Ilsa Bick: White Space

What’s there, Sweetheart; say what’s right on the tip of your tongue .

There’s nothing! Mom is gasping now, her voice all tight and little-girl shrill. Nothing, Frank, nothing’s there, there’s nothing to say! You’re confusing me. I’m not that woman anymore .

Oh God . Dad lets out a laugh that is only air, no real sound to it at all, the way a dog laughs. God, don’t I know .

Then, if you love me, Frank, you’ll stop this! Just … just stop, stop!

All right, all right . Dad’s hands are up, patting the air as if Mom has turned into some scared little animal backed into a corner and, he’s afraid, might bite. Okay. Calm down. I just thought—

What? The word comes out broken. What did you think? This isn’t about me! This isn’t my fault!

No, Sweetheart, of course it isn’t. I’m sorry. I just … Dad forks hair from his eyes with one hand. I don’t understand. So close … but there’s some spark, an essence I can’t quite wrap my hands around and put where it belongs … Shaking his head, he bites down on the rest and sighs. His shoulders slump like he’s suddenly so tired he can barely stand. I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re not the woman you were then. We were talking about me .

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.