The Space Between: A Novel

By DB Clement

Twenty-one-year-old college senior Will Carlisle feels increasingly broken. For years everything he touches crumbles. Worst of all, he can’t make the things work that he cares most about: Relationships with girls, with his best friend, his college track and field career. Is it fallout, from losing... her? Or is he just crazy? Unstable? Defective?

He hopes life will improve when he begins dating Ann, a bright, spontaneous girl who sees the best in him. He wants to take things further with her, but how? At the end of a date with Ann, he yearns to tell her what she means to him and take that next dangerous step into a deeper relationship, but anxiety and fear overcome him and he flees her apartment. What happens next may hold the key to end his losing streak, if he will let it.

Readers who enjoy character studies, coming of age, young adult fiction or fiction set in the late 20th century will find The Space Between a compelling read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716314759

Book preview

The Space Between: A Novel

A group of people standing next to a tree Description automatically generated

By

DB Clement

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2020 by Dean B. Clement

Visit my author page at DBClement.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner.

First ebook edition November 2020

ISBN 978-1-716-31475-9

Imprint: Lulu.com

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memory of Chad Bartel.

He was known as many things, including faithful husband, doting father, enthusiastic investigator, mischievous brother, and loyal son.

I knew him as true friend.

Part I

Will, are you hiding?

Chapter 1

Will stood alone in a barren grove, a seemingly vast expanse of withered trees. The sky was cloudless; a light breeze from the west teased his dark bangs from his brown eyes. The sun faded behind the purpling hills to the west, painting a golden glaze across the Sacramento Valley.

He puzzled about where he may have left his truck. He was dressed in his running shoes, a pair of knee-length tube socks, running shorts, and a T-shirt—a Snoopy Chicks go for Joggers T-shirt his grandmother had given him when he was nine. How did it still fit him at nearly twenty-one years old?

He dutifully stretched his calves, touched his toes, pulled his right foot behind him to stretch his thigh, then his left. He sat frog-legged on the soil, stretching the insides of his thighs, then lay on his back, appreciating the pale sky as its color deepened from west to east.

He started a slow jog down a well-worn, winding dirt path through trees toward the sunset. After a mile he noticed a separate path converging toward his through the furrows. A familiar silhouette paralleled him on it.

It was a girl or woman, now gliding mere feet from him. She was radiant, striding effortlessly, confidence exuding from deep within, clad all in white, but her face was obscured. Could it be…

She stretched her hand toward him. He tried to reach out to meet it, longing to touch her—but his arms were locked in a forward pumping motion. She began speaking to him through her otherworldly smile. He strained to hear her but couldn’t. He tried to speak, but no words came.

The other’s expression gradually changed from pleasant, inviting and engaging to sad, forlorn and hurt. She slowly turned away. He screamed wildly at her not to go. His feet began to slip underneath him, sliding their way through fresh, ankle deep mud. He struggled forward, lifting one foot, then the other, fighting off the mud, hoping she would turn toward him.

His legs began to fail. He sank deeper into the sludge, writhing in vain as it enveloped his torso, arms, shoulders, neck. The pain eased and all went thick, impenetrable black, silent except for his thundering heartbeat…

Click! Whirrrrrrrrrrr...

Will’s head sprung up from his pillow, gasping for air. A familiar melody entered his frantic mind from his CD alarm clock. He squinted through the black of his bedroom at the bright LED display, which read 5:45 AM; Friday, October 1, 1993: It cut through the darkness, signaling the start of another day of miring through his studies at the Davis campus of the University of California.

He buried his head under a pillow. What was that stupid dream? Why?

He sat up, flung the covers off, and fumbled for his shoes in the dark. Ann came immediately to his groggy mind. He had first seen her one morning from behind The Grill at the Student Union. She was quite a sight: chestnut curls bouncing softly on her shoulders, her long blue dress flowing effortlessly behind her. Later that morning—as he purchased a doughnut and chocolate milk at her cash register—he was astonished at her genuine friendliness.

