The last of Maddie’s sweet flowers had been nipped by the bitter wind of the storm and lay brittle and wilted, like Faye’s hopes. Leaves, shaken and ripped from the mother tree, littered the flagstones. She couldn’t make out the face of the bronze boy in the shadows or hear the reedy flute music she’d come to expect. All was silent as the grave, as though all the magic of the garden had fled with Maddie and Tom.
The clouds shifted, covering the moon, veiling all in darkness. She crossed the uneven flagstones as one blind, her fingertips skimming the crumbling brick of the wall, the cool iron of the chairs. She was determined to confront the bronze boy, this haunting image of her nemesis, Peter Pan. She stared at the cocky face, daring him to speak. The bronze face just stared back with its teasing grin.
She gripped the fountain, stuck out her jaw, and cried out fiercely, full of deep-seated resentment, “Okay, I admit it! I believed in you!”
Her voice lowered to sadness. “Once, long ago, I believed in you. I used to leave my window open for you, every night. I sat in my bed, yawning, shivering in the cold by the window and waited and waited. I even called your name. I was so lonely. I felt sure you heard me and would come.”
Her eyes flashed. “But you never came! And when the other kids found out they made fun of me.” She sniffed and swiped at her eyes. “Eventually, I closed the window. And after Rob, I locked it. I swore I’d never be so stupid, so naive again.”
The Pan smiled his cocky smile.
Resigned, feeling the fool, she looked higher up to see countless stars twinkling in the sky. Was it just the other night that Jack had held her in his arms so close she could hear his heart beat, and pointed to this same hazy, glowing trail of stars across the sky? It seemed so very long ago. We can see over twenty-five hundred stars of the Milky Way,” he’d told her, “and these are just a fraction of the billions of stars in the Milky Way galaxy. Who are we to doubt what’s out there, somewhere? The possibilities are as countless as the stars. You just gotta believe.”
Believe...She tucked her arms around her, feeling as helpless as the child she once was, shivering and alone. Powerless. Like a ship without a rudder, a sailor without a compass.
She pressed a balled up fist to her forehead. “I wish I could believe again.”
From nowhere came the faint sound of music. She cocked her head, ears alert to catch the familiar reedy pipe tune as it floated in the air. She hummed along, tentative at first, gaining heart as she sang. The music lured her indoors, past her flat where two policeman played gin rummy by the phone, up the stairs to the nursery. The music filled her head, filled her heart with hope. Humming the nameless tune, she walked around the nursery, fingering the many fanciful items scattered throughout, searching for some clue. While she searched she recalled Wendy's words: believe because you must.
What did that mean? Believe that her children would come back to her? That Jack would come back to her? In his final letter he had written good-bye. If she’d had a heart left, it would have broken.
What was this thing called faith, she wondered? Was it believing in magic or miracles? If so, then surely the sound of children’s laughter and reedy pipe music in the night, fragrant tea and tiny sandwiches, luciferin lighting up a firefly’s lamp, falling in love, surely these were magic. Faith was a kind of magic, wasn't it? A miracle that had the power to transform. She couldn’t see faith, like she couldn’t see Peter Pan or the fairy on her shoulder. Or a tiny atom. But she could imagine them. Perhaps faith was the ability to believe in the infinite possibilities of what could only be imagined.
Her heart beat faster as she began to understand. Not fully, no, it was more like seeing a shadowed something through a haze. Her finger trailed across the old silk top hat, the raggedy teddy bear that was missing one shiny black eye, the small square of crushed blue velvet upon which, Wendy claimed, she’d placed Peter’s thimble till he'd snatched it back again. Detective Farnesworthy’s report played again in her mind, teasing her. So many coincidences, she wondered. There’s no such thing as a coincidence, Jack had said.
“What am I looking for?” she said aloud, standing in the middle of the nursery, surrounded by dozens of eyes staring out from the mural, as though they were watching, waiting for her to make the right move.
Then she saw it.
