The Spaces Between Us

by Ethan Johnson

  “I’m serious. They haven’t even been here a full day and I’m already wishing they’d pack up their richy-rich trunk show and leave me the hell alone.”

  Agnes smiled and placed the saucepan on the stove and turned the burner on to medium. Gracie paced back and forth, taking sips of her wake-up juice.

  “Fortune and her rich husband were arguing about something last night. I had to crank up the tunes to drown them out.”

  Agnes smiled and waited for exactly 1 cup of cold water to boil. Gracie paced back and forth for a few moments, then shook her head vigorously.

  “Gaaah, I really don’t see what she sees in him. Get a damn divorce. Take half of his investments. Whatever, just leave me in peace.”

  Agnes smiled and stirred in exactly one-half cup of steel-cut oats.

  “And do you know what really burns me up? Fortune. She actually told me once that I wasn’t going to amount to anything unless I got a fancy degree and moved to fancy Manhattan and got a fancy makeover and put on a mating dance for stupid rich dudes with trust funds and boats.”

  Agnes smiled and turned off the burner.

  “Well, let me tell you something. I don’t need a degree, or fancy clothes, or a penthouse in Manhattan to be successful in life. And I certainly don’t need a man. I’m Gracie Effing Morris. I’m going places!”

  Agnes smiled and dished up her oatmeal.

  Gracie glanced up at the air vent in the ceiling. She knew it connected somehow to Jacqueline’s room. If she would have kept quiet for all of thirty seconds, she might have heard Jacqueline speaking to somebody on her phone, using words like “just left” and “suspects something.” Gracie caught Agnes making the connection, and continued her rant, a touch louder.

  “I don’t care if she’s listening! To hell with her fancy ass, or back to Wall Street. I don’t care. Just get out of my life!”

  Gracie slammed her mug down on the counter top. Agnes smiled and blew a little on her spoonful of oatmeal. Gracie cleaned up the coffee that splashed onto the counter top with a piece of paper towel, then she put the nearly empty mug in the sink. “I’m sorry, she just really pisses me off sometimes.”

  Agnes smiled and scooped up another spoonful of oatmeal. Gracie twirled around on her tip-toe a few times and glanced up at the kitchen clock.

  “I’m going to Lacey’s.”

  Agnes smiled and scraped along the edge of the bowl with her spoon, collecting up another bite.

  “Good talk.” Gracie flitted away, back up the stairs. Agnes smiled and finished off her bowl of oatmeal. She sat back, contented. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and listened.

  CHAPTER 4: WHERE FORTUNE SMILES

  Jacqueline sat on the edge of the bed, listening to a man’s voice well-entrenched in a monologue. Fourth quarter projections. Stretch goals. Strategic alignments. She nodded along, tapping her organizer with the blunt end of her pen. Good stuff, she thought, except Distribution needed to be moved to its own balance sheet. She’d mention that at the right time. Best not to break in now. That would be pushy. Yes, she was on the advisory board, but that didn’t mean talk over the president.

  If large banks were too big to fail, fledgling start-ups were too small to succeed. They wouldn’t reach the tipping point on their own. They needed to be pushed, pulled, and driven until they finally weaned themselves from venture capital and started richly rewarding their angel investors. This meant morning meetings on December 26. Sacrifices had to be made, even by the senior leadership.

  Jacqueline nearly missed her break. She pressed the mute button on her ARCTURUS VII phone and inhaled. “Yes, Jacqueline Morris-Winstead here. Could we add moving Distribution to its own P&L to our Q1 deliverables? (Pause.) No, I really think we need to be aggressive and target Q1. I think we can get that done, don’t you, Phillip? (Pause.) Excellent, I’ll be looking forward to seeing the updated project plan. (Pause.) No, that’s all I had for today. (Pause, laugh.) No, no after-Christmas sales for me, I’m afraid. I’ve got a ten-thirty and eleven-fifteen yet to go. (Pause.) Well, you enjoy your day off too, everybody. Good work!”

  Jacqueline held the phone away from her ear as a flurry of beeps signaled that the conference call was emptying out. A man’s voice cut through the noise. She smiled and twirled her hair with her pen. “Yes, Phillip, I’m working remotely, so call my cell.”

