“You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone.”
—Little Women
The party happened. That was the best you could say about it—and the worst.
Andrea offered to bring more wine, but no one felt much like toasting. Did prosecco even go with take-and-bake pizza? I’d probably never know.
What should have been the saving grace—cake—was more of a sad trombone. After slapping a piece onto a plate, I made eye contact with Hudson, tipping my head toward the door. He was trapped between my mother and his, listening to a conversation that veered between such exciting topics as sunburn remedies and the many uses of kale. I suspected he’d be grateful for an excuse to flee, but when the screen door swung open behind me, it wasn’t Hudson who appeared.
“This cake is so sweet, it should be like eating sand,” Andrea said, sinking into the empty rocking chair. (Because of course we had a rocking chair.) “And yet it doesn’t crunch.”
By Andrea’s standards, it was a conversational slow pitch. I’d half expected her to hit me with a question about Meg right off the bat. Even something simple like Where’s your sister? would have been tricky to answer. I had no idea whether Meg was staying in her room by choice, as a punishment, or because she’d spaced on the whole thing. It wasn’t like the noise level would have tipped her off there was a “party” going on downstairs. There were almost more ghosts than people here, since David hadn’t shown up either. I told myself I was glad he wasn’t there to silently judge me.
“It’s like a hot-dog bun fell into a jar of marshmallow fluff.” I was rewarded for this observation with a faint smile.
Andrea sank deeper into her chair, propping her feet on the porch railing. “People would kill for this much outdoor space in the city.”
“Yeah, well. You probably have better things to do than sit and stare at the grass.” I set down my plate, leaving half the cake untouched.
“Mmm.” She rocked a few times, the boards of the porch creaking. “I worry about you, Jo.”
Since I couldn’t point out that there were people in this family whose situations were way more messed up than mine, I kept my mouth shut.
Andrea glanced at me, fingers steepled. “Do you know what I think Alcott was really writing about?”
I shook my head, pretty sure she was looking for something other than Family and Growing Up and Making the Best of a Bad Situation—all the schmaltzy messages most people associated with Little Women.
“Desire. I don’t mean in the sexual sense,” she clarified, which made me approximately two percent less uncomfortable.
It was another of those Andrea is not from around here moments, listening to her throw around words like sexual and desire—as if those were topics people discussed in casual conversation. Maybe that was another thing you gave up to live in the city: first porches, then inhibitions.
“I’m talking emotional, creative, intellectual.” Andrea tapped the arm of the rocking chair for emphasis. “Everything that gets forced out of the March sisters by nineteenth-century morality.”
Like their breakfast, I thought, tempted to make a joke instead of guessing wrong. But how often did someone talk to me like this, one serious adult to another? It felt like a chance I couldn’t waste. “You mean like Jo not getting to write the kind of books she wants?”
“That’s the most egregious example, but it starts much earlier. Think about the messages those girls hear, over and over. Don’t be angry. Don’t move too fast or speak too loudly or have too much fun. Don’t get dolled up for parties or spend money on yourself. Don’t want.”
I swallowed, torn between excitement (because finally someone was singing my song) and a sour trickle of guilt. Though the queasiness might have had more to do with the cake.
“You don’t agree?” Andrea spoke so suddenly I almost jumped. Her green eyes locked on mine, like she didn’t trust me not to fudge my answer.
“No,” I said quickly. “I’ve thought about all that stuff too.” Maybe not in the same words, but still. Frustration, resentment, having your choices taken away? Those were things I understood in my bones. And then being told by the one person who was supposed to be on your side that your feelings were wrong, and you should try harder, and also maybe you’d brought it on yourself.
“You know the worst part?” Andrea pulled her legs off the railing, twisting sideways in her chair. “Say you do everything they want, reduce yourself to a sacrificial lamb, what do you get?”
“Marriage?” I guessed.
“And cultlike worship from your dutiful daughters, as long as you raise them to be as servile as you are.”
I’d never thought much about Marmee’s role. To me, it was a story about four girls.
“It’s like the scene yesterday. Let’s all praise Marmee and shower her with gifts.”
“It was Christmas.” It felt disloyal not to point this out, especially since I wasn’t sure whether we were talking about Book Marmee or my actual mom. The trick was to stay on Andrea’s good side without completely selling my mother down the river.
Andrea’s lips flattened. Either she found my argument weak or the cake was catching up with her, too. “Do you know what I liked about the second half of the show?”
I shook my head, not wanting to venture my first guess: The part where Laurie took off his shirt?
She leaned forward, hands clenched. “It was full of life. Pure appetite, grabbing and taking with no apologies. Those people weren’t cut off from their feelings.”
That was one way to describe it.
“And how do you get away with that, as a woman?” Andrea continued, undeterred by my silence. “By being a sexless old hag—or a man.”
“Or you can be like Amy. Book Amy.”
She gave a dismissive snort. “Selling yourself as a decorative object for some rich man’s home buys you power for about five minutes, until your tits start to sag. That’s not what I’d call freedom.”
“So I can either be a witch or a dude?”
Andrea leaned back in her chair, regarding me steadily. “Some of us are capable of forging our own path.”
I knew Andrea was talking about herself. At the same time, the look in her eyes said, You’re like me. Warmth crept over my skin, as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud. It felt like an opening—a chance to say something and be listened to. A moment of truth.
“Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll never get anywhere.” I blinked hard to dry out my eyes. Fortunately, Andrea was staring into the distance, like she could see my future on the faded highway.
“It’s not so much about the details right now. School and work and rent.” Her mouth twitched in distaste. “You need to figure out how to live first. Who you are as much as where.”
It would have been just my luck if she’d left it at that. The secret of the universe is . . . psych! You’re on your own.
“Don’t bury your feelings, Jo. Lock too much of yourself away and you forget those things were ever there. You become your own jailer.” She reached out a hand, stopping short of touching me. “I’d hate to see someone like you shrivel and fade.”
It was hard to believe she was taking the time to give me advice. More than that, Andrea was talking to me like I was special, a person with potential—not the shadow of a character from an old-time book.
“I’ll lose my mind if I have to stay here forever.” I slid a glance at Andrea to see how this confession had gone over.
Her expression remained serious, but I got the feeling she was pleased with me for admitting the truth. Maybe even a little proud. “Sometimes you have to rescue yourself from the tower, even if it means knocking it down.” She stood, arching her back in a stretch. “We should go. I still have packing to do.”
Oh. Right. This was an ending, not a beginning. The promise of something new and different waiting around the bend dissolved like fog burning off. Tomorrow everything would be back to normal. No more Hudson, or his mom.
She turned away before my face fell.