Caught in a shard of moonlight, the dusky green leather and burnished gold engraving of Wendy’s storybook lay on the window seat where she had left it, beside her mohair throw. Drawn to it, Faye skimmed her fingertips across the deep etchings on the cover that depicted a handsome youth in a cocky pose beside a prim young girl in a nightgown and a ribbon in her hair. Peter and Wendy. She opened the first edition book with as much care as though it were made of crystal and gasped when she read the inscription written in a swirly, elegant handwriting.
To my dear, Darling, young friend, Wendy Darling,
Thank you for sharing with me the tales of your marvelous adventure with the Pan. You and I shall always know the book is really, Wendy’s Story. As you wished, it is our little secret!
Your devoted servant,
James Barrie
Faye felt a tingling awe as she leafed through the tissue-thin, gold-tipped pages to where Wendy had placed a bright red bird’s feather as a bookmark. The book was opened to Chapter Sixteen: “The Return Home.” Scanning down the page she saw that a passage was underlined. In it, Mrs. Darling was waiting patiently in the nursery for her children, admonishing her husband, The window must always be left open for them, always, always, always.
Faye suddenly realized what she had to do.
She rose to stand before the window, closed and shuttered like herself. Wendy had told her to open the window. To do so she would be admitting that she believed. She shivered, afraid to let go of control again, to step beyond reason. To open up meant to risk the possibility of more hurt and pain. Yet it also meant opening her spirit to the possibility of great joy and happiness. Wasn’t that at the core of Wendy’s message?
Magic can only come in if you are open for it.
Reaching out, Faye unshuttered the window, unlocked the hook, and with a heartfelt shove, pushed open the window. The air gusted in, whistling in the corners, tossing papers onto the floor, playing with her hair and whisking away her doubts and worries like a feather duster at spring cleaning. Faye stood at the precipice and lifted her chin to stare out at the immense, dark blue of the sky, a multitude of stars winking and waiting.
She didn’t know how long she stood there gazing at the blue but somewhere inside she felt an unloosening of strings and an opening up of sealed little boxes. She felt sure the magic was pouring in, filling the empty spaces to overflowing. She took a deep breath. A hush seemed to fall upon the heavens while Faye gathered her courage.
“Peter!” she called out, her voice ringing. “I do believe! Stars! Shine steadfast and bright tonight. Light the path for my children to find their way home.”
Sure that she was heard, Faye curled up on the window seat and wrapped the mohair throw around her shoulders and brought Wendy’s book close to her chest. Then opening it, she began to read. While she read she imagined Maddie dancing with Tiger Lily around the campfire, and Tootles at swordplay. And of course Peter, that forever-young boy, flashing his pearly first teeth. Hours passed as she read, keeping vigil, till her eyelids drooped and her head slipped down to lie in her arms.
Faye fell asleep dreaming of Peter taking her hand at last and flying with her in the starry night. Except that in her dream, Peter became Jack, and he flew to her side, wrapped his arm around her waist, and took for himself her one special kiss.
Chapter 23
When the pale pink sky of the dawn stretched its glory over the tightly clustered, jagged rooftops of London, Faye raised her chin from the crook of her arm and leaned upon the windowsill. She struggled to maintain her faith now that the mystical night had passed and the piercing light of morning broke. She looked around, blinking. The nursery was quiet and still an
d she was alone. Once more, Peter had not come to her open window. Wendy had been wrong, her children did not return. In her chest she felt a cry ready to explode.
How easy to believe at night, when the stars twinkled and hours of peace and quiet lay ahead. And how hard to keep the faith when the new day brought to light new problems, hectic schedules, and duties. This was the greatest test: to continue to believe when all seemed hopeless.
She would not give way to her despair, she vowed, rising and wiping the sleep from her face. Yet as she walked with a numbing slowness from the nursery she confronted the gloom of doubt.
“I believe,” she muttered under her breath without enthusiasm. "I believe."
Suddenly, a quick movement caught her attention from the corner of her eye. She startled, instantly alert. Very slowly she walked to Wendy's bedroom and pushed open the door. She peered in the room.
