by Laurie Fox
When Freeman materialized, I was relieved to see how normal he looked. At the last minute, he must have decided against the blue-jeans-and-tuxedo-jacket combo that was so popular, and opted for a beige linen suit with tee-shirt. Black high-top tennis shoes winked at me from below sharply creased pant cuffs.
I smiled winsomely at my groom. Freeman deserved that much for marrying a problem who toted around a second problem inside her. Of course, he never would have regarded our union in this way. He still believed that, over time, I would calm down and that the child I bore would have a squeaky-clean slate when it came to her mental health. The crucial thing was that we were nuts for each other. The fact that I was occasionally starved for attention shouldn’t have mattered. Neither should have Freeman’s expert avoidance of gainful employment.
Though he’d started a paper route for the San Francisco Chronicle, after two weeks of tossing papers in the dark, Freeman accused his vocation of disrupting his creative flow. How dare it! Thereafter, he’d returned to life as an unemployed composer (what other kind was there?) and we’d made a go of it with a small infusion of cash from the artistic Ullmans, my tiny advance from my first book, Ferrets Are Free, and by cashing in Brave Hearts Airlines stock, my sweet-sixteen gift from Daddy.
I had never felt comfortable asking my parents for money; ever since leaving home, I’d striven to demonstrate my independence on the material front if not the emotional one. Besides, Mother was spending her book royalties as quickly as the checks came in—being a voluptuary didn’t come cheap. And Daddy’s generous impulses were entirely fickle: an offering of cold cash might be followed by an icy admonition to “be brilliant in your field, Wendy, or give up the ghost.”
That day, my wedding day, I’d rightly expected to be a ball of conflicting emotions. Jittery. Rhapsodic. Numb. Standing in front of my family now, not to mention Freeman’s, not to mention a swarm of Mummy’s closest male friends, I tried to concentrate on what was good about life—not my life specifically, but the Big Picture. For one, I had a warm albeit funky shelter. Two, I ate really clean organic food (this was Berkeley, after all). And three, there’d been a mercifully long interval between quakes of the geological sort.
But what about the Small Picture? The knowledge that Freeman was a creative ally should have been enough. I honestly expected him to leave someday; if he stuck around, I’d be pressed to revise my sexual politics and we couldn’t have that.
So, stepping onto the outermost brink and shaking like the Cowardly Lion, I tallied what I felt to be true:
• One, I was lucky to be wanted by somebody.
• Two, I’d never have to worry about whether such a charismatic guy would hang around for the whole show. (He wouldn’t.)
• And three, once he’d flown the coop, I’d feel devastated and unforgiving, but in no time revert to my native loneliness. As loneliness was a state with which I was ridiculously intimate, I really had nothing to fear.
True, my tally did not include a baby. While the Ullmans insisted that we marry, Freeman and I could have coasted along very nicely, thank you, without a sanction from the government. For there was never any question my baby daughter would take the name Darling; in my family this was nonnegotiable. Freeman, only too happy to record the subtle sounds of pregnancy, had yet to focus on what came after.
So, having itemized the verities and finding myself still vertical, I snuck a look at my sweet, goofy husband-to-be and saw . . . my father.
Why was I marrying a near-clone of Dudley Braverman?
I believed in happy beginnings.
Bundled in his suit—a sheepish boy in men’s clothing—Freeman took my hand with great tenderness as he had on thousands of occasions, then proceeded to squeeze the life out of it. No question he was scared. In order to survive the ceremony, I tactfully withdrew my hand and pretended to adjust the train on my heavily garnished gown. When I glanced up, we both caught the remorse in each other’s eyes. Freeman was sorry for being a nervous Nellie (after all, the entire tribe of Ullmans was in the audience, looking remote and intellectually underfed); and I was sorry he was saddled with the Darlings and the Bravermans—most especially, with their lone offspring.
“All right, kids.” Mother cleared her throat and took a sip of wine from a crystal goblet on the makeshift podium. The wine had no religious significance; she was simply a glutton for a good Chablis.
