老屋點滴

每一次搬家都是一次記憶的梳理和遷移。收拾舊房子時，回憶的點點滴滴都會從那些舊家具、舊信件甚至墻上斑駁的污跡中冒出來，給人帶來無限遐思。尤其當那里生活過最愛的人，見證過最純真美好的時光，告別便因此變得更難，也更令人傷感。

I turn the key to enter my family home one last time. Even now， the silence surprises me.

It is the first and only house my family owned in Canada and it is about to be sold. I stand in the hushed living room. Everything is still intact， until next week when the contents will be moved to make way for the new owners. Within the past two years my mother and father have died. My sisters and brother and I decided it was best to sell： All of us have long had lives and careers in the city an hour away.

I remember the day we moved here from our apartment downtown above a hardware store1）. I was 12. I stood in the backyard greedily surveying the grass， shrubs2） and the one lone tree， reveling3） in what was newly mine. My last play area had been a roof atop a hardware store， covered in sharp stones， one of which had embedded itself for all time in my left knee after a tumble.

After emigrating from Scotland， me just a babe in my mother’s arms， we lived in a series of small towns， moving wherever my father could find work， and always in rooms owned by others. Like generations of immigrants before them， my parent’s dream was to have a home of their own. When the bank called to say the loan had been approved for the down payment4） （$333， I remember） my father danced my mother around the kitchen with abandon5）， both of them laughing wildly.

The house was a disaster when we moved in. Linoleum6） on the kitchen floor had heaved7） in the middle and water dripped into rusty sinks. Undaunted， we set to work； this was ours， finally. During those first few years of renovation I learned how to use a level， hang a plumb line8） and install quarter-round9）. “Let the hammer do the work，” my father would admonish， his r’s rolling. Repairs and additions were made as we could afford them. The basement was gutted10） and made livable， wiring and plumbing replaced， a carport11） and back deck added in the later years when funds were not as tight.

“It’s awfully dark in this kitchen，” my mother said out of the blue12） one day while we were all at breakfast. My father nodded—as usual， the two of them were sharing thoughts.

“Not for long，” he announced， heading downstairs and returning with a sledgehammer13）. We spent that weekend covered in sawdust， music blaring， dismantling the wall that had been blocking out so much light.

In the ad selling the house， the real-estate agent described it as “a doll’s house.” A perfect description. As I wander through the small rooms， it still amazes me that the six of us coexisted here as well as we did. Upstairs I stand in the alcove14） between the two bedrooms we shared as kids. How many nights did we talk back and forth across the rooms before going to sleep， giggling and joking until the wee hours15） or until my father’s famous reproach from below： “You’ll be singing a different tune come morning.”

I return downstairs to make a cup of tea. The kitchen was where we always congregated， crowding around the table competing to tell our stories. It was a home that rang with laughter， a second home to many where there was always a “cuppa16）” waiting. A pot of tea was always on the go. I can still picture our girlfriends at the table bending my mother’s sympathetic ear17） with their latest tales of heartbreak. “You’ll find the man for you even if he’s in a bandbox18），” she’d console. Children on the street all came to know Cathy， or Caffy as most of them called her. “Is Caffy home？” they’d ask in conspiratorial19） groups at our front door. Many of them still returned to visit her when they had kids of their own.

I walk across to my parents’ bedroom： It is this room that will be the hardest to leave. Small and always painted white， it is where my mother spent her final months battling cancer. The bed is where I sat with her， slipping ice chips into her mouth. It is where I washed her， combed her hair and told her stories. It is also where my mother and father played out their daily ritual as she neared the end. While she dozed on and off my father sat at the foot of the bed， pretending to read， alert to her every move. No matter how stealthily20） he attempted to leave she would stir21）.

“Where are you going， James？” she would ask in her soft Scottish tones.

“I’ll be back， Cathy，” he assured her.

“As long as I know you’re there，” she would say， before succumbing again to her fitful22） sleep.

The day we were forced to move her to the hospital， I sat on the bed with her watching the ambulance attendants struggle to fit the stretcher through the doorway. Although she knew all too well what the future held， my mother worried instead about inconveniencing the two young men. “What a nuisance for you，” she said to them lightly. “This wee house.” I don’t think I ever loved her more than at that moment.

After her death their bed is where I saw my father sleeping alone for the first time， knowing I could never touch the grief he felt at the loss of his best friend. I open the top drawer of their dresser. Important papers were always kept there： insurance records， birth certificates， bank slips. “Try the top drawer，” was the refrain whenever something went missing. Atop a stack of papers sits my father’s little navy blue sea book， a partial record of his service as a merchant seaman.

