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She took off the car keys from the hook and picked up the satchel placed by the door. At first, she told herself she was just going out for some air. Although it was quite cold outside, she lowered the car window and circled around the lake, once, twice. The breeze lifted her hair and flowed into the back of her neck. You have children and a husband to take care of. She drove dazedly through Midwood, past the university, the grocery store, and the roller skating rink. Only when she found herself turning into the hospital parking lot did she realize she had been meaning to be here all along.
Marilyn walked into the waiting room and sat in a corner. Someone was painting the room—the walls, the ceiling, the doors—in a calming light blue. Nurses in white hats and white skirts shuttled back and forth like clouds, carrying insulin syringes, pill bottles and gauze. Carers push lunch carts past. And the doctors, who strode through the noisy crowd as calmly as jets across the sky. Wherever they appear, heads will move in that direction. Anxious husbands, hysterical mothers, and hesitant daughters all stood up as the doctor approached. Marilyn noticed that they were all men: Dr. Kengor, Dr. Gordon, Dr. McClerner, Dr. Stone. How did she think she could be one of them? It's like a cat transforming into a tiger, there is no door.
At this time, the two doors of the emergency room opened, and a thin figure with dark hair appeared, with his hair pulled back in a bun. Marilyn didn't understand what this woman did for a while. "Dr. Woolf," a nurse called, holding up a clipboard on the counter. Dr. Woolf crossed the waiting room and took the clipboard, her high heels tapping against the carpet. Marilyn had only seen Janet Woolf once or twice since she had moved in a month before. She had heard that Janet Woolf worked in a hospital—Vivian Allen leaned over the garden fence and whispered to her that Woolf often worked the night shift at the hospital and left her son alone, and as a result, he became a feral child. . But Marilyn thought that Woolf was a secretary or a nurse, and the elegant woman in front of her, who was no older than her, tall and slim, wearing black loose trousers and a doctor's white coat, could not be that Woolf. Dr. Woolf, with his stethoscope hanging around his neck like a shining silver necklace, was skillfully examining the bruised wrist of a worker. She said clearly and confidently to the other side of the consulting room: "Dr. Gordon, can I talk to you about your patient?" Dr. Gordon put down his clipboard and walked over.
This was beyond her imagination. Everyone was repeating that title like a mantra. Dr. Woolf. Dr. Woolf. Dr. Woolf. The nurse holding the penicillin said: "Dr. Woolf, I have a little question." The nurse passing by said: "Good morning, Dr. Woolf." The most incredible thing is that other doctors also said: "Wulf Doctor, can I ask your opinion?" "Doctor Woolf, there is a patient in room two who needs you." Until then, Marilyn believed that everything in front of her was true.
How can this be? How did she do it? She thought of her mother's cookbook: Want to Make Someone Happy—Bake a Cake! Bake a cake—have a party. Bake a cake and bring it to the party. Bake a cake just because you're in a good mood today. She thought of her mother mixing butter and sugar, sifting flour, and greasing baking sheets. What else could give you a deeper sense of satisfaction? Janet Woolf strode across the hospital waiting room, her coat so white that it shone.
It is certainly possible for her that she does not have a husband. She allowed her son to become a wild child. Without a husband and without children, maybe this would be possible. "I could have done it," Marilyn thought, as the sentence fit together like a puzzle, tapping into her nerves. She thought it was in the right tense, and there was no grammatical error. She just missed the opportunity. Tears rolled down her face. No, she suddenly thought, it should be "I can do it."
Then, to her embarrassment and horror, Janet Woolf appeared before her, bending enthusiastically over Marilyn in her chair. ? "Marilyn?" she said. "You're Marilyn, right? Mrs. Lee?"
Marilyn didn't know how to answer, so she said mechanically: "Dr. Woolf."
"What's wrong with you?" Dr. Woolf asked, "Are you sick?" From the current perspective, her face was surprisingly young, and the freckles on her nose were still visible through the foundation. Her hand rested gently on Marilyn's shoulder, calm and firm, and so did her smile. "Everything is going to be okay," the movements seem to say.
Marilyn shook her head, "No, no, it's okay." She looked up at Janet Woolf, "Thank you." Her gratitude was genuine.
The next night, over canned ravioli and vegetable soup, a plan formed in her mind. She inherited all of her mother's savings, enough to last for a few months, and when her mother's house was sold, she would get more money, enough to last for a few years, at least. Within a year, she would have her degree. This will prove that she can still do it. It's not too late. Then she applied to medical school. It's just eight years later than originally planned.
Before her children were out of school, she drove an hour to a community college on the outskirts of Toledo and signed up for three courses: organic chemistry, advanced statistics, and anatomy: this was her course plan for her last academic year in college. The next day, she drove over again and rented a small furnished apartment near the campus. She could move in on May 1st. Two weeks to go. Every night when she was alone, she read the cookbook and reflected on her mother's small, lonely life. "You don't want this life," she reminded herself. "There's more to your life than this." Don't worry about Lydia and Nath, she told herself over and over again, trying not to think about anything else. James will take care of it for me. Didn't he handle it very well when she went to Virginia on errands, so it was possible for her dream to come true.
