Authoress note: I just experienced the quickest mind change ever. So this story (if I may call it so) will get more chapters, though they are not exactly combined to each other, so these are going to be shots out of the lives that take place after Sylvias death. When I start writing this, I have no idea about how you reacted to my first try (which I posted this morning). Hehe and lucky me who leaves for holidays tomorrow, will only know until over a week later, when I can bathe in your reviews. Arrogance is the downfall! PS: Thanks for the reviews, I am very glad you liked it, wow what compliments. So I hope you gulp down this one!
It is often said that time can heal everything. But I am not so sure, this saying is true.
A month ago Sylvia died and left behind a mother, four sons and a dear friend, who would have gladly given up his existence to be more, behind in mourning. And although the tears poured less often, the pain did not cease to be.
While trying to distract the boys with childish games and plays, I tried to keep my own mind preoccupied as well.
Today a thick grey fog hovered above the lands and was the first sign of the oncoming fall. Still I wanted to take the boys out into the park. Michael had been very depressed the last days and I felt the need to make him smile a bit. In the luming presence of his grandmother this proved to be rather a challenge and so I decided on the park.
"Certainly not with this storm coming up!" was of course Mrs du Mauriers answer.
"We will return as soon as there is the smallest sign of rain, a storm or the worlds end, great indian chief honor word." I swore to the delight of the boys. She opened her mouth, certainly to express her discontentment, but we had already dashed out of the house.
The boys were overjoyed to get out and happily greeted the park, although Peter coughed a bit. During our little play of "The four brave knights against the fire-spitting dragon" in which I did a formidable job at acting out their grandmother and spitting fire, I prouded myself as quite convincing as the boys pretended to waver their branches at me.
In the middle of the final defeat in which the dragon, meaning I, had been reduced to a small lizard that shivered at the sight of the fearless tamers, a downpour caught us.
I admit not having kept an eye on the weather and being rather surprised, when the sudden huge amount of cold water fell down on us. "Off we go! Quick!" and we hurried back towards the house. I could only imagine how Mrs du Maurier would react, certainly by breathing a lot of fire.
Lucky me that some time was stalled while she scolded the boys, told them to dry themselves off, ordered them to drink a cup of hot tea and then immedeately go to sleep in dry clothing.
Unfortunately this proved not to be long enough for me. "Well, what exactly were you thinking? That is, if you were at all!" the dragon surely had the power to roast me alive.
"I did not see the weather come up" it sounded like something incredibly childish to say.
"I saw it coming up, even before you left" she made sure I had not forgotten her warning.
If the boys had been left to her care alone, the only thing the would be able to play would probably be cards and later chess, in a dark, dusty room with their grandmother.
I would most definitely not tell her that I was sorry. To the small amount of dignity I still had in her eyes, which was about the size of a pea, I would cling. Instead I settled on "I will heed your advice next time" spoken in a forced, upper-class English.
"I certainly will make sure you do!" the dragon hissed and exited the room. That had been half as bad and long as I had expected it to be.
But as I should know by now, life is not honey and bliss, but stones and thorns.
When I woke the boys next morning, I immediately noticed that something was wrong with Peter. There was sweat on his pale forehead and his hair was plastered onto his skull. He shivered and when I touched his brow, he was burning with fever. When he opened his eyes, they were unfocused and glassy. "Uncle Jim" he mouthed
His brothers were staring at him, they had slept soundly, Jack had even been snoring, until I had woken them, and they were shocked at their brothers sight.
"Go and get your grandmother, immediately" I told George and he spurted out of the room.
"Peter" I knelt down at his side and took his small hand into mine. "Where does it hurt?" I asked softly and stroked his hair out of his face. "Everywhere" the boy tried to appear strong.
"What happened?" Mrs du Maurier rushed in, George must have been really convincing, as she even still wore her white nightgown. When she noticed Peter, her eyes got a sort of frantic gaze and I heard her whisper "Not again!"
"Why are you just standing there?" she snapped at the boys. "Get a cold, wet towel and make some peppermint tea. And you" her eyes could have sent me to hell right there "call the doctor, he has to come this instant." I nodded weakly and stood up, but turned around again.
"I am not going to kill my grandson" she said, but it sounded less commanding, more like a frog had gotten caught in her throat, as she pushed Peter, who appearantly tried to sit up, back down.
"Yes, doctor, you must come now, the boy needs immideate treatment" I hung up the phone and hurried back in the direction of the boys bedroom.
On the way, Michael, who helped Jack with the tea, caught my sleeve. He looked at me out of the fearful eyes of a small child. "Does Peter have to die like mommy did?" he asked with tears in his eyes and a seriousness, no boy his age should know.
