Spectrums

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

(Three And A Half Years Earlier)

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

(Eight Months Later, Two Days After Christmas)

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my wife Marcia, who was so involved in the writing of this book that she should have been credited as the co-author, but wouldn’t allow it.

Thank you to my daughters Kim MacMillan and Beth Slattery, and to my sister Bonnie Pendleton, all of whom read the first draft and offered terrific suggestions that were eventually incorporated into the book.

Thank you to my writing buddies – Ray Noveck, Alicia, Danielle, Eleanor, Adel, Charlie, and Tom.

And finally, a special thanks to Kathy McFarland, who loves books more than anyone I know.

The author has pledged that a substantial portion of the royalties from the sale of this book will be donated to charity.

CHAPTER 1

Jenna studied her reflection in the mirror. Surprisingly, she wasn’t able to detect any sign of the tears that had been there earlier. She tilted her face even closer, scrutinizing every feature. Although the tears weren’t visible, the overwhelming weariness was. And despite the fact that she felt it throughout her entire body, it was almost as if it had traveled through some invisible transit system and collected in her eyes.

She thought for a moment that maybe it was just sadness. But no, it was much more encompassing, much more deeply felt. Certainly sadness was a part of it, but… . Before she could complete the thought, a recurring question pushed its way to the forefront—I’m only twenty-three-years-old; how did all this happen? Of course there was a simple answer, one that she had come up with a hundred times before. But like most simple answers to emotional questions, it wasn’t totally accurate, and it wasn’t particularly helpful.

She took a deep breath, let out a sigh, and decided to lie down on the couch. She knew that if she went into the bedroom, despite the traffic noises outside, she would be more likely to fall asleep. Jenna didn’t want that. She just needed to close her eyes for a few minutes.

The hall closet held a comforter that her mom had gotten for her when she was in high school. She lifted it off the top shelf and wrapped herself up like an Indian squaw. She immediately felt warmer, but contrary to its name, the comforter didn’t really do its job.

Jenna seemed to be cold all the time lately. Initially, she had chalked it up to the fact that she was really still a California girl and the vestiges of winter in the Boston area wouldn’t give up the ghost. But it was more than that. New England cold seemed to be different from other kinds of cold. Somehow it got into your bones and wouldn’t let go. And she knew it wasn’t just the cold. It was like the cold had formed a bond with the weariness. The weariness became the host, and the cold was the parasite feeding off it.

She closed her eyes and brought the comforter up to her chin. Except for her right arm, her whole body from her neck to her feet was covered. She rested the back of her right hand on her forehead, looking like a silent movie heroine trying to portray despair, or a character from Gone with the Wind with the vapors.

As she suspected would be the case, despite the quiet and the way she was feeling, she didn’t fall asleep, not even a catnap. Instead, she found herself in that semi-conscious state that allowed her to think, but not really to feel; and more importantly, to not expend much energy doing it. Her mind didn’t allow her to focus on anything in particular. It was moving about like Alice in Wonderland deciding which door to open. Finally, a thought began to crystallize. But it was actually an extension of the question she had just asked herself: How had she gotten here—at first, quite literally – to Boston, to this apartment? And then the question turned more philosophical, more far-reaching – to this point in her life?

Almost as quickly as the question entered her consciousness, it was replaced by a sense of disorientation. She was first aware of it physically. She really didn’t know in which direction she was facing. Was the picture of the Cape Cod seascape on the wall in front of her, or behind her? Of course, she could easily solve that puzzle by opening her eyes. But even with her eyes wide open she knew that she would have no idea in what direction her life was headed.

Jenna decided to keep her eyes closed. She allowed herself to play the game of which way am I facing? She pictured all the mismatched furniture in the living room, trying to place it in her mind’s eye. As she organized the layout, it occurred to her that the furniture looked just like the set of every high school play she had ever been in. Well, maybe not Our Town. The sides of her mouth did an involuntary upturn and she expelled a puff of air in what approached a muffled laugh.

She thought about the wall by the door where the mirror was located, and again about her reflection. She wondered how someone else seeing her in this state would describe her. Would they be able to detect everything she was feeling – the weariness, the overwhelming fatigue?

