White Space

“You did that?” Dad whispers—and is he crying? She hopes so, but she’s not sure. “Honey, it rained for three days straight. There were kayaks on Main Street.”

“Oh boy, I know.” She has stopped drawing. Her arm is tired, but her finger is fire and strange electric tingles ripple over her skin, stroking the hair on her arms and along her neck. Her brain is as white-hot as the sun. “I was really dumb. And the crazy lady in the attic: I did her, too. I made her move the block to a different story.”

“What?” her mother says.

“How?” Her dad sounds way interested now.

“You said there was a writer’s block,” Lizzie said, “and I thought, okay, I’ll just get her to suck the block out of your story and cough it up way high in the attic where you can’t see. That’s why she was all inky and dirty. She kept slurping down your block whenever it started to get bad again.”

“Oh my God,” her mother says, a touch of wonder in her voice now. “A house has stories. You took it literally. The attic is a different story.”

That’s it; that’s exactly it. Lizzie clutches the phone. “So don’t you see, Daddy? You don’t need the whisper-man anymore. You have me. I’m all the Sign of Sure you need. I’ll help you.” Her eyes brush the symbols, pulsing and swarming through the air. They are good and well-formed, and now she can see that they are beginning to go purpling mad. Good. Purpling mad is rare; purpling mad is the color of energy and power and thought-magic. “We can make book-worlds and go to other Nows together.”

“No,” her mother says.

“You will?” Dad laughs, like, Wow, there goes a butterfly! “Oh, that’s exactly what I need. Are you sure? You have to want this, sweetie. You have to be sure.”

“I’m sure.” Hot tears splash her cheeks. “I want you, Daddy. I love you. I’m so, so sorry I got you in trouble.”

“That’s okay, sweetie, I’ve got you,” he says. “Now, come home, honey. Concentrate and come to Daddy, and we’ll build great worlds.”

“I will, Daddy, I will, but you have to make the whisper-man go away. Send him back. Put his fog where it belongs and Momma will bring us home.”

“Oh, well now,” her dad says, “I can’t do that.”

She knew it. She had this really bad feeling: this story was too good to be true. Jumgit. “Why not?” she asks, not that she really wants to know. She’s got to keep her dad interested just a little while longer …

“Because I like him,” Dad says, simply, the way he says, Oh look, there’s a bug. “He’s my friend.”

“No, Daddy.” She’s running out of time. The fog is almost on them. The shapes flying from her finger are the right ones; they have to be. “No, no, Daddy, it can only be us.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, there’s plenty of room. He’s my friend and you’re my daughter and so he’s yours and you’re mine, Lizzie; you’re mine, and I see you.” His voice is changing again, crooning and thinning to a whisper: “Peekaboo, I see you, Lizzie. I see you.”

“I see you, too, Daddy,” Lizzie says, picking up the cadence, chanting the mantra. Sk’lm. “I see you—”

“I see you, so come and play, Lizzie. Come play …”

“Come …” She falters, the symbol she’s sketching only halfway to being. What was she supposed to do next? “Come play …”

“Yesss, Blood of My Blood, Breath of My Breath, come play, Lizzieee; come, let’s plaaay a game; come and—”

“Play.” What was she thinking? She gives her finger a long, stupid stare. What was she doing? “Come play,” she says, slowly. “Come—”

“Lizzie!” Her mother’s hand lashes out and smacks the phone from Lizzie’s hand. The cell flies against the dash, then tumbles to the foot well, but the voice still seeps from the speaker: “Come plaaay, Blood of My Bloood, come plaaay …”

“That’s enough. Shut that thing up,” her mother grates. When Lizzie doesn’t move, her mother’s palm flicks, quick as a whip. The slap is crisp and loud as the snap of an icicle. “Damn it, Lizzie, do what I say! Hang up now while there’s still

RIMA Soother of the Dead

“TIME,” TONY SAID.

“Already?” Rima was practically worshipping the heater. The air dribbling from the vents wasn’t exactly toasty, but better than nothing.

“Sorry. That was fifteen minutes.” Tony turned off the Camry’s engine, and the fan cut out. “I’ll crank her up again in an hour.”

“Something to live for.” Rima tucked her hands under her arms again as another stutter-flash of lightning burst high above. She jumped, but the crow prancing on the hood didn’t flinch. That thing was seriously creeping her out, and she didn’t understand either. Yeah, there was the woman who’d died in Tony’s Camry, but her whisper was very weak and nearly gone. Lily’s body was in the van. Could it be Taylor’s death-whisper in her parka? That would be a first. Once Rima wore something—started soothing that death-whisper—the crows eventually went away.