The Spaces Between Us Read online

  In the present, Jacqueline came through the door with her fancy luggage, fancy husband, and fancy children. Her husband’s name was Richardson, not Richard, or Rich. Definitely not Rich, because that would be gauche. Formally, his name was C. Richardson Winstead. Marc forgot what the C stood for as it was said just once during their wedding ceremony. Gracie didn't care and offered her own suggestion privately.

  Jacqueline’s twin children filed in last: Monroe and Millie. Marc said hello. Gracie grunted something while not looking up from her tablet. Agnes, Marc’s other sister, waved hello and smiled.

  Gracie had nicknames for everybody. Agnes was Agnes the Ghost, Agnes Who, and Oh Yeah, Agnes. Marc wasn’t inclined to such meanness with his sisters, but he had to laugh when Gracie cracked off a good one. To be fair, as fair as one could be about one’s own family, Agnes really did seem to excel at fading into the background. Marc had a feeling that he could make a small fortune with Agnes-branded wallpaper. “When neutral tones aren’t dull enough.” Agnes could speak, she just did it quietly, and rarely in front of a group. For her part, Agnes preferred to be ignored and left alone. Sadly, throughout her academic life, her teachers kept choosing her to read aloud to the classroom.

  Marc was Middle Marc. And true to form, Middle Marc got middle marks. Average grades, average looks, and average accomplishments. He wouldn’t win any awards, but he’d play the game, or compete in the contest, and while arguably it could be said he gave it his best effort, his best efforts put him firmly in the middle of the pack.

  He got a Bachelor of Science degree at Middle Tennessee State, to Gracie’s amusement. Jacqueline gently encouraged Marc to improve his performance for a shot at the Ivies, but he felt that was too much pressure. Marc didn’t need to be the top of anything, but he did enjoy playing along with whatever it was: School, sports, fun. When he moved into the second floor of a three-story apartment building on his very own lease as soon as he could afford it, Gracie accused him of trolling.

  As for Agnes, she was currently attending night school earning some degree or another—nobody really cared enough to get the facts—while working as a part-time research assistant by day.

  Marc’s review of the sibling roster was interrupted by a hand thrust out toward him by Richardson, freshly divested of his coat, and sporting a black turtleneck tucked into noticeably pressed denim pants—not jeans. Jeans were cheap. A personal shopper hand-selected these from the R. Culver collection and were called something like “ancient harvest threadings”. When Marc saw the price tag he lost interest in the catalog.

  “Hello, Marcus, how’re things?” Marc wasn’t short for Marcus.

  “Fine. How was the drive?”

  “Smooth and predictable, just like I like it. How’s DRC doing? Any new advancements?”

  Marc worked for a mid-sized company called Dynamic Range Consultants, which dealt with lots of spreadsheets and numbers, numbers, numbers. Jacqueline would have been in ecstasy talking to the principals at the firm about logarithmic multiplexing or whatever they talk about at that level. Marc just liked the work and the pay was alright.

  “Um, no, not that I can think of… there’s something going on with recaptured range indexing, but it hasn’t really sunk to my level yet. There’s going to be training ramping up in January.”

  Richardson nodded along, and his face went from showing genuine interest to genuine disappointment, like someone who asked Agnes if she wanted to go throw a football around.

  “Hmmm. I wonder if that’s anything at all like recaptured range declassification. Honey, have you heard of this?” Richardson hailed his spouse like a taxi, and like a taxi, Jacqueline was already booked. She waved off her husband’s summons and discussed other matters with Mother.

  Richardson opted for a graceful exit and pulled his phone out of his back pocket. “Hmmm. I bet it's very similar. I wonder what DRC is up to.” He walked away, engrossed in his key learnings.

  “Paqditili,” said a younger voice in Marc’s ear.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Exactly.” Monroe strutted away with a smug grin, having shown up one of the grown-ups.

  “It’s Assyrian, you know,” declared Millie.

  Gracie let out a groan. “Yeah, because Assyrian is how everybody is speaking these days. For-tuuuune, come take your spoiled brats back to the Genius Factory or whatever boarding school you ship them to these days.”

