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Before Marilyn gave Lydia her first diary, the university held its annual Christmas party. Marilyn didn't want to go. She battled with the bad mood all autumn. Nath had just entered first grade, Lydia was in kindergarten, and Hannah wasn't even born yet. For the first time since her marriage, she realized that she had nothing serious to do. She was twenty-nine, still young and slim. The brain is still nimble, she thought. At least able to go back to school to get a degree and fulfill her childhood plans. However, she can no longer remember how to write papers and take notes. The scene of writing papers and taking notes seems to be in a dream. Dinner needs to be cooked, Nath needs to be fed, and Lydia needs someone to play with, so how can she have time to study? Marilyn looked through the help ads in the newspaper and found that they were all looking for waitresses, accountants, and copywriters. She doesn't know how to do any of these jobs. She thought of her mother, the kind of life her mother wanted her to live, the life trajectory her mother designed for her: husband, children, house. Her only job now is to manage these three things. This was all her mother had ever expected of her, and she had now achieved it, and even so, she was in no mood to celebrate Christmas.
James insisted that they show up at the Christmas party; he would be a tenured professor next spring, so showing up was a must. So they asked Vivian Allen from across the street to help look after Nath and Lydia. Marilyn changed into a peach short skirt and a pearl necklace, and she and James came to the school gymnasium decorated with colorful crepe paper. A Christmas tree had been erected in the midfield area. After a few rounds of pleasantries, she retreated to a corner with a glass of rum, and that's when she met Tom Lawson.
Tom brought her a piece of fruitcake and introduced himself—he was a professor in the chemistry department; he and James were reviewing a dual-major thesis on chemical weapons in World War I. Marilyn immediately tensed up, dreading the question—So, what do you do, Marilyn? -But Tom didn't ask that. They made some friendly remarks about how old the child was and how beautiful this year's Christmas tree was. When he mentioned that he was doing research on the pancreas and artificial insulin, she interrupted him and asked if he needed a research assistant. He looked away from the plate with the pig in a blanket he was holding and stared up at her. Marilyn, who was afraid of being slighted, immediately launched into a long explanation: She had studied chemistry at Radcliffe College, she was going to medical school, she hadn't gotten her degree yet—not yet—and now her kids were a little older...
In fact, it was the tone of her question that surprised Tom Lawson: she was mumbling her request intermittently. Marilyn raised her head and looked at him with a smile. Her pair of deep dimples made her look like a pious little girl.
"Please," she said, putting a hand on his elbow, "I'd really like to work in academia again."
Tom Lawson laughed. "I guess I do need help." He said, "If your husband doesn't mind, that's fine. Maybe we can talk after the New Year, when the new semester starts." Marilyn agreed repeatedly, saying that this was It couldn't be better.
James was less enthusiastic than she was. He knew what people would say: He didn't earn enough—his wife had to go out and find a job. Even though many years have passed, he still remembers his mother getting up early every day, putting on her uniform and going to work. One winter, she stayed home for two weeks with the flu, and they had to turn off the heat and wrap themselves up in two blankets. At night, his mother would oil her rough hands to soften her skin, and his father would leave the room feeling guilty. "No," he told Marilyn, "when I become a tenured professor, we won't be short of money." He took her hand, spread her fingers, and kissed her soft palm. "Tell me you won't ever think about going out to work again," he said. She finally agreed, but she still kept Tom Lawson's phone number.
The next spring, James—a newly tenured professor—went to work, the kids started school, and Marilyn was home folding laundry when the phone rang—a nurse at St. Catherine's Hospital in Virginia told Marilyn , her mother passed away. That day was April 1, 1966, and Marilyn's first reaction was: What a terrible, tasteless joke.
After her wedding day, she didn't speak to her mother for nearly eight years, and her mother didn't write her a letter during that time. Marilyn did not notify her mother when Nas was born or when Lydia was born, and she did not even send her photos of the children. What's there to say? She and James never discussed what her mother had said about the marriage on their wedding day: It wasn't right. She didn't want to remember it at all. So when James came home that night, Marilyn simply said, "My mother's dead." Then she went to the stove and added, "The lawn needs mowing." He knew immediately that they wouldn't be there again. Discuss this matter. At dinner, Marilyn told the children that grandma had passed away. Lydia cocked her head and asked, "Are you sad?"
Marilyn glanced at her husband. "Yes," she said, "sad."
