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At some point， to understand our parents， we have to look at theirs.
In 1924， a 3-year-old girl named Anne Frances Robbins， who had been nicknamed Nancy， was taken to her cousin’s home by her mother and left there for five years. Her mother Edith Davis was a working actress who had gotten divorced shortly after her child was born. She tried taking the baby on the road， putting her backstage in a trunk that served as a cradle while she was onstage. But it became too hard， so she left the child with her older sister’s family in Bethesda， Md.， and she would visit occasionally. On one of those visits， after years had passed， she told her daughter that she’d gone on an ocean cruise and had met a doctor whom she planned to marry. Nancy was uprooted again and taken to Chicago. She now had a new father and a stepbrother. The definition of family was an ever changing palette1.
The man whom she would eventually call her father， Loyal Davis， was a harsh taskmaster2. He was a neurosurgeon and a rigid perfectionist. Everything had to be orderly， precise and punctual. I was frightened of my grandfather until the day he died. Growing up， my mother desperately wanted to please him. She probably thought he might leave if she didn’t.
In fact， I now think the fear of being left alone， abandoned， was a current throughout much of her life. A few years into my father’s descent into Alzheimer’s， when I was still living in New York， my mother’s voice on the phone sounded so threadbare and distraught that I suggested she go out into the garden， sit by herself and talk to God … or the moon， the stars， the night sky. “Just be with yourself for a little while，” I told her.
“No. I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that，” she said abruptly， closing the door on the subject.
A while after my father died， she told me that she kept the television on all the time because it made her feel less lonely. “It makes the house seem more lived in，” she said. I had， on several occasions， given in to my annoyance and either turned the volume down or turned it off. But after she told me that it filled in some of the loneliness， I never reached for the remote again.
We have had a long journey together， she and I. Over a half-century of memories. Now that the journey has ended， I have a choice which ones to study， which ones to turn over in my hands and dust off.
I choose to look at the ones that ache with a sweet truth not told often enough： there was love between us， it was just hard to find sometimes. I choose to remember her face on that winter day in Manhattan， when I came to her with a broken heart.
I choose to remember walking on the shore with her in summers when we rented a beach house; somehow the sea always transformed us.
And how she looked on my wedding day when she handed me a bracelet that had belonged to my grandmother. “Something old3，” she said.
I remember how she and my father used to walk along the paths of the garden in the afternoons—both of them older， their steps slow and cautious， his occasional questions splintery4 with Alzheimer’s， her answers patient and soft. She stopped walking in the garden after his death; I didn’t need to ask why.
I remember how her eyes drifted toward the sky when she spoke about wanting to be with my father again when she died. “I’m sure God is listening to you，” I would always tell her.
“Well， he certainly better be，” she said once.
I’m sure God can take care of himself， but I hope for his sake that he was listening.
有时候，我们需要对父母的父母有所了解，才能真正理解我们的父母。
