Lydia had nothing to keep her mind off the mother-shaped hole in her world, and with Nath distracted by docking adaptors and splashdowns and apogees, she noticed something: the house smelled different without her mother in it.

莉迪亚无法让她的思绪远离她世界中那个母亲形状的洞穴，纳因接适配器、溅落点和远地点分散了注意力，莉迪亚注意到一件事：房子里没有母亲的时候闻起来很不一样。

Once she noticed this, she could not stop noticing.

一旦她注意到这一点，她就不能无视了。

At night she dreamed terrible things: she was crawling with spiders, she was tied up with snakes, she was drowning in a teacup.

晚上她做噩梦，梦到自己身上爬满蜘蛛，被蛇缠住，被茶杯淹死。

Sometimes, when she woke in the dark, she could hear the creak of the sofa springs downstairs as their father turned over, then turned again.

有时，她在黑暗中惊醒时，能听到楼下沙发的嘎吱声，因为他们的父亲不断翻身。

Those nights, she never fell back asleep again, and the days grew sticky and thick, like syrup.

那些夜晚，她再也没有睡着，白天变得粘糊糊的，像糖浆一样。

Only one thing in the house still reminded Lydia of her mother: the big red cookbook.

只有一件事仍然让莉迪亚想起了她的母亲：那本红色的大食谱。

While her father locked himself in his office and Nath bent his head over the encyclopedia, she would go into the kitchen and take it down from the counter.

父亲把自己锁在办公室里，纳低头看百科全书，她会走进厨房，从柜台上拿下那本食谱。

At five, she could already read some—though not nearly as well as Nath—and she sounded out the recipes: Chocolate Joy Cake. Olive Loaf. Onion Slim-Dip.

五岁的时候，她已经能读懂一些了，尽管不如纳读得好。她念着食谱：巧克力蛋糕，橄榄面包，洋葱条。

Each time she opened the cookbook, the woman on the front looked a little more like her mother—the smile, the folded-back collar, the way she looked not right at you but over your shoulder, just past you.

每次她打开食谱，面前的女人看起来更像她的母亲：同样的微笑，后翻的衣领，没有正眼看着你而是越过你肩膀的姿态。

After her mother had come back from Virginia, she had read this book every day: in the afternoon, when Lydia came home from school; in the evening, before Lydia went to bed.

母亲从弗吉尼亚回来后，她每天都读这本书，下午放学回家会读，晚上上床之前也会读。

In the mornings, sometimes, it was still on the table, as if her mother had been reading it all night.

有时候早上，它还在桌子上，就好像她妈妈整晚都在看它。

This cookbook, Lydia knew, was her mother’s favorite book, and she leafed through it with the adoration of a devotee touching a Bible.

莉迪亚知道，这本食谱是母亲最喜欢的一本书，她翻阅起来就像一个虔诚的信徒虔诚地触摸圣经一样。

The third day of July, when her mother had been gone for two months, she curled up in her favorite spot under the dining table with the cookbook once again.

七月的第三天，母亲离开两个月后，她又一次蜷缩在餐桌下她最喜欢的地方，手里拿着食谱。

That morning, when she and Nath had asked their father about hot dogs and sparklers and s’mores, he had said only, “We’ll see,” and they all knew this meant no.

那天早上，当她和纳向父亲问起热狗、烟火和冰淇淋时，他只说了一句“等等看吧”，他们都知道这句话意味着不行。

Without their mother, there would be no barbeques, no lemonade, no walking down to the lake to watch the fireworks.

没有他们的母亲，就不会有烧烤和柠檬水，也不会去湖边看烟花。

There would be nothing but peanut butter and jelly and the house with the curtains pulled shut.

除了花生酱、果冻和拉上窗帘的房子外，什么也没有。

She flipped the pages, looking at the photos of cream pies and cookie houses and standing rib roasts.

她翻着书页，看着那些奶油派、饼干屋和立着烤肋排的照片。

And, there, on one page: a line drawn down the side.

某页纸上有下划线。

She sounded out the words.

她念了出来。

What mother doesn’t love to cook with her little girl?

什么母亲不喜欢和小女儿一起做饭?

Beneath that: And what little girl doesn’t love learning with Mom?

什么小女孩不喜欢和妈妈一起学习呢?

Little bumps pocked the page all over, as if it had been out in the rain, and Lydia stroked them like Braille with her fingertip.

书页上到处都是小疙瘩，就像被雨淋过一样，莉迪亚用指尖抚摸着他们，就像抚摸盲文一样。

She did not understand what they were until a tear splashed against the page.

她不明白这是怎么回事，一滴泪滴在书页上。

When she wiped it away, a tiny goose bump remained.

她擦去泪，纸上留下一个小小的鸡皮疙瘩。

Another formed, then another.

接着又有一个，还有一个。

Her mother must have cried over this page, too.

母亲一定也为这一页哭过。

It’s not your fault, her father had said, but Lydia knew it was.

父亲说过“不是你的错”，但莉迪亚知道是自己的错。

They’d done something wrong, she and Nath; they’d made her angry somehow.

她和纳做错了什么，不知怎么搞的，他们让母亲生气了。