She suspected that even if they couldn’t see beyond her physical features, they would certainly be able to describe her better than she could describe herself. Jenna had always been amazed at other people’s ability to give detailed descriptions. It seemed as if everyone she knew was like some sort of police sketch artist.

Oh sure, she could give the vitals—5’ 5", 115, brown hair, brown eyes, and, and… Okay, what else? What shape is my face? Are my eyes close together? Any distinguishing marks – like scars or tattoos or piercings? She allowed herself a light moment. Yeah, that’s me – Jenna MacDonald, biker chick.

She decided to give the description idea another attempt, but with someone else. What about Trish? How would she describe Trish? Well, she’s beautiful. She has blond hair, brown eyes, and she looks like… well, Trish. The smallest of smiles reached her lips, and then just as quickly, Jenna resigned herself to the fact that the exercise was futile.

Her mood shifted again, and the tears returned. She thought back to when she was a little girl and something happened that had made her cry; her mother would comfort her and say, It’s okay, sweetie, get it all out. Maybe that worked when you were little. Maybe there were a finite amount of tears when you were eight, but it seemed like this grown up version of Jenna had an endless supply.

Her mind remained blank for a few moments, and then without being cognizant she was going to, she opened her eyes. She blinked a few times and subconsciously noted that the painting of Cape Cod was in front her.

Growing up, she had always been a get over it kind of person, and even now, as an adult, on some days that worked. Today wasn’t one of them. She began to feel her emotional pain in a pronounced physical way – like little acupuncture needles. Only these needles didn’t relieve the pain, they intensified it. She knew that she was powerless to stop another crying onslaught, but she steeled herself and tried anyway.

Just at that moment she heard a stirring in another part of the apartment. She held her breath and remained perfectly still, listening intently to make sure she hadn’t imagined it. No, there it was again. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and moved toward the noise, realizing that the stirring she had heard was probably the only thing in the world that could have halted her tears.

CHAPTER 2

(Three And a Half Years Earlier)

The summer in Southern California had been unusually warm. Many days the temperature had flirted with ninety-five degrees. By early August the flirtation had turned into a full-blown love affair; and for five days in a row the inhabitants of the Los Angeles area were in the midst of a genuine heat wave. Ironically, as August kicked into full gear, the mercury retreated, and the heat wave finally broke. In fact, when Jenna checked the temperatures in the morning paper, Boston’s predicted high for the day was warmer than Pasadena’s.

The drive to the Long Beach airport from Pasadena took about twenty-five minutes. And although the trip to LAX took about the same, Jenna and her mom, Sharon, always flew out of Long Beach. Jenna had often heard her mother say, I like the smaller airports. LAX is just too big and spread out, just like Los Angeles itself.

For the last several months almost every conversation between Jenna and her mom had an undercurrent. Sometimes it came to the surface, like a whale breeching the waves, but usually it remained unacknowledged in the deep water. It was how they dealt with things. Jenna’s transfer from UCLA to Tufts was no different

They had always been very close, but for reasons they couldn’t articulate, or didn’t know, they had never been able to confront any emotionally charged topic head on. But this particular dance of avoidance—Jenna’s transfer to Tufts—this dance, so well choreographed by the both of them, might have qualified as an Olympic event. And Jenna and her mom would have been the odds-on favorites to capture the gold.

It had only been the last ten days or so that they had engaged in any honest discussions about it, much too late to really change anything. And the irony for Sharon was that she had been the one to initiate the idea of the transfer in the first place. What had she been thinking?

As they drove down the 710 toward Long Beach, Jenna opened the conversation. I know you already told me Mom, but when will my other stuff get to Boston?

It might be there already. We sent it priority. At the latest, I’d say Monday or Tuesday.

Both Jenna and her mom knew that the brief exchange was just a means to avoid continuing the conversation they had been having just prior to leaving for Long Beach. The silence hung in the air for a few more minutes and then Sharon decided to try again. Honey, you know it’s not too late to change your mind. We can still fix this.

Mom, I told you, there’s nothing to fix. I want to do this.

I know you do, but I also know that you want to transfer because you think that’s what I want.

Jenna shifted in her seat and half-faced her mother. She had decided earlier that morning to offer at least some of what she had been holding back; her mom deserved more of an explanation than Jenna had been giving her. Mom, I really do want to transfer. You know I’ve wanted to go to Tufts since I was a sophomore in high school.

