by Ransom Riggs
The sounds of a busy, preoccupied present-day filtered in. A car alarm. A cell phone ringing. Jangly pop music. We passed a fancy canal-side restaurant, but thanks to Sharon’s enchantment, the diners on the patio didn’t see us as we floated by. If they had, I wondered what they would’ve thought of us: two teenagers in black, a woman in Victorian formalwear, and Sharon in his Grim Reaper cloak, poling us out of the underworld. Who knows—maybe the modern world was so jaded that no one would have batted an eye.
My parents were another story, though—and now that we were back in the present, just what that story would be was starting to concern me. They already thought I’d lost my mind, or gotten into hard drugs. I’d be lucky if they didn’t ship me off to a mental hospital. Even if they didn’t, I’d be doing damage control for years. They would never trust me again.
But it was my struggle, and I would find a way to deal with it. The easiest thing for me would be to tell them the truth—but again, I couldn’t. My parents would never understand this part of my life, and to try and force them to could land them in a mental hospital.
My dad already knew more about the peculiar children than was good for him. He’d met them all on Cairnholm, though he’d thought he was dreaming. Then Emma had left him that letter and a photo of herself with my grandfather. As if that weren’t bad enough, over the phone I’d actually told my dad I was peculiar. That had been a mistake, I realized, and selfish. And now here I was heading to meet them with Emma and Miss Peregrine at my side.
“On second thought,” I said, turning to them in the boat, “Maybe you shouldn’t come with me.”
“Why not?” Emma said. “We won’t age forward that quickly …”
“I don’t think my parents should see me with you. This is all going to be hard enough to explain as it is.”
“I’ve given some thought to this,” said Miss Peregrine.
“To what? My parents?”
“Yes. I can help you with them, if you like.”
“How?”
“One of an ymbryne’s myriad duties is dealing with normals who become problematically curious about us, or otherwise troublesome. We have ways of making them uncurious, of making them forget they’ve seen certain things.”
“Did you know about this?” I asked Emma.
“Sure. If it wasn’t for the wipe, peculiars would be in the news every other day.”
“So it … wipes people’s memories?”
“It’s more a selective cherry-picking of certain inconvenient recollections,” said Miss Peregrine. “It’s quite painless and has no side effects. Still, it may strike you as extreme. I leave it to your discretion.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay what?” said Emma.
“Okay, please do the memory wipe thing to my parents. That sounds amazing. And while you’re at it, there was this time when I was twelve that I crashed my mom’s car into the garage door …”
“Let’s not get carried away, Mr. Portman.”
“Just kidding,” I said, though I’d only sort of been. Either way, I was hugely relieved. Now I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of my adolescence apologizing for the time I ran away, made my parents think I was dead, and nearly ruined their lives forever. Which was nice.
Sharon dropped us off at the same dark, rat-infested under-jetty where we’d first met him. Stepping off his boat there gave me a twinge of bittersweet nostalgia. I may have been terrified and filthy and in various exotic forms of pain every second of the last several days, but I would probably never have an adventure like this again. I would miss it—not so much the trials I’d endured as the person I’d been while I endured them. There was an iron will inside me, I knew that now, and I hoped I could hang on to it even as my life grew softer.
“So long,” Sharon said. “I’m glad I met you, despite all the endless trouble you caused me.”
“Yeah, me too.” We shook hands. “It’s been interesting.”
“Wait here for us,” Miss Peregrine said to him. “Miss Bloom and I will be back within an hour or two.”
Finding my parents turned out to be easy. It would’ve been even easier if I’d still had my phone, but as it was, all we had to do was report to a police station. I was a known missing person, and within half an hour of giving an officer my name and sitting down on a bench to wait, my mother and father arrived. They were wearing rumpled clothes that had clearly been slept in, my mother’s normally perfect makeup was a mess, my dad had a three-day beard, and they were both holding stacks of MISSING posters with my face on them. I felt instantly and comprehensively awful for what I’d put them through. But as I tried to apologize, they dropped the posters and wrapped me in a two-way hug, and my words were lost in the folds of my dad’s sweater.
