不寻常的“礼物”

I was 12 years old when my mum finally 1）cajoled my grandmother into buying a one-way ticket to Texas. It was 1994， and my grandmother―an 2）azure-eyed， high-cheeked beauty―was already well into the mid-stages of Alzheimer’s disease. It had been a few months since my family had last seen her and we weren’t sure what to expect. “Do you still have the same 3）plaid suitcases？” My mother asked my grandmother at the airport， as we eyed the 4）baggage carousel. “Oh，” my grandmother said.“I forgot to bring anything！ I guess we’ll have to go shopping.” To conceal our dismay， my parents and I turned back to the whirring 5）conveyor belts， which soon spat out the familiar plaid bags.

A week or so later， we all took a trip to the 6）Dallas Museum of Art. In the museum gift shop， my grandmother bought for me a children’s book about the 7）Rosetta Stone. To my significant disappointment， I saw on the book’s cover that the Rosetta Stone was not the fist-sized jewel I had imagined； it was just a cracked slab of granite with a bunch of ancient scribbling. It might not look like much， my grandmother told me， but this was the key that unlocked the mysteries of ancient Egypt. The Rosetta Stone， I read in that book， had been found only a couple of hundred years ago， and its 8）inscription was just the boasting of some minor Pharaoh from the dying Egyptian empire. And yet， the Stone displayed the same message written in three languages， and it had been the close study of it that made legible the Egyptians’animal-cracker markings， a cipher that unlocked all the great texts written on the stones and scrolls of a long-dead kingdom. A few days later， in return， we gave my grandmother the gift of a 9）leather-bound， 10）gilded journal. My parents and I encouraged her to write down her thoughts and memories in it. We tried to be encouraging， we tried to stay hopeful， but at 2：15am on September 9 of that year， we lost her thoughts and memories forever. My grandmother slipped while wandering through my aunt’s dark house and fell to her death at the base of the basement-black staircase.

Many years passed， I grew up and then I grew older. Yet I also wondered if， in some ways， I was growing backward， into my family’s past. When I was 20―after a five-day， electric bout of insomnia―a doctor gave me the same diagnosis， 11）bipolar disorder， that another doctor had once given my grandfather， just a few years before his early， mysterious death. Then， just as my mum had once 12）fretted over the slips and omissions in my grandmother’s memory， I began to make similarly fretful assessments of my mum. In these， and in many other ways as well， my own future felt bound to my grandmother’s deep and silent history， all the stories that we had also lost when we lost her.

One summer day， when I was 25， I searched my family’s house for something to read. Scanning the contents of an old pile of books that a housekeeper had long ago boxed and put in a closet， my eyes caught on a familiar 13）spine， and I slipped it free. In my hands was the journal we had given my grandmother， 13 years before.

I held my breath as I cracked open the front cover， hoping for something impossible―a story of her life？ A full account of everything she wanted me to know？ On the very first page my grandmother had written two 14）cryptic sentences：“Function in disaster. Finish in style.” The rest of those dusty， gilded pages were blank.

Function in disaster. Finish in style. I Googled those words and learned that they were not originally hers―it was a quote from a famous American schoolteacher. Why had my grandmother written it？

Maybe it was just something she 15）jotted down， some 16）aphorism she heard， liked and wished to remember. Still， preceding the hundreds of empty pages of her journal， it was impossible not to read those two short， imperative sentences as an 17）epigraph， or else a concluding moral， to the blanked story of her life.

Function in disaster. Finish in style. I imagined my grandmother in the chaotic midst of herlife， with four young daughters and a husband in a mental asylum， barely managing， and yet never relinquishing the coolly radiant elegance that is so plainly visible in any photograph of her.

Function in disaster. Finish in style. The spirit of that sentiment attached to the few facts I knew about her history， and more images and words came―I knew they were more the imagined stuff of my own hopes and worries than actual history， but they felt indelible. I wrote them down.

Function in disaster. Finish in Style： it might only have been a simple quotation， words that were not even her own， but it became the Rosetta Stone by which I translated her silence into my imagination. Soon I had filled three hundred blank pages， a book I titled The Storm at the Door.

The Rosetta Stone was found by accident， my grandmother once told me. It had been there all along， but no one had seen it for what it was. A feather of wonderment brushed my 12-yearold spine as I sat to read.

I don’t know if my grandmother meant to leave those sentences for me to discover， just as I can’t ever know the full story of the disasters in which she managed to function. But I can’t imagine a better final gift， nor can I think of how she could have given it to me with any more wondrous style.