The Other Mother

Theodora wakes at two in the afternoon, which is the first sign that something is wrong, since she has never in her life slept through a school day. Her head feels packed with wet wool. The room tilts when she turns it. On the bedside table, where nothing stood last night, there is a glass of water with a straw in it, two small tablets on a folded napkin and a thermometer. They are laid out in a row as neatly as instruments on a tray.

西奥多拉下午两点才醒来，这已经是出了问题的第一个迹象，因为她这辈子从没在上学日睡过头。她觉得脑袋里像塞满了湿羊毛，一转头，房间就跟着倾斜。床头柜上，昨晚还什么都没有的地方，现在放着一杯插着吸管的水，一张折好的餐巾纸上摆着两片小药片，还有一支体温计。它们排成一行，整齐得像托盘上的医疗器械。

Her father is three time zones away at a conference he could not move. He rang yesterday, sounding guilty, and Theodora said she was fine, which in retrospect was her second mistake. The first was assuming that being fine and being alone were the same thing. For two years, ever since Tabitha moved in with her careful boxes and her mild, level voice, Theodora has run a campaign of cool, polished politeness. "Thanks," she says to the dinners. "Sure," she says to the questions. She has never once said anything that could be quoted back to her.

她爸爸在三个时区之外，参加一个他没法改期的会议。他昨天打了电话，听上去满怀愧疚，西奥多拉说她没事，现在回想起来，这是她的第二个错误。第一个错误，是以为没事和一个人待着是一回事。两年来，自从塔比莎带着她那些整整齐齐的箱子、温和平稳的声音搬进来，西奥多拉就一直在打一场冷淡、光滑、客客气气的持久战。“谢谢，”她对每顿晚饭说。“好的，”她对每个问题说。她从没说过一句能被人拿来反过来引用的话。

Tabitha appears in the doorway without being called, as though she had been measuring the silence from the hall. She works on a hospital ward, a fact Theodora has always filed under reasons she is boring. She does the next ten minutes the way Theodora imagines she does them there: a hand on the forehead, two fingers on the wrist, a few quiet questions that are not really questions. When did it start. Any pain here. Can you swallow. "Thirty-nine point one," she reads at last, and her face does absolutely nothing. It is that nothing, more than any alarm, that makes Theodora's stomach drop.

塔比莎没人叫就出现在门口，好像她一直站在走廊里量着这份安静。她在医院病房工作，西奥多拉一向把这个事实归在“她为什么无聊”那一栏里。接下来的十分钟，她做的事，就像西奥多拉想象中她在那里做的一样：一只手按在额头上，两根手指搭在手腕上，问几个并不真是问题的问题。什么时候开始的。这里疼吗。能咽东西吗。“三十九点一，”她终于读出数字，脸上一点反应也没有。比起任何惊慌，正是这份毫无反应，让西奥多拉的胃一沉。

"It's probably the flu that's going round," Tabitha says. "But I've rung the doctor's line, and a nurse will call back within the hour. If it climbs, we go in. If it doesn't, we wait." She says we. Theodora hears it and tries to file it under the usual heading, and the heading no longer fits.

“多半是最近流行的那种流感，”塔比莎说，“不过我已经打了医生的热线，一小时内会有护士回电话。要是烧继续往上升，我们就去医院。要是没有，我们就等着。”她说的是“我们”。西奥多拉听见了，想把它照例归进老地方，可那个栏目已经装不下了。

The afternoon passes in small, precise efficiencies. Tabitha changes the pillowcase without making her sit up. She appears with a soup that is almost entirely broth, because, she explains, "the first rule is to keep it down, not to enjoy it." An hour later she appears with a second thermometer, as if she does not trust the first. Only when the glass is set down does Theodora notice the thing itself: it is on the left, the side her hand always reaches for. Tabitha has been paying attention for two years to a person who has spent that time looking straight past her.

下午在一件件细小而精准的忙碌中过去。塔比莎换枕套，没让她坐起来。她端来一碗几乎全是清汤的汤，因为，她解释说：“第一条规矩是让它留在胃里，不是让你喝着开心。”一小时后，她又拿来第二支体温计，好像不太信任第一支。直到杯子放下来的时候，西奥多拉才注意到那件事本身：它放在左边，那是她的手总会去够的一边。塔比莎两年来一直在留意一个人，而这个人这些年一直在从她身边直直地看过去。

Towards evening the fever breaks. Propped against two pillows in the damp, rinsed-out quiet that follows, Theodora listens to Tabitha moving in the corridor outside, folding something, pausing, folding again. Had it been the other way round, she knows exactly what she would have done, and the knowledge sits in her chest like a swallowed stone. She would have knocked once, said "Do you need anything?" and gone back to her room.

傍晚时分，烧退了。西奥多拉靠在两个枕头上，在那种潮湿、被冲洗过一般的安静里，听着塔比莎在门外走廊里走动，折点什么，停一下，又折一次。要是情形反过来，她清楚自己会怎么做，这份认识像一块咽下去的石头，压在她胸口。她会敲一下门，问一句“你需要什么吗？”，然后回自己的房间。

"You don't have to stay," she says, when Tabitha comes in for the tray. It is meant to be the old voice, the cool one, but it comes out cracked.

“你不用留下来，”塔比莎进来收托盘时，她说。本想用老样子的声音，那种冷冷的声音，可说出来却是哑的。

"I know I don't," says Tabitha.

“我知道我不用，”塔比莎说。

For a while neither of them speaks. The streetlight comes on outside, orange against the curtain. Then Theodora, who has not asked this woman for anything in two years, turns her face to the wall and says, "Could you stay until I'm asleep?"

好一会儿，两个人都没说话。窗外的路灯亮了，在窗帘上映出橙黄的光。然后，两年来没向这个女人要求过任何东西的西奥多拉，把脸转向墙壁，说：“你能留下，等我睡着吗？”

Tabitha pulls the desk chair over to the bed and sits down. She does not say a word.

塔比莎把书桌前的椅子拉到床边，坐了下来。她一个字也没说。