Wendy, Darling

by A. C. Wise

  “Do you—” Her voice breaks, and Jane swallows, her throat suddenly thick. “What was she like?”

  Timothy screws up his face again, thinking, and then his expression clears, and he looks younger than ever, smiling in a way that breaks Jane’s heart.

  “Pretty. She was nice. She told stories, like you, but better.”

  Timothy’s eyes go wide, as if realizing what he’s said might hurt her. He opens his mouth, but Jane shakes her head, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand and letting out a breath.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Listen. If Peter went away and brought… a mother back from somewhere else, then there must be somewhere else to go to, a way off the island.”

  Timothy’s face scrunches with incomprehension, like he can’t grasp there being more to the world than just Neverland. Jane ignores his confusion, jumping up. She can’t sit here a moment longer thinking of the possibility of her mother and Peter, her mother here, and never breathing a word of it to Jane. She can’t think about Timothy knowing her mother before she ever did, Timothy being older than her, no matter how young he looks. The hammock rocks so violently Timothy almost falls out, but he scrambles after her.

  “I’ll help you look.”

  “But—” Even though she already suggested Timothy come home with her, being responsible for herself is one thing; being responsible for Timothy is something else entirely.

  “I’m not scared.” Timothy interrupts her, pushing his chest out and raising his chin.

  It’s so brave and ridiculous and wonderful that Jane can’t help but laugh. She wipes at her cheeks again. Maybe a good big sister would insist Timothy stay behind, but would he really be any safer with Peter than with her? Deep down, she’s glad to have Timothy with her; she’d rather not do this alone.

  “Well, we’d best leave now then, before the others find us.”

  Another giddy thrill runs through her, and Jane suppresses a burst of nervous laughter. Is she really doing this? Is she really running away from Peter and taking Timothy with her? How will they get home, and what will she do with Timothy once they’re there? She can’t think about that now. There’ll be time to figure it out later. Right now, they need to escape.

  She gestures for Timothy to follow her, moving as swiftly as she can without making any noise. At the border of the trees, Timothy pauses. His expression is serious, his eyes wide in the drenching moonlight, and Jane is struck with the sudden fear that he means to turn back.

  “This does mean we’re friends, doesn’t it?” The question catches her off guard; a sound rises in her throat that might be a laugh or a sob, but she turns it into a cough to excuse her watering eyes. If Timothy can be brave and fierce and sweet then so can she. Whatever they do to leave this place, they’ll do it together.

  “Of course we are.” Jane thinks for a moment then draws herself up and extends her hand for a formal and proper shake, which seems to her a very grown-up thing to do. “I’m Jane, and it’s a great pleasure to have your friendship.”

  Timothy beams, pumping her hand enthusiastically.

  “Hullo, Jane,” he says. “It’s very good to know you and be your friend.”

  LONDON 1920

  Wendy stands on the steps of St. Bernadette’s trying not to fidget. After years in plain clothing designed to erase her shape, the skirt she wears is too heavy, her waist too pinched, the heels on her boots too high. They’re her own clothes, but they don’t feel like her anymore. They might as well belong to a stranger.

  She has to consciously still her hands and not pluck at her sleeves or smooth her skirt to surreptitiously touch the reassuring pockets that are no longer there. The first thing she’ll do once she’s free of this place is sew herself a whole new set of clothing, ones with proper, deep pockets everywhere she can fit them.

  The thought calms her, but only for a moment. Michael and John are bringing her home today. She’s spent three years yearning for freedom, and now that it’s within her grasp, she isn’t ready. What will she do without Mary? What will she do with this man, Ned, whom her brothers have chosen as her keeper?

  John has made it clear she must become the very model of a marriageable woman. This is not only a chance at a normal life for her but for him as well. Wendy knows she’s been a burden, but before she goes off to her new life, she wishes they could speak honestly as brother and sister. It’s been such a rush since John delivered his news. She still doesn’t know for certain why John chose Ned for her rather than some other man. Or perhaps he is the only choice, and her brother is that desperate to unload her.