“Let’s get this r-r-r-oad on the show!” she trilled, then whooped like a rock star. No one laughed, but Mother continued as if she’d been howlingly funny: “My daughter, Wendy, a postmodern bride who doesn’t really need to marry and become a slavish subject of the state, but rather feels that this wedding is a private affair of the heart concerning only those who love her—” Guests exchanged sidelong glances. “And her smart-arse Mozart of a groom, who doesn’t really need to settle down with one woman, but feels obligated because his best girl got preggers—”
“Mummy!” I shrieked.
“Let’s have a little fun, shall we? We are gathered here today in the memory of two individuals who have decided to give up their personhood—”
“Mae!” Freeman growled under his breath. The guests in the front row tittered.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” she hissed. “I’m just trying to spice this up. The ceremony you wrote is leaden and corny.”
“How dare you, Mother,” I said as discreetly as I could. “This is my first and only wedding, and you are not going to screw it up.”
Freeman took hold of Mother’s twiglike wrists. “You’re fired, Mae.”
“But you two need me. You can’t carry on without a professional.” “Gee, ya think?” Freeman hoisted Mummy in the air and set her down several yards from the podium. Then, wearing a wiggly smile that spoke volumes, he returned to address the crowd: “Okay, okay, okay. We’re gonna try and continue with the ceremony as written by Wendy and me. But let’s take a moment to acknowledge my mother-in-law, Margaret. She was the perfect warm-up act, don’t you agree?”
He encouraged a round of applause and the guests sluggishly obliged. From the corner of my eye I spotted Mummy fuming in the background, half obscured by a bush of flaming Red Devil roses.
The wedding moved forward without further interruption (though Mother’s performance became the stuff of legend). Not to say that our wedding succumbed to convention: without the services of a minister, Freeman had to assume the role and improvise. This added a silly rhetorical ring to the proceedings: “Freeman, do you—do I?—take Wendy as your—as my—awfully lawful and bedded wife?” “I do.” “And do you—do I?—promise to cherish her but not place her on a pedestal too often?” “I do.”
To legalize the whole thing, Freeman and I got married again the following Monday in a subdued civil service at city hall, with Great-Nana serving as our witness. By this time, Daddy was safely in the air, jetting back to Brave Hearts headquarters, and Mother was holed up in her house, vowing never to speak to me again.
* *
HAVING a child requires little imagination as far as biology goes. Anyone can give birth. But believing in your child’s future takes the vision of a Bucky Fuller, the faith of Joan of Arc, the lunar-mania of Jules Verne. It takes an artist to conjure up a space for your girl or boy that’s boundary-free and fraught with beauty: a place to climb a bean stalk or don a riding hood.
Let’s say that, as prospective parents, Freeman’s and my fears were only outmatched by our speculations. Quaint notions like: our baby will know the world is a kind place if she listens to early Judy Collins. Or, Wonder Woman comics will come in handy to empower our delicate flower. Or, whole wheat ensures wholeness. Like most parents, our ignorance gave us an edge over chaos. Like all parents, we would muddle through.
During my pregnancy, I did my best to keep things upbeat around the apartment. I stayed away from movies by Godard and Bertolucci, and satisfied my cinematic jones with Woody Allen and Truffaut. I read daily from the scripture of Mary Poppins, and
played Mummy’s The Sound of Music LP until the grooves gave way. I avoided all Sylvia Plath in favor of e.e. cummings, and took to wearing fruity pastels, even in the dead of winter. Freeman joined my Mickey Mouse Club for Pregnant Women and took to supplying cute voices and sound effects for a phalanx of cartoon characters that he watched on Saturday morning television. He turned the volume all the way down and, with a mysterious box called a synthesizer, substituted a menagerie of electronic howls, squawks, and moos. Over the months, he became astonishingly good at this, a one-man band with infinite resources, and we both wondered where such talent would take him, if indeed there was a destination.
