White Space Page 2

  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.

  Burn it. Mom quick grabs the book and runs to the woodstove and stuffs all that skin into the fire. The scroll, the special White Space Dad makes himself and onto which he pulls his stories, catches with a whump. Lizzie bets the words tried to fly away, but Mom’s trapped those suckers good, slamming the cast iron with a big clang. The pages scream bloody murder as all the White Space turns to ash.

  That’s not going to do any good. Thick crayon-black lines of new worry are drawn around Dad’s eyes and along his nose. His voice is all shaky and yet very tired and heavy, which Mom once said is how doom sounds. Like when you know that, oh boy, your car’s about to crash and you can scream yourself silly all you want, but too bad.

  Or when you’re Dad, and you finally wake up and understand that not only have you been gone for six solid months you don’t remember, but something very, very bad has slipped from the Dark Passages—and it’s your fault. That all the terrible, awful things happening in that London are because of you, and there’s no thought-magic in that Now to fix it. When you realize that you have to save yourself and especially Mom and get out, fast, and use the Sign of Sure to swoosh from that London to a different Wisconsin.

  The book’s in my blood, Dad says in his heavy doom-voice. The energy’s in my brain. I can’t unthink it, Meredith.

  You can choose not to dwell on it. You can choose not to write it. Think about something else. Dream up anything else.

  But what about this book? I’ve gone too far. The characters are already in motion. If I just stop, I don’t know what will happen.

  So what?

  Meredith, think. Even without the Mirror, I’ve still had enough juice to pull the characters onto White Space for years. Maybe you’re right, and it’s finally wearing off, but sweetheart, I feel them. The characters will find their way out, somehow. Either they’ll bleed into other stories or each other’s, or worse, but if I don’t reach the end and their stories aren’t resolved … if they really can make the jump on their own—

  I don’t care, Frank. Mom shivers as if she just can’t get rid of the really bad dream clinging to her brain, but keeps seeing it happen again and again, no matter where she looks. Do what you have to, but kill them. Kill the book.

  What do you think you just did, Meredith? You can destroy the manuscript or my notes, but it’s still here. Dad presses a fist to his chest. The book’s inside. You’d have to kill me.

  Then use them in another story. Take the characters, change their names, and—

  It doesn’t work that way, and you know it. They’re all infected. Their original stories would break any new book-world wide open. That’s why I send all my notes and ideas fo
r new work away to London for safekeeping in the first place. Hell—Dad lets out a weird, high laugh that sounds a lot like the way the crazy lady looks—you might as well seal me into a Peculiar, if you really want to be sure.

  What about the Mirror?

  You mean, destroy it? Meredith, you were the one who said it would take a tremendous amount of energy. Simply breaking it wouldn’t work, right?

  Yes, that’s right. A glassy red bead of blood swells and trembles on Mom’s lower lip, followed by another and then another. Maybe we should take it back to the island, where the barrier’s thinnest. Let the island swallow it up.

  Meredith, no. Think. Honey … it’s a tool. You can’t go back, and I won’t lose you ag— Dad stops a second. I won’t let us lose each other and what we have, how much we’ve accomplished. If the Mirror and panops and Peculiars exist, there has to be something, somewhere, that will help us use them more safely. We just haven’t found it yet. Maybe that’s what we need to concentrate on.

  That could take years, Frank.

  So what? What’s time to us?

  Plenty, if we end up dead in another …

  No one is going to die, Meredith. I won’t let that happen.

  Then what if … Mom’s nibbled her poor lip so bad her chin is smeary with blood. What if you stopped writing? I don’t mean forever. Just for now. Like with the Mirror. Take a break. You feel all that accumulated energy from them now, right? Your … your juice? So let the characters fade. Maybe they’ll die on their own. People have abandoned ideas and stories before.

  It wouldn’t work. Every book is like a virus. Eventually, the stories find a way out, no matter what. Dad cups Mom’s face in his hands. Meredith, they live in my blood. They are as real to me as you and Lizzie. I’ve got to write. I can’t stop. I’ll go crazy.

