相約星期二

米奇·阿爾博姆（Mitch Albom），美國著名暢銷書作家、專欄作家、電臺主持人、電視評論員，此外還是活躍的慈善活動家。迄今為止，阿爾博姆已出版九部暢銷著作，包括《相約星期二》（Tuesdays with Morrie）、《你在天堂遇到的五個人》（The Five People You Meet in the Heaven）、《一日重生》（For One More Day）等。

It was cold and damp as I walked up the steps to Morries house. I took in little details， things I hadnt noticed for all the times Id visited. The cut of the hill. The stone facade of the house. The pachysandra plants， the low shrubs. I walked slowly， taking my time， stepping on dead wet leaves that flattened beneath my feet.

Charlotte had called the day before to tell me Morrie was not doing well. This was her way of saying the final days had arrived. Morrie had canceled all of his appointments and had been sleeping much of the time， which was unlike him. He never cared for sleeping， not when there were people he could talk with.

“He wants you to come visit，” Charlotte said，“but， Mitch…”

Yes？

“Hes very weak.”

The porch steps. The glass in the front door. I absorbed these things in a slow， observant manner， as if seeing them for the first time.

Connie answered the bell. Normally buoyant， she had a drawn look on her face. Her hello was softly spoken.

Hows he doing？ I said.

“Not so good.” She bit her lower lip. “I dont like to think about it. Hes such a sweet man， you know？”

I knew.

“This is such a shame”.

Charlotte came down the hall and hugged me. She said that Morrie was still sleeping， even though it was 10 A.M. We went into the kitchen. I helped her straighten up， noticing all the bottles of pills lined up on the table， a small army of brown plastic soldiers with white caps. My old professor was taking morphine now to ease his breathing.

I put the food I had brought with me into the refrigerator—soup， vegetable cakes， tuna salad. I apologized to Charlotte for bringing it. Morrie hadnt chewed food like this in months， we both knew that， but it had become a small tradition. Sometimes， when youre losing someone， you hang on to whatever tradition you can.

I waited in the living room， where Morrie and Ted Koppel had done their first interview. I read the newspaper that was lying on the table. Two Minnesota children had shot each other playing with their fathers guns. A baby had been found buried in a garbage can in an alley in Los Angeles.

I put down the paper and stared into the empty fireplace. I tapped my shoe lightly on the hardwood floor. Eventually， I heard a door open and close， then Charlottes footsteps coming toward me.

“All right，” she said softly. “Hes ready for you.”

I rose and I turned toward our familiar spot， then saw a strange woman sitting at the end of the hall in a folding chair， her eyes on a book， her legs crossed. This was a hospice nurse， part of the twenty-four-hour watch.

Morries study was empty. I was confused. Then I turned back hesitantly to the bedroom， and there he was， lying in bed， under the sheet. I had seen him like this only one other time—when he was getting massaged—and the echo of his aphorism “When youre in bed， youre dead” began anew inside my head.

I entered， pushing a smile onto my face. He wore a yellow pajama-like top， and a blanket covered him from the chest down. The lump of his form was so withered that I almost thought there was something missing. He was as small as a child.

Morries mouth was open， and his skin was pale and tight against his cheekbones. When his eyes rolled toward me， he tried to speak， but I heard only a soft grunt.

There he is， I said， mustering all the excitement I could find in my empty till.

He exhaled， shut his eyes， then smiled， the very effort seeming to tire him.

“My…dear…friend…” he finally said.

I am your friend， I said.

Im not…so good today…”

Tomorrow will be better.

He pushed out another breath and forced a nod. He was struggling with something beneath the sheets， and I realized he was trying to move his hands toward the opening.

“Hold…” he said.

I pulled the covers down and grasped his fingers. They disappeared inside my own. I leaned in close， a few inches from his face. It was the first time I had seen him unshaven， the small white whiskers looking so out of place， as if someone had shaken salt neatly across his cheeks and chin. How could there be new life in his beard when it was draining everywhere else？

Morrie， I said softly. “Coach，” he corrected.

Coach， I said. I felt a shiver. He spoke in short bursts， inhaling air， exhaling words. His voice was thin and raspy. He smelled of ointment.

