Lily-Darling

           My morning usually starts as it has for the last three weeks that seem like an eternity. I sit in bed under my blanket because London is cold and merciless, much like my land lady, and check on craigslist for new places to live. I'm not going alone-my mother and I rent rooms in the same residence. Between two people making a comparatively decent income, we'd be able to find something. The answer is no, because everyone expects us to come up with triple rent in order to move in. The saddest part is when I started my current job, full time with benefits, everyone thought the pay of eleven dollars an hour was super. Then real life happened.

Inevitably my bladder betrays me and I reluctantly climb out of bed, grab my pill wheel and my tooth brush, and peek into the hall. A lot of other people live here-my Fairy God Mother across from me, my fairy god mother. Down the hall lives Jack and Jill, an unfortunate couple though I think he is far worse then her. Recently a new house mate moved into one of the empty rooms. Then, next to the stairs, is the master bedroom where my land lady and her husband sleep. I usually rush past it in a blur, or on my hands and knees, if I know she's in. At the far end of the hall is my only sanctuary, my mother's room, up another flight of stairs. Its colder, but up there I know our land lady can't bother me.

If the coast is clear and the bathroom across from Jack and Jill is empty, I shoot across to bathroom and shut the door quick. Relieving myself is easy, and so is brushing my teeth. Its the rest of my morning routine that makes me die inside. The bathroom scale-after spending years on the plataeu of 265, not healthy but not horrible, I've gained 15 pounds since moving in. The reason for that is because using the kitchen is a hassle.

Between my mother and I, we're allotted a small corner in the fridge and thats about it. We have some shelf space somewhere, and our eggs are constantly being stolen. That is, the last time we had eggs they were constantly being stolen. I think it has been months since we bothered. Going into the kitchen usually means facing the land lady's wrath for something insignificant or not our doing. Someone left a spoon out of place, or a speck of dirt on the stove. Her son, a man my mother and I used to trust with our lives, says its because she’s got something else on her mind constantly-one of her dozen children hasn’t paid back a loan, she discovered another bill. Honestly knowing that doesn’t help, because she still takes it out on my mother and I. Knowing its literally nothing we did makes it worse.

Frequently it has nothing to do with the kitchen-on the way to work a scrap of paper fell out of my car, and I didn't pick it up. I don't even know this scrap exists until she yells at me about it. How dare I have so many possessions, how dare I leave my windows open over the summer when it rained, how dare I exist and not just donate a hundred dollars a week to her. That last one isn't something she says, but its in the way she acts. I know the only reason she rents is not the goodness of her heart but desperation to keep her house. Then why do you drive all your tenants away? I want to scream, but I keep it to myself. No good can come from confronting her.

In the long run, using the kitchen just wasn't worth the anxiety or frustration. Thus we (my mother and I) have resorted to hording non persihable fool in her room. Crackers, fruit cups, cookies, jerky, dried fruit when we can find it. Its hardly a fulfilling existence, and if I didn’t work in Hyannis on the ferry snack bar I’d probably be starving to death. On shift, when its slow, we can help ourselves to a selection of food made by the company. Its usually not the most nutritious, all carbs and fats, but its a good supplement. Either way, its no surprise where my additional fifteen pounds came from.

I hate living here, even though once it seemed like a beacon. It was a spider web. I gathered all my things, made my former land lady resent my departure simply by departing (a woman previously a second mother to me), and flew to this place. Suddenly I was caught in the sticky silk, unable to escape as my land lady sucks the life out of me.

The first attack from our land lady came while I was at my first job here. She didn’t like that I had possessions, that I had so much stuff, and that, gods forbid, I wanted to use the closet attached to my room. When I was first shown the room, I was under the impression the closet was included, but its become confusing since then. When I first visited I thought the little sign in the lower bathroom that read “Don’t agree with me I’ve already changed my mind” was funny. Now its depressing reality, and without a lease there is nothing I can do about it.

My mother and I received hope from Peter Pan, dubbed this because of his position of power on Neverland. Formerly Peter was my mother’s best friend, who helped her find this place because at the time she thought her previous residence was worse. When I met him I thought we formed a connection, and I believed in him more then anything I ever had in my life. That Man became my fairy god father for a time. He promised that as soon as his wife, because he was in the process of divorce, moved out of his house down the hill we could rent that for a grand a month. One of his sons still lives there, and I call him my brother, whom for the purpose of this narrative I shall call John. Mom has become a surrogate parent for him, his fairy god mother. She’s good at that, and I am lucky to have her as my mother. The house down the hill, living with John, was a dream, it was hope, and it was light at the end of the tunnel that helped me persevere over the summer.

Peter Pan met the Siren, and everything went to hell. After getting John used to the idea of us moving in (and we three becoming thrilled with the idea), he changed his mind. No, she changed his mind. Michael, John’s younger brother, believes the Siren wants his house. She has also in no small way, in relatively few meetings, come to hate my mother for the simple fact that Peter Pan had a female best friend. That said, both his sons, my mother, and myself-someone he previously deemed Boudicca-hate her. She is rude (he thinks she’s 'strong’), does not try to interact with any of us (she is always 'nervous about opening up’), and trying to cut him off from everyone but her.