There are moments in life, rare and precious, when one is sure magic exists. For some it is the sight of their baby’s first smile, or a long-awaited letter from a loved one, or the remission of a terrible illness, or the look of love in the eyes of a beloved. When it happens, one’s heart swoops up and out into the heavens in a gasp of joy, then returns again filled with awe and wonder that tingles as it spreads throughout the body.
That is how Faye felt when she saw her two children lying like spoons, asleep on Wendy’s four-poster bed. She absorbed every minute detail: Maddie’s pale blue nightgown embroidered with pastel flowers, the shock of blond bangs dangling over her eyelids, her long and delicate fingers. Tom seemed to have grown in three days. The green T-shirt that he wore like a uniform was snug and revealed his round belly and the dimple of his belly button.
She couldn’t move. Like a sponge, she soaked in the image of her children, her fingertips at her lips as she shook her head softly. She didn’t know that she was crying but it was this sound that woke Maddie from her deep sleep.
She rubbed her eyes and yawned sleepily. When she caught sight of her mother at the foot of the bed she smiled, her face glowing with delight and scrambled to her knees.
“Oh Mother!” she exclaimed. “You won’t believe where we were!”
“I just might,” she replied with misty eyes.
Then Tom awoke and he too bubbled over with stories about the adventures they’d shared with Peter and the Lost Boys and all the other inhabitants of the Neverland. His words tumbled over each other in his eagerness to get it all out before his sister who jabbed her elbow and tried to compete.
In all the telling, the little dears omitted any apologies or phrases of concern for any fretting their mother might have endured during their absence. The children were blissfully unaware that they’d caused the slightest inconvenience. Faye sat on the mattress of the bed with one arm around each child and listened to them chatter on as she would listen to music, or to the gurgling of a brook over stones or the sweet song of birds chirping in the trees. For between the tones and pitch she heard the magic of joy and love and reunion. She didn’t know what to think or say about her children’s safe return. She didn’t dare make any judgments. If this was all a dream she never wanted to awaken.
“We must tell Wendy!” cried Tom. “She’ll be so happy to hear that her tree house is just as she left it.”
“And her sewing box,” added Maddie. Then, looking over her shoulder she asked, “Where is she?”
Faye’s face grew solemn as she told the children of the strange, unhappy circumstances of the past three days. Maddie and Tom listened, astonished, when she told of the kidnapping worries. Faye was irked when she saw the mischievous gleam in Tom’s eyes when he heard that Scotland Yard had been notified and that at this very moment a policeman sat in their flat downstairs. When she told them of Wendy’s illness, however, their faces paled.
“Wendy can’t be in the hospital!” Maddie exclaimed, jumping to her feet.
Tom was by her side in a second, stammering and gulping. “P... Peter’s coming for her tonight! He ... he said so. We ... we’re to remind her t... to be ready. Mom, if the window isn’t open she’ll m ... m ... iss him. Forever.”
“He'll be ever so mad. We’ve got to bring her home.” Maddie stamped her foot, furious.
“It’s impossible,” Faye replied sadly. “I don’t have the authority, and...” she paused and took each of their hands. “Children, Wendy may never come back to the nursery. I’m sorry. You must understand. Wendy is dying.”
“But she can’t be,” Maddie cried, tears filling her soft blue eyes. “She’s been waiting for such a long time for Peter to take her back to the Neverland. She’s been so faithful. She can’t die now, just before he comes. She must be here!”
“It won’t matter,” Tom declared, a strange light gleaming in his eyes.
Maddie turned her head, frowning. She had come to develop a new respect for her younger brother. For she'd discovered that all the while he was silent and not chatting away like her, he was listening, taking note of everything and everybody. He was very wise for a boy two years younger than her.
“What do you mean?”
“It won’t matter where she is, as long as Peter finds her. He’ll make everything okay. We’ve just gotta make sure he can get in the window.”
“Well, how can we do that?" Maddie asked, forlorn. "Wendy's locked up in that stupid hospital with mean old Mrs. Lloyd hanging around all the time.”
