Coming home from school that dark winter’s day so long ago, I was filled with anticipation1. I had a new issue of my favorite sports magazine tucked2 under my arm, and the house to myself. Dad was at work, my sister was away, and Mother wouldn’t be home from her new job for an hour. I bounded3 up the steps, burst into the living room and flopped on a light.
I was shocked into stillness by what I saw. Mother, pulled into a tight ball with her face in her hands, sat at the far end of the couch. She was crying. I had never seen her cry.
I approached cautiously and touched her shoulder.“Mother?” I said.“What’s happened?”
She took a long breath and managed a weak smile. “It’s nothing, really. Nothing important. Just that I’m going to lose this new job. I can’t type fast enough.” “But you’ve only been there three days,” I said. “You’ll catch on4.” I was repeating a line she had spoken to me a hundred times when I was having trouble learning to do something important to me.
“No,” she said sadly. “I always said I could do anything I set my mind to, and I still think I can in most things. But I can’t do this.”
I felt helpless and out of place5. At age 16 I still assumed Mother could do anything. Some years before, when we sold our ranch and moved to town, Mother had decided to open a day nursery. She had had no training, but that didn’t stand in her way. She sent away for6 correspondence courses in child care7, did the lessons and in six months formally qualified herself for the task. It wasn’t long before she had a full enrollment8 and a waiting list9. I accepted all this as a perfectly normal instance of Mother’s ability.
But neither the nursery nor the motel my parents bought later had provided enough income to send my sister and me to college. In two years I would be ready for college. In three more my sister would want to go. Time was running out, and Mother was frantic10 for ways to save money. It was clear that Dad could do no more than he was doing already—farming 80 acres in addition to holding a fulltime job.
A few months after we’d sold the motel, Mother arrived home with a used typewriter. It skipped between certain letters and the keyboard was soft11. At dinner that night I pronounced the machine a “piece of junk12.”
“That’s all we can afford,” Mother said. “It’s good enough to learn on.” And from that day on, as soon as the table was cleared and the dishes were done, Mother would disappear into her sewing room to practice. The slow tap, tap, tap went on some nights until midnight.
It was nearly Christmas when I heard Mother got a job at the radio station. I was not the least bit surprised, or impressed. But she was ecstatic13.
Monday, after her first day at work, I could see that the excitement was gone. Mother looked tired and drawn14. I responded by ignoring her.
Tuesday, Dad made dinner and cleaned the kitchen. Mother stayed in her sewing room, practicing. “Is Mother all right?” I asked Dad.
“She’s having a little trouble with her typing,” he said. “She needs to practice. I think she’d appreciate it if we all helped out a bit more.”
“I already do a lot,” I said, immediately on guard15.
“I know you do,” Dad said evenly. “And you may have to do more. You might just remember that she is working primarily so you can go to college.”
I honestly didn’t care. I wished she would just forget the whole thing.
My shock and embarrassment at finding Mother in tears on Wednesday was a perfect index16 of how little I understand the pressures on her. Sitting beside her on the couch, I began very slowly to understand.
“I guess we all have to fail sometime,” Mother said quietly. I could sense her pain and the tension of holding back17 the strong emotions that were interrupted by my arrival. Suddenly, something inside me turned. I reached out and put my arms around her.
She broke then. She put her face against my shoulder and sobbed. I held her close and didn’t try to talk. I knew I was doing what I should, what I could, and that it was enough. In that moment, feeling Mother’s back racked with emotion, I understood for the first time her vulnerability18. She was still my mother, but she was something more: a person like me, capable of19 fear and hurt and failure. I could feel her pain as she must have felt mine on a thousand occasions when I had sought comfort in her arms.
A week later Mother took a job selling dry goods20 at half the salary the radio station had offered.“It’s a job I can do,” she said simply. But the evening practice sessions on the old green typewriter continued. I had a very different feeling now when I passed her door at night and heard her tapping away. I knew there was something more going on in there than a woman learning to type.
When I left for college two years later, Mother had an office job with better pay and more responsibility. I have to believe that in some strange way she learned as much from her moment of defeat as I did, because several years later, when I had finished school and proudly accepted a job as a newspaper reporter, she had already been a journalist with our hometown paper for six months.
The old green typewriter sits in my office now, unrepaired. It is a memento21, but what it recalls for me is not quite what it recalled for Mother. When I’m having trouble with a story and think about giving up, or when I start to feel sorry for myself and think things should be easier for me, I roll a piece of paper into that cranky22 old machine and type, word by painful word, just the way Mother did. What I remember then is not her failure, but her courage, the courage to go ahead.
It’s the best memento anyone ever gave me.