By the time I was four months pregnant my nausea was at its apogee. I couldn’t imagine it getting any worse, as my imagination had abandoned me at the three-month mark. Even the thought of a cracker made me hurl. Desperate to offer some relief, Freeman created a stream of soothing sounds on his synth to distract me, and occasionally he succeeded. One evening he played tapes of two of my favorite songs—Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” and Laura Nyro’s “Lonely Women”—but with a twist: onto these fabulously bleak tunes he mixed tracks of fairylike xylophone notes. He hoped the resulting hybrid would trigger some neurological switch that, given time, might suppress my nausea and, if I was open to the ironies, make me chuckle. He called his technique Freeman-phonia. I called it folly but the thing is, folly worked and I was able to regain equilibrium and move about the apartment.
A tad more sentient now, I had the niggling feeling that Freeman would rather be making tinkly sounds and animal noises than finding real work. When I questioned him about this, he met me with predictably deaf ears: “Wends, listen to this: ping-pling p’zow-ping! It’s sheer genius!” So I’d listen to whatever and nod, wincing with faint approval.
In the eighth month of my pregnancy, we moved in to my childhood home in the Berkeley hills. It goes without saying that we needed the space, but we also wanted our child to be closer to nature. (In a truly lopsided exchange, Mummy took up residence in Freeman’s student quarters to be closer to the coeds who championed her books.) My old bedroom was converted into the nursery and its hardwood floor refinished; all the damage from my manic rocking was smoothed over. I even installed a chair that didn’t rock—a chaste white wicker armchair.
It was here, in this setting, that I began to worry about our family’s future. It’s not as though I could say to Freeman, I’m a grownup and you’re not. Just because my stomach was inflated to the max didn’t mean I’d graduated into bona fide adulthood. No, my thoughts and ideas were still controlled by the past, if not held completely hostage. For it was not long after moving back in the house that I began to receive visits from shapes and colors and voices and weather that, I knew all too well, had nothing to do with my pregnancy and everything to do with my childhood. Trapped inside a time bomb of a body, it was almost too easy to take the plunge: I gave in to the assorted shapes and colors, voices and breezes, immersing myself in a world where one’s body had little meaning.
Incorporeality was everything in The Neverland. If you asked anyone what he weighed, he would just laugh like you’d made the cleverest joke. But if you asked what flavor the sky was, you’d get a serious answer that went on for paragraphs.
The visits always began with a rousing gust; at least I don’t remember flying. As usual, I’d be in the bathroom, undressing for my morning shower, ever astonished by the pretty curve of my expanding belly. I’d lightly pat my stomach, instructing my baby to “get ready for life on the outside—it will blow your tiny mind.” Only here, in the privacy of the bathroom, did I feel comfortable with the idea of being a mother. I’d picture my little girl and me at the city museum, pointing and laughing at the paintings, admiring the masterworks and dismissing the rest. And then I’d catch my smile in the bathroom mirror and fill with such lovely thoughts of motherhood—thoughts that were at odds with my usual dread.
It was then I would sense a brash, alien current of air pricking the tiny blonde hairs on my forearms. Soon I’d pick up the scent of lavender and anise circling round the tight space, and taste something cool on my lips—a coolness akin to spearmint. I’d begin to feel lightheaded and weightless, in spite of my considerable weight. By and by, a pink fog would hover overhead, leading me inside the shower stall—to a place that would soon make sense. All too quickly, though, the fog would recede into the pink tiles and I’d question what I’d seen. Then, just when I was about to turn on the spigots, the fog would reappear, its gauzy fingers imploring, Hurry, this way! and I’d stop everything and wait for instructions.
First came the voices—cartoonish yet familiar, as if my oldest friends were speaking at forty-five rpm. Usually it was my name they spoke in unison, which put a smile on my chilled lips and warmed me from the inside. Then came circles, trapezoids, octagons, triangles—not so much floating in the air, but rotating like a carousel in my mind. Each flaunted its bold, saturated color as if I were in elementary school and just learning about the forms objects take. At a leisurely pace the shapes would settle into a landscape that I could eventually make out as the building blocks of mountain, lagoon, and forest. Giddy with comprehension I’d jump into the air and shout: rock! water! oak! Each thing I called upon bowed in the only way it knew how: wobbling, rippling, bending. This never failed to strike my funny bone, and I’d giggle until the sight of a boy took my breath away. Then I’d pass out like some sort of drama queen.
