Page 1 of The Space Between

Prologue

NOVEMBER 1949

"You knowwhy her dad never came home from the war?" Carol Fairchild was a girl of the blonde, button-nosed, steely-eyed variety. Her voice made her sound years older than the other twelve-year-olds at Elmwood Country Day School as she asked this question tauntingly.

The other girls stood around, eyes narrowed in Jeanie's direction as they waited for Carol to spit out the punchline. Mary Dillard blew a bubble with her gum and then chewed it loudly as she stared at Jeanie, clearly hoping for a reaction.

"He never came home," Carol said, folding her arms across her flat chest and bony ribcage, "because he was ashamed to have such an idiot for a daughter." No one laughed at this because it wasn't meant to be funny. Carol stared Jeanie down with her flinty gaze. "Did your dad know how dumb you were before he left you and your mom for good?"

Jeanie’s chest tightened and her limbs stiffened like she'd just been hit by the fist of a champion heavyweight boxer, which—in a sense—she had. Carol Fairchild was the queen of insults, and her barbs were launched with purpose and intention, hitting their marks squarely on the bullseye ninetimes out of ten. When it came to Jeanie Florence, they landed ten times out of ten.

"Come on, Jeanie. I'm just kidding," Carol said in a tone that was decidedly not a teasing one. "Everyone knows that your dad disappearing meant that your mom could finally marry Mr. Macklin and start having his babies." Carol smiled cruelly. "She was just waiting for that, wasn't she?”

There had been plenty of rumors and conjecture about Melva Florence taking up with Wendell Macklin a few years after her husband died in the war. Wendell Macklin was the girls’ science teacher at Elmwood Country Day, and therefore Jeanie’s mother marrying him and quickly getting pregnant with twins had been a hot topic of conversation amongst the students.

Jeanie was sitting on a cold metal bench on the playground, coat buttoned up to her chin, hands shoved into her pockets. Her back was against the brick wall behind her, and she kept her eyes focused on the yellow-painted lines of the concrete outdoor play area. November in Chicago meant cold air and gray skies, and with no leaves left on the trees that surrounded the lush green grass of the school's fields, the whole playground felt barren. Hopeless. Jeanie sighed.

"Come on, Carol," Mary Dillard said, trying half-heartedly to end the bloodshed. "Just leave her alone. She's too dumb to respond," she added, eyes still glued to Jeanie as she sat on the bench like a pitiful lump. Her school uniform, which consisted of a pleated navy skirt, knee-high socks, and a thin white cotton shirt beneath her woolen pea coat, wasn't enough to keep her warm as this group of mean girls surrounded her, and all she could hope for was that they'd grow bored with her silence soon and leave.

“You’ll never be anything,” Carol said plainly, as if she’d just realized this. “You won’t even be Mr. Macklin’s real daughter, and the rest of your siblings will actually have two parents.”

This was the final straw for Jeanie; she’d taken all she could from Carol Fairchild, and she wasn’t going to listen to her talk this way anymore. She stood up, hands in the pockets of her coat. Her breath puffed out in front of her in the cold air.

“I have two parents,” Jeanie said. “My dad didn’t come home because he died a war hero. And my mom loves Mr. Macklin—he’s a nice man.” The other girls looked shocked that actual words were coming out of Jeanie’s mouth. “I don’t care if he’s not my real dad, so I don’t know why you do.”

Carol blinked at her, but had no comeback.

“Mr. Macklin is nice,” Emily Finch said, speaking up for the first time. She looked at the ground.

Carol’s head whipped around to glare at her as if she’d broken ranks. “Mr. Macklin married a desperate widow,” Carol spat. “At least that’s what my mother says.”

Jeanie’s blood ran cold. “You know who is actually dumb?” she asked, feeling braver than she ever had. “You, Carol. You’re dumb. And no one cares what you think.”

That was obviously not true, as Carol had plenty of disciples to follow her around and back up whatever mean things came out of her stupid mouth, but it was true enough for Jeanie at that moment. She stalked away from the little group of girls, head held high.

For the next two years, Jeanie made a point of shooting Carol a hard look any time she caught the girl looking her way, and Carol said nothing else to Jeanie’s face. It was safe to say that they were sworn enemies, but they went about it silently and without further confrontation.

At least until the day that Jeanie found out why Carol really was the way she was.

* * *

February 1951

Eighth grade wasn’t Jeanie’s favorite year. Her little brother and sister were three, and they were always getting into her things. Her mother made her ride to school with her stepfather rather than letting her ride the bus with the other kids, and she started her period, which seemed like an unfair and unjust part of womanhood.

On Valentine’s Day that year, when Jeanie was fourteen, she’d started bleeding in the middle of gym class. Her teacher had instructed her to get dressed and go to the health room, so she sat there outside the nurse’s closed door, slumped down in a chair with her arms folded across her chest. Her cramps were painful, and her humiliation was complete. How was she supposed to go to her next class after the other girls had all seen her red face as she explained to Mrs. Blakely that she needed a sanitary napkin? She hoped that by playing up her pain, the nurse might call her mother to get her and she’d be allowed to go home early for the day.

When the door opened, Jeanie conjured a pained expression and made a tiny moan. But instead of the nurse coming out to get her, Carol Fairchild emerged with a tear-stained face. She was holding an ice pack to her stomach, and she looked at Jeanie with annoyance.

In an instant, Jeanie forgot all about her ploy to get sent home. All she could do was wonder what in the world had happened to Carol.

“Have a seat, Miss Fairchild,” the nurse said, emerging in a white uniform. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and her face was serious. “Miss Florence,” she said to Jeanie, “can I help you? Are you unwell?”

Jeanie stood up, but her eyes were still on Carol. “I…” she said, forgetting her Oscar-worthy performance and her desire to be picked up for the day. She looked at the nurse and lowered both her eyes and her voice. “I need a napkin.”

The nurse pursed her lips and waved Jeanie into her exam room, where she opened a drawer and pointed at a stash of feminine products. Jeanie took what she needed and slipped it into her book bag, which she immediately zipped.

“Thank you,” Jeanie said in a hurry, turning to go. She’d assumed she’d need to rush to catch up with Carol and ask her what was wrong, but as she walked out the door, she realized that Carol had taken the seat Jeanie had been sitting in.

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