  And what of Michael? Does he like Ned? Consider him a friend? She trusts John to speak to Ned’s breeding, but Michael might tell her honestly whether Ned is a kind man, whether he laughs easily or is serious all the time. Or at least he might have once upon a time. Now she isn’t certain whether Michael is willing to speak to her at all. John informed her they were both coming to collect her, but does Michael want to be here, or is John dragging him along?

  Wendy thinks back to the last time she saw her youngest brother outside St. Bernadette’s. She’d broken him with her insistence that he remember Neverland, reducing him to tears. Had she sought to help him or herself? She still isn’t sure. At the time she’d thought, perhaps, that remembering something good might help him, and she’d begged him to see the world from her perspective, but she’d never once tried to see it from his.

  How much he must have forced himself to forget just to survive, how much the war had taken from him. But back then, she’d refused to let up. She’d pushed, even when his hands shook, when his eyes grew wild, when he sobbed. He’d shouted at her to stop, and she’d shouted right back at him.

  If she’d relented, perhaps John never would have brought her to this place. The image is burned in her mind even now—John standing between Michael and herself, light reflecting in his glasses and erasing his eyes. Even so, she’d seen his expression— stricken. He’d been afraid—of her, for her—and she’d left him no choice. He’d needed to put her away to protect their baby brother, something she should have done herself, but she’d been so stubborn and certain she was right.

  Wendy looks toward the iron gates. The path leading to them is a pale scar against the green. When she first arrived at St. Bernadette’s she would have blamed Peter for the way she treated her brothers. If he hadn’t abandoned her, if he hadn’t stolen them all in the first place… But no. It is time to take responsibility for herself, to protect her brothers the way she always should have.

  “Mary has come to bid you one last goodbye.” Dr. Harrington’s voice jolts Wendy from her thoughts.

  He’d agreed to her release easily, happy to be rid of her, Wendy is certain. She doesn’t miss the disapproval in the doctor’s eyes, but to his credit he steps aside to give them at least the illusion of privacy. This is the moment she’s been dreading most of all, and when she turns, Wendy’s pulse lurches. Mary looks small framed against the hallway leading back into the asylum. In all the time Wendy has known her, Mary has never looked small. She’s big enough to contain worlds, courage and love Wendy can’t even fathom. Panic rabbits through her. She can’t do this. She almost grabs Dr. Harrington by the lapels of his immaculate suit, telling him she’s changed her mind, she doesn’t want to go home at all.

  Mary steadies her with an unforgiving look, almost a glare. Don’t you dare, it says. You are not allowed to be a coward.

  Wendy almost laughs, a sound dangerously close to breaking her. She keeps it trapped behind her teeth and takes Mary’s hands, leaning their foreheads together.

  “I’ll find a way to get you out too, I promise.” Wendy shifts, placing her body between Mary and Dr. Harrington, so she can pretend they’re alone. “Even if it can’t be right away, I won’t leave you here.”

  “Don’t go making promises you can’t keep.” Mary’s eyes shine bright. It isn’t doubt in her voice, more a threat, mockingly delivered. Wendy can’t help smiling, t
asting salt as she does. She’s never had a friend before, not one like Mary. How will she live while they’re apart?

  “I’ll keep it. I swear.” Wendy smudges the tears on her cheeks.

  “Here.” Quick enough that Dr. Harrington won’t see, Wendy slips a precious stolen needle from the sleeve of her blouse where she threaded it earlier, tucking it into Mary’s hand. Mary’s mouth opens, but no words emerge. Their whole history together in a tiny sliver of metal; Wendy folds Mary’s fingers over it. Mary taught her to survive, how not to give up hope. The only thing Wendy wants in the world right now is to do the same for her.

  “Something to remember me by.” She brushes her lips against Mary’s cheek, soaking in the warmth of her skin. “This isn’t goodbye.”

  Wendy steps back and already the needle is nowhere to be seen. Wendy schools her features, tucking the urge to smile into her cheek and biting down on it.

  “Come now, let’s not keep your brothers waiting.” Dr. Harrington takes Wendy’s arm, his grip insistent and firm.

