Cookies, Forgotten and Forgiven
As I sat perched in the second-floor window of our brick schoolhouse that afternoon, my heart began to sink further with each passing car. This was a day I’d looked forward to for weeks: Miss Pace’s fourth-grade, end-of-the-year party. Miss Pace had kept a running countdown on the blackboard all that week, and our class of nine-year-olds had bordered on insurrection by the time the much-anticipated “party Friday” had arrived.
I had happily volunteered my mother when Miss Pace requested cookie volunteers. Mom’s chocolate chips reigned supreme on our block, and I knew they’d be a hit with my classmates. But two o’clock passed, and there was no sign of her. Most of the other mothers had already come and gone, dropping off their offerings of punch and crackers, chips, cupcakes and brownies. My mother was missing in action.
“Don’t worry, Robbie, she’ll be along soon,” Miss Pace said as I gazed forlornly down at the street. I looked at the wall clock just in time to see its black minute hand shift to half-past.
Around me, the noisy party raged on, but I wouldn’t budge from my window watch post. Miss Pace did her best to coax me away, but I stayed put, holding out hope that the familiar family car would round the corner, carrying my rightfully embarrassed mother with a tin of her famous cookies tucked under her arm.
The three o’clock bell soon jolted me from my thoughts and I dejectedly grabbed my book bag from my desk and shuffled out the door for home.
On the four-block walk to our house, I plotted my revenge. I would slam the front door upon entering, refuse to return her hug when she rushed over to me, and vow never to speak to her again.
The house was empty when I arrived and I looked for a note on the refrigerator that might explain my mother’s absence, but found none. My chin quivered with a mixture of heartbreak and rage. For the first time in my life, my mother had let me down.
I was lying face-down on my bed upstairs when I heard her come through the front door.
“Robbie,” she called out a bit urgently. “Where are you?”
I could then hear her darting frantically from room to room, wondering where I could be. I remained silent. In a moment, she mounted the steps―the sounds of her footsteps quickening as she ascended the staircase.
When she entered my room and sat beside me on my bed, I didn’t move but instead stared blankly into my pillow refusing to acknowledge her presence.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” she said. “I just forgot. I got busy and forgot―plain and simple.”
I still didn’t move. “Don’t forgive her,” I told myself. “She humiliated you. She forgot you. Make her pay.”
Then my mother did something completely unexpected. She began to laugh. I could feel her shudder as the laughter shook her. It began quietly at first and then increased in its velocity and volume.
I was incredulous. How could she laugh at a time like this? I rolled over and faced her, ready to let her see the rage and disappointment in my eyes.
But my mother wasn’t laughing at all. She was crying. “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed softly. “I let you down. I let my little boy down.”
She sank down on the bed and began to weep like a little girl. I was dumbstruck. I had never seen my mother cry. To my understanding, mothers weren’t supposed to. I wondered if this was how I looked to her when I cried.
I desperately tried to recall her own soothing words from times past when I’d skinned knees or stubbed toes, times when she knew just the right thing to say. But in that moment of tearful plight, words of profundity abandoned me like a worn-out shoe.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I stammered as I reached out and gently stroked her hair. “We didn’t even need those cookies. There was plenty of stuff to eat. Don’t cry. It’s all right. Really.’
My words, as inadequate as they sounded to me, prompted my mother to sit up. She wiped her eyes, and a slight smile began to crease her tear-stained cheeks. I smiled back awkwardly, and she pulled me to her.
We didn’t say another word. We just held each other in a long, silent embrace. When we came to the point where I would usually pull away, I decided that, this time, I could hold on, perhaps, just a little bit longer.
妈妈的小甜饼
那天下午，我坐在学校砖楼二楼的窗沿上，看着一辆辆经过的汽车，心不断地往下沉。裴老师带的四年级班的年终派对将在那天举行，我已经盼了好几个星期了。那个星期，裴老师还在黑板上弄了个倒计时牌。当这个令人望穿秋水的“派对星期五”到来的时候，我们一班九岁大的孩子们兴奋得像炸开了锅一样。
在裴老师征召志愿者提供小甜饼的时候，我很开心地推荐了我母亲。妈妈做的巧克力片在我们那个街区是最最好吃的。我知道它们肯定会在同学们中大受欢迎。可是两点都过了，她还没有出现。其他同学的母亲大都已来过了，带来了她们做的饮料、饼干、薯条、蛋糕还有核仁巧克力饼。我的母亲却还不见踪影。
“别着急，罗比，她很快就会来的。”当我孤苦无望地盯着下面的大街时，裴老师对我说。我看了看墙上的钟，它黑色的分针刚好跳到两点半。
在我的周围，喧闹的派对正进行得如火如荼，而我却不愿从窗口这个观察站挪动半步。裴老师用尽办法对我好言相劝，我还是一动不动，不死心地期待着家里那辆熟悉的汽车转过街角，载着我那应该感到难为情的母亲，怀里抱着一罐她那出名的小甜饼。
三点的钟声把我从思绪中惊醒，我沮丧地从课桌上抓过书包，拖着步子出了门往家走。
离家步行只有四个街区，在路上我就计划好了怎么报复。我要一进门就砰地狠狠把门关上，她迎向我的时候不要和她拥抱，并发誓再也不跟她说话了。
当我回到家，屋子里空无一人。我到冰箱上找有没有她留下的便条，她也许会解释没去的原因，可那儿什么也没有。失望和愤怒一头袭来，我气得下巴直抖。生平第一次，母亲让我失望了。
我上楼去，在自己的床上趴着。这时楼下传来她进门的声音。
“罗比，”她略显焦急地唤我，“你在哪呢？”
我能听到她着魔似地逐个房间找我。我仍旧一声不吭。很快，她上楼了。脚步声显得越来越快。
她进到我的房间，挨着我在床上坐着。我茫然地盯着枕头一动不动，当她不存在一样。
“对不起，宝贝，”她说，“我忘掉了，我一忙就忘掉了，就是这样。”
我还是没动。“别原谅她，”我告诉自己，“她让你丢脸了，她把你给忘了。要给她点惩罚。”
接下来母亲做了一件我怎么也想不到的事。她开始笑，我感觉得到她笑得浑身颤动。开始还悄无声息，接着越来越急促，越来越大声。
我简直不敢相信，这个时候她还笑得出来？我翻过身，面朝着她，让她看到我眼睛里的愤怒和失望。
但母亲根本没有笑，她是在哭。“对不起，”她轻轻地抽泣着，“我让你失望了，我让我的小家伙失望了。”
她瘫倒在床上，开始像个小女孩一样地哭泣。我目瞪口呆。我从没看见母亲哭过。在我眼里，母亲是不会哭的。我想，我哭的时候在她眼里是不是也是这个样子。
我拼命回想过去当我蹭破膝盖、碰伤脚趾时她对我说的安慰话，那种时候她总是知道该说什么。可是在这个泪眼婆娑的时刻，我实在太没用，找不到一句情深意浓的话语。
“好了，妈妈，”我伸过手去轻轻抚摸她的头发，结结巴巴地说，“我们其实根本不需要那些小甜饼，那里有好多吃的东西。别哭了，没事，真的。”
我的话尽管自己听来也觉得苍白无力，却让母亲坐了起来。她擦了擦双眼，一丝微笑在她满是泪痕的脸上绽开。我也不好意思地笑了笑，然后她就把我拉到怀里。
我们再没有说话，只是默默地拥抱了很久很久。通常我们拥抱一会儿就会松开，但这次，我决定，也许，我会多坚持那么一会儿。