“You…are a good soul.” A good soul.

“Touched me…” he whispered. Moved my hands to his heart. “Here.”

It felt as if I had a pit in my throat. Coach？

“Ahh？”

I dont know how to say good-bye.

He patted my hand weakly， keeping it on his chest.

“This…is how we say…good-bye…”

He breathed softly， in and out. I could feel his ribcage rise and fall. Then he looked right at me.

“Love…you，” he rasped.

I love you， too， Coach.

“Know you do…know…something else…”

What else do you know？

“You…always have…”

His eyes got small， and then he cried， his face contorting like a baby who hasnt figured how his tear ducts work. I held him close for several minutes. I rubbed his loose skin. I stroked his hair. I put a palm against his face and felt the bones close to the flesh and the tiny wet tears， as if squeezed from a dropper.

When his breathing approached normal again， I cleared my throat and said I knew he was tired， so I would be back next Tuesday， and I expected him to be a little more alert， thank you. He snorted lightly， as close as he could come to a laugh. It was a sad sound just the same.

I leaned in and kissed him closely， my face against his， whiskers on whiskers， skin on skin， holding it there， longer than normal， in case it gave him even a split second of pleasure.

Okay， then？ I said， pulling away.

I blinked back the tears， and he smacked his lips together and raised his eyebrows at the sight of my face. I like to think it was a fleeting moment of satisfaction for my dear old professor： he had finally made me cry.

“Okay， then，” he whispered.

Morrie died on a Saturday morning.

His immediate family was with him in the house. Rob made it in from Tokyo， he got to kiss his father good-bye， and Jon was there， and of course Charlotte was there and Charlottes cousin Marsha， who had written the poem that so moved Morrie at his “unofficial” memorial serve， the poem that likened him to a “tender sequoia.” They slept in shifts around his bed. Morrie had fallen into a coma two days after our final visit， and the doctor said he could go at any moment. Instead， he hung on， through a tough afternoon， through a dark night.

Finally， on the fourth of November， when those he loved had left the room just for a moment—to grab coffee in the kitchen， the first time none of them were with him since the coma began—Morrie stopped breathing.

And he was gone.

I believe he died this way on purpose. I believe he wanted no chilling moments， no one to witness his last breath and be haunted by it， the way he had been haunted by his mothers death notice telegram or by his fathers corpse in the city morgue.

I believe he knew that he was in his own bed， that his books and his notes and his small hibiscus plant were nearby. He wanted to go serenely， and that is how he went.

The funeral was held on a damp， windy morning. The grass was wet and the sky was the color of milk. We stood by the hole in the earth， close enough to hear the pond water lapping against the edge and to see ducks shaking off their feathers.

Although hundreds of people had wanted to attend， Charlotte kept this gathering small， just a few close friends and relatives. Rabbi Axelrod read a few poems. Morries brother， David， who still walked with a limp from his childhood polio， lifted the shovel and tossed dirt in the grave， as per tradition.

At one point， when Morries ashes were placed into the ground， I glanced around the cemetery. Morrie was right. It was indeed a lovely spot， trees and grass and a sloping hill.

“You talk， Ill listen，” he had said.

I tried doing that in my head and， to my happiness， found that the imagined conversation felt almost natural. I looked down at my hands， saw my watch and realized why.

It was Tuesday.

天氣又濕又冷，我踏上了莫里家的門階。我注意到一些小細(xì)節(jié)，一些以往來訪時從未注意過的地方——山的輪廓、房子的石墻立面、富貴草、低矮的灌木叢。我慢慢地走著，不慌不忙，踩著腳下潮濕的枯葉走去。

前一天，夏洛特打電話告訴我莫里的狀況不太好了。這是她的表達(dá)方式，意思是莫里快不行了。莫里取消了所有的預(yù)約，大多數(shù)時間都在睡覺，這不像是他會做的事。他從來都不喜歡睡覺，尤其是當(dāng)有人能跟他聊天時。

“他希望你能過來看看，”夏洛特說，“但是，米奇……”

嗯？

“他很虛弱。”