1924年，一个名叫安妮·弗朗西丝·罗宾斯的三岁女孩——小名叫南希——由其母亲带到姨妈家，并在那里生活了五年。她的母亲伊迪丝·戴维斯是一名职业演员，生下南希后不久就离婚了。伊迪丝曾试着将女儿带在身边——登台表演时，她就把女儿放到后台的箱子里，把箱子当摇篮。但这样太难了，于是，她决定把女儿托付给在马里兰州贝塞斯达生活的姐姐一家，不时会去探望。几年之后，有一次她去看望女儿时，对女儿说，她在乘游轮出海时邂逅了一位医生，打算和他结婚。就这样，南希再次离开家园，随母亲来到芝加哥。在那里，她有了一个新爸爸和一个没有血缘关系的弟弟。对南希而言，家的概念在不断变化。
南希最后称为爸爸的继父洛亚尔·戴维斯是一个严厉的监护人，一名神经外科医生，一位坚定的完美主义者。在其要求下，一切必须井然有序、精确并准时。面对这样一位外祖父，我一直心生畏惧，直到他离开人世那一天。成长阶段，我的母亲南希拼命想讨外祖父喜欢，她可能是害怕如果不取悦他，他就会离自己而去。
事实上，现在想来，母亲大半辈子都在担忧自己会被抛弃，害怕一个人待着。在父亲患上阿尔茨海默病几年后——彼时我还住在纽约——每次和母亲通电话，她的声音听上去总是那么无力、不安。我让她一个人到花园去坐坐，和上帝……月亮、星星、夜空说说话。“你就自己待一会儿吧。”我对她说。
“不。我做不到，我不想那么做。”她硬生生地回应，不愿再谈论这一话题。
父亲去世后不久，母亲告诉我，她在家会一直开着电视机，这让她感觉不那么孤独。“这让家里看起来热闹些。”她说。有好几次，我都忍不住把音量调小或把电视机关掉。然而，当母亲对我说电视开着填补了她内心的孤独后，我再也没碰过那个遥控器。
我与母亲一起走过了漫长的旅程，积攒起半个多世纪的回忆。如今，这段旅程已画上句号。我想从过往的记忆中，挖掘出那些值得重新审视、反复思量的片段。
我选择记住那些令人心痛的片段，其中蕴藏着我们不常言说的甜蜜：我与母亲之间有爱，只是有时难以觉察。
我选择记住那个冬日当我伤心欲绝地去曼哈顿见母亲时，她脸上流露的神情。
我选择记住和母亲一起租住在海滨别墅、漫步海滩的那些夏日;不知為何，大海总是悄然改变着我们。
我选择记住我结婚那天，母亲将外祖母的手镯交给我时的样子。“旧的东西。”她说。
我记得母亲与父亲过去常常在下午时分沿着花园小径散步——彼时他们已上了年纪，步履缓慢，每走一步都小心翼翼;父亲时而问这问那，因患阿尔茨海默病而口齿不清，母亲总是耐心而温和地回答。父亲去世后，母亲再也没有在花园散步。个中缘由我非常清楚。
我记得母亲每回说到想去世后和父亲重聚时，眼睛总会望向天空。“我相信上帝在听你说话。”我总是这么告诉她。
“嗯，他最好在听。”有一回她这样说道。
我相信上帝对一切自有安排，但我祈求他千万要听到母亲的心声。
（译者为“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛获奖者）
In 1924， a 3-year-old girl named Anne Frances Robbins， who had been nicknamed Nancy， was taken to her cousin’s home by her mother and left there for five years. Her mother Edith Davis was a working actress who had gotten divorced shortly after her child was born. She tried taking the baby on the road， putting her backstage in a trunk that served as a cradle while she was onstage. But it became too hard， so she left the child with her older sister’s family in Bethesda， Md.， and she would visit occasionally. On one of those visits， after years had passed， she told her daughter that she’d gone on an ocean cruise and had met a doctor whom she planned to marry. Nancy was uprooted again and taken to Chicago. She now had a new father and a stepbrother. The definition of family was an ever changing palette1.
The man whom she would eventually call her father， Loyal Davis， was a harsh taskmaster2. He was a neurosurgeon and a rigid perfectionist. Everything had to be orderly， precise and punctual. I was frightened of my grandfather until the day he died. Growing up， my mother desperately wanted to please him. She probably thought he might leave if she didn’t.
In fact， I now think the fear of being left alone， abandoned， was a current throughout much of her life. A few years into my father’s descent into Alzheimer’s， when I was still living in New York， my mother’s voice on the phone sounded so threadbare and distraught that I suggested she go out into the garden， sit by herself and talk to God … or the moon， the stars， the night sky. “Just be with yourself for a little while，” I told her.
“No. I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that，” she said abruptly， closing the door on the subject.
A while after my father died， she told me that she kept the television on all the time because it made her feel less lonely. “It makes the house seem more lived in，” she said. I had， on several occasions， given in to my annoyance and either turned the volume down or turned it off. But after she told me that it filled in some of the loneliness， I never reached for the remote again.
We have had a long journey together， she and I. Over a half-century of memories. Now that the journey has ended， I have a choice which ones to study， which ones to turn over in my hands and dust off.
I choose to look at the ones that ache with a sweet truth not told often enough： there was love between us， it was just hard to find sometimes. I choose to remember her face on that winter day in Manhattan， when I came to her with a broken heart.
