by Laurie Fox
Jane slipped her hands in the deep pockets of her khakis, refusing to look at me.
“Grandmother, please.”
“Grandmother?” She brightened visibly, then coaxed her long frame back in the booth. “God, that sounds ancient. Like a ruin. Do I look like a ruin?”
“No. That’s what’s so strange. You look, well, beautiful. Fountain-of-youth-ish.”
Her mouth stretched open to reveal two rows of small, even teeth. I felt as though Mother were regarding me: the same violet eyes, the same soignée neck. But unlike Mummy, Jane was androgynous, possessed of a sporty, earthbound nature the other Darlings lacked. “Well, I suppose I could stay awhile longer. If we order real drinks.” Pushing away her coffee, she flagged the waitress and demanded a pint of ale. I ordered a margarita, the slushy strawberry kind. This seemed to amuse Jane and suggest that I would not be able to keep up with her.
“So, Wendy, what sort of story do you think you deserve?” Her bluntness took me by surprise.
“The true kind. The kind that is true.”
“Ah, the truth,” she sighed, toasting me with her mug. “Per aspira ad astra. To put it loosely, ‘Over thorns, to the stars.’ And let’s face it, there are more thorns on Earth than all the stars in the firmament.”
At once a silence befell us, but one that was necessary, therapeutic. In the space of minutes I saw the collapse of her brave face, the face she’d no doubt presented over a lifetime of skirting thorns. The ale arrived and she took a few meaningful sips.
“Grandmother,” I said again, so oddly pleasurable it was to say it. “Are you . . . okay?”
“Okay? I’m marvelous,” she said, eyes clouding over. “You see, it was your mother who left me. My husband left us first, of course, but he went out like a champion! You should have seen your grandfather, Wendy. He was an inventor extraordinaire. He reinvented the world for Margaret and me—gadgets, bicycles, scooters. Unlike your father, he preferred the ground. Come to think of it, most of his inventions paid tribute to staying on the ground—but in the grandest style and at the greatest speeds.” With both elbows on the table she leaned in towards me. “One evening when your mother was only eleven, he tested the most bizarre contraption: a motorcycle with canvas wings and shiny tail fins. ‘Introducing the Jane-cycle!’ he roared. He even christened the bike, smashing a bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild against the handlebars before he took off down the road. I remember waving to him thirty times, I was so proud. And then, you know, it happened. He, well, crashed. Suffice it to say, your grandfather crashed as magnificently as he’d lived: he hit an enormous hole, flew off the bike, and landed in a pond.”
“But—” I broke in.
She put a dirt-stained finger to my lips. “He couldn’t swim, Wendy. That’s the thing. He couldn’t swim and thus he drowned in only twelve feet of water. How appalling is that? Therefore, when it came time for your mother to go off with Pan, she was—despondent. I didn’t get in Margaret’s way. I thought a trip might be good for her. So, imagine my surprise when she didn’t come back after the first Spring. When she didn’t return the second Spring I was beside myself. I had to retrieve her. Well, that was the plan. But there was a hitch, of course: the flying bit. You see, I’d lost my touch. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t generate those essential happy thoughts. There were reasons for this, not the least of which was—I was a zombie, utterly frozen with grief!”
“Oh, Grandmother,” I cried, and moved to take her hand. Like Peter, she withdrew it reflexively.
“I spent the next year learning how to feel anything remotely pleasant. What came as a complete shock, then, were the Zen teachings of my neighbor Mr. Sudo. I wasn’t prepared for his revolutionary ideas about suffering and acceptance, and here I floundered for many months. (You know, the Buddhists aren’t even interested in lovely thoughts and yet they are full of them!) Then, one evening in Summer, while I was reading the love poems of the Sixth Dalai Lama out loud, I giggled for no reason. Without a shred of proof, I knew that everything and everyone—including Margaret—was all right. I felt certain of this. And, voilà, I found myself lifting up!” Jane stood up again in the booth, this time touching the ceiling with both hands. Then, noticing that a few regulars were staring, she folded her legs back under the table.
