Chapter 7
T hat night, Michael curls into bed with me and Nolan, pressing his cheek against my chest as he plays with a set of toys Lady Whittaker allowed us to take with us from the orphanage.
He stays on the opposite side of Nolan, like he wants to be as far away from him as possible.
I can’t tell if it’s the deathly ill look of Nolan’s chest, or if Michael’s still afraid of Nolan from when he touched him from behind earlier.
Either way, I witness Nolan offer Michael a look of reticent apology mixed with shame. It’s not long before my sick husband is asleep, snoring lightly next to us.
I don’t mind the snoring so much. As long as he’s snoring, he’s breathing.
Resting my spine against the backboard to keep myself upright, I run my fingers through Michael’s hair and let my eyes close.
“Wendy Darling’s sleeping,” he says.
“No, Michael. I’m awake, I promise. Just…
” Resting my eyes doesn’t seem like the correct way to put it.
I don’t know if I’ll ever rest again. Not without knowing if after I rest, I’ll wake up with my husband beside me, or just the shell of the man I love.
“I’m here,” I settle on. “I’m just focusing on being here with you. ”
This seems to satisfy Michael, and he goes back to making noises with his toys.
I let the sounds rattle against my eardrums. Take in the scent of him.
He smells like honey and oats from the soap I scrubbed him down with earlier.
I memorize this moment, realizing with a sudden clarity that things will never be like this moment again.
Losing Michael for an entire year—six months before that while I was gone with Nolan—it’s made me contemplate the small moments.
Because even if I’m to be his caregiver for the rest of our lives, Michael will grow, and there will be a time when he no longer fits into my lap.
He’ll no longer be a child, but a man, and I’ll lose the moments like these. Just like I’ve lost everything else.
But I won’t mourn that loss. Not yet. Not when he’s still small enough to tuck his disheveled hair underneath my chin.
“I love you, Michael,” I whisper.
“I love you, Michael,” he whispers back.
I find myself smiling. I use that smile to place a kiss on the crown of his head. He immediately swats me away, a little finger jamming itself up my nose in the process.
I tuck that away too.
“Wendy Darling, it’s time for a bedtime story,” he says, still transfixed on his toys.
I stare at him. It’s a small thing, the fact he switched out Wendy Darling for what our mother used to say, Michael Darling. But it reminds me that he knows I’m here. He knows he’s addressing me. It’s a small change in language, but it makes me want to write a tear-soaked letter to Lady Whittaker.
To Tink, wherever she is.
“Then a story you shall get,” I say, scratching lightly at his skull. “There once was a little boy?—”
“Wendy Darling, it’s time for a bedtime story.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do, you little booger,” I say with a laugh. It echoes through the room. “There once was a little boy?—”
“Wendy Darling, it’s time for a bedtime story,” says Michael, though now in a slightly shriller pitch.
“Okay, so not that one. What about, there once was a little fish?—”
Michael’s insistence that it’s time for a bedtime story grows successively shriller and louder with each failed attempt. I fear it will wake Nolan, but he’s so exhausted, he doesn’t even stir. Even with the snoring, I place my fingers on his neck, relieved to feel his pulse.
“I don’t know which story you want,” I say to Michael, trying to be comforting. He’s still in a rather good mood, but if the past is predictive, I’m approximately two wrong choices away from a meltdown.
“One, two, three,” he says.
I frown. I can’t remember a counting story. Maybe it’s one Lady Whittaker told him at the orphanage. If that’s the case, I’m going to have to tell Maddox to turn the ship around, because there’s no way I’m traversing the sea with Michael expecting a story I don’t know.
“One sister, two sister?—”
“Oh, Michael. You know I’d rather not tell that story, right?”
I’m met again with puppy-dog eyes and an insistence that it’s time for a bedtime story.
Mildly disgruntled, I sigh.
One would think that you would have learned to say no by this point in life , I hear Nolan’s voice say in my head.
Michael Darling is quite persistent. You only say that because you don’t know him , I whisper back.
“In ages past, there were three Sisters,” I say.
“One, two, three,” says Michael, sounding content.
My mind stands still. “One, two, three,” I whisper back, staring off into the nothingness.
Michael elbows me in the ribcage. Like clockwork, my mouth spouts out the story without me having to think of the words.
All the while, my mind spins.
“The eldest two loved one another dearly, though they never seemed to find a connection with the Youngest. She had been created well after her Sisters and lacked the camaraderie the eldest two shared so deeply. Still, the love the eldest two Sisters shared for one another was enough, and they paid it no mind that the Youngest always lingered outside their exclusive ring of trust and devotion.”
My heart is racing, so hard Michael places his palm on my chest.
“Thu-thump. Thu-thump,” he says.
I put my hand over his and intertwine our fingers.
“It was a pleasant life, if not a dull one, so the three Sisters found ways to entertain themselves. A favored pastime included weaving their own stories into the Fabric. While it started innocently, they soon found their stories reflected in the lives of the beings who lived in the various realms. Fascination sparked in the hearts of the three Sisters, though the Youngest was skeptical. She warned that, should they allow themselves to be swept away, there would be dire consequences to meddling in the lives of fae and mortals.”
I tell Michael of the love the eldest two sisters had for each other. But that’s not the part of the story that’s making my heart beat wildly.
“The Youngest Sister was the most practical of them all and sensed that meddling in the lives of those below would end in great tragedy. She vowed to keep watch on her elder Sisters, to steer them away from great trouble, for she knew the elder two would not dare dissuade one another from the musings of their hearts, misguided as their hearts may be.”
And then I’m back in the Den, telling the story to a group of Lost Boys huddled at my feet, and they’re all alive. Freckles staring up at me, the firelight dancing off his vibrant red hair. Joel, looking guilty, but enraptured by my story all the same. Simon and Nettle.
John.
It’s Peter’s voice that I hear, after I tell of the curse the Eldest Sister placed on the Middle.
“And the Youngest Sister?” he’d asked me from the back of the room.
I hear my voice, clear as day as it wades to the present through a thousand things that have since molded me into a different person entirely. “It’s said that she minds her own business, occasionally cleaning up messes made by the other two.”
My heart stops.
“There are three of them,” I say, hardly able to contain the excitement in my chest. “Michael, there are three of them. And the third cleans up the others’ messes.”