He got out the door of his cramped ground floor studio apartment and stuffed his ears with headphones, stretched and pushed play on his Walkman. He now had seven minutes, forty-eight seconds to make it to the locker room. He hit Fifth Street at a slow jog as guitar chords burst into his ears, the dewy, sleepy, car-lined blacktop reflecting soft, predawn light.

Running under the watch of streetlights, he recalled how afraid he had been to ask Ann out the first time. He finagled his first date through their supervisor, who managed to persuade Ann that Will was worth a night out.

Will crossed the railroad tracks at a run. Their first date flashed across his memory: a ten-hour excursion to Sacramento and the Capitol grounds, exploring Old Sacramento, dinner at Subway, and a late-night dollar movie. He was taken by her spontaneous personality. Ten hours wasn’t enough, and he attempted to lengthen the date by driving his mint-green ‘71 Ford pickup at exactly the speed limit during the drive home.

A pack of early morning cyclists ran over Will’s long shadow as he approached the B Street intersection. Will reminisced how Ann had called him the day after that first date and invited herself over to make cinnamon rolls. That she had called him before he could call her was the most pleasant surprise he could remember. He accelerated to a sprint as the campus came into view. Will felt more alive in two months of knowing Ann than in the previous two years. He wanted to take things further, but how?

Once on campus his pace slowed to a meandering trot through tree-lined grassy courtyards to the Memorial Union building, through the back entrance, down the stairs, and finally into the locker room for student employees. He showered, dressed in his black pants and green polo, and ran upstairs. It was exactly thirty minutes prior to opening. He was the picture of punctuality, just like every other day.

Will! squealed Karen as she bustled out of the silvery walk-in refrigerator carrying a fifty-pound bag of cubed potatoes. Karen, a short, stocky brunette, had been his breakfast-shift buddy since the end of spring term. She bounded about with endless energy. Will envied her.

Morning, Karen, he replied, tying his apron. Let me help you with that.

It’s alright; this is nothing. She heaved the bag up onto the countertop adjacent the twin grills. So, how were your classes yesterday? she queried. Anything new in the world of Freud?

Freud is Freud, he answered dully. And yours?

Let’s dispense with the formalities here! she said, her eyes aglow with anticipation. Have you decided what you’re doing with Ann tonight?

Will grinned. "We’re gonna go see Sleepless in Seattle."

Yippee! she clucked, clapping her hands together. "You guys are going to loooove it. I think it will be just what you need."

They made their way back into the walk-in refrigerator to collect the morning allotment of pre-whipped eggs. Yeah, he sighed, I hope you’re right.

Of course I’m right! she exclaimed, piling his outstretched arms with several clear plastic bags of eggs. This movie is a lock, as close to a guarantee as you can get! You could ask her to jump off a bridge with you after seeing it!

He shut the door as they exited the walk-in, his stomach doing somersaults thinking about trying a relationship talk with Ann. He decided to change the subject. What are your plans this weekend?

Oh, nothing much, she replied. Maybe go to the game tomorrow, maybe try and get some sleep.

Will startled. A bag of eggs slipped from his grasp and hit the floor with a sloshy splat. Oh, crud, he exclaimed. I just remembered I’ve got a Child Psych test today! I’ll have to skip Stats to finish studying for it.

Karen stooped to gather up his dropped bag. What are you worried about? You always nail those tests; I think you just want to skip Stats.

True, but I can’t take a test in good conscience unless I’ve crammed for it. He stared across The Grill stoically, holding his egg-laden arms out for her to unload. I could know the material front and back, but if I haven’t had that last-minute frantic review, my brain won’t work right…I think it’s Pavlovian.

What in the world are you talking about? She heaved the remaining bags of eggs onto the counter.

Pavlov—you know, dogs and bells and salivating; I’ve conditioned myself. Cramming primes the pump that is my brain.

She rolled her eyes while opening a package of bacon. I think you’re taking the Psych major a little too seriously.

You’re probably right... He flipped on the power for each grill and set the thermostat. But I’m still skipping Stats.

The morning rush was uneventful, and as ten o’clock rolled around, he untied his apron and headed down to the locker room. See you Monday, he called over his shoulder.

Good luck! she yelled back. I want to know how things went!