Sometimes Freeman would find me in the shower stall, dry and clinging languorously to the spigots, or laid out like a drunk on the pink tiles. With barely concealed anguish, he’d lift me out and set me down on the bath mat, then feed me a glass of water from the sink. He’d chastise me for opening the bathroom window on “such an insanely cold day,” and then close the window with a ferocity that puzzled me.
But there was a single morning when I traveled well and far. I touched down without incident and woke up blinking like a newborn. I’d returned to the site of the crime—the very spot where I once swore to Peter that I’d never, ever, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die, grow up.
A week before Berry was due—by this time we’d arrived at her name, a homage to the great man of letters J. M. Barrie, Nana’s first crush and the person who’d christened her Wendy because she called him “my Friendy” in her toothy way—I found myself sprawled on the well-worn spot under The Hanging Tree, Pan bobbing over me from on high.
In a flash—like a film with crucial frames missing—he appeared in front of me, smirking like the wicked lad he was. With impressive haste he removed the green, paisley bandana tied round his noggin, hippie-style, and fastidiously tied it to my wrist. Then, with a single obnoxious tug, he yanked me to my feet.
“Well, if it isn’t the Wendybird,” he said. “So, once again, I’ve rescued you. What d’ya have to say for yourself?”
“Ha!” I protested, noting that I was uncommonly huge in The Neverland. But Peter didn’t seem to notice; he didn’t appreciate that thirteen years had gone by.
“So that makes twenty-two thousand successful rescues, that’s what. A new world record.” He stuck his vulpine face in my startled one, and I turned my puffy cheeks away. I’d just seen something that made me cower.
“What’s the matter, tongue got your cat?” he jested.
“It’s nothing,” I said with false aplomb. But my eyes hadn’t deceived me: a couple of nut-brown whiskers were sprouting from Peter’s chin and, I swear, his voice was lower.
Could it be that Peter had, God forfend, aged? Ripened like the peaches he so fancied? Perhaps he’d glued some fake whiskers to his jaw for a theatrical skit, some burlesque wherein he played a pirate or reenacted his triumph over the multiple descendants of Captain Hook?
“Then why’re you staring at me like you’ve just seen Casper the Friendly Ghost?” he asked, mouth ajar.
“Because I have seen a ghost. You’re ever the ghost, Peter. Don’t you know that? All this”—I made an exaggerated sweeping gesture—“
this is one big ghost story compared to the rock-solid story I live in. My world is sturdy and durable. It takes precedence over yours. At least that’s what they tell me.” Bowing to the pressure in my head, I fell to my knees.
“What’s this all about, li’l lady?” Peter spoke in that wooden John Wayne voice I’d taught him so long ago. “Is it because you’re a li’l fat and a lot taller? Freakishly tall, actually?”
I shook my head and sniffled. He stroked the air above my head the way one touches a stranger’s dog. “Now then, lass,” he said more compassionately. “Why don’t you tell us the story of Peter Pan and Wendy. That’ll be good for a few laughs.”
Yanking the sleeve of my Lanz nightgown (as was customary on the island, I was packaged in a virginal, white-flannel shroud), Peter led me to a hammock woven from cast-off button-down shirts he’d pinched from the Salvation Army; he sat himself down an arm’s length from me. For a few peaceful minutes, we swung under the shade of a Torrey pine. The magnificent tree reminded me of the Southern California coastline, especially the cliffs at La Jolla where Daddy went hang gliding whenever he graced America with his presence. One more beautiful vista from which he ignored me.
As Peter and I rocked more turbulently on the hammock, old, unwanted notions began to surface, not the least of which was the hurt and the shame of Peter’s chronic absence during my interminable teen years. It was the very thing I’d forgotten on arrival, too easily distracted by the perfumed scenery. In rapid succession more stinging memories made themselves known: the fact that I was pregnant, that I had a “boy” back home. I was dizzy and sickened by the contradictory images of my bifurcated life, the sum of my experience as a changeling. It all added up to an unfinished piece of work—one defective young woman.
