Chapter 7 Chick back to the old house (1)

At this time, the sun has just risen from the horizon.The morning sun shone obliquely, like a ball thrown from the open space between my house and the neighbor's house.I squint my eyes.It was early October, and a thick layer of fallen leaves had accumulated on both sides of the road and street—the fallen leaves were thicker than I remembered—and the clouds in the sky were very dense.I think those who have been away from home for many years will first notice those trees in memory when they return to their hometown. They seem to grow taller. Our house is near the lake -- and the beach -- very close.After my mother died, my sister and I didn't sell the house immediately, maybe because we hoped that the house would appreciate in value.But to be honest, I simply didn't have the guts to get rid of the house.

Now, bent over, I walk toward my hometown like a fugitive.I fled the scene of the accident, and by this time they should have found my car, the big truck that hit it, the battered billboard and the pistol.My body was heavy, painful, and bleeding, and I was half numb and half confused.i know someone must be after me ——This strengthened my determination to commit suicide. I stumbled up the steps and found the house key in a flower pot under a fake rock. (That was my sister's idea.) I looked back and there was nothing, no police, no pedestrians, not a single car passing by.Pushing open the door, I walked in.

There was a musty smell in the room, and a vaguely sweet, carpet-cleaning smell, as if someone (the undertaker from the funeral home?) had just washed the carpet.I walked through the hall closet and the stairwell we used to use as a slide as kids to the kitchen.The tile floor in the kitchen has seen better days and the walls are lined with cherry wood cabinets.I opened the door of the refrigerator in a trance. Looking back now, I must have subconsciously wanted to find a drink. I took a step back. There is actually a lot of food in the refrigerator. There are food boxes.There was leftover spaghetti.skim milk.Apple juice.berry yogurt.For a moment, I thought someone might have moved in, and now this is his home.This is the price we have paid for leaving our houses behind for so long.

I opened a cupboard door, and there was Liton tea and a bottle of Shanka instant coffee powder.Another door opens and there's sugar, Morton's salt, pepper, and mayonnaise.I saw a dish soaked in the dish soap suds in the sink.I picked up the plate very slowly and put it down again, as if trying to get it back to its original place. Just then, I heard it. The sound came from upstairs. "Charlie?" Then it was repeated again. "Charlie?" It was my mother's voice. I ran out of the kitchen with dish soap on my fingers. "Charlie?" What I remember most is hiding under the back porch, almost out of breath with my heart pounding.A few seconds ago, I was dragging my body slowly, standing in front of the refrigerator powerlessly; a few seconds later, my heart was beating wildly, and I felt that there was not enough oxygen.My body is shaking.The kitchen window was right behind me, but I didn't dare to look back.I've seen my dead mother, and now I hear her voice.I have been physically injured before, but this time, I think not only my body is injured, but my brain is also probably broken.

I stayed there, my chest heaving and falling, my eyes daring not to take my eyes off the lawn in front of me.When we were kids, we called it our backyard, but now it's just a small patch of grass.I thought about going across the backyard and into the neighbor's yard. Then the door opened. Then mom came out. my mother. right there.Just under the porch. Then she turned to me. Then she said to me, "What are you doing standing there? It's cold outside." Now, I don't know if I can explain how I got there.That step felt like I fell off the earth.If you see things that don't match what your reason tells you, then you have to decide what to believe.I saw my mother, alive, standing in front of me.I heard her call my name. "Charlie?" She was the only person in the world who called me that.

Is it my hallucination?Should I walk towards her?Will she disappear like a soap bubble?To be honest, at that moment, my limbs did not listen to me at all, as if it was someone else. "Charlie? What happened? Why are you covered in bruises?" morning Chick back to the old house (2) She was wearing blue slacks and a white coat—she was always fully dressed and fresh, even if it was early in the morning—and she looked pretty much the same as the last time I saw her.The time I saw her was for her 79th birthday, and she was wearing a pair of red-rimmed glasses, which were a birthday present.She raised her hand slowly, beckoning me to walk into her with her eyes.I don't know, her glasses, her skin, her hair, the way she opened the door.It was a familiar action. I accidentally threw a tennis ball on the roof before, and she often opened the door to pick up the ball like this.Something melted in my heart, as if the light from her face warmed my heart.The heat flowed down my spine and all the way to the soles of my feet.At that moment, something crashed and I could almost hear the crash.It is the wall that stands between belief and unbelief that has come down.

