Wendy Darling

by Colleen Oakes

  Peter stopped playing and laughed. “It’s not magic. Look.” Wendy opened the tiny door and looked out over the ocean. Below the lantern, for perhaps just the length and width of a mile, the sea glowed with stars. Peter leaned over her, his arm around her waist. “They are starfish, and this time of year they illuminate their limbs in hopes of attracting a mate. It happens every night around this time for a couple of weeks; then once they have found their mates, they disappear back into the sea, back into the night.”

  The ocean surface swayed over the starfish, but their light pulsed on, steady and bright, their stars hopeful of the perfect mate, their light beaming up through the waves that battered around them. Wendy raised her eyes to Peter, his eyes looking out over the water, so happy and so lovely, and it was then that she knew she would lose herself here, to him, to this place. He looked back at her.

  “Wendy . . .” He clasped her against him, and then they were floating up into the lantern, the light of a thousand stars all around them, the green glass around them dancing with reflections.

  Peter’s face was shadowed by the light as he bent to kiss her. Wendy felt a twinge of guilt sneaking its way back into her heart, but she chose to ignore it this time, and without thinking, she threw herself into his arms and pressed her lips against his with abandon, so unlike her, so brave. Their lips were salty with the ocean air, the warmth of his mouth and tongue brushing over her own, driving her mad. Wendy gasped with desire, and Peter pressed against her again, harder this time, his arms crushing around her waist, his mouth on her own.

  The fire inside of her felt like it would consume them both, and yet she wasn’t able to keep the nagging guilt down. It pressed harder and harder against her heart as she pushed herself further and further into Peter. Peter was kissing her hair, her neck, his hands roaming up and down her sides, Wendy dizzy as she lost herself in his mouth. They were circling slowly in the empty room now, the room glowing with the light of a thousand stars, his boyish face so beautiful that she could hardly breathe. She couldn’t breathe. The guilt was so present now that it was practically thumping against her chest, bursting, crying to be let out. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Peter,” she cried. “Peter! I’m sorry, this is improper; we must slow down.”

  “Never,” Peter mumbled, wrapping her waist in his arms and diving back in for another kiss, drinking in everything about her. He was like a current—just when she got her feet underneath her, he pulled again and she was lost, drifting, Peter encompassing every breath. Now he was pulling them downward in the lantern, toward the blankets that sat on the ground, and Wendy put a cautionary hand up against him, trying at once to control her own passion and understand why she was suddenly so nauseated and unhappy.

  As Peter continued kissing her, a face appeared in her mind, hazy, particles of a face, discombobulated. Blue eyes. A strong mouth. Brown hair, straight and dripping with rain. Wendy’s teeth clamped shut and she pushed Peter back, her body mourning the loss of his heat, his embrace. She realized in that second that he was away from her that if she let herself go with him, she would never be able to reclaim her innocence. Not ever.

  “Peter, please, slow down. Something is happening to me . . . my mind . . . I think there is . . .” Peter pulled her roughly down onto his lap and kissed her hard again. “Ignore it. It’s probably the weather,” he whispered frantically, tugging at her dress.

  Wendy was flustered and embarrassed, unsure what to do, trying to keep her passion at bay, trying to piece together the puzzle that was tearing her apart. Her heart and mind wanted one thing, her body another. She felt ripped to shreds, as if she could howl at the moon and curl up in a ball, all at once.

  “No, please, stop. Peter, I’m not ready. Peter . . .”

  “Shhhh . . .” he pressed his lips against hers roughly. Her fingers trailed down his neck as she kissed him harder, harder, tumbling down into Peter Pan, feeling the light of the starfish pulsing from somewhere inside her. Her fingers found his collarbone, the place where his muscles became chest. His skin was smooth and clean under her fingertips, so warm and welcoming. Wendy leaned back from him, breathless.

  “Your scar?”

  Peter pulled back from her, his eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “Your scar? From Hook? Where is it?” She gently ran her fingertips over his collarbone. “It was your shoulder, right?”

  Peter pulled his collar back angrily. “Don’t worry about it, Wendy.” Then, with a growl, he buried himself in her neck and was kissing her harder and harder.

