Written Out

Lilith Everett was an unremarkable girl with a remarkable secret. She had gone through her 19 years without money, faith, or other such inconveniences, and had developed a sharp wit, a sharper temper, and a deep attachment to things that weren’t really there. She guarded her secret like some people guarded their life’s savings, and she never, ever turned out her lamps at night.

On this dull, grey Sunday, Lilith Everett was in a library. She hadn't intended to be in this particular library, although she was certainly not disappointed to be there. As she wandered the stacks, she was struck by the series of coincidences that had lead her here: the freak gust of air which had ripped her hat from her hand and forced her to chase after it; the mysterious man in the black overcoat that had distracted her by solemnly pointing down a dark and winding alley; and of course, the sudden mid-July snowstorm which had forced her to take shelter in the nearest building —in this case, of course, the library.

Lilith Everett had learned not to question these kinds of coincidences.

Now, however, she was wondering if she should start questioning. As she wound through the dark shelves of the exceptionally silent library, she could feel the weight of her secret pressing down on her. She had lost sight of the door through which she had come, and she had a feeling that the way out would not be easy to come by.

It had been ten years, two months, seventeen days, thirteen hours, forty two minutes and eight (now nine) seconds since Lilith’s mother had killed herself. Since she had grown tired of the world, tired of responsibility, tired of Lilith. It is worth noting that it had only been one day, eleven hours, six minutes and twelve seconds since Lilith had last talked to her mother; but that, of course, was Lilith’s secret.

Something was singing softly to Lilith from down one of the narrow aisles. Not singing out loud, per se, but certainly ringing in light tones through her mind. Seeing no better alternative, she followed the sound. As she walked, she could feel someone pacing beside her. By the time she reached the nondescript black door from which the song came, the pacing had become louder, and was accompanied with gentle breathing.

Lilith whirled. “Mother,” she barked into the emptiness, “can’t you see I’m busy?”

Lilith’s mother materialized in thin air before her. She looked exactly as she had when she’d died: frazzled, pale, and trapped in a motherhood she never asked for. Today, however, she seemed to carry a bit more of an edge of annoyance with her than usual.

“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, girl,” said Lilith’s mother disapprovingly. “What’s beyond that door will change everything.”

“Maybe I want things to change,” Lilith replied stiffly. “Maybe I’m tired of this secret. Maybe I want my secret to be something normal, like never learning how to swim or un-ironically liking some pop star. Maybe I don’t want my secret to be you.”

“You know how to swim,” said Lilith’s mother (or what was left of her).

“Not the point.”

“I don’t even know what’s behind that door,” Lilith’s mother continued. “I haven’t been able to see anything since you came into the library.”

“What is this place, anyway?” Lilith asked, glancing up to where the ceiling disappeared in the gloom.

“It’s somewhere In Between,” said her mother. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Lilith scowled and turned to face the door again.

“Be careful,” said her mother, and there was something in her voice that made Lilith turn and look back at her.

“I will.”

She opened the door.

Down a long corridor, in a barren room, on a small round table, in a pool of warm white light that seemed to come from nowhere, sat a small black book. Time seemed to swallow itself as Lilith crossed the room and placed her hand on its soft cover. She felt the warmth it had gathered from sitting in that unending stream of light.

“Mother?”

There was no response from that empty room. Lilith suddenly felt something akin to the way she’d felt when she had been four and had lost hold of her mother’s hand in the supermarket. Her palms filled with nothing, and the emptiness in the air smothered her, drawing too close for comfort. She was never alone, not like this, not since that horrible, guilt-ridden day ten years ago when she thought she’d lost her mother forever, and had instead found herself irrevocably bound to her spirit. Only her palm against the warm cover of the book felt anchored in that impossibly empty room.

She opened the book.

Lilith Everett was not a creative person. She had never composed a song, or painted a picture. She had certainly never written a story. But by the time she left the tiny room, the little black book was full of writing. Years later, she would barely be able to remember what she wrote; only that she had sat in the room for hours, not feeling the cramping of her hand, barely noticing hunger or thirst. She emerged from the library, blinking, into the dawn of a new day, clutching the small black book in her hand. Her mother was waiting for her on the curb.

“Well?” Lilith started at the word. Her mother frowned at her. “I suppose you didn’t expect to see me anymore.”

“I suppose I didn’t,” Lilith responded, not meeting her mother’s gaze.

“You wrote me out, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not entirely,” said Lilith uncomfortably. “I just can’t… need you so much anymore.”