I give in. Fly out of the earth. "Charlie?" she began again. "What happened?" I did something you will do too. I hugged my mother and hugged her like I would never let go again. She brought a bottle of antiseptic and a towel from another room.I watched as she poured the antiseptic solution on the towel, then grabbed my arm and rolled up my shirt sleeve like I was a kid who fell off a swing.You might think: In such a ridiculous situation, why not speak out loudly.All of this is obviously impossible, the first thing to ask is: "Mom, aren't you dead?" I can only say that in hindsight, it makes sense to ask.But at the time, seeing my dead mother come back to life was too shocking for me to verify its authenticity.It was like a dream, maybe part of me was dreaming, I don't know.Suppose you have lost your mother, can you imagine seeing her standing in front of you again, close enough to touch and smell her breath?I know we've buried her.I still remember the scene of the funeral.I still remember throwing a shovel of dirt onto her coffin symbolically.

But now she sat down in front of me, wiped my face and arms with a towel, and frowned at the wounds, and murmured, "Look at you!"— I don't know how to describe how I feel inside.At that moment, the warmth broke down the line of defense in my heart.It's been a long time since anyone has been willing to get so close to me, willing to help me roll up the sleeves of my shirt so tenderly.She cares about me.She is nervous about me.I have lost the self-esteem to let myself live, but she is here to wipe my wounds, and I feel like a son again; I fall into her arms, as naturally as falling on the pillow at night.And, I don't want this moment to end.That's the best explanation I can give.I know that's impossible.But I just don't want it to end.

"Mom," I called, weakly. It's been a long, long time since I said these two words.Death took away my mother, and it seems to have taken away my ability to call my mother forever. "Mother?" It was just a hum, a staccato hum made by quivering lips.However, even if there are thousands of words in this world, what two words can compare to the weight of these two words. "Mother?" She rubbed my arm gently with a towel. "Charlie," she sighed, "look what you got into." morning fresh start "So, today, will you stay here?" My mother said.

She stood in front of the gas stove and beat eggs with a plastic spoon.The toast was baked, and the butter was on the table.There is also a pot of coffee on the side.I leaned back in my chair, dazed, as if I were having trouble swallowing food.I felt like my body would explode if I moved too fast.She wore an apron around her waist, and she acted, from the moment I saw her, as if it was just another day.It was as if I had popped up to visit her, and she, as usual, had prepared food for me. "Charlie, can you?" she asked, "spend a day with your mother?" I heard the butter and eggs sizzling and steaming in the pan.