Karen had been his grill mate and relationship confidant for several months. She was one Will gladly looked to for opposite-sex advice, a double-agent capable of deciphering and sharing the enigma of a woman’s thoughts and feelings. He wished he had known her a few years earlier.

He made his way to the library, climbed the stairs to the top floor, walked down the furthest aisle from the stairwell, and plopped his bag onto the desktop of his usual carrel. He dropped himself into a chair and withdrew his textbook from the bag. The topic of today’s test was Stage Theory of Cognitive Development. Will read over Piaget’s theory, repeating the names of each stage to himself: Sensorimotor, Pre-operational, Concrete Operations, Formal Operations. The accompanying descriptions were easy and intuitive; its rigidity made for easy multiple-choice questions.

Next was Maslow. Mr. Self-Actualization, Will exhaled as he flipped to the next section of text. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Maslow. It was easy enough to remember Maslow’s Pyramid—the theory that normal development depends upon completing certain tasks within one stage before being able to move on to the next stage—but he didn’t agree with it.

So, if one of my Physiologic Needs goes unmet, then I can’t experience Social Fulfillment, and if that fails then so does Esteem for Self, and Self-Actualization is a snowball’s chance in hell, he grumbled to himself. A pair of annoyed eyes from across the aisle peeked over their carrel. Will quickly closed his eyes and feigned sleep, his face and ears slowly flushing.

His eyes glazed while staring blankly at the textbook. Prior to meeting Ann, his weekends were spent in solitude, running outside of town through alfalfa fields, corn fields, almond groves, and olive groves. And then he would tire, turn and walk miles back to his truck. He occasionally stayed out there, sleeping in the bed of the truck if the night was clear, lying on his back and gazing into the heavens, searching for some unknown thing.

He thought back to his senior year of high school, the excitement to leave home, go to Davis, and be with Jennifer—he winced at her name. The bad memories were finally ancient history. Ann had come into his life, and he was no longer running through vacant fields. He was smiling and even laughing again. His lonely library sessions ended at eight instead of midnight, and he spent every free moment with Ann.

But what next? He couldn’t imagine going on as pals forever. His stomach knotted itself up and he dug his sweaty palms against his jeans.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! His watch-alarm jerked him to the present, and he quickly tossed his books into his bag and scrambled down the stairs and across the quad to Young Hall. Leaning against the hallway outside of his classroom as the previous class filed out, Will pulled out his notebook and crammed the last little bit of Maslow into his short-term memory. As he took his seat, he accepted the test packet from the T.A. with a smirk, satisfied that his cramming would again prove Pavlov correct.

Hours later, Will sat alone in his usual library carrel, forcing himself to read the assigned text from the missed Statistics lecture. The Child Psych test had been easier than he expected. Statistics was tougher. He had no interest in the research side of psychology, and Statistics made him less likely to ever develop any. His eyes grew heavy reading about p values.

Statistical significance, he grumbled, who cares? It’s all mumbo jumbo. Theories. Nothing proven. His eyelids began to droop. The pages grew blurry. The mathematical symbols µ, p, ∑ all danced in drunken circles around each other, laughing and pointing at him. Perhaps if he closed his eyes, they’d go away...

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

The darkness behind Will’s eyelids was replaced by the glow from fluorescent lights, rows of bookshelves and empty desks. He raised his head and stared blankly at his open textbook, now stained with a sweaty imprint in the shape of his left cheekbone.

He checked his watch: four o’clock. Ann would be meeting him in two hours. His thoughts turned to the blackness of the previous night’s dream. It was the dream, again. What was the point of it? And why was it recurring? Was something wrong with him?

He slowly placed his books into his bag. He slouched to the stairwell, descended to the ground floor, and trudged to the Memorial Union building to change into his running gear. He hoped a shower at home would clear his thoughts and give him a better chance to enjoy Ann’s company.