“My journey to The Neverland was not without drama. Several birds decided to make a target of me, and throughout the trip I felt humbled by my large size. But verily I made it all the way to the island, landing in a marsh so thick and fragrant I believe it coated me in maple syrup.”
“I know the one!” I said.
“Well then, you know that I was not far from where the Boys dwell.”
“What did Mummy say when she realized you’d come for her? Was she outraged? Was she grateful?”
“Oh, that.” Jane inspected her glass, shook the last drips her way. “Maggie was all of twelve at the time, twelve going on twenty—a hormonal hurricane. She was furious at me, ashamed to be seen with her mother. She called me ‘the old bat’ and set about ruining my reputation on the island first thing, telling the Boys that I had beat and whipped her—that I was a monster who refused to let her sing or dance or play. Since I hardly looked like the Jane they’d known, I didn’t have much credibility. And Maggie—well, you know how persuasive her beauty can be. When it became clear that she would not come back with me, I decided to remain on the island until she returned to her senses. With the help of a couple of Indians, I took up residence in a small cave and kept mostly to myself. Sometimes I would watch Margaret from afar, as she bumped and grinded against the Boys in a slinky dance she must have picked up from the Americans. I watched as she kissed the more developed boys, using moves I’ve never seen before or since. She was always laughing gaily but a little shrilly, and I suppose she was the picture of contentment, if young women are ever content. For me, the weeks crept by in slow motion and I seemed to lose heart. I know I lost my Zenlike calm, for I lay about the cave in a state of terrible gravity, waiting for my daughter to remember me.
“When my depression lifted a bit—when it felt more like a cotton jumper than a winter coat—I decided to visit Maggie. But, abracadabra, there was no sign of her. For all intents and purposes, she was gone. I was careful not to bother the Boys, for Margaret had told them to ignore me, and kept out of sight as much as possible. The good news was, if she had returned to London, it was just a matter of getting back to town myself. The bad news? My return ticket had been lost or, more precisely, was forgotten. The flying, I simply couldn’t master it. And without the help of my neighbor Mr. Sudo, I could barely recall the tenets of Zen. I was half crazed, if you will, and wholly heartsick, convinced I was shipwrecked in a place that was supposed to bring happiness, but had brought only a depth of misery that I’d assumed wasn’t possible. And hence, I spent the bulk of my adult years in a place that’s not on any map. ‘True places never are,’ Melville said.”
“Herman Melville told you that?” I gasped.
“Good God, Wendy, I’m not that old. Living alone, I did manage to keep fit, and learned how to make do in the wild. I ate quite well—the vegetables!—and took on a few friends, though no one directly connected to the Boys. No, my companions were strictly members of the tribal cultures and a couple of animals—dogs, if you must know. Stray dogs and the occasional horse. After hundreds of days, life wasn’t so bad, though I hadn’t a clue as to how many years I’d gone missing. Eventually I lost interest in returning to the Mainland, whether or not I could manage the feat. Life became more than just grin-and-bearable. I didn’t feel so much alone on the island as quiet, composed. There’s a happiness in that, too. And so I grew ‘old’ in a very young place, where nobody aged or became wise—they just appropriated the latest songs and gestures and jargon by sitting on other people’s windowsills and absorbing culture. It’s the way of all young people, I suppose.”
“But Grandmother, how? How did you find your way back after all this time?” I shooed the wai
tress away when she came to freshen our drinks.
“The question is why, not how. Why did I return. Another Guinness!” she called to the waitress. “And the answer is Berry. Berry is the answer.”
My arms pimpled with goose bumps and, like a fish, I opened my mouth to take in air. I reached for Jane’s hand, expecting to be rebuffed; this time she took it and squeezed hard.
“When your daughter didn’t make a successful . . . transit, the island was all abuzz. Even in my remote neck of the woods I got wind of the news. First it sickened me, rekindled the old, outsized anger I’d carried inside me for years. I hated this place anew, everyone and everything. Then, one afternoon when I was washing the very clothing I’d brought with me from London, the dungarees I arrived in and this button-down shirt—it was your grandfather’s, you know—I decided that I’d had it with the cycle.”