  Something inside of Wendy broke open, gushing forward like a broken dam, the pressing on her chest becoming unbearable and painful. She didn’t know what the word meant, or who it was, but she could only hear one word, pounding against the inside of her head: Booth. Booth. The word rushed through her veins, calming the fire that was consuming her judgment. Booth. The word echoed in her mind, again and again. She was outside herself, inside the word; it was all that mattered. Booth. “Peter, no.”

  Peter pulled back, flushed and annoyed. “What? What is wrong with you?”

  Wendy pushed herself back from him and stood. “I’m sorry, Peter, no. I can’t do this. I’m so sorry.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  Wendy backed away from him. “I should have never let it get this far. I’m sorry, Peter. I didn’t mean to lead you astray.”

  Peter’s face seemed to change from disappointment to anger. His eyes clouded over with navy, but when he blinked, they were green again. The green she had adored so much, before . . . before the word came. Booth. Wendy needed to be alone. Her stomach was churning, and her mind was breaking apart. She would be mortified if she got sick in front of him. Peter’s face began to crumple, much to Wendy’s horror.

  “But, Wendy! Why?”

  She picked up her shoe that had slipped off during their kiss. “Peter, please take me back. I’m not feeling very well.”

  He angrily slammed his foot against the glass floor of the lantern, which gave an unhappy shudder, and his voice rose to a desperate shout. “But I love you! I love you, Wendy.”

  Wendy looked down, unsure of what to say. “I’m sorry, Peter. I can’t explain it. I just can’t be with you—not like that. Perhaps for now we can just be . . . friends.” She could see immediately that it was not the right thing to say.

  “A friend?” Peter repeated with a dead voice. “A friend. I see. Not because I have plenty of friends already.” He turned away from her, his shoulders shaking in anger as he buttoned the top button of his shirt.

  “Peter, please. I can’t explain it.”

  He whirled on her. “YOU’RE MINE, AND SO YOU NEED TO TRY!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. Then he was silent again, but Wendy had stepped back, terrified. “I’m sorry. That was . . . not right to yell at you like that. I’ll take you back.”

  As if there had been an unspoken agreement under the depths of the sea, the starfish below them all gave a shudder and then went dark. The lantern swayed in the wind. Wendy’s pulse quickened, and she suddenly felt very afraid, unsure of why her mind was telling her to flee. Her eyes couldn’t adjust to the lack of light, and Peter’s voice was steady and firm in the darkness, just over her shoulder, closer than he should be, his hand tracing over her hip.

  “At least tell me why, Wendy Darling. Why can’t you love me?”

  Wendy reached out for him, to comfort him, but her hand only swept darkness. “I think there might be someone else. I can’t explain it, but I know it. My heart knows it. My love is spoken for. I didn’t . . .” She cleared her throat. “I didn’t remember before. I don’t really remember now, but I . . . I need to figure things out before anything else happens. Can you understand?” Her breath was calming now; all she felt was the desperate need to be alone. “I just need some time.” Her eyes searched for Peter in the dark, feeling the enchantment of him return. She shook her head. No. Booth.

  Peter turned away from her and wiped his eyes. When he turned
back, his voice was cool and collected. “Whatever you desire, Wendy Darling. I can give you time.” Without feeling, he grabbed her hand, and they flew up and out of the lantern. As she looked back, she saw a flutter of white wings enter the lantern from above and heard an anguished cry rise up from inside. She turned to Peter with a horrified gasp.

  “Is that where Tink lives? We were in Tink’s house?”

  Peter gave an angry shrug. “So? Tink doesn’t own Pan Island.”

  The rest of the flight back to her hut was spent in awkward silence. She could feel an angry heat blazing through Peter’s hand. He deposited her roughly inside her doorway and turned to go. With his back to her, he spoke slow, careful words: “I’ll wait for you, Wendy Darling. I can be patient for your heart. I can be. I will be.”

  Wendy dropped her eyes to the floor and gently placed her hand on his back. His body shuddered at her touch. “Peter. I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

  He turned around, his eyes clouding darkest navy. “Say that you will love me. Say it. Say that you’re mine.”

