Anytime Soon (23 page)

“Why aren't we closer?” I asked her.

“You've always had Sophie and Catie,” she mused. “I could never compete. You wanted to hang out with them, and when I tried hanging out with you guys, you wouldn't let me. When you started eighth grade, it was like I'd become invisible. Everything was ‘You're too young,' or ‘You don't get it,' or ‘Never mind.' Whenever they came over, you just shut your door, and shut me out.”

I listened to her explain how I had closed her out of my world.

“I was terrible,” I said.

“Oh, stop it. You thought you were protecting me.”

For the next hour, Ava and I sat on the floor, first folding clothes and then looking through my old photo album.

“Do you remember that time Andrew shaved his eyebrows off?” she asked.

“Yes! And tried to cover it up with that baseball cap?”

We both laughed at the memory of his face with no eyebrows.

It was my time to ask Ava about church. For whatever reason, mom was letting her strange behavior slide, but I couldn't do it. Whether we were close or not, I needed to know that my sister was okay.

“Can I ask you a question, Ava?”

“Of course.”

“Your church. Is it a real church like in a building or is it in somebody's house?”

“It's in a building,” she said and went on describing the various programs the church sponsored, including a food bank and computer training programs. I had never heard of a cult that offered computer training.

“Is it a cult, Ava?”

“A cult?!” She was obviously taken aback.

“But the protests and the radical statements, what was that about?'

“My vigilante nature kicked in. What can I say? The church didn't sponsor those protests, it was a few of us students that got together to protest,” she laughed at the misunderstanding but I didn't. I felt bad. Not just for the question about the cult, but for not knowing my sister. Not knowing her interests or talent and for not taking the time to get to know her. I spent too much time and energy worrying about Catie and Sophie and trying to support them that I had sacrificed a relationship with Ava.

That night, I lay in bed and asked God to forgive me for my sins. I asked God to say hi to Andrew for me. Then I thanked Him for giving me back my little sister, and I cried myself to sleep.

The next day, I packed up to leave. My parents were going to follow me down to campus and help me settle in.

“I'm sorry I can't go with you,” Ava said. “I have two rehearsals tonight.”

“I know. I understand.”

“You'll be fine,” she said, kissing me on the forehead. “Call me.”

She was wearing one of the shirts I had given her.

I got in my car and watched my mom fuss at Roscoe as they got in his truck.

When we pulled out of the driveway, I heard Mom say in a loud voice, “Good Lord, you need a tune-up! How in the world do you drive this thing?”

My new job would be at the extension campus, which was an hour and a half round-trip from my parent's house. According to Professor Klein, I'd have plenty of autonomy, because regular professors couldn't make it to the campus as much due to other commitments. I would be supervising student research assignments and giving lectures. In the past few months I'd gone from an administrative assistant, to a legal clerk, and now a teacher's assistant.

Look out world, I'm moving up!

I appreciated the campus housing. I wouldn't have to pay rent, and I'd get the privacy I needed.

During the drive, I replayed that last night with Jeff over in my head. As learning experiences go, this had certainly been a hard one. I started wondering what other ones were ahead.

The university extension was in a small, hot town that reeked of cow dung. My parents and I pulled up to the apartment complex.

We passed a waterfall, a small playground, and a swimming pool before we reached my apartment.

“It's safe here,” Mom said once we entered my new home. “Even though it is on the ground floor. I'm glad a lot of families live here.”

The furniture was simple, but clean and fairly modern.

After I unpacked and settled in, we had lunch before my parents prepared for the drive back. I started to feel a little anxiety, but I didn't dare show it.

Mom shouldn't have to worry about me while I'm down here.
I don't want her trying to come and stay with me for weekends
because she thinks I need her.

“Get to know the older lady upstairs,” she advised. “She seems like a good person.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Socialize with your coworkers, so you won't be all alone.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“And call—”

She started to cry.

“Oh, Nita,” Roscoe said. “Cut it out. The girl is damn near thirty. It's
time
.”

“She is
not
almost thirty,” Mom said.

“I certainly am not!” I agreed.

We all laughed.

“I'll call you, Mom. Don't cry. I'll be fine.”

“I know,” she sniffled. “I know.”

She kissed me on the cheek and headed out the door.

Roscoe hugged me quickly.

“I'm proud of you. You're making your mark on this world.”

After they left, I walked to campus to take some of my things to my new office.

The campus was new, so all of the buildings were modern, and the grounds were impeccably clean. When I walked into the classroom, I immediately started shivering. My first assignment was to find the air conditioner and turn that sucker down. Although the classroom was small, it did have a side office for me, which I liked. I sat down and re-read Professor Morgan's instructions. I wanted to be sure I was totally prepared for the students.

I thought about Jeff. I missed him. I actually missed everyone already.

I didn't try to stop the tears from falling. I pulled myself together and headed back through the extension buildings, toward my apartment. I enjoyed the warmth outside.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rolling wheels. I turned to see a big guy rolling a wagon full of books. He was six feet tall and easily three hundred pounds. When he approached me, I could see his eyes were a startling grey, and his skin was the color of barely creamed coffee.

“Hey!” he said cheerfully.

“Hi,” I said, trying to sound pleasant.

“Are you a student here?” he asked.

“No, I'm the new teaching assistant, Anaya Goode.”

I extended my hand, and he shook it heartily.

“I'm Travis Dale, the teaching assistant for the dean of the English department. You have your room set up?”

“Sort of,” I said.

“Do you need help with anything? This is my third summer working here, so I know my way around.”

“Actually, could you help me turn down the air conditioner in my classroom? It's freezing in there.”

He chuckled.

“Ah yes, I know that problem well. You have a minute? I can show you now.”

We headed back to my class. Not only did Travis help me find the air conditioner switch, he also helped me get my syllabus copied and set up an alternative mailbox for students to drop off assignments after hours.

“You live on campus, too?” I asked him.

“