門廊的臺階，前門的玻璃。我慢慢地、專心致志地觀察著這一切，仿佛是第一次見到這些東西。

康妮過來應(yīng)的門。她平時歡快的面容此刻顯得憂心忡忡。她向我輕聲問好。

他怎么樣了？我說道。

“不太好。”她咬了咬下唇?！拔也辉溉ハ脒@事兒。他是多好的一個人啊，你知道的，不是嗎？”

我知道。

“真叫人遺憾?！?/p>

夏洛特來到了客廳，給我一個擁抱。她說莫里還在睡覺，盡管現(xiàn)在已經(jīng)是早上十點了。我們走進(jìn)了廚房。我?guī)退帐笆帐?。我注意到桌子上擺放著一排藥瓶，宛如一列頭戴白帽，身穿棕色塑料裝的士兵。我的老教授如今得靠服用嗎啡來保持呼吸暢順。

我把帶來的食物放進(jìn)冰箱——湯、蔬菜蛋糕、吞拿魚沙拉。我為此向夏洛特說了聲抱歉。莫里已經(jīng)有好幾個月不吃這樣的食物了，我們都知道這點，但這已成為了一個小傳統(tǒng)。有時，當(dāng)你快要失去一個人之際，你就會牢牢抓住那些可以保留的傳統(tǒng)。

我在客廳等著，泰德·科佩爾就是在這里第一次對莫里進(jìn)行采訪的。我拿起桌上的報紙來看。兩個明尼蘇達(dá)州的孩子在玩他們父親的手槍時互相射中了對方。在洛杉磯的一條小巷子里發(fā)現(xiàn)了一個嬰兒被埋在垃圾箱里。

我把報紙放下，凝視著空蕩蕩的壁爐，用鞋子輕輕地敲著硬木地板。最后，我聽到門開了又關(guān)的聲音，然后夏洛特的腳步向我走近。

“好了，”她輕聲說道?！八麥?zhǔn)備好了，在等你?！?/p>

我起身走去我們熟悉的地方，然后，我看到了一個陌生的女人坐在走廊盡頭的一張折疊椅上，她翹著腳在看書。這是安養(yǎng)院一名二十四小時值班護(hù)士。

莫里的書房沒有人。我感到很疑惑。然后我猶豫著回過頭，去臥房，他就在那里，躺在床上，身上蓋著一張?zhí)鹤印Ｎ抑灰娺^一次他是這副模樣——他在做按摩的時候——而他的警句開始在我腦海里回響：“臥躺在床，便是死人?！?/p>

我走了進(jìn)去，臉上硬擠出一個微笑。他穿了件類似睡衣的黃色上衣，胸部以下蓋著一張?zhí)鹤印Ｋ纳眢w萎縮得這般厲害，我差點以為他少了哪個部位。他瘦小得像個孩子。

莫里的嘴巴張開著，皮膚緊緊貼著臉上的頰骨，臉色蒼白黯淡。當(dāng)他的目光轉(zhuǎn)向我時，他試圖開口說話，但我只聽到輕輕的哼哼聲。

你在這兒，我說道，盡我所能地裝出一副興奮的樣子。

他呼了口氣，閉上眼睛，然后露出一個微笑，似乎這是個費勁的動作。

“我……親愛的……朋友……”他終于說出話來。

我是你的朋友，我說道。

“我今天……感覺不太好……”

明天會好點的。

他又呼了口氣，竭力地點點頭。他在毯子下費力掙扎，我意識到他在努力把手伸出來。

“握住……”他說道。

我把毯子拉了下來，握住他的手指，用手掌包住它們。我傾身靠近他，離他的臉只有幾英寸遠(yuǎn)。這是我第一次見他沒刮胡子，那些小小的白色須頭看起來是那么的礙眼，就好像有誰把鹽整齊地撒在他的臉頰和下巴上似的。他的胡子還有著生命力，但他身體的其他地方都在衰竭，怎么會這樣呢？

莫里，我輕聲說道?！敖叹?，”他糾正我。

教練，我改口道。我感到一陣戰(zhàn)栗。他說話短促，猛吸著氣，吐字急促。他的聲音又細(xì)又尖，身上聞起來有一股藥膏的味道。

“你……是個好人?！焙萌恕?/p>

“摸摸我……”他呢喃道。把我的手放在他的心頭?！斑@里?！?/p>

我感到喉頭梗塞。教練？

“嗯？”

