苇絮飘飘

我特别喜欢这个故事，I guess 我喜欢这种平铺直叙的叙事方式。

The Mountain
by Aknier
My mother said that out of all five of her children, I was the easiest baby. I think what she meant was that I hardly cried, rarely fussed and was generally asleep which I guess was a good thing for her. As the fourth of five, she had a lot to deal with before she could get to me. So I made it easier for her.
I kept doing it as I grew up. If one of my siblings dropped their ice cream, I’d give them mine so they’d stop making a scene. When someone had to sit in a middle seat, you can bet that’s where my car seat would be strapped. In fifth grade, when Clara Gomez stole my cookie from my lunch box, I just shrugged, and ate my carrot sticks.
My nickname was “montanita”, little mountain. Because I was never moved, never bothered, always calm. In seventh grade, I broke my leg, but I didn’t tell anyone for three days. I just gritted my teeth and hopped along. Until my father found me crying on the bathroom floor. He took me to the hospital, and bought me a cast we couldn’t afford.
And when the kids at school called me a cripple. Well, you can guess what I did. In high school, my little sister Sofia was getting picked on by some boys. I pretended I didn’t see it happen. But that night, I switched out her too-small uniform skirt for mine. She stopped getting teased, and I wore pants for the rest of the year.
When my college Algebra professor lost my test and made me retake it, I just nodded and did it. When I got catcalled walking across campus, I just looked down at the ground.
And you, the first day you came up to me and offered to buy me coffee, I was sure you were making fun of me too. So I stayed quiet. Eventually, you flashed me that blinding smile and told me, “Guess I’ll take that as a yes, then.”
I think I said about three words to you that first day. But I gave you my number and answered when you called. At first, I think, you just thought I was shy.
But as the months went on and things got more serious, you started to get upset when I didn’t tell you things. When I got fired from my part-time job and started skipping lunch to afford my textbooks. I didn’t want to tell you, because I knew it’d upset you. I was right, wasn’t I? You were so mad when you figured it out. “Here!” You yelled, shoving money at me. “Take it! I don’t need it! You know I have a scholarship, you know my parents send me money, take the goddamn money!”
I just stood there. I’d never had someone yell at me while doing something nice before. When you noticed how stunned I was, you softened your voice.
“Please, it hurts me to see you starving yourself. Please, take the money.” For the first time ever, I talked back.
“Why?” You laughed at me “Because I love you, you idiot.” I took the money. But snuck most of it back into your wallet that night when you were asleep. For most of the time we dated, we never fought. Even when one of your friends tried to tell me you cheated on me. (I know you hadn’t, the friend was just a jerk.) When he tried to tell me, I just stared at him. Didn’t cry, or yell, or demand proof. That freaked the friend out a bit. He kept trying to convince me, but I stayed so calm he eventually gave up and admitted the truth. Later, you told me you couldn’t believe how amazing I was, to trust you so much. The truth was, I had no idea if it was the truth or not. I just didn’t react because I knew if I did it wouldn’t change the outcome. And I’d learned that staying calm in situations like that gave me the power.
Our marriage, too, had very few fights. If you didn’t take out the trash like you said you would, I did it. And when you noticed I’d done your chores, you felt so bad that you’d do some of mine to make it up. When our children misbehaved I never raised my voice, or screamed, or made a scene. I just asked them what they did. And eventually, they’d cave. Our oldest told me once it’d be much less scary if I’d just shout at them like dad did.
I figured I’d stay like I was. Calm, quiet, a peacemaker, nonreactive, for the rest of my life.
But you changed that. You jerk. When you died. When you died, it was like that frozen mountain of emotional outbursts inside me melted all at once. Nobody expected it when I started screaming and sobbing at the funeral. My older brother tried to take me outside. And I punched him in the jaw. I apologized later, of course. You’d hardly recognize me now, I think. It’s a lot harder for me to stare blankly now, and take things. Because I keep remembering you saying “Stand up for yourself! You deserve better, mi amor.”
And you’re not here anymore to stand up for me, or our kids. I don’t know how to describe it, exactly. What changed the moment you left this Earth, but it’s like I was blue one moment, and red the next.
Hard as ice before I melted into a hurricane. I was a mess for a year or two, I think, before I managed to get everything under control again. But even now, I’m not like I was. I’m still calm, and rational, and think before I speak. But if anything or anyone threatens our children or their happiness, I know I have to be the one to protect them.
And as anyone who has gone mountain climbing knows, the serene snow-covered peaks that look so tranquil from a distance, are the deadliest.