The Possibility of Believing

Fire surrounds him on all sides. The air is too thick with smoke to allow the boy to breathe properly. His chest and lungs hurt in a way that he’s never experienced in the five years of his life. Someone grabs his wrist, jerking him forward, pulling him through the smoke.

“Hold on,” a voice echoes. He recognizes it, it’s so familiar, but he can’t seem to put a name or face to it no matter how hard he tries. “I’ll get you out of here. You’ll be safe, I promise.”

The boy is confused. One minute he was tiptoeing down the stairs to get a glass of water and the next—

He remembers glass breaking, a brightly lit bottle landing in the parlor room and skidding along the carpet. Then there was fire everywhere. He’d hidden in the hall closet, knees curled against his body, scared that the fire might find and eat him. He thought he was alone until the door swung open to reveal a figure, crackling orange flames raging behind them. He doesn’t remember who saved him from the burning building. He doesn’t even remember being in a fire.

And that scares him.

Peter awakens with a startled cry, his lungs burning painfully. It takes him a moment to realize where he is; the hollowed out insides of the Hideout where he and the Boys live, soft snoring coming from swinging hammocks off to his right, the distinct shape of little bodies bundled up in blankets. Something moves out of the corner of his eye and the sudden warmth on his arm makes him jump. Peter turns and she’s there. He can barely see her amidst the darkness but he can just as easily picture the brown curls framing a heart-shaped face, freckles dotting across a petite nose, blue eyes filled with worry. There’s a shift of motion beside him and a hand finds his, fingers linking together, and it makes his heart soar.

“Wendy,” he whispers, his voice thick with sleep.

She smiles, her face illuminated by the soft glow of pixie dust coming from her hair. “Are you alright?” (Her sleepy, English-accented voice is what he lives for).

Even though she knows about the dreams (she was there with him when Tiger Lily proposed the idea his dreams were actually memories, ones from a past life before he’d ever come to NeverNever) he still feels bad for waking her up. Peter smiles even though she can’t see it.

he loves her

he really does

he can’t lose this

“I’m fine,” he finally says. “Just a dream.”

“You don’t remember anything about it, do you?”

He doesn’t, of course, just like every other time before. The emotions still linger in the back of his mind—Peter can still feel the adrenaline coursing through his body—while everything else escapes him. It’s strange not being able to remember, even though he knows most people never remember their own dreams anyway, but it also unnerves him. After hearing Tiger Lily’s idea he’s begun to suspect the dreams are his brain’s way of reminding him that part of himself is missing, an important part that sometimes makes him feel like half a person. With Wendy, however, those thoughts are pushed to the back of his mind. Every time he flies with her on the island, among the stars and the clouds and the trees, her presence fills the gap in his chest and he feels whole once more. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when she decides it’s time for her and her brothers to leave, to return to London where they’ll Grow Up without him. It hurts just thinking about it.

“No,” he replies.

“I’m sorry. I know it bothers you.”

Peter feels her lips are warm and soft on his cheek; tears sting his eyes.

please don’t go

“Dreams aren’t that important,” he tries to joke, but it falls flat because his heart isn’t in it. As an after thought he adds, “You’re important.”

“Thank you,” she chuckles, a sound that’s music to his ears. Her lips brush his cheek again. “Let’s go back to sleep, okay?”

He nods and they curl against each other; Peter’s breath warm on her neck, his hands tucked around her middle to keep her close. Wendy falls asleep easily (she’s adapted to the sounds of Never Never quite well), but it takes Peter hours to allow himself to slip back into the place where the not-dreams haunt him.

Just a few minutes walk from London’s Kensington Gardens is an unnamed street in Bloomsbury. On that street sits a row of three-story brick houses, all alike, that miraculously stood their ground during the Blitz of 1943. To the average person all of these houses might appear to look completely ordinary—that is, unless you knew what you were looking for. A hanging pot of chrysanthemums hides a circular blue plaque displayed next to the front door of house number fourteen. This is what it says:

English Heritage

Wendy Darling

Close friend of J.M. Barrie, and author of the Internationally Best Selling children’s books “Adventures in Neverland” lived here until her death in 1953

The attic of number fourteen has seen many adventures over the centuries.