Her mother didn’t speak for a long moment. There was something soft around her edges, something smoky. She seemed to shimmer in the air.

“Do you understand it?” she asked, after a long while. Lilith performed something in between a head shake and a shrug. Her mother nodded solemnly. “Neither do I. Not really. But it’ll happen, you know. Whatever you write.”

“Why aren’t you gone then?” Lilith asked, suddenly cruel and somehow not caring. “I didn’t get rid of you entirely, but I’m not supposed to see you anymore.”

“I think…” her mother’s eyes, although blurry like the rest of her, seemed oddly bright. “I think that I’m not letting it get rid of me.”

Lilith stiffened. “I don’t think that’s your choice to make. I found the book. I wrote in it. I get to choose. I can’t have you around anymore.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, you know,” her mother said, almost pleadingly. “I wasn’t supposed to stay with you. But I said no, I said she needs me, I said I made a mistake, I went too soon. Aren’t you grateful? Aren’t you glad I stayed?”

For a split second, Lilith was that little girl in the supermarket again, desperate to take her mother’s hand. She saw her nine-year-old self in the chair at the hospital, meeting the ghost of her mother for the first time, begging to know why, why, why. She remembered the blank faces of the men at the morgue, and the way her secret had filled the hole in her heart as her mother’s coffin was lowered into the ground. A second later though, she shook her head.

“I don’t know who I am without you, Mother. I want to be just me. Just Lilith.”

Lilith’s mother stared at her for one more long moment, then pressed her lips together.

“Fine. Give me that.” She extended her nearly transparent fingers for the book. Lilith pressed it to her chest almost instinctively. Her mother beckoned impatiently, a bit of her usual brusqueness returning. “Oh come on girl, give it here.” Lilith reluctantly handed over the book, fattened with her wishes and dreams. Her mother flipped through it, nodding at some pages and frowning at others.

“I didn’t know you wanted to play the piano,” she commented, reaching the page where Lilith had written of all the music she would suddenly be able to share with the world.

“There’s a lot of things you didn’t know, Mother,” said Lilith. She felt as though her world had tipped violently on its side and was only waiting for one tiny push to entirely collapse and transform into something entirely new.

“I suppose those are all good things to have in your life,” her mother said finally, passing the book back to Lilith. “There’s one thing you didn’t write in there. Something most people would’ve wished for.”

Lilith stared blankly at her. Her mother huffed impatiently. “Goodness, girl, you never were very practical.” Before Lilith could resist, her mother yanked the book back from her. “Do you have a pen?”

“Mother, this is my story. I’ve written it. You can’t add to it.”

“Lilith,” said her mother, “give me a pen.” There was something in her gaze, something steely and desperate, something unspeakably sad yet tremendously joyful, something proud and fierce and determined. Lilith handed her the pen.

“I am not going to be able to stay any longer, no matter how tight I hold,” said Lilith’s mother matter-of-factly, beginning to write. “I’ve wanted to do this for you for so long, girl. You’re everything I never got to be, you know. Even when you hated me, you were so much more than I had ever dreamed of. You’re right. You can’t need me anymore. I read this book, and I see all the things you want to do, and I know you’re going to do them with or without the magic this book holds. But damnit girl, you’ve never been practical. So I’ll do what I wish I could’ve done when I was alive, what I should’ve worked for instead of taking the easy route and dying. I might as well.” Lilith couldn’t remember the last time her mother had spoken so much. By the time she reached the end and handed back the book, her mother was barely an outline in the air.

The last page was open, and in her sharp, no-nonsense handwriting, her mother had written two simple sentences:

I have inherited five million dollars from my mother. She will support me for the rest of my life.

Lilith stared at the words. Her mother had been right; she hadn’t put anything as practical as money into the Book That Made Things True. But now, she would never even have to think about money again.

“Mother…”

“I’m sorry, Lilith. Did I ever tell you how sorry I was? I wish I hadn’t done it. I really do.” Her mother’s voice was barely a whisper. “Use it well, my love.” The wind spun around Lilith, and something warm and fleeting seemed to brush her wet cheek.

Then her mother was gone.

Lilith stood still for another long moment. Her head felt oddly quiet. She looked down at the book in her hand and realized with a start that it had started to crumble, pieces breaking off into nothing. She could almost feel her pockets growing heavier with new wealth, her empty hands filling with dreams about to be realized. The sun was rising.

Down a corridor, in a barren room, on a small round table sits a blank black book.