Second Star: A Neverland Novella

Chapter One

My charcoal pencil traced a careful line, curving around to form a high cheekbone, then descended with a straight, firm stroke to outline a pointed chin. Downstairs, Mother exclaimed as a crash sounded in the sitting room. Probably the usual pirates, but it might be Indians.

I sat back to examine my work. I wanted to rip the page out and crumple it up, but instead I grabbed my smudger and rubbed the charcoal, attempting to highlight the sparkle in the eyes, the glow of the cheeks, to recreate the most magical and colorful person I had ever known with nothing but white paper and black lines. I bit my tongue and focused in, drowning out the sound of chaos drifting through the floorboards as I rubbed, penciled, erased, and redrew again. And again. And again.

The yelling changed tone, but I paid them little heed. My face drew so close to the paper that I smudged my nose in the charcoal, but I didn’t stop. Another line. Another rub. I used my fingers, the oil on them making a different sort of line until I created the effect I sought. My heart galloped in my chest like horses out of the starting gate. I sat back again, unable to look away from the drawing.

Almost.

My breath caught in my throat. The thousands of lines and smudges had never come alive before, but in my first moment looking at this one, my heart started beating again, faster than the time I flew over London. Faster than the time I was captured by pirates.

As fast as the time I nearly kissed Peter Pan.

If only I could be there again, chasing him amongst the trees, our world lit by laughter and fairy dust...

Wendy! Mother shrieked. I startled and dropped my pencil. The tip marked the page, right in the middle of Peter Pan’s face, and my heart plummeted. I’d been working on it for hours, and now it would take a couple more to get it right. But Peter would have to wait for now. I tucked my drawing book under my right arm and shuffled to my door. The knob turned in my clammy hand and the door creaked open. It was quiet in the house, the boys sent outdoors to continue their play.

My footsteps thudded on the soft carpet in the hall. My fingers trailed along the curved wooden banister. If I didn’t come down, they would come up. I might as well appease them, get it over with. I clutched my drawing book tight against my side, its presence comforting.

My other hand reached for the hard lump under my dress against my chest, touching it to reassure myself. Mother hadn’t found it yet; or if she had, she didn’t question why I had an acorn-shaped brass button on a thread around my neck.

My hands were still cold and damp with sweat. Every two weeks Dr. Carter visited. My hands shook and my chest seized while he asked me questions.

What happened that night? Who took you and your brothers? Where did you go?

I stopped answering them months ago. No one believed me when I told the truth, and I had no other story to tell. It was just another pretend, now. I pretended not to know, and they pretended I was getting better.

I crossed the landing and descended the last flight of stairs. Mother waited for me, her pale green dress swishing over her feet as she paced, hand to her full, pink mouth. She turned and her blue eyes landed on me, surveying the disobedient strands of hair frizzing around my head, the incriminating charcoal marks obscuring the freckles on my nose. Her lips tightened.

Dr. Carter has been waiting for some time, Wendy.

Sorry, Mother.

Drawing room, now. Her hand pressed into my back. I stumbled beside her, swept along through the doorway into the sunlit room. I blinked against the bright light and Dr. Carter’s effervescent smile. Mother nudged me and sent a meaningful look in the direction of Dr. Carter and his assisting nurse before taking her usual seat near the doorway outside the room.

I dropped to a curtsey. My legs trembled. No matter how common these visits were, my body acted as it had the first time. Please accept my apologies, Dr. Carter, for being tardy. My drawing book tried to escape from beneath my arm and my opposite hand flew up to catch it.

Dr. Carter removed his thin spectacles and cleaned them with his handkerchief before responding. It is quite alright, Miss Wendy. Please, have a seat.

I perched on the edge of the loveseat across from the armchair he occupied. The loveseat was as uncomfortable as it was hideous, the green paisley print liable to make one nauseated if stared at too long. I rested my book against the loveseat arm and averted my eyes from the offensive fabric.

Dr. Carter’s eyes watched my movements, an ink pen tapping against his non-existent bottom lip. He gestured to my side. "Ah, yes. Your magnum opus. I glanced down at the worn book then back to Dr. Carter. He held out a hand. He didn’t even look my way. May I see?"

