“Yeah, what’s all that stuff by his bed?” Peter asked, nodding toward it.
There was a collage of magazine, newspaper, and online articles printed out and tacked to the wall. “Oh, that,” Wendy said. “John was fascinated by things that scientists and archaeologists found at the bottom of the ocean. Shipwrecks, evidence of underwater cities, stuff like that,” she explained. “Whenever he found those stories, he would cut or print them out and then hang them up on the wall. He wants to be an underwater archaeologist when he grows up—or he used to, anyway. I have no idea if that’s still true.” Wendy frowned. It was strange to consider that her brothers had grown and changed enough that maybe she had no idea what they were like now.
“When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?” Peter asked. His tone was quiet, eyes locked onto Wendy’s with his head tipped curiously to the side. He sucked on the puffy cut on his lip.
“A nurse, like my mom,” Wendy said with a shrug. “I think most kids want to be like their parents when they grow up. And a nurse was a far more interesting option than a banker,” she added with a crinkle of her nose.
“And what about now?”
“Hmm,” Wendy hummed to herself, absentmindedly rubbing the bear’s ear between her fingers. She thought of all the forms and pamphlets back in her room. Of the academic roadmap she’d made for a nursing degree. Of the unfinished one for premed. “I don’t think I know yet,” she confessed. “Maybe a doctor?” A thrill ran up her spine. It was the first time she’d said it out loud. “But I haven’t decided. That’s what college is for, right?”
Peter’s expression fell and he busied himself with examining his palm.
“What about you?” Wendy asked, trying to bring him back.
“Me?” Peter said, furrowing his brow. He let out a small laugh that lacked any humor.
“Yeah, did you ever have dreams about growing up?” she persisted.
Peter shook his head. “No, I can’t grow up—or I wasn’t supposed to, anyway,” he said, looking down at himself.
“But everyone thinks about possible futures for themselves,” she said. “There wasn’t anything you wanted to be? Other than just yourself?”
“No, I never had that feeling,” he told her. “I was Peter Pan, the boy who never had to grow up. I got to live in Neverland and anything I could think up, I could become. A pirate, an explorer, a scuba diver,” he listed, staring out the window. “Growing up meant responsibilities: school, jobs, getting old and eventually dying—”
“But you had all those lost kids to look after,” Wendy pointed out. “That’s a big responsibility, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it’s still fun,” he countered. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, thinking. “In Neverland, I could do whatever I wanted. I was free.”
“But were you, Peter?” Wendy heard herself ask.
He paused and then shook his head, not understanding.
“You could do whatever you wanted, play whatever make-believe games you could come up with, but lost kids were always coming and going—you said so yourself,” Wendy said. “And it was always just make-believe. Didn’t you ever want something…” She tried to find the right words. “Real? You never felt like you were missing … something?”
Peter’s celestial eyes locked on hers. “Not until I met you.”
There was a low rush in the pit of Wendy’s stomach. It was so sudden, so simply put, that she wasn’t sure she had heard him right.
He watched her carefully.
Wendy shook her head, trying to think clearly.
“You … what?” she asked.
Peter took a deep breath. “I was fine with what I was, what it was my job to do,” he told her, watching her intently. “Your mom was the first person I met who wasn’t a lost kid. She was the first person who became my friend, who didn’t live in Neverland with me. We would have pretend sword fights in her backyard, she would tell me stories, and I told her what it was like in Neverland. But, just like everyone else in your world, she had to grow up.”
This was the most Wendy had heard about Peter and her mom. “So you couldn’t visit her anymore?”
Peter nodded. “I had mostly forgotten about her after a while, too,” he said. “Your mom remembered me, but she forgot that I was real. When I decided to look for her again on a whim, I found you, sitting in this window.” He looked like he was struggling to find his words. The tips of his ears were tinged red, but he didn’t look away, so neither did Wendy. “When I heard you telling my stories, I felt like I had to meet you. I wanted you to see me, to see that I was real,” Peter said.