In 1902 Wendy Darling shared the room with her brothers, Michael and John. They played pirates and told stories here, until the fateful night Mr. Darling told his daughter she needed to grow up and leave the nursery. This also happened to be the same night Peter Pan whisked the siblings off to NeverNever for a fantastic adventure, changing the lives of the Darling family forever. Unfortunately, growing up is part of daily life, so that is just what happened.

Wendy soon fell in love and, after they married, the couple moved back into her childhood home where she regaled her two children with stories of Peter Pan. Their happiness was short-lived, however, because war meant husbands and sons were sent off to the front lines. With her father gone, little Jane Darling learned that fairy tales had no place in war—it took getting kidnapped by Captain Hook, becoming a Lost Girl, and saving Tinkerbell to make her realize that sometimes the Power of Belief is all you need. When Jane grew up she had two daughters, Moira and Margaret, who became the third and fourth Darling girls to accompany Peter to the island.

The last girl to fly the North Star to NeverNever was Molly Darling. Even though Peter had aged two or three years since his last adventure she was the youngest of her family but the oldest girl, at fifteen, to travel with him between NeverNever and her London home. Molly became very fond of the Lost Boys, treating them as the mother they were endlessly searching for, and came to call everyone she met on the island friend. Mornings were spent with the mermaids, where they taught her how to breathe underwater and she taught them how to take care of their hair during the eternity swimming in the ocean. Afternoons Molly met with the Indians at their camp, learning about their customs and perfecting the language they spoke. Evening became reserved for Peter and the Boys.

Some nights they caught fireflies in jars and then set them around the Hideout in order to give Molly enough light to read stories by. She helped not just the Boys, but Peter as well, perfect their reading and writing skills; even taking the time to teach little Tootles how to read using picture books brought from her home. Molly and Peter loved each other in a way he hadn’t experienced before. It wasn’t like the romantic kind of love he’d felt for Wendy, but something different, something stronger that Molly gave him words for when he described it to her one day: platonic love. He and Molly were best friends, a friendship that lingered long after she reached the “Grown Up” age of eighteen that kept her from returning with him to the island. He continued visiting her for many years, listening to stories of things she’d done, the life she lived, the family she eventually had.

Molly is in her early seventies when Peter drops by on the afternoon of her granddaughter Charlotte’s fourth birthday. The little girl is on the move practically every minute of the day and babbles rapidly in her own little language, while the only time she can be found silent is during the stories her grandmother tells before she goes to bed each night. At the plastic toddler table Charlotte has haphazardly arranged a tea party with several of her favorite dolls, carrying on incoherent conversations with them as she passes around little buttered biscuits and pours tea into the cups of the ceramic tea-set that had once belonged to her great-grandmother, Moira. There is a flash of green at the window and, in its warped reflection, Molly can see Peter land cross-legged on the white dresser beside her rocking chair. He watches Charlotte curiously, smiling at the snippets of what she’s saying that he hears (he’d always been good at understanding small children and animals).

“You haven’t visited in the past couple months,” Molly murmurs so only he can hear. Her voice turns teasing. “Are you avoiding me?” He doesn’t respond and the silence that proceeds is far too telling; she’s known him too long. “Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

“The Boys…”

“What about the Boys?”

“They—” His voice suddenly hitches and the sound makes her turn. “Slightly and the others,” he tries again, voice strained, “they don’t want me to bring her—to bring Charlie to NeverNever when she’s old enough.”

“What? Why?” Molly says in surprise. “Ever since Jane there’s been a tradition of taking Darlings to the island. It’s where the children can pass down the truth of the stories that have been told for centuries.”