“Jake, Jake, ohmygod, my little Jake,” my mother cried.
“It’s him, it’s really him,” my father said. “We were so worried, we were so worried …”
How long had I been gone? A week? Something like that, though it seemed like an eternity.
“Where were you?” my mother said. “What were you doing?”
The hug broke but still I couldn’t get a word in.
“Why did you run away like that?” my father demanded. “What were you thinking, Jacob?”
“You gave me gray hairs!” my mother said, then threw her arms around me a second time.
My dad looked me over. “Where are your clothes? What’s this you’re wearing?”
I was still in my black adventure clothes. Oops. They’d be easier to explain than nineteenth-century clothes, though, and thankfully Mother Dust had healed all the cuts on my face …
“Jacob, say something!” my father demanded.
“I’m really, really sorry,” I said. “I would never have put you through this if I could’ve helped it, but everything’s okay now. Things are going to be fine. You won’t understand, and that’s okay, too. I love you guys.”
“You’re right about one thing,” my dad said. “We don’t understand. At all.”
“But it’s not okay,” said my mom. “You will give us an explanation.”
“We’ll need one, too,” said a police officer who’d been standing by. “And a drug test.”
Things were slipping beyond my control. It was time to pull the rip cord.
“I’ll tell you everything,” I said, “but first I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Mom, Dad, this is Miss Peregrine.”
I saw my dad’s eyes go to Miss P, then to Emma. He must’ve recognized her, because he looked like he’d seen a ghost. But it was okay—he would forget soon enough.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Miss Peregrine, shaking both my parents’ hands. “You have a terrific son, just a topnotch boy. Not only is Jacob a perfect gentleman, he’s even more talented than his grandfather.”
“His grandfather?” said my dad. “How do you …”
“Who is this bizarre woman?” my mother said. “How do you know our son?”
Miss Peregrine gripped their hands and stared deeply into their eyes. “Alma Peregrine, Alma LeFay Peregrine. Now, I understand you’ve had a dreadful time here in the British Isles. Just an awful trip. I think it would be best for everyone involved if you just forgot it ever happened. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” my mother said, a faraway look in her eyes.
“I agree,” said my father, sounding slightly hypnotized.
Miss Peregrine had paused their brains.
“Fantastic, wonderful,” she said. “Now cast your eyes upon this, please.” She let go of their hands and drew a long, blue-spotted falcon feather from her pocket. And then a hot wave of guilt flashed through me, and I stopped her.
“Wait,” I said. “I don’t think I want you to do it, after all.”
“Are you sure?” She looked a bit disappointed. “It could get very complicated for you.”
“It feels like cheating,” I said.
“Then what will you tell them?” Emma asked.
> “I don’t know yet. But it doesn’t seem right to just … wipe their brains.”
If telling them the truth was selfish, it seemed doubly so to simply erase the need for an explanation. And what about the police? My extended family? My parents’ friends? Surely they all knew I’d been missing, and for my parents to forget what had happened … it would’ve been a mess.
“That’s up to you,” said Miss Peregrine. “But I think it would be wise to at least let me wipe the past two or three minutes, so they’ll forget Miss Bloom and me.”
“Well … okay,” I said. “So long as they don’t lose the English language along with it.”
“I’m very precise,” said Miss Peregrine.
“What’s all this about wiping brains?” said the police officer. “Who are you?”
“Alma Peregrine,” said Miss Peregrine, rushing over to shake his hand. “Alma Peregrine, Alma LeFay Peregrine.”
The officer’s head dropped, and he was suddenly fascinated by a spot on the floor.
“I can think of a few wights you might’ve done that to,” said Emma.
“Unfortunately, it only works on the pliable minds of normals,” Miss Peregrine said. “Speaking of which.” She held up the feather.
“Wait,” I said. “Before you do.” I put out my hand for her to shake. “Thank you for everything. I’m really going to miss you, Miss Peregrine.”