As Will walked past numerous loudly crafted signs for various clubs, activities and businesses, his attention was captured by a small, plain flyer on a Student Services kiosk. He pored over it, his gaze falling upon the hours of operation for the Mental Health Clinic. His mind dissected the same list of arguments he had debated a thousand times before: Should he call and make an appointment? What would he tell them? He couldn’t be crazy just because of some bad experiences with girls, could he? Everyone has bad relationships. But, he reasoned, not everyone dwells on them for years afterward. Not everyone has dreams that end in death.

Stop doubting yourself, a small inner voice told him. You’re just fine.

The black, tentacular remnants of last night’s nightmare pushed out the voice. His heart raced and adrenaline flowed. I’ve got to do something, he said to the empty air.

Will slowly turned away and slumped to the locker room, a discernible air of defeat accompanying each step. He changed into his running clothes, slung his backpack, hit play on his Walkman and headed into the dull orange, brown, and yellow of the autumn afternoon. Tonight is the night, he said to himself. Something has to change.

Chapter 2

Will pulled on a clean pair of Levi’s and a beige T-shirt. His shower washed away much of his anxiety and restored some confidence. When the moment was right, the right words would come to him.

He plugged in an electric razor and pushed it around his stubbled face, wincing in pain as it snagged a long whisker. Doubt crept in. What if Ann stared back in stupefied horror? What if she said, I’m sorry, but I don’t feel that way?  He snapped off the razor and tossed it into a drawer. The telephone rang as he pulled on his dark blue cardigan.

"Wie geht’s, du Schweinehund?" blared Brandon’s voice as Will answered his friend’s call.

Don’t Germans consider that a pretty major insult? Will smiled. "I hope you didn’t greet any of them like that. Brandon, who had been home for a week from work-study to Germany, had likely greeted them all that way. So when are you coming back to school?"

I’ll be back for winter, answered Brandon. Right now I’m pretty busy watching football and baseball—tiresome work. And you?

The first few weeks back were rough, but I’m settling in.

You dating anybody yet?

How’d you guess?

I could tell by the way you said ‘I’m settling in’—so Billy is back in the game! Who is she?

The hair on the back of Will’s neck prickled. Conversations with Brandon about girls were never easy. Her name is Ann. I met her a couple of months ago at work.

So, do you like her?

Will mulled his answer carefully. In two months of knowing Ann, he had spent all his free time with her, hated good-night and good-bye. He was starting to believe she might be The One. She’s alright, I guess.

Come on, man, don’t feed me that garbage! said Brandon. The last time you said that about someone, you wanted to marry her—what was her name again—Jennifer?

Will felt an empty pang in his stomach.

What happened with her? queried Brandon, feigning ignorance.

You know what happened!

Oh yeah…, that was the most bizarre—

Can it! interrupted Will. Why do I bother telling you about these people?

Who else are you going to tell?

Brandon had a point. Okay, you want to know more about Ann? Fine. She’s tall, brown hair, an English major. I spend every weekend with her, we do cheapie grocery store and mall ‘dates’, hikes and so on. Pretty much all my free time is with her. But there’s no marriage plans. We’re just friends.

So, when are you going to propose? smirked Brandon.

Dude, would you knock it off—I want to take my time, you know, get to know her.

Okay, Brandon backed off. What are you up to tonight?

We’re going to a movie, then somewhere to eat. Nothing special. You?

Gettin’ psyched for Game 1 of the NLCS—which the Braves will take in five. What movie?

Will braced himself: "Sleepless in Seattle."

"Ooh, you’re taking her to a chick-flick! Nice move man, real suave."

Will squirmed uncomfortably. Why do you like the Braves exactly? he countered. Atlanta is about a billion miles from Ramona. Shouldn’t you be a Padres or Dodgers fan?

Thanks for enlightening me, Dweeb. I’ve been a Braves fan my entire life—you know that. Blame TBS.

I bet they choke against the Phillies. Look, I gotta go. She’s picking me up any minute.

"She’s picking you up—real manly, William—did the Green Lantern finally kick the bucket?"

Sometimes it doesn’t start, and at the moment I don’t have the cash to fix it. I can’t risk getting us stuck at the movie theater, you know?

