Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels)

by Melody Carlson

  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?

  I wrote him expressing this concern, but what he wrote back to me was even more mysterious. He informed me that I had a “secret benefactor” and not to worry because it looked like funding would continue until I graduated. Still not convinced it wasn’t him, I decided to take a job during the summer when my class load was lighter (that way I could contribute to my own support). And so I got a reception job at a travel agency just a block or two off campus, and it went so well that they invited me to continue part-time in the fall.

  Billie Jean opted to do one more year, getting her master’s degree, which would enable her to teach at the high school level (and since her Prince Charming had yet to show up, she figured she’d better be ready for the long haul). As a result, I wasn’t forced to adjust to a new roommate during my senior year, and I must admit I’d become rather fond of Billie Jean and her sensible, domestic ways.

  Somehow, she enticed me to start going to her nondenominational Christian fellowship group that year, and I was surprised to discover a fairly normal group of kids who just wanted to hang out and study the Bible together without going over the deep end. In fact, it seemed we only spent a small amount of time actually studying the Bible. Mostly we just talked and laughed and did ordinary things like bowling and eating pizza. And so I wasn’t too worried.

  And I had to admit, the teaching seemed sound and lined up with what I’d been learning myself in my daily Bible reading. It was refreshing to be part of a group where we could talk freely about Jesus without getting all big-eyed and putting on spiritual airs. It was more like knowing Jesus was just an everyday part of an everyday life. And I must say I liked that.

  But as a result of this new “social” outlet, I was faced once again with the guy problem. Now, Billie Jean could not for the life of her understand why I perceived this as a problem, and I couldn’t even begin (without going into all my embarrassing history) to explain it to her. And finally one day she just confronted me and asked me quite blatantly if I was, in fact, a lesbian. Her normally plumpish, pink face had become all red and splotchy and I could see that the possibility of my questionable sexuality had given her no small amount of stress and vexation.

  I just threw back my head and laughed. “Of course not, Billie Jean!” Then I absolutely howled with laughter. “Good grief, Billie Jean, were you afraid that I had fallen in love with you or something?”

  She was totally mortified and actually speechless for a few moments; then she sputtered, “Well, no, no—but I—well, you know, I just didn’t know what to think.” She folded her arms across her chest and scowled. “Think about it from my perspective, Cassandra! First you go on about Billie Jean King and all that women’s lib stuff. And then, here’s this nice Paul Copeland, and he’s just a-calling and calling, and you just keep making up your petty little excuses. Good night, I’d jump at the chance to go out with someone like him.”

  “Well, then why don’t you?”

  She made a face. “Because he hasn’t asked me, you big nincompoop!”

  And so we settled that matter. I was not, and never had been, nor did I want to become, a lesbian. But it did worry me some that she had thought so.

  I suppose it was true that I didn’t put much care into my appearance. But I enjoyed wearing jeans and work shirts and overalls, and besides, this kind of clothing fit in well at the art department, where the dress code was definitely casual. But when I took a jewelry class during winter term I made myself some long, dangling earrings that I hoped gave me a more feminine look.

  Although I must say I’d never noticed any problem with guys thinking I was a lesbian. In fact, it seemed I had no problem attracting guys, probably because I just didn’t care that much and they felt at ease around me. But for the time being I just wanted to be friends. Somehow I knew I wasn’t emotionally ready for anything more. And I explained this to “that nice Paul Copeland” and so we kept things low-keyed and went out for coffee or sodas occasionally, and we even went to a concert and a movie together. But that’s all there was to it as far as I was concerned.

  It was during that year, my senior year in college, that Joey all but quit writing. Just a card at Christmas, and then one again at Easter. I kept writing to him (thinking he was just swamped with classes and work) but I slowed it down some when I began to think maybe this was his way of cutting himself free from me. I sure didn’t want to be some kind of ball and chain tied around his one good leg.

  But toward the end of the school year (just before my graduation) I decided to send him an announcement (just a little homemade one since I saw no need to send out more than two—one for Elizabeth and one for Joey). I honestly didn’t expect him to come, but I suppose it was just my way of saying, “Hey, look, I did it!” And thanks, of course.

  Elizabeth sent me a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses, but to my surprise Joey actually showed up! You could’ve knocked me over with a sneeze when he stopped by my dorm and invited me out for lunch before the ceremony. Unfortunately he said he had to leave right afterwards (to get back to his job on campus) but I was deeply touched that he’d driven all that way just to watch me march down the aisle and pick up my diploma.

  We went out for a quick cup of coffee before he had to hit the road, and I told him that I was following my roommate’s example and going for my master’s too. But I explained that I planned to live off-campus next year. (I’d found a cozy studio apartment that didn’t cost any more than my dorm room.) Naturally, I would continue working at the travel agency (full-time during the summer, except for the two-week tour of Europe that I had booked at an incredible rate).

  “You’re going to Europe!” he exclaimed as he set down his cup.

  “Why, yes,” I stammered, suddenly wondering if he might’ve been, after all, my “secret benefactor.” (And then who else could it have been? Joey had given me some complicated explanation about why he was taking four years to finish law school instead of the usual three, but I was still afraid he might just be working too hard and putting a
ll his extra earnings into my trust fund.)

  “That’s great, Cass.” He looked slightly unhappy, though.

  Suddenly I felt like I needed to explain what might be perceived as extravagant. “You see, I’ve been putting a little down every month and it was such a great deal that Marsha—the woman who owns the agency—said I couldn’t afford to pass it up and it works well with my art major and—”

  “Cass, you don’t have to defend yourself. Really, I think it’s absolutely fantastic. I wish I could go too.”

  “Do you think you—”

  “No, no… I’m… too busy right now. But maybe someday.”

  “I could get you a good deal, Joey.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s about time for me to go, Cass.”

  “I wish you could stay.”

  He shrugged, then started to stand, arranging his cane to help balance himself, but the look on his face made me wonder if his leg was giving him pain. “Say, I hear that you and Paul Copeland are going out”

  “You know Paul Copeland?”

  “Yeah, he was a friend of my roommate.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it going out, Joey.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to explain anything to me, Cass.” He began walking to the door, but I could sense something was different about him. Almost as if he were hurt or something, but it just didn’t make any sense.

  We stood out on the sidewalk for a few minutes. “I’m so proud of you, Cass,” he said, his old smile returning and warming me all over. “I knew you could make it.”

  “Not without your help, Joey.” I reached over and touched his arm. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you. You know that, don’t you?”