  For a moment, Wendy thinks she will strike him, but Mary’s gaze pins her. She has a promise to keep. Wendy inclines her head, the barest of motions, and even that hurts. She should say more, but what can she say? There’s too much between them, and words are not enough for what Mary means to her. Wendy can only hope, trust, that Mary knows.

  Wendy turns, swallowing against an aching throat. She allows Dr. Harrington to walk her down the path, his fingers wrapped tight about her arm, as though even now she might flee. She has the absurd image of herself as a bride, Dr. Harrington walking her down the aisle to give her away. Wendy glances back at Mary one last time. If she looks for any longer, her courage will break and she’ll sprint back into the dark. She knows she isn’t safe in St. Bernadette’s, but at least she understands the rules.

  When she turns back, she sees John and Michael at the bottom of the path, waiting just inside the gate. They look terribly small, only boys in the nursery. Then the space between them folds, and Wendy is front of them and they are both taller than her, not boys at all but fully grown men. John with his fine moustache, Michael with his hair faded to a sandy paleness, leaning on his cane, a collection of ghosts keeping residence in his blue-gray eyes. John kisses her cheek. Michael hugs her with one arm, but the movement is stiff and formal as though they are strangers.

  Wendy aches to say something to him, but John steps between them.

  “Come now, darling.” John takes her arm, his fingers taking the place of Dr. Harrington’s. Wendy can’t help flinching at the gesture and his words. “There’s a car waiting.”

  There’s a strained note in his voice, tension in his eyes as John glances toward her then away again just as quickly. He bundles her into the back seat, scarcely giving her a moment to collect herself, as if he too is afraid she’ll fly away. His voice, his expression, something is wrong, and Wendy braces herself, but nothing could prepare her for John’s words as he climbs in beside her and shuts the door.

  “I hope you don’t mind terribly much, but we have reservations for lunch at the club. Ned’s father has arranged it all. He’s very anxious to meet you.”

  “Ned?” Wendy turns cold, her ears ringing with the name as the car pulls away. She’s to meet her future husband now? Without even a chance to reacclimatize to life outside St. Bernadette’s walls?

  John at least has the decency to look abashed, his cheeks reddening. Michael doesn’t look at her at all.

  “Please, Wendy. You must try.” John’s voice is that of a child, begging for a sweet, smoothed over with a veneer of concern.

  Wendy’s hands want to fly to the door handle, to pound against the car’s window. She wants to throw herself into the street, anything but this. She thinks of Mary, her promise, and the future. She thinks of John and Michael and their past. She makes herself look her brother in the eye, seeing him truly. John cares for her. He wants what’s best for her. She can’t blame him for failing to understand her when she made herself impossible to comprehend.

  “I am trying.” Wendy keeps her voice as even as she can. “I will try, but I need time. It’s too soon.”

  John’s teeth worry at his lip beneath his moustache, an old habit resurfacing.

  “Your future father-in-law was rather insistent. He can be… an impatient man.” John coughs, looking away.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.” Wendy almost grabs John by the ear, as if he were a boy again and she her mother’s surrogate, trying to catch him in a fib. Instead, she curls her hands in her lap, proving she can control herself, proving she’s changed.

  “It isn’t a matter for…” John shakes his head. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.” His voice is sharp, but underneath, Wendy thinks he might be embarrassed. She looks to Michael, pleading, but he ignores her, looking through the window as the city rolls past. Wendy feels her corset constricting her. More than heavy now, more than weighing her down. Her skin burns under her clothing until she wants to claw her dress free. Now she knows why John was so insistent over how she should be dressed, how her hair should be done. How could he do this to her? How could he be so unfair?

  All too soon, the car comes to a halt, filling Wendy with fresh panic. She scans the street, wondering if she could run. How far could she get before they hunted her down? John catches her arm as she reaches for the door, as if sensing her thoughts. But there’s more to it than that—the look in his eyes is something else altogether.

  “Ned and his father know you’ve been… sick, but nothing more.” A frown works at John’s mouth, but his expression is sincere. “You might tell them it was the Spanish flu, or whatever you like. What you choose to disclose is up to you.”

