She won't stop crying. Every night this week- she's only been in this world for two. Everything is unfamiliar. She cries for her mother. Jo's leg bounces in frustration. It works as gentle rocking movement for the baby she holds, but the infant wails on.
A portrait of Orchard House hangs on the wall of the nursery. The brush strokes are small and careful- microscopic flowers line the path leading to the door. The attic window is aglow- some snapshot into a night that spring when the girls played Pickwick Club. Next to this painting, Beth smiles softly. Amy captured every freckle, dark eyelash, gentle smile, her smooth hair. Amy would never die- she's too alive in her paintings.
Shhh, Jo has been cooing at the child for so long, her mouth is sore. Uncorseted, Josie's ear lies over her heart, her pounding heartbeat of little comfort, even though it sounds just like her mother's. She hadn't learned how to be soft. She was learning day by day, relying on unsteady instincts now that Meg was too far away to show her exactly what to do. Her voice is hoarse as she sings.
For the beauty of the earth,
for the glory of the skies,
for the love which from our birth
over and around us lies.
Lord above, to thee we raise
this, our hymn of grateful praise
Her school, her stories, her independence- these things she values more than anything. Jo never dreamed of becoming a mother. She was too rough around the edges to nurture, too wild tempered to teach morality. It didn't make any sense. She could never learn to be quiet or patient. And this squirming creature is so delicate, small, pale-veins spidery beneath her skin. But life was always surprising- and as it unraveled there was far more to her story than she could have imagined for herself. She's stuck between two truths- it's supposed to be like this, It's not supposed to be like this. This new life was bigger than her whole self. As big and breathless as the baby's wails.
Crying for her mother.
"You and Amy are the same, Jo." Meg had said once. "You both want more."
It was true and Jo knew it before she could rationalize her sister's nature- they were twin spitfires, creating voraciously, trying to make sense of their intense emotions. Their reconciliation from childhood rivalry was slow and unsteady. But as Beth had wanted, they grew to be close. Her gut churns- the same feeling as when she is writing feverishly. At this moment, all the "more" she wants is for this child- baby Josephine. Amy's last gift to the world.
"Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again."
If Beth' death was the tide rolling in, Amy's was a storm at deep sea. It wasn't more than two days after giving birth. She shuddered with fever, calling out for her mother and the baby. When only Jo, Laurie and the Doctor came, she squeezed hands as if she were desperately hanging onto her life, her sweating fingers slipping. She came into the world and left it with wide eyes, looking around frantically, scared, in pain. Jo held her as she gasped her last breath.
Laurie was beside himself- a mess. Jo couldn't have imagined him as shattered. She often found him crouched outside, rubbing snow between his hands, trying to forget her,as if his senses could dull the ache. He's not far down the hall, likely holding himself, trying to find the cool respite of sleep but lost in thoughts of her.
Josie has the large blue eyes and pale complexion of the snow maiden. She's not an easy baby- but every bit as curious and fiery in her two weeks of life. And loud.
Ding Dong Merrily on High…
It's the best she can do.
Jo walks back through the Valley of the Shadow. The pain is haunting, hollow, familiar. It lives in every moment, soft and dull until it becomes unbearable in flashes- leaving a lily at her grave, giving her paints to the school. Laurie rubbed himself with snow and Jo holds the baby to her chest tightly, trying to press into place the heart that had been broken once again. Without Marmie or Meg it feels nearly impossible.
She bites the inside of her cheek, sighing in exhaustion. If nothing will work to quiet the baby, she might as well comfort herself.
Her body moves on its own accord. Jo rises from her spot in the big chair, holding Josie in one arm and maneuvering to a shelf- maybe she wasn't so hopeless with babies. Her fingers skim the books on the shelf. Here she is again, reaching for what she knows.
"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents,"
The March sisters- so vividly alive in her pages one would rarely stop to wonder where in the world they were now.
Jo can never go back- Time barrels forward and Jo and everyone she loved is trapped in the momentum of it. Change will come as surely as the seasons and twice as quick . Her anxiety will not protect her. God's challenges were plentiful, but so were his blessings. A chance to find herself in this new life with Amy's child. Her child.
"I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship."
Things could never be as they were, except for here, in their art. These paintings on the wall- where found her strength, and here it was again. In her story, the stories of her sisters. Even treading the waters alone.
Her crying has softened, she whimpers, gasps a few times, sniffles, gurgles.
Jo fingers the thin pages and whispers on.
And Josie is asleep
