Wendy had barely made it inside the door when there was a physical pull from inside her skin, as if her center of gravity had shifted. Wendy waited a moment to see if the pain in her head subsided. There was a pause, and she raised her hands to push on her temples. Oh, Lord, was it gone? Then the blinding pain returned, roaring this time, pressing on her brain like someone was smothering her skull. With a gasp, she fell to her knees as the pain ricocheted around her head and behind her eyes. She crawled, hand over hand toward her hammock, sweat dripping off her forehead. Wendy wretched and wretched again as her head felt as if it were being torn in two. She clasped her hands over her ears and screamed, a funny thought bursting through the pain that this was all so improper. If Peter saw her now, what would he think? Tears dripped down her cheeks as she pulled herself along the floor. If she could just make it to the hammock, if she could just sleep forever, the pain would go away. If this was death, then it would be a release, a relief, from the pain that was setting her skull ablaze. Her white hand clutched at the floor as the pain overtook her, her fingernails making grooves in the wood as splinters shredded her fingertips.
She didn’t make it to the hammock. The images cascaded around her, drowning her mind. A teddy bear. A man pointing at the stars. Tea on a tray. A soft blanket wrapped around her shoulders. A dog’s silky fur. A woman embracing her. The chant of prayers and the smell of incense. Wendy rolled onto her back and surrendered to whatever blackness was calling her, sweat dripping down the sides of her face. Goodnight, goodnight. She hurtled herself toward unconsciousness.
When she woke up, it was the middle of the night, and Pan Island was still. Her mind was foggy. Somehow she was on the other side of the room, and her clothing was drenched through with sweat. Wendy rolled over, pushing herself off the ground and sitting up on her knees. Her hands delicately traced her forehead. The pain was gone. What had it been?
Staggering like a drunk, she made her way to the door and looked out at Pan Island. The remnants of a pink sunset still striped across the sky, the rosy light giving the stars a pastel playground. A cool breeze was whipping through the island, rustling the leaves around her hut, bringing the scent of the hibiscus flowers into her nostrils. Below, she could see the line of the beach that marked each end of Pan Island.
She saw something wink out of the corner of her eye, and Wendy turned her head. It was the lotus flower, still spinning in the air over the water, illuminated with light, honoring Kitoko and Darby in its soft white glow. It was beautiful, and Wendy closed her eyes, hoping to honor the fallen Lost Boys, but instead seeing Kitoko’s very dead, much-opened throat. She saw it all again. The look of fear on his face as he looked at Peter. The way the pirate had scowled in grim determination, not looking entirely pleased as he pulled his knife through the tendons of Kitoko’s neck. The blood. So much blood.
Her vision blurred, and Wendy braced herself for another onslaught of the pain that had ripped her brain in half, but none came. She took a breath, and the air around her changed. She blinked twice and opened her eyes. It was then that she realized that she was still dreaming—she looked down and saw herself lying on the floor of the hut, her hands clutched around her head.
Wendy turned away, and as she did, a filmy gray veil fell over her sight. The veil fluttered in the Neverland breeze, transparent, and yet she couldn’t see behind it. Pull the veil. Wendy reached out her hand, her fingers gently parting the veil, aware somewhere inside of her that this was certainly happening in her mind. Her pointer finger parted the veil ever so softly, and behind it she felt a crisp, damp air and a woolen glove on her hand. She closed her eyes. The smell coming through the parted slit of the veil consumed her, the smell of wet cobblestones, Earl Grey tea, and musty books. It smelled familiar, like the smell of home.
Wendy took one step closer, and the curtain blew across her face, its silky gossamer fabric brushing her cheeks and hairline, the caress of a lover. She pulled her hand back out of the fold and was struck by a sudden emptiness. Then she understood. Something was waiting for her on the other side. Love. Wet cobblestones. She reached out her hands, and the images began flooding her mind, this time no threat, this time like coming home, like leaping into a familiar lake. The memories came, one by one. Hands on a book, hands on a glove, hands held by another, hands reaching for the stars. Wendy instantly understood. The choice was hers to make, but there really was no choice. Wendy took a deep breath, and with both hands, she pulled the veil down forcefully.
The memories fell upon her like a crumpling building, violent, sudden, and overwhelming. She saw her mother’s eyes looking down at her in her bed, as Wendy cried over a bloodied knee. She saw her father’s study, his kind blue eyes as he picked up an astronomy book, settling his girl child in his lap. She saw Michael as a baby, so tiny in her arms, his blue eyes watching her as she sang softly to him, Nana sitting protectively at Wendy’s feet. She saw herself passing John a bowl of soup when he was sick with fever, wiping his forehead as her mother prayed at the window. She saw the acolytes carrying the candles at Mass, her father’s hand strong on her shoulder as he repeated lengthy prayers with annoyance.