瑪莎·魯塞爾·徐/Martha Russell Hsu
“I keep worrying about Martha,”my mother said as we sat in the hospital corridor, waiting for my father to be examined by the doctor.“We left her playing in the yard and didn’t tell her where we were going. I hope she’s not sitting somewhere crying.”
I wiped away tears that were streaming down my cheeks.“But I’m Martha. I’m right here with you.”I tried to reassure her.
“No, not you.”my mother answered,“My little Martha.”
Fears of abandonment, past and present, enveloped us as we tried to adjust to my father’s sudden incapacity.
The call had come the night before. My father had fallen and broken his hip;an operation to replace the hip joint was scheduled for the next morning. A friend was staying with my mother for the night.“I’ll come as soon as I can-on the early morning plane.”I promised.
My mother and father, married for fifty-eight years, had never had a serious emergency before, although my mother had become increasingly confused in the last several months.“And is your mother still alive?”she had asked me on my last visit, with a sociable interest in the young woman she had never seen before. Now, with the daily routine disrupted and the nearly constant companionship of my father removed, her disorientation was more severe.
“But I’m worried about Martha.”my mother said again when we had returned home and sat down for lunch.“I m going out to look for her.”
“But I’m Martha.”I tried again.“Little Martha grew up and turned into me.”
“That’s ridiculous.”my mother said. She tugged open the front door, went out to the street, and stood tensely. Looking up and down for the little girl she was sure she had seen just that morning. No one in sight. Then to the back of the house and through the back lot to the other street.“I’m going to ask those people over there if they’ve seen her.”My mother, becoming increasingly frantic, was ready to plunge into traffic and cross the busy street.