A Letter from a Stange Daughter

我的母亲当时很想把她留下来，认为她是某种野生的小鸟，一旦飞走就再也不会回来了；而我却认为她是一只信鸽，不管飞得多远，终有一天会掉头飞回来，就像人类发明的回力镖一样。虽然我已经很长时间没有再想过这件事了，但是当我走过那条石子车道去查看邮箱，发现里面有一封薄薄的盖着达拉斯市邮戳的信件时，我丝毫不觉得意外。那个信箱被我漆成了木瓜黄，我认为这样可以给我带来好消息。我在达拉斯，甚至德克萨斯州都没有什么认识的人，但是信封上的字迹让我觉得似曾相识。对，就是我自己的字迹。我回到屋里。

“外面还在下雨吗？”母亲问道。她正坐在她新买的电动轮椅上看电视，一边还在涂氖紫色的指甲油。“雨刚停，”我说，“太阳已经露头了。妈妈，你在达拉斯有认识的人吗？”“如果我没记错的话，应该是没有。”她用棉球小心地擦了擦小手指。母亲对自己修长的双手颇为自负。我已经习惯了她现在的样子，但是我注意到医生候诊室的人们都会盯着她看。在接受化疗手术后，她瘦了一圈，头发几乎掉光了。我猜让大家感到吃惊的是，像她这样一个应该身穿寿衣，胸前放着鲜花躺在棺木里的年迈女人竟然还留着长长的尖指甲。“为什么这么问？”她说。

我打开信封，一张照片从里面滑落到我的大腿上。那是一张宝丽来拍立得的照片，上面是一个长相甜美的金发女郎怀抱着一个用蓝色毯子包着的新生婴儿。还没有开始读信的内容，我就已经知道这是谁了。那是一种在躲避了很长时间之后被发现行踪的不可言状的震惊。

“你手上拿的是什么？”母亲说。

我把她推到我对面，然后把那张照片递给了她。她认真看了一会儿，接着抬起头，一反常态地不说话，等着我先开口。

“是她，”我说，“她的名字叫琳达•罗斯•卡斯韦尔。”

我们再次看着照片。这个金发女子坐在一张用鲜花装饰的沙发上，她的卷发正好落在一张用廉价镶金画框装裱的海景图的边缘。

母亲指了指信封：“她在信上说了些什么？”

我把信展开。那封信只有薄薄的一页纸，上面的字迹工整清晰。“她说她得知我的名字和地址已经有一段时间了，但是想等到孩子出生后再和我联系。婴儿的名字是布莱克，出生的时候体重是7斤6两。孩子是剖腹产的。她说她们希望能够很快收到我的回信。”

“就说了这些？”我点点头，把信递给了她。信的内容很简短，一副公事公办的口吻，但是我知道这封信寄出前她一定反复写了很多长信，但是最终却把它们揉成一团，扔进了垃圾桶。

“我想这封信意味着你成曾外祖母了。”我说。

“你呢？”她哼了一声，翘起兰花指指着我说，“你成外祖母了。”

我们难以置信地摇摇头。我静静地坐着，过去的一幕幕开始在脑海中一页页翻过。我今年50岁，感觉自己好像刚刚才和死神握过手。我觉得任何女人都很难接受自己成为外祖母的事实。但是如果按事情发展的正常顺序来看，你应该有充裕的时间去慢慢接受这个事实，而不是突然某天从邮箱里拿到一张由24年前你丢弃的小女婴寄来的快照，并且对你说：“恭喜，你当外祖母了！”

“这太不公平了，”我说，“我甚至还没有过当母亲的感觉呢。”“好了，这就是活生生的证据。”母亲用指甲轻轻敲了敲那张光滑的照片。“她长得很像你，不过她的鼻子更有贵族气质。”

“我要回去工作了。”当我站起来的时候，我的膝盖吱吱作响，“你一个人在这里没问题吗？”母亲点点头，仔细审视着放在她腿上的那张照片。“你打算给她回信吗？”

“那是当然，”我有些不悦地说，“我可能为人苛刻，但是却不粗鲁。”“你会邀请她们到这里来吗？她和宝宝？”她转了转眼睛，瞥了我一眼。“我还没有想那么多，”我说。“好吧。这件事不要再拖了。”她把视线移回电视上，“她已经等了25年。你是不是担心她会成为你的负担，或者怕她跟你要钱？据我们所知，她嫁给了一名脑

外科医生，他们已经拥有凯迪拉克轿车了。”

“她根本就没有提到什么丈夫。”我说，虽然我不愿提到这一点，但还是说了出来。“你可能是在担心她会对你感到失望吧，”母亲说，“你知道的，这些年她一直在幻想着你或许是格蕾丝•凯利或者玛格丽特•米德，但是有谁能够达到这种期望的标准呢？没有人可以做到。但是你也没有必要如此，弗兰，这是事实。你是她的亲生母亲，这就够了，这足以让你们相处得非常和谐。”

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.”