His life had been the sea until he met his Cathy at a dance in Glasgow while home on leave. As she told it， during their first dance together he whispered in her ear， “Can you put me on the straight and narrow23）， Cathy？” For the next 45 years they remained as one.

My father died suddenly after accidentally falling and striking his head， one year after losing my mom. A week before it happened， he sat across the kitchen table from me and said in his classic straightforward fashion： “Sing no sad songs for me， lassie24）. I lived the life I wanted.” I think of those words now as his final and most precious gift to me.

Standing on the back deck， I listen for the pair of cardinals25） who visited their feeder nightly for the past several summers. When my mother felt strong enough， she would venture out to the back at dusk and sit alongside my father waiting for their birds， then listen to them call to one another from opposite ends of the yard. My father and mother would say little； the necessary things between them had already been said.

It is time to go. I do another quick check through the rooms， gather up the few things I am taking and close and lock the door behind me. As I drive down the street， out of habit I glance in my rear-view mirror and can almost see my mother， standing at the bottom of the driveway seeing me off.

“Love you， hen，” she would call after me in her high sweet Scots burr26）， waving her arm in a long slow arc until I was out of her sight.

我轉動鑰匙，最后一次走進我們全家共同生活過的房子。即便是現在，屋內的寂靜仍讓我措手不及。

這是我家在加拿大擁有的第一棟也是唯一的一棟房子，馬上要被賣掉了。我站在靜悄悄的客廳里，一切都完好如初，但到下周，里面的東西就都要搬走，給新房主騰地方。過去兩年間，母親和父親先后亡故。我們兄弟姐妹幾個決定，最好把房子賣掉。我們都已經在離這里一小時車程的城市生活了很久，也都有了自己的事業。

我還記得我們從市中心一家五金店樓上的公寓搬到這里的那一天。當時我12歲。我站在后院里，貪婪地審視著院中的草坪、灌木叢和一顆孤零零的樹，對于剛剛擁有的一切醉心不已。搬家前我玩耍的地方是五金店的屋頂，上面滿是尖利的石頭。有一次我摔了一跤，一粒石子扎進了我的左膝蓋，直到現在還留在那里。

我們家是從蘇格蘭移民過來的，那會兒我還只是個母親懷里抱著的嬰兒。此后我們在許多小鎮住過，父親在哪里能找到活干，我們就搬到哪里，總是住在別人的房子里。我的父母和他們之前的幾代移民一樣，也夢想有一個屬于自己的家。當銀行打來電話，說房子首付（我記得是333加元）的貸款已批準時，父親拉著母親在廚房里盡情地跳起了舞，兩人縱聲歡笑。

我們剛搬進來的時候，屋里還是一團糟。廚房地面鋪的油地氈中間鼓了起來，水槽銹跡斑斑，水龍頭還在滴水。我們并沒有泄氣，開始動手干活。我們終于有自己的家了。在翻修房子的頭幾年里，我學會了如何使用水準儀，如何吊鉛垂線，如何裝圓突形線腳的墻飾?！澳缅N子敲?！备赣H會告誡我，發“r”時還帶著顫音。只要能負擔得起，我們就修理修理房子，添置點兒家具。地下室被清理一空，收拾得可以住人，電線和管道也換了新的。過了幾年，我們手頭不那么緊了，又建了汽車棚和屋后的露臺。

“廚房里太黑了?！币惶烊以诔栽顼垥r，母親突然說。父親點點頭—像往常一樣，他們兩人心有靈犀。

“不會黑太久了?！彼f完隨即下了樓，拿回一把大錘。那個周末，我們在鋸末和喧鬧的音樂聲中砸開了那堵擋太多光的墻。

在售房廣告上，房產經紀人稱這座房子是“玩偶之家”。這么說再貼切不過了。如今徘徊在這些小房間里，想到當年我們一家六口居然能住得下，而且住得好好的，我仍感到驚奇。在樓上，我站在我們小時候共用的兩間臥室之間的壁龕前。無數個夜晚，我們睡前隔著房間你一言我一語地說個沒完，傻樂著，開著玩笑，直到凌晨或是父親在樓下喊出那句經典的呵責：“明早看你們還笑不笑得出來。”

