My husband disappeared ten years ago. 

I don’t expect him to come home, but I do expect to see him one more time before I die. Then I can have some peace of mind, knowing he is okay. I think after I see him, I won’t want to live any longer. 

Because I know when I do, that’ll be it. My one reason, my one purpose for still going on, would be gone.

Some nights when I can’t fall asleep, I go through our wedding album. That day, I looked the prettiest I had ever been. I felt like a princess, the way the tulle settled around my silk slip and how the lace bodice exposed my collarbones; I had my maid of honor massage gold oil onto my exposed skin. I glowed, I shined. I looked ethereal. Some of the photos have been smudged by my tears. I hate how self-centered I was that day. How superficial I was.

Yes, you are supposed to feel beautiful on your wedding day. But if I could go back in time and change one day out of my forty years of existence, it would be that day. I would have paid closer attention to Daniel; I would have relished every slight touch on my elbow as he guided me around the tables at the reception. I would have leaned into his body as his hook circled my waist. I would have looked deep into his blue-green eyes, soaking in his love, in his sanity. Your wedding is about you and your loved one. 

That day, it was about Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Harrington, or at least it should have been.

 Not the bouquets and the matching silverware and the reflection of myself in my champagne flute. 

Not the presents and the butter cream frosting and the guest list and god forbid my step-sister sat next to my father. 

But it was.

I remember when it started. The craziness. He came home one night after working on the docks. His grin was manic, like a kid in a candy shop meets sugar rush meets ten shots of espresso. His curly black hair was disheveled, sticking out in every direction. And his eyes… there was an odd twinkle in them, a weird glazed-over shine I didn’t quite understand. The book was cradled to his chest like a newborn baby even though it looked like it could fall apart at the slightest breeze.

“What do you have there, darling?” I tried to sound lighthearted.

“Magic!” he exclaimed. 

“Magic,” I echoed.

“Ships and castles and dragons and murder and Dopey is dead and Rapunzel shaved her head and Mulan is pregnant and the lost boys the lost boys the lost boys--”

“What? What are you talking about?”

But he didn’t hear me, waving that damned hook around, still refusing to wear the artificial hand crafted for him, thinking he looked cooler, thinking he looked superhuman. “Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Crocodile. Clock. Snow White and the ugly eighth dwarf. And Pan. Peter Pan.”

He said the boy’s name dreamily, like a school girl’s crush.

“Yes, I know Peter Pan was your favorite book as a child. What about it?”

He shook his head wildly at me, angry at me for not understanding. “No! Not it, but him! Pan! Pan! Peter Pan! Powerful boy that Pan. Not as young as he appears. Three hundred and thirty-three years to be exact--”

That’s when I lost it. 

I went across the room and slapped him across the face.

He blinked. Tears started to stream. “Wendy?” he whispered. His thumb brushed my bottom lip as if he wanted to make sure I was real. That this was real. “Where did I go?”

And that’s when he collapsed in my arms. My blouse became soaked in tears. 

This was the first of many episodes. Each one more mad than the next. I tried to get rid of the book, but Daniel was addicted. Addicted to Peter Pan and the Lost Boys and the other Wendy. I knew I shouldn’t get jealous over a little girl and be worried for my husband’s sanity, but the way he said her name: Wendy Darling. My first name and our pet name. I felt sick. 

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No psychologist could help. No psychiatrist’s pills worked. We tried Risperidone, Olanzapine, Ziprasidone, and Clozapine. Nothing seemed to do the trick. I thought about checking him into an institution, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Because despite the fact that what stood before me was a shell of a pirate, those moments where Daniel--my Daniel--came back…they were worth every doctor’s trip, every episode, every night I caught him wandering the house announcing he was Captain Hook, every day he demanded we stop at this dinky little diner called the Bookmark Diner. We would sit at the same booth across from the booth, as he claimed. He would point at people, making absurd accusations, and I would have to play along. 

“That’s Cinderella’s twin brother,” he would say, pointing at the deformed man with his cup of black coffee. “That’s Mulan’s son,” he whispered nervously, staring at the young boy’s bandaged side. “That’s Robin Hood” or “That’s Tweedle-Dum” or “That’s Princess Jasmine.” But never was it a Lost Boy or Peter Pan or Captain Hook.