My mother and I have forsaken him. A few weeks back we went to his military home on the island, nicknamed Neverland. He occupies a position of high rank there and loves the place. Its only after meeting the Siren that That Man resented being given another term there. It is very expensive to live on Neverland as a civilian, so even together they cannot afford rent. To live with her in base hosuing would be conduct unbecoming.

We went there for an activity planned months in advance-my mother’s birthday. Eventually it grew to include his sons, who we had grown attached to. It was directly organized to correspond with the movie release of “Pan”, a new take on the Peter Pan origins. It seemed only appropriate to see the movie my mother was so excited about in Neverland. I thought then he was Peter Pan, my mother Tinkerbell, the boys lost boys, and myself Princess Tiger Lily. Things have changed much since then.

Through a freak event no one could have predicted, the preceding weekend the cape was slammed by a tropical storm. Peter Pan was unable to see the Siren, because the ferries were mostly canceled, and as a coast guard he was kept busy. I know this because I myself work on the ferry and they were practicing a single ferry back from Neverland to London in the morning, and one to Neverland in the afternoon.

For this reason our visit, an overnight arrangement he had agreed to before the Siren poisoned him, meant it was that much longer before they could see each other. Even though Peter Pan and she had been enjoying long weekends together ever since they met, frequently to the point they he ignored his sons when he was on the mainland. No, always ignoring his sons in favor of her and her family. John was more aware then Michael, and has grown angrier at his father about it.

He even tried to claim illness, hoping we would change our minds. To be fair he was sick, and he did allow us to visit, but he spent much of the time ignoring everyone else (myself, my mother, and his sons) to text message the Siren. Also, knowing my mother was sensitive to prodding (or he would have known if his correct head was operating rather then his lower head focused on the Siren) about the state of the kitchen she had just barely finished cooking in, he made jabs repeatedly about it. When she began to cry, between the conversation I had overheard from upstairs the night before and years of watching my father emotionally abuse my mother amplified by the Hell House we are now living in, I snapped. I smacked him with a pillow, and told him it was because he made my mommy cry. Peter Pan got angry, disproportionately angry, and stormed upstairs and refused to talk to anyone for a while. We wound up being late to the movie, and it wasn’t long after my mother left Neverland. I don’t believe we will ever return for our own accord, and my heart aches whenever we pass the second star on the right on the ferry, forcing me to confront Neverland and the pain Peter Pan has caused me.

The night before, my mother and Peter Pan had both had a beverage called Dark and Stormy, consisting of rum and ginger beer. It forced them to have conversations they needed to while they thought I couldn’t heard because I was dressing the guest room for my mother and myself. Again this brought back unfortunate memories of my father, and I sat in the corner and cried and texted John about the occurrence.

The Siren had been spreading lies about my mother, suggesting she was in love with Peter Pan and not just his friend. She hated the idea of us moving into his home, and grimaced whenever my mother’s name came up. John and Michael had become quite attached to my mother, so they spoke of her often in the occasions Peter Pan tried to put them and the Siren together. While we have no confirmation, we’re quite sure Peter Pan hoped my mother would say ‘no problem, we’ll make do’. Instead she offered to suspend their friendship if he promised the house was still an option, which is what had triggered the conversation.

By then I had already been to the Emergency Room once, set off by an anxiety attack when our land lady demanded to know why I didn’t tell her I was planning to vacuum my room. I’m so wound up lately that was all it took, ever on the brink of endless tears. My mother has always, and I know will always, prioritize my well being over all. Of course she wasn’t going to tell him we could make do, not when the Hell House was destroying me.

It came as no surprise, unfortunately, a few days later when Peter Pan said we couldn’t move into his home. What came as a surprise was his cowardice and attempts to make excuses. How his ex wife could cause trouble (so fight for us), or how it wasn’t registered as a rental location (so register it). He abandoned us at our hour of need, and I realized no, he never was the hero he thought he was. Not if he could do that.

The night before he called off the arrangement my mom went to the ER because of what we now know is Broken Heart Syndrome. Following an emotional trauma (the anger, fear, and rejection of what was supposed to be her birthday weekend) hormones had caused half her heart to swell and cave her an irregular rhythm. I was on the ferry when it occurred, but John texted me and took her there. The hospital was right next to the dock so I rushed there as soon as we made land. Unknown to us at the time, Peter Pan called his son and made an excuse no to rent to us for an entirely different bogus reason.

There is no lawyer friend. We all know this to be true. There is only the Siren, with her paralegal certificate. We have learned she is false, a background check done, and false in many ways. However she has him ensnared. He is shocked my mother and I are angry and will not forgive him, even as we are now still stranded in the Hell House that is killing us. I wound up in the ER again myself for my anxiety, and my dose has been increased.

I know now I am Wendy, the girl who believed in Peter Pan and had her heart broken. My mother is my mother, Mrs. Darling, who never completely bought into the illusion. His poor abandoned sons are my brothers, John and Michael. He has revealed since his reason for going to the Coast Guard was to escape his mother-making me wonder why he ever sent my mother and I here. The answer is simple, because he is Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up, and will never take responsibility.