After the boat ride with Alec, Jane had been itching to write. She dragged her computer into the screen porch and plopped down in the wicker chair near the bed. When she opened the computer though, she didn't go to her detective novel. She created a new document. She stared at the blank page and the blinking cursor.
There was nothing that terrified Jane more than a blank page. And yet there was nothing she loved more.
She took a deep breath and her fingers began to dance across the keyboard.
When Skye poked her head through the side of the screen to announce they were going to order pizza for dinner, Jane just shook her head and continued to type. Skye disappeared.
An hour later, Jeffrey crept in and left two cheese slices on a plate on the nightstand. Jane didn't touch them for another hour. She devoured them cold, and then went back to writing.
She wrote about Rosalind first. The memories poured from her. Rosalind deciding they should have sacred Meetings Of Penderwick Sisters. Rosalind creating the vow that they would keep everything said secret, unless it was dangerous. Responsible and organized Rosalind.
Rosalind, at ten years old, creating daily schedules and agendas. Rosalind ordering Jane and Skye to do their homework and Rosalind helping Batty get dressed every morning.
Jane nearly started crying when she wrote about an image she hadn't thought of in ages. It was a young eight-year-old Rosalind kneeling near the bathtub and washing baby Batty. Rosalind called her Beautiful Baby Batty. Rosalind was so short, she had to bend double to reach her scrawny arms into the water. So gently did the child Rosalind wash her baby sister's head. With such seriousness did Rosalind take on the tasks of motherhood.
Meanwhile, Jane and Skye had been roughhousing in the hallway and had probably spent the afternoon playing Hide the Baby From the Monster, a game Skye came up with that involved placing Batty in crevices and corners and closet shelves.
For the more Jane had written about Rosalind, the more she had to write about Skye, with her stubborn moods and her scraped knees and her ferocity. The more she wrote about Skye, the more she had to write about herself, dreaming up stories and adventures while Skye told her to be reasonable, please.
She wrote about the late nights when Jane and Skye would whisper together over some drama or fear – the wicked Mrs. Tifton trying to ship Jeffrey off to military school, or their dad starting to date again. They would bicker while Rosalind put Batty to bed.
And then Jane had to write about Batty, with her butterfly wings and her darling Hound, asking for one more bedtime story about her long lost mother, and Rosalind, always obliging.
So then Jane was back to Rosalind. Always dependable, always composed. Always guiding her younger sisters with love and passion.
Jane wrote about Rosalind drifting about the kitchen, humming to herself while she baked brownies or cookies or a birthday cake. For the first time, Jane thought, really thought, about how Rosalind's eyes always got a faraway look when she baked. How it was the one time Rosalind wasn't giving Skye advice or doting over Batty. How for those hours when she baked, Rosalind would retreat deep within herself, to some place no one could reach her. No sisters coud pester her, no worries could touch her.
Jane knew that Rosalind always thought of their mother when she baked. Rosalind had always used her mother's old recipe book, the one with Elizabeth Penderwick's handwritten notes. As Jane described Rosalind baking, she began to realize that when Rosalind baked, she let herself go. She let herself imagine, just for a few minutes, while she melted the sugar or sifted the flour, that her mother was alive. She let herself believe that her mother was there, right beside her. And when she baked, Rosalind was just Rosalind. She wasn't the oldest. She wasn't the motherless daughter. She wasn't the prettiest. She wasn't the most responsible. She was just Rosalind, down to her core.
The words poured out of Jane, and she couldn't stop until two in the morning. Exhaustion finally caught up to her, and she stepped away from the computer.
She knew there was more though. She would sleep, and then when she woke, she would eat, and then dive back in.
Every time she started something new, Jane was always imagining what the finished product would be like. What kind of novel she would produce. How it would be marketed. What the cover art would look like. Even who would star in the movie adaptation.
But this time, she had no idea what all these memories would produce. Jane just knew she had to write them down.