媽媽的秘密往事

Kate+Brannen

從小到大，你對最親最愛的媽媽了解多少呢？你知道她的過往、她的喜好、她的夢想以及她對未來的設想嗎？你有沒有試著去了解媽媽，拉近與她的距離？本文作者在媽媽去世后，收下了媽媽的電腦，從此，一扇走近媽媽的大門為她敞開了……

2014年，媽媽確診為胰腺癌后不到八個月就去世了。這之后不久，我和爸爸像所有失去所愛之人的人那樣，按照慣例，整理媽媽的衣櫥，決定把哪些物品留下來當念想。我們把她最喜歡的東西留了下來，比如那件舒適的紫色羊毛衫，上面還留有她的味道，除此還有幾件首飾和幾條圍巾。

幾個月后，爸爸把媽媽的筆記本電腦給了我。正好我需要一臺新的電腦，于是就欣然收下了。不過，電腦里還有很多東西：旅游的照片、媽媽在神學院的論文初稿、iTunes里凡.莫里森的專輯。這些東西不斷地把我帶入神奇的世界。無論什么時候我一坐下工作，就會沉迷在媽媽的文件夾中，想方設法再次親近她。

媽媽在電腦上的活動就像撒下的一溜兒面包屑，引領我走進她的內心世界：她的興趣、她的愿望、她對未來的安排，甚至還有很多再也實現不了的愿望和安排。

Safari瀏覽器中的書簽如同旅途中的指南針，帶領我走進媽媽的心里。她把這些書簽當做便利貼，保存了還想重溫的文章、要去參觀的博物館展覽和想要入住的漂亮酒店。媽媽書簽里的內容有EssentialVermeer.com網站、維基百科上有關神學美學的詞條、如何像巴黎人一樣穿著，還有數不清的推薦閱讀書目。

瀏覽這些書簽時，我不禁對其中的線索展開遐想：這是不是在暗示我應該如何生活？是不是建議我應該去這些地方？探索這些想法？最開始的書簽是“心靈之旅的資源”。這是不是來自媽媽的鼓勵？我逐個瀏覽每個網址，生怕錯過哪怕一個詞、一張圖片，以防自己錯過了媽媽要告訴我的東西：這是你該知道的，這是我真心喜歡的，這體現了我有多愛你。

當然，也有不那么珍貴的書簽——比如媽媽醫保公司的網址。還有一些鏈接已經失效了，其中一個鏈接是巴黎國家歌劇院的舊網址。“你在找什么嗎？”404錯誤頁面顯示著蹩腳的英語。我心想：“是的，找我媽媽。你見過她嗎？”

每一個書簽對應著媽媽生活中的某個時刻。我準確地找到了她搬到倫敦的時間（在英國康沃爾郡可居住的地方和泰特藝術館即將舉辦的展覽），還有我結婚的時間（我的婚禮網站）。在書簽列表末尾，是YouTube上肯尼斯.布萊納在《亨利五世》中所作的圣克里斯平節演講視頻，是她剛患癌癥時標記的：媽媽開始化療時，小弟將視頻發給家里人，讓我們為前方的戰斗做好準備。

一個月之后，媽媽把《勇敢的心》中梅爾.吉布森有關“自由”的演講發給我們。我打開書簽，重溫了吉布森臉上涂著藍色顏料大聲呼喊的鏡頭：“他們也許會奪走我們的生命，但是他們永遠也奪不走我們的自由！”那就是我的媽媽，一個接受化療的威廉.華萊士：無畏的領袖，勇敢地帶領我們奔向可怕的戰場。

但是追尋媽媽網上的足跡也像是穿過一片布滿地雷的戰場。毫無征兆地，有的東西就會戳中我的痛處，把我的心重新撕開。最痛苦的是抗癌演講之前，也就是她還不知道自己患病時的那些網址。很明顯，那是她為未來制定的計劃，還有對未來的希望，她曾以為這樣的未來就展現在自己前方。

不久前的一個書簽這么寫道：“為孩子們的探索花園出15個點子?！边@是媽媽在想辦法讓孫輩覺得她的房子充滿魔力。那時，她還只有一個外孫女，我一歲的女兒梅芙，而我能預見到外祖母的角色將決定她余生的生活方式。

最近，我偶然發現媽媽用書簽標記了C. S. 劉易斯的語錄：“我們不僅僅想看到美，盡管上帝知道這應該讓我們滿足了。我們還想要別的，那些難以言表的東西——和我們看到的美連成一體，充分感受美，從內心接受美，沐浴其中，使自己成為其中的一部分。”

