Young Writers Society

The treehouse gives way to a living room. The table near the wall grows until it's a full-fledged dining table. The bean bags transform into elegant, straight-backed dining chairs. The Christmas lights that Mama had strung across the ceiling now drape a tall Christmas tree like a hug in the corner of the room. Gifts crop up from dusty wood like sunflowers, littering the floor around the tree, well-shaken by curious hands. An upright piano takes its place against one wall, ready to perform. A small couch and coffee table fill the space between the front staircase and that little piano. A younger Everly with a beanie on her head to cover the baldness sits at the piano, preparing to play. I can hear– and smell– Gran and Mama in the kitchen. James sits on the rug in front of the tree, guessing what's in each box. 

"I definitely remember this," I whisper to Peter. Peter doesn't seem to hear me. He's staring at someone across the room. I follow his line of sight. An old, old woman sits on the couch, dressed to the nines in royal purple velvet and wielding an elegant cane. 

"Wendy," Peter whispers breathlessly as his past self enters the room and sits by the old woman. 

"Great Gran!" I cry, recognizing her. I love– well, loved– Great Gran Wendy. Her stories never failed to brighten my face and set James laughing. Stories of pirates and Indians, lost and lonely boys, mermaids and fairies lit up our nights for years until she finally passed away in her sleep just a month ago. She was 96. 

Peter walks toward her vision as if in a trance. 

"Wendy," he whispers again, this time his voice rattling with pain. I put a hand on his shoulder, trying to take some of his hurting away. Gran enters the room, struggling to set a huge turkey on the dining room table. 

"Peter, help her," Wendy tells the boy. Past Peter tosses a pinch of pixie dust on the turkey. James grins as the turkey dances a little jig on the platter before lifting itself onto the table. The turkey hands its own wishbone to Gran just before the dust wears off. 

Gran applauds and lets James break the wishbone with her. He gets the smaller half, but Gran sneaks the larger half into his hand when he isn't looking. Gran always does little things like that. I smile, remembering another time, another place, when she slipped me extra ice cubes from the nurse's little bucket after a particularly bad chemo session. I smile at the ground.

"Peter, can you help with these dishes?" Mama shouts from the kitchen. Past Peter grins, mischief carved into his face where age lines would be. He gives his shadow a handful of pixie dust and sends it to the kitchen. After a few moments, the stuffing, potatoes, corn, green bean casserole, and cranberry sauce fly around the room, crashing into the walls with magnificent shattering sounds, harmonizing with the gasps of everyone in the room, including Peter and me.

Peter quickly spreads more pixie dust around the room, and the plates begin to mend themselves. Finally, they rest on the table, safe and sound. I hold back a chuckle, afraid to ruin the moment.

"James, I'm going to need my sewing kit," Wendy says with a smile as old as time. I want more than anything to reach out and touch my great-grandmother, but something in Peter's eyes tells me what I already know.

"Can I try sewing the shadow back on, Great Gran?" Young Everly asks, not taking her eyes or her hands off the piano. She effortlessly ends "Carol of the Bells," before turning to look at Wendy with pleading eyes. 

"Of course, dear." 

James hands Everly the sewing kit and Past Peter catches his shadow after several minutes of chasing it. He scolds his shadow as Everly works over it with needle in hand.

"That is the–OW!– last time I–ouch, watch it, Ev– let you do anything– yikes!– by yourself!" Peter cries. The shadow struggles against his grasp but by the time Peter loses his grip, Young Everly has already sewn the shadow back. 

"Oh, my dear," says Wendy with a frown, "it's crooked!" I watch as Everly sighs in defeat and Peter reassures her. 

"Serves it right!" he says. "I hope it stays crooked, the way it always acts up." The shadow crosses its arms, and everyone chuckles lightly. 

"Are you ready to go?" the Real Peter asks me, taking my hand. "I think it's obvious why this is a happy thought." I nod, and Peter snaps as Mama cuts into the turkey to make sure it's done.