Ch, 11
The Sorrow Between A Father and Son
A lifetime lived, and a lifetime gone. What kind of life is that?
Everything perfect...sublime.
Perfect til a point.
If we were all perfect, than no one die.
No crying... no lamenting
Everything a paradise...
A neverland.
This sentence was struck through a dozen times with the tip of his ebony fountain pen, before, satisfied with his fury, Peter closed his leather binding.
He had be allowed to be sent home. Allowed. Not asked. No really given a choice. But such are the demands of hospital life.
No one was allowed to see him because, as his grandmother said, he needed all the rest he could get.
Why?
Why did it matter if it wouldn't help?
He wouldn't be any less dead.
Fury erupted like a threatening volcanic eruption, and he screeched out of his beamy mahogany chair, leaving fresh groves in the floor and an upheaval of carpeting, as he thundered toward the door of the nursery.
It was late.
The hour was faithfully sounded by the chimes in the grandfather clock on the wall.
Midnight
The time when dark restless souls wandered the Earth.
And Peter was no exception.
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He saw him. He looked like his old self, perched up on his seat, twirling his fountain pen in between his long poet fingers, and pondering in deep thought on the next thing he was going to write.
He stopped his pen's continuous journey, he raised a fist to his mouth, and coughed harshly into it.
Each cough a comfortless and scorching reminder of the inevitable. The relentless truth that now haunted them all.
His spasm deceased and he picked up the tall crystal glass next to a heavy metallic pitcher full of water, and began to gulp greedily, hoping to ease the coppery taste that had vacated into his mouth.
Finished, he picked up his pen and began writing furiously, the words flowing out of his pen like silk and onto the now inhabited paper.
Peter walked over to him, evocatively glancing at his feet as they edged forward so as not to be caught in any obstacles that stood out in impedance.
But before he could reach the desk in which the man sat alone, animatedly writing, a voice called out to him. One that he had been longing to hear.
"Hello Peter."
That silky sweet Scottish baritone, that had always lulled him to the deepest depths of his imaginations and was like a map to his secret happiness, caused complete vehemence as he found how bittersweet it had become.
It once was so pleasingly mellisonant, even dulcet in its symphony as it passed through his ears to the center of his ve ry heart.
But now, it seemed, as if this force had become atrocious. A violent redolence that struck at him and bedeviled him into hopeful denial. He almost had the insane and untillable urge to weep.
"I heard ya before ye even stepped into the room."
He thought he had been careful.
"Are ye not talkin' to me Peter?"
No answer.
"Well then if ye refuse to talk to me, then why are ye here?"
No answer again.
Slightly unnerved by his muteness, James turned around in his chair.
The way he looked scared Peter.
His eyes were rimmed with a permanent darkness from lack of sleep and illness, and his face lacked the shine of the sun's meddling but besprent influence, despite the fire hearth's glow. His clothes, or pajamas for that matter, seemed as if they did not belong there, as it hung like an undesirable stranger over his skin. He seemed, to have been replaced by a sadder melody. One that would never race the hearts of his little men. Never sing sweet lullabies to soothe them to sleep. Hold them in his arms as they wept their woeful tragedies. To teach them the right way to understand... to think...
To believe.
He could never again offer those things, for his body had already given in. It was only a matter of time before the rest of him did too.
"What's wrong Peter?"
"What's wrong Peter?" Peter mimicked in whispered impersonation.
"I just asked ye that. Are ye just gonna stand there like a lifeless knob, or are ye gonna answer me question?"
"Liar."
"Excuse me?" James asked scandalized. Such an accusation caused his eyebrows into shocked confusion.
All the fury and sorrow had finally reached its climatic peak, as he fell to the floor, clutching his sides that ached in involuntary pain. A pain so painful it was sweet. Real. Something that reminded him that he was still living.
"Peter..." Peter heard James quietly.