And then April 3, 2009 happened; he never came home. I had a gut feeling he would never return. For ten years there was no sign of him or the book. 

For ten years, I went to the Bookmark Diner every single day, looking at Robin Hood or Princess Jasmine, tempted to go up and ask if they’d seen my husband. I felt like a buffoon, a complete idiot for even thinking such thoughts. They were normal people living normal lives. They were not fairies and warlocks and mermaids. I refused to become like my husband by going up to them and asking them about some magical book that took Daniel--my Daniel--away from me.

Until ten years later.

Until today. 

It came back. The book. In the hands of a little girl no more than thirteen years old. I can’t help myself as I blurt, “Where did you get that?”

The little girl looks startled, ringlets bouncing as her head shoots up. “What do you mean?”

I gesture at the book, feeling foolish but still determined. “The book. Where did you find it?”

The girl giggles. “I didn’t find it. It found me. I was born on page 428.”

I blink, not understanding the peculiar child. Instead of asking her the normal questions like “Are you okay?” or “Where are your parents?” or “What do you mean?”, I say, “428? Why 428?”

She tilts her head. “Why not 428?”

We stare at each other in silence for some time before she gestures to the booth across from her. “Would you like to sit?”

I hesitate, but slide in nonetheless. 

“What is your name?” she asks. Her blue eyes are as wide and deep as the ocean. 

“Wendy,” I say. “Wendy Harrington.”

The girl gasps, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh, my.” She trembles.

“What is it?”

“I’m… I’m Wendy Darling. And Mr. Harrington misses you very much.”

Time freezes. I try to process what she’s telling me. Nothing adds up. Nothing makes sense. Except it does. It does. And that’s what scares me.

“You… You’ve seen Daniel?”

Wendy nods solemnly. “He tried to take me from Peter, Mrs. Harrington. He tried to find himself a New Wendy when he realized he could never go back to the Old Wendy. Not that you’re old or anything, Mrs. Harrington,” she adds abruptly. “Anywho, I don’t blame him. He didn’t do me any harm. But Captain Hoo-- I mean, Mr. Harrington, he-- He’s lost his mind, Mrs. Harrington. He keeps going on and on about how we are the reason he is trapped in the Forgotten Fairy Tales. But I promise you, Missus, it’s not our fault. We tried to bring him back to you, but he wouldn’t listen. And then it was too late.” Her eyes start to well up and a single perfect tear rolls down her perfect little face. 

I want to comfort the young girl that I used to envy ten years ago. But I remain on my side of the booth, scared to move, to think, to breathe, to make this all real. Because it can’t be real. It shouldn’t be real. 

After what feels like forever, I ask, “What do you mean by ‘it’s too late’?”

Wendy sighs and scrunches her little nose, trying not to let the snot drip out. “Because he’s our villain now. He’s a part of the story. He’s different. Most mundanes, they… They just absorb into the page, disappear from the minds of loved ones from this world. Stop existing entirely like they were never born. But not Mr. Harrington. He thought he was Captain Hook even before he became a part of our story.”

After some time, Wendy says she must return home to the Lost Boys; they’re always causing mischief. I say I want to go with her. She says that’s impossible; the chances of survival are slim. So I bid her farewell and watch her flip to page 532. She closes her eyes. 

One second, there. Next second, gone. The only thing remaining are her untouched pancakes and the book.

When I go home that night, I take the book with me. I read about my husband even though I know I shouldn’t. I know I’m going to get sucked in no matter what I do. No matter how cautiously I approach the beast. But I desire nothing more than to be with my love. And if I cannot be with him… Well… 

Screw caution. 

And suddenly, I am Wendy Darling and the Queen of Hearts and Aurora and the Fairy Godmother. I’m Simba and Bambi and Ariel and Doc. I’m addicted, craving this other world. A world far away from my bedroom and my wedding album and my husband’s gold hook from our fifth anniversary. And I can’t stop. I can’t stop. I cannot stop. I cannot stop. IcannotstopIcann-- otstopIcannotstopIcannotstopIcannotstopIcannotstopIcannotstopIcannotstopIcannotstopIcannotstopIcannotstopIcannotstopIcannotstopIcannotstopIcannotstopIcannot--