White Space (2 page)

I knew it
. Mom’s face crinkles, like she’s as sick as Lizzie after all that apple pie.
God, I
knew
we should’ve found a way to destroy that thing, because it’s never
little
with you, Frank. When the book just isn’t coming, you get desperate. That’s
exactly
how you were in London, and look what happened
.

No
. Dad’s jaw is working, like there’s a bad taste, or a ton of words piled up on his tongue that he knows he oughtn’t let slip between his teeth; enough words for a whole other and much scarier story, the kind he writes best: books guaranteed to melt your eyeballs.
That wasn’t
exactly
how I felt in London. There were … other things going on
.

Like what?
When Dad doesn’t answer, Mom crosses her arms over her chest.
Like
what,
Frank?

Things you obviously can’t or don’t want to remember, Meredith
.

And just what does
that
mean?

Only that things happened
. Dad looks away.
When you … when we weren’t together. That’s when things were
—Dad licks his lips
—bad
.

Yes, as in desperate. Do you even
remember
what you said?

Yes
. Dad’s lips must be very stiff, because he’s having a hard time getting his mouth to move.
I said I felt … crowded
.

You said it felt like your skin was too tight, like there was something growing in your chest. You even worried you might have cancer, remember?
Mom shakes her head.
I just never connected the dots or understood how much you craved the rush. I should’ve known you’d lose control
.

Me? Lose control?
Dad gives a tired little laugh.
Oh, Meredith, you have no idea. You really don’t. Do you … can you even remember what we were like
before
the Mirror?

Remember?
For a second, Mom looks confused. Her eyelids
flutter as if there’s been a sudden strong breeze, or Dad’s thrown her off with a trick question.
I’m not sure what you …
Mom’s eyebrows pull together.
What else is there to remember? I mean, it was so long ago
.

But I remember
you
in the beginning, Meredith
. Dad’s face changes a little, like something inside hurts.
Every detail. Each moment. Where we met. Your hair. Your smell. Everything
.

What are we …?
Now Mom looks a little scared, as if she’s being asked to play a silly little piano piece that she never practiced because she thought it was so easy and only now realizes this was a
big
mistake.
What are we talking about? The beginning of what? Do you mean when you couldn’t sell anything? Is that it? When the publisher canceled your contract for the second book because the first one didn’t do well? Or … or …
Mom’s eyes drop as if the answer’s fallen out of her brain and gone
boinka-boinka-boinka
onto the floor.
Or when we lived in that miserable little trailer and you taught grade school English and we had to live on food stamps …

No, Meredith
. Dad captures her hands in his.
That’s all stuff in any article or bio or on the back of a book jacket, for God’s sake. I mean … do you remember what
I
was back then? Do you remember how much I loved you? How I would do
anything
to keep you from …
Turning Mom’s hands, Dad kisses each palm and both wrists—and the long, stripy scars from where Mom hurt herself way before Lizzie.
Oh, Meredith … Love, that man is still here. I’m right in front of you
.

Of course
. Mom’s eyes are shiny and wet.
Of course I know that. But that …
Taking back her hands, she blows out, getting rid of the bad.
That’s not what we’re talking about. Don’t try to change the subject, Frank. We’re talking about you, not me. Don’t
you realize we almost lost you in London? Do you know how hard it was to put that thing back into the Dark Passages because you didn’t want to let go?

Yes
. At that, Dad’s face crumples, caving in on itself as a sand castle collapses beneath waves that just won’t stop.
But that wasn’t the only reason
.

Because it’s an addiction, Frank
. Mom grips Dad’s arm so hard her fingers star to a claw.
You let it trick you into believing you were in control; that what you wrote was
your
idea. That what’s on the page stays on the page
. Dad mumbles something Lizzie can’t catch, and Mom says,
Excuse me?

I said, you should know
.

