Little Women and Me

Sixteen


That night, I lay in bed listening to Jo finally cry over her lost hair and then Meg speaking softly in the most glowing terms yet about Mr. John Brooke. Once the room fell completely silent and the house was fast asleep except for me and one other person, I heard Marmee making her nightly rounds, going from bed to bed to lay a kiss on each of our foreheads. She began in the other room with Beth and Amy before coming to our room, where she kissed Meg and Jo before coming to me last.

I don’t know why she saved me for last, since by rights I should have been third, or middle, but as I heard her approach I made sure to shut my eyes tightly. I didn’t know what words of comfort I could possibly offer this strong woman who was so worried for her husband, the man who was supposed to be my father. So I just lay there feigning sleep when she kissed me, but in my heart I wished her well.



The next morning the household rose at an insanely early hour so that Marmee could catch the first train to Washington. After waving her and Mr. Brooke off with promises on our parts to be good and strong and instructions on her part that we were to rely on Hannah’s faithfulness, Mr. Laurence’s protection, and Laurie’s devotion, saying further that she wanted us to work and hope and remember that we could never be fatherless—oh, right, she was talking about God again; well, I supposed we couldn’t possibly escape a Marmee lecture on such an occasion—we were left on our own.

After Hannah made us a rare pot of coffee and Meg remarked that with Marmee gone the house felt a full half empty—“a full half empty”? Was it full or was it empty? I wished she’d make up her mind!—it was time for Meg to go to the Kings’, Jo to Aunt March’s, Beth and Amy to do housework and schoolwork, and me to go wherever the day of the week told me to go.



Mr. Brooke wrote every day and the news was good: Papa’s pneumonia was getting a little bit better all the time.

Naturally, we were expected to write letters too, first to Marmee, but then as it appeared that Papa was finally strong enough to receive letters, to him too.

This presented me with a huge problem. I saw the others eagerly bend their heads to the task, some thoughtfully (Meg), some energetically (Jo), some gently (Beth), and some with excruciatingly poor spelling and grammar (Amy). They all seemed to have a lot to say, perhaps giving him news or reminding him of shared remembrances to brighten his day. The thing was, I had no past with this man. What could I possibly write that wouldn’t sound totally asinine? What comfort could I possibly offer?

“Haven’t you started yet, Emily?” Jo asked crossly. “We want to get these off with the early post.”

“Simply composing my thoughts here,” I said brightly, while inwardly I groaned.

What do you say to someone you don’t know?

Get well soon was usually a crowd pleaser, but not with this crowd, since Jo would yell at me for not putting enough time and thought into it.

Then I remembered something he had written to me in a packet of letters the household had received shortly after my arrival, and then I too bent my head to the task, trying my best to pick words a March would use.

Dearest Papa,



I know, as you told me once, that even when I feel there is no clear place for me, there is always one in your heart. And so I write to give you a full report on the state of the March household.



Meg is now the head of the table at meals. The role seems right for her and I think when the time comes for her to have a bunch of kids, she will do a good job. She hardly ever yells at any of us.



Jo is, well, Jo. She and Laurie got in a fight, but even though she still claims to be right, she was willing to apologize the moment he was.



Sweet Beth! You should see her. So kind, and even with these letters, it’s like she’s determined to take up as little space as possible. Honestly, I wish she would take up more. Do you ever stop and think how much better the world would be if it were filled with Beth? Or how empty it would be without her?



Amy’s handwriting and grammar are terrible. But I suppose you can see that? It’s hard to believe she’ll one day m—



Whoops! If I predicted who Amy would end up marrying (so crazy!) and one day it came true (still crazy!), Papa might think I was a witch. No one, to look at Amy now, chewing her pen and then writing “contradick” and “punchtuation,” would ever believe who she was destined for.

Sorry, one of Beth’s kittens just jumped on the paper and I lost my train of thought.



Where was I …



Okay, so perhaps this was not a full report, but please know that everyone here—including me—wishes you a speedy recovery. So GET WELL SOON!



Anyway, Jo is now glaring at me, so I had better wrap this up. I hope it will give you comfort to know that while Marmee is down there in Washington with you, I am keeping an eye on things up here and seeing that the others remain the little women you love so well. I even read Pilgrim’s Progress every day for strength.



A lie. The others read it religiously but I’d barely cracked the spine on mine. Still, it wouldn’t be good for him to think one of his little women had gone heathen.

So continue mending and, as I say, GET WELL SOON!

There are many here who miss you.



A truth. Many did miss him, even if one of them technically wasn’t me.

Signed,

“Aren’t you going to sign this?” Jo asked when she was about to put all our letters in the packet.

“Oh,” I said vaguely. “I thought I did.”

“Well, you didn’t,” she said, thrusting the sheet back at me.

I stole glances at how the others had signed theirs.

Ever your own Meg.

Hugs and kisses from your Topsy-Turvy Jo.

Come home soon to your loving Little Beth.

Your affectionate daughter, Amy Curtis March.



Well, at least Amy was capable of spelling her own name right.

Even Hannah had signed hers: Yours respectful, Hannah Mullet. As though he might not know which Hannah she was if she didn’t write out her whole name. And what kind of last name was Mullet anyway?

What to write, what to write … how to sign, how to sign …

And then it hit me: the one thing that if I included it in a letter to him was sure to put a smile on his face.

I smiled myself as I took up my pen again and scrawled across the bottom of the page:

Your Middle March.