The Playwright: The Escapades Of J.M. Barrie
Chapter 14
Dreaming

A/N: (June 7, 2005) I'm all set for my Workshop this summer! I can't wait! My dad got me this black leather notebook after I won the English award in school a few days ago and I'm planning on bringing it with me. (The card said: "...a good leather binding, and a respectable title...") I'm out of my bad mood finally. I wrote a lot today for fear of losing my new happy one soon. Hope you like it!

(June 11, 2005) I saw Cinderella Man last night! Has anyone else seen it? I couldn't help but notice the similarities between James Braddock and James Barrie, Joe Gould and Charles Frohman. Joe's the quirky best friend and co-worker, like Charles, and he's always trying to bring his best friend up to do the best he can (in Braddock's case, to box). Braddock is the boxer, and has all the problems, like Barrie. Except James Barrie wasn't a boxer, unless history has made an error. If you saw this movie, tell me. If you haven't, go see it!

BARRIEFACT: "Sir James Barrie once told me that he had been happy writing for the Nottingham Journal at a salary of three guineas a week," Cecil Roberts once recalled, "and added, 'One great innovation of mine has gone unnapplauded. You see now how every newspaper at the beginning of the year presents its readers with a vast survey of the past twelve months, and a blithe prophecy of the future? Well, I was the first to do that. How I laboured at it! I wrote the whole thing. Did the world gasp? No. Not even the proprietor made any comment."

OoOoO

Sunday

The sun shone beautifully over the snow outside of the cottage that morning. When James went outside to his rocking chair after everyone opened their presents, he was nearly blinded by the outstanding light reflecting off of each crystal of snow on the ground and landscape. He had finished his packing when he went out, and while he sat, the rest of the family repacked their own suitcases inside. James was only a few lines into Sylvia's next entry when he heard a familiar clopping sound on the porch. He paused in his rocking and looked up. Emma's eyes had sort of a glaze over them, and her expression was of many mixed emotions all rolled into one; sadness, confusion, disappointment, wonderment, calmness, discomfort, and anxiousness. James's heart skipped a beat. He had forgotten about the possibility of Sylvia's mother finding out about the little blue diary.

"Where did you get that from?" she whispered. It was unsteady, like a cricket ball had been shoved permanently down her throat and she was talking around it. James looked up at her whitish face. It had been that way for a few days, recently, but not as much. He wanted to say something, but couldn't. All he could manage was, "I - I'm sorry, Mrs. duMaurier, I - " but Emma shook her head, and seated herself in the rocking chair next to James's. This one had been occupied by Mary once.

"Don't be sorry. I'm actually quite glad you've found it...it's been lost for so many years, and I had forgotten. May I?"

"Of course." Emma took the diary carefully, held it in her hands for a minute, and opened it. She was quiet for a long time while she read an entry, then her face wrinkled into an uneasy smile. Then, she looked up at James.

"Wherever did you find it?"

"In my - in Sylvia's room. I went to bed one night and found it under the mattress." Emma chuckled over the imaginary cricket ball lodged in her throat.

"So that's where she kept it. I was always curious about what she wrote in that diary of hers after I bought it for her birthday. I told her never to show it to anybody, and I regretted it all of...all of her life." Her voice grew hushed again, and James again was at a loss for words. He was glad she spoke again.

"Thank you, James, for finding it."

"You're welcome," he said automatically. It sounded silly after he had said it. "I'm sorry I hadn't told you about it earlier. I was afraid you would be angry at me." Emma nodded.

"I probably would have," she said haughtily, "You caught me at the right time." James smiled a bit, and so did she, but it faded, and she closed the diary, and ran her hand across the cover.

"So long ago..." Emma shook her head, unable to continue. She closed her eyes, and a tear leaked out from under her eyelashes. James could tell that it had been a long time since this woman had mourned for her daughter. Of course, she being Emma, she had probably been too caught up in things, and too busy being the strongest link in the family, that she couldn't get herself mellow enough to think about Sylvia. Perhaps the setting she was in now made her think about all of it. It had been here, of course, that her daughter had come that summer with James, and had to have a doctor be rushed in to her after her episode with her sickness.

