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我和丈夫隔着病床上洁白的床单对视着。四岁的凯特仍然高高兴兴地一来一回地摇晃着床腿。这是她爸爸第一次在医院里过夜，对她来说，这不啻于一次冒险。
“爸爸什么时候回家？”那天早晨她问我。“一个星期后，”我告诉她，虽然这不完全是事实。在以后的八个月中，瑟吉每隔三个星期就要住一个星期的院。以后将会有很多不回家的夜晚，将会有很多个“爸爸什么时候回家”的疑问。
我不安地用手去抚平那已经很平滑的枕头。瑟吉用手指了指他的络腮大胡子。“化疗多长时间它才能掉光？”我疑惑地想。20多年来，我丈夫一直留着络腮大胡子，我从来没有看见他把它剃掉过。可怕的癌症正在逐渐改变着我们的生活。
一位护士突然将头探进门里来。“该离开了，”她说，“探视的时间结束了。”
凯特停止摇晃床腿。她迅速地朝床底下看了一眼，好像正在检查什么东西似的。然后，她从椅子上拿起她的背包，小心翼翼地拉开拉链。那个粉紫色的背包她走到哪儿就背到哪儿。包里通常装着彩笔、纸张和两本图画书，凯特把它们叫做“我的宝贝”，因为不管什么时候，在车里或是在等候室里厌倦了，她就会把它们拿出来玩。今天，她小心翼翼地举起一只叫米什卡的毛绒玩具熊。瑟吉小时候，米什卡就一直坐在他的床脚，并且一直都被打扮得又整洁又漂亮。凯特出生后，它又被授予了一条崭新的红领结。凯特认为米什卡具有许多特殊的力量。“它是一只警卫熊。”她说。“它一直睡在凯特的床脚处。”凯特在米什卡的耳边嘀咕了些什么，紧紧地拥抱了它一会儿，然后把它放进她爸爸的怀里。“夜里，它会保护你的，爸爸，”她说，“不管恶魔什么时候来。”
这个时候，要想不哭是不可能的。此前，我在阅读中了解的关于对付疾病的术语，以及那些努力找到的所谓恰当的话语，在一个天真的四岁孩子的怜悯面前，一瞬间就烟消云散了。她相信米什卡在未来的日子里会在医院里整夜地守护着瑟吉。她的信任是不可思议的。我的女儿给她父亲的不仅仅是一只毛绒玩具熊，她给他的是一件抵挡恐惧的法宝。
摘译自Beautiful Life
My husband and I faced each other across the clean sheets of the hospital bed. Four-year-old Kate was still happily cranking the foot of it up and down. This was an adventure to her, the first of Daddy’s overnights in the hospital. “When is Daddy coming home?” she had asked me that morning.
“In a week,” I told her, though it wasn’t the whole truth. Serge would need to be hospitalized for one week in every three for eight months. A lot of overnights. A lot of “When is Daddy coming home?”.
Nervously I smoothed the already smooth pillow. Serge fingered his beard. “How long,” I wondered, “before the chemotherapy stripped it away?” My husband had worn a full beard for more than twenty years; I had never seen him without it. The monster of cancer was literally going to change the face of our lives.
A nurse popped her head in the door. “Time to go,” she said, “visiting hours are over.”
Kate stopped cranking the bed. She took a quick peek under it as though she were checking for something, then picked up her backpack from the chair and carefully unzipped it. She carried that pink and purple backpack with her everywhere. Usually it contained crayons, papers, a couple of picture books, “stuff to do” as Kate called it, for whenever she got bored in the car or in a waiting room. Today she carefully lifted out a stuffed bear named Mishka. Mishka had sat at the foot of Serge’s bed while he was growing up and had been cleaned up and awarded a new red bow when Kate was born. Kate believed Mishka had special powers. “He’s a guard bear,” she said. And he always slept at the foot of her bed. Kate whispered something in Mishka’s ear, hugged him tightly for a minute and then put him in her father’s arms. “He’ll protect you in the night, Daddy,” she said, “whenever monsters come.”
It was impossible not to cry. All the technical jargons2 I’d been reading about coping with illness, the support groups, the struggle to find the right words to say were swept away in a moment by the innocent compassion of a four-year-old child. She believed that Mishka would stand guard for Serge through all the hospital overnights to come. Her be－lief was magic. My daughter had given her father more than a stuffed bear; she had given him a talis－man against fear.