Miss Peregrine ignored my hand and hugged me. “The feeling is mutual, Mr. Portman. And I’m the one who should be thanking you. If it hadn’t been for your and Miss Bloom’s heroism …”
“Well,” I said, “if it hadn’t been for you saving my grandfather all those years ago …”
She smiled. “Let’s call it even.”
There was one goodbye left. The hardest one. I put my arms around Emma, and she squeezed back ferociously.
“Can we write to each other?” she said.
“Are you sure you want to?”
“Of course. Friends keep in touch.”
“Okay,” I said, relieved. At least we could—
And then she kissed me. A big, full-on-the-lips kiss that left my head spinning.
“I thought we were just friends!” I said, pulling back in surprise.
“Um, yes,” she said sheepishly. “Now we are. I just needed one to remember us by.”
We were both laughing, our hearts soaring and breaking at once.
“Children, stop that!” Miss Peregrine hissed.
“Frank,” my mother said faintly, “who is that girl Jake’s kissing?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” my father mumbled. “Jacob, who is that girl, and why are you kissing her?”
My cheeks flushed. “Um, this is my … friend. Emma. We’re just saying goodbye.”
Emma waved bashfully. “You won’t remember me, but … hello!”
“Well, stop kissing strange girls and come along,” said my mother.
“Okay,” I said to Miss Peregrine. “I’d guess we’d better get on with it.”
“Don’t think this is goodbye,” Miss Peregrine said. “You’re one of us now. You won’t get rid of us that easily.”
“I sure hope not,” I said, grinning despite a heavy heart.
“I’ll write you,” Emma said, trying to smile, her voice cracking. “Good luck with … whatever it is normal people do.”
“Goodbye, Emma. I’ll miss you.” It seemed so inadequate a thing to say, but at times like this, words themselves were inadequate.
Miss Peregrine turned to finish her work. She raised the falcon feather and tickled my parents under their noses.
“Excuse me!” my mother said, “what do you think you’re doooo-AAAAAA-CHOO!”
And then both she and my father had a sneezing fit, and while they were sneezing, Miss Peregrine tickled the police officer, and he had a sneezing fit, too. By the time they were all finished, noses running and red in the face, Miss Peregrine and Emma had whisked out the door and were gone.
“As I was saying,” my dad said, picking up as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened. “Wait … what was I saying?”
“That we could just go home and talk about all this later?” I said hopefully.
“Not before you answer some questions,” the officer said.
We spent a few minutes talking to the police. I kept my answers vague, laced every sentence with an apology, and swore up and down that I hadn’t been abducted, abused, or drugged. (Thanks to Miss Peregrine’s memory wipe, the officer had forgotten about making me take that drug test.) When my parents explained about my grandfather’s death and the “troubles” I’d suffered following it, the police seemed satisfied that I was just a garden-variety runaway who’d forgotten to take his meds. They made us sign a few forms and sent us on our way.
“Yes, yes, let’s please go home,” my mother said. “But we will talk about this, young man. In depth.”
Home. The word had become foreign to me. Some distant land I could hardly imagine.
“If we hurry,” said my dad, “we might be able to catch an evening flight …”
He had cemented his arm around my shoulder, as if afraid I’d run away the moment he let go. My mom couldn’t stop staring at me, her eyes wide and grateful, blinking back tears.
“I’m okay,” said, “I promise.”
I knew they didn’t believe me, and wouldn’t for a long while.
We went outside to hail a black cab. As one was pulling up, I saw two familiar faces watching me from a park across the street. Occupying the dappled shade of an oak were Emma and Miss Peregrine. I raised a hand goodbye, my chest aching.
“Jake?” My dad was holding the cab door open for me. “What’s the matter?”
I turned my wave into a head scratch. “Nothing, Dad.”
I got into the cab. My dad turned to stare into the park. When I looked out the window, all I saw under the oak were a bird and some blowing leaves.