"I miss her, James," she said, and looked at the playwright. He nodded his head, understanding. But through his understanding, he didn't know what to do when he saw her helpless expression, or when her face tangled into an upset and sorrowful form, and even though he still didn't know what to do, she leaned her head onto his chest and began to silently cry. Everything seemed to stop, and James reached to her back to comfort her. Suddenly the world didn't seem so very beautiful anymore.

OoOoO

Emma and James walked inside from the porch an hour after talking nervously to each other once she had calmed down and her tears left her eyes, to see George at the stove making breakfast.

"Morning, grandmother; morning, Uncle Jim." It was almost noon. James helped Emma to the table, and glanced at what was in front of George.

"Eggs?" he asked, trying for enthusiasm, but not succeeding. His eyes flashed to Mrs. duMaurier, who was sitting quietly, rubbing her fingernails and examining the wrinkles on her knuckles and her bony fingers. He had to make sure that George, and the rest of the boys, didn't think that anything was wrong.

George nodded, smiling.

"Looks like the extra food we packed came in handy, eh?" James said, and the eldest boy nodded again. "Didn't have to take a long trip to the market." he imagined he sounded like a fool, but George didn't notice at all, and smiled.

"Where are your brothers?" The playwright took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair next to Emma. It was far too warm in the kitchen for a heavy winter jacket.

"Outside with Porthos...having a snowball fight," George answered. James smiled as well, and his heart sped up excitedly. He wanted to get outside and play - but he remembered Emma, and knew that he had to help her in case something should happen. "I see," he said instead, then paused, disappointed. "George, won't you go and get them all? I promise I'll watch your eggs." The boy nodded, and ran off. While the two others waited, James looked at Emma, then sat down next to her. He watched her for a while, and seeing her paleness again, remembered the talk that they had had minutes before, and now knowing why she hadn't looked well a few days prior. He remembered how he hadn't seen Mrs. duMaurier as often as he should have during the Christmas party the other night. He had expected her to be tailing him the entire night, making sure he wasn't doing anything he wasn't supposed to be doing; for example, giving the boys alcohol. Now, you and I both know, that after James had seen Charles, that he wouldn't dream of letting his four precious sons get themselves into that condition. On the contrary of what Emma might have believed, he had hoped that they wouldn't even see his best friend and colleague like that, even though he had come up unexpectedly when Peter was around, asking where his grandmother was.

Emma remained still, feeling James's eyes on her, but failing to make eye contact. She was very much more solemn now, now that her secret was out.

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"James, do not bother me with this anymore," she answered promptly, a tinge of anxiety in her voice, aggressively pleading the man next to her not to continue to beg her for an answer to his recently asked question. He did not persist, though. He kept quiet, feeling honestly bad for her, feeling that she was making some sacrifice for him, though he knew that this was something that she would have to fight off on her own, and had nothing to do with that. He also knew, though, that he would do everything he could do to help.

As soon as the remainder of the group filed in through the door laughing and talking excitedly, George began serving the eggs, and conversation thereafter followed. Michael began it, with his mouth stuffed with food. "I heard Santa Claus last night, Uncle Jim! On the roof!" he said loudly, his eyes sparkling wildly. James smiled, remembering his late night rendezvous out up onto the roof over the boys' room with on the old heavy black boots he had found in the attic, which he had carelessly and flimsily shoved onto his feet.

"Did you, lad?"

Michael suddenly turned to Jack. "Didn't you hear him too?"

Jack frowned, as Michael paused to eat more eggs, and managed to let half of his glass of juice seep into his mouth between his lips.

"I told you he was real!"

"Michael, dear, don't talk with your mouth full," Emma said quietly, as though the volume of her voice was turned down to at least 2 amps. She informed Jack shortly after that she was not wanting her eggs, and the young one seized the plate, glad to eat them for her. Peter watched the scene, and seeing his grandmother's expression and being the only one to notice something was going on, looked away quickly.