“爸爸什么时候回家？”那天早晨她问我。“一个星期后，”我告诉她，虽然这不完全是事实。在以后的八个月中，瑟吉每隔三个星期就要住一个星期的院。以后将会有很多不回家的夜晚，将会有很多个“爸爸什么时候回家”的疑问。
我不安地用手去抚平那已经很平滑的枕头。瑟吉用手指了指他的络腮大胡子。“化疗多长时间它才能掉光？”我疑惑地想。20多年来，我丈夫一直留着络腮大胡子，我从来没有看见他把它剃掉过。可怕的癌症正在逐渐改变着我们的生活。
一位护士突然将头探进门里来。“该离开了，”她说，“探视的时间结束了。”
凯特停止摇晃床腿。她迅速地朝床底下看了一眼，好像正在检查什么东西似的。然后，她从椅子上拿起她的背包，小心翼翼地拉开拉链。那个粉紫色的背包她走到哪儿就背到哪儿。包里通常装着彩笔、纸张和两本图画书，凯特把它们叫做“我的宝贝”，因为不管什么时候，在车里或是在等候室里厌倦了，她就会把它们拿出来玩。今天，她小心翼翼地举起一只叫米什卡的毛绒玩具熊。瑟吉小时候，米什卡就一直坐在他的床脚，并且一直都被打扮得又整洁又漂亮。凯特出生后，它又被授予了一条崭新的红领结。凯特认为米什卡具有许多特殊的力量。“它是一只警卫熊。”她说。“它一直睡在凯特的床脚处。”凯特在米什卡的耳边嘀咕了些什么，紧紧地拥抱了它一会儿，然后把它放进她爸爸的怀里。“夜里，它会保护你的，爸爸，”她说，“不管恶魔什么时候来。”
这个时候，要想不哭是不可能的。此前，我在阅读中了解的关于对付疾病的术语，以及那些努力找到的所谓恰当的话语，在一个天真的四岁孩子的怜悯面前，一瞬间就烟消云散了。她相信米什卡在未来的日子里会在医院里整夜地守护着瑟吉。她的信任是不可思议的。我的女儿给她父亲的不仅仅是一只毛绒玩具熊，她给他的是一件抵挡恐惧的法宝。
摘译自Beautiful Life
My husband and I faced each other across the clean sheets of the hospital bed. Four-year-old Kate was still happily cranking the foot of it up and down. This was an adventure to her, the first of Daddy’s overnights in the hospital. “When is Daddy coming home?” she had asked me that morning.
“In a week,” I told her, though it wasn’t the whole truth. Serge would need to be hospitalized for one week in every three for eight months. A lot of overnights. A lot of “When is Daddy coming home?”.
Nervously I smoothed the already smooth pillow. Serge fingered his beard. “How long,” I wondered, “before the chemotherapy stripped it away?” My husband had worn a full beard for more than twenty years; I had never seen him without it. The monster of cancer was literally going to change the face of our lives.
A nurse popped her head in the door. “Time to go,” she said, “visiting hours are over.”
Kate stopped cranking the bed. She took a quick peek under it as though she were checking for something, then picked up her backpack from the chair and carefully unzipped it. She carried that pink and purple backpack with her everywhere. Usually it contained crayons, papers, a couple of picture books, “stuff to do” as Kate called it, for whenever she got bored in the car or in a waiting room. Today she carefully lifted out a stuffed bear named Mishka. Mishka had sat at the foot of Serge’s bed while he was growing up and had been cleaned up and awarded a new red bow when Kate was born. Kate believed Mishka had special powers. “He’s a guard bear,” she said. And he always slept at the foot of her bed. Kate whispered something in Mishka’s ear, hugged him tightly for a minute and then put him in her father’s arms. “He’ll protect you in the night, Daddy,” she said, “whenever monsters come.”
It was impossible not to cry. All the technical jargons2 I’d been reading about coping with illness, the support groups, the struggle to find the right words to say were swept away in a moment by the innocent compassion of a four-year-old child. She believed that Mishka would stand guard for Serge through all the hospital overnights to come. Her be－lief was magic. My daughter had given her father more than a stuffed bear; she had given him a talis－man against fear.