  “Push B’shena!” Millie stuck out her tongue and skipped off into the back room.

  Gracie rolled her eyes. Marc let out an easy chuckle. Agnes looked around the room and said nothing.

  Getting the Morris family around the same table was theoretically possible but rarely graceful. Jacqueline’s punishing work schedule did not normally render her available for functions that didn’t involve giving or receiving awards for business excellence. Once everyone was seated, Mother spoke. “It’s so nice to have everyone under one roof for a change. Agnes, won’t you say grace?”

  Agnes turned pale and looked down at her empty plate. “Oh, most heavenly God, we thank you for these blessings, amen.”

  Mother opened one eye, then looked up from her clasped hands. “Is that all? It’s Christmastime, Agnes, that’s not going to do.”

  Millie took the initiative. “May I say the blessing, Grandma Morris?”

  Mother’s approval beamed across the table. “Of course you may, Millicent. If that’s alright with you, Agnes.” Agnes nodded, fixated on her plate.

  Millie broke out into full-on Hebrew, or at least that was Marc’s conclusion. It sounded Hebrew, at any rate, and the only recognizable part of the incantation was “Amen”, which was probably spoken for the benefit of the non-Specials.

  “Amen,” said the family. Gracie muttered, “Are you effing kidding me?”

  After dinner, the family gathered around the Christmas tree to exchange gifts. The tree was rather imposing, standing at least nine feet tall and giving the impression of being real, but was a very expensive fake.

  Jacqueline gave everybody business books. Not textbooks, but flashy paperbacks with titles like Own Your Potential or Secrets of an Over-Achiever. Agnes got Word Power: Speaking Your Way to Success which she accepted graciously. Marc got Step Up and Step Out: How to Confidently Achieve More in Business… and in Life.

  Jacqueline gazed expectantly at her younger brother. “It’s really good… even I found some helpful advice in there.”

  Gracie smirked. “What did you get for Christmas, Marc? Oh, my know-it-all sister gave me really good advice. I use it as a coaster.” Father shot Gracie a stern look, but she continued. “What did you get, Gracie? Oh, everyone else gave me really thoughtful gifts, except for Fortune, who re-gifted her bookshelf.”

  “Enough, Lauren.” Father wasn’t having it. Not on Christmas.

  Gracie slumped in her seat, shamed by his use of her real name. “Yay for books,” she said, and twirled a finger.

  Agnes tried to break the tension. “I could definitely use help with public speaking. And I like books. I’ve been reading lately about increasing your perception, and seeing the—”

  “Time for the real gifts. Here you go, one apiece, no shoving.” Gracie passed out her pile to everyone. Jacqueline and her family only got one item, raising some eyebrows. All the gifts were wrapped in different papers, in varying sized boxes. Marc’s was rather large, cutting against the Middle Marc stereotype Gracie did her best to perpetuate.

  There were groans all around as everyone received the same thing: An 8x10” photo of a winking Gracie shooting double gun-fingers at the camera. She signed each one “Merry Christmas from your favorite sister.” Mother and Father got a painted porcelain centerpiece.

  Gracie didn’t make much money at her part-time job at the skating rink, but she did her best with what she had.

  CHAPTER 2: AGNES THE GHOST

  Agnes gave Christmas gifts to her family as well. Her dual roles as research assistant and part-time student didn’t bless her w
ith loads of money either, but like her younger sister Gracie she made the best with what she had. Unfortunately, the best she had to give was nothing anybody wanted.

  For example, unlike Gracie she made sure each member of the Winstead branch of the family each got something to open. The kids got Sudoku activity books but wanted tickets to the Met so they could see the Mysteries of Mongolia exhibit. Richardson got a faux leather planner but lived and died by his smartphone. Jacqueline got Mandalas for Restful Relaxation, Vol XXVII and a pack of colored pencils, but she had an art collector on retainer. “Thanks, Agnes,” they groaned.

  Agnes nodded and said, “You’re welcome.”

  Mother got a set of pot holders with a frog and butterfly motif, but she didn’t cook and hated frogs. “They’re so slimy,” she’d say, if ever the subject arose. “Thanks, Agnes,” she groaned.