Her mother's affairs needed to be taken care of: signing documents, making funeral arrangements. So Marilyn left James and the children and drove to Virginia—which she had long since stopped calling home—to sort out her mother’s belongings. After leaving Ohio and entering West Virginia, rivers and rivers flashed past the car window, and her daughter's question kept echoing in her mind. She couldn't give a definite answer.
Is she sad? More of a surprise, I was surprised that I was still so familiar with my mother's house. Even eight years later, she still remembered how to turn the key—first down, then to the left—to unlock the door; she still remembered how the screen door would slowly close on its own, making a hissing sound. The fire in the front hall was out, and the heavy curtains in the living room were drawn, but she could make her way through the darkness on instinct. She moved nimbly between armchairs, ottomans, tables and sofas, reaching the ribbed light switch with precision in one fell swoop. This could have been her home.
When the light came on, she saw the familiar shabby furniture from her childhood, and the faded lilac wallpaper with a silk-like texture. The china cabinet was filled with her mother's dolls, their unblinking eyes still giving her a chill on the back of her neck. She needs to clear away these things. Is she sad? No, after traveling all day, she just felt tired. “A lot of people find it difficult to do this job,” the funeral home staff told her the next morning. He gave her the phone number of a company that specializes in helping clients with houses that need to be sold. Ghouls, Marilyn thought. What a considerate service, cleaning out the deceased's house, throwing their entire life into the trash can, and dragging the trash can to the road.
"Thank you," she raised her chin, "I'll take care of it myself."
But when she tried to sort through her mother's belongings, she couldn't find anything she wanted to leave behind. Her mother's gold ring, her twelve-piece china set, the pearl bracelet Marilyn's father gave her mother: mementos of her parents' failed marriage. Her serious sweater and pencil skirt, gloves and hat in a hat box. They were originally paired with a waist-fitting outfit, and Marilyn couldn't bear to throw them away. Her mother loved the set of porcelain dolls, all with expressionless faces and wigs made of horsehair. A group of little strangers watching indifferently. Marilyn opened the photo album, looking for a photo of herself and her mother, but found that there was none. There are only photos of Marilyn in kindergarten with her hair in a ponytail; Marilyn at a school party with a paper crown on her head; and Marilyn in high school in front of a Christmas tree, shot on precious Kodachrome film. She flipped through three photo albums and couldn't find even a single photo of her mother. It was as if her mother had never existed at all.
Is she sad? Her mother was nowhere to be found, so how could she be sad
Then she discovered her mother's Betty Crocker Cookbook in the kitchen, its cracked spine repaired twice and held together with Scotch tape. On the first page of the "Biscuits" section, there is a line in the margin next to the introduction, the kind of line Marilyn would use to highlight key points in the book when she was in college. This passage is not instructions for making cookies. There have to be cookies in the cookie jar! This paragraph reads, is there anything else that can express a more family-friendly atmosphere? Those are the words. Her mother felt they needed to be highlighted. Marilyn glanced at the cow-shaped cookie jar on the counter to see if it was empty, and the more she looked at it, the less sure she was that she had ever seen it before.
She flipped to other chapters, looking for more pencil lines. In the "pie" part, she found a line: If you want to please a man—bake a pie. However, it must be done perfectly. How pitiful is the man who has never had pumpkin pie or custard pie when he comes home from get off work! Underline the sentence in the "Basic Cooking of Eggs" section: The man you marry will know what kind of eggs he likes to eat. He may not like the eggs you cook, so a good wife should master the six basic ways of cooking eggs. She imagined her mother biting the end of her pencil, reading this, and then carefully scratching it out, hoping to remember it.
You will find that your salad making skills determine the quality of life for the whole family.
What else could make you so happy with yourself other than baking bread
Betty's pickles! Aunt Alice's peach preserves! Mary's Mint Sauce! What could give you a deeper sense of satisfaction than the shiny jars and glass bottles that hold these things on your shelves
There was a picture of Betty Crocker printed on the back cover of the cookbook. There were some light gray streaks at the temples, and the hair on her forehead was curled back, as if pushed back by her raised eyebrows. At first glance, she does look a bit like Marilyn's mother. What else could give you a deeper sense of satisfaction? Of course her mother would say: No, no, no. she thought, with sharp, painful sympathy for her mother. Her mother dreamed of a life of glittering gold and the smell of vanilla, and ended up dying alone, like a poor fly trapped in this empty little house. Her daughter left her, and except for the pencil scratches on the book, there is no trace of her life. Is she sad? She was angry. Angry at the insignificance of my mother’s life. "This," she thought angrily, stroking the cover of the cookbook: this is the only thing I need to remember, this is all I need to keep.