"That's it, dear, be my stomach for me." Five year old Peter smiled, looking at his mother in bed. After her husband died, she laid in bed for weeks, not able to eat anything. She said that she wasn't hungry, and every time she said this, Mrs. duMaurier's face would pinch, and she would insist that her daughter needed her nutrition, and that if she was planning on going on with life, she would have to eat more to obtain it.

Peter took the spoon and dipped it into the soup he had brought up for his mother. His grandmother had sent it upstairs, and Peter obliged, though knowing that his mum would refuse to eat. He stuck it into his mouth gently, watching his sickly mother breathlessly, waiting for her reaction. Could she really taste the food? Sylvia closed her eyes, laid her head back against her pillow, and smiled.

"Mmm. Your grandmother has outdone herself this time."

"Can you taste it, mother?"

"Of course I can taste it. It feels warm, like how a person feels after they have experienced something wonderful. And it tastes like - " she opened her eyes a splinter, to see what kind the soup was. "- vegetables. Your grandmother's famous vegetable soup.

"Eat up, now, Peter. I'm only hungry if you are." Peter was delighted, and lapped up the warm liquid.

How stupid he felt now. His mother couldn't taste the soup; she couldn't feel anything in her stomach then, and he realized, with a flash of sadness, that she could feel absolutely nothing now as well.

The rest of breakfast was extremely quiet, and after it, everyone went up to their rooms to begin packing. James and Emma, who shared a room, headed up together.

"Are you alright?" James asked, once the door was closed and he had lifted his suitcase onto the mattress.

"Fine." Emma put hers next to his, and it seemed to drain every ounce of energy that still remained in her. His mouth grew dry, knowing that she wasn't telling the entire truth.

"I'm ill, James, not dying."

OoOoO

The tree was disposed of in the backyard a half hour before they cleaned the interior of the cottage and went outside with the luggage. Emma, (and this had made her extremely weary and weak) George, Jack, Peter, and even little Michael had helped James with the task, and now they walked out to the car. James locked the cottage door and loaded his bag in the trunk. He was just lifting Michael's bag, when it hit him that they were missing someone.

"Where's Porthos?" Everyone took a glance around. "Is he still in the backyard?"

"Do you want me to go check, Uncle Jim?" George asked.

"Yes, will you, George?" All four boys ran behind the house into the woods, then.

"Will you allow me to get your suitcase, Emma?"

"No, James, I can manage a few dresses and some undergarments." James stepped back and watched as the elder woman gave him a condescending glare, and began to lift her bag beside the car. It was tall, the car, and her head only peeked over the side to look at the bottom lining of the trunk in the back. She had to somehow get the thing over her head. It got tiring halfway up, and she paused, lowering it into the snow again. James continued to watch. She glanced at him again, and picked her suitcase up again. She almost got it up even further, when she closed her eyes.

"Emma?" James asked after a minute. "Are you sure you don't want me to help?"

"James, I've told you, I'm fine." She pressed herself up against the car in effort, and finally managed to get it over the edge, but she dropped it, instead of letting it fall gently into the car. She clutched her stomach, and suddenly collapsed against the it, the bottom part of her dress getting wet with snow.

"Emma!"

"Grandmother!" The boys had returned with Porthos, and each of them had a look of surprise and worry on their little faces.

"Fetch a doctor, James."

OoOoO

James couldn't move more hastily. He gave Jack the key to the cottage and told the four boys to make up the living room couch like a bed as fast as they possibly could and help their grandmother into the house and over to it. It was too difficult and pointless for her to climb the extremely unsteady and steep staircase. As soon as the other five had cleared the way, James jumped into his car, started it, and drove off along the road. His heart raced as he went over countless bumps and as his tires sprayed new fallen snow all over the fields. He had to swerve into one off the road to avoid hitting a baby deer that was only partway across the muddy road. James remembered driving the same way, just as fast, as he was now, down the same road, long ago before Sylvia's sickness. It had taken nearly an hour to get into town then, and since his car went no faster now, he assumed obviously that it would take the same amount of time. His thoughts raced the same way they had for Sylvia. He worried the entire way, not speaking or muttering to himself at all as he did often when he was alone. His throat was too constricted to allow words to pass through and out. But his thoughts swirled.

