White Space

Maybe she is. Mom’s mouth goes as thin as one of the seams on Lizzie’s memory quilt: scraps of every bit of clothing Lizzie’s ever worn sewn into special patterns and decorated with Mom’s thought-magic glass, including the twinkly Sign of Sure, which Mom didn’t make but is like the panops and Dickens Mirror—very old and from some other Now. Then let’s talk about you, all right? I know you, Frank. It’s been years since London, and it’s all wearing off, isn’t it? You’re having trouble with this new book. So you’re tempted, aren’t you? When he doesn’t answer, Mom grabs his arm. Talk to me.

I … All of a sudden, Dad can’t look Mom in the eye. It’s just a little writer’s block.

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.