她留下了一团糟
She Left a Mess Behind
我眼睁睁地看着她将那辆新买的卡车倒出了车道。那辆皮卡体积太大，价钱又贵。然而，她拒绝考虑买一辆实用的小型汽车，尽管这种汽车既省油，又便于停放。我觉得这全都是因为我，她买那辆车就是为了与我作对。
她从大学退学之后，我便让她回了家。整个夏天，她就像一团不稳定的汽油雾，只等待有一根火柴能让她爆炸。我们曾为了她的工作、她的辍学、她的男朋友以及她的未来而争吵。她痛哭过很多次，我试图安慰她，然而每次都遭到了她的拒绝。
“我都快20岁了，”她经常这样告诉我，这句话令我的牙齿发痛，“我是个大人了！”
每当她说这些话的时候，我都会在心里默默地说，不，你还是个孩子。你仍然在看动画片，你还指望我给你洗衣服，在我去杂货店的时候，你还会要我帮你买牙膏。
如今，她走了，离我远去了，去做她的大人了。我非常高兴她走了。她不可理喻，脾气暴躁，简直无法相处。我疲于争吵，对她的坏脾气也忍无可忍。
她的父亲也很生气，默不作声地看着电视节目。然而，他帮她支付了买卡车的首付，并且帮她谈了个好价钱。在女儿离开家之前，他还把一沓钞票塞到她的手里。我想说的是，假如当初没有人帮她买下这辆卡车，她仍然会在这里。然而，这只是谎言。
“我不会再回来了，”她告诉我，“如今，我是个大人了。我要独立。”
在过去的20年里，她一直在做什么？是以假死的状态存在吗？
行李箱、纸盒箱，以及相互之间无声的指责，所有的一切都令家里的猫感到陌生。它藏了起来。有那么一会儿，我害怕它会偷偷地跑到卡车上，随我的女儿一起离开，踏上我无法同行的“冒险之旅”。
她留下了一团糟。她的浴室里全是潮湿的浴巾、过期的化妆品、几乎全空的洗发水瓶子，水池里还有头发。嗬！好一个大人！她甚至不能把自己的事情做好。我要让她看看，她不愿和我在一起生活，不愿再做我的宝贝女儿，很好。我会做得比她还绝。
我拿着一盒子的大号黑色垃圾袋上了楼。我把它们全部扔进垃圾袋，包括眼影、面霜、闪亮的指甲油以及化妆水。我倒空抽屉，又将架子上的啫喱、摩丝、沐浴液、香水一扫而光。我根本没有考虑，什么可能有用，什么可以留下来。所有的东西都扔掉。我把浴缸和洗脸池刷洗干净，把她留下的所有痕迹都清除掉。当我把所有的事情做完后，她的浴室看起来既没有生气，也没有人情味，就像汽车旅馆的浴室一样。
在她卧室的床底下，我还看到一对不成双的袜子，衣橱的隔板上则扔着一条磨损的内裤。学校发的试卷塞满了书桌的抽屉，并且全部按照年份和科目编档。我情不自禁地捧起那一篇篇诗歌和论文读了起来，对着她打印在每一份卷子右上角的整洁的名字和她在测试中所得的高分赞叹不已。接着，我把书桌里的东西全都装进了一只盒子。我想，六个月，我会给她六个月的时间来拿走她的东西，否则期限一过，我就会把它们全部扔掉。这相当公平，大人要为他们的东西支付储存费。
可是，她的书令我感到为难。苏斯博士的《甜蜜高谷》，R. L. 斯坦的《俏奶妈俱乐部》，莎士比亚的《奥德赛》、《伊利亚特》，浪漫小说，历史小说以及课本。这些书足够享用一生了，每一本都让人爱不释手。我真想狠狠心，将它们全部装进纸袋卖给二手书店。然而，我爱书的程度与女儿不相上下，因此我又把这些书全部塞到一个独立书架上，以后再进行处理。
我会将她的房间改成工艺品室，或者改成一间我长久以来想要的漂亮客房。然而，再也不会有她的份儿了。当有一天她成人的生活过于艰难，只能爬着回来时，她就只能住在地下室或者睡在沙发上。
报复心理让我变得无情。衣裙、羊毛衫、打底裤、鞋子等，这些在她七年级以后就再没穿过的东西全被我塞进了垃圾袋。
她的粗心和草率让我震惊。是我把她养成这样的吗？她就如此对待自己的东西（都是我付的钱），如同对待一堆垃圾一样？不，她留下了这一团糟，对我不屑一顾。我把她视为心肝宝贝，她竟如此回报我。
“发啦啦，妈妈，我要去征服世界了，去见识更广阔、更美好的东西啦。请你乖一点儿，把我留下的烂摊子料理好。”
我着手清空衣橱，手到之处就像蝗灾经过。两堆衣物渐渐高了起来，其中一堆打算捐给慈善机构，另外一堆则是垃圾。
还有更多的鞋子，或大或小的填充动物玩具，各式各样的小玩意儿，毡制的锦旗、海报、发带，还有一双粉色的泡沫滑轮溜冰鞋。时间越长，我所做的工作就越繁重。一个女孩怎么能在短暂的20年里收集到如此多的东西？
很显然，她一点儿也不在乎我，也不在乎她的父亲、我们的家，甚至我们为她提供的任何东西。我们无非是她童年时代的瓦砾碎石，没有半点价值。
我不断地往垃圾袋里塞东西，直到塑料袋快撑破了才停手。我一次拖两个这样的垃圾袋下楼。要捐给慈善机构的袋子全被放到汽车的车厢里，垃圾则被扔到了路旁的道牙上。汗水和疼痛的双臂让我更加恼怒。丈夫很早就出去了，或许就是为了逃避那场我也想躲开的争吵。
她留下了一张乱七八糟的床，被子扔在地上，床单缠绕成一团，她就这样走了。我抽掉盖被、毛毯、床单、床垫以及枕头。当她开始往自助洗衣机里投一枚枚二角五分的硬币时，就会为我多年来免费提供的洗衣服务心怀感激。