多年前那个阴暗的冬日，我放学回家，心怀一份期盼。腋下夹着一本新到的我最喜欢的体育杂志，希望家里不会有别人。爸爸在上班，妹妹不在家，妈妈有了新的工作，一个小时之内不会回来。我跳上台阶，闯入客厅，“啪”地一声打开灯。
我顿时被眼前的场面惊呆了。只见妈妈身子紧缩成一团，双手掩面，坐在沙发的一角。她在哭。我以前从没见过她哭。
我小心翼翼地走上前去，碰了碰她的肩膀。我问：“妈妈，发生了什么事吗？”
她长长地吸了一口气，勉强挤出一丝笑容。“没什么，真的。没什么要紧的。只不过我这份新工作要保不住了。我打字不够快。”她说。“可是你才干了三天，”我说，“你会干好的。”后面这句话是我借用她的口头禅。每当我学做重要的事情遇到困难时，她总是对我说这句话，说了不下一百次。
“干不好。”她伤心地说。“我总说只要我下决心，我能做好任何事情。对大多数事情来说，我仍然认为我能行。可是打字这件事我做不了。”
我感到不知所措。16岁的我依然认为妈妈有能力做任何事情。几年前，我们家卖了牧场，搬到城里来时，妈妈决定要开一家日间托儿所。在这方面她从没受过任何训练，但这并没有阻止她成功。她参加了儿童护理函授课程的学习，做功课，只用了6个月时间，便可以正式胜任托儿所的工作了。托儿所很快招生满额，而且还有许多孩子等着要进来。我把这一切都看作是对妈妈能力完全正常的反应。
但无论是托儿所还是我父母后来买的汽车旅馆，都不能够赚到足够的钱来送我和妹妹上大学。我过两年就要上大学了，之后再过三年我妹妹也要上大学。时间飞快地流逝，妈妈想方设法存钱。很显然，父亲除了做好他手头的工作之外，已经无能为力。父亲有一份全职工作，还耕种了80英亩土地。
我们卖掉汽车旅馆几个月后，妈妈抱回一台旧打字机。打字机打到有些字母时会跳字，键盘也已经松动。那天晚上吃饭时，我宣称这台机器是一件废物。
妈妈说：“我们只买得起这样的打字机。用来练习打字已经够好的了。”从那天起，妈妈只要一收拾好餐桌、洗好碗碟，就马上钻进她的裁缝间去练习打字。有些夜晚，妈妈缓慢敲击键盘的声音会持续到午夜。
大约是在圣诞节，我听说妈妈在电台找到了一份工作。我一点也不感到惊奇，也不觉得有什么新鲜。可她却是欣喜若狂。
可到了星期一，她上完第一天班后，我看得出她的那种兴奋之情已经荡然无存了。妈妈显得疲惫而憔悴。我却没理睬她。
星期二，爸爸做晚餐并收拾厨房。妈妈呆在缝纫间里不停地打字。“妈妈没事吧？”我问爸爸。
“她打字打得不太熟练。”爸爸说，“她需要练习。我想如果大家再帮帮她，她会非常感谢的。”
“我已经做了很多事了。”我马上警惕地说。
“我知道你做了很多事，但你可以再多做点儿。你要记住，她上班主要是为了你能够上大学。”爸爸平和地回答。
说实话，我才不在乎呢。我倒希望她把这整个事儿都忘掉。
可星期三那天，妈妈的眼泪让我感到震惊和窘迫，这种震惊和窘迫充分表明我对妈妈身上压力的了解少得多么可怜。我在沙发上挨她坐着，开始慢慢地理解她。
“我想我们大家都有失败的时候。”妈妈平静地说。我能感觉到她的痛苦和她在我面前压抑着强烈感情时的紧张。突然，我的内心一阵触动。我不由地伸出手去抱住了妈妈。
她当即就失去了控制。她把脸贴在我的肩上抽泣起来。我紧紧地抱着她，默默无语。我知道我在做我应该做的事情、我能够做的事情，我也知道这样就足够了。就在那一刻，我感到妈妈的后背在剧烈地抽动，我第一次了解到她的脆弱。她依然是我的妈妈，但又不止于此——她是个跟我一样的人，会害怕，会受伤，会失败。我感觉得到她的痛苦，就像她一定感觉到过我的痛苦一样——我曾一千次地在她怀里寻求过安慰。
一个星期后，妈妈找到了一份销售纺织品的工作，薪水只有电台那份工作的一半。“这是我能胜任的工作。”妈妈只是简单地说了这么一句。但是她继续每天晚上在那台破旧的绿色打字机上练习打字。如今当我晚上路过她的房门，听到她噼噼啪啪的打字声，我有了一种完全不同的感受。我知道，那房间里面不仅仅是一位妇女在学打字。
两年后我上了大学，妈妈找了一份办公室的工作，有了更高的薪水，肩负着更大的责任。我不得不相信，妈妈跟我一样从她的失败中学到了很多东西，因为几年后，当我大学毕业并骄傲地当上了一家报社的记者时，她已经成为我们家乡报纸的一名新闻记者，并且已经干了6个月了。
如今那台破旧的绿色打字机摆在我的办公室里，我没有修它。它是一个纪念物，但我对它的回忆不同于妈妈对它的回忆。当我写报道遇到困难而打算放弃时，或是当我为自己感到难过而怨天尤人时，我就在那台松松垮垮的机器上卷上一张纸，开始痛苦地打字，一个词接着一个词，就像妈妈当年那样。这时候，我记起的不是她的失败，而是她的勇气，她一往无前的精神。
这台打字机是我这辈子收到的最好的纪念物。
1. anticipation n. 期待，期盼
2. tuck v. 塞
3. bound v. 跳跃，弹跳
4. catch on 赶上；学会
5. out of place 不合适
6. send away for函购；函索
7. child care儿童保育，儿童护理
8. full enrollment招生满额
9. waiting list候选人名单，等候者名单
10. frantic adj. 疯狂的，发疯似的
11. soft adj. 松弛的
12. a piece of junk一件废物
13. ecstatic adj. 欣喜若狂的；心醉神迷的
14. drawn adj. 憔悴的
15. on guard警惕；准备防御
16. index n. 表征；标记
17. hold back抑制；隐瞒
18. vulnerability ] n. 弱点；易受伤
19. capable of有…倾向的，容易招致…的
20. dry goods纺织品；布匹
21. memento n. 纪念品，纪念物
22. cranky adj. 松散的；有毛病的