  Agnes nodded and said, “You’re welcome.”

  Father got a long box. “I hope it’s that new graphite driver I’ve been dreaming about,” he said. For a moment, even Gracie thought just once Agnes came through with the best gift ever. Sadly, she did not. Father got a solar light kit to put out in the garden, with a blue glowing orb at the end, or it would eventually light up blue and glow at night, once the solar cell charged the 4-hour battery, if anyone cared to put in the effort. “Thanks, Agnes,” he groaned.

  Agnes smiled and said, “I thought it would look good next to your tomato plants. You’re welcome.”

  Father didn’t do any gardening. Father did have a garden that he paid a yard service to set up and maintain. If anyone was going to appreciate the new light fixture it was Ezekiel, the yard service foreman, and he didn’t come around at night—and it was winter. There wasn’t going to be a garden for months, not that there would have been golf today either.

  Marc got a set of four coasters, trimmed in wood with cork centers.

  Gracie couldn’t resist. “Looks like you’ll have to read Fortune’s present after all. No excuse now, using it for a coaster!”

  Marc said “Right? I actually needed these. Thanks, Agnes.”

  Agnes nodded and said, “You’re welcome.” She had remembered the time she was over to see Marc’s new apartment and she asked for a coaster and he said he didn’t have any. She simply cupped her free hand under her drink until she finished with it.

  As for Gracie, she got a DVD titled How to Fade Hair. Gracie liked to play around with hair dye, and she worked at the roller rink to stay close to her local roller derby sisterhood. She’d once made the mistake of saying, in Agnes’s presence, “I wonder how they do hair fades.” She could have looked it up. Instead, to her bemusement, Gracie got a coaster. Two, if she took the DVD out of the box. “Oh Agnes, you really shouldn’t have!”

  Agnes nodded and said, “You’re welcome.”

  Agnes received gifts as well, and nobody put in much of an effort. The Winsteads gave Agnes the public speaking book. The kids pooled their resources and got her a decorative candle. Agnes’s eyes lit up as though the candle were lit, and the lights had all gone out at once, and she said, “Thank you.”

  Mother and Father pooled their signatures on a Christmas card that had a gift card in it to the No Bull Smokehouse. Agnes was a vegetarian. Father thought “No Bull” was both a play on “noble” and that they didn’t serve meat there. He was half right. Agnes was in for $50 of disappointment, that is, if she would let on that she was disappointed. Her eyes lit up like she had been given a no-limit credit card and directions to the high-end mall in Waterton, and she said, “Thank you.”

  Marc got her a reed diffuser set. It was lavender scented. Gracie said, “Middle Marc went all out to find the most adequate gift.” Father shot her another look but didn’t interfere. Agnes clutched the box to her chest gratefully and said, “Thank you.”

  When Gracie gave Agnes the autographed photo of herself, she selected the worst frame and the blurriest photo of the series. Gracie shot double gun-fingers at her, winked, and said, “Yep, that’s really me in there.”

  Agnes ran her thin fingers along the edge of the frame and said, “Thank you.”

  The holiday festivities wound down and the family began to fragment and start seeking out their temporary or long-term living quarters. Gracie and Agnes still lived at home. Marc still had his old room, complete with neatly hung posters of rock bands and Italian sports cars. Gracie tried to tell the Winsteads that Father had put them up in the stables, but Mother insisted that she play the good hostess and guide them to their rooms, upstairs and to the left. Gracie grudgingly complied and led them noisily up the stairs.

  After some time, Agnes was left alone. Having been evicted from her bedroom by the Winsteads, she prepared to sleep on the downstairs sofa. She had put her pillow and a spare blanket on one of the cushions. But first, she pulled a spiral notebook out of a knit bag, sat down at a nearby writing desk, found a pen that worked, and waited. After a short time, she began to write:

  Hello again, Agnes.

  Hi

  Image hopes you have had an enjoyable day.

  I did - lots of presents, good dinner, can’t complain

  Image is pleased for you. Now we will continue with your lessons.

  Agnes wrote for about an hour, then she put the pen down, closed her notebook titled IMAGE ONE, slipped it back into her knit bag, and was soon fast asleep, smiling.