我将床垫翻了过来。一个封面上写有“不要扔掉”字样的大号马尼拉信封出现在眼前。我打开了它，里面装的全是纸。我把它们倒在地板上，都是一些老照片、信件、贺卡，还有故作伤感的笔记、拙劣的双关语，以及一些愚蠢的绰号。另外，还有一些从报纸和书评上剪下来的连环漫画。每一样东西都是我亲手交给她的。
“不要扔掉。”
这个可恨的死丫头，她太了解我了。
有关内心情感的笑话我读了一辈子，并且颇有感触。或许买下那辆皮卡也不是什么坏主意。没准它会让她在这个大大的世界上感觉不是如此渺小。再者，这个糟糕的夏天对我不会有任何益处，她却能受益匪浅。她觉得自己气坏了，无法再待下去，这个时候离开对她来说会容易些。
我把车里和扔在路边的垃圾袋捡了回来。将衣服和鞋子重新放回衣橱里。我重新把床铺好，上面放满了填充动物玩具。那只猫悄悄地溜进了房间，带着狐疑的目光打量着四周。最终，它在一只圣诞小熊和复活节兔子中间为自己选了一个位置，卧了下来。正在这时，丈夫从外面回来了，他朝着楼上喊了我一声。
“刚刚直起腰，”我告诉他，“你能不能找些盒子来装她的东西？”
他从地下室拿上来一些纸箱。“她留下了一团糟。”他说道。“我不会在意的。”我回答道。“她再也不会回来了。”他又说。他的怒气已经消散，但现在他很伤心。
我的小宝贝，那个曾经那么依赖我的孩子，再也不会回来了。终会有那么一天，我的女儿会成为一位妇人，到那个时候，她会回来探望我们。她童年时代的纪念物会在这里守候着她，我也一样。
I watch her back her new truck out of the driveway. The pickup is too large, too expensive. She’d refused to consider a practical compact car that gets good gas mileage and is easy to park. It’s because of me, I think. She bought it to spite me.
She’d dropped out of college, and I’d made her come home. All summer long she’d been an unstable cloud of gasoline fumes, looking for a match to set her off. We’d fought about her job, about leaving school, about her boyfriend and her future. She’d cried a lot and rebuffed all my attempts to comfort her.
“I’m twenty, almost,” she’d told me so often that my teeth ached. “I am an adult!”
Each time I silently replied, no, you are not. You still watch cartoons, and expect me to do your laundry, and ask me to pick up toothpaste for you when I go to the grocery store.
Now she is gone, off to be an adult far away from me. I’m glad she’s gone. She’s impossible and cranky and difficult to get along with. I am sick of fighting, tired of her tantrums.
Her father is angry. He watches television and will not speak. He helped her with the down payment on the truck and got her a good deal. He slipped her cash before she left. I want to say, if only you hadn’t helped her buy the truck, she would still be here. It’s a lie.
“I am never coming back,” she told me. “I’m a grown-up now. I want to live.”
What had she been doing for twenty years? Existing in suspended animation?
