Jenna MacDonald transfers to Tufts University in Boston, from UCLA. Boston is very different from Southern California, but Jenna is hopeful, as she starts her sophomore year, that the transfer will bring about some positive changes in her life-not that life has been bad. On the contrary, Jenna is a hopeful, driven young woman, but she’d be the first to admit that she’s still naïve in the ways of the real world.When she meets David Whitcomb, Jenna begins to feel the first stirrings of what they talk about in love songs. Despite Jenna’s focus on her studies, she can’t help but be pulled in by the handsome, charming David; soon, they embark on a serious relationship that neither of them is emotionally prepared to undertake. Jenna’s life accelerates, but can she handle the rapid twists and turns of adulthood in Boston?Spectrums is the story of one young woman’s choices and how those choices affect not only her life but the lives of everyone around her. Jenna’s life changes forever when she first sets foot on the Tufts University campus. Will Jenna be able to complete her college education, despite complications with David? Or will her rapidly accelerating life path veer off course and cause an irrevocable and painful crash?

Spectrums

By Thomas Hall

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Thomas Hall
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-2464-3

Chapter One

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 Two

(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.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Spectrumsby Thomas Hall Copyright © 2011 by Thomas Hall. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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