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She took out a handkerchief from her purse and wiped the wound with a corner of the handkerchief. The blood was instantly absorbed and large red stains appeared on the cloth. She was amazed by the beauty of this hand. It was pure in color, clear and transparent, and had criss-crossing textures on its muscles. She wanted to touch it, lick it, taste herself. At this time, the wound began to sting, and blood gushed out again, forming a pool in the palm of his hand. She realized she had to go to the hospital.
The emergency room was nearly empty. By the next day, the place would be busy dealing with Fourth of July mishaps, food poisoning from spoiled egg salad, hand burns from barbecues, eyebrows burned by fireworks. That afternoon, Marilyn walked up to the front desk and held out her hand. A few minutes later, she came to a consulting room. A young blond woman in white clothes checked her pulse and palms and said, "You need stitches." Then he took out a bottle of anesthetic from the cabinet. Marilyn asked without thinking: "Shouldn't a doctor do it?"
The blonde woman smiled. "I'm Dr. Green," she said. Noticing Marilyn staring at her, she added, "Would you like to see my ID card?"
The young woman neatly stitched the wound with black thread. Marilyn's hand hurt, and she gritted her teeth, but the pain spread to her wrist, up to her shoulder, and down her spine. The pain was not caused by the surgery, but by disappointment, and like everyone else, when she heard the title "doctor," she still thought—always thought—of men. Her eyes began to heat up. After the last stitch, Dr. Green tied a knot and said with a smile, "How do you feel?" Marilyn blurted out again: "I think I'm pregnant." Then she started crying.
Next, was the beginning of her inability to control herself. First, there was a series of examinations and blood tests. Marilyn was not sure about the principles of these examinations, but she remembered that such examinations required experiments on rabbits. But the young and beautiful female doctor smiled, and she pushed the needle into Marilyn's soft elbow socket: "We use frogs now, which are faster and simpler than rabbits. How wonderful modern science is." Someone brought Marilyn a needle. There were only cushions and a blanket to wrap around her body; someone asked her husband's phone number, which Marilyn vaguely recited; someone brought her a glass of water. There was no feeling in the wound on her hand, and the black sutures closed the overturned flesh. A few hours passed, but when James arrived, it seemed like only a few minutes had passed. He shook Marilyn's other hand in surprise. The young doctor said: "We will call you on Tuesday to inform you of the test results, Mr. and Mrs. Li, but I think your due date should be in January." Then, before Marilyn could speak, she walked into the long door. The white corridor disappeared.
"Marilyn," James whispered to her after the doctor left, his tone leaving her speechless, "we miss you so much."
Marilyn put her good hand on her stomach and hesitated for a long time. She couldn't go to class pregnant, couldn't get into medical school, all she could do was go home. Once home, she would see her children and new life, and—she finally admitted—she did not have the courage to leave them alone again. James knelt on the floor next to her chair, as if in prayer. Her old life—comfortable and warm, but oppressive and stifling—was trying to pull her back into its embrace. Nine weeks. Her grand plan lasted only nine weeks. Her lifelong pursuit faded away like mist in the breeze. She couldn't even remember why she thought this plan was possible in the first place.
So be it, Marilyn told herself. give up. You just have to accept reality.
"I was so stupid," she said, "I made such a terrible mistake." She leaned against James, breathing the sweet air around his neck that smelled like home. "Forgive me," she whispered.
James led Marilyn to the car—his car—and put an arm around her waist, helping her sit in the front seat as if she were a child. The next day, he needed to take a cab from Midwood back to Toledo to take Marilyn's car back to Midwood. When he arrives home, his wife will greet him radiantly. But now he had to drive carefully, obeying the speed limit and patting Marilyn on the knee every few miles as if to make sure she hadn't disappeared. "Are you cold? Are you hot? Are you thirsty?" he asked over and over again. "I'm not crippled," Marilyn wanted to say, but her mind and tongue seemed to go into slow motion. When they returned home, he brought her a cold drink and a pillow to cushion her waist. He's happy, she thought. Look at his brisk steps, how carefully he wraps her feet with a blanket. When he came back, she only said: "Where are the children?" James said that he had left the children at Vivian Allen's house across the street. Don't worry, he would take care of everything.
Marilyn, who was leaning on the sofa cushions, was awakened by the sound of the doorbell. It was almost dinner time, and James went to pick up the children from Mrs. Allen's house; a pizza delivery boy stood at the door, holding a stack of cardboard boxes. Marilyn rubbed her eyes and realized that James had already paid the tip. He walked in with the box and closed the door. Dizzy, she followed her husband into the kitchen, where he placed the pizza in the center of the table—between Lydia and Nath.
"Your mother is back," he said. As if they couldn't see her standing in the hallway behind him. Marilyn ran a hand through the curls in her hair—she had no braids and her feet were bare. The kitchen was too warm and bright, and she was like a child who had overslept. When she staggered downstairs, she realized that she had missed everything. Lydia and Nath watched her carefully across the table, as if she was going to do something unexpected, like scream or get angry. Nath's mouth was open, as if he was chewing something very sour. Marilyn wanted to touch his hair and tell him that she was completely unprepared for the scene before her. She could see the doubt in their eyes.