  A man’s voice acknowledged the request. Jacqueline terminated the call, then realized she hadn’t taken the time to brush her teeth. Normally, morning yoga would have been done, a nice organic breakfast consumed, and then her car service would shuttle her over to one of her offices. She glanced at her phone and decided to at least wipe off her teeth with a tissue.

  Not a moment too soon, she thought, as her caller ID read PHILLIP – MERCURIO ATLAN.

  “This is Jacqueline.” A man’s voice buzzed in her ear. “That’s okay, I have a minute.”

  The man’s voice replied, followed by the sound of a door closing. The man’s voice resumed. Jacqueline listened, mostly, except for occasional prompts, like “What?” and “Are you sure?” The man’s voice softened. Jacqueline wiped away a tear.

  “Phillip, I have to go. I’m about to be late for my ten-thirty.”

  The line went silent, then the call terminated, with no assistance from Jacqueline. She tossed the phone aside, flopped backward onto the bed, and exhaled.

  CHAPTER 5: CATCHING UP

  Marc joined the living shortly after Gracie had trudged off to her friend Lacey’s. He was dressed for the day. He brought his bag down with him and set it by the front door. Marc had work on Monday, and despite the air pocket between Christmas and New Year’s Day where nothing was going to get done anyway, he had burned through all his vacation time and was left to fill his seat for the remainder of the year.

  Agnes greeted him and offered plain tea. Marc declined the offer and headed for the single-serve coffee maker. He preferred black coffee and served himself a cup. They were soon seated together in the living room, each with a hot drink.

  Marc stared out the bay window, looking at the postcard view of glistening snow banks and black lamp posts at intervals. Agnes sat apart from him, quietly sipping her tea.

  After finishing his first cup of coffee, Marc went to the kitchen for a refill, not asking Agnes if she wanted anything. When he returned, he saw her sitting there and raised his cup in a salutary gesture. She smiled back but kept her tea mug cupped in her hands, which in turn rested on her lap. Marc felt as though he should say something, anything.

  “So, how’s night school going?”

  Agnes looked surprised that anyone cared enough to ask. “It’s going well. Challenging.”

  “What are you taking this semester?”

  “Applied Metaphysics.”

  Was Agnes making a joke? Marc couldn’t tell. “Wait, aren’t you going to Van Buren Community College? I thought they only offered the usual Associate’s degree programs there.”

  “I was. I transferred.”

  “Transferred where?” Marc took an intent pull of his coffee.

  “It’s nothing you’ve heard of. It’s a self-directed study program, mostly.” She smiled again, but it differed from her usual. Marc wasn’t aware that Agnes was anything other than an open book, and that open book was always turned to the chapter about how paint dries.

  “So, wait, you’re doing a self-directed study course in Applied Metaphysics? Is that, like, Scientology, or something?”

  “Or something.”

  Marc leaned back in his seat a bit. This was not the sort of conversation he was expecting to have with any of his family members this weekend. Hell, this was more than he and Agnes had said to each other all year, combined.

  Agnes leaned forward a bit. “Thank you for showing an interest, Marc. Nobody ever asks.”

  Marc finished a sip of coffee quickly. “Sure thing.”

  “And no, I didn’t transfer out of Van Buren. I have 39 credit hours. Still a long way to go until I get
my Associate’s.” She sipped her tea.

  Marc feigned outrage. “You lied? Then I really don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “It’s more fun, pretending that Math 141 is for something more interesting than an Associate’s degree.”

  Marc chuckled. The Queen of Boring fantasizes about making math interesting. “So, are you going to go for a Bachelor’s after that? I can put in a good word for you at Middle Tennessee, maybe.”

  Agnes smiled, but it seemed bittersweet somehow. “That’s nice of you to offer. One thing I’ve learned lately is that everyone has their own chosen path. I can’t walk in yours any more than you can walk in mine.”

  “Is that the sort of thing they teach you in Applied Metaphysics?”

  “No, I read it someplace.”

  Marc really didn’t know what to make of all of this. Nobody talked to Agnes, and she didn’t talk to anybody else. Or if she did, he wasn’t around to see it happen. And it’s not like Gracie filled their weekly phone chats in with Stuff Our Sister Says. Maybe Gracie was holding out and saving a trove of stories for her future fictionalized yet compelling autobiography, starring Agnes as the plucky comic relief. Marc snorted a laugh into his coffee but tried to pass it off as a cough.