He knew it before he felt it. James reaching out to him. But James was the one who pulled away then, and it was Peter who pulled away now.
"No!" he yelled as he scurried back on his hindquarters and legs, to keep enough space between the two of them.
"Peter..."
"No! Don't say anything! All you'll tell me is lies!"
"How can ye say that?" he said, thoroughly appalled by Peter's choice of words.
Peter hadn't answered right away, and this led James to wonder.
What had happened to his shining lad that had hung from that chandler, lit like a faery from the many lights surrounding him. But the lights were superfluous, however, for Peter shone with a light of his own. A delightful glow; an illuminated silhouette radiating perfect innocence and felicity. Heart filled kindness and that childish wonder that had always amazed him. That trait that he always longed to see.
That trait he loved.
But it was gone. Well, not entirely.
A faint dim. Just enough presence to be seen. Vague...
Like a dying faery.
Someone who's stopped believing.
"Peter... Listen to me."
Peter looked up.
There it was. Still barely apparent, but you could see it. He could feel it. That lustful wonder that consumed a little boy whole.
Those dewy tears shone somehow as a sign of great comfort, and so James continued.
"I promised you, and it still stands. I told ye, a long time ago, that I would never lie to you."
"What about at the rehersal?"
"What are you talkin 'bout?"
"When you told Michael that the reason you were coughing that morning was because you had a chest cold."
Realization his James like a brick wall, but the blow was lessened somehow. That feeling of finding out that the accusation was wrong. Perhaps it was considered relief. James hadn't the faintest idea, and he had no time to dwell on it now.
"Your right about one thing Peter. I did tell Michael that I had a chest cold. But the thing is I thought I had a chest cold too." Peter stood up at this statement as the barrier of resilience that he held broke, as fury through him. All his hesitation gone.
"Oh sure, more excuses. Just like mom. All she ever told us were lies. If she lied about her dying, whose to say she didn't lie about being our mom."
The force that James had hit Peter with the palm of his hand, sent Peter into, it seemed, more deeper depths than he wished to venture.
James.
Furious.
Peter had never seen him so livid in his entire knowing of him, nor did he wish too. But it seemed he was glued to the carpeting of the floor. Or was it perhaps the fire that crackled in his father's blazing eyes, which seemed more furious and more dastardly than a wildfire spending havoc to all those gumptious to meddle in its path, that kept him there.
"How dare you."
Peter wished he would have yelled at him. Screamed at him like his grandmother did.
But then he realized, that was probably why he was never afraid of her. Because he could expect her to yell. Expect her to bring out the paddle and serve him his daily ounce of discipline so routinely that he didn't even feel the pain and his "I'm Sorry"'s were becoming less meaningful each encounter.
But with James, he didn't know what to expect. Usually his sporadicness was a benefit, for he was always pleasant. But having never encountered this different side of James before, he was terribly frightened.
"Your mother loved you more than life itself, and in the end... it killed her. She wanted to spare you, your brothers, your grandmother, and myself, the unpleasantness and the destructive force of knowing a loved one will one day never be there. Never there again to hold us when we shed our tears, for whatever reasons imaginable. Never there again, to catch us when we fall. Never there again to spend the days, living as if t'were their last, and being truly happy.
"She wants you to be happy Peter. She wanted to save you especially. She wanted you to stop taking your sorrow and making it a priority, when you have everything here that you could ever need to help you along the way. To get past it and know that the dead never truly leave us. She's here with us Peter, listening now. Just look out the window, and she's there, twinkling brighter than any other. Just b-"
"Stop it! No more believing! All its ever its ever brought me is pain!"
"Peter youhave tobelieve, if you don't, then-"
"Then what, you won't die? Mom would be alive?"
James had no answer. If there ever really was one, he could have used it now.
"You can't believe something won't happen, because in the end, it always does. But the pain is even stronger than what it could have been if you accepted it. Believing is just blocking out reality."
"You've got it all wrong lad."
