Library of Souls (50 page)

“Wait,” I said. “I don't think I want you to do it, after all.”

“Are you sure?” She looked a bit disappointed. “It could get very complicated for you.”

“It feels like cheating,” I said.

“Then what will you tell them?” Emma asked.

“I don't know yet. But it doesn't seem right to just … wipe their brains.”

If telling them the truth was selfish, it seemed doubly so to simply erase the need for an explanation. And what about the police? My extended family? My parents' friends? Surely they all knew I'd been missing, and for my parents to forget what had happened … it would've been a mess.

“That's up to you,” said Miss Peregrine. “But I think it would
be wise to at least let me wipe the past two or three minutes, so they'll forget Miss Bloom and me.”

“Well … okay,” I said. “So long as they don't lose the English language along with it.”

“I'm very precise,” said Miss Peregrine.

“What's all this about wiping brains?” said the police officer. “Who are you?”

“Alma Peregrine,” said Miss Peregrine, rushing over to shake his hand. “Alma Peregrine, Alma LeFay Peregrine.”

The officer's head dropped, and he was suddenly fascinated by a spot on the floor.

“I can think of a few wights you might've done that to,” said Emma.

“Unfortunately, it only works on the pliable minds of normals,” Miss Peregrine said. “Speaking of which.” She held up the feather.

“Wait,” I said. “Before you do.” I put out my hand for her to shake. “Thank you for everything. I'm really going to miss you, Miss Peregrine.”

Miss Peregrine ignored my hand and hugged me. “The feeling is mutual, Mr. Portman. And I'm the one who should be thanking you. If it hadn't been for your and Miss Bloom's heroism …”

“Well,” I said, “if it hadn't been for you saving my grandfather all those years ago …”

She smiled. “Let's call it even.”

There was one goodbye left. The hardest one. I put my arms around Emma, and she squeezed back ferociously.

“Can we write to each other?” she said.

“Are you sure you want to?”

“Of course. Friends keep in touch.”

“Okay,” I said, relieved. At least we could—

And then she kissed me. A big, full-on-the-lips kiss that left my head spinning.

“I thought we were just friends!” I said, pulling back in surprise.

“Um, yes,” she said sheepishly. “
Now
we are. I just needed one to remember us by.”

We were both laughing, our hearts soaring and breaking at once.

“Children, stop that!” Miss Peregrine hissed.

“Frank,” my mother said faintly, “who is that girl Jake's kissing?”

“I haven't the slightest idea,” my father mumbled. “Jacob, who is that girl, and why are you kissing her?”

My cheeks flushed. “Um, this is my … friend. Emma. We're just saying goodbye.”

Emma waved bashfully. “You won't remember me, but … hello!”

“Well, stop kissing strange girls and come along,” said my mother.

“Okay,” I said to Miss Peregrine. “I'd guess we'd better get on with it.”

“Don't think this is goodbye,” Miss Peregrine said. “You're one of us now. You won't get rid of us that easily.”

“I sure hope not,” I said, grinning despite a heavy heart.

“I'll write you,” Emma said, trying to smile, her voice cracking. “Good luck with … whatever it is normal people do.”

“Goodbye, Emma. I'll miss you.” It seemed so inadequate a thing to say, but at times like this, words themselves were inadequate.

Miss Peregrine turned to finish her work. She raised the falcon feather and tickled my parents under their noses.

“Excuse me!” my mother said, “what do you think you're doooo-AAAAAA-
CHOO
!”

And then both she and my father had a sneezing fit, and while they were sneezing, Miss Peregrine tickled the police officer, and he
had a sneezing fit, too. By the time they were all finished, noses running and red in the face, Miss Peregrine and Emma had whisked out the door and were gone.

“As I was saying,” my dad said, picking up as if the last few minutes hadn't happened. “Wait … what
was
I saying?”

“That we could just go home and talk about all this later?” I said hopefully.

“Not before you answer some questions,” the officer said.

We spent a few minutes talking to the police. I kept my answers vague, laced every sentence with an apology, and swore up and down that I hadn't been abducted, abused, or drugged. (Thanks to Miss Peregrine's memory wipe, the officer had forgotten about making me take that drug test.) When my parents explained about my grandfather's death and the “troubles” I'd suffered following it, the police seemed satisfied that I was just a garden-variety runaway who'd forgotten to take his meds. They made us sign a few forms and sent us on our way.

“Yes, yes, let's please go home,” my mother said. “But we
will
talk about this, young man. In
depth
.”

Home. The word had become foreign to me. Some distant land I could hardly imagine.

“If we hurry,” said my dad, “we might be able to catch an evening flight …”

He had cemented his arm around my shoulder, as if afraid I'd run away the moment he let go. My mom couldn't stop staring at me, her eyes wide and grateful, blinking back tears.

“I'm okay,” said, “I promise.”

I knew they didn't believe me, and wouldn't for a long while.

We went outside to hail a black cab. As one was pulling up, I saw two familiar faces watching me from a park across the street. Occupying the dappled shade of an oak were Emma and Miss Peregrine. I raised a hand goodbye, my chest aching.

“Jake?” My dad was holding the cab door open for me.
“What's the matter?”

I turned my wave into a head scratch. “Nothing, Dad.”

I got into the cab. My dad turned to stare into the park. When I looked out the window, all I saw under the oak were a bird and some blowing leaves.