"Huh?" she said. She walked towards me holding a pan. "Why don't you talk?" It took me several seconds to get the sound out of my throat, as if I was trying to remember how it should sound.How do you talk to the dead?Is there any special expression?Or is there a code word? "Mom," I finally said, but very softly. "This is impossible." She scooped the eggs out of the pan and put them on my plate spoon by spoon.I looked at her veiny hands. "Eat," she said. morning have breakfast I don't know how long I was in that kitchen - my head was still groggy and wobbly as if my head had been hit by a car - but don't know when it started, maybe mom said "eat" Afterwards, my body got used to what it felt like to be there.I will do what my mother says. I put a spoonful of scrambled eggs into my mouth. My tongue responded almost immediately.I hadn't eaten for two days, and I was stuffing my stomach with food like a prison inmate.Chewing makes me temporarily forget the absurdity of the situation.To be honest, rather than saying that the pot of scrambled eggs tastes good, it is better to say that it brings a familiar taste to me.I don't know why the food my mother cooks just doesn't taste the same, especially the home-cooked dishes—pancakes, meatloaf, tuna salad—there's a taste of memory in those foods.My mom likes to put a little chives in her scrambled eggs - I call them "green mince" - and they come back. So, I had a past-tense breakfast, at a past-tense table, with a past-tense mom. "Take your time, don't choke," she said. This sentence is also in the past tense. After I finished eating, she picked up the dishes and walked over to the sink to start washing up. "Thank you," I whispered. She looked up. "Did you just say 'thank you,' Charlie?" I nodded slightly, so small it was almost imperceptible. "for what?" I cleared my throat: "For breakfast." She smiled and continued wiping the dishes.I see her standing by the sink and a familiar emotion comes over me, me sitting at the kitchen table and she standing by the sink.In this way, how many times have we chatted about school, friends, and gossip in the neighborhood? Should I believe that the sound of rushing water always makes our voices louder and louder. "You can't be real..." I started, but stopped.I was so eager to talk to her - yet, at that moment, nothing came out of my mouth. She turned off the tap and wiped her hands with a towel. "Oh, look at the time," she said, "we're going." She went back to the table, bent down, and put her hands around my face.Her hands were warm and slightly damp. "You're welcome, it's just breakfast," she said. She grabbed the handbag on the table. "Okay, now put on your clothes obediently." morning walk Mom put on the white tweed coat, then shook her shoulders a little so that the coat fell on her body.In the last few years of her life, my mother used to do the hair of old ladies who were too old to go out.She went door to door, so that these old ladies can continue to enjoy the power of hairdressing.She said she had three families going.I followed her through the garage, still confused.Go outside the house. "Want to walk down the river, Charlie?" she said. "It's a lovely time of day." I was speechless and nodded.I don't know how much time has passed since lying in the wet grass and looking at the wrecked wagon?I can still taste the blood in my mouth, and the pain hits me like waves. I am fine one minute, and my whole body aches the next minute.But here I am somehow, walking the streets of Old Town with my mother in the nipple jacket walking next to me, and holding her purple plastic bag of hair tools for her. "Mom," I finally mustered up the courage to ask, "how did you...?" "What happened, dear?" I cleared my throat. "Why are you here?" "I live here," she said. I shook my head. "No," I whispered, "you don't live here anymore." She looked up at the sky. "You know, the day you were born, the weather was exactly the same as today. It was a bit cold, but it was very comfortable. I was pushed into the delivery room at dusk, remember?" (Mother's tone of voice made me feel that I should answer her, "Oh, yes, I remember.") The doctor, what's his name? Lepperso? Yes, Dr. Lepurso. He told me to deliver the baby by six o'clock, because that night, he His wife made him his favorite dinner and he said he didn't want to miss it." I have heard this story. "Fish fingers," I whispered in agreement. "Fish sticks. Can't think of it? Such a simple thing. At least it should be a steak, so it makes sense. Hey, forget it, I don't care, anyway, he ate his fish sticks." She looked at me with a little naughty look in her eyes. "And I got you." We walked a few more steps.I had a splitting headache and tapped my forehead with my fist. "What's the matter, Charlie? Does it hurt?" It's a simple question, but I can't answer it.pain?Where should I start?Crash?Overturned?Three days of life on alcohol?wedding?my marriage?depression?The past eight years?Is there still a time when I don't hurt? "I haven't felt this good in a long time, Mom," I replied. She walked on, keeping her eyes on the grass beside the road. "You know, my father and I have been wanting to have a child for three years after we got married. At that time, three years of marriage without having a child was considered a long time. People started talking about whether there was something wrong with my body. Problems. I started to doubt myself." She took a light breath. "I can't imagine life without kids. At one point, I even... wait, let me see." She took me and walked towards a big tree in the corner