He turned off onto a neighborhood road once he had reached town, to avoid slow afternoon traffic. Halfway down it, he realized that this was the street Charles's house was on. He slowed down to the drive and hopped out. Unlike many other individuals, who would have quickly stayed away from people while they were in such a state, with such a priority to attend to, James, with his love for company, thought the exact opposite. He needed company now, and he needed his best friend's company. It is common, actually, that even when a person is dreading contact with anyone else, it is the company of one's best friend that truly is the exception to the rule.

Charles was home and accepted the invitation (although this wasn't a happy invitation, such as one to a party would be) immediately, and the two rode to the hospital together to fetch the doctor. While they waited, Charles was the only one able to stand still. James paced outside of the room that the doctor was in, and once the man came out, he begged that he make a house call at the last minute. He apologized for this quickly, saying that it was an emergency and that the cottage he had been staying in lacked a telephone.

This was a new doctor, and of course he didn't recognize James from when Sylvia was sick. He told one of the nurses to call in the other doctor immediately to attend to the patients contained in the hospital, and the party of three left for the cottage once more. It didn't take as long to get back as it had to get into town. James yelled over the car motor the entire trip to the doctor, explaining to him Emma's condition, with Charles in the back seat leaning forward to hear the conversation. James was afraid he was yelling too loud, though, because he was so nervous and wasn't listening to anything he was saying. The doctor interjected questions once in a while, but the rest of the time he remained perfectly calm as if this happened every day. But of course, him being a doctor, it probably did. For a brief second, James wished he was a doctor, so he wouldn't be as panicky.

The three men leaped out of the car and into the cottage. James almost dropped dead from relief when he saw that Emma was okay, and laying on the couch with her grandchildren around her. It seemed inappropriate to smile at this, her tired, teared face, and her chest, which was rising and falling unsteadily, but he did, glad that she was okay. Something she had said recently popped into his mind: "I'm ill, James, not dying." He had a horrible sinking feeling in his chest. What if she was? What would he do then?

OoOoO

James, Charles, and the boys waited in the kitchen while the doctor, whose name was Doctor Zabel. This was found out after James had actually thought to ask for his name. He didn't want to wait though. He wanted to know what was going on with Emma now. He looked at Charles, who was sitting next to James at the table. He gave a weak smile, reassuring him that everything was going to be okay. James was holding Peter and Michael, and this look from Charles made him want to be held by the producer, as he was holding the two boys. All he did, though, was pat James's back, muttering a condolence. This still helped.

All of them looked ready to pounce at any moment, ready to sprint into the living room as soon as the doctor called them in. And when he did, all six of them jumped in their seats. James turned his head so fast that he cricked his neck, and made himself look like a fool when he reached up to rub it.

"Mr. Barrie?"

"Yes..." The doctor nodded, and went back into the room. James stood, and Michael took his hand. The playwright looked down at the small boy.

"You can't come in yet, Michael," he said sadly, honestly feeling sorry for the poor lad.

"But I want to see grandmother, Uncle Jim!" James rubbed his neck again, thinking of something to say to make the boy sit back down with Peter to wait until it really was his time to come visit his grandmother.

"Listen, Michael." James let go of little Michael's hand, squatted down to his height, and put his hands on his arms. "You remember Peter Pan, don't you? When Wendy and Peter were stuck on the rock in the middle of the sea? And Peter had to coax Wendy off of the rock to save herself, because the kite could only hold one person?"

"Yes," Michael said, nodding, "that was one of my favorite parts." James smiled, and felt a tear grow in his eye.

"Well the kite can only carry me, Michael. You have to be brave like Peter, and stay on the rock until it's your time to be rescued and you can get back to Neverland...to see your grandmother. You'll get to see her, Michael, but Peter had to wait to be rescued, and you have to wait to see her, until it's your time. Yes?" Michael nodded, suddenly straightening himself.

"Good man. Now stay with Charles and your brothers." James patted the little one's blonde head, stood up, and left the room.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid she's having heart trouble, Mr. Barrie," Doctor Zabel said. James frowned.