I choose to remember walking on the shore with her in summers when we rented a beach house; somehow the sea always transformed us.
And how she looked on my wedding day when she handed me a bracelet that had belonged to my grandmother. “Something old3，” she said.
I remember how she and my father used to walk along the paths of the garden in the afternoons—both of them older， their steps slow and cautious， his occasional questions splintery4 with Alzheimer’s， her answers patient and soft. She stopped walking in the garden after his death; I didn’t need to ask why.
I remember how her eyes drifted toward the sky when she spoke about wanting to be with my father again when she died. “I’m sure God is listening to you，” I would always tell her.
“Well， he certainly better be，” she said once.
I’m sure God can take care of himself， but I hope for his sake that he was listening.
有时候，我们需要对父母的父母有所了解，才能真正理解我们的父母。
1924年，一个名叫安妮·弗朗西丝·罗宾斯的三岁女孩——小名叫南希——由其母亲带到姨妈家，并在那里生活了五年。她的母亲伊迪丝·戴维斯是一名职业演员，生下南希后不久就离婚了。伊迪丝曾试着将女儿带在身边——登台表演时，她就把女儿放到后台的箱子里，把箱子当摇篮。但这样太难了，于是，她决定把女儿托付给在马里兰州贝塞斯达生活的姐姐一家，不时会去探望。几年之后，有一次她去看望女儿时，对女儿说，她在乘游轮出海时邂逅了一位医生，打算和他结婚。就这样，南希再次离开家园，随母亲来到芝加哥。在那里，她有了一个新爸爸和一个没有血缘关系的弟弟。对南希而言，家的概念在不断变化。
南希最后称为爸爸的继父洛亚尔·戴维斯是一个严厉的监护人，一名神经外科医生，一位坚定的完美主义者。在其要求下，一切必须井然有序、精确并准时。面对这样一位外祖父，我一直心生畏惧，直到他离开人世那一天。成长阶段，我的母亲南希拼命想讨外祖父喜欢，她可能是害怕如果不取悦他，他就会离自己而去。
事实上，现在想来，母亲大半辈子都在担忧自己会被抛弃，害怕一个人待着。在父亲患上阿尔茨海默病几年后——彼时我还住在纽约——每次和母亲通电话，她的声音听上去总是那么无力、不安。我让她一个人到花园去坐坐，和上帝……月亮、星星、夜空说说话。“你就自己待一会儿吧。”我对她说。
“不。我做不到，我不想那么做。”她硬生生地回应，不愿再谈论这一话题。
父亲去世后不久，母亲告诉我，她在家会一直开着电视机，这让她感觉不那么孤独。“这让家里看起来热闹些。”她说。有好几次，我都忍不住把音量调小或把电视机关掉。然而，当母亲对我说电视开着填补了她内心的孤独后，我再也没碰过那个遥控器。
我与母亲一起走过了漫长的旅程，积攒起半个多世纪的回忆。如今，这段旅程已画上句号。我想从过往的记忆中，挖掘出那些值得重新审视、反复思量的片段。
我选择记住那些令人心痛的片段，其中蕴藏着我们不常言说的甜蜜：我与母亲之间有爱，只是有时难以觉察。
我选择记住那个冬日当我伤心欲绝地去曼哈顿见母亲时，她脸上流露的神情。
我选择记住和母亲一起租住在海滨别墅、漫步海滩的那些夏日;不知為何，大海总是悄然改变着我们。
我选择记住我结婚那天，母亲将外祖母的手镯交给我时的样子。“旧的东西。”她说。
我记得母亲与父亲过去常常在下午时分沿着花园小径散步——彼时他们已上了年纪，步履缓慢，每走一步都小心翼翼;父亲时而问这问那，因患阿尔茨海默病而口齿不清，母亲总是耐心而温和地回答。父亲去世后，母亲再也没有在花园散步。个中缘由我非常清楚。
我记得母亲每回说到想去世后和父亲重聚时，眼睛总会望向天空。“我相信上帝在听你说话。”我总是这么告诉她。
“嗯，他最好在听。”有一回她这样说道。
我相信上帝对一切自有安排，但我祈求他千万要听到母亲的心声。
（译者为“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛获奖者）