Lost in the Never Woods(87)

She didn’t want others to go through what had been done to her family. It was because of Wendy that her family had been pulled apart, that her parents had lost their sons and been haunted by it for the past several years. She wouldn’t be the reason that loss and suffering spread to others. She would fix what had happened. She would find her brothers, and the other missing children, and she would bring them back. Failure was not an option.

The television screen went black. Wendy blinked up at her mother as she set the remote on the table, and then a plate of burned eggs in front of Wendy. Her eyes stung as she watched her mother sit in the chair beside her. The small, sad smile had returned.

With effort, she swallowed down the toast, but it did little to relieve the tightness in her throat. “I just wish I could help—I wish I could remember.” The words were strained, toppling from Wendy’s mouth before she could think better of it.

The smallest flinch crossed her mother’s delicate features.

Wendy swallowed hard again. “If I could remember what happened, I could help, we could find John and Michael—” Her voice wouldn’t let her continue as the tremor in her chest stirred.

Wendy’s mother let out a gentle sigh, a soft melodic sound, like the start of a lullaby. “Oh, darling,” she said, her eyebrows tipped with worry.

Wendy sucked in her lips between her teeth. How ridiculous was she? To be ruining a good morning with an outburst like that? Heat flared in her cheeks. She was embarrassed to be acting like this in front of her mother, who probably thought Wendy was on the verge of another mental breakdown. It wasn’t fair of her to be even more of a burden with everything else that was going on.

“The mind is a complicated thing,” Mrs. Darling said, considering her words as she spoke. “Sometimes it acts on its own, and quite often it controls us against our will. And I think, sometimes…” she said as she reached out and tucked a bit of Wendy’s short hair behind her ear. The light brush of her cold fingertips against Wendy’s cheek was fleeting but electric. “It takes us away, maybe not when we want it, but when we need it.”

Wendy thought of her mother sleeping, of the dreams and nightmares her mind used to pull her through at night. Of what happened in her subconscious that made her talk in her sleep, and then of Peter, coaxing her through the worst of it. How her mother’s pained expression had relaxed into one of peace.

Wendy sniffled noisily as she dragged the back of her hand across her nose.

Her mother’s hands had retreated back to her lap. “You should eat before it gets cold,” she told Wendy after a long pause.

Taking a large bite of burned eggs was the only response Wendy could come up with. It was bitter, but not terrible. She wouldn’t mind eating a bit of charred food every meal if her mother made it.

“Your father got home just a couple of hours ago,” Mrs. Darling continued. “He’s upstairs sleeping, so let’s try not to wake him up while we’re cleaning.”

“Cleaning?” Wendy repeated through a mouthful of food.

“Yes, cleaning. You don’t have any plans today, right?”

“Uhh,” Wendy stalled. She couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough that didn’t involve Peter.

“Good, then you’re free to help,” Mrs. Darling said, plopping a mound of scrambled eggs onto a plate for herself. “You can start with the laundry while I clean up the kitchen, and then we can both work on the living room.”

Wendy sat down heavily at the table. “Greeeat,” she muttered. Since when did her mother care about cleaning? Usually it was Wendy who picked up around the house. Sure, not a lot of chores had gotten done lately, but she had a good reason for it. Of course, now her mother wanted to get involved.

Meeting up with Peter would have to wait until she’d cleaned enough to satisfy her mother or Mrs. Darling went to work. Wendy looked down at her hand. Waiting to be able to see him again was not going to be fun. She had a feeling the day was going to drag on.

And drag on it did.

When she went to throw a load of laundry in the washing machine, she saw that Peter’s clothes were gone. She checked the dryer and it was also empty. Well, at least he wasn’t out walking around in her shirt and gym shorts that didn’t fit him, but did that mean he’d left in wet clothes?

Wendy tossed out all the old magazines her mom had brought home from work to read, put abandoned mugs in the dishwasher, and wiped down the top of the TV and entertainment unit.

“Could you clean out the garbage from your father’s study?” Mrs. Darling asked as she washed her hands clean of dust in the kitchen sink.

Wendy glanced at the closed door. “Uh…” Really? She wanted Wendy to go into the study? “Sure,” Wendy said hesitantly. She got a garbage bag and paused at the door. She had never been explicitly forbidden from going inside, but it was always off limits, another unspoken rule of the house. It was her father’s cave, where he’d go to hibernate away from his family and the real world with a bottle of scotch.

Wendy pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was a lot cleaner than she’d expected. Two of the walls were painted emerald green and the others were completely filled with shelves of books, but not the good kind of books that Wendy and her mother liked to read. They were old, tattered things with peeling covers, or newer paperbacks about accounting. There was even a particularly archaic set of encyclopedias. Wendy was pretty certain they didn’t make those anymore.