"She's already told me that, doctor. What else?"

"Well, we don't have much that we can do. We can give her some medicine, but other than that, there isn't much we can do without tests."

"Who's we?" James was shaking now. He hoped Emma would be flexible enough to take her medicine if she was given it.

"Well, the nurses and the other doctors...but she needs to be taken in for tests."

"Doctor, she'll barely be able to get up from the couch, let alone be able to get to the hospital."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barrie, then there's nothing else I can do for you. You say you live out of town?"

"Well, no, I live in town - " I? "We...we live in town - the boys, Mrs. duMaurier, and I. We're just visiting here, and I didn't think this would happen - "

"I know, Mr. Barrie. I've seen things like this happen before." Had he?

"I'm sure you have - "

"And you'll have to stay here with her - "

"But I can't: I have to be at rehearsal for my play tomorrow - "

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barrie, but if you have to be somewhere, you'll have to travel back and forth. Maybe you can leave the boys here with her while you work." James's mouth hung open and he stared at the doctor a few moments while collecting his thoughts, while speaking.

"The boys?" It was okay to leave them there for an hour or so, but not for three or four. "But what if something should happen while I'm away? They'll have no way of contacting me, and I'll have the car. Well, that doesn't matter; the boys can't drive the car...and Emma can't drive in her condition..."

"If you were to leave the boys here with her, I'm quite sure she'll have no problems. As far as I can tell, she's only fatigued."

"Fatigued? Fatigued?" Her heart seemed fit to explode! She couldn't be just fatigued!

"Mr. Barrie, please keep your voice down. Mrs. duMaurier is sleeping now."

James let out a sharp huff. "Yes...right...well, thank you, Doctor Zabel. I'll have Charles drive you home."

"Thank you." James and Doctor Zabel went into the kitchen, and soon after James apologized to Charles for dragging him into this entire mess, (and he denied the apology, saying he was glad to help) the producer and the doctor went off in James's car.

James made Emma soup after Charles and Doctor Zabel left. Charles returned with James's car and agreed to stay overnight at the cottage so that the two could go to rehearsal together in the morning.

James sent his friend up into his room and he slept in the living room with Emma, and talked to her even while she slept in the living room with Emma, and talked to her even while she slept.

He dozed off for a while around 2 AM and when he woke up again at 3 AM, he decided that he should take this time to read a few more of Sylvia's diary entries. It was on the table (the diary) next to the couch Emma was on, and he knew that in order to get at it, he'd have to get up from the creaky wooden chair that he had placed near the couch. He rubbed his eye, watching the diary as if it was a particularly in interesting object to observe, or as if it was about to hop up off of the table and land in his lap by itself, but it just sat there, seeming to stare back at him requesting that he snatch it from the table right at that minute. Finally, when Emma rolled over in her sleep, he put a foot forward on the carpet and made his move. Once he had it in his hands and got to look at it, he noticed that it looked completely different to him now.

Now, after he had found it under his mattress that night; now, after Emma duMaurier had come to him on the porch, stricken and nervous; now, after Emma had cried on him for her daughter; and now, after she'd nearly gotten a heart attack and was lying in front of him on the couch. He looked up at her back, and swallowed. He remembered rolling his eyes at her and talking about her behind her back, and felt extremely guilty and horrible. Now she was treating him like a son, fixing his collar and suit before church, and commenting on his actions to her friends.

He looked back down at the journal. Why hadn't he told Emma about it? Why hadn't he just thought to tell her? And now she was lying in front of him with her old heart damaged and working extra hard to support her changing emotions. He knew it wouldn't hold out much longer.

A crash and the sound of someone cursing came from the kitchen, interrupting James's thoughts. Emma hadn't awoken, or even budged, luckily. James set down the diary, stood, and smoothed out his gray vest. He hadn't changed into his nightclothes, and his hair was another story. He hadn't brushed it since yesterday morning, and it was becoming quite a mess.

He ventured into the kitchen and leaned on the door frame, not much surprised at what he saw.