The cat is upset by the suitcases and boxes and unspoken recriminations. She’s hiding. For a moment I fear she’s sneaked into the truck, gone off with my daughter on an adventure from which I am forbidden.
She left a mess. Her bathroom is an embarrassment of damp towels, out-of-date cosmetics, hair in the sink, and nearly empty shampoo bottles. Ha! Some grown-up! She can’t even pick up after herself. I’ll show her. She doesn’t want to live with me, doesn’t want to be my baby girl anymore, fine. I can be even stinkier than she is.
I bring a box of big black garbage bags upstairs. Eye shadow, face cream, glitter nail polish and astringent—into the trash. I dump drawers and sweep shelves clear of gels, mousse, body wash, and perfume. I refuse to consider what might be useful, what can be saved. Everything goes. I scrub the tub and sink clean of her. When I am finished, it is as sterile and impersonal as a motel bathroom.
In her bedroom I find mismatched socks under her bed and frayed panties on the closet floor. Desk drawers are filled with school papers, filed by year and subject. I catch myself reading through poems and essays, admiring high scores on tests and reading her name, printed or typed neatly in the upper right hand corner of each paper. I pack the desk contents into a box. Six months. I think. I will give her six months to collect her belongings, and then I will throw it all away. That is fair. Grown-ups pay for storage.
Her books stymie me. Dr. Seuss, Sweet Valley High, R. L. Stine, The Baby-sitters Club, Shakespeare, The Odyssey and The Iliad, romance novels, historical novels and textbooks. A lifetime of reading; each book beloved. I want to be heartless, to stuff them in paper sacks for the used bookstore. I love books as much as she does. I cram them onto a single bookshelf to deal with later.
I will turn her room into a crafts room. Or create the fancy guest room I’ve always wanted. But not for her benefit. When grown-up life proves too hard and she comes crawling back, she can stay in the basement or sleep on the couch.
My ruthlessness returns with a vengeance. Dresses, sweaters, leggings, and shoes she hasn’t worn since seventh grade are crammed into garbage bags.
Her thoughtlessness appalls me. Did I raise her to be like this? To treat what she owns—what I paid for—as so much trash? No, she left this mess to thumb her nose at me, as payback for treating her like the child she is.
“Fa la la, Mom, I am off to conquer the world, off to bigger and better things. Do be a dear and take care of this piffle.”
I am a plague of locusts emptying the closet. Two piles grow to clumsy heights: one for Goodwill, the other trash.
There are more shoes, stuffed animals large and small, knick-knacks, felt pennants, posters, hair bands, and pink foam rollers.The job grows larger the longer I am at it. How can one girl collect so much in only twenty years?
It’s obvious she doesn’t care about me, her father, our home, or anything we’ve provided. We are the flotsam and jetsam, the detritus of childhood.
I stuff garbage bags until the plastic strains. I haul them down the stairs two bags at a time. Donations to Goodwill go into the trunk of my car; trash goes to the curb. Sweat and sore shoulders fuel my irritation. My husband has left the house, perhaps to avoid the same fight I wish to avoid.
She left the bed rumpled, the comforter on the floor, the sheets in a tangle. I strip off the comforter, blanket, sheets, mattress pad, and pillows. Once she starts feeding quarters into Laundromat machines, she’ll appreciate the years of clean clothes I’ve provided for free.
I turn the mattress. A large manila envelope is marked “DO NOT THROW AWAY”. I open it. More papers. I dump the contents onto the floor. There are old photographs, letters, greeting cards, and notes filled with sappy sentiments, bad puns, and silly nicknames. There are comics clipped from newspapers and book reviews. Every single item had passed from my hand to hers.
“DO NOT THROW AWAY.”
Darned kid knows me too well.
I read over a lifetime of inside jokes and shared sentiments. Maybe the pickup wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. Maybe it helps her to feel less small in a big world. Maybe, too, the awful summer wasn’t for my benefit, but for hers. It’s easier to leave when she’s convinced she is too angry to stay.
I retrieve garbage bags from the car and the curb. Clothes and shoes go back into the closet. I remake the bed and pile it with stuffed animals. The cat slinks into the room and looks around with suspicious eyes. Finally she makes a place for herself between a Christmas bear and an Easter bunny. My husband comes home and calls up the stairs.
“Just straightening up, ” I tell him, “Can you find some boxes for her stuff?”
He brings up cartons from the basement. “She left a mess,” he says. “I don’t mind.” I reply. “She’s not coming back,’ he says. His anger is gone, and now he’s sad.
My little baby, my dependent child, isn’t coming back. Someday my daughter, the woman, will return for a visit. Mementos of childhood will await her. So will I.
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