It begins with Jane as a young woman, rushing from Thornfield, crying. Another shot, she’s alone against a bleak landscape. A sky on fire, thunder, rain. She thinks she’s going to die. And then the film goes back in time and she’s a little girl and we’re learning how everything started.
Gramps set up that tree every year. He pulled out the decorations his dead wife and dead daughter bought and pretended to be a man who had lost too much and survived it. He pretended, for me, that his mind and his heart were not dark and convoluted places. He pretended that he lived in a house with me, his granddaughter, for whom he baked and often drove to school and taught important lessons about how to treat stains and save money, when really he lived in a secret room with the dead.
Or maybe not. Maybe it’s more complicated.
There are degrees of obsession, of awareness, of grief, of insanity. Those days and nights in the motel room I weighed each of them against the other. I tried to make sense of what had happened, but each time I came up short. Each time I thought I may have understood, some line of logic snapped and I was thrust back into not knowing.
It’s a dark place, not knowing.
It’s difficult to surrender to.
But I guess it’s where we live most of the time. I guess it’s where we all live, so maybe it doesn’t have to be so lonely. Maybe I can settle into it, cozy up to it, make a home inside uncertainty.
Jane is at her cruel aunt’s deathbed now. She’s forgiving her and returning home. And here is Mr. Rochester, waiting for her, in all his Byronic heroism. She isn’t sure if she should trust him or fear him. The answer is both. There’s so much he hasn’t told her yet. There’s that wife of his, locked up in the attic. There are so many lies of omission. There’s the trick he’s going to play on her, the way he’ll pretend to be somebody else and snake his way into her heart. He’ll scare her. She’ll be right to be afraid.
There’s so much I could have found out if I’d gone home after the police station. I could have kept windows shut tight so that his ghost couldn’t get in and torn through all of my mother’s things. I could have touched every photograph. I could have combed his letters for clues about her. There must have been hints of the past in there, woven in with Gramps’s dreams of her life in Colorado. There would have been so much about her to discover, even if half of it wasn’t true.
“Here it comes,” Mabel says.
I feel it, too, getting closer—the proposal. First anguish and then love. Rochester doesn’t deserve her, but he loves her. He means what he says, but he’s a liar. I hope that this movie will keep the words as Bront? wrote them. They’re so beautiful. And yes—here they are.
“‘I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I’m afraid that cord of communion would snap. And then I’ve a notion that I’d take to bleeding inwardly.’”
“Like the vein in The Two Fridas,” Mabel whispers.
“Yeah.”
Jane says, “‘I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.’”
And maybe she should go through with it, maybe she should leave. We already know it would spare her some heartache. But it feels so much better right now to say yes, to stay, and Mabel and I are swept up in it. For a little while, it takes me outside of myself. For a few minutes, Jane believes that she’ll be happy, and I try to believe it, too.
Near the end of the movie, Ana and Javier come into the room, wrapped gifts in their arms. They set them under the tree and watch with us as Jane walks through the wreckage of Thornfield to find Rochester again.
They leave when the credits roll and then come back with a few more gifts.
“Is the package still in your bag?” I ask Mabel.
She nods and I find it. It looks unfinished against the festive wrapping paper of the presents they brought, but I’m glad to have something for them. I realize now why Mabel tried to wait to open hers and I’m sad that I don’t have something else to give her.
Javier laughs at the white tree. He shakes his head.
Ana shrugs. “It’s kitsch. It’s fun.”
Quiet descends. I can feel how late it is.
“Mabel,” Javier says. “Can you come with me for a moment?” and soon it’s only Ana and me on the sofa next to the glittering lights. And when Ana turns to me, I realize that our solitude has been orchestrated.
She says, “I have something I want to tell you.”
Her mascara has smudged under her eyes, but she doesn’t look tired.
“May I?” she asks, and takes my hand. I squeeze hers back, expect her to let go but she doesn’t.
She says, “I wanted to be your mother. From the first night I met you, I wanted that.”
Everything in me begins to buzz. My scalp and my fingers and my heart.