這也是媽媽的畢生所求，而且她比大多數人更善于發現美。于我而言，這段話讓我想起媽媽去世的那天，也讓我想起自己如何接受了她逝去的事實。媽媽是在2014年12月15日去世的，在她確診八個月之后。

11月底至12月初媽媽去世前的這段日子是黑暗、陰沉且寒冷的。這陰郁的景色似乎正反映出家里彌漫的哀痛和恐懼。我每天都在暮色時分拍下映著紫色天空的樹枝剪影。

但是，媽媽去世那天很不一樣。那天一早我下樓來接替哥哥，哥哥在媽媽床邊守了一整夜。我獨自一人陪著媽媽，這時陽光透過窗臺上排列的粉色蘭花，灑在屋里。

坐在那兒，我想起媽媽曾說過我出生那天的情形。那是8月的一個清晨，醫院人很多，不過媽媽生下我后，屋里很快就剩下我和她了。講起這件事時，她總是會強調說，當時只剩下我們，只有我們兩個，那感覺妙極了，我們睡得非常安穩。而我的人生就是這樣開啟的。

媽媽生命的最后一天也是這樣結束的：只有我們兩個人。我握著她的手，看著她費力地呼吸。看著她，我想到自己嬰兒時是怎樣睡在她的懷里，汲取溫暖，在她的臂彎里感到那么安全。

那天下午，媽媽停止了最后的呼吸。爸爸在架在客廳的病床前啜泣，我和兩個兄弟走出客廳。我們并肩坐在外面的長凳上，看著前院沐浴在白日最后的陽光中。院子一掃冬季連日的陰沉，明媚起來。

我不由得想，媽媽就是我們周圍的美。因為她的存在，光似乎更強，美景也更生動起來。驚訝的是，在失去她這樣悲痛的時刻，我竟能感到如此的寧靜。我至今仍執著于那種寧靜，努力在記憶中將其還原。

媽媽的最后一個書簽留給了麻省綜合醫院的菲利普樓。那是她可以接受治療或許也可以度過最后日子的地方。對我來說，這個書簽意味著她曾想過選擇回醫院。

但是她的病情惡化得非?？?，最后在位于瑪莎葡萄園島的家中享受了臨終關懷。

接下來的書簽是我的。在媽媽去世后八個月，我創建了這個書簽。書簽的名字是“生活起航”，鏈接的是紐約衛理公會醫院的孕婦項目。醫院位于布魯克林，媽媽去世14個月后，我在那里生下了兒子。

我剛開始挨個瀏覽這些書簽時，簡直無法呼吸，似乎我偶然間發現了解開某個謎團的重要線索。媽媽如何從這個世界消失，兒子又怎么奇跡般來到這個世界，答案都在那里。

我一直在把自己的書簽添加到媽媽的書簽列表中：布魯克林99家“必去”餐廳、逃離紐約的25個周末度假地、梅芙可以上舞蹈課的地方。我對未來的夢想和打算現在也疊加在了媽媽的夢想和打算上。從媽媽快樂的一生直至最后悲傷的終結，到我自己努力弄清楚如何在沒有她的世間好好做人，都在這份列表里。

Not long after my mother died in 2014， less than eight months after being diagnosed with pancreatic1） cancer， my dad and I performed a ritual familiar to anyone who has lost someone they love： We went through her closet to decide what to hold on to. We kept her favorite pieces， like the cozy purple cardigan2） in which her scent still lingered， a few items of jewelry and her scarves.

A few months later， my father gave me her laptop. I needed a new computer and was grateful to have it. But its contents—photos from trips， a draft of her thesis from divinity school， Van Morrison3） albums in her iTunes—kept pulling me down rabbit holes4）. Whenever I sat down to do some work， Id find myself lost in her files， searching for ways to feel close to her again.

Her computer activity was like a breadcrumb trail through her inner life： her interests， her hopes and her plans for the future， even those that would never come true.

The bookmarks in her Safari browser served as a compass on a journey into my mothers mind. She used them like sticky notes， saving articles to return to， museum exhibitions to attend and beautiful hotels to visit. She bookmarked things like EssentialVermeer.com， a Wikipedia entry for theological aesthetics， how to dress like a Parisian， and endless recommended reading lists.

As I scrolled through them， I wondered about these clues： Were they hints for how I should live my life？ Suggestions for places I should go？ Ideas to discover？ The very first bookmark was “resources for a spiritual journey.” Was that a little nudge5） from her？ I explored each site methodically， not wanting to miss a word or a photograph， just in case I overlooked something from my mom： Heres what you need to know， heres what I really loved， heres how much I loved you.

