们是真正孤单了。

    “妈妈，我饿了，”埃莉诺倚在我的腿上，求着我：“我们能去吃麦当劳吗？”
    “行，”我几乎是无意识地回答道，我强迫自己回到眼前的现实中来。看看手表，已经十一点半了，该送外婆回房用午餐了。我不情愿地从长椅上站起来，不是因为要走感到难过，而是因为我知道接下来会发生什么事。

    我们把外婆推回二楼，穿过大厅把她送回房间。她一直握着科琳的手。回到房间后，我问她要不要打开电视机。她把头低下去，摇了摇。我提醒她午餐快送来了，但是她并不看我，双手掩面，开始啜泣起来。

    “外婆，”我说，就和以前几十次说的一样，“噢，别哭，噢……”我实在说不出其它什么话来。我不能说“你很快就能回家了，”或者说“我们很快会来看你，”因为那不现实。我可能六个月不能来看她，我住的地方太远了。

    她无法回家，因为已经没有家了。也无人能把她带回家。并不是她的孩子们都很忙，而是因为无人真正有勇气和耐心，照顾一位内急失禁、半身不遂的老太太。我理解，但她不理解。她哭了。我知道她觉得自己被遗弃了。她并没有。现在这个样子是不得不如此。

    我拥抱了她。孩子们和她拥抱、吻别。可爱的埃莉诺叫她不要哭，因为这使她很难过。我吩咐孩子们到护士办公室旁边等我，我随后就到。我再次俯下身，与她道别。“你是我最好的朋友，”我告诉她，4岁时我就跟她这么说过。过去，她总是在下班回家时顺路来看看我。以前，我很爱她，现在更爱她了。她眼含泪水，抿嘴笑了一下。我头也没回地走出了门口。

    妈妈有次打电话给我，说外婆正让她的三个成年女儿日子不好过。她与护士们也不合作，还总是骚扰室友。

    我妈妈对发生在自己母亲身上的事情颇感不安。她告诉我，这不是她记忆中的母亲。记忆里，她的母亲很注重自身形象，总是打扮得光采照人，总是对自己的身体爱护到近乎吹毛求疵的程度。她说，外公在临死前对女儿们说，她们的烦恼才刚刚开始。“你妈妈，”他对女儿们说，“是个被宠坏了的女人。我给了她一切，我为她做了一切。她会同样指望你们也能这么做。”说完，他就辞世了。

    外公去世后，她并没有真正照顾过自己的健康。医生告诉我母亲和姨妈们，外婆并没有按照处方规定服用降压药。医生相信那正是她中风的原因。女儿们认为她是自己要中风的，因为她一病，就必须有人照顾她。她只是没有料到，中风的程度如此严重。如今，的确有人在照顾她，但却不是女儿中的任何一个。

    “她在痛苦，”母亲在电话里哭诉，“那次她怎么不死掉？为什么上帝不能让她摆脱这种折磨？”

    “我不知道，”我能说的就是这些，这是我能给她的全部安慰。
     我把车子开出停车场。“吃麦当劳？”我喊道。

    “麦当劳！”孩子们应声附和。

    “走吧。”

    “妈咪？”埃莉诺问，“太婆没事吧？”
    “没事”我安慰她。“别担心，太婆会好的。”我不知道外婆是否能好。走时，我跑得那么快，我想她没有看见我离开。想象中，她仍然垂着头，凝视着双手。也许，现在她在安静地吃午饭。我仍记得自己三四岁时她年轻时的模样。那时，她虽已年过半百，但依然美丽迷人，开着那辆黄白相间的59’多奇车来串门，乌黑的猫眼太阳镜遮住了她拉丁人似的双眸。她涂着红色的口红，乌黑的头发仔细地塞在科伊夫帽中，浑身散发着清香，当我跌跌撞撞向她走去时，她边笑边伸出修长的手臂。她是我最好的朋友。

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