Charles saw them both at the same time: a small white bird and the girl wheeling down the walk. The bird glided downward and rested in the grass; the girl directed the chair smoothly along the sunlit, shadowy1 walk. She stopped to watch the ducks on the pond and when she shoved2 the wheels again, Charles stood up. “May I push you?” he called, running across the grass to her. The white bird flew to the top of a tree.
It was mostly he who talked and he seemed afraid to stop for fear she’d ask him to leave her by herself. Nothing in her face had supported the idea of helplessness conveyed by the wheelchair, and he knew that his assistance was not viewed as a favor. He asked the cause of her handicap3 .
“It was an automobile accident when I was twelve,” Amy explained.
They went for lunch, and he would have felt awkward4 except that she knew completely how to take care of herself.
“Do you live with someone?” he asked the next day when they met.
“Just myself,” she answered. Asking the question made him feel uneasy because of his own loneliness even though he was hoping for this answer.
He came to like to feel the white handles in his grasp, to walk between the two white-rimmed metal wheels. And he grew almost more familiar with the slight wave at the back of her hair than with her eyes or her mouth. Once, he said to the wave at the back of her hair,“I hope I’m the only chair-pusher in your life,” but she had only smiled a little and her eyes had admitted nothing.
She cooked dinner for him once in June. He expected her to be proud of her ability to do everything from her seat in the wheelchair—and was faintly5 disappointed to see that she would not feel pride at what was, for her, simply a matter of course6. He watched his own hand pick up the salt shaker7 and place it on one of the higher unused shelves, and awaited her plea8 for assistance. He didn’t know why he’d done it, but the look in her eyes made him realize how cruel his prank9 was. To make her forget what he’d done, he told her about the little white bird in the park.
“I’ve seen it, too,” she said. “I read a poem once about a little white bird that came to rest on a windowsill10 and the lady who lived in the house began to put out food for it. Soon the lady fell in love, but it was a mismatched11 love. Every day the little bird came to the window and the lady put out food. When the love affair was over, the little white bird never returned, but the woman went on putting out the crumbs12 every day for years and the wind just blew them away."
In July he took her boating frequently. The most awkward event, she felt, was getting in and out of the boat. For Charles, however, these “freight handlings,” as she came to call it, seemed to be the highlight13 of the outings. In the boat she felt helpless, unable to move around, sitting in one spot. Also, she was unable to swim, should the boat turn over. Charles didn’t observe her discomfort; she did note how much he enjoyed being in control. When he called for her one day in early August, she refused to.
They would, instead, she said, go for a walk in which she would move herself by the strength of her own arms and he would walk beside her.
“Why don’t you just rest your arms and let me push you?”
“No.”
“Your arms will get sore14. I’ve been helping you do it for three months now.”
“I wheeled myself for twelve years before you came along.”
“But I don’t like having to walk beside you while you push yourself!”
“Do you think I liked sitting helpless in your boat every weekend for the past two months?”
He never considered this and was shocked into silence. Finally he said quietly, “I never realized that, Amy. You’re in a wheelchair all the time—I never thought you’d mind sitting in the boat. It’s the same thing.”
“It is not the same thing. In this chair, I can move by myself; I can go anywhere I need to go. That boat traps me so I can’t do anything—I couldn’t even save myself if something happened and I fell out.”
“But I’m there. Don’t you think I could save you or help you move or whatever it is you want?”
“Yes, but Charles—the point is I’ve spent twelve years learning to manage by myself. I even live in a city that’s miles from my family so I’ll have to be independent and do things for myself. Being placed in the boat takes all that I’ve won away from me. Can’t you see why I object to it? I don’t want to feel helpless.”
As they went down the path Charles selfishly only thought of his own needs, finally he lost control and said，“Amy, I need to have you dependent upon me.” He grabbed the wheelchair and pushed her along. She had to let go of the wheels or injure herself. He could not see the anger in her eyes, and it was just as well for it was an anger he would not have understood.