"No, of course not." was my answer, but who was I trying to convince? When I had been a child myself, I had often hated the grown-ups for lying and promised myself to only say the truth. I was not so sure about my answer any more, but it seemed to calm Michael a bit.
George had already handed the wet cloth to his grandmother and she carefully placed it on Peters forehead.
"I called the doctor, he promised to be here in half an hour." I told her and kneeled down next to Peters bed again. "You are such a brave knight" I told him and it scared me when he did not even manage a small smile. "Only because the dragon is being nice right now" he rasped and his voice was little more than a whisper.
"Can you take care of him for ten minutes?" the nice dragon asked me and I nodded dumbly, well, at least she still trusted me with the boy.
After fifteen minutes she came in again, dressed and with the doctor trailing behind her.
She seemed uncomfortable and agitated around the white-clad man and I noticed why. It was the same doctor who had treated Sylvia. Now I do not believe in fate, destiny or omens, but I thought this was no good sign.
"Would you leave me alone with the patient." and we left the room, not too happy.
Emma du Maurier stared at me with a level of dislike, not reached before. "I know, okay, I know it is my fault. Does it make you feel better now that I admitted it?" I let my shame come out. "No, it does not" and she went off towards the other boys, me trailing behind her like some lost puppy.
"I have to tell you, that it is very serious. The boy has caught himself a pneumonia . He will need to take these, every morning and evening." He handed Mrs du Maurier a glass full of pills. Of course he needs to stay in bed. No loud talking and no laughing. I suggest his brothers sleep in another room for the time being. He should be as warm and comfortable as possible. I will come to visit in four days. If a drastic change occurs, you may call me at any time." and with that he excused himself.
"What is wrong with Peter?" "Will he be okay?" the boys threw their concerned questions at us. "Your brother is very sick" Mrs du Maurier told them in a grave-like voice. "You will have to sleep in another room until he recovers. You are not to visit him and you have to be quiet in the house. Understood?" Michael had started crying again, but Jack and George nodded sadly.
"Why did you not allow the boys to even visit their brother?" I asked her later.
"You should be glad I even let you see him and I hope you are grown-up enough to not overexercise him."
The day seemed endless, with countless tries of aiding Peter, none of which helped and Mrs du Maurier and me taking turns at looking after his needs. I told the boys to go to bed early, for once not caring if they would be one day older the next morning.
I tried to console them, but my words seemed hollow and meaningless. I tried telling them a crime story, but there was no plot and when a sick boy turned out to be the main character, I gave up. I kissed them goodnight and told them not to worry, which was very useless.
When I wanted to enter Peters room, I noticed Emma sitting in a chair next to to sleeping boy and actually praying. That struck me quite as odd, as I had never figured her much of the believing-in-god type and not once had seen her go to church. But what else could she have done with her hands clasped tightly together and the silent whispering of words I could not understand. Those who believed in fairies were not welcome, and I left.
The next hours were spent sitting on the couch in the living room, staring at the wall and tormenting myself. In my mind I apologized to Sylvia for not taking care of her beloved boy and I felt like a father who had failed in protecting his son.
When the clock struck eleven and Mrs du Maurier had still not returned from Peters room, I went upstairs to find her asleep in the chair. She was snoring slightly and her right hand still lay on Peters pillow. I draped a blanket over her and checked on Peter, who was twitching and sweating, but who otherwise seemed asleep as well.
After that I sat down on Georges bed until I must have dozed off myself.
How quickly one can develop parental instincts. I awoke with a startle, as soon as I heard Peter twitching and moaning. Never had I been as quick to rise and hurry to the boys bedside. I considered waking Emma, but she was still snoring so peacefully, that I did not dare.
The small boy seemed even smaller and whimpered in his sleep. I bent closer to understand and drew back in shock when he murmured "Mommy" and "Neverland".
"What happened?" Mrs du Maurier frowned at me the minute she awoke. "He is just dreaming" I told her, trying to convince myself. "Daddy" Peter said and with still closed eyes, his small hand tried to grab onto mine. "He is not dreaming, James" Emmas voice quivered "he is on his way to Neverland." I rubbed the small hand.
"Yes, I am here son, stay here, with me. I will take care of you, I promise." I told him, as Emma rushed out to call the doctor. If ever there had been an emergency, this certainly was one.
"We have to wake him up. If he falls asleep, he might…" she stopped. "You have to wake up, son" I told him gently. "Daddy" he whispered and I felt my heart crash. "Peter!" George, Jack and Michael skidded into the room. "Out!" their grandmother bellowed.
