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.
What are we …? Now Mom looks a little scared, as if she’s being asked to play a silly little piano piece that she never practiced because she thought it was so easy and only now realizes this was a big mistake. What are we talking about? The beginning of what? Do you mean when you couldn’t sell anything? Is that it? When the publisher canceled your contract for the second book because the first one didn’t do well? Or … or … Mom’s eyes drop as if the answer’s fallen out of her brain and gone boinka-boinka-boinka onto the floor. Or when we lived in that miserable little trailer and you taught grade school English and we had to live on food stamps …
No, Meredith. Dad captures her hands in his. That’s all stuff in any article or bio or on the back of a book jacket, for God’s sake. I mean … do you remember what I was back then? Do you remember how much I loved you? How I would do anything to keep you from … Turning Mom’s hands, Dad kisses each palm and both wrists—and the long, stripy scars from where Mom hurt herself way before Lizzie. Oh, Meredith … Love, that man is still here. I’m right in front of you.
Of course. Mom’s eyes are shiny and wet. Of course I know that. But that … Taking back her hands, she blows out, getting rid of the bad. That’s not what we’re talking about. Don’t try to change the subject, Frank. We’re talking about you, not me. Don’t you realize we almost lost you in London? Do you know how hard it was to put that thing back into the Dark Passages because you didn’t want to let go?
Yes. At that, Dad’s face crumples, caving in on itself as a sand castle collapses beneath waves that just won’t stop. But that wasn’t the only reason.
Because it’s an addiction, Frank. Mom grips Dad’s arm so hard her fingers star to a claw. You let it trick you into believing you were in control; that what you wrote was your idea. That what’s on the page stays on the page. Dad mumbles something Lizzie can’t catch, and Mom says, Excuse me?
I said, you should know.
What does that mean? Don’t try to put London on me. That was not my fault. The skin around Mom’s mouth is as white as the special skin-scrolls onto which Dad pulls his stories. You were the one who put together that letter by Collins and then his story about Dee’s Black Mirror with what Mary Dickens wrote about her father. It was you who realized all the mirrors Dickens installed in the chalet weren’t even listed when Gad’s Hill went up for auction.
Yes, all right, fine. But you were obsessed with the possibility that the Mirror might be real; who insisted we prowl London for that damned key. You wouldn’t leave until we figured out which island and tracked down the panops, the Sign of Sure, and that Mirror. (Only Dad says another, very bad word along with that Mirror, so Lizzie knows they’ve totally forgotten she’s there.) Dad aims a finger at Mom. You didn’t mind using the Mirror when you needed it. But I suppose that’s okay, right? Because you’re just so good at knowing when to stop. You’ve got so much self-control. Dad’s laugh is crackly as a crow’s. Take a look at your arms, Meredith, and then tell me you know how and when to stop.
That’s not fair. That was different. I was different then. I was … Mom’s mouth quivers, and her eyes have that confused look again, as if she’s been telling a fib and lost the thread of the lie. I was—her mouth twists as she works to knot words together—we were … that is, I had to … I was trying to …
What, Meredith? What did you have to do? What are you remembering? Now Dad looks a little excited, like he wants to grab Mom’s arms again but doesn’t dare because he might break some spell. Tell me, Meredith; tell me fast. Don’t hold back.
Hold back? I … Mom hugs her middle the way Lizzie does when she has a tummy-ache. I don’t understand. Why are you badgering me like this? I don’t know what you want me to say.
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.