Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels) (37 page)

The best thing I found was a verse way in the back of the Bible about how there shouldn’t be any fear in love because God’s love should completely obliterate our fear. And while I wasn’t completely certain what it meant at the time, I knew that there was power in it, and I could see it was in direct opposition to what I’d been taught at the Funny Farm.

As a result, by the time we rolled into my home state, I was feeling somewhat calm and at ease. Call it Greyhound Bus therapy or what have you, but somehow God used that long, hot cross-country trip to just set me free. And I’m sure it was the first time I’d been truly happy in years!

Twenty-eight

A
s much as it seemed
like it, and as much as I wished it were so, all my fears and apprehensions had not completely vanished into thin air. But there was no question about it, I had definitely changed. For the first time in a long time I now felt I had some sort of control over my life.

I climbed off that Greyhound, caught a cab over to the university campus (which was much larger than the community college) and spent the afternoon exploring. And to my relief, I wasn’t nearly as overwhelmed as I’d imagined I’d be.

And somehow being only a hundred miles from Brookdale was strangely comforting. I’m not sure why. It’s not like I had anyone back there who I thought gave a hoot about me. I felt certain my Aunt Myrtle probably thought I was dead and gone by then. And I figured my daddy probably didn’t give a whit one way or the other.

To be honest, I hadn’t really given him much thought over the past few years. I had enough issues to deal with, and my feelings toward him were so conflicted and confusing, it was simply easier not to think of him at all. And yet I suppose if I’d been perfectly honest, I’d have to admit that I’d reached that desolate place where more and more I secretly blamed him for all the mistakes and misfortunes that’d come my way. And it only made sense that I did, for aren’t parents supposed to nurture and protect their young from such mayhem?

I found that on those rare occasions when my daddy did come to mind (like on his birthday or if I happened to see a man walking down the street who resembled him) I would feel my jaw and my insides tightening up and, well, he was just someone I didn’t want to think too much about. Did that mean I hated him? I’m not entirely sure. But it was a strong emotion that closely resembled hate, although I’m positive I never admitted this much to myself. It’s as if the space my daddy should’ve occupied inside of me had become a big, black hole. And I was afraid that if I went down there to poke around, I might simply fall in and become lost in it forever. And I was tired of being lost. Especially when I was just starting to feel found. Besides, I knew that God had become my daddy now. I knew that he was the one who would see me through.

Elizabeth had called the university, getting me all set up in a dorm that I suspected wasn’t too far from where Joey lived. She’d written all this information down on a little three-by-five card that she’d tucked into my purse at the train station. (I’m surprised she didn’t just pin it to my chest, since I was acting like such a baby about then.) And so it was all arranged that I’d have a roommate, and I felt ready for that.

To my relief the dorm room didn’t look all that much different than the one I’d occupied during the past two years. I could see my roommate hadn’t yet arrived, which was in itself a relief. This gave me time to unpack and settle in and sort of catch my breath.

And after spending that first afternoon just walking around the campus and checking things out until I felt somewhat secure and almost knew my way around, I knew it was time to call Joey. Suddenly I couldn’t wait to see his face and to tell him I was here.

“Hello?” said a guy’s voice on the other end. It wasn’t Joey.

“Hi, is Joey there?”

“No, didn’t you hear the news?”

“What news?”

“Joey got that Harvard scholarship he’d been trying for. You just missed him. He took off yesterday. Man, was he ever jived!”

“Oh…”

“Do you want his address?”

Somehow I managed to scribble down the lengthy address that sounded so strange and much too far away; then I stuck it in a drawer and leaned my head down onto the built-in desk with a thud.
Joey was gone.

Suddenly I felt completely alone again, depressed and slightly frightened. I guess I hadn’t realized exactly how much I’d been counting on being near Joey, how much I looked forward to seeing his face again. I couldn’t even admit to myself just how much.

But taking a deep breath, I remembered my resolve on the bus. I remembered that God was my daddy. And just because Joey was gone, I would not give in to fear and anxiety. I would continue to trust God. I would live my life fully. And I would make it! I would.

At least I hoped I would.

My roommate, Billie Jean Duncan, turned out to be a home ec major—a senior who’d just transferred from a small private college in Georgia. Now, I tried not to show how strange I thought her major was (in an age where women had long since burned their bras and Gloria Steinem reined supreme) because Billie Jean really seemed quite pleased with her vocational choice.

And besides, she had told me on the first day we met, “I’m a born-again Christian, Cassandra, and I sure hope that doesn’t bother you any.” I told her that was fine with me, and that, as a matter of fact, I was too (at least I thought I was, although this “born-again” talk still made me slightly uncomfortable). And I made it perfectly clear to Billie Jean that I had no desire to attend any organized churches and had a slight phobia when it came to fanatics or fundamentalists. Billie Jean said that was just fine by her, but she’d probably look around for some sort of fellowship group or Bible study to attend on campus.

She also told me that she’d been in 4-H “since forever” and that she’d always loved cooking and sewing, and that she even dreamed of becoming the “perfect little wife someday” (I swear those were her exact words!). Naturally, I tried to conceal my horror and didn’t tell her of my own slightly disastrous domestic experiences out west on the Funny Farm, or how I’d just as soon leave all that behind me, thank you very much!

But I did have to tease her just a little about her name, since Billie Jean King had become something of a feminist icon the year before when she beat the pants off of that bigmouth Bobby Riggs. But, oh, did that ever irk my conservative roommate. She was what you might’ve called an antifeminist, and did not appreciate sharing her name with an outspoken celebrity such as Ms. King—not one little bit.

