White Space (3 page)

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 for 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?

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.

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.

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—

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.