White Space

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.