回到樓下，我沏了杯茶。過去我們總是聚集在廚房里，圍著餐桌爭先恐后地講述自己的見聞。家里回蕩著歡聲笑語，對于許多人而言，這也是他們的第二個家，總有一杯茶留給他們。茶壺總是忙個不停。我仍能想象那個畫面：我們姐妹幾個的閨蜜們圍著餐桌，喋喋不休地向善解人意的母親傾訴各自最近的傷心事?！澳銜业搅硪话氲?，哪怕他躲在紙盒子里。”母親總會這么安慰道。漸漸地，街上所有的孩子都認識了凱茜，或者凱菲—他們大多數人都這樣叫她?！皠P菲在家嗎？”一群人會鬼鬼祟祟地在門口問。許多人在自己有了孩子后還回來看望過她。

我走進對面父母的臥室：這是我最不愿離開的一個房間。臥室很小，刷的一直是白漆。就是在這個房間，母親度過了她對抗癌癥的最后幾個月。就是在這張床上，我坐在她的身邊，把碎冰喂到她嘴里，幫她擦洗、梳頭，給她講故事。也是在這里，在母親的生命走向盡頭的日子里，父親和母親做著他們每天都做的事。母親時睡時醒，父親則坐在床尾假裝看書，留意著母親的每一個動靜。如果他試圖離開，不管如何躡手躡腳，母親都會醒來。

“你去哪兒，詹姆斯？”母親會用她那帶有蘇格蘭口音的輕柔嗓音問道。

“我馬上就回來，凱茜。”父親向母親保證道。

“只要我知道你在就行?！蹦赣H會說，之后再回到她那斷斷續續的睡夢中。

我們不得不送母親去醫院的那天，我坐在母親床邊，看著救護人員費勁地把擔架抬進門。雖然母親十分清楚接下來會發生什么，但讓她不安的反而是給那兩位年輕的救護人員帶來了不便。“真是給你們添麻煩了，”她輕聲對他們說道，“屋子太小了。”那一刻，我想我比任何時候都愛她。

母親去世后，我第一次看見父親獨自躺在那張床上，我知道我永遠也無法觸及父親失去摯友的悲傷。我打開他們梳妝臺最上層的抽屜，保險記錄、出生證明、存款單之類的重要文件總是放在那兒。每當有什么東西找不到了，父母總會說“找找頂層的抽屜”。一疊文件上方放著父親那小小的藍色航海圖冊，那是他當商船海員的部分記錄。

海洋曾經是父親生活的全部，直到一次休假回家時在格拉斯哥的舞會上遇到了他的凱茜。母親說，他們第一次跳舞時，父親在她耳畔低語：“你能讓我的生活走上正軌嗎，凱茜？”接下來的45年中，他們始終形影不離。

失去母親一年后，父親意外摔倒并撞到了頭，驟然離世。就在此前一周，父親坐在餐桌對面，用他那一向直截了當的方式對我說：“不要為我難過，丫頭，我這輩子得償所愿了?！爆F在回想這些話，我覺得那是父親最后送給我的最珍貴的禮物了。

我站在屋后的露臺上，留神聽那對鳳頭鳥的叫聲。在過去這幾年的夏天里，它們每晚都會來這兒的喂食器吃食。母親感覺沒那么虛弱時，會在黃昏時試著走到露臺，和父親坐在一起等那對鳳頭鳥，聽它們在后院的兩頭呼喚對方。父親和母親之間不會有多少言語，兩人之間要說的話早就說過了。

是時候離開了。我再次快速檢查了一遍房間，拿上幾件要帶走的東西，關門，上鎖，離開。開車沿街道行駛時，我習慣性地看了一眼后視鏡，仿佛看見母親站在車道的盡頭，正在目送我離開。

“愛你哦，丫頭?！彼龝谖疑砗笥盟菒偠奶K格蘭口音高聲喊道，一邊緩緩地揮著手臂，在空中劃出一道長長的弧線，直到我消失在她的視線中。

1.hardware store：五金店

2.shrub [?r?b] n. 灌木

3.revel [?rev（?）l] vi. 陶醉，著迷

4.down payment：定金；（分期付款的）初付款額

5.with abandon：恣意地，盡情地，放縱地

6.linoleum [l??n??li?m] n. （亞麻）油地氈；漆布

7.heave [hi?v] vi. 隆起，鼓起

8.plumb line：鉛垂線，垂直線

9.quarter-round：四分之一圓線腳，圓突形線腳裝飾

10.gut [ɡ?t] vt. 把（房屋內的東西）全部清理出去

11.carport [?kɑ?（r）?p??（r）t] n. （屋側的）汽車棚

12.out of the blue：出乎意料地，突然

13.sledgehammer [?sled??h?m?（r）] n. （鍛工等用的）大錘