She would not answer her telephone the next morning but in his mail that afternoon came an envelope that he knew had come from Amy. The handwriting was not beautiful, but it was without question hers. Inside was only a card on which she had written:
If you want something badly enough，
You must let it go free.
If it comes back to you,
It’s yours.
If it doesn’t,
You really never had it anyway.
(Anonymous15)
He ran out of his apartment, refusing to believe that Amy might no longer be in her home. As he was running towards her apartment, he kept hearing a roar in his ears: “You must let it go free; you must let it go free.”
But he thought: I can’t risk it, she is mine, can’t give her a chance not to belong to me, can’t let her think she doesn’t need me, she must need me. Oh God, I have to have her.
But her apartment was empty. Somehow in the hours overnight, she had packed—by herself—and moved by herself. The rooms were now impersonal16; their cold stillness could not respond when he fell to the floor and sobbed.
By the middle of August he had heard nothing from Amy. He went often to the park but avoided looking for the white bird.
September came and had almost gone before he finally received a letter. The handwriting was without question hers. The postmark was that of a city many miles distant. He tore open the envelope and at first thought it was empty. Then he noticed a single white feather had fallen from it. In his mind, the white bird rose in flight and its wings let fly one feather. Were it not for the feather, no one would have known that the white bird had ever been. Thus he knew Amy would not be back, and it was many hours before he let the feather drop out of his hand.
倘若鳥兒回還
查爾斯是在同一時刻看到他們倆的：一只白色的小鳥和坐著輪椅沿著小徑悠然而來的小女孩。小鳥滑翔而下，棲息在草地上;女孩子則平穩地駕著輪椅，穿行在陽光下婆娑的樹影之間。她停下來看了看池塘里的鴨子，當她再次用手推動輪椅時，查爾斯一下子站了起來。“我來推你好嗎?”他一邊喊道，一邊穿過草地朝她奔去。那只小鳥嗖地飛上了樹梢。
大部分時間都是他在喋喋不休，他似乎害怕話一停，她就會請他離開，好讓她獨自呆著。從她的臉上看不出有任何緣于輪椅的無助表情，因而他知道，他的幫助并沒有被看作是一種恩惠。他問起她致殘的原因。
“我12歲那年出了一場車禍，”艾米解釋說。
他們一起去吃午餐。幸好她能完全照料自己，不然他可就尷尬了。
“你和什么人住在一起嗎?”第二天見面時他問。
“就我自己，”她答道。盡管他希望得到這樣一個答案，但是問這個問題仍然讓他有些不安，因為他自己也過得很孤獨。
他開始喜歡把輪椅的白色手柄握在手里的感覺，喜歡在那兩只鑲有白邊的金屬輪子中間推車行走。他對她披在身后的、微微起伏的長發愈加熟悉，幾乎超過了對她的眼睛和嘴唇的熟悉程度。有一次，他對著她波浪一般起伏的長發說：“真希望我是你生命中惟一為你推輪椅的人。”但她只是莞爾一笑，眼里沒有任何表示。
6月里，她曾為他燒過一頓晚餐。她坐在輪椅上樣樣事情都能做，他以為她會為此而自豪的，但她僅僅把這視為一件理所當然的事，并無自豪感可言。發現這一點后，他不免有些悵然若失。他望著自己的手拿起鹽瓶，把它放到一塊較高的、不常用的碗柜擱板上，然后等著她請求幫助。他不明白自己為什么要這樣做，但她的眼神讓他意識到，他的惡作劇有多么殘酷。為了讓她忘掉他剛才的蠢行，他跟她談起了公園里的那只小白鳥。
“我也看見了，”她說。“我曾經讀過一首詩，詩中的小白鳥經常飛來棲息在一戶人家的窗臺上，女主人開始拿出食物喂它。很快，女主人便愛上了這只鳥兒，可這場愛戀并不般配。小鳥每天飛到窗前，女主人便每天捧出食物。戀情結束之后，小白鳥一去不返，可女主人連著幾年日復一日地把面包屑放到窗臺上，任風把它們吹走。”
7月里，他時常帶她去劃船。最令她感到不自在的是只能由查爾斯把她抱上抱下，她稱之為“貨物裝卸”。但對查爾斯而言，那樣的時刻仿佛就是他們戶外活動的最精彩部分。她在船上感到很無助，只能坐在一個地方，沒法四處活動。而且如果翻船，她可不會游泳。查爾斯對她的不安不予體察。她的確發現他是多么喜歡控制別人。8月初的一天，他來喊她去劃船，她說什么也不肯去。
她說，他們不妨出去散散步，這樣她可以憑自己的臂力推動自己，他則可以走在她身邊。
“你為什么不讓自己的胳膊輕松一下，讓我來推你呢?”