I shook my head. “You mean the ritual of sending off our daughters? Of bequeathing them to callow young men!” I was a little tipsy now, enough to express what I’d barely known I thought.
“No, we all survive that. I’m talking about the cycle of resentment, verging on contempt, of our mothers. It’s a Darling trademark, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “I have.”
“It’s our mothers who give us an unparalleled opportunity to spend the Spring abroad.” She winked. “But all we make of it is, they want to boot us out of the house or they’re pushing boys at us. Or we get so wounded by Pan that we make up our minds to never recover. But look, Berry didn’t even make it to the island and her resentment is O.T.T. Over the top.”
“Now where did you pick that up?” I asked, amused.
“From the Boys, naturally. I emerged from my hole, one could say literally, when I heard about Berry’s fall from grace. I told myself, she’s my great-granddaughter and she needs me! Not to mention, it was high time to meet you. And to see my own daughter and mother again.”
So she had no idea that Great-Nana was gone.
“I worked like the devil to make it happen. With the help of the Indians I jumped off bridges, flung myself into rivers, pirouetted into ponds, anything to regain my sense of flight. All the while Pan was eavesdropping, it turns out, wondering what the dickens I was up to. When it was clear that I wasn’t the fearsome ogre I was rumored to be, he approached me. He even bowed in my presence and made a sort of pathetic apology: ‘Sorry, Jane, I rather forgot you were around.’ ‘That’s old news,’ I told him. Then I explained my mission, how I needed to help Berry whether or not Margaret would welcome me back. Pan saw me as a girl again, all fired up. So, before you could say Jack Robinson”—she snapped her fingers—“he delivered me to your father in London. I’d promised Pan I’d recommend him as the new mascot for Brave Hearts Airlines. And your father had me flown here. Of course now that I’ve landed, I’ll suffer a coup de vieux.”
“A what?” I’d finished the last of my margarita, and found myself gaping at her.
“A sudden and jarring jolt of age. I’ll begin to age again. As I was saying, your father brought me here and the rest is history. Well, in time it will be. Since you’ve experienced this sort of thing yourself, I expect you to believe me.”
“Oh yes,” I said. “Daddy’s really generous with his planes.”
“No, you twit. The part about being escorted by Pan. I’m not quite sure you’re listening.”
Jane was right. In view of what she had said, I would have to know whether Peter had mentioned me. I would have to confirm, for all time, that he wasn’t a forgetful creep. “Did Peter say anything?” I asked.
“He said lots of things,” she answered crisply.
“About me?” I said, feeling all of thirteen again.
“Yes, dear. He asked about us. He finally gets it: we are an us.”
“I’m not sure I get it. You mean he asked about each of us?”
“Not in so many words. He finally understands that the Darling women are a force of nature, that we are connected and that our well-being depends on the mothers and daughters staying connected. He loves us as though we were one girl, albeit over and over again.”
“Well, that strikes a blow for individuality,” I said.
“It’s time,” Jane said abruptly. “Let’s make like a leaf and blow.”
Now where had I heard that before? She stood up decisively in the booth and crossed over to the stairs. Starstruck, I left some cash for the waitress and headed for the exit. We both emerged from the terminal to find the runway marbled with sunlight, the sky a true blue. The fog had vanished and in its place was an unambiguous landscape, a most familiar world. Daddy’s jumpsuited assistant approached in the Humvee and we hopped in with the engine running. On the drive home on the freeway, Jane was as entertained by the urban sprawl as I was dazzled by my company. Being tired was out of the question.
WITH no small delight I ushered Jane into our living room. I threw open the maroon-velvet drapes to let in some light and to introduce the view—that heart-stopping panorama of the bay crowned by the sheer dome of heaven. All visitors eventually succumb to the view, for it really is too vast, guaranteed to humble even the most haughty personality. I offered Jane an overstuffed chair, but she settled her frame in one of two rocking chairs that are fixtures here—one for me, the other for Freeman, should he decide to join me. I hurried off to prepare a room for my guest, hoping she would stay the night and perhaps several more. But sleep was not an option: when I returned to the living room, I found Jane flat up against the sliding-glass panels, clearly struck by something.