  Oh, Frank. Big, scared tears roll down Mom’s cheeks. She hooks her hands over Dad’s wrists like she might fall if she doesn’t. I know it’s hard, that it hurts, but you’ve got to try. We’ve got Lizzie to think about now. After so long, so many times that I … that we l-lost … Frank, she’s just a little girl. What about her? What if one of those things—

  I’ll be okay. Lizzie can tell they’ve forgotten her, because they jump as if she’s suddenly popped into this Now right out of the Dark Passages. I bet I can help.

  No. Now it’s her dad who shakes his head. No, Lizzie, you don’t know what you’re saying. This is not for you. It’s too dangerous.

  Frank. Mom’s face is wet. Did you just hear yourself? Don’t you understand that you are risking us by risking yourself?

  Meredith. Sweetheart. Dad’s eyes are watery and red. I know you’re afraid, but I’m still here, and I would sell my soul for you, I would die for you, I would take your place and never think twice, but please, please, don’t ask me to stop. You don’t understand what could happen. I swear, Love, I’ve still got it under control—

  Control? Mom screams. She pulls away from Dad, leaving him with nothing but air. You’ve got it under control? Then what the hell was that woman doing in our attic?

  3

  SO, IN THE end, Dad promises to stop working on the new book, not to try writing it again or even make notes to squirrel away in London. Not one word. He swears to let this story fade away. Cross his heart.

  Hope to die.

  4

  TWO MONTHS LATER, Mom sends Lizzie to call her father for supper.

  This is the first time since the crazy lady that Lizzie’s gone to Dad’s barn, which broods on a hill. Mom’s told her to stay away: Your father needs space and time to mourn. Like the book inside, Dad has to rot.

  Lizzie’s missed the loft. Before, Dad let her play as he worked, and she made up tons of adventures for her dolls with all her special Lizzie-symbols: squiggles, triangles, spirals, curlicues, arrows, ziggies, zaggies, diddlyhumps, swoozels, and more things with special Lizzie-names. Just a different way of making book-worlds for her dolls, that’s all. Not that either parent knows what she can do. If her mom found out? Oh boy, watch out. So she doesn’t tell. No big deal. No one’s ever gotten hurt.

  Well … not counting the monster-doll, which started out life as a daddy-doll but got left in her mom’s Kugelrohr oven too long on accident because Mom let her set the timer and Lizzie messed up. The heat was so bad the monster-doll’s glass head melted, his eyes slumping into this giant, creepy, violet third eye. Afterward, the monster-doll was really cranked, like, Hello, what were you thinking, you stupid little kid? She tried explaining it wasn’t on purpose, but oh boy, the monster-doll wasn’t having any of that. Mom said he was ruined and tossed the monster-doll into the discards bucket, but Lizzie felt guilty because the whole thing really was her fault. So, quiet as a mouse, she snuck back into Mom’s workshop and fished the monster-doll’s head from the bucket.

  Problem is … her stomach gets a squiggly feeling whenever they play. The inside of the monster-doll’s head is all gluey-ooky, the thoughts sticky as spiderwebs. Every time she pulls out, she worries there’s a tiny bit of her left all tangled with him. Sometimes, she even wonders if she oughtn’t to swoosh the monster-doll to a special Now where he can’t hurt anyone. She hasn’t, though.

  Because, really? Some monster-doll thoughts are … kind of exciting. He shows her how to do stuff in other Nows, too, most of which isn’t that scary. Well, except for that humongous storm this past July. Wow, it took her three whole days to figure out how to turn that thing off. But she’s got it under control.

  Like Dad.

  5

  LIZZIE SLIPS FROM the house with Marmalade on her heels. The night is deep and dark and very cold. The stars glitter like the distant Nows of the Dark Passages. Icy gravel pops and crunches beneath her shoes.

  At the barn door, though, Marmalade suddenly balks. “Oh, come on, don’t be such an old scaredy-cat.” When the orange tom only shows his needle-teeth, she says what Mom always does when Lizzie misbehaves: “My goodness, what’s gotten into you?” (Really, it’s the other way around; Mom doesn’t know the half of it.)