* * *

My return home was neither triumphant nor easy. I had shattered my parents' trust, and piecing it back together would be slow, painstaking work. Considered a flight risk, I was watched all the time. I went nowhere unsupervised, not even for walks around the block. A complicated security system was installed in the house, less to stop thieves from getting in than me sneaking out. I was rushed back into therapy, subjected to countless psychological evaluations, and prescribed new, stronger drugs (which I hid under my tongue and later spat out). But I'd endured far worse deprivations that summer, and if a temporary loss of freedom was the price I had to pay for the friends I'd made, the experiences I'd had, and the extraordinary life I now knew to be mine, it seemed a bargain. It was worth every awkward conversation with my parents, every lonely night spent dreaming about Emma and my peculiar friends, every visit to my new psychiatrist.

She was an unflappable older lady named Dr. Spanger, and I spent four mornings a week in the glow of her face-lifted permasmile. She questioned me incessantly about why I'd run away from the island and how I'd spent the days after, that smile never wavering. (Her eyes, for the record, were dishwater brown, pupils normal, no contacts.) The story I concocted was a temporary insanity plea sprinkled with a dash of memory loss, every bit of which was totally unverifiable. It went like this: frightened by what appeared to be a sheep-murdering maniac loose on Cairnholm, I cracked, stowed away on a boat to Wales, briefly forgot who I was, and hitchhiked to
London. I slept in parks, spoke to no one, made no acquaintances, consumed no mood- or mind-altering substances, and wandered the city for several days in a disoriented fugue state. As for the phone call with my father in which I'd admitted to being “peculiar”—um, what phone call? I couldn't remember any phone call …

Eventually Dr. Spanger chalked the whole thing up to a manic episode, characterized by delusions, triggered by stress, grief, and unresolved grandpa issues. In other words: I'd gone a little nuts, but it was probably a one-time thing and I was feeling much better now, thank you. Still, my parents were on pins and needles. They were waiting for me to crack, do something crazy, run away again—but I was on my best behavior. I played the role of good kid and penitent son like I was out to win an Oscar. I volunteered my help around the house. I rose long before noon and hung out in plain view of my watchful parents. I watched TV with them and ran errands and lingered at the table after meals to participate in the inane discussions they liked to have—about bathroom remodeling, homeowners' association politics, fad diets, birds. (There was never more than a glancing allusion to my grandfather, the island, or my “episode.”) I was pleasant, kind, patient, and in a hundred ways not quite the son they remembered. They must've thought I'd been abducted by aliens and replaced with a clone or something—but they weren't complaining. And after a few weeks, it was deemed safe to bring the family around, and this uncle or that aunt would drop by for a little coffee and stilted conversation, and so I could demonstrate in person how sane I was.

Weirdly, my dad never mentioned the letter Emma had left for him back on the island, nor the photo of her and Abe tucked inside it. Maybe it was more than he could deal with, or maybe he worried that talking about it with me might trigger a relapse. Whatever the reason, it was like it never happened. As for having actually met Emma and Millard and Olive, I'm sure he'd long ago dismissed that as a bizarre dream.

After a few weeks my parents began to relax. They'd bought my story and Dr. Spanger's explanations for my behavior. They could've probed deeper, probably—asked more questions, gotten a second or third opinion from other psychiatrists—but they really wanted to believe I was doing better. That whatever drugs Dr. Spanger had put me on were working their magic. More than anything, they wanted our lives to return to normal, and the longer I was home, the more that seemed to be happening.

Privately, though, I was struggling to adjust. I was bored and lonely. The days dragged. I had thought, after the hardships of the past few weeks, that the comforts of home would be sweeter, but pretty soon even laundered sheets and Chinese takeout lost their luster. My bed was too soft. My food too rich. There was too
much
of everything, and it made me feel guilty and decadent. Sometimes, wandering mall aisles on an errand with my parents, I would think about the people I'd seen living on the margins of Devil's Acre and get angry. Why did we have more than we knew what to do with, while they had less than they needed to stay alive?

I had trouble sleeping. I woke at odd hours, my mind looping scenes from my time with the peculiars. Though I'd given Emma my address and checked the mailbox several times a day, no letters had arrived from her or the others. The longer I went without hearing from them—two weeks, then three—the more abstract and unreal the whole experience began to seem. Had it really happened? Had it all been a delusion? In dark moments, I wondered. What if I
was
crazy?

So it was much to my relief when, a month after returning home, a letter finally arrived from Emma. It was short and breezy, just filling me in on the rebuilding process and asking me how things were going. The return address was a post office box in London, which Emma explained was close enough to the Devil's Acre loop entrance that she could sneak into the present fairly often and check it. I wrote back the same day, and pretty soon we were exchanging
two or three letters a week. As home grew more suffocating, those letters became a lifeline.

I couldn't risk my parents finding one, so every day I stalked the mailman and dashed out to meet him as soon as he appeared at the end of our driveway. I suggested to Emma that we trade e-mails instead, which would have been safer and faster, and I filled several pages attempting to explain what the Internet was and how she might find a public Internet café and create an e-mail address—but it was hopeless; she'd never even used a keyboard. The letters were worth the risk, though, and I came to enjoy communicating by hand. There was something sweet about holding a tangible thing that had been touched and marked upon by someone I loved.

In one letter she included a few snapshots. She wrote:

She'd scratched out
or maybe
and written:
Uh-oh, I hear Sharon calling my name. He's leaving now and I want to make sure this letter gets into the post today. Write soon! Love, Emma
.