Beautiful, She Said

I never thought that I understood her. She always seemed so far away from me. I loved her, of course. We shared mutual love from the day I was born. I came into this world with a bashed head and deformed features because of the hard labor my mother had gone through. Family members and friends wrinkled their noses at the disfigured baby I was. They all commented on how much I looked like a beat-up football player. But no, not her. Nana thought I was beautiful. Her eyes twinkled with splendor and happiness at the ugly baby in her arms. Her first granddaughter. Beautiful, she said.

Before final exams in my junior year of high school, she died. Seven years ago, her doctors diagnosed Nana with Alzheimer’s disease. Seven years ago, our family became experts on this disease as, slowly, we lost her.

She always spoke in fragmented sentences. As the years passed, the words she spoke became fewer and fewer, until finally she said nothing at all. We were lucky to get one occasional word out of her. It was then our family knew she was near the end.

About a week or so before she died, she lost the abilities for her body to function at all, and the doctors decided to move her to a hospice. A hospice. Where those who entered would never come out.

I told my parents I wanted to see her. I had to see her. My uncontrollable curiosity had taken a step above my gut-wrenching fear.

My mother brought me to the hospice two days after my request. My grandfather and two of my aunts were there as well, but all hung back in the hallway as I entered Nana’s room. She was sitting in a big, fluffy chair next to her bed, slouched over, eyes shut, mouth numbly hanging open. The morphine was keeping her asleep. My eyes darted around the room at the windows, the flowers, and the way Nana looked. I was struggling very hard to take it all in, knowing that this would be the last time I ever saw her alive.

I slowly sat down across from her. I took her left hand and held it in mine, brushing a stray lock of golden hair away from her face. I just sat and stared, motionless, in front of her, unable to feel anything. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. I could not get over how awful she looked sitting there, helpless.

Then it happened. Her little hand wrapped around mine tighter and tighter. Her voice began what sounded like a soft howl. She seemed to be crying in pain. And then, she spoke.

“Jessica,” Plain as day. My name. Mine. Out of 4 children, 2 son-in-laws, 1 daughter-in-law, and 6 grandchildren, she knew it was me.

At that moment, it was like someone was showing a family filmstrip in my head. I saw Nana at my baptizing. I saw her at my fourteen dance recitals. I saw her bringing me roses and beaming with pride. I saw her tap dancing on our kitchen floor. I saw her pointing at her own wrinkled cheeks and telling me that it was from her that I inherited my big dimples. I saw her playing games with us grandkids while the other adults ate Thanksgiving dinner. I saw her sitting with me in my living room at Christmas time admiring our brightly decorated tree.

I then looked at her as she was...and I cried.

I knew she would never see my final senior dance recital. I knew she would never see me cheer for another football game. I knew she would never sit with me and admire our Christmas tree again. I knew she would never see me go off to my senior prom. I knew she would never see me graduate high school or college or see me get married. And I knew she would never be there the day my first child was born. This made tear after tear roll down my face.

But above all, I cried because I finally knew how she had felt the day I had been born. She had looked through what she saw on the outside and looked to the inside and saw ... a life.

I slowly released her hand from mine and brushed away the tears staining her cheeks, and mine. I stood, leaned over, and kissed her.

“You look beautiful.”

And with one long last look, I turned and left the hospice.

我以為我從來就不了解她。她仿佛離我很遙遠。當然，我愛她。從我出生那天起我們就愛護彼此。因為母親難產，我生下來便頭部受傷，面貌丑陋。家人和朋友對我這個畸形嬰兒不屑一顧，他們都評論說我看起來多么像一個蓬頭垢面的足球運動員。但是，她沒有。祖母認為我很漂亮。看著懷中丑陋的嬰兒她的眼睛變得光彩奪目，幸福萬分。這是她第一個孫女啊，真漂亮，她說。

在我高一期末考試之前，她去世了。七年前，她的醫(yī)生就診斷出奶奶患了早老性癡呆癥;七年前，我們家就成為這種疾病的專家，然而，逐漸地，我們還是失去了她。

她說話的時候總是斷斷續(xù)續(xù)。一年年過去了，她說的話也越來越少，直到最后一個字也說不出了。偶爾能聽到她說出一個字我們就覺得運氣很好了。那時我們家才意識到她的一生走到終點了。

她去世前一個星期，身體就完全不能自理了，醫(yī)生們決定把她送到收容所。收容所。進到那里面的人沒有活著出來的。

我告訴父母我想去看她。我必須見到她。我抑制不住的好奇心戰(zhàn)勝了壓抑勇氣的恐懼。

在我請求兩天之后媽媽帶我去了收容所。祖父和兩個姑姑也去了那里，但當我走進奶奶的房間里，他們都在走廊里止步了。祖母坐在一個靠近她床的松軟的大椅子里，無精打采地坐著，閉著眼睛，嘴巴麻木地張開著。嗎啡使她處于睡眠狀態(tài)。我的眼神快速地移動，窗戶、花卉以及祖母看人的方式上。我艱難地接受著這一切，心里明白這將是我最后一次見到祖母了。

我慢慢地在她對面坐下來，拿起她的左手，握在我的手心里，拂去她臉上一縷零散的金發(fā)。我就坐在她面前，一動不動地看著她，沒有任何感覺。我張了張嘴，卻什么也沒有說。我無法接受她坐在那里的糟糕情形，那么無助。

接著，她的小手把我的手抓得越來越緊。她開始說話，聽起來好似輕柔的呼叫。她好像要痛苦地哭起來。然后，她說話了：

“杰西卡，”清晰明白。我的名字，是在叫我!在四個孩子、兩個女婿、一個兒媳、六個孫子中，她認出是我了。

那一刻，就好像有人在我腦子里放映家庭電影一樣。我看到祖母為我洗禮;我看到她出現在我十四歲那年的獨舞表演上;我看到她滿臉自豪地帶給我玫瑰;我看到她在廚房的地板上跳踢踏舞;我看到她指著自己布滿皺紋的臉頰告訴我說我的大酒窩就是從她那里繼承的;我看到在其他大人都在吃感恩節(jié)晚餐時她在跟孫兒孫女們玩游戲。我看到在圣誕節(jié)時她和我坐在我的臥室里贊美我們裝飾明亮的圣誕樹。

現在我看著她，就像以前她看我一樣……我哭了。

我知道她再也看不到我最后的畢業(yè)獨舞表演了;我知道她再也看不到我為另一場足球賽歡呼了;我知道她再也不會和我坐在一起欣賞圣誕樹了;我知道她再也不會去參加我的畢業(yè)舞會了;我知道她再也看不到我高中畢業(yè)、大學畢業(yè)，也看到我結婚了;我知道她再也看不到我第一個孩子出世了。想到此，我的眼淚不停地順著臉頰流下來。

然而我之所以哭泣，主要是因為我終于明白我出生那天她的感受了。她仔細地看了外部更注意到了內部，她看到的是一個小生命。

我慢慢地放開了她的手，擦了擦弄臟她臉頰以及我的臉頰的淚水。然后我站起來，彎下身子親了親她。

“你看起來真漂亮。”

最后久久地凝視了她一眼，我轉身離開了收容所。