of our yard. "It was late one night and I couldn't sleep," she said, patting the trunk and rubbing the bark, as if about to unearth a treasure. "Oh, it's still there," she said. I leaned over and saw the letters "PLEASE" engraved on the side of the trunk.Small, squiggly letters.You have to look closely to see it, but it's the letters. "PLEASE". "You and Luberta aren't the only ones who carve on wood," said Mama, laughing. "What does it mean?" "A prayer." "Pray for a baby?" She nodded. "To give birth to me?" Another nod. "On a tree?" "A tree looks up every day, in the direction of God." I made a face. "I know," she held up her hands as if surrendering to me. "You're always the same, Mom," she said, mimicking me. She touched the bark again and let out a soft moan.She seemed to be recalling everything that had happened since I was born.How would she feel if she knew about my situation? "Now, you know how much Mom wanted you to be born, Charlie," Mom let go of the tree. "Children often forget this. They think their birth is a burden, not their parents' fulfillment." wishes." She tugged on her coat.I want to cry.A wish fulfilled?How long has no one said such warm words to me.For that, I should be grateful, ashamed, and regretting my self-defeating, right?But at that moment my mind was on wine, and I wanted to have a drink, preferably several.I long to be in the dimness of the bar, under the faint halo of the lightbulbs, to taste the numbing alcohol, to watch the glasses empty and know that the faster I drink, the faster I get out of it. this world. I approached her and put my hand on her shoulder.I was expecting that my hand would go straight through her body like we see in ghost movies.but.My hands fell on her shoulders, and I could feel her thin body through the clothes. "You're dead," I blurted out. A gust of wind suddenly flipped the fallen leaves on the ground. "You don't think too much about it," she said. morning Rose We continue walking through the streets of the old town.At this point, I have accepted—how should I put it—temporary confusion in a daze?I decided to follow my mother wherever she went until I could figure out what the hell I was doing.To be honest, I really don't want this to end right away.The dead relatives reappear before your eyes, and it is your reason, not your heart, that jumps out to make trouble. The first house she went to was a small brick house on Reha Street, two blocks from mine.There is a tin canopy on the porch of the house, and there are flower beds covered with pebbles in front of the porch.The air in the morning is particularly refreshing, and the morning light at this time is a bit strange, and the corners and corners of the scenery shrouded in it are particularly clearly outlined, as if they were drawn with ink.We didn't meet anyone along the way, but it was early in the morning, and most people had probably already started working. "Knock on the door," Mom said to me. I knocked on the door. "Her ears are not good, so knock harder." I bang and bang a few more times. "Knock again." I'm almost banging on the door. "Don't try so hard," Mom said. Finally, the door opened.An elderly woman in a smock and on crutches appeared, her mouth pursed and a bewildered smile on her face. "Good morning, Rose," Mom's voice was sweet. "I brought a young man here today." "Oh... got it," said Rose.Her voice was very high-pitched, almost like a singing bird. "Remember my son Charlie?" "Oh, of course, of course I remember." She took a few steps back. "Come in, come in." The room is small, but very tidy, and the furnishings inside seem to be frozen in the 1970s.The rug is dark blue.The sofa was covered with a plastic dust sheet.We followed her to the laundry room.Following Rose on crutches, our steps were small and slow. "How's your day, Rose?" Mom asked. "Oh, yes. That's all because you came to see me today." "Remember my son Charlie?" "Oh, yes. Very handsome." She turned her back to me, didn't look at me clearly, and just said so. "How are your children, Rose?" "What did you say?" "Your children?" "Oh," she waved. "Once a week, they come to see me. It's like a mission." At that moment, I couldn't judge, who is this Rose, or what is this Rose?Is it a ghost?Or a living person?Her house looks very real, the heating in the house is real, and the smell of toast is still floating in the air.We went into the laundry room and there was a chair by the sink.In the house there was a radio on, playing music. "Could you turn it off, young man?" said Rose without looking back. "That radio. Sometimes I turn it on too loud." I find the radio switch and press the button. "Too bad, did you hear that?" said Rose. "There was an accident on the highway today. It was on the news." I froze. "A car and a truck. Hit a big billboard. Knocked it down alive. Horrible." I glanced at Mom to see if she was going to turn to me and ask me to tell the truth.Admit everything you did, Charlie. "Don't think about that, Rose, the news is always depressing," Mom said as she picked something from her kit. "Oh, that's true," Rose replied, "that's right." etc.They already know?They don't know yet.Fear welled up in me, as if someone was about to knock on the window and tell me to get out. Rose turned in my direction, turning first her crutches, then her knees, and finally her weak shoulders. "It's great that you can take time out and spend a day with your mother," she said. "Children should spend more time with their parents." She staggered to the chair by the sink. "Okay, Bea," she said, "now, can you make me prettier?"