Lost in the Never Woods(10)

At first, she was just at the hospital to get her minor injuries checked out, but when the crying wouldn’t stop and Wendy kept waking up in the middle of the night screaming and thrashing, they started buckling down her wrists and ankles. To protect her, they’d said. She couldn’t remember much after that except for the steady ebb and flow of doctors, social workers, and psychologists.

Her brothers were still missing, and it was all her fault.

A nurse stood next to Peter, reading his vitals. Her mother and Officer Smith were deep in conversation. His face had turned a plum red, and her mother’s chin was tilted stubbornly. The other officer was now talking into a cell phone, his back toward them all.

When the nurse left, Wendy slipped out of her seat.

She walked to the bedside again. Her eyes roved over the contours of his jaw, his ears, his hair. She searched for some sign to prove that he wasn’t Peter Pan. He was definitely older than the boy from her stories and drawings. The Peter Pan she knew was a child who never aged. The boy in the hospital bed was definitely a teenager. It was a silly thing to grasp at, the idea that this couldn’t be Peter Pan because Peter Pan could never grow up, but it was something.

The boy had defined cheekbones and, even in the pale fluorescent light, his skin was sun-warmed and tan. His freckles stood out like flecks of cracked autumn leaves among the smudges of dirt.

There was a small crease between his eyebrows. Wendy leaned in closer. He was frowning in his sleep, like he was having a bad dream.

Wendy gently brushed her thumb across the crease, over and over, until his brow relaxed and his face was nothing but smooth slopes and planes.

She looked down at his banded wrist again, her eyes following along the back of his palm to his long, lean fingers. His fingernails were bitten down, almost to nubs, and the nail beds were caked in dirt.

The image of her own fingernails when she had been found came flooding back. Dirty, broken, with bits of red stuck underneath.

Wendy lurched back, a tremor rolling up her spine. She squeezed sanitizer into her palm from the pump attached to the wall and rubbed it vigorously into her hands. The sharp, acidic smell stung her nose.

“Wendy.”

She jumped and spun to see her mother down the hall, waving for her to come back.

“We’re leaving now,” her mom said, her hands tightly gripping her purse. Wendy thought her mother suddenly looked much older. As though something were pressing down on her shoulders, bowing her head and curving her back.

Wendy wiped the back of her hand across her sweaty brow. “What about my truck?”

“You can pick it up in the morning,” her mother said, digging into her purse for her keys.

Wendy nodded. “Okay.”

Mrs. Darling walked away at a brisk pace, and Wendy followed. As they passed through the sliding glass doors, two people in suits walked in.

As the doors slid shut, Wendy thought about Peter lying in bed and that smile playing across his lips.





CHAPTER 3

Closed Doors





On the drive home, Wendy sat in the back seat behind her mother. She curled up and pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window, keeping her back to the woods. In an effort to keep her mind from wandering, she closed her eyes and repeated the lyrics to her favorite song over and over again in her head.

Tires rolling over gravel let her know they were home. Wendy sat up and pushed the door open, careful not to bump into the side of her father’s car.

“I have to head back and finish my shift,” her mom said.

“Okay.”

“I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“Okay.” Wendy hesitated. Something like curiosity, or maybe just guilt, kept her in the car. “Mom, are you okay?”

Mrs. Darling sighed. Wendy tried to catch her mother’s eye in the rearview mirror, but she continued to stare at the steering wheel. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

Wendy couldn’t tell who she was trying to convince.

Her mom drove away before Wendy could pull out her keys. Her father had forgotten to turn on the porch light again. She fumbled for a moment before she could get the front door unlocked.

The living room was dark except for the strip of light visible under the door of her father’s study. She walked over, pressed her ear to the doorjamb, and listened. Everything was silent except for the sound of her father’s deep, heavy snores.

Good. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with getting questioned by him. For now, anyway.

Wendy’s mind and body buzzed with anxious energy. She needed to distract herself with something, to put her restless hands to work, so she straightened up the kitchen. She emptied the dishwasher, which she had filled the night before. She broke down the small pile of beer cases and stacked them with the rest of the recycling. At the sink, she scrubbed at her hands again, the skin red and cracked from the compulsive habit.

The busywork kept her distracted for the most part until she sat down to write a grocery list. She stared at the small notepad, the tip of the blue pen poised, but she couldn’t concentrate on what she needed to buy for groceries that week, one of the many chores she took up around the house. Now that she was sitting still, her mind raced. She contemplated turning on the TV to drown out her thoughts, but she didn’t want to see the faces of Benjamin Lane and Ashley Ford staring back at her.