  CHAPTER 3: GRACIE IS GOING PLACES

  Agnes was awakened by the younger Winsteads the following morning. She pulled some errant brown hair strands away from her face and greeted the pair with a pleasant smile. “Oh… it’s morning.”

  Monroe stomped along like someone testing the floor for weak points. Millie glanced in Agnes’s general direction. “Buon giorno.”

  Agnes’s eyes widened. “I seem to have awoken in Tuscany.”

  Millie had already left the room, calling out for her parents. “Momm…. Daaad… let’s goooo, all of the good after-Christmas sales are going to be over by the time we get there!”

  Monroe picked up his next-generation ARCTURUS tablet—each of the Winsteads had their own—flipped through some of the apps, then tossed it aside. He flopped on the nearest sofa and aired his own frustrations. “Sooooo booored… come onnn Mommm…!”

  After a short delay, Richardson came down the stairs, tucking his shirts into another brand-new pair of pricey pants. “Alright, kids, it’s just going to be us three. Your mother is tied up with work.” Richardson reached for his coat. Millie crossed her arms and stamped her foot. Monroe slid off the sofa like he had melted completely away.

  Richardson finished putting on his coat, then dropped to one knee. “Team up. Family huddle.” Millie refused to budge, staring crossly at her father. Monroe raised one foot to signal that he wasn’t entirely dead yet. Richardson waved his hands inward. “Team up, let’s go. Come on Millie, come on Monroe, huddle up.”

  Monroe deigned to rise from the floor and moped his way over to his father’s outstretched arms. Millie took a half step closer, just enough for Richardson to grab hold of her and pull her toward him. Richardson bowed his head close to their ears and spoke in a soft, tender tone. Agnes watched from the next room, silently.

  The children began to whine, and Richardson cooed to them. “Mommy works very hard. And, listen to me, when she’s on the sidelines, we’ve got to be a team and support each other, okay? I’ll take you to the sales and you can get anything you want, okay? Daddy and Mommy are a team. I need you to be on the team with Daddy. Are you on Daddy’s team?” Millie nodded and sniffed. Monroe looked at the carpet and fussed with his zipper. “Come on, team Daddy. What do you say?”

  Millie let out a stern “fine.” Monroe just nodded sullenly and ran his zipper up and down.

  “Okay, that’s my girl. Get your coat, come on, let’s find something good.”

  The kids were out the door in a flash. Richardson patted his pocket to make sure he had his wallet and jingled his car keys. He spotted Agnes standing in the next room. “Morni
ng.” He paused, then looked around dazedly. “The kids are waiting.” He didn’t feel as though there was anything to feel embarrassed about, but somehow, he just couldn’t pull off a graceful exit. He bumped his forehead with the inner door, then slipped painfully around it out into the icy morning. Agnes smiled and gave a little wave.

  Agnes heard more footsteps on the stairs. This time it was Gracie, running her fingers through her dark hair, her eyes barely open. She wore a roller derby t-shirt, sweat shorts and fluffy socks. “Oh God, those brats. That family. It’s too effing early for that racket.”

  Shortly thereafter, Agnes heard a coffee mug being removed from the mug tree, and the single-serve coffee maker serving up the full 10 ounces. Tink tink tink… that was the sugar being spooned into the mug. Tink tink tink… now the creamer was being stirred in with the sugar. Agnes padded into the kitchen to the sight of her younger sister holding her coffee mug with both hands, sipping it like a holy elixir.

  “Mmmph,” said Gracie through her next sip of coffee.

  Agnes knew that was “good morning” in Gracie-speak, as she normally didn’t get going until at least noon. Even though she had retired at the same time as everyone else the night before, Agnes assumed she probably listened to music with her earbuds in, randomly surfed the net, or watched videos. Perhaps all at once.

  Agnes was getting ready to make plain oatmeal to have with plain yogurt and plain tea, as she did every morning. After a few more sips of her coffee, Gracie spoke to her. “Agnes, honey, please promise me you won’t bear demon spawn like those two. Or marry an empty suit like Lord High Rich-bastard.”

  Agnes smiled and poured exactly 1 cup of cold water into a small saucepan.