  He was struck by an uncomfortable realization: Where was Gracie? After a year of not seeing each other, he was surprised at her absence now. They were running out of time to hang out together before he was back at the airport, then home. He looked up at Agnes, and saw her face screwing up. Tears dripped down onto her pale cheeks, and her shoulders shuddered, but she didn’t cry out.

  Marc set his coffee mug aside and stepped forward, dropping to one knee, doing his best to be comforting to his unfamiliar sibling. He wasn’t tight with Jacqueline either, but she was married with two kids and three jobs at last count. Agnes was more of a backdrop to the rest of the family than an active participant. But she was family, and Marc resolved to honor that bond.

  “Hey… hey, what’s wrong, Agnes?”

  She sniffed and wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. Marc stared intently, filled with concern, but also bewilderment. How had they arrived here? They were having what could be objectively called a “nice chat” when suddenly Agnes was blanketed by an almost funereal aura, not that Marc made a habit of seeing auras. He didn’t know how else to comprehend this sudden and dramatic change in the sibling most noted for being the least noteworthy of them all.

  Agnes stiffened up a bit and became impassive. When she spoke, her voice was pancake flat, and she stared off into the middle distance, as though Marc wasn’t there. “You... must... be strong... for your sister,” she intoned.

  Marc cocked his head slightly, unsure of the message, or the messenger. Was Agnes having some sort of episode? The voice was hers, but it was different. Almost as if someone else were borrowing her body. She… or it, continued. “You… have much… to learn.”

  Agnes stopped speaking and continued to stare off into space. Marc struggled to comprehend what was going on. Gracie hadn’t said anything about Agnes having any sort of mental problems, and certainly nothing about any medications she was on, or should have been taking. No, Gracie would have found a nickname that fit, had she known. It might have been more mean-spirited than affectionate, depending on Gracie’s mood, but she would have said something.

  Marc squeezed Agnes’s arm. “Agnes... Agnes, are you okay? I am strong. I’m here for you. Tell me what I can do to help you.” She turned sharply to look him in the eyes. Her eyes were darker now. Looking directly into them Marc felt as though he was peering into another dimension. This was not his sister, not now. But who? Or what?

  Agnes closed her eyes and went limp. The dregs of her tea trickled down her leg. Marc shook Agnes gently, then more vigorously.

  “Agnes! Agnes! What is it? What’s wrong with you? Tell me how to help you. I’ll do anything, just tell me what to do! Agnes!”

  Agnes did not respond and laid on the floor like a discarded toy. Marc checked for breathing, then a pulse. Agnes was alive, just unconscious, to his great relief, as first aid was never his strong suit. This didn’t seem like a stroke, and that was all he could remember from something he saw on a poster somewhere.

  Marc wondered if he ought to call 911. Was this just a fainting spell? It couldn’t have been… not with the monotone and the way she stared into nothingness. And what exactly just happened? Was Agnes possessed somehow? Marc hadn’t thought that was possible, horror movies aside. It didn’t seem Satanic, whatever it was, and wait, why was he thinking there was an “it” involved? Because Agnes was boring and predictable, that’s why. And her eyes! They… changed somehow. But who would believe him? And how could he explain it? Maybe he needed to check himself in somewhere too. Then again, maybe his parents might be aware of this. Maybe they would know what she forgot to take and where it was in the medicine cabinet. They were out doing their own after-Christmas bargain hunting, but one of them would answer.

  Marc fingered his cell phone, deciding on what number to dial, when he spied Agnes’s knit bag on the floor beside the sofa in the next room. Maybe she had something in there, a wallet at least. Maybe one of those “known issues” cards that might give a clue as to what was afflicting her. He dumped the bag out onto the floor and rummaged around. No pills. He did find a wallet, which contained Agnes’s student ID and a few crumpled dollar bills. The only other item was a spiral notebook, face-down on the carpeting.

  Marc reached down and picked it up. The cover showed a few signs of wear but no doodling or similar markings. Just a neatly lettered title in black marker: IMAGE ONE. Marc was about to open the notebook when a hand reached over and pulled it away. Agnes held the notebook to her chest and smiled.

