He moved out of the doorway to let her pass. As she did, he lifted his hand. Wendy thought he was going to place it on her shoulder, but he hesitated and let it drop back to his side. “Stay out of there,” he repeated.
Wendy nodded and crossed her arms over her chest. “I will.” She didn’t blame him for being mad at her.
She wasn’t the only one who’d lost something in those woods.
CHAPTER 8
Memories
Wendy listened at her bedroom door to the sounds of her father’s frustration. She noticed that he only did chores when he was using them to announce his anger, even in the middle of the night. Wendy knew too well what it was like to have someone furiously fold a sock at you, or resentfully wash a dish in your direction.
When things grew quiet and she was pretty sure her father wouldn’t come barging in to say, And another thing! Wendy went into her bathroom. She turned on the bathtub faucet and peeled off her jeans. They had two jagged tears, but it wasn’t a big deal since they were old anyway. She sat on the edge of the tub and scooped up handfuls of water to pour over the cuts in her leg. They weren’t very deep and stung only a little now. She’d gotten far worse scrapes from the edge of the pool during swim practice.
She dipped a facecloth into the water and watched her shadow mirror her movements against the wall. As Wendy let her leg soak, she dabbed at the dried blood caked to the angry bump on her head. She was a mess. The last twenty-four hours had been a mess. Everything was a mess!
As her leg soaked in the warm water, Wendy stretched for the cabinet under the sink and dug out her sewing kit. She did her best to mend the pant leg. To save money, she’d spent many afternoons patching holes and resewing the hems on her parents’ clothes. Her father’s suits weren’t cheap, so it made more sense for her to reattach a button or fix a pleat than to buy a new jacket. Her mother was petite, which meant standard scrub pants were always too long. The bottom hems wore out too fast from dragging on the ground, so Wendy would hem them whenever they got too worn. Wendy inspected her work, giving a tug to see if her stitches held up. They were a little askew, but the jeans were perfectly fine as junk pants if she only wore them around the house.
With a sigh, she tossed them in the hamper.
What was she supposed to do now? How was she supposed to explain any of this—Peter, his shadow—to anyone?
Oh, yes, I almost ran a boy over with my truck last night. Turns out, he claims to be a character from stories my mom made up! Did I mention he doesn’t have a shadow? Like, literally. And he needs my help to find it!
Wendy scowled. Logically, it didn’t make any sense, but she had seen with her own eyes that his shadow was missing. There was no denying who he was any longer.
Wendy tried to organize her thoughts. What did she know?
She knew he was the boy she had been subconsciously drawing. He was her daydreams come to life, even if he was a bit older than the Peter in her mother’s stories. He’d definitely heard her tell stories before, but more important, he knew her brothers. In the middle of all the wild coincidences and impossible things like missing shadows, Peter knowing John and Michael was the most unsettling.
Wendy dried off and changed into an oversized sleep shirt. She crept to her dresser and pulled out of the small jewelry box the one thing she had always associated with her lost memory: the acorn. She sat in the middle of her bed and stared at the acorn, balancing it in the center of her palm.
Peter knew things that she couldn’t remember. He was the key. If he could fill in the chunks of memories that had been ripped from her mind, then she could figure out what happened. She could find her brothers and get them back. It felt like an invasion of privacy—the idea that Peter knew something about what had happened to her. That he held the secret to those missing months. That this could mean Wendy finding the answer to the questions that had been eating her alive for years.
And at the center of all this was the question: Was he really Peter Pan?
Wendy dug into her small trash can and uncrumpled one of the many drawings she’d made of Peter Pan’s face. She lay on top of the blankets because it was still too hot to sleep under them, then sighed and tried to force herself to calm down. Counting the fairy lights around her window and rolling the acorn between her thumb and index finger, Wendy drifted off to sleep.
Wendy sat on a fallen log in the middle of a mass of trees, but not like the woods behind her house back home. The log was covered in vines as thick as rope. The bark under her hands was wet and smooth. Dark green giants with shiny leaves shot up into the sky. Sunlight filtered through a covering of palm fronds. Palm trees rose from white sand, bowed with coconuts. She was under a lush canopy of gleaming leaves.