* * *
My return home was neither triumphant nor easy. I had shattered my parents’ trust, and piecing it back together would be slow, painstaking work. Considered a flight risk, I was watched all the time. I went nowhere unsupervised, not even for walks around the block. A complicated security system was installed in the house, less to stop thieves from getting in than me sneaking out. I was rushed back into therapy, subjected to countless psychological evaluations, and prescribed new, stronger drugs (which I hid under my tongue and later spat out). But I’d endured far worse deprivations that summer, and if a temporary loss of freedom was the price I had to pay for the friends I’d made, the experiences I’d had, and the extraordinary life I now knew to be mine, it seemed a bargain. It was worth every awkward conversation with my parents, every lonely night spent dreaming about Emma and my peculiar friends, every visit to my new psychiatrist.
She was an unflappable older lady named Dr. Spanger, and I spent four mornings a week in the glow of her face-lifted permasmile. She questioned me incessantly about why I’d run away from the island and how I’d spent the days after, that smile never wavering. (Her eyes, for the record, were dishwater brown, pupils normal, no contacts.) The story I concocted was a temporary insanity plea sprinkled with a dash of memory loss, every bit of which was totally unverifiable. It went like this: frightened by what appeared to be a sheep-murdering maniac loose on Cairnholm, I cracked, stowed away on a boat to Wales, briefly forgot who I was, and hitchhiked to London. I slept in parks, spoke to no one, made no acquaintances, consumed no mood- or mind-altering substances, and wandered the city for several days in a disoriented fugue state. As for the phone call with my father in which I’d admitted to being “peculiar”—um, what phone call? I couldn’t remember any phone call …
Eventually Dr. Spanger chalked the whole thing up to a manic episode, characterized by delusions, triggered by stress, grief, and unresolved grandpa issues. In other words: I’d gone a little nuts, but it was probably a one-time thing and I was feeling much better now, thank you. Still, my parents w
ere on pins and needles. They were waiting for me to crack, do something crazy, run away again—but I was on my best behavior. I played the role of good kid and penitent son like I was out to win an Oscar. I volunteered my help around the house. I rose long before noon and hung out in plain view of my watchful parents. I watched TV with them and ran errands and lingered at the table after meals to participate in the inane discussions they liked to have—about bathroom remodeling, homeowners’ association politics, fad diets, birds. (There was never more than a glancing allusion to my grandfather, the island, or my “episode.”) I was pleasant, kind, patient, and in a hundred ways not quite the son they remembered. They must’ve thought I’d been abducted by aliens and replaced with a clone or something—but they weren’t complaining. And after a few weeks, it was deemed safe to bring the family around, and this uncle or that aunt would drop by for a little coffee and stilted conversation, and so I could demonstrate in person how sane I was.
Weirdly, my dad never mentioned the letter Emma had left for him back on the island, nor the photo of her and Abe tucked inside it. Maybe it was more than he could deal with, or maybe he worried that talking about it with me might trigger a relapse. Whatever the reason, it was like it never happened. As for having actually met Emma and Millard and Olive, I’m sure he’d long ago dismissed that as a bizarre dream.
After a few weeks my parents began to relax. They’d bought my story and Dr. Spanger’s explanations for my behavior. They could’ve probed deeper, probably—asked more questions, gotten a second or third opinion from other psychiatrists—but they really wanted to believe I was doing better. That whatever drugs Dr. Spanger had put me on were working their magic. More than anything, they wanted our lives to return to normal, and the longer I was home, the more that seemed to be happening.
Privately, though, I was struggling to adjust. I was bored and lonely. The days dragged. I had thought, after the hardships of the past few weeks, that the comforts of home would be sweeter, but pretty soon even laundered sheets and Chinese takeout lost their luster. My bed was too soft. My food too rich. There was too much of everything, and it made me feel guilty and decadent. Sometimes, wandering mall aisles on an errand with my parents, I would think about the people I’d seen living on the margins of Devil’s Acre and get angry. Why did we have more than we knew what to do with, while they had less than they needed to stay alive?
