Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(104)

“Sleep,” Jane/not Jane says. “Just sleep.”

Fatigue is pulling at Holly like a tide, dragging her down no matter how hard she fights. Jane pulls the sheet up, presses cool lips against Holly’s cheek. She kisses Eden too. Then she leaps onto the window seat with cat-like grace. At the edge, she pauses.

“I never told you,” she says conversationally. “But I did see him. Peter. Only the once. He came to the window when you were a baby. Looked right in at me, waggled his finger as if I were a dog and he the master. You were in my arms, fast asleep. I could have laid you down in your bed, slipped into the sky, and you never would have woken. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

Her voice dips even lower, a whisper. “He only came the once. But I’ve never regretted it. You should know.”

She looks back at them for a moment, taking them in. Her eyes are damp and shining. Then she straightens. “Now, my darlings. What is that abysmal saying? ‘Faith, trust, and pixie dust’?” She leans out the window and whistles, a long, piercing sound Holly wouldn’t have believed her mother could make if she hadn’t heard it. “This is the faith part, I suppose.”

There’s a swirl of wind, a flash of feathers, a glimpse of something—of someone—no longer bloated and stretched. Someone small, sparkly, and gold. Bright bird eyes meet bright bird eyes in perfect understanding. The wind picks up. Jane/not Jane leaps.

And then Holly can’t keep her eyes open any longer. The world turns black, and she slides off the edge.





Chapter Forty-Three



Someone is shaking her. Someone is calling her name. She hears it as if from a long way away, at the end of a very black tunnel.

“Holly,” the voice says. “Do try and wake up. Decisions must be made. There’s not much time.” There’s something cold on her forehead, on the back of her neck. A biting and sharp scent under her nose. Holly groans.

“Please,” the voice says, more urgently. Holly opens her eyes and promptly shuts them again. The room is spinning and she fears she might be sick.

“What did you do?” she whispers hoarsely.

“We can discuss that later,” Jane says. “Right now we have bigger problems.”

With an immense effort of will, Holly forces her eyes open again and trains them on her mother. Jane is no longer a child, but her face is still youthful in a way it hasn’t been since long before Holly was born. And then she sees the rug beyond her mother. Jack is there. His face is white, his lips pale. And she can’t tell if he’s breathing.

“The vial!” But even before Jane shakes her head, Holly knows it’s gone. She tries to run to Jack, but it’s like the nightmare she used to have—her legs won’t support her, won’t let her rise. Her mother heaves her up, and together they stagger to his side. Holly collapses next to him, checks for a pulse. It’s faint and thready, but it’s there.

“Call an ambulance,” Holly orders. She’s scrabbling across the room on her hands and knees to reach the phone.

“They won’t get here in time.”

At the voice, Holly turns. It’s Eden rising from the bed, looking and moving much better than Holly herself.

“Peter . . . the drug brings you up so high, but when you crash, it’s twice as low. He probably gave Jack too big of a dose if he saw you coming. He did it on purpose.”

Holly dials anyway. “Help me,” she says when they answer. “My son, he’s overdosed on something. He needs adrenaline or naloxone. He needs . . .” She tries to think of what else would help, but she can’t. Her mind is a blank.

“They can’t help,” Eden says again. She stands unsteadily.

The dispatcher’s voice buzzes in Holly’s ear. “Yes, he’s breathing,” she says. “Barely. Please, please hurry.” But even as she’s struggling to answer questions, another part of her is watching Eden make her way to the desk in the corner of the room. Her daughter seizes a letter opener. She brings it back to Jack, kneels beside him, cuts an X into his wrist, his wrist that is already sliced and cut and scarring.

“What are you doing?” Holly cries. But even as she utters the words, she knows, because Eden has turned the letter opener onto herself. She slices her wrist open, cuts deep, so deep that the red blood wells against the white of her skin, suspended for a moment. She presses her wrist to Jack’s. Her face grows white, then whiter, the color of paper, of chalk, of bone. And like some gruesome magic trick, Jack slowly flushes, color seeping through his cheeks.

“Enough!” Holly says. “That’s enough.”

But Eden’s not listening. She’s swaying, about to collapse. Holly drops the phone, kneels beside her, tears her wrist away. Clamps one hand over it and rips at the hem of her own white nightgown because there’s nothing else.

Jane helps hold Eden down, helps bind the wound. They’re so busy tending to her that they don’t see Jack stirring, revived by Eden’s blood, not until Eden herself pushes them off and brushes the hair from his forehead.

“Jack?” Holly says. “Jack, can you hear me?”

He opens his eyes, but it’s not Holly that he sees.

“Eden?” he whispers. “Is that you?”

“Hi, Flea,” she says. She’s smiling, but there are tears too. She reaches out her good hand and pats his shoulder.