Her mom broke in. And you know we would have made it work somehow.

Jenna interrupted. Mom, we didn’t have the money. We both know that.

Sharon started to protest.

Jenna cut her off. "There is something else, though."

Sharon glanced away from the road and noticed a glistening in the corners of her daughter’s eyes.

Jenna continued. After Daddy died you gave up everything for me. Sharon started to say something, but stopped. Jenna composed herself and went on. For the last eleven years you always put me first, never yourself.

But that’s what parents do.

Not always, Mom. Not all of them. She paused, trying to gather herself for the strength to say the next few sentences—things she had been unable to say for the last several months.Mom, now that you have Jonathan; it’s your turn to be happy.

Sharon interrupted. You think I haven’t been happy for the last eleven years?

No, I didn’t mean that. But this can be different. You told me you never thought you’d get married again, and then Jonathan came into your life.

I don’t see how my getting married means you should go off to Tufts.

Mom, you’re still a young woman. You and Jonathan can travel, do whatever you like.

What does that have to do with… You’re not suggesting that somehow you’d be in the way? You don’t really believe that, do you? Jonathan adores you.

Some of this isn’t coming out right. You know I always wanted to go to Tufts. And then when you sold the house after you married Jonathan, that became a real possibility. Jenna hesitated. The bonus is that you get to put yourself first for once. You get to live your life without having to worry about me every day.

Sharon allowed a small smile to form on her lips. So, you think your being on the East Coast is going to stop me from worrying about you?

Jenna smiled as well. No, I know you better than that. But I also know that if I’m 30 miles away, I’ll still be too much a part of your life. If I’m 3,000 miles away, then you and Jonathan can… .

Sharon objected. Where is this coming from? She shook her head slightly. Is it something I said? Did I do something that makes you think I don’t want you around?

Of course not. Jenna paused and turned herself even further toward her mother. You sacrificed for me every day. And part of me doesn’t want to be so far away from you either. She paused again. But I need to do this—for the both of us. Some of this is paying you back for being my mom, for everything you did for me. Tears started streaming down her face, and she couldn’t continue. Sharon looked over at her daughter and began to cry as well.

Usually for both Jenna and Sharon tears born of sadness were much more intense and long lasting than tears born of sentiment—but not this time. Eventually, the tears abated and they were able to calm themselves. Sharon found her voice first. This kind of feels like we’re fighting. I know we’re not, but I still don’t like it.

I don’t either.

They both retreated into silence for a few moments, and then Sharon said, I guess it was pretty dumb to try to change things on the way to the airport, huh? Jenna started to smile, as her mom continued. Okay, I’m declaring a truce, especially since I can’t get a damn refund on the plane ticket anyway.

Jenna’s smile broadened into a laugh. See, I always knew this was about the money. She paused, and as she leaned over, straining against the seatbelt, gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. Thanks, Mom. I love you.

Me too, honey.

They rode in silence for the next several miles, before taking the airport exit. The parking lot wasn’t very crowded—the peak summer travel season having passed a few weeks before. Sharon helped get Jenna’s bags out of the trunk, and they headed for the small terminal.

Jenna waited in the check-in line for only a few minutes while her mom went to the ladies’ room. She got her boarding pass, slung her carry-on over her shoulder, and caught up with her mom at the newsstand.

All set, honey?

Yeah. I’m at Gate 4, but I probably don’t have to be there for another forty-five minutes.

Sharon pointed to a small fast food location close by. Do you want to grab a quick bite here, or go upstairs to the restaurant?

Let’s go upstairs. Is that all right?

Sure. That will give us some more time to talk.

Jenna threw her a glance.

No, not about that. I told you – truce.

As they climbed the stairs, Jenna looked at the pictures and displays that depicted the aviation pioneers that had flown from this very location back in the ‘20’s and ‘30’s. She wasn’t really afraid to fly, but as she surveyed the photos, she couldn’t imagine how these men and women could have risked their lives in those early airplanes.

A hostess seated them near a window that overlooked the runways in the distance. They studied the menu, and after giving their selections to the waitress, Sharon said, Have you heard any more from your new roommate – Patricia, isn’t it?

It’s Trish, Trish Cooper, and yeah I did. We’ve been e-mailing back and forth for the last couple of weeks.