Why not? quipped Brandon. "Picture this, dude: You and her sittin’ in the Lantern, alone in the dark: ‘Uh-oh baby, my truck won’t start; whatever shall we do?’ And then she’ll say, ‘You know what to do, big boy!’ It’ll be the perfect chance for you to, shall we say, express your feelings."

"Yeah, I’m sure that’s how it would go down. Look, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later."

Brandon had been his best friend since before junior high and had been offering unsolicited advice about girls for at least as long. Brandon had never dated anybody, so how could he know anything?

The approaching sound of Ann’s angry muffler summoned Will out of his thoughts. Her white, aged 1979 Datsun 280Z was usually heard before it was seen. He placed the cordless phone on its charger and headed for the door.

Ann was tall, lean, with hazel eyes, chestnut hair, and a wide, toothy smile that could warm the Arctic. She wore just enough makeup to remind Will that her lightly tanned face didn’t need any. She was an energetic, bright, spontaneous girl from Redding, raised on mountain air and ski slopes. Her enthusiasm for life was infectious. She greeted him with a pleasant hello and a hug, which left a mild lilac scent on his sweater. As he breathed it in, he remembered the first time he had seen her on an early morning in August, her scent drifting past his post at The Grill as she strode toward the cash register.

As Will climbed into the car a hauntingly familiar song greeted him from a band called OMD he had once liked. What else have you got? he asked instinctively, quickly ejecting the cassette as he settled into the tattered passenger seat.

Uh, the tapes are in the glovebox, she answered, startled by his abrupt rejection of the cassette. Why don’t you pick something?

He sifted through her cassette case and pulled out U2’s Joshua Tree. I’ve got nothing against OMD, he lied, trying to smooth over the awkwardness as he tucked the rejected cassette far away at the back of the case, "but Joshua Tree is one of the greatest albums of all time."

The player whined as it accepted the tape. Ann backed the car out, its transmission groaning through the gears as they started out of the parking lot toward the theater. As the first track faded in, his stomach muscles relaxed. Within seconds Will’s mind shifted to his task of the evening, his stomach slowly tightening again, his fingers clasping his pant legs.

So, how were your classes today? Will asked routinely, his mind vigorously racing through relationship talk scenarios.

"Good, although I have to read Don Quixote by next Thursday—the entire book! It’s over a thousand pages!"

That’s what you get for being an English major, Will countered playfully.

Oh, stop it, she giggled. I’m torn—I love the character, but this prof acts like our entire lives revolve around his class!

That plague isn’t limited to the English Department. Will thought of his stale psychology major, which sounded like such a great idea the first few months of his freshman year.

Yeah, I know—they’re all like that, Ann continued, "but I could read 24-7 until Thursday and still not finish."

Ann finished reporting her day. Will tossed in an occasional Yeah, I know what you mean, and That sounds interesting, but his mind drifted into a quarrel with itself:

—What if she tells me to get lost?

—She won’t…

—What if there’s awkward silence?

—She likes you…

—What if she says ‘I like things the way they are?’

—What’s wrong with that?

—I have to tell her or I’ll explode.

—Just relax…

Will…, I said, ‘How was your day?’ Ann looked over at him, eyebrows raised, eyes wide.

Will gazed at her vacantly, then his face flushed crimson as awareness of her concern finally dawned. Oh...uh, okay...I guess. Work went well...um, my friend Brandon called, and I...uh, I aced my Child Psych test—

I didn’t know you had a test today, interrupted Ann.

I forgot about it until this morning.

And you still aced it?

Well, that stuff is all pretty intuitive. Will felt no desire to reveal how thoroughly he studied the material.

They approached the theater. The old car’s suspension creaked in complaint as Ann turned into the parking lot. She pulled into an empty spot and the car shuddered to a stop. Her 280Z mourned as if to keel over at any time. Perhaps Ann’s car would die here, and Will would be forced to talk to her. He should have driven the truck.

Ann’s shoulder brushed against his as they walked to the ticket window. She rubbed her hands together, warming herself in the crisp autumn air. Will and Ann meandered to their assigned auditorium, and he led her to a pair of seats in the middle of a row about half-way up. The smell of stale popcorn hung in the air and their shoes stuck to the floor with each step. The auditorium slowly filled with couple after couple, many holding hands. All the couples displayed one-sided enthusiasm for the movie: the women were eager, while the men appeared reluctant, shifting around in their seats, worried eyes wandering the theater. Those not paired up were single women in groups, dotting the theater like flocks of chattering birds.