In the silent darkness, she packed her college textbooks into cardboard boxes, moved the cardboard boxes into the attic, and got ready. As May approached, she was preparing sumptuous meals every day—Swedish meatballs, Russian-style shredded beef tenderloin, royal butter chicken—all favorites of James and the children, and lessons taught to her by her mother. She baked Lydia a pink birthday cake and allowed her to eat as much as she wanted. On the first day of May, after Sunday dinner, she packed the leftovers into a crisper and put them in the refrigerator. She baked a lot of cookies. "You seem to be preparing for the Great Famine." James said with a smile. Marilyn smiled back at him, but it was a fake smile. She had always smiled like this to her mother all those years—facing your ears, pulling up the corners of your mouth, and not opening your mouth. It would be hard for others to tell it was a fake smile.
That night, she held James in bed, kissed the sides of his neck, and slowly took off his clothes, just like she had done when they were young. She tried to remember the curve of his back and the depression at the base of his spine, as if he were a landscape she could no longer appreciate. Thinking of this, she began to cry - silently at first, then, as the movement between her bodies The collision kept making her cry harder.
"What's wrong with you?" James asked softly, touching her face, "What's going on?" Marilyn shook her head, and he pulled her closer. Their bodies were wet and sticky. "It's okay," he kissed her forehead, "everything will be fine tomorrow."
In the morning, Marilyn lay under the sheets and listened to James get dressed. He zipped up his pants and buckled his belt. Even with her eyes closed, she could picture him raising his collar in a vain attempt to smooth down the patch of hair. It was this lock of hair that had made him look a bit like a student over the years. When he came to kiss her goodbye, she still closed her eyes, because she knew that if she opened her eyes and looked at him, tears would flow out again.
Later, she knelt on the sidewalk at the station and kissed Nath and Lydia on the face, not daring to look them in the eye. "Be good," she told them. "Be good, I love you."
After the bus disappeared along the lakeshore, she went to her daughter's room and then to her son's room. She took a cherry-colored plastic hairpin with a white flower on it from Lydia's dressing table. There is a pair of this hairpin, but Lydia rarely wears this one. She took a marble from the cigar box under Nath's bed. It was not his favorite - his favorite was a marble with a dark blue background and dotted with white spots, like stars in the sky - this marble The beads were darker, and Nath called them "Ollies." She also cut a spare button from under the lapel of an old coat that James had worn in her college days. Marilyn stuffed these three souvenirs into her pockets—a habit that her youngest child would later inherit, but Marilyn never mentioned the day's actions to Hannah or anyone. These things are not precious, and they are not the owner's favorite. If they cannot find them, the owner will feel disappointed, but not sad. Marilyn then took out the cardboard box she had hidden from the attic and sat down to write a letter to James. But how to write such a letter? She couldn't use her own stationery, as if he were a stranger, and she couldn't write it on the kitchen pad as casually as a shopping list. Finally, she pulled a blank sheet of paper from the typewriter and sat down with pen in hand.
I realized that I was not happy in my life right now. I always dreamed of another life in my mind, but the reality was exactly the opposite. Marilyn let out a shuddering breath. I had suppressed these feelings for a long time, but now, after revisiting my mother's house, I thought about her and realized I could no longer suppress them. I know you can get by just fine without me. She paused, trying to convince herself that the words were true.
I hope you can understand why I had to leave. hope you can forgive me.
Marilyn sat with the ballpoint pen for a long time, not knowing how to finish. Finally, she tore the paper into shreds and threw it into the wastebasket, deciding that it would be best to just walk away and disappear from their lives, pretending it had never been there.
After school in the afternoon, Nath and Lydia found that their mother did not come to pick them up at the bus station. They returned home and found that the door was unlocked and no one was in the house. Two hours later, their father returned home to find the children sitting on the front steps, seemingly afraid of being alone in the house. He asked Nass: "What do you mean by 'gone'?" Because Nass would only repeat these two words: "Gone." This was the only answer he knew.
Lydia said nothing. Her father called the police and all the neighbors, but he forgot to make dinner and put the children to bed. When the police came to take notes, she and Nath were asleep on the living room floor. In the middle of the night, Lydia woke up in her own bed—where her father had put her—still wearing her shoes. She got up to fumble for the diary her mother had given her for Christmas. Finally something important happened, something worthy of her recording. But she didn't know how to explain it, why everything had changed in just one day, why the person she cherished so much was there one minute and "gone" the next.
① This is a hide-and-seek game among children, usually played in swimming pools. People who pretend to be "ghosts" will blindfold themselves and catch other people. The "ghost" will first shout: "Mark!" The person hiding will respond: "Polo!" and then judge the position of the playmate based on the sound. The person who is caught will take turns pretending to be the "ghost".