“Jane?” I asked.
“You have it all, Wendy. Do you know that?” I nodded vaguely. “All of life is right here in your picture window. And yet you are a sad girl. Clearly miserable.”
“I’m a grown woman, Grandmother. No one seems to notice.”
“Come.” She took my elbow and led us to the rocking chairs. “I deserve to hear your story, do I not?”
“Which version?” I asked slyly.
“The true one, the one that is true.”
AND so we spent the rest of the day and all of the night, me dishing out my life story in the most excruciating detail—the ascents and descents, the farce and melodrama—the warts and all-of-it. I had no idea there was so much to tell, but I must have been starving to tell it! Did I feel cleansed, purged, exorcised after the fact? Not really. But I did feel fond of much of the tale, for it is all mine. Peter got it wrong, though. It’s living, not dying, that’s the awfully big adventure. Living requires more imagination.
I told Jane that I wasn’t really happy. That happiness didn’t seem to be the point. It was up to me and Mummy and Freeman and Berry to create that for ourselves. If I could just remember that I love us. Would that be enough? Should that be enough? If I could see these people as characters in their own stories, perhaps I could give up some of my pain. My pain had been very important to me. I’m not so sure I wanted to give it up. And where would I stash it anyway?
All through the night we rocked in our chairs like the old mothers of the world. Around 4 A.M. Jane stifled a yawn, then rose to her full height and hovered over me. With her long, lithe fingers, she stroked my forehead. “Funny thing about forgiveness, dear. It has a stunning, one could say magical, effect of its own. Who would have thunk it?”
“Who said anything about forgiveness?” I asked her.
She bent down to look me in the eye, then came round and sat on the rug in front of me. Without blinking, she began to say the most exceptional things. “Wendy Darling. You are not under attack. Your imagination is not under attack. While telling your story, you’ve held up a looking glass to your life, you’ve begun to forgive it. Well, that’s my theory.” She smiled, faced the bay.
“What’s your theory?” I asked, trembling.
“Finally, you see that what you thought was a curse—your unbelievable, unreliable childhood—has made you who you are today.”
“A fraud?” I said in all sincerity.
“No, child. The moral of your own story. You see, those imaginative powers which you swore had permanently abandoned you are, in fact, your birthright. By telling your tale, I’ll wager that you’ve reconnected with that so-called extinct imagination of yours. You’ve removed it from the shadows of time and sewn it back on, just as my own mother fastened Peter’s shadow to his shoulder blades. At last you can recognize your depression for what it is—”
“True evil?”
“No, you silly sausage. As another kind of shadow—one that actually slips off. You may decide to try this shadow on, now and then, to see if it still fits, or store it in a bureau drawer for the rest of your days. It’s your choice. For it belongs to you and no one else. You’re right, of course. Who else would want the bloody thing!”
I threw my arms around Jane’s reedy body and held tight, just as Great-Nana used to crush me to her bosom. “Oh, Grandma Jane,” I cried. “I have no need to make up one more thing! I’m done with stories.”
“Child, watch the merchandise,” she said, brushing me off.
We spent the remainder of our time together rocking in our chairs, but exchanging no further words. After speaking for nineteen hours, my voice was a wisp and Jane’s ears deserved a rest. The planets, tired of spinning, faded from view and we watched the colors of the day supplant the early-morning grays and blues. It was time to sleep; for once the thought of dreaming about nothing appealed to me. Like most aspects of my life, I wasn’t certain of what had taken place here or if any of it would stick come the next day. In the thick stew of memory and history, a single idea made itself known: maybe there was a third reality I could live in, one sandwiched between California and the island. Maybe it had room, too, for an inspired husband, a wayward daughter—for a fantasy life as big as a barn. No one said I had to stop at two realities.
For all my fears, Freeman was still around; in fact, he’d never once threatened to leave. His desertion was all in my head, it seemed. And there was the question of Mother, of breaking the cycle of blame. I couldn’t promise any miracles, but I could try to make a little room in my heart for the possibility. Over thorns, to the stars, I whispered.