“不用。”
“你的胳膊會酸的。三個月來一直是我在推你呀!”
“可在你出現之前，我推了自己12 年。”
“但我不愿你自己推自己而我卻只能袖手旁觀!”
“你以為過去兩個月的每個周末，我就喜歡無可奈何地坐在你的船上嗎?”
他從未考慮過這個問題，一時間驚訝得說不出話。最后他平靜地說道：“我從未意識到這一點，艾米。你一直坐在輪椅里——我沒想過讓你坐在船上你會介意。我以為這是一回事。”
“這不是一回事。坐在輪椅里，我能自己行動，需要去哪兒就可以去哪兒。而那條船卻困住了我，讓我無計可施——萬一發生什么事，我掉到了水里，我甚至連自救都不會。”
“可是有我在呀!難道你認為我救不了你，不能幫你活動或是干你想干的任何事嗎?”
“你能。可是，查爾斯——問題在于我花了12年的時間才學會自理。我甚至孤身一人住在離家幾英里遠的城市，強迫自己獨立，一切都由自己動手。把我放在船上，等于剝奪了我所獲得的一切。難道你不明白我為什么反對你那樣做嗎?我不想讓自己感到懦弱無助。”
他們沿著小路繼續往前走著，最后他失去了控制，說：“艾米，我需要你依賴我。” 查爾斯只在心里自私地想著自己的需要。他一把抓過輪椅，推著她飛跑起來。結果她只得把手從輪子上放開，以免傷著了自己。他看不到她眼眸中的憤怒，這樣也好，因為那種憤怒不是他所能理解的。
第二天早上，她不愿接他打來的電話。不過下午，在他收到的郵件中有一封信，他知道那準是艾米寫來的。字寫得并不漂亮，但無疑是她的筆跡。里面只有一張卡片，她在上面寫道：
如果你渴望愛情，
就必須給它自由。
倘若鳥兒回還，
它就不再飛走。
若它去無影蹤，
你從未真正擁有。
(無名氏)
他沖出公寓大樓，不相信艾米會搬家。他朝她的公寓狂奔而去，一路上只有一個聲音不絕于耳：“給它自由;你必須給它自由!”
但是他想：我不能冒這個險，她是我的;我決不能放手，決不能讓她不屬于我，決不能讓她以為她不需要我;她一定需要我。哦，上帝，我必須得到她!
然而她的公寓空空如也。她一定是在頭天夜里花了幾個小時打好行裝——自己動手——獨自離去。此刻，房間里不再有任何生命的氣息。他倒地啜泣，回答他的只有一片陰冷的寂靜。
到了8月中旬，他依然沒收到艾米的任何消息。他時常去公園，但總是小心翼翼地不去尋找那只小白鳥。
9月不覺來臨，又即將悄然逝去，他終于收到了另一封熟悉的來信。無疑是她的筆跡。郵戳標明寄自另一個遙遠的城市。他撕開信封，最初還以為里面空無一物，隨后才發現有一根從信封中飄落的潔白羽毛。他的腦海里幻化出那只小白鳥，它振翅飛翔，一片羽毛從它的翅上抖落。倘若不是鳥兒在離去時留下這片羽毛為證，有誰會知道小白鳥曾經來過?他幡然醒悟：艾米再也不會回還。不知過了多久，他才讓那根羽毛從手中悄然滑落。