Then strangely enough, as fall term progressed into winter, I did notice that Billie Jean seemed quite happy (maybe
passionate
is a better word for it) about her home economics studies. She’d bring home various projects, throwing herself into some complicated creation of a historical wedding gown or some international cooking project that required more pots and pans than I’d want to wash in a week. (Although I never complained while sampling her various experiments—far tastier than Venus’s “health food” recipes back on the farm.)

But what Billie Jean forced me to come to grips with was that I didn’t have this same sort of passion and excitement for my own major in psychology. And although I found my classes interesting, informative, and even intellectually challenging, I just never felt quite “taken away” by my studies. At least not like Billie Jean appeared to be. So one chilly night in February I told her about my dilemma.

“Well, what do you
really
love to do, Cassandra?” she asked with pins protruding from her lips like a porcupine and elbow-deep in the construction of a colorful Amish quilt.

I studied the neatly cut shapes of teal and fuchsia and gold that she was carefully assembling into a star and thought for a moment. “Well, there was a time when I actually enjoyed sewing—well, maybe not sewing so much, but creating things, using fabric and ribbon and beads and colors and stuff.”

“Kind of like a designer, maybe?”

I shrugged. “I suppose, but I’m not really sure.”

“So did you, like, actually
enjoy
making clothing? Or was it just the creative process that fired your engines?”

I thought about her question. “I suppose I mostly liked the creative process. And you know, I did take some art classes last summer, just for the fun of it and to pass time, but the fact is I really enjoyed them—the creating part.”

She pointed her scissors at me. “There! You have it, Cassandra. You should think about becoming an art major. Maybe you could just minor in psychology.”

“An art major?” I toyed with the idea for a moment. “But how would I ever support myself with an art degree?”

“You can do like me. Just teach it until you get married.”

I laughed. “I doubt I’ll ever get married.”

Now she laughed, sputtering pins everywhere. “Oh yeah, sure. That’s what all my girlfriends say; then the next thing you know they’re asking you to be a bridesmaid in their happy little June wedding and forcing you to wear some hideous pink dress that makes you look like a fat jar of Pepto-Bismol. Good grief, I’ve been in three weddings already.”

I considered telling her about my own circus “wedding” but couldn’t bring myself to do so. (It seemed a dishonor to Skip’s memory to just toss something like this out for others to hear and perhaps laugh at.) And as much as I liked Billie Jean, I just couldn’t imagine how someone as normal and perky as her would ever understand or even appreciate a crazy tale of such grim woe. So far I hadn’t told her anything about my little stint on the Funny Farm. Although I’d considered it a couple of times, if for nothing more than just pure shock value. But I suppose I was saving it.

The next day I phoned Elizabeth (in California) and told her I was considering changing to an art major. “Good for you, Cass!” she exclaimed with what sounded like sincere enthusiasm. “You should do what really makes you happy, and then just wait and see how the rest of your life will just fall right into place. You know, that’s usually how God works.”

And so by spring term I was an art major (with a minor in psychology). And Billie Jean and Elizabeth were right, I absolutely loved it. Whenever I was creating (whether it was with clay or oils or block print or watercolor or sketching or just whatever…) I found myself completely carried away by the process.

It’s almost as if Cassandra Jane Maxwell just disappeared altogether, as I became lost in the creative process. But it was a good kind of lost—the kind of lost where when you finally come to and wake up, you are found. And as I created I became even more mindful of God, the Creator, and I felt more in touch with my spirit than ever before. It was amazing, really! So freeing and fulfilling and, well, just plain fun! In fact, it was so much fun that I almost felt guilty about it, but I figured that was probably just an unfortunate remnant of my days spent under Sky’s authority and not worthy of an actual thought or response.

Joey and I continued to write letters throughout this year, but not with nearly the regularity as before. And over time his letters became shorter and more impersonal, as if they were quickly jotted down, sharing information and activities, but lacking in feeling. I suspected that he was quite busy with law school and his part-time job. Or maybe he’d found something else to distract him—like a girlfriend perhaps, and he was trying to slowly wind down his relationship with me.

And it seemed only natural that some intelligent girl would snap him up. Joey Divers would be quite a catch! I tried hard not to think about that time he’d asked me to marry him (at least I think he did, but part of me thought I might’ve simply imagined the whole thing since I’d been in such a truly fragile and vulnerable state just then). And even if he
had
actually offered to marry me, I’m sure it was merely a kindhearted act of sympathy on his part, his way of rescuing me once again.

So even then, I felt thankful that I’d controlled myself back then (and not accepted his rescue efforts) because I could see now how that most likely would’ve ruined all his chances for that great scholarship at Harvard. And I knew that going there must be like living out his greatest dream. And I must admit I was extremely proud of him.

But I did miss him just the same. Considerably. And then, due to his job, he hadn’t been able to come home for either Christmas or spring break. Not that he’d promised to come see me, but I had hoped he might visit his folks, and maybe stop by the university.

But he explained in his letters how important it was for him to work all the hours he could. (He worked in the security office on campus, where he could study at night.) He said he needed those extra hours to help cover his living expenses, which I suspect were considerable.

I think it was during spring term that it occurred to me that I should find out just how much money was actually left in my “trust fund,” which was still somewhat of a mystery to me. And although I had a full scholarship at the university and lived like a very frugal church mouse, I knew the funds couldn’t last forever.

And I suppose I had begun to worry that since Joey had set the whole thing up, perhaps he was actually the one helping to contribute—and that made me feel absolutely sick inside. What if he was up at Harvard working himself to death just to put me through school?