And she’s a transfer student too?

Yeah, from Connecticut. I’m not sure why they do it that way, though. You’d think they’d put transfer students with someone that already goes there. But I’m sure it’ll be fine.

I know you haven’t met her yet, but do you have a sense about what she’s like?

Jenna’s face brightened. Her e-mails are really funny. Oh, and yesterday she sent me a picture. I have it on my phone. Do you want to see it?

Jenna pulled the phone from her bag, scrolled through some other stored photos, found Trish’s picture, and handed the phone to her mom.

After considering the photo briefly, Sharon came out with her first impression. Oh my, isn’t she pretty! Wow, the guys in Boston won’t know what hit them. You two are going to take over."

Jenna rolled her eyes and gave her head a small shake.

What? said her mother.

Projecting much? First, you don’t want me to go, and now I’m taking over the place.

Before Sharon could respond, the waitress arrived with their appetizers. They both dropped the conversation and started to eat. After about ten minutes and some small talk, their meal arrived. Although the food was quite good, they both ate without much enthusiasm. Jenna particularly ate more slowly than usual, attempting to delay the inevitable. She hadn’t anticipated that saying goodbye was going to be so difficult.

Sharon signed the credit card slip, and then had to redo it, because she initially signed MacDonald instead of Brooks. I’m still not used to it. You know—like dating checks in January – you always write the previous year.

They exited the restaurant and headed down the stairs toward the security line. About halfway there Sharon stopped abruptly. Jenna took a few steps before she realized that her mom wasn’t beside her. She looked back and saw her mom with her arms wide open. Jenna went to her and they hugged each other. They let the embrace linger for a few moments, and then they started to speak at the same time, which was followed by a few seconds of nervous laughter.

Sharon broke the embrace and held her daughter at arm’s length. She hesitated to create any physical distance between them, but she needed to take in the full view of the young woman Jenna had become. I love you so much, honey.

I know, Mom. I love you too. She paused. Mom, it’s going to be okay.

Her mother choked up and was barely able to get out, I know it will. She pulled Jenna close again and in a whisper filled with emotion said, Be safe. She then separated from her daughter and gently nudged her toward the security line. Jenna clung briefly to her mother’s hand. I will, she said, as she slowly moved away. She gave one backward glance before disappearing from view.

Sharon held it together until she got outside and then she was overcome. She sat down on one of the wooden benches to try to calm herself. She went searching for Kleenex in her bag, and quickly exhausted the contents of the small package. After about five minutes she got up and crossed the street toward the parking area. She kept trying to convince herself that 3,000 miles wasn’t that far, that being close to someone was more about feelings than distance, that cell phones and e-mails and texting (if she ever learned how) would make up for the lack of proximity.

And then she remembered a favorite saying of Jenna’s father – If you believe that, I have some swamp land in Louisiana and a bridge in Brooklyn you might be interested in.

CHAPTER 3

Jenna was her mother’s daughter. At the same time her mother was trying to compose herself, Jenna was trying to do the same thing. She made a detour to the ladies’ lounge to try to get her emotions at least partially under control. On the other hand, she thought, it wasn’t as if the airport personnel weren’t accustomed to seeing people upset. With the possible exception of hospitals, she figured that airports were probably number one on the public display of emotion list. Still, she didn’t really want everybody gawking at her, wondering what was wrong.

Jenna had always thought of herself as an organized person—everything in its place, everything where she could access it if she needed to. Of course, doing that with physical objects didn’t present much of a challenge, but pigeonholing emotions, storing them in some mental cubby, even just putting them away temporarily—that was not so doable.

After about ten minutes she was able to calm down. She had convinced herself that she needed to focus on all the things that lay ahead, not the sense of emptiness she was feeling about what she was leaving behind. Jenna was like some twenty-first century alchemist, believing that if she didn’t think about her emotional state, it would somehow transform itself into something she was looking forward to.

Although she knew it might only be temporary, and it had required embracing every sappy platitude about new beginnings that she could channel through her mind, Jenna was able to make it work. She took a deep breath and put her carry-on over one shoulder and the long strap of her purse over the other, unconsciously creating a physical balance that mimicked the equilibrium she had just been able to muster emotionally.