"I'm home," she repeated, nodding. Then they ran to hug her, a warm and solid hug, their bodies bumping into her legs and their faces buried in her skirt. Nath shed a line of tears, and Lydia's tears hung on her nose and flowed into her mouth. Marilyn's hand felt hot and painful, as if she were holding a hot little heart.
"Did you behave well when I was not at home?" she asked, squatting on the carpet, "Did you obey me?"
From Lydia's perspective, her mother's return was nothing short of a miracle. She made a wish, and her mother heard it and returned home. She will keep her promise. That afternoon, my father put down the phone and said something shocking: Your mother is coming home. She decided then and there that her mother would no longer have to read that sad cookbook. While at Mrs. Allen's house, she had made a plan to quietly go over and take it away when their father took them home—"Shh, don't make any noise, Mommy's sleeping." "Mom," she said to her mother's waist, "when you were not at home, your cookbook," she steeled herself, "I-I threw it away."
"Did you throw it away?" To Marilyn's surprise, she was not angry. No, she felt proud instead. She seemed to see her daughter throwing the book on the grass, lifting her feet wearing shiny Mary Jane shoes, stepping them into the mud, and then walking away. Whether she threw the book into the lake or into the fire, it didn't matter to her. She was surprised to find herself smiling. "Did you do it?" She put her arm around her young daughter. Lydia hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
This was a sign, Marilyn thought. Although she couldn't catch up, Lydia still had time. Marilyn would not, like her mother, confine her daughter to the confinement of her husband and family, and live a dull and numb life for the rest of her life. She will help Lydia achieve the goals she can. She will spend the rest of her life guiding Lydia, sheltering her, helping it grow like an ornamental rose, supporting it with sticks, and shaping its stems into perfect shapes. shape. Hannah was already kicking and kicking in Marilyn's belly, but her mother couldn't feel it yet. She buried her nose in Lydia's hair and secretly promised that she would never excessively correct her sitting posture, force her to find a husband or take care of the housework; she would never suggest that her daughter take a job that was not suitable for her or live a life that was not hers; Never let her think of only men when she hears the title "doctor." She wants to encourage her daughter for the rest of her life and let her achieve more than her mother.
"Okay," she finally let go of her daughter, "Is anyone hungry?"
James had already taken the plates out of the cupboard and started distributing napkins. He lifted the lid of the pizza box and let out the aroma of meat. Marilyn placed a piece of pepperoni pizza on each plate, and Nath ate with a deep sigh of contentment. His mother was back, and tomorrow morning there would be boiled eggs again, and there would be hamburgers and hot dogs on the dinner table, with strawberry shortcake for dessert. Across the table, Lydia stared silently at her portion of food, studying the sausage slices and the sticky shreds of cheese trying to retract back into the box.
Nath was only half right. The next day, he did get hot dogs and hamburgers, but no eggs and no pretzels. James grilled the meat himself, and although it was a little burnt, everyone still ate it in a festive mood. When Marilyn came home, she actually wanted to refuse to cook. She planned to reheat frozen waffles in the oven every morning, heat up frozen meat pies every night, or open a can of round pasta—because she I have other things to be busy with. Math, she came up with this course on the Fourth of July; my daughter needed math. "How many buns are in the bag?" she asked. Lydia stretched out her fingers and counted them. "How many sausages are there on the oven? How many are not sandwiched in the bread?" Every time her daughter answered correctly, her mother touched her hair and let her lean on her lap.
Lydia has been doing arithmetic all day. If everyone eats one hot dog today, how many will be left tomorrow? If she and Nath each get five fireworks, how many will they add up to? After dark, as fireworks exploded in the sky, Lydia calculated that her mother had given her ten kisses, five hugs, and called her "my wise daughter" three times today. Whenever she answered a question correctly, a dimple would appear on her mother's face, like a tiny fingerprint. "Ask me one more question," she begged as soon as her mother's questions stopped. "Mom, ask me one more question." "If you are really willing to answer," her mother said, and Lydia nodded quickly. "Tomorrow," said Marilyn, "I'll buy you a book and we'll read it together."
More than one book, Marilyn bought a stack of books: "The Science of Air," "The Causes of Weather," and "Fun Chemistry." At night, after tucking Nath into bed, she sat beside Lydia's bed and picked up a book from the top. Lydia squeezed next to her, listening to her mother's deep, drum-like heartbeat, breathing with her, her mother's voice seemed to come from her own head. "Air is everywhere," her mother read. "It hovers around you. Even though you can't see it, it's still there. Wherever you go, there's air." Lydia slid into her mother's arms again. , by the time she finished reading the last page, she almost fell asleep. "Read me another one," she muttered. Marilyn was so happy that she whispered: "Tomorrow, okay?" Lydia nodded so hard that her ears rang.
The most important word - tomorrow, was cherished by Lydia every day. Tomorrow, I will take you to the museum to see dinosaur fossils. Tomorrow we learn about trees. Tomorrow we study the moon. Every night, her mother would make her a small promise: she would be by her side tomorrow.