White Space by Ilsa J. Bick Page A

pulse of a weird orange glow that is very, very wrong.
    “Mom!” she says, urgently. “Mom, the barn’s on fire!”
    “I know,” her mother says. “I set it.”
    “Mom!”
A blast of horror rips through her body. “We’ve got to go back! We’ve got to get Marmalade! We’ve got to find Daddy; we have to
save
him!”
    “We can’t save your dad.”
    “But Mom!” Lizzie’s frantic. Why doesn’t her mother understand? “Daddy
needs
us!”
    “No, he needs
it
, Lizzie. He hangs on, takes it inside, and the horrible, awful things it asks in return …” Her mother’s voice falters, then firms. “Lizzie, why do you think we came here after London? Why do you think we live so far away from other people?”
    So no one gets hurt
. She thinks of the terrible things in her father’s books: squiggle-monsters and spider-things growing in people’s chests and crawly things in tunnels and parents eating their kids. What Mom says is true.
    Because when her father turned from that mirror … his face was gone. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Nothing but a shuddering, churning blank.
    Then this thing with no face raised her dad’s hands like apoliceman stopping traffic. The cuts were gone. Her father’s palms were smooth—until the skin split and lids peeled back and there were eyes, one on each palm. They were not her father’s eyes, because they were not hers. Like father, like daughter, their eyes are identical: a deep indigo with a tiny fleck of gold on one iris. Lizzie’s birthmark floats in her right eye and is the mirror image to her father’s on his left.
    But the eyes that stared from her father’s palms were whisper-man black. The whisper-man was in there, and her dad was the glove, just as Mom said he’d been, years back and before Lizzie, in the other London.
    But what if I can make the whisper-man want
me
instead?
This is a new thought, and so stunning Lizzie’s chest empties of air.
If I can get it to leave Dad and slip into me—
    There is a sudden, massive flash. The light is so bright the inside of the car fires the color of hot gold. A split second later, Lizzie hears the rolling thunder of an explosion.
    “Oh God,” Mom says. In that molten glow, Lizzie sees the shine of her mother’s tears. “Oh God, forgive me.”
    “No, Momma, no!” She could’ve
fixed
it; she could’ve made it
better
. “Why did you do that?”
    “You don’t understand.” He mother drags a hand across her eyes like a weary child. “It was the only thing left.”
    “No, it wasn’t! I could’ve fixed things, I could’ve
helped—
”
    From the backseat comes a flat, mechanical beep. Her mother gasps. The sound is so jarring and out of place it seems to come from the deep, dark valley of a dream.
    “It’s your phone,” Lizzie says.
    “I know that,” Mom says.
    Beep
.
    “Should I answer?” Lizzie asks.
    Beep
.
    “No,” her mother says.
    “But what if …” Like a birthday wish, Lizzie’s afraid to say it out loud. “Mom, what if it’s Dad?”
    Beep
.
    “It might be his voice, but it wouldn’t be him, Lizzie. Your father’s gone.”
    Beep
.
    “But what
if—
”
    “I said no!” her mother snapped. “Sit down and—”
    No
, Lizzie thinks, furiously. Against her palms, she feels the sudden tingling surge as the Sign of Sure, sewn on her memory quilt, feeds on her thoughts: all that energy stored up in her brain that wants to whisk her through the Dark Passages, that must find a way out.
No, Momma’s wrong; I can fix this. I’ll make it want me. I’ll build a forever
-Now
and swoosh the whisper-man there with the Sign of Sure
.
    She unbuckles her belt.
    “What are you doing?” her mother raps. “Sit down, young lady.”
    “I don’t have to listen to
you
,” Lizzie spits, and then she is scrambling up, twisting around in her seat, reaching for her mother’s purse. Through the rear window, she can see the forest’s black walls squeezing the road, as if her past is a book whose covers