The next morning, she called the house cleaning company recommended by the funeral home staff and was sent two men in blue uniforms. Like janitors, they were clean-shaven and courteous. They looked at her sympathetically, but did not say anything like "I'm sorry." With the professional efficiency of movers, they packed the china dolls, dishes and clothes into cardboard boxes, wrapped the furniture in cotton padding and moved it to the truck. "Where are they going?" Marilyn thought, holding the cookbook in her arms. "Those mattresses, the photos, the cleared bookshelves?" Go to where people go after death. Everything will go there, go away, disappear, leave you. life.
They cleared the house before dinner time. One of them raised the brim of his hat toward Marilyn, and the other nodded politely at her. Then they stepped out onto the porch and started the truck outside. She walked from room to room, cookbook under her arm, checking to see if anything had been left behind, but they had cleaned it thoroughly. After taking down the pictures from the wall, her old room was unrecognizable. The only traces of her childhood are the tiny holes in the wallpaper left by thumbtacks, impossible to find unless you know where they originally were. Looking out through the open curtains, she could see nothing, only the dim windowpane and her blurry face illuminated by the light. As she left, she lingered in the living room. There were still small dents from the chair legs in the carpet, and where the mantel had been there was only a straight line on the bare wall.
She got on the highway, heading toward Ohio, toward home. Those empty rooms kept popping up in her mind. Uneasy, she pushed the images aside and pressed the accelerator harder.
As we left Charlottesville, raindrops appeared on the car windows. Halfway through West Virginia, the rain came down hard enough to cover the entire windshield. Marilyn stopped on the side of the road and turned off the engine. The wipers stopped sweeping, leaving two marks on the glass. It was past one in the morning and there was no one else on the road. There were no car taillights ahead, and no headlights could be seen in the rearview mirror. There were only acres of farmland stretching on one side of the road. She turned off her car lights and leaned back in her chair. The rain was so painful that she felt like she was crying with all her strength.
She thought about the empty house again, and the things she had accumulated throughout her life had probably ended up in a thrift store or a junkyard. Her mother's clothes might have been put on a stranger's body, a ring on a stranger's finger. Only the cookbook on the front seat survived. It was the only thing worth keeping, Marilyn reminded herself, the only thing in that house that bore her mother's mark.
She woke up like a dream, as if someone was shouting in her ear: Your mother is dead. In the end, the only thing worth remembering is the food she cooked. Marilyn thought worriedly of her own life: hours spent preparing breakfast, dinner, and putting lunch in clean paper bags. Does it take that long to spread peanut butter on a piece of bread? Does it take that long to make eggs? Sunny-side up for James, hard-boiled for Nath, and scrambled eggs for Lydia. A good wife should master the six basic methods of cooking eggs. Is she sad? Yes. She was sad. Sad about the eggs. Sad about everything.
She opened the car door and came to the road.
The noise outside the car was deafening, like millions of marbles hitting a tin roof, and millions of radio stations simultaneously blaring in the background. She was soaked by the time she closed the car door. She lifted her hair and lowered her head. The rainwater flowed down on her skin, causing a stinging feeling. She leaned on the cooling cover, spread her arms, and let the raindrops sting all over her body.
No, she swore to herself, I would never live like her.
She heard the sound of water droplets hitting the steel plate below her head, like tiny applause, millions of hands applauding her. She opened her mouth and let the rain flow into her mouth. She opened her eyes wide and stared directly at the curtain of rain.
She took off her blouse, skirt, stockings, and shoes, and they piled them next to her cookbook like a puddle of melted ice cream. The rain became lighter, and the accelerator pedal felt hard against my bare feet. She started the car and saw her reflection in the rearview mirror. Seeing herself so naked and embarrassed, she did not feel embarrassed. Instead, she looked appreciatively at her paler and shimmering skin against the backdrop of her white underwear.
No, she thought again, I could never live like her.
She drove into the night, heading towards home, tears slowly flowing from the hair stuck to the back of her neck.
James, who stayed at home, didn't know how to cook any kind of eggs. Every morning, he gave the children cereal for breakfast, and then gave each child thirty cents to buy their own meal at school at noon. "When is mommy coming home?" Nath asked every night, playing with the tinfoil on his TV lunch box. It had been less than a week since his mother had left home, and he was craving boiled eggs again. "Be back soon." James replied. Marilyn didn't leave her mother's home phone number, and that number was going to be canceled soon anyway. "I'll be back any minute. What are we going to do this weekend, hmm?"