"Do not…roast them…dragon" Peters silent voice was heard, but he forced his small eyes open. Mrs du Maurier frowned and sat down in her chair.
"Should I tell you a story?" I asked him and he nodded. I tried hard to think of something not along the lines of "There was a small boy, who was very sick and his grandmother and his father worried a lot, if he would recover and hated the doctor who took his time."
"Tell me about Neverland" he whispered and I hesitated. Would that not drive him even further into the endless sleep?
"Do you want to know what your mother was like, when she was a girl?" Emma asked unexpectantly. Peters eyes gleamed and he looked curious, although he kept shivering. It was clear the boys knew nothing about their mothers childhood. And I caught myself nodding enthusiastically as well.
"Well, when she was seven, she brought a boy over to play." she again gave me what I secretly called "the look"although I had no idea what I had done this time. "He was two years older, but behaved like a six year old, no manners and his head in the clouds. He always told her stories of goblins and elves and Sylvia was very taken with him. After knowing him for ten days she told me "Mom, I am going to marry Peter." The listening Peter and I were quite surprised at this name equality.
"One afternoon, this Peter came wearing a scots gown" she scowled "the traditional way." I could not help it and laughed and Peter managed to smile. Mrs du Maurier had actually, certainly without planning on it, managed to amuse us.
"What happened to Peter?" the boy asked, but was interrupted by a terrible coughing fit.
When it had passed, his grandmother answered "Of course I threw him out and forbade him to see my daughter again." as if that had been the only possible option. "Of course" I mumbled.
When I heard a loud knock at the door and went off to open for the doctor, the lost boys were just sweeping around the house like ghosts, silent and sad. "Peter is strong" I told them "he will make it" it sounded more like a plea, than a promise.
Once more the doctor wanted to be left alone with the suffering boy. I wanted to console George, Jack and Michael, but my grief was too immense not to drown them with me. "Did I not tell you to stay away from Peters room as long as he is sick?" I heard Emma hiss and her voice was dangerously close to the cliff.
I found Michael kneeling on the floor and crying, hugging his knees tightly to his chest.
"He just wanted to know how Peter is doing!" George tried to stand up to the Captain Hook/dragon crossover. "We all do. And you never tell us anything. You treat us just like children, who have no idea. But we are more grown-up than you think or trust us to be and we deserve to know what is happening to our brother!"
No trace of the boy seemed to be left, he had grown older than myself in a few weeks. And there was nothing spectacular or interesting in the sight, only sadness. The loss of innocence.
"You should be grateful" Mrs du Mauriers voice had grown silent all the sudden. And for maybe the first time ever, I really understood her and I agreed (partly). She was trying to protect the boys from the pain and harshness of the real world in the only way she knew to.
But she could not see that it was a task that could not be fulfilled, they had already seen too much, their eyes were older than their bodies and the carefreeness was gone. They would turn around if they heard steps behind them from now on, they would not trust a person who stared at the floor while promising them something and worst of all, they would think before they acted. The thought would destroy all their impulsive and childish actions.
"What for?" Georges aggressive tendencies were getting the better of him. His grandmother always managed to bring him to the boiling point.
"That both our parents are dead, that our brother is lying sick in bed and we do not know whether he will make it, that there are still enough people at the park who curse us with their pitying glances, that we have to live with our strict, unloving grandmother and listen to her constant dressing-downs and quarrels with Uncle James. What exactly should we be grateful for?" George stormed outside.
There had been many occasions when I had wished the pest on Mrs du Mauriers head and when seeing her getting swallowed by a huge crocodile would have been a welcome sight.
But there was no hidden joy or desire in revenge that I felt when she broke down. "He did not mean it like that" Jack tried to apologize, deadly frightened at seeing his grandmother like this. "I am sorry" Michael mumbled and dropped his head.
There was something awkward in the way Emma du Maurier clenched her fists and tried to stand still inspite of her trembling. She turned from the boys in a desperate attempt to hide her tears from them. What was she trying to prove? Was being human that terrible a fate?
At closer contact, there was nothing intimidating, dangerous or hateful about her. When I pulled her into a hug and she turned into a broomstick, there was a moment when I for once was the parent who tried to give comfort. But it only lasted until my own tears trailed down my cheeks. Jack and Michael were clinging at our waists as if we were in some sort of family therapy.
The doctor came out of Peters room and the immediate silence would have heard a fairy cough. Painful seconds of not knowing why. "Congratulations" the doctor said as seriously as he would have in case of a death "he seems to be over the hill. Two weeks in bed and continuation of the current treatment and he will be fine."
"Thank god" Emma whispered and my heart burst with the momentaneous joy. My son would recover!