Ann nuzzled close to him, bringing his attention back to her. I always freeze to death in movie theaters, she said apologetically. Will’s spine tingled as he caught the scent of her faint perfume. What did that mean? Was she cold or did she want to cuddle? He sat stiffly in his chair, toes gripping the inside of his shoes, afraid if he changed position, she would think he was either shying away or putting the moves on her.

Tell me, why did you study Psychology? asked Ann, lazily gazing up at the rows of acoustic ceiling tiles.

Will had successfully dodged this topic for two months. He tried one final deflection: Why did you choose English?

I told you already.

I forgot already.

I asked you first.

He tried to remain perfectly still. Enunciate slowly. The movie should start any second. I was thinking about becoming a family counselor or a clinical psychologist.

Why?

Can we stop now? I guess I just wanted to help people with their personal problems.

Do you think you’d enjoy it?

Keep fighting. Don’t reveal too much! I like the classes, although in undergraduate you don’t learn much except history and theories—nothing very practical.

Have you heard or learned anything clinical? she inquired, twirling her brown locks around her finger.

I had one class where the professor—this really old guy, he must be at least sixty—anyway he told us a lot of stories about people he had worked with over the years... Will now counted twenty-three different couples in the theater. Most of the cases were failures. One day in class someone asked him if he had treated anybody successfully.

Had he?

He admitted that clinical psychology has a lot more failure than success.

Why do you think that is?

People won’t change unless they choose to. It’s made me think a lot about whether I want to continue in Psychology beyond my undergraduate degree. I’m not sure I can see myself doing it.

Because of the failures? 

Yeah; I think since people know they’re being analyzed, they stonewall, like a kid resisting his parents. I think people who want real therapeutic conversation look to hairdressers and pedicurists—people who aren’t likely to talk down to them.

So, what do you want to do, if you don’t go into Psychology?

Will lowered his guard; she was so accepting, so inviting. I may go back into medicine. It’s sort of what I originally planned to study.

I didn’t know that, she said. Why did you switch?

I just…wasn’t ready for the pre-med classes as a freshman. I didn’t think I had what it took.

And now?

I don’t know. But I need to look into it because I don’t see anything else that I want to do. I can’t stand business; I would rather slit my wrists than try to figure out how to sell for a living. Teaching doesn’t pay anything. I thought about law, but I’m horrible at debating. Anyway, medicine is the only profession I think I could do. People come to you with a problem, you diagnose it, treat it, and they get better. No selling, no ulterior motive, just doing something good for people and earning enough money to put the kids in little league, buy a house, drive a decent car, take an occasional vacation.

Ann was silent. The longer she sat, the more his nerves perked up. This must stop. If this continued, he’d end up telling her his entire life story. He broke the silence. I’m sorry, I’m talking too much.

Don’t be sorry, cooed Ann. I love learning about you.

After the movie I’m not saying anything—I mean, I’ll do the listening. Deal?

But I do have one more question, if you don’t mind?

Be my guest, replied Will, trying to hide the reluctance in his voice.

I love that we’re seeing this movie. Why did you choose it?

Will’s mouth stumbled and his voice cracked, "Ah–hem...Well, Karen recommended it, and...uh...I like Tom Hanks, and Meg Ryan is...quite talented...I heard it had a...good soundtrack; it’s just a good...combination of...things."

Before Ann could reply the lights went down, the screen lit up, and to Will’s great relief their conversation fell silent.

Will enjoyed the movie. Tears pooled in his eyes during certain parts, but he managed to keep them concealed. Overall, it set his mind at ease; he felt at peace that he would talk to Ann tonight, and whatever happened would happen.

Ann’s car started with minimal complaint, and they drove from the theater to Steve’s Pizza, Will’s favorite restaurant in Davis. By now it was almost nine-thirty and getting a table was easy. Their server took their order for sodas as