Of course， not all bookmarks were treasure troves—her health insurance companys site， for example. And some links no longer worked. One took me to the old site of the Opera National de Paris. “You are looking for something？” the 404 error message read in broken English. “Yeah， my mom，” I thought. “Youve seen her？”

Each bookmark corresponded to a time in her life. I pinpointed when she moved to London （places to stay in Cornwall and upcoming shows at the Tate） and when I got married （my wedding website）. And there， toward the end of the list， a YouTube video of Kenneth Branagh6） delivering the St Crispins Day speech7） from Henry V marked when cancer entered her life： My little brother sent it to the family when her chemo8） began， preparing us for the battle ahead.

A month later， she sent us Mel Gibsons “Freedom” speech from Braveheart9）. I clicked on the bookmark and rewatched Gibson in his blue face paint， yelling： “They may take our lives， but they may never take our freedom！” That was my mom， the William Wallace of chemo： our fearless chief， bravely leading us into a gruesome battle.

But walking in moms online footsteps was also like crossing a field riddled with land mines. Without warning， something would trigger my grief and my heart was ripped open again. The most painful were those that came just before the cancer battle speeches， before she knew she was sick. There， plain as day10）， were her plans and hopes for a future she thought stretched out before her.

“15 ideas for a childrens discovery garden，” read one bookmark from not long ago. This was my mom looking for ways to make her house magical for her grandchildren. At the time she had just one， my one-year-old daughter Maeve， and I could see that being a grandmother was going to be the defining role of the rest of her life.

Recently， I stumbled upon her bookmark of a C. S. Lewis11） quote： “We do not want merely to see beauty， though， God knows， even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words—to be united with the beauty we see， to pass into it， to receive it into ourselves， to bathe in it， to become part of it.”

This is what my mom sought throughout her life， and she was more successful than most at finding it. For me， the quote also evokes the day she died and how Ive come to understand her death. She died on 15 December 2014， eight months after she was diagnosed.

The days and weeks in late November and early December that preceded my mothers death had been dark， overcast and cold. The grim scenery seemed to reflect the sorrow and fear that had overtaken my family. I kept taking photos at twilight of the dark silhouettes of tree branches set against the purple sky.

But the day my mom died was different. I came downstairs early that morning to relieve my older brother who had kept vigil12） by her bed all night. I sat alone with her as sunlight flooded in through the windows， filtering through the pink orchids that lined the windowsill.

As I sat there， I remembered what my mom had told me about the day I was born. The hospital had been busy that August morning but soon after she gave birth to me， my mom and I were left in a room alone. When she told the story， she always emphasized how wonderful it was to be on our own， just the two of us， how peacefully we slept. Thats how I started my life.

And thats how the last day of my moms life began： just the two of us. I held her hand and watched her labored breathing. Looking at her， I thought about how I must have slept on her chest as a baby， taking in her warmth and feeling so safe in her arms.

That afternoon， my mother took her final breath. My two brothers and I left my father sobbing next to her hospital bed， which had been set up in the living room， and sat next to each other on a bench outside， watching the days final rays of sunlight bathe the front yard. After days and weeks of grim winter darkness， the scenery was radiant.

I couldnt help but think my mom had become part of the beauty around us. The light seemed more intense， the beauty more vibrant because she was there in it. I was surprised that such peace could be felt in the midst of that horrifying loss. I still cling to it and try to revive it in my memory.

My moms very last bookmark is for the Phillips House at Massachusetts General Hospital， a place where she could get medical care and maybe spend her final days. The bookmark signifies to me that it was an idea she wanted to return to—an option to consider.

But her decline accelerated so fast. She died in hospice care at her home on Marthas Vineyard.

The next bookmark is mine. I created it eight months after she died. It just says “Life begins”， and its for the program for expectant mothers at New York Methodist Hospital in Brooklyn， where my son was born 14 months after my mom died.

When I first noticed these bookmarks back-to-back， it took my breath away， as if Id stumbled on an essential clue to some mystery. Sitting right there was my moms disappearance from the world and then my sons miraculous entry.

Ive kept adding my own bookmarks to my mothers list： 99 “essential” restaurants in Brooklyn， 25 weekend getaways from New York City， places where Maeve could take dance lessons. Now my daydreams and thoughts for the future are piled on to my moms. From my moms happy life to its tragic ending to me trying to figure out how to be a person in the world without her， its all there.