The waiting area for Gate 4 was nearly full when Jenna arrived, and she didn’t see a lot of options as she surveyed the available seats. She decided on the empty one next to a family of four – mom, dad, a little boy about four, and a little girl about three. Jenna surmised that the particular seat she had been eyeing was empty precisely because it was next to the family of four. Jenna didn’t care; she liked little kids, and as far as she could tell, these two seemed pretty well behaved.

She navigated the narrow aisle strewn with carry-on luggage. And as she passed in front of the parents of the children, she smiled and sat down on the end seat. The little boy continued to stare straight ahead for just a moment, and then once Jenna appeared to get settled, he moved his attention toward her. She waited a few moments and then looked over, but before she could say anything, the little boy beat her to it. Hi, he said, as he watched her for a second or two and then turned away. Jenna uttered, Hi back, surprised that the exchange appeared to be over.

A smile appeared on Jenna’s face, as she remembered her mother’s words from earlier today after she had seen Trish’s picture – The guys in Boston won’t know what hit them. Yeah, well, if this little boy is from Boston, I probably have a lot of work to do.

Jenna was hoping that once she was airborne, she could catch up on some sleep and not engage in any extended conversations. She looked over at the little boy, hoping that she might be sitting next to him on the plane. The chances of any conversation with him, never mind an extended one, seemed pretty remote. On the other hand, if she were sitting next to somebody who wanted to talk, Jenna knew she couldn’t say no. That was who she was.

Another smile came across her lips, as she thought about a discussion she had had with her mom a few years ago. It seemed that two of Jenna’s friends were in a fight, and as usual, she was in the middle trying to mediate. Eventually, the two friends resolved their differences, but then they both got mad at Jenna. She was crushed. Her mom consoled her, but added some advice. Jenna, honey, you’re going to keep getting hurt if you try to make everybody happy. Life doesn’t work that way. She put her arm around her daughter. But I love that you keep trying. You have such a good heart. She paused and then lightened the moment. I fully expect that if your high school has a People Pleaser Club, you’ll be the president.

Jenna let out a little laugh at the memory.

Being a people pleaser was a mixed bag. Sometimes it made you feel great because you were helping people and they really appreciated it. Other times people just took advantage of you. Which was which, wasn’t always clear, even long after the fact.

Jenna glanced over at the little boy just to make sure she hadn’t misjudged the chance of further interaction. She decided again that it was probably non-existent. She rooted through her bag, extracted her iPod, put in the ear buds, and began listening.

The boarding call for those traveling with young children came about fifteen minutes into Jenna’s musical retreat. The family of four got up at the father’s urging. As the children gathered their stuffed animals and books, the parents policed the area where they had been sitting like campers closing down the campsite, and then moved toward the jetway. The little boy was walking next to his father, looking up at him, as if seeking permission. He then turned back toward Jenna, smiled, and said, Bye. Even with the ear buds in, she was able to hear him. Jenna smiled as she returned the Bye and added a little wave. Jenna couldn’t imagine what had been going on in the little boy’s head. Maybe he was just beginning to practice the social graces. She laughed to herself – I guess Hi and Bye are a good place to start.

The boarding call for her row came five minutes later. She got in the line, which moved surprisingly quickly, and she was seated in 14A next to the window within a few minutes. It was unusual for Jenna to have a window seat. Whenever she had flown in the past, almost always with her mom, Jenna sat in the middle. During the online booking process, her mother would always ask which seat Jenna preferred. Knowing that her mom really favored the seats next to the window or on the aisle, she always responded, It doesn’t matter. What else would a people pleaser do, she thought?

Jenna intently watched the passengers coming down the aisle, trying to figure out which one was heading for 14B, and to a lesser extent, 14C. After a short time she saw an older gentleman studying his boarding pass as he checked the posted row numbers. He placed a small piece of luggage in the overhead compartment, ducked his head, and settled in next to Jenna. He looked over at her, smiled and said, Hello. Next, he fastened his seat belt, took a magazine from the pouch on the back of the seat in front of him, and began to read.

This looks promising, thought Jenna.

The takeoff was smooth, and even better, the plane left the runway within five minutes of its scheduled departure. The disembodied voice of the pilot informed everyone that because of the strong tailwind, the flight would only be a little more than four hours.