My hands shook as I passed the book to him. He turned each page with clockwork precision, his pen flicking across the chart in his lap, scrawling notes in an indecipherable scribble impossible to read, no matter how I craned my neck. The nurse looked on with a flat expression. She might as well be a painting on the wall.

After a while, I let myself become hypnotized by the tall clock against the wall, its bronze pendulum knocking back and forth. I timed my breathing to its movement. Left, in. Right, out. Left, in. Right, out.

Dr. Carter released a small, interested sound, and I looked up. The spell was broken.

His eyes flickered to me, watching my reaction. You have talent, Miss Wendy. He pulled my drawing book from his lap and pointed to the sketch on the page. Can you tell me who this is?

It was Peter. My Peter, the one I had drawn. My tongue sat like a dry sponge in my mouth, and my fingers tangled themselves together in knots. Dr. Carter already knew that. He had seen my drawings of him before and heard my story half a dozen times. Did he expect a different answer after months of hearing the same response? He looks familiar. I have seen him before, haven’t I?

In the corner of my eye, the pendulum carried on, oblivious to the tension building in the room. Left, right. Left, right. I let the clock’s momentum take me to Neverland in my mind, to relive those happiest of memories, making it easy to ignore Dr. Carter’s persistent stare.

Dr. Carter closed my book with a snap and I jumped. His pen darted across the paper he had placed on the table beside him. The pen clacked on the table as he set it down. He crossed one leg over the other and sat back, hands interlacing before him.

Wendy, what do you want?

I stared at him. What do I want? I want to return to Neverland, where people like you don’t exist.

He gazed back for a moment, then looked about the room, as if expecting a reply, though he knew he wouldn’t get one.

Do you want to hear what I think happened, Miss Wendy? Hm? He cocked his head. My eyes flicked away from the clock to meet his for a moment, but the smile that split his face told me I had lost. He thought he had me. He licked his lips and leaned forward, both feet on the floor, elbows on his thighs, a conspiratorial look on his face. I think a little girl was stolen from her bed in the dead of night by several men, perhaps many, perhaps a few. She was given drugs, maybe, or alcohol, so she experienced an altered version of reality.

I shifted in my chair, uncomfortably aware of his attempt to get a reaction from me. I watched the clock pendulum and breathed. Left, right. In, out. He didn’t know. He would never understand.

Dr. Carter’s voice lowered. Pirates and Indians are fearsome images for a young girl to conjure. Captain Hook—the leader of a gang. Men who kidnap children rarely have good intentions, Wendy. Did they touch you? Did they touch your brothers? Did they make you watch, helpless to save them? You tell yourself this story to survive. Does it make it more bearable?

I knew what he implied by the ugly weight of his words, but I didn’t know how to tell him how wrong he was. He wouldn’t believe me. Let him think what he wanted if he stopped asking questions. Even though his words bit deep into my memory of that sweet, enchanted land. He would mar it with his sick thoughts, his twisted ideas.

It hurts, doesn’t it? It aches inside your mind. Whatever you saw, whatever was done to you, it has broken you, hasn't it?

More correct than he knew. If I could return to Neverland... but I had grown in the past two years, despite every attempt not to. Neverland wouldn’t take me back now.

Dr. Carter continued. I understand, child; I understand your pain. But I can’t help you if you won’t talk.

In the beginning there had been investigations: police, detectives, doctors. My brothers and I were examined and found to be in perfect health. My brothers chattered on about the adventures they had, but they weren’t taken as seriously as I had been. After all, a girl of my age should know better than to lie to an adult.

How could they understand they weren’t lies? They resolved to each other that I told these stories to my brothers to cope with what happened. I said things so many times even I thought I sounded crazy, and so I stopped speaking in these sessions altogether.

The questions changed, and my sessions with Dr. Carter grew shorter, and he became more convinced I was addled beyond repair.

Dr. Carter placed the chart on the table and picked up the pen. I glanced at the pen as it struck the page, tapping rhythmically. My vision narrowed. My breath consumed me, becoming the only sound besides the staccato of the pen in the silence of that room. What did he want me to say? What would Peter say?

I will never grow up, I whispered and down at my feet. I heard the scratching