Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(46)

The last time she’d used them was for their third birthday.

She stops where she is. Takes deep, calming breaths the way her therapist taught her. Leans against the wall to steady herself. When she looks up, it’s to see Isaac gazing back at her from a black-and-white photo. He’s on the staircase, caught in the moment before he leapt into her arms, rosebud mouth open in a shriek of glee. His delighted gaze goes straight through the glass and into Holly’s heart. Instinctively she finds herself reaching out to catch him. To feel the warm weight of him nestled safely into her body. Instead she stretches out a finger and touches the frame.

And then pulls it from the wall and smashes it to the floor.

The next photo is of the twins. They’re on the beach in Irish knit sweaters, arms wrapped around each other, chubby faces beaming. Holly looks at it for the longest time. She’s never noticed before, but together their two bodies form the shape of a heart.

She lifts the frame high and smashes it down. It breaks, glass shattering across the floor.

The hallway wall is lined with pictures, moments she’d once wanted to remember forever: Robert, his shirt off, chasing the twins on the beach. Jack, Isaac, and Robert cuddled together on the couch, sound asleep. She and Robert captured in candlelight, leaning in, about to kiss. She remembers that night with crystal clarity: the heat of the flame on her face, the warmth of Robert’s knee pressing into hers. The pictures stretch on and on.

Holly smashes them all.

Dimly, she knows she’s out of control, but she can’t stop. She’s tired of deep breaths, of holding on, of being strong. She can’t do it anymore.

When she reaches Eden’s room, she leans her forehead against the door. The wood is damp, and it’s not until she touches her face that she realizes she’s crying.

She’s still clutching the birthday candles in her hand.

She stays there a long time, alone in the dark corridor. There’s no sound other than her ragged breathing. At last she rubs her eyes, swipes her sleeve across her face. Glances at the trail of destruction behind her. She’ll have to clean it up. But for now she turns her back on it and pushes open the door.

“I found them,” Holly says. “Let’s light them up, shall we?”

There are ten candles left in the package. Her daughter is only five, but Holly lights them all. She doesn’t blow them out, just watches them burn. It takes longer than she’d thought, and when they’ve extinguished themselves and dripped wax all over the frosting, she throws out the ruined cake that her daughter was never going to eat. She sweeps up the glass and piles the broken frames in the trash. She can’t bear to throw the photos out, so she shoves them in the bottom drawer of a dresser. Later, she’ll have them boxed up and sent to her mother’s house for safekeeping. And then she sits in silence beside Eden, staring at the floor.

When she hears the nurses return, she kisses her daughter’s forehead, trying to store up the scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin. As she stands, she notices one last photo on the bureau. It’s of Eden. She’s sitting on a low tree branch in the garden, and her face is alive with mischief and energy. Holly picks it up. Hesitates. Looks at it for a long time. Glances at her daughter.

“Goodbye,” she whispers.

She slips the photo into her purse. Then tugs her jacket straight, opens the door, and steps across the threshold, toward New York.





Chapter Seventeen



Holly’s still sitting at the kitchen table, lost in her thoughts, when her mother appears at the door.

“Did Jack come in?”

Holly nods. “About half an hour ago. Linda Neil’s grandson dropped him,” she says. “He sounded as if he had quite the time.”

“Lovely. Who knows, they might become fast friends.”

“I hope so,” Holly says. Plans with the group from dinner means less time for lacrosse, and all the better if he skips it with no urging from her. It’s one less thing for him to resent her for.

“Come have a cup of tea with me in the library.”

“I need a shower,” Holly demurs.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Jane says, as if she hasn’t heard. Holly debates with herself for a moment, but she already knows who will win this battle of wills. She sighs. Whatever her mother has to say, she hopes it will be quick.

It’s not, of course. Jane takes her time, setting the table in the library as if they’re settling in for a full repast instead of a cup and a few biscuits. And Holly can’t help herself. It’s after midnight and she’s exhausted. She’s the one who breaks the silence first. Two points to Jane.

“Mother.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Jane says, as if she’s been waiting for Holly to speak. “Perhaps we are going about this all wrong. Perhaps we could help each other.” She pours tea into Holly’s cup. The mint-scented steam rises toward her face, and Holly breathes it in gratefully.

“How?”

“It has occurred to me that we both want the same thing. We both want to find him,” Jane says. She says him with an emphasis that makes it perfectly clear who she means.

“Yes . . . ,” Holly says cautiously.

“You want to find him to save Eden. I do too, of course,” Jane says. “There’s nothing I want more than to see her safe in your arms. When I think of what that poor child has already been through, think of that whirlwind of a child so still all these years . . .” She shakes her head. “I’ll do anything I can to help bring her home, and that includes using all my knowledge to search for Peter. But there’s another reason.”