When it had become clear to them that Wendy wouldn’t change her story, their parents had sent John and Michael away to a boarding school, while keeping Wendy at home under their watchful eyes. It was as though they had believed that separating her from not only her brothers but all other children entirely would force her to give up what they had seen as a youthful fantasy. But it had only ingrained Neverland in her further.
Wendy had spent those nights in the too-empty nursery without the soft sounds of her brothers breathing beside her recounting to herself every detail of Neverland that she could—the precise way the bark felt under her palms as she climbed the trees while chasing Peter, the way the mermaids’ scales flashed in the sun, the scent of smoke from Tiger Lily’s camp fire, the way the deck had rolled under them when Hook’s pirates had captured them, even the particular way the terrible pirate captain had smelled.
Being apart from her brothers for the first time since they had been born had taught Wendy her first lessons in silence and lying. She had learned to keep her truths to herself, telling her parents what they wanted to hear. But she had never stopped believing, and those memories, the way she learned to conjure Neverland into her room at night, will serve her well now.
If she concentrates, she can call to mind exactly how it felt, how the sky over Neverland tasted as she flew, and the exact color of the starlight… There was a time when the stars were so close all she had to do was stretch out her hand to catch one. Wendy stretches out her hand now, curling her fingers into a waiting space. She holds her breath, yearning, concentrating all her will on that invisible tether connecting her to Neverland. But her hand remains empty, no star filling her palm. She closes her hand into a fist, slamming it into the bed in frustration.
She’s a fool. Did she really expect to capture a star in her palm? In this world, the one she’s trapped in, such things aren’t possible. Stars are distant and impossibly huge, not points of light to be gathered and held against the dark. She knows this, and still it hurts. More than she imagined possible. She’s tired beyond belief. Angry. And she’s beginning to feel hopeless.
For a year she’s listened to Dr. Harrington telling her she’s sick, and to Jamieson calling her a liar. She’s seen John tire of arguing with her and turn away, his shoulders sloped in defeat. Michael refuses to even visit her most of the time.
There’s a crack, a fissure running all the way through her and it widens every day. There are times she wants to give in to John and Dr. Harrington. Would it be so bad to play make-believe, pretend to be a girl who never flew, never left home?
But why should she be asked to forget, to pretend to be something she is not? She’d learned to lie to her parents, but she’s grown up now, twenty-five years old. Shouldn’t she be the one to make the rules? Why should she let others define her reality?
Wendy concentrates, willing her body to lift from the bed. Fly. It used to be so easy. Even a fraction of space between herself and the bed would be enough. It would lessen the ache; it would make all the rage, all the suffering, worthwhile. But even without her hair, she’s too heavy. Everything in St. Bernadette’s holds her down.
When she’d tried as a child, leaping from atop the wardrobe, she’d let doubt cloud her mind. She’d been sick, weak, finding herself disbelieved, seeing her brothers already forgetting. If she refuses to let that doubt in again now, fills up every space inside her with thoughts of Neverland, surely she cannot fail again.
Wendy bites her lip, digging her shortened nails into her palm. She reaches for the sensation of Peter taking her hand, for the moment her toes lifted from the nursery floor, the dizzy fall through the window and up into the sky, all elation and breathlessness. Everything was bright and wonderful, the stars shining in so many more colors than she’d ever imagined possible. She remembers laughing, the light catching in her teeth and tasting of plums and honey. And…
Smoke. Raw meat. Wet fur.
Wendy falls. Her stomach drops and even though the bed in St. Bernadette’s still holds her, she plummets into endless dark. Peter’s hand is still on hers, but his grip is unshakable. Rather than holding her up, he pulls her along faster and faster, running until her feet burn.
It’s a secret, Wendy. The best secret I know. I’ve never told anyone before.
It’s a feeling she imagines akin to being struck by lightning. Hollow, tingling, numb. A pain that isn’t quite pain. There’s a hole inside her. A place where something has been torn away.
Wendy slams a door over the empty space, a primal reaction. On the other side of the wood, something breathes. On the other side of the wood is a raw wound, and she draws away.
Her eyes fly open, her breath coming fast and hard. There’s something there. Something in Neverland she’s forgotten, something terrible. There’s a bit of darkness lodged inside her like a splinter, digging and digging, infecting her blood.
Shaking, Wendy rises and creeps to the door. Despite the nurse’s punishment and her shorn head, it is unlocked. Perhaps the nurse forgot, or perhaps she expects Wendy to be broken and properly cowed, subdued without any need to lock her in. She eases the door open and peers down the hallway in either directions. No attendants or nurses in
