Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(50)

“Get out,” she said again, louder. She wanted to shout, to throw things at him, but she had no breath, no way to stand. And there was no one to hear her if she did. Her mother was not home. And Holly hadn’t told her about Peter. She hadn’t wanted to share him.

She had wanted him all to herself.

“We’re married now,” he repeated cheerfully. “You have to come with me.” His tone reminded her of the twins, before the car crash, when they’d done something wrong and were pretending they hadn’t. A determined, studied innocence. He looked at her leg, nudged it with his foot. She recoiled.

“I can fix that for you,” he said temptingly. “If you come with me. There’s no pain in Neverland. Nobody’s broken there.”

She looked around the room for a weapon. There was a silver frame on the bedside table, a charcoal sketch of Wendy, John, and Michael. She grabbed for it, afraid he’d stop her. And then thought: Jack.

I can fix that, he’d said. Could he fix Jack too? She took a deep breath, tried to steady her shaking hands. He was watching her carefully, those too-bright blue eyes taking in her every move.

“You could run again,” he said. “You could even fly.”

“How?” Her voice came but was wobbly, and she cleared her throat, tried again. “How could you fix my leg?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know, do I? It’s in the air, maybe. Or the water.” He grinned, showing bright white teeth. “Or maybe it’s just me. You’ll have to come and see.”

If she went with him, if she brought Jack, there was a chance he could have a normal life. That he could come back healed. Not in a wheelchair, body broken. A chance he could run. She weighed the chance against what had just happened. It didn’t take long for her to make a decision.

“I’ll come,” she said, and Peter’s face lit up. She made her voice honey sweet, put all thought of what he’d done out of her mind. “But I want to bring someone.”

Would it matter to Peter that she was a mother? Would it make him more likely to take her, or to change his mind? “Another boy for you,” she said at last. She thought about how he’d sounded when he’d talked about the zoo, his idea of marriage. A child’s view. “Someone to play with, to be a friend.”

“No more boys,” he said immediately. “I’ve got enough boys. What I want is a girl. What I want is you.”

She took a breath. “But you see, it’s my boy. I can’t come without him. I can’t leave him.”

“Why not?” he scoffed. He stood up, paced away from her. “I’ve seen that one. He spends all his time lying in hospital. He’s too broken to make the journey. Besides, I told you. I’m tired of boys.”

She didn’t let herself think about the fact that he knew where her son was, that he’d been watching. “But you could fix him,” she cajoled. “Couldn’t you?”

He laughed, a crowing sound. “I’m Peter Pan. I can do anything.”

“Well then, won’t you show me? Won’t you fix Jack? Then we could all go together.”

He scuffed at the carpet. “It’s work,” he said darkly. “Too much of it.”

The picture frame was still in her lap, and he pointed to it. “I tried it once, for her.”

“For Wendy?”

“She wouldn’t stay. So I took her home. But she missed Neverland. Found out she liked it better there after all.” He shrugged. “I heard her calling me, so I came back. But that one made a fuss. He didn’t want her to go.” He glowered at the Michael of the portrait, round-cheeked and innocent.

“Great-Uncle Michael?” Holly felt a prickling at the back of her neck, a warning. She wanted to know, but didn’t. The question left her before she could stop herself. “What do you mean?”

“He clung to her skirt as she was climbing out the window, bawling like a baby. Stupid git.” That shrug again. “He was dragging her down. So I made him let go. I sliced through her skirt and . . .” He made a tumbling motion with his hand.

“He fell? From the nursery window?” Holly shuddered, glanced at the window. A three-story drop.

“Wasn’t my fault,” Peter said defensively. “He should have let go when I told him to. And Wendy was crying and carrying on. So I tried. I did my best. But it was no use. His head was too staved in, you see. I could heal the wounds, but his brain was still scrambled.”

The family story had always been that Michael had an accident, unexpected and unfortunate, and was never the same. Grandmother Wendy never spoke of it, and now Holly knew why.

“Wendy wouldn’t leave, after. She stayed with him,” Peter said, jealousy in his voice. “I told her I could fix it. One quick blow and he’d have been out of his misery. No more suffering, and she could have come back with me.” He shook his head. “But she wouldn’t. No one ever does. Not for good.”

Holly thought of her grandmother, the way she spent hours watching cartoons and reading stories to Michael, as if they were both children again. The way she never passed a bakery without bringing back his favorite treat. The way she insisted Michael have pride of place under the tree Christmas morning, that he open his stocking first. As a child, Holly hadn’t understood. But now . . .