During the first hour, Jenna watched the satellite TV embedded in the seat in front of her. She channel surfed, not unlike what she did with radio stations in the car. After going through all the channels about ten times, she decided she might as well implement the catching up on sleep part of her original plan for the plane ride. It didn’t take long for her to drift off, and although the seats were somewhat uncomfortable, Jenna was able to fall into a light sleep for almost ninety minutes.

Shortly after she awoke, the flight attendants came around serving drinks. Jenna declined the offer. She had decided to use her laptop, and didn’t want to take the chance of spilling anything on it.

She powered up her computer and moved the cursor to AOL to check her e-mail. There were five new ones. She usually read her e-mails in the order of interest they held for her—least to most. She tended to save the best for last, sort of like communication dessert. But this time, she went right for the chocolate cake—the one from Trish. Jenna smiled as she clicked on Trish’s address – tcup – a play on Trish’s name – T. Cooper. The smile quickly expanded as she began reading.

Hey Roomie,

It’s about 3:30 Beantown time. I figure you’re reading this in the airport or on the plane. If not, then we’ll read it together when you get here. I should warn you though; I’ll be looking over your shoulder and watching to see if you laugh at my jokes.

Two boxes of your stuff arrived. I persuaded two guys from the first floor to bring them up to our room – 209. Technically, they shouldn’t have released the boxes to anyone but you, but the resident assistant said it was okay. I figured you didn’t want to have to deal with that after five hours on a plane.

So, by my calculations (remember, I’m not a math major) you should be getting in around 8. I’ve been here since noon. I did a little housekeeping. Consider yourself lucky – it’s way more than I do at home for my dad. Anyway, I set up the room, but if you don’t like it, we can change it. It does seem a little bare. I took a picture, which I’m sending to Webster’s to put next to the word Spartan in their dictionary. Actually, I kind of like our room. I mean, it’s not huge or anything, but it’s a lot bigger than some of the dorm rooms I’ve seen. It’s probably because our dorm used to be a private residence. I think the Hutchinson Family owned it – hence the name Hutchinson House. Pretty clever, don’t you think? No wonder Tufts has such a great reputation.

Anyway, each dorm room in HH is different. It kind of gives the place texture. I’m a big fan of texture. I can’t even think about eating yogurt unless there’s some fruit mixed in. But I digress. I did check out some of the other dorm rooms in the more modern buildings – no texture; they’re all the same; they look like cells. I think I spotted some guys dressed like Friar Tuck copying scripture.

I just thought of something – Why don’t you go to the Tufts website and check out HH? I think they show some of the rooms. Or you can just wait a few hours and see it in person. I know what I’d do. Delayed gratification’s not my thing—at least in viewing dorm rooms.

Oh, remember the two guys I mentioned who brought your stuff up to the room? I think one of them might be date material; the other one not so much – unless you think you’d like to develop narcolepsy. Maybe that was a little harsh. But guess what he talked about after I knew him for a minute and a half? He got the measurements of all the dorm rooms on campus and divided the square footage by the cost of room and board to find out which students were getting the best deal. (We’re in third place by the way.) But, do you see what I mean? Instead of you had me at hello, it was you put me to sleep at square footage.

I really am looking forward to meeting you and getting to know you better. (I got that last sentence from the book Chicken Soup for the Cliché User – College Edition) Maybe I’ll save the Dr. Phil moment for later.

So, back to business – no scheduled stuff for tomorrow or Tuesday. Orientation starts on Wednesday and classes start the day after Labor Day. You already knew all of that didn’t you? If you don’t read this e-mail until after you arrive here, we can skip this part.

Oh, I just remembered. I read this article about college freshmen (we count because we’re transfer students). It said that one of the great ways for roommates to get to know one another faster is to share something about themselves that they normally wouldn’t share until a month or two after they met. Sort of like an ice smasher rather than an icebreaker. What do you think? It’s kind of like the college students’ version of I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours. I’m game, if you are!

I just realized how long this e-mail has become—I’m entertaining paperback rights for the spring. Maybe it could be an Oprah book club selection.