  But then Marmalade lets go of a sudden, rumbling growl and spits and swats. Gasping, Lizzie snatches her hand back. Wow, what was that about? She watches the cat sprint into the night. She’s never heard Marmalade growl. She didn’t know cats could. She thinks about going after the tom, but Dad always says, De cat came back de very next day.

  Sliding into the still, dark barn is like drifting on the breath of a dream into a black void. Ahead, a vertical shaft of thin light spills from the loft. Voices float down, too: her dad—

  And someone else.

  Lizzie stops dead. Holds her breath. Listens.

  That other voice is bad and gargly, like screams bubbling up from deep water. This voice is wrong. Just wrong.

  Uh-oh. Her skin goes creepy-crawly. If Dad’s doom-voice could be a feeling, that’s what drapes itself over her now, like when she gets a high fever and the blankets are too hot and heavy. Only she can’t kick this off. She remembers how Marmalade didn’t want to come inside. How Marmalade sometimes stares, not at birds or bright coins of sunlight but the space between, while his tail goes twitch-swish. The cat sees something Lizzie doesn’t. So maybe Marmalade knows something now, too.

  Lizzie chews the side of her thumb. She has a couple choices here. She can pretend nothing’s happened. She can run right back to her nice, safe house where her mother waits and there is hot chocolate and supper, warm on the table. Or she can lie and say Dad wasn’t hungry. Or she could sing, La-la-la, hello, it’s Lizzie, Daddy; I’m coming up now! Yeah, she likes that one. Make a noise; give Dad a chance to pull himself together so he can keep his promise to Mom, and it will be their pinky-swear secret.

  But wait, Lizzie. The whisper-voice—she knows it’s not her—is teeny-tiny but drippy and gooey somehow, like mist blown from a straw filled with India ink. Don’t you want to see how he really uses the Mirror? He’s never let you watch. Go out and play, he says. That’s what adults always say when what they mean is,
Get lost, you stupid little kid.

  This, she considers, is true.

  Oh, come onnn, Lizzieee, the voice coaxes. Thisss is your big chance for something really gooood.

  The tug of that voice is the set of a fishhook in her brain. It is, she thinks, a little bit like the monster-doll’s voice. But so what? She’s played with the monster-doll in lots of times and Nows, and no big deal. Besides, wouldn’t she like to know about the mirror?

  You bet I do. Her tongue goes puckery, and her heart gives a little jump of excitement. So she decides, Just a peek.

  Lizzie creeps up the ladder, oh-so-carefully, quietly. Three more steps … two … Then, she hesitates. Lizzie might be just a kid, but she’s no dummy. The gargly voice reminds her of when she’s stayed too long in her monster-doll’s head: a feeling that is sticky and gucky and thick.

  Oh, go on, you old scaredy-cat, the whisper-voice says. You’ve come this far.

  So Lizzie watches her fingers wrap themselves around the last rung, and then she’s easing herself up on tiptoe—

  6

  THE LOFT IS one big space. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the north and west walls. Feeble light fans from table lamps. The only picture, a copy of Dickens’ Dream, hangs on one wall. Dad says what makes Dickens’ Dream so interesting is that the painter died before he could finish, and that guy had taken over for another artist who blew his brains out after working on a couple of Dickens’ books. (Which kind of makes you think, Whoa, who got inside his head?)

  On a low table just beneath the painting, Mom’s purple-black Peculiars gleam. Lizzie knows each by sight: there is Whispers, and there are Echo Rats and Shadows, In the Dark. Purpling Mad. Now Done Darkness, where the poor mom gets eaten up from the inside out, that monster-cancer chewing her up, munch-munch-munch. And a whole bunch more. Whenever Dad finishes a scary book—one so frightening that Mom would absolutely and positively have a stroke if she knew Dad’s read a single word to Lizzie or, worse yet, that Lizzie’s visited—Mom slips on her special panops, which help her see all the thought-magic of the book-world: the energy of real life mixed with make-believe. Like when her dad says, Oh sure, honey, let’s give that brave, smart girl your eyes. Or, Hmm, how about we take a couple letters from your name and put them riiight here? If you know how to look, there’s her whole life, all these Lizzie bits and pieces, tucked in her dad’s books: the orange tom here, the squiggle-monsters there, Dad’s big red barn.