“I know, I know.” Peter sighs, running a hand through his red hair, and Molly is startled to see just how old her young friend really is. “It’s just… when the Star finally stopped letting you come back—you were the best we had, Mo, and the Boys… they miss that. Every time I come back from a visit I tell them about the things we talk about and they’re happy to hear you’re doing so well but, every time I mention Charlie…” He shakes his head. “They get angry and won’t speak to me, sometimes for days. I think… I think they’re getting tired of losing their ‘mothers.’ And since you stayed with us for so long—”

“The Boys know I can’t return. To the Star eighteen is grown up, and it won’t let me pass through anymore.”

“Believe me, I want to bring Charlie. I do. It’s just—”

“Petey!” comes an excited shriek.

They turn to see Charlie beaming up at Peter with a missing-her-two-front-teeth grin. Wild orange curls pulled into pigtails, she wears grass-stained jean overalls over a purple t-shirt and has mismatched socks on her little feet. In one hand is a doll, his look-alike doll that Molly had given her when she was born, while the other reaches for him, fingers opening and closing in growing impatience.

The look on Peter’s face as he picks up her granddaughter and cuddles the girl in his arms, as he flies them around the room before finally collapsing onto her bed, giggling madly at each other—it is something Molly will never forget. Conversation forgotten for the moment, Peter eagerly accepts Charlie’s invitation to join her tea party and soon he’s floating cross-legged beside the table, the both of them chattering away as she offers him tea and biscuits.

After a while Molly leaves, giving Peter the alone time with Charlie she knows he deserves. Everyone in the house knows not to bother the birthday girl as she plays, shrieking happily and talking to what some of her family believe is an imaginary friend. Hours pass and a full moon rises to be surrounded by thousands of twinkling stars. A couple blocks away, Big Ben strikes eight times.

Charlie’s room is dark and illuminated by moonlight when Molly opens the door. Her eyes take time to adjust to the darkness, but soon enough she can see her granddaughter bundled up in her blankets with the Peter doll clutched in her hand. In the nook is the real Peter, perched on the windowsill as he stares out across Bloomsbury. Molly doesn’t speak, just sits down beside her friend and watches the same view until he’s ready to talk.

“It’s hard,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. He floats down beside her on the cushion and brings his knees up to his chest. “I’ve visited you and Charlie more than any other Darling. I didn’t take anyone to NeverNever when you had a family because I hated the idea of someone else replacing memories of your time there. And then Charlie was born and I…” Tears streak down the boy’s face. “I’ve never been there when a Darling is born, never watched them grow up in the way that I have, never” —Peter’s breath hitches— “never have I felt this strongly for someone since Wendy was alive. It’s all so confusing and I don’t understand it.”

Molly reaches forward to gently wipe the tears from his face. “No one understands why love works the way it does, Peter, but I’ll tell you this: it’s a wonderful experience to share with someone. You know them more than you even know yourself; what they like, what they don’t, their personality.” Peter squeezes his eyes shut. “Dreams consist of nothing but their smile and bell-like laugh, the glimmer in her eyes when she looks at you. Most importantly, there’s that fierce need to protect them with your whole heart.”

“I want to be here while she grows up. I want to bring her to NeverNever. I want to teach her to fly.”

“Then why don’t you?” Molly asks.

“There are so many reasons why.” He opens his eyes and the sadness she sees breaks her heart. “I can’t allow myself to feel this way for Charlie, Molly. It wouldn’t be fair to her. The Boys would hate me if I brought her back, they’d hate her.”

“It shouldn’t matter what the Boys feel, it should only matter what you feel. Sometimes your happiness has to come before their own.”

“Every time I leave I’m afraid I’ll miss out on an important part of Charlie’s life. Sometimes it hurts to even think about her. It’s just too much, Molly, I’m not ready.”

“No one is ever ready for love, Peter.”

Silence stretches between the two friends. After a moment Molly watches as the boy gets to his feet and kneels beside her granddaughter’s bed. Peter gently brushes the curls from Charlie’s face before leaning down to kiss her cheek. His voice is barely audible but Molly still hears it.

“I’ll come back for you. One day.”

This is the last time either of them see Peter Pan.