我不知道該怎么說再見。

他輕輕地拍著我的手，放在他的胸膛上。

“我們……就這樣說……再見……”

他輕輕地呼吸，吸氣、呼氣。我能感覺得到他胸腔的起伏。然后他直直地看著我。

“愛……你，”他粗聲說道。

我也愛你，教練。

“知道你……知道……還……”

你還知道什么？

“你……總是……”

他的眼睛瞇了起來，哭了，他的臉像個不懂淚腺功能的嬰兒一般扭曲著。我緊緊地?fù)肀Я怂麕追昼?。我揉著他那松弛的皮膚，撫摸著他的頭發(fā)，把一只手掌放到他臉上，感覺到了皮肉下的骨頭以及那像是從滴管擠出的極小滴的濕潤的眼淚。

當(dāng)他的呼吸再次趨于平緩后，我清了清嗓子，說我知道他累了，所以我下個星期二再過來，我期待他到時能精神點，謝謝。他輕輕地呼哧一聲，很像是笑聲，但聽來還是那么令人悲傷。

我俯下身子，緊緊地親著他，我們臉貼著臉、胡須貼著胡須，皮膚貼著皮膚，一動不動，時間比平常都要長久，我希望這能帶給他哪怕一秒鐘的快樂。

就這樣，再見？我說道，準(zhǔn)備離開。

我眨著眼睛忍住眼淚，他看見我的面容后，咂了咂嘴唇，揚起了眉毛。我視之為這位親愛的老教授心滿意足的一刻：他最終還是讓我哭了。

“就這樣，再見，”他低聲說道。

莫里在一個星期六的早上去世了。

他的親人都在屋子里陪著他。羅伯從東京趕了回來，與他的父親吻別。喬恩也在那里，當(dāng)然還有夏洛特和她的表妹瑪莎，瑪莎在那次非正式的葬禮上寫的那首詩使莫里深受感動，那首詩把莫里比作一棵“溫柔的紅杉”。他們輪流睡在莫里的床邊。在我們最后一次見面的兩天后，莫里就陷入了昏迷。醫(yī)生說他可能隨時都會離開。然而，他仍然在堅持著，他熬過了一個艱難的下午，熬過了一個黑暗的夜晚。

最后，在11月4日那天，當(dāng)那些莫里愛的人剛離開房間一會兒——去廚房拿咖啡，這也是他昏迷后第一次沒有人在他的身邊——他就停止呼吸了。

他就這樣走了。

我相信他是有意以這樣的方式離世的。我相信他不想有這么令人寒戰(zhàn)的時刻，他不想有人目睹他斷氣的樣子并為此感到痛苦，就像他為看到那份通知他母親死亡的電報和市太平間里父親的尸體而感到痛苦一樣。

我相信他知道他就在自己的床上，知道他的書、他的筆記和他的小木槿都在身旁。他想要安靜地離去，而這也正是他離去的方式。

葬禮在一個潮濕、起風(fēng)的早晨舉行。草地濕漉漉的，天空是牛奶的顏色。我們站在土坑的旁邊，近得足以聽到池水拍打著塘邊的聲音，還能看到鴨子抖落羽毛的情形。

雖然有成百上千的人想來參加，但是夏洛特并沒有鋪張，來參加的只有一些親朋好友。阿克塞爾羅德拉比朗讀了幾首詩。按照習(xí)俗，莫里的弟弟——大衛(wèi)，舉鏟將泥土灑向墓穴，小兒麻痹癥使他落下了跛腳的后遺癥。

當(dāng)莫里的骨灰下葬時，我朝墓地四周看了看。莫里說得沒錯。這里確實是個不錯的地方，樹木、青草、還有一個斜坡。

“你說，我聽。”他這么說過。

我試著在腦海里這樣做，讓我感到快樂的是，我發(fā)現(xiàn)那想象的對話幾乎沒有違和感。我低頭看著雙手，看到了我的手表，明白了這是為什么。

今天是星期二。