And he picked Peter up, with surprisingly no objection, and knelt down to be level with him as he stared back at him.
"Believing isn't forgetting. Pretending is. Your not pretending if you believe in something. When you pretend you hide yourself away in that place you know all too well, and you barricade the doors and the only way to get you out again is to stop the pain. And to stop the pain is to forget. Tell me, what does your mother look like?"
Peter thought. And thought...and thought some more.
What did she look like?
Was her hair the reddish color that bloomed on a welcoming rose, or was it a shade of gold, one that shone of a sunset and illuminated the crystal waters of the clearest sea?
Was her eyes the darkest color of emerald as it shined like an alluring jewel, rarer than any other , or, perhaps the deepest shade of blue as the stars began to appear in the sky?
Her favorite book?
How she laughed?
How she sang?
How she smiled?
New tears welled up in the duct of his eye.
"I can't remember anything. I-I don't know what she looked like, how she talked, and walked, and laughed. How she dressed. What song she would sing to lull us to sleep every night. How she scolded us when we did something wrong... I just can't remember."
"You've stop believing Peter."
"Do you remember what she looked like?"
"Oh, aye, I do."
"How did she looked"
"Her hair as golden red as the fiery sun, when it begins its descent into the water grave of dusk. Her eyes as crystal blue as the farthest ocean. Her smile, that warmed even the coldest day. Her laugh was one that would, despite your problems, make us join in as well, even if you missed the wit in the conversation entirely. And she always had this glow about her. Like a- a childish glow. One, that despite everything she had until she died."
"What was it?"
"Love Peter." he said, the emotion so strong as he held a hand to Peter's heart, " Love."
Peter wrapped himself around James tightly, but James relished the weight and held Peter just as close.
Two people.
Father and son.
One holding the other as he wept his crimson tears, and the other being comforted by the warmth and tenderness of the other.
One would believe that everything would be all right.
That after this moment, everything would resolve itself, that everything would stay the way it was. But, when truth was brought into the world, it became so contagious, that it could never be denied. And that is why, when we lie, we hear that voice, which is our conscience, tell us we have wronged. And there was no way James was going to lie to Peter, or himself anymore. It was one thing to lie to himself. He lied to himself, so that when the worst happened, he wouldn't be so distraught. So disappointed.
For he knew it would happen one day. Perhaps not that soon, but someday. No use evading the inevitable.
But to lie to a child. To pretend.
It is the worst and most lasting mistake that a parent can invoke on a child. Because once you do, you have lost them. Lost them in an eternal void where you cannot follow.
And that insanely loveable, undeniable glow diminishes.
Fades.
Until everything you ever loved and lived for is gone.
For they're just like you.
Grown up.
Lost forever.
"I'm dying Peter."
He pulled Peter slightly out of his clutches, and held him by his shoulders.
"I never lied to you before, and I won't lie to you now."
"I'm dying Peter. I can't stop it, and neither can you. It is meant to happen, however it does. It's not meant to be changed."
"I don't want to forget you too."
"You won't. If you promise me one last thing."
"What?"
James stared at him as tears welled in his eyes that he had forever being wanting to realease.
And as he stared, he watched as that ambiguous glow, started to grow. It grew like a torment for James, as the wonder and excitement and the previous events caught up with his little lost boy. And he knew that he would do whatever he asked.
Whatever he desired, it would be his. Whatever he longed for, the need would be unsatisfied until it fulfilled. And the wonder would never stop, never cease, until the question had finally been answered.
And to answer his little faery, Peter Pan answered, as silent tears of joy mingled with the knowledge of sacrifice that pained his eyes and jubilated with his fears, in a voice so low that only the faery could hear him.
"Just believe."
A/N We made it eighty reviews!
I want to thank of you who have reviewed for this entire story so far. Especially: Meredith A. Jones, Dawnie-7, and H.M Chandler. Love you me hearties. Enjoy this new chapter.