When I was five or six, I asked my mother if she had ever seen someone die. Yes, she said, she had seen one person die and had heard another one. I asked how you could hear a person die and she told me that it was a girl who had drowned off Prout's Neck in the 1920s. She said the girl swam out past the rip, couldn't get back in, and began screaming for help. Several men tried to reach her, but that day's rip had developed a vicious undertow, and they were all forced back. In the end they could only stand around, tourists and townies, the teenager who became my mother among them, waiting for a rescue boat that never came and listening to that girl scream until her strength gave out and she went under. Her body washed up in New Hampshire, my mother said. I asked how old the girl was. Mom said that she was fourteen, then read me a comic book and packed me off to bed. On some other day she told me the one she saw—a sailer who jumped off the roof of the Graymore Hotel in Portland, Maine, and landed in the street."He splattered," my mother said in her most matter-of-fact tone. She paused, then added, "The stuff that came out of him is green. I have never forgotten it."That makes two of us, Mom.
@it was a girl who HAD drowned off Prout's Neck 过去完成时，地名前没the
@my mother said IN her most matter-of-fact tone in不是with, tone用单数