  Wendy shook her head. “I can’t. Not right now.” Suddenly she was wracked with a violent lurch in her stomach. She fell to her knees, trying her best to not lose her supper. “Peter . . .” When she looked up, he was gone, and her head split wide open.

  The pain in her head was overcoming her senses now, and patches of blackness swirled in her mind. She blinked. She was in a nursery. No, she was on Pan Island. There was a book, a book open to a letter. She saw Peter’s hand stretching toward her. Blood on the rock. She shook her head. What was happening? Was she losing her mind? Was she dying? She fought to focus, struggling to stay conscious.

  Wendy had barely made it inside the door when there was a physical pull from inside her skin, as if her center of gravity had shifted. Wendy waited a moment to see if the pain in her head subsided. There was a pause, and she raised her hands to push on her temples. Oh, Lord, was it gone? Then the blinding pain returned, roaring this time, pressing on her brain like someone was smothering her skull. With a gasp, she fell to her knees as the pain ricocheted around her head and behind her eyes. She crawled, hand over hand toward her hammock, sweat dripping off her forehead. Wendy wretched and wretched again as her head felt as if it were being torn in two. She clasped her hands over her ears and screamed, a funny thought bursting through the pain that this was all so improper. If Peter saw her now, what would he think? Tears dripped down her cheeks as she pulled herself along the floor. If she could just make it to the hammock, if she could just sleep forever, the pain would go away. If this was death, then it would be a release, a relief, from the pain that was setting her skull ablaze. Her white hand clutched at the floor as the pain overtook her, her fingernails making grooves in the wood as splinters shredded her fingertips.

  She didn’t make it to the hammock. The images cascaded around her, drowning her mind. A teddy bear. A man pointing at the stars. Tea on a tray. A soft blanket wrapped around her shoulders. A dog’s silky fur. A woman embracing her. The chant of prayers and the smell of incense. Wendy rolled onto her back and surrendered to whatever blackness was calling her, sweat dripping down the sides of her face. Goodnight, goodnight. She hurtled herself toward unconsciousness.

  When she woke up, it was the middle of the night, and Pan Island was still. Her mind was foggy. Somehow she was on the other side of the room, and her clothing was drenched through with sweat. Wendy rolled over, pushing herself off the ground and sitting up on her knees. Her hands delicately traced her forehead. The pain was gone. What had it been?

  Staggering like a drunk, she made her way to the door and looked out at Pan Island. The remnants of a pink sunset still striped across the sky, the rosy light giving the stars a pastel playground. A cool breeze was whipping through the island, rustling the leaves around her hut, bringing the scent of the hibiscus flowers into her nostrils. Below, she could see the line of the beach that marked each end of Pan Island.

  She saw something wink out of the corner of her eye, and Wendy turned her head. It was the lotus flower, still spinning in the air over the water, illuminated with light, honoring Kitoko and Darby in its soft white glow. It was beautiful, and Wendy closed her eyes, hoping to honor the fallen Lost Boys, but instead seeing Kitoko’s very dead, much-opened throat. She saw it all again. The look of fear on his face as he looked at Peter. The way the pirate had scowled in grim determination, not looking entirely pleased as he pulled his knife through the tendons of Kitoko’s neck. The blood. So much blood.

  Her vision blurred, and Wendy braced herself for another onslaught of the pain that had ripped her brain in half, but none came. She took a breath, and the air around her changed. She blinked twice and opened her eyes. It was then that she realized that she was still dreaming—she looked down and saw herself lying on the floor of the hut, her hands clutched around her head.

  Wendy turned away, and as she did, a filmy gray veil fell over her sight. The veil fluttered in the Neverland breeze, transparent, and yet she couldn’t see behind it. Pull the veil. Wendy reached out her hand, her fingers gently parting the veil, aware somewhere inside of her that this was certainly happening in her mind. Her pointer finger parted the veil ever so softly, and behind it she felt a crisp, damp air and a woolen glove on her hand. She closed her eyes. The smell coming through the parted slit of the veil consumed her, the smell of wet cobblestones, Earl Grey tea, and musty books. It smelled familiar, like the smell of home.

