Page 55 of My Darling Girls

“That was before. Before my baptism.” An elegant shrug. “My plans have changed.”

Jo gets to her feet, sets her empty glass by the trunk, and pulls on Miss Lambert’s arm. “Stop packing. Stop moving. Look at me.” Jo’s cheeks are wet. She wipes her face with the back of her hand and tastes salt on her lips. She must be crying, but she doesn’t care. All she wants is for Miss Lambert to tell her that she loves her, and of course, of course she’ll take her to the big city, and everything she said a minute ago was an awful, silly joke.

Miss Lambert narrows her eyes. “What is it?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“You will. Just not tonight, darling.”

“Have you ever truly loved me?”

“Of course I love you. I’m doing this for us.”

“You are running away from us. From me.”

“You’re such a beautiful and broken girl. There’s so much hurt in you.” She reaches out to Jo’s face again, but a second later she drops her hand. “I showed you kindness. It’s in short supply around here.”

“Kindness?”

When Miss Lambert doesn’t reply, Jo understands it then. The stolen moments by the river. The kisses, the touches, the words spoken hastily between their moans. All of it was a sham. Empty echoes of dreams that will never come true. Miss Lambert never intended to take Jo with her to Chicago. She freely gave out hollow promises, and Jo, a village girl, young and trusting and very much broken, ate it all up from her hands like a horse eats apples and never questions if they’re poisoned.

Something blistering stirs inside Jo. The kindling of fury that threatens to break into flames. Jo takes a step back, away from Miss Lambert. “Nothing was real. Everything was a lie.” How could she be so stupid and believe that someone like Miss Lambert could fall in love with someone like Jo, an illiterate miller’s daughter?

“Not everything. I was drawn to you. I wanted to help you to become a stronger woman. You were so fragile. So weak. Look at you now. You’ve changed. Your love for me transformed you.” Miss Lambert’s eyes search Jo’s face, moving down to her throat, pausing on her ravaged skin, and then proceeding to her muddy, tattered skirt. “Go home, take a bath, pull yourself together.”

Jo steps away from Miss Lambert, who doesn’t try to stop her. She just stands there, gazing at Jo like she’s already a fading memory, a small-town fling she doesn’t want to relive ever again. Jo wants to hurt her, make her feel the same devastating, crushing agony that cuts her soul to ribbons.

“I hate you.”

“You don’t mean it.” Miss Lambert takes Jo’s hand into hers and squeezes it gently.

“Don’t touch me,” Jo jeers, trying to shake her hand free, but Miss Lambert’s hold is strong. “Let me go. You . . . you need another baptism. This one didn’t take.”

The slap is sharp and stinging. Jo’s ears ring, and the room darkens. It’s painful, but mostly shocking. The person she trusted the most hit her. Inflicted pain. Intentionally. Just like her father. She presses her hand over her burning cheek and lets the betrayal pass through her like rushing water.

“I thought only men were hungry for violence,” Jo says, her voice rough.

Miss Lambert takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” she says quietly, still holding Jo’s hand, long fingers still coiling around Jo’s bones. There’s a new frostiness in her eyes. Something that wasn’t there a minute ago. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Jo’s lips tremble. “Don’t touch me.” Jo tries to pull her hand away, but for some reason Miss Lambert doesn’t want to let her go. What’s happening? Jo starts to shake, her leg muscle tightening as if preparing to take a leap. All she can think of is her father, his rotten breath on her face, his eyes blazing with anger and his fists pounding into her body.

“I’m sorry it came to this.” Miss Lambert steps closer to Jo. A vein is twitching in her throat, underneath her chin.

Jo’s vision blurs at the edges. She cannot breathe. “Let me go.” Jo pulls on her arm again, but Miss Lambert’s fingers are strong, her nails digging into Jo’s skin. The pain is cutting. She needs to get out. She must run, free herself of this cabin, of this woman who’s crowding her.

“I’m not your father. I’m not going to hurt you.” Miss Lambert untangles her long fingers from Jo’s wrist.

Jo bolts for the door.

“Wait,” Miss Lambert shouts and reaches out to Jo to tug her back, her hand on Jo’s forearm. No, not again. Why can’t she stop touching her? Why can’t she just let Jo go? And so Jo turns, twists away, and pushes Miss Lambert toward the bed. She leaps to the door.

Crack.

For a heart-fluttering moment, Jo stays frozen mid-step, facing the door, afraid to turn around. She takes a tentative step, the floorboards complaining under her weight in a loud protest. She needs more space. Air. She needs to breathe. It’s too quiet. Why is it so quiet? Her knees are shaking. A thin layer of cold sweat builds on her forehead. She slowly wipes it off.

Jo forces herself to turn and look at Miss Lambert.

She lies by the bed, a chunk of dark hair stuck to its metal corner. Blood is pooling around Miss Lambert’s head, her colorful scarf already soaked crimson. Her skin is ghastly pale. But her beautiful eyes are open and carry a look of surprise, as if, in her last moments, she couldn’t believe what was happening to her. In death, her face is softer. The anger and the fear are gone. And all that is left is a gap-toothed dead woman. A bit broken. A lot beautiful. Someone who didn’t expect to die tonight. Someone who kissed Jo and told her to stand up to the injustices of the man-made world.