What does that mean? Don’t try to put London on me. That was not my fault
. The skin around Mom’s mouth is as white as the special skin-scrolls onto which Dad pulls his stories.
You were the one who put together that letter by Collins and then his story about Dee’s Black Mirror with what Mary Dickens wrote about her father. It was you who realized all the mirrors Dickens installed in the chalet weren’t even listed when Gad’s Hill went up for auction
.

Yes, all right, fine. But you were obsessed with the possibility that the Mirror might be real; who insisted we prowl London for that damned key. You wouldn’t leave until we figured out which island and tracked down the panops, the Sign of Sure, and that Mirror
. (Only Dad says another, very bad word along with
that Mirror
, so Lizzie knows they’ve totally forgotten she’s there.) Dad aims a finger at Mom.
You didn’t mind using the Mirror when
you
needed it. But I suppose that’s okay, right? Because you’re just so good at knowing when to stop. You’ve got so much self-control
. Dad’s laugh is crackly as a crow’s.
Take a look at your arms, Meredith,
and then tell me you know how and when to stop
.

That’s not fair. That was different
. I
was different then. I was …
Mom’s mouth quivers, and her eyes have that confused look again, as if she’s been telling a fib and lost the thread of the lie.
I was
—her mouth twists as she works to knot words together
—we were … that is, I had to … I was trying to …

What, Meredith? What did you have to do? What are you remembering?
Now Dad looks a little excited, like he wants to grab Mom’s arms again but doesn’t dare because he might break some spell.
Tell me, Meredith; tell me fast. Don’t hold back
.

Hold back? I …
Mom hugs her middle the way Lizzie does when she has a tummy-ache.
I don’t understand. Why are you badgering me like this? I don’t know what you want me to say
.

What’s there, Sweetheart; say what’s right on the tip of your tongue
.

There’s nothing!
Mom is gasping now, her voice all tight and little-girl shrill.
Nothing, Frank, nothing’s there, there’s nothing to say! You’re confusing me. I’m not that woman anymore
.

Oh God
. Dad lets out a laugh that is only air, no real sound to it at all, the way a dog laughs.
God, don’t I know
.

Then, if you love me, Frank, you’ll stop this! Just … just stop, stop!

All right, all right
. Dad’s hands are up, patting the air as if Mom has turned into some scared little animal backed into a corner and, he’s afraid, might bite.
Okay. Calm down. I just thought—

What?
The word comes out broken.
What did you think? This isn’t about me! This isn’t my fault!

No, Sweetheart, of course it isn’t. I’m sorry. I just …
Dad forks hair from his eyes with one hand.
I don’t understand. So
close … 
but there’s some spark, an essence I can’t quite wrap my hands around and put where it belongs …
Shaking his head, he bites down on the rest and sighs. His shoulders slump like he’s suddenly so tired he can barely stand.
I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re not the woman you were then. We were talking about me
.

That’s right
. And then Mom says it again, as if repeating the words makes them that much truer. She is calm now, as perfect and beautiful as a Lovely, one of the little people Mom creates whenever she flameworks a world. To everyone else, the worlds are only metal and swirly colors and tiny people and animals and flowers and other, stranger creatures captured in glass. The really dangerous ones, the Peculiars that live in her dad’s loft—nobody outside the family ever sees those. Even Mom has to wear her special purple panops to make doubly sure she catches enough thought-magic.
We’re talking about you and the Mirror
.

Yes. That’s right
.

We’re talking about you, in this
Now.
We’re not talking about then
. Mom has pulled herself as straight and tall as one of the long metal blowpipes she uses to collect glass gathers from her furnaces.
We’re not talking about another
Now.

No, we’re not, and I swear to God, Meredith: what happened in London won’t happen again. You’ll have to trust me that far
.

Trust? You want my trust, Frank? Then show me the new book
.

No
. Dad says it without thinking, the word popping out like a hiccup.

Why not?

Because
. Dad swallows.
I can’t
.

You mean you won’t
.