  Choose. The word stops her. She hasn’t had a choice in so long—not of where to go, or what to say, and now John is giving Wendy the chance to reinvent herself whole. The thought is dizzying, and she meets her brother’s eyes, sees everything in them that he is trying to convey without speaking out loud. He wants to be kind. He’s offering her control of her life from this moment on, as narrow as the channel may be. Above all, with a fierceness that takes Wendy by surprise, he wants her to be happy.

  All at once, the thought of so much choice panics her. Could she say it was the flu? St. Bernadette’s had been lucky in that way, with few enough soldiers sent to the men’s wards after coming home from the continent that they had largely escaped the sickness that had engulfed other places whole. Will Ned and his father press her, ask her for proof, and what will she say if they do? After so many years of lying, the thought of one more, a lie of her choosing that—if John is correct—her future husband will be eager to believe, nearly stops her breath.

  John holds her arm for a moment longer, then lets her go. Trust. A gift, and she takes strength from it, forcing herself to breathe. She can do this thing. Moving stiffly, she climbs from the car. Her body feels numb, miles away and nothing to do with her. The real Wendy Darling flies far above the woman ascending the steps to the club preparing to meet her future husband.

  By habit, Wendy brushes down the front of her skirt and straightens her sleeves. There are no hidden pockets, but running her hands over the fabric calms her regardless. Given the situation, she can allow herself this small comfort.

  “I’m ready.” Wendy lifts her chin.

  John favors her with a smile—relief, and perhaps a little bit of affection. There’s even a note of apology in his eyes as he holds open the door. As Wendy steps through, Michael finally catches her eye. The expression is flicker-brief, but Wendy sees a glimpse of the boy she knew in the nursery. He touches her arm, the barest pressure of his fingers resting on her sleeve.

  “Don’t worry, Windy.” A crooked smile, and Michael’s old nickname for her almost undoes her. “You’ll like Ned.”

  Those words, brief as they are, give Wendy the courage to keep walking. She will do this for Michael, for John. For Mary.

  As Wendy’s eyes adjust to the transition fr
om outdoor to indoor light, a tall, angular man steps forward. His hair is neatly parted, his moustache dark and carefully trimmed. The man’s suit is impeccable—dark gray, the coat long, with a cravat of rose-colored silk stuck with a perfectly placed diamond pin. She’s been out of the world long enough that she has no idea whether this is the current fashion, but nonetheless, she feels shabby. She stops where she is, and the man stops as well, a nervous air about him, making her think of a horse, easily spooked.

  Just behind the man who must be Ned is a man she assumes to be her future father-in-law. The resemblance is uncanny. She might be looking at the same man twice, only one with several extra years of age. The iron gray of her father in-law’s hair and moustache is the only thing that sets their appearances apart.

  Ned holds out his hand, but his father steps forward, almost bumping Ned out of the way as he grasps John’s hand and shakes it firmly. He greets Michael next, and only then looks to Wendy. His gaze reminds her of Dr. Harrington, examining her like a specimen, a particularly unpleasant one. John puts a hand on the small of her back, steadying her, drawing her forward.

  “May I present my sister, Miss Wendy Darling.”

  Should she curtsey? No, that would be absurd. She inclines her head, does her best to smile. She’s so focused on what to do with her hands, where to look, that she misses Ned and his father’s last name. Did John tell her already? She can’t remember. It’s to be her name too; shouldn’t it be something she knows? She wants to laugh, feels the hysterical sound trapped in her throat, and tamps it down.

  Without intending to, she ends up meeting Ned’s eye. His cheeks immediately color. The reaction catches her off guard, making her want to laugh in a wholly different way. It’s oddly charming that he should be afraid of her. Of all the things she might have expected, that wasn’t one of them.

  “There’s a table waiting for us.” Ned’s father’s voice is brusque, and Wendy sees what her brother meant about him being an impatient man. It strikes Wendy that he’s treating the whole thing as a business transaction, one that he would rather have over and done.