I really do have to stop now. The guy who did the room and board analysis is coming back. He noticed that we have a loose baseboard. He said if he hammers it in, our square footage increases and we move into second place. First place looks out of the question unless we knock down a wall. I’m really not that competitive, but let’s talk. See you in a few  Trish

Jenna laughed out loud. It was the third time she had done that since she started reading the e-mail. She had attempted to stifle the laughter all three times, but she hadn’t been successful. She supposed that if something struck you funny, you were really powerless not to laugh. Plus, it appeared that Trish knew just where Jenna’s funny bone was located.

She looked around to see how much attention she had drawn. Other than the man next to her who gave her a paternal smile, it appeared to be minimal. Jenna wasn’t sure why she cared, but she did. It was understandable that earlier when she was crying in the airport, she didn’t want people asking, What’s the matter? – That was too personal. But why should it bother her if someone heard her laughing and asked, What’s so funny? I guess, she thought, explaining why you feel a certain way, even to yourself, is not all that easy.

Normally, Jenna didn’t like long e-mails. She felt obligated to reread them over and over to make sure she responded to every question they contained, even the rhetorical ones. But Trish’s e-mails were different. When she reread them she laughed just as hard the second time as she did the first time, and she didn’t want them to end.

Jenna knew her reply wasn’t going to be anywhere near as clever as Trish’s original e-mail. So what was she going to do? I guess I could just wait to see her in person, she thought. But it seemed like Trish’s effort really called out for some sort of a response. She started and stopped a number of times, nearly wearing out the backspace key. And then she decided to keep it simple.

Hi Trish,

Thanks a lot!!! I read your e-mail on the plane and laughed out loud the whole way through. The guy next to me gave me a look like-So, did you skip your medication?

See ya soon. Roomie

She quickly read her other e-mails, closed down the laptop, and put it away. She was about to take out something to read when she changed her mind and decided to just shut her eyes and veg out.

Of course just because you were trying to relax, didn’t mean your brain was going to cooperate. Jenna’s mind started spinning like the reels on a slot machine. It finally settled on some of the facetious questions Trish had posed in her e-mail. That made her smile. It also got Jenna thinking about how she had been feeling a few hours ago when she was so upset, and now, how her emotions had moved to the other end of the spectrum.

It struck her as strange that in a relatively short period of time you could go from one extreme to the other. She contemplated this idea for a few moments and it triggered something more philosophical in her mind. If emotions can change so quickly, maybe they’re not on a spectrum after all – with happiness on one end and sadness on the other. Maybe emotions aren’t so linear.

No substitute model initially came to her, and then an idea started taking shape. Maybe when you were anticipating some big change in your life, or some momentous event, your mind gathered all your potential emotion – emotion that wasn’t yet fully formed, like sculptor’s clay, and sent it down a narrow path in your brain. Then, when the momentous event happened, it created a fork in the pathway, and your heart decided in which direction it should go.

Jenna took a mental step back to reevaluate what she had been thinking. After a few moments she dove back in. The idea she had just described to herself would certainly explain how people could go from sadness to happiness in such a short amount of time. Instead of traveling all the way to the other end of the spectrum, your emotions only needed to go back to the fork and then take the other path.

The more she thought about her idea, the more she liked it. When she was in high school, she had taken an elective called Logic and Philosophy. She had really enjoyed the course, and periodically she had engaged in an exercise similar to the one she had just done. She liked to think she had a separate compartment in her brain where she could keep her philosophical notions. She added this latest idea to the compartment and allowed her mind to move on to other things.

Her next conscious thoughts were about the new adventure her life was becoming. She would really be her own person now, making her own decisions, independent. She focused on that last word for a moment. The truth was that she had always been pretty independent. She suspected that when you’re only eight years old and you lose a parent, independence kind of forces itself on you; it makes you grow up faster.

She thought briefly about the pioneer aviators who were depicted on the walls of the Long Beach Airport. Certainly this new phase of her life was nothing as grandiose as what they had done. Could you even call yourself a pioneer if the only thing you were exploring was your own life? She smiled at the notion. Jenna’s reverie was interrupted by the pilot’s announcement that they were beginning their initial descent into Logan Airport in Boston.

About ten minutes before they landed she thought back to Trish’s e-mail, particularly the part about sharing some semi-hidden thing about themselves. She tried out a few possibilities, but dismissed them as too superficial. She continued running down her list of secrets, somewhat surprised that as she started to approach deep dark territory, she hadn’t flinched and scurried back up the list.

And then there it was.