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At last, perched in the far corner of the bookcase: the very first book Marilyn had ever bought for Lydia. Slender as a pamphlet, it teeters alone on the shelf, then tips.
最后，她坐在书架的一角：那是玛丽琳给莉迪亚买的第一本书。它细长得像一本小册子，独自在书架上摇晃。
Air hovers all around you, the splayed pages read. Though you can't see it, it is still there.
空气在你周围盘旋，摊开的书页上写着。虽然你看不见它，但它仍然在那里。
Marilyn wants to burn the books that litter the carpet, to peel the wallpaper from the walls.
玛丽琳想把散落在地毯上的书烧掉，把墙纸从墙上撕掉。
Everything that reminds her of Lydia and all she could have been. She wants to stomp the very bookshelf to splinters.
一切都让她想起莉迪亚和她本可以成为的一切。她恨不得把书架踩成碎片。
Stripped bare, it lists unsteadily, as if it is tired, and with one push she knocks it to the floor.
唯一的那本书摇摇晃晃地倾斜着，好像累了似的，她一推就把它打翻在地。
And there, in the hollow below the bottom shelf: a book. Thick. Red. A Scotch-taped spine. Even before Marilyn sees the photo, she knows what it is.
在书架底层下面的凹处有一本厚厚的、红色的书，用透明胶封着书脊。甚至在玛丽琳看到那张照片之前，她就知道那是什么了。
But she turns it over anyway, with suddenly unsteady hands, still astonished to find Betty Crocker's face implausibly, impossibly staring up at her.
但不管怎样，她还是把它翻过来了，她的手突然颤抖起来，仍然惊讶地发现贝蒂·克罗克的脸难以置信地盯着她。
Your cookbook, Lydia had said. I lost it. Marilyn had been thrilled, had considered it an omen: her daughter had read her mind. Her daughter would never be confined to a kitchen.
你的食谱，莉迪亚说。我弄丢了它。玛丽琳很激动，认为这是个预兆：她的女儿已经看透了她的心思。她的女儿永远不会被关在厨房里。
Her daughter wanted more. It had been a lie. She flips the pages she has not seen in years, tracing her mother's pencil marks with her fingertip, smoothing the pockmarked pages where she had cried all those nights, in the kitchen, alone.
她的女儿想要更多。那是个谎言。她翻阅多年未见的书页，用指尖描摹着母亲的铅笔记号，抚平那些坑坑洼洼的书页，那些夜晚她独自在厨房里哭泣。
Somehow Lydia had known: that this book had pulled on her mother like a heavy, heavy stone.
不知何故，莉迪亚知道：这本书像块沉重的石头一样压在她母亲身上。
She hadn't destroyed it. She had hidden it, all those years; she had piled book after book atop it, weighting it down, so her mother would never have to see it again.
她没有毁掉它。这些年来，她一直把它藏起来；她把一本又一本书堆在上面，压着它，这样她妈妈就再也不用看到它了。
Lydia, five years old, standing on tiptoe to watch vinegar and baking soda foam in the sink.
五岁的莉迪亚，踮起脚尖看着水槽里的醋和小苏打泡沫。
Lydia tugging a heavy book from the shelf, saying, Show me again, show me another.
莉迪亚从书架上拖出一本厚书来，说：再拿一本给我看看，再拿一本给我看看。
Lydia, touching the stethoscope, ever so gently, to her mother's heart. Tears blur Marilyn's sight. It had not been science that Lydia had loved.
莉迪亚用听诊器轻轻触碰她母亲的心脏。泪水模糊了玛丽琳的视线。莉迪亚喜爱的并不是科学。
And then, as if the tears are telescopes, she begins to see more clearly: the shredded posters and pictures, the rubble of books, the shelf prostrate at her feet.
然后，仿佛眼泪是望远镜，她开始看得更清楚：撕成碎片的海报和图片，书籍的碎片，书架倒在她脚边。
Everything that she had wanted for Lydia, which Lydia had never wanted but had embraced anyway. A dull chill creeps over her.
她想要给莉迪亚的一切，莉迪亚从来就不想要，但还是欣然接受了。一阵隐隐的寒意袭上她的心头。
Perhaps—and this thought chokes her—that had dragged Lydia underwater at last.
也许——一想到这里，她就觉得透不过气来——最后还是把莉迪亚拖到水里去了。
The door creaks open, and Marilyn slowly raises her head, as if Lydia might somehow, impossibly, appear.
门嘎吱一声开了，玛丽琳慢慢抬起头来，仿佛莉迪亚可能会以某种方式出现似的，这是不可能的。
For a second the impossible happens: a small blurred ghost of little-girl Lydia, dark-haired, big-eyed. Hesitating in the doorway, clinging to the jamb.
一刹那间，不可能的事情发生了：一个小女孩莉迪亚模糊的幽灵，黑头发，大眼睛。站在门口犹豫不决，紧紧抓着门框。
Please, Marilyn thinks. In this word is all she cannot phrase, even to herself. Please come back, please let me start over, please stay. Please.
拜托，玛丽琳想。这个词是她所不能表达的，即使是对她自己。请回来，请让我重新开始，请留下。拜托了。
Then she blinks, and the figure sharpens: Hannah, pale and trembling, her face glossy with tears. "Mom," she whispers.
然后她眨了眨眼睛，轮廓分明了：汉娜脸色苍白，浑身发抖，泪光满面。“妈妈，”她低声说。
Without thinking, Marilyn opens her arms, and Hannah stumbles into them.
玛丽琳不假思索地张开双臂，汉娜踉踉跄跄地跌进怀里。