I mean, I
can’t,
Meredith. Not yet. It’s not done. You know
I don’t like anyone, even you, seeing work in progress. Would you want me looking over your shoulder when you’re in the studio?

London didn’t happen to me
.

I’m
aware
of that. Meredith, please, if I show you the new book …

Frank, an insane woman, with no tongue, was in our attic
. Mom says each word really slow, like Dad is deaf or very, very stupid.
And you’re worried about falling a little out of love with your book?

They go round and round, but Dad finally gives in. He goes out to his barn, which is his special private place, and returns to unroll his new book right there on the kitchen table. And yup, there she is, penned with spidery words in Dad’s special ink: the crazy lady with her nightmare eyes, buried between words on page five-forever.

Page fifty-eight. The age Dickens was when he died, as he was working on
Drood … All the color dribbles from Mom’s face, until her skin is so clear Lizzie can see the squiggle of teeny-tiny blue veins around her eyes.
Oh God. Frank, it’s taunting you. That can’t be a coincidence. It’s
telling
you it came out of the Mirror. Don’t you see?

Meredith, I …
Poor Dad is completely confused.
But I didn’t do it. She doesn’t belong there. There’s no character like her in the story at all
.

But she’s there, Frank. You must’ve pulled her out and put her there
.

If … if I did, I … I don’t remember
. Dad looks really spooked for the very first time.
Meredith, I honestly don’t. But if that’s true …
Dad stares at his hands, turning them over and over, front to back, like he’s never seen them before and has no
idea what hands are or what they can do or who they belong to.
Why am I not cut?

At the look on Dad’s face, Lizzie’s stomach cramps, like the time last winter when she got the flu and spent a lot of time hanging over the toilet. (Which scared Dad like crazy; he’s a real worrywart when it comes to her.
Every
little scrape and sniffle … Mom always says Lizzie won’t break, but the way Dad refuses to leave her room at night when she’s sick, and keeps real close, makes Lizzie wonder just what her dad is afraid of. As if once, so long ago Lizzie can’t remember, she was really, really sick. Maybe even sick enough to die.)

You should tell about the crazy lady
, Lizzie thinks. Her skin is prickly and hot.
This isn’t Dad’s fault
. But, oh boy, she is going to be in so much trouble.

Then she thinks about something else: that page number, that five-forever the crazy lady got herself to. How come
that
happened? Had she even thought about a specific page? No. Heck, she isn’t all that good with numbers yet anyway. Yeah, she can
count
and stuff. She’s five; she’s not just a dumb little kid. She knows what she calls “forever” is really an eight instead of the symbol for infinity standing up instead of lying down; that twenty is more than ten; and two plus two is, well,
duh
. But clocks and telling time? Forget it. Same with years. She just sent the crazy lady where she thought the woman ought to go, is all.

So what if
 … Lizzie’s insides go as icy as Mom says a Peculiar is, because you need the cold to slow down all that thought-magic.
What if it’s a little bit in me, too, only I just don’t know it? Like Dad? Like how the monster-doll sometimes makes me feel?

What if London happens to her?

Meredith
. Dad’s face scrunches, like he might cry.
Honey, I honestly don’t remember writing her
.

Mom’s shaking fingers keep trying to knot and hold themselves still.
Then how do you explain that … that
thing
in our attic? She popped out of the Dark Passages on her own?
She and Dad stare at each other, and then Mom whispers,
Oh, Frank, is that even possible? Can they … could
it
do that? Act independently? If it got too much of you, could it have absorbed your ability to—

I don’t know. That’s not the way it’s supposed to
— Then a new thought seems to bubble into Dad’s mind, because he glances at Lizzie, his eyebrows knitting to a frown.

And Lizzie thinks,
Oh boy
. She wonders if Dad remembers what he once said: that even though she’s only five, Lizzie is
precocious
, which is adult-speak for
crap, she’s smarter than us
.