The children turned their heads and two pairs of eyes stared up at Faye. She was struck with the notion that they believed implicitly in her ability to solve the dilemma. It was both humbling and inspiring. Just a few months earlier they had looked at her with eyes filled with doubt. Well, she thought to herself, a mother’s magic is pretty potent too. There was no way she would let that doubt creep back into their eyes.
“So we’re in this together, eh? Faye asked. "Just the three of us? Counting on each other to come through. Same as always?” The thought that their group was incomplete without Jack nagged at her heart. The truth was, nothing was the same without him. She saw that realization dawn in her children’s eyes as well.
“Same as always,” they agreed like troopers.
“Then huddle round,” she said, rubbing her palms together. “I’ve got a plan.”
“Oooh,” they sighed as they gathered close, their pulses beating faster, quivering with excitement. For they knew that a full-fledged rescue could only succeed with a clever, devious, well-executed plan.
* * *
That night, the moon cast its golden light like a warm, soothing blanket over the sleeping city of London. But in Kensington Gardens the night was deep and the first winds of autumn bore the ripe, crisp scent of change. Majestic trees, heavy with leaves, cloaked the manicured lawns and trimmed shrubs in a darkness that revealed shimmering bits of light only when the breeze blew, as it did now.
Jack stood in the shifting shadows, leaning against the elaborate base of a large sculpture of a barefooted boy merrily piping. It was a famous sculpture by George Frampton, created in 1911, the year of the death of Edward VII, in memory of the world’s most famous and beloved fictional runaway, Peter Pan. Except that Jack Graham wasn’t so sure Peter Pan was fictional.
He’d just spent the whole night and day scouring every inch of The Neverland Theme Park and every other bloody park in London looking for his own very real runaways. He didn’t know till now just how many gardens there were in this city. He ended up in Kensington Gardens, of all places. The notoriously favorite romping ground of Peter Pan and his consort of fairies. Jack shook his head, wondering what had brought him here? Some perverse, nagging intuition that maybe, just maybe, Peter was real? That magic did exist.
Seeking Maddie and Tom, he’d searched deep within himself and found some dim, distant memories of sword fights with wild-spirited boys, of Indians and pirates, of a world unlike any other. Memories or dreams, who was to say? Either way, he cherished these memories. They replaced the single memory of a fist striking him, a brutal hand withou
t a face. Looking up at the sculpted boy’s face, so like the bronze boy’s face in Wendy’s garden, he fully accepted Wendy’s advice to let go of the past and embrace the future.
He turned to face the bronze boy's mischievous face. “Maybe you can fly and I can’t, boy. But at least I’ve got the courage to grow up. Wendy says I made that decision once long ago, but never truly acted on it. That in my heart, I'm still a boy. That part’s true enough. I kept postponing it, playing the kid, because...”
He swallowed hard. “Maybe because I don’t want to be abandoned again. But that’s a risk I’m ready to take now. I’m not a Lost Boy anymore. I’m a man. I want to grow up. And I’m not going to abandon Maddie and Tom. Not like I was abandoned. I want to be here for them. For Faye. So if you know where they are, then lead me to them! Help me find them, Peter.”
He ran his hand through his hair and closed his eyes tight. “Please. Help me.”
The 11:00 p.m. shift was finished. The nurses had completed their rounds. Maddie said Peter would most likely come after midnight, so the plan was to hurry to the hospital, sneak to Wendy's room and open the window. Then hustle out before the Pan arrived.
Maddie and Faye entered the hospital lobby with purpose. They walked past the guard with blank expressions then rode the elevator up to the fifth floor without any delays. At this late hour visitors were scarce and the hospital was dimly lit and quiet. The ding of the elevator's bell sounded thunderous in the empty halls. Maddie held Faye's hand as they tip-toed past the patient rooms. Most of the patients on Wendy’s floor were asleep, some moaning against a back beat of beeping noises.
Second Star to the Right Page 30