  “This isn’t for you,” she said.

  CHAPTER 6: THE REPLACEMENTS

  Gracie wasn’t really “Gracie”. Her real name was Lauren Michele, but her chosen name came by way of Uncle Al, who would conclude his occasional visits with his best George Burns impression. “Say g’night, Gracie,” he’d say with a wide grin, expecting her to get the reference. “Night, Uncle Al,” she’d reply, then run off to bed, to his great disappointment. On the upside, he delivered the bulk of Henny Youngman’s greatest lines as if they were his alone, to an uninformed audience. Mother called Uncle Al “Henny”, Uncle Al called Lauren Michele “Gracie” and Gracie called her girlfriend “Lacey”, who since birth was Aimee.

  Continuing the trend, Gracie and Lacey were just friends in public, and madly in love in private. Sometimes Gracie would provoke her with talk of just getting it over with and living “out and proud”, to hell what anyone else thought. Lacey would get upset, shushing her at the skating rink concession stand, lest anyone hear, or more accurately, give a damn about it. This was the home of the Roller Vixxxns, a derby crew housing—by their estimation—four lesbian couples with varying degrees of commitment. Lacey joined the crew at Gracie’s urging. When she made the cut during tryouts, Lacey was told to come up with a derby name before the next bout against the Bristol Rollergrrls.

  “What kind of name? You mean like ‘Lady Gaga’?”

  “No, something a little dirtier.” The captain smacked Lacey’s right breast. “If it were up to me, you’d be ‘Bettie Boobs’. See? Something like that.”

  Lacey blushed, and said she’d think of something and let her know, but she never got the chance.

  Gracie said, within earshot of the captain, “Lacey Undergarments.”

  Lacey shot her a horrified look and mouthed, “Not in public!”

  The captain looked Lacey up and down, gave an approving smile and added a note to her clipboard. “Welcome aboard, Lacey.”

  And from that day, Gracie got a thrill hearing Lacey’s derby name being called on the PA system at the rink, her secret exposed, yet nobody any the wiser. She named her after what Lacey was wearing their first time.

  In the present, they sat in Lacey’s family home on a plaid sofa and unwrapped belated Ch
ristmas gifts like good friends, and nothing more. Only the contents of their presents would be exposed in front of Lacey’s parents.

  Gracie once got provocative with Lacey’s mother when they were all out at dinner. One of the committed derby couples was out for a romantic evening, and Mrs. Windsor hunched down beside her daughter and Gracie, saying in a low whisper, “In public! Shameful. They’re just being contrary, looking for a reaction.”

  Gracie smirked. “I’d never let my daughter grow up to French kiss her girlfriend in public,” she chided. Lacey shot her a furious glare.

  Mrs. Windsor didn’t do sarcasm. “Of course not, dear, you’re a Morris.”

  “And Morrises are special, somehow?” Gracie cocked an eyebrow.

  “Your mother and father would never raise such… degenerates.”

  Must be a Windsor thing, then, Gracie muttered. Mrs. Windsor didn’t hear it, but Lacey did, and didn’t speak to Gracie for a week afterwards.

  They had long since reconciled, though nobody really knew that there was any sort of rift between the two. Friendly in public, fighting in private.

  Gracie reached into a gift bag, pulled out a wad of tissue paper, and then something soft met her grasp. She rubbed the fabric with her fingers as she removed it from the bag, and then let it unfurl: a Roller Vixxxns t-shirt.

  “Turn it over,” Lacey said.

  Gracie flipped the shirt around, revealing the back, which was personalized to say “I ♥ Lacey” and directly underneath, in lieu of a jersey number, “ > 0 “. Gracie looked up at Lacey who was smiling conspiratorially.

  “Greater than… everybody? More than zero? I don’t get it.” Lacey winked. Gracie cocked her head and mouthed, “Huh?” Lacey winked again, more intently. “Ohhh. Got it.” Gracie winked back.

  “Do you like it?”

  Gracie bunched the shirt up against her chest and said, “I love it.”

  “Yeah you do,” said Lacey, playfully. Gracie enjoyed the banter, but then glanced over at Lacey’s parents, and then back at her, whispering, “Dude, your parents!”