  Wendy took one step closer, and the curtain blew across her face, its silky gossamer fabric brushing her cheeks and hairline, the caress of a lover. She pulled her hand back out of the fold and was struck by a sudden emptiness. Then she understood. Something was waiting for her on the other side. Love. Wet cobblestones. She reached out her hands, and the images began flooding her mind, this time no threat, this time like coming home, like leaping into a familiar lake. The memories came, one by one. Hands on a book, hands on a glove, hands held by another, hands reaching for the stars. Wendy instantly understood. The choice was hers to make, but there really was no choice. Wendy took a deep breath, and with both hands, she pulled the veil down forcefully.

  The memories fell upon her like a crumpling building, violent, sudden, and overwhelming. She saw her mother’s eyes looking down at her in her bed, as Wendy cried over a bloodied knee. She saw her father’s study, his kind blue eyes as he picked up an astronomy book, settling his girl child in his lap. She saw Michael as a baby, so tiny in her arms, his blue eyes watching her as she sang softly to him, Nana sitting protectively at Wendy’s feet. She saw herself passing John a bowl of soup when he was sick with fever, wiping his forehead as her mother prayed at the window. She saw the acolytes carrying the candles at Mass, her father’s hand strong on her shoulder as he repeated lengthy prayers with annoyance.

  Every single memory returned to her. The letter tucked in the book. John’s face, filled with anger as they fought. Michael curling against her as she slept. The nursery window melting, the arrival of Peter. Wendy fell to her knees, taking the veil with her. Her memories continued to fall around her. When they had all come, she knelt down, waiting for the memory of him, him.

  Finally, the bookseller’s son came. Booth. His memory was the sweetest, a painful cut across her heart, a delicious guilt that was both wonderful and devastating. Booth. Booth, the name that had rested on her lips when she slept, the face that had haunted her dreams here on Pan Island. Wendy raised her hand and traced through the air as she remembered the strong line of his cheekbones, his bright blue eyes that looked out with such kindness, such intelligence. She remembered how he had kissed her, his breath quaking as it washed over her lips. She remembered the way he had cautiously pulled the glove off her hand. Oh, Booth. “Be brave, Wendy.” He had told her to be brave, and she had betrayed him.

  Wendy buried her head in her hands and began sobbing. What had she done? Why had she forgotten who she was? Had she been responsible for this? She frantically wiped the tear
s from her eyes. She had forgotten her parents. The Darlings. Oh God, her parents. Did they know that their children were gone? Were they holding each other right now, fearing the worst? Had she broken her parents’ hearts? She had a vision of them kneeling at the nursery window, her mother looking at the ground below that was suddenly so tempting, her father suspiciously eyeing the stars.

  Peter had said that time was different in London than it was in Neverland, that her parents would never even know that they had gone. Was he lying? She prayed that he wasn’t and that somewhere, past the morning stars, her parents were still laughing at the party, her father swirling his brandy glass, her mother talking much too loud. Her lips clenched at the memory of them, of the love that rose up inside of her. The hollow of her heart that she had ignored since she arrived here was full, brimming over with happy memories, with love for her parents, with love for Booth.

  Wendy pulled her arms back from the veil. No. That wasn’t right. She felt the wood under her fingers. She was still lying on the floor. There was no veil in her hands. It had all been in her mind. But Wendy remembered. Every moment of her life, she remembered. She was Wendy Darling of No. 14 Kensington Park Gardens, and she was whole again.

  And they needed to go home.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, Wendy stayed quietly in her room, rocking silently in the hammock, slowly drinking in all of her memories, precious jewels, each one of them treasured and tucked away. She would never lose them again. She turned over as the hammock swayed underneath her and watched the shadows play across the room.

  Wendy couldn’t even remember when she had started forgetting. Had it been right when they had left London? Was it when she saw Neverland for the first time? Had Peter known that she couldn’t remember? He must have. Tink had known Wendy was forgetting, had known about the veil. Wendy considered, not for the first time that morning, that maybe her memory loss was connected to Peter’s presence. When he was near her, she was rendered into blind passion, disarmed by his charm. He made her forget who she was.