"Morning, Charles." Charles turned his head to look at James, and blinked. He had on a bathrobe over his own nightclothes and some red bedroom slippers. His hair and beard were both tangled and moving every which way. The light of the full moon coming in from the window over the sink made him look like a scared ghost. The broken glass on the floor at his feet sent little white dots all over the room as they reflected said moonlight.

"James." James smiled. "I'm sorry...I was just...I needed water."

"It's fine, Charles."

"What about you? Can't you sleep?"

"Couldn't if I tried."

Charles nodded. This was an extremely interesting piece of information. "Well then let's talk." James nodded, agreeing to this, and they both sat down at the table. James put his hands in his hair to hold up his head, and he looked up at Charles.

"You look tired, James."

"I am."

"Then, sleep. Come upstairs and sleep."

"I can't. I don't want to deal with the nightmares."

"You have nightmares?"

"I'm always dreaming."

Charles smirked. "True trait of an author. Always thinking, never able to let go of your imagination when you sleep. It's good."

"Sometimes it's good." A silence fell between the two, and James noticed that Porthos was sleeping on the ground in the corner, snoring. He wondered what he was dreaming about.

"I'm sorry, Charles."

The producer sighed. "I've already told you, James, you don't have to be sorry. It's not taking anything away from me. We're going to rehearsal tomorrow for Peter Pan, eh?" James nodded a bit. "Eh? Come on. Now, I haven't let you down. I want you to do the same for me. I want you to be the best you can be tomorrow, and don't worry about Emma. She'll be fine, James. Come on, I want you to do that miraculous "bouncing-back" thing you do whenever you're having a run of bad luck, to end it. Huh?" The playwright nodded again, and looked down at a crack in the table. "Now, your play's going up this Spring, and you've got another one on the way. We'll go to the print shop in a few days and put in the order. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Good. I wouldn't want you to die on me."

A/N: I'm sure that most of you will be disappointed to know that I have planned out the rest of this story, and I am currently looking at only 3 more chapters and an epilogue! This may change; I often change these predictions, but I'm pretty sure this one is solid. Be on the lookout for the conclusion! It should be done after summer begins. I want everyone to keep reading and reviewing here, especially now that it's almost over. I'm going to need the support to finish!


REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 13:

toothpickpocket - It's your favorite Neverland fic? Oh man, that touches me so much! I'll remember to put in some more of James's world. There's no doubt that he'll need to get a away a few times in the next few days. Hah! Another comment on my Charles! My drunk Charles was so much fun. I knew that I needed to get him drunk somewhere, and that was the perfect opportunity. Yes, you'll see what happens with Sylvia's diary too. I really hope to see you reviewing chapter 14! Thank you so much for all of the comments!

KatrinaKaiba/Neverland's Sparrow - Yes, you should laugh. And scowl. Or a combination of the two. Haha! You were a good sport with waiting for the post on here, instead of going to the site. (pats you on the head) Thanks! Yeah, my bad spell has for the most part, passed. I know you'll be around for the conclusion. :)

H.M. Chandler - Yeah, I wasn't sure what to make her. I considered Anglican, but I just thought: whatever. and left it as Catholic lol. Thanks for helping me out with that!

kris - Yay! That was fun with the Christmas tree, eh? Finals almost over (rejoices)

XHeartofaDragonX - Did you pick out the line that was directed to you in this chapter? (chapter 14) :) Anywho, lol kettle corn ropes. That's great. 17 chapters plus epilogue. Hope to see you in my reviews for the rest! Luv, as always.

Moonjava - Awesome, thanks. Haha thanks for reading. Stay with me! More to come!

oi-oi-oi - oi-oi-oh man. (I made a funny) Another long review to respond to. You love me too much! (wipes tear from eye) Hahaha I was wondering what kind of response I'd get from the midget line. I'm glad you liked it at least. No one else flamed it, thank God. Oo I like Father Christmas better than Santa Claus! haha. The National Treasure story which you commented on, probably won't be written haha. sorry bout that. Hope you like the end of this one, though! Glad to see you have time, between school and homework and finals and everything, to read! Thank you!