Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(51)

“I could fix it for you too,” Peter wheedled. “Not much of a life, is it, strapped to machines? Your boy loves to run—I’ve seen him. How do you think he feels, knowing he’ll never race again? It would be a kindness, really. It wouldn’t take much. And then you’d be free.”

Her own words, back at her. Isn’t that what she’d been thinking the night Peter had first come through her window? Without Jack, she’d be able to let go. To give up. Isn’t that what she had wished for? Her face burned.

But not like this.

“Get out,” she said. Somehow she found the strength to stand. Her leg was shaking and so was her voice, but she was on her feet, the picture frame clutched firmly in her hand.

Peter looked at her the way she’d seen predators on television look at prey, as if she was something weak and defenseless, something that would go down with one blow. But he didn’t know Holly, not really. He hadn’t learned anything from watching her after all.

She, on the other hand, had learned a great deal.

“Get out,” she said again, more strongly this time. “And stay out. Stay away from me, from my family. From all of us. Forever.”

Peter looked hurt for a moment, and then he closed off, became the same cocky boy as before. “Wasn’t expecting you to say yes,” he said. “But you don’t make the rules.”

Yes, I do, she thought, and placed one hand protectively across her stomach, as if she’d known even then.

“Stay away,” she said clearly. “From all of us, forever. Or I’ll tell the world what you’ve done. I’ll tell them you’re a monster. That book you’re so fond of, the one where you’re the hero? It will become a joke when I tell everyone about the real Peter Pan. I won’t keep your secret.”

He hesitated mid-step. “No one would believe you. And if they did, they’d see my side. I’d just be doing what you wanted, after all.”

“Let’s try, shall we?” she said. “I’ll tell Jane. Let’s see what she thinks.” She hobbled to the door, hoping he’d been so intent on her he hadn’t noticed that Jane wasn’t home. “She’s always been your biggest fan. Let’s see if we can change that.”

She was half afraid he would grab her, drag her back before she could open the door. But she guessed right about how powerful his belief was in his own narrative. It wasn’t Tinker Bell who couldn’t survive without the faith of others in her existence. That had been Peter’s part of the story all along.

“Fine,” he said slowly. He backed toward the window, his eyes never leaving her. “But you won’t live forever. You can’t. It’s not in your nature. And then . . .” He turned his palms up. “There’ll be a new generation for me to play with.”

“Try me,” Holly said aloud. But it was too late. She was speaking to empty air.

She moved across the room to the window. He’d left it open behind him, and the night sky was dark. There was no trace of him, not even a whisper. It didn’t occur to her until years later to wonder where the little light that normally flickered at his heels had gone.



* * *





“Holly?”

Jane’s voice pulls Holly back to the library, reminds her that she’s years away from that night, no matter how intense her memories are. She takes a deep breath, pulls herself together. She’s kept her promise, such as it was, and kept Peter’s secret, superstitiously afraid that somehow he would know if she spoke ill of him and return. She doesn’t tell now, either. She hedges, sharing half-truths that don’t begin to touch on what really happened on that night so long ago. Not just what Peter did, but her own guilt, rational or not, at letting him in, at kissing him first, at using him to escape her anguish, if only for a little while. At being foolish and stupid and young.

“Peter . . . he’s not like others. It was lovely and then . . . He knew exactly how much pain to inflict before you’d say stop. And he did it all with this . . . this smile. This beautiful golden smile.”

“Like those horrible boys who torment kittens,” Jane says thoughtfully. “Or put insects in jars and pull off their wings, then set them on fire to see what happens. But surely he wouldn’t hurt Eden. He’s her father, for goodness’ sake.”

Those words fall into the room and sink into a pool of silence between the two women. Holly blinks, hearing Jane acknowledge this for the first time. But it’s not enough.

“You don’t understand. It’s all a game to him. You want an adventure,” Holly says, throwing Jane’s words back at her, “but I don’t think he cares who he hurts.”

“Well then,” Jane says, “if he’s as terrible as you say, we’ll have to work quickly to find her, the poor child.” She leans over to adjust the silver frame that holds the sketch of Wendy, John, and Michael, the one that used to be in the nursery. Looks at it thoughtfully. “And then, once we’ve found her, we can see what happens. That should be very interesting, don’t you think?”





Chapter Nineteen



Over the next few days, Holly and Jane reach an uneasy agreement. Each night on her own, Holly lights the nursery candle and places it in the window, a “Come home, all is forgiven” message, of a sort. She whispers the same thing to the dark night sky, trying to let Peter sense her desperation, to lure him back with it. During the day, she follows Jane’s lead, traipsing to the places her mother suggests they look—a park that’s mentioned in the book, a house where the author once lived, a famous statue in Peter’s likeness. Once or twice Holly could swear she detects the faintest hint of that springtime scent. Jane does too. Holly can tell by the way she pivots her head this way and that, trying to locate the source. In those moments, Holly’s certain that when she turns around she’ll see him. She shivers, some animal response of dread and anticipation mixed. But he’s never there, and she’s running out of time.