妈妈的秘密往事

Kate+Brannen

从小到大，你对最亲最爱的妈妈了解多少呢？你知道她的过往、她的喜好、她的梦想以及她对未来的设想吗？你有没有试着去了解妈妈，拉近与她的距离？本文作者在妈妈去世后，收下了妈妈的电脑，从此，一扇走近妈妈的大门为她敞开了……

2014年，媽妈确诊为胰腺癌后不到八个月就去世了。这之后不久，我和爸爸像所有失去所爱之人的人那样，按照惯例，整理妈妈的衣橱，决定把哪些物品留下来当念想。我们把她最喜欢的东西留了下来，比如那件舒适的紫色羊毛衫，上面还留有她的味道，除此还有几件首饰和几条围巾。

几个月后，爸爸把妈妈的笔记本电脑给了我。正好我需要一台新的电脑，于是就欣然收下了。不过，电脑里还有很多东西：旅游的照片、妈妈在神学院的论文初稿、iTunes里凡.莫里森的专辑。这些东西不断地把我带入神奇的世界。无论什么时候我一坐下工作，就会沉迷在妈妈的文件夹中，想方设法再次亲近她。

妈妈在电脑上的活动就像撒下的一溜儿面包屑，引领我走进她的内心世界：她的兴趣、她的愿望、她对未来的安排，甚至还有很多再也实现不了的愿望和安排。

Safari浏览器中的书签如同旅途中的指南针，带领我走进妈妈的心里。她把这些书签当做便利贴，保存了还想重温的文章、要去参观的博物馆展览和想要入住的漂亮酒店。妈妈书签里的内容有EssentialVermeer.com网站、维基百科上有关神学美学的词条、如何像巴黎人一样穿着，还有数不清的推荐阅读书目。

浏览这些书签时，我不禁对其中的线索展开遐想：这是不是在暗示我应该如何生活？是不是建议我应该去这些地方？探索这些想法？最开始的书签是“心灵之旅的资源”。这是不是来自妈妈的鼓励？我逐个浏览每个网址，生怕错过哪怕一个词、一张图片，以防自己错过了妈妈要告诉我的东西：这是你该知道的，这是我真心喜欢的，这体现了我有多爱你。

当然，也有不那么珍贵的书签——比如妈妈医保公司的网址。还有一些链接已经失效了，其中一个链接是巴黎国家歌剧院的旧网址。“你在找什么吗？”404错误页面显示着蹩脚的英语。我心想：“是的，找我妈妈。你见过她吗？”

每一个书签对应着妈妈生活中的某个时刻。我准确地找到了她搬到伦敦的时间（在英国康沃尔郡可居住的地方和泰特艺术馆即将举办的展览），还有我结婚的时间（我的婚礼网站）。在书签列表末尾，是YouTube上肯尼斯.布莱纳在《亨利五世》中所作的圣克里斯平节演讲视频，是她刚患癌症时标记的：妈妈开始化疗时，小弟将视频发给家里人，让我们为前方的战斗做好准备。

一个月之后，妈妈把《勇敢的心》中梅尔.吉布森有关“自由”的演讲发给我们。我打开书签，重温了吉布森脸上涂着蓝色颜料大声呼喊的镜头：“他们也许会夺走我们的生命，但是他们永远也夺不走我们的自由！”那就是我的妈妈，一个接受化疗的威廉.华莱士：无畏的领袖，勇敢地带领我们奔向可怕的战场。

但是追寻妈妈网上的足迹也像是穿过一片布满地雷的战场。毫无征兆地，有的东西就会戳中我的痛处，把我的心重新撕开。最痛苦的是抗癌演讲之前，也就是她还不知道自己患病时的那些网址。很明显，那是她为未来制定的计划，还有对未来的希望，她曾以为这样的未来就展现在自己前方。

不久前的一个书签这么写道：“为孩子们的探索花园出15个点子。”这是妈妈在想办法让孙辈觉得她的房子充满魔力。那时，她还只有一个外孙女，我一岁的女儿梅芙，而我能预见到外祖母的角色将决定她余生的生活方式。

最近，我偶然发现妈妈用书签标记了C. S. 刘易斯的语录：“我们不仅仅想看到美，尽管上帝知道这应该让我们满足了。我们还想要别的，那些难以言表的东西——和我们看到的美连成一体，充分感受美，从内心接受美，沐浴其中，使自己成为其中的一部分。”

这也是妈妈的毕生所求，而且她比大多数人更善于发现美。于我而言，这段话让我想起妈妈去世的那天，也让我想起自己如何接受了她逝去的事实。妈妈是在2014年12月15日去世的，在她确诊八个月之后。

11月底至12月初妈妈去世前的这段日子是黑暗、阴沉且寒冷的。这阴郁的景色似乎正反映出家里弥漫的哀痛和恐惧。我每天都在暮色时分拍下映着紫色天空的树枝剪影。

但是，妈妈去世那天很不一样。那天一早我下楼来接替哥哥，哥哥在妈妈床边守了一整夜。我独自一人陪着妈妈，这时阳光透过窗台上排列的粉色兰花，洒在屋里。

坐在那儿，我想起妈妈曾说过我出生那天的情形。那是8月的一个清晨，医院人很多，不过妈妈生下我后，屋里很快就剩下我和她了。讲起这件事时，她总是会强调说，当时只剩下我们，只有我们两个，那感觉妙极了，我们睡得非常安稳。而我的人生就是这样开启的。

妈妈生命的最后一天也是这样结束的：只有我们两个人。我握着她的手，看着她费力地呼吸。看着她，我想到自己婴儿时是怎样睡在她的怀里，汲取温暖，在她的臂弯里感到那么安全。

那天下午，妈妈停止了最后的呼吸。爸爸在架在客厅的病床前啜泣，我和两个兄弟走出客厅。我们并肩坐在外面的长凳上，看着前院沐浴在白日最后的阳光中。院子一扫冬季连日的阴沉，明媚起来。

我不由得想，妈妈就是我们周围的美。因为她的存在，光似乎更强，美景也更生动起来。惊讶的是，在失去她这样悲痛的时刻，我竟能感到如此的宁静。我至今仍执着于那种宁静，努力在记忆中将其还原。

妈妈的最后一个书签留给了麻省综合医院的菲利普楼。那是她可以接受治疗或许也可以度过最后日子的地方。对我来说，这个书签意味着她曾想过选择回医院。

但是她的病情惡化得非常快，最后在位于玛莎葡萄园岛的家中享受了临终关怀。

接下来的书签是我的。在妈妈去世后八个月，我创建了这个书签。书签的名字是“生活起航”，链接的是纽约卫理公会医院的孕妇项目。医院位于布鲁克林，妈妈去世14个月后，我在那里生下了儿子。

我刚开始挨个浏览这些书签时，简直无法呼吸，似乎我偶然间发现了解开某个谜团的重要线索。妈妈如何从这个世界消失，儿子又怎么奇迹般来到这个世界，答案都在那里。

我一直在把自己的书签添加到妈妈的书签列表中：布鲁克林99家“必去”餐厅、逃离纽约的25个周末度假地、梅芙可以上舞蹈课的地方。我对未来的梦想和打算现在也叠加在了妈妈的梦想和打算上。从妈妈快乐的一生直至最后悲伤的终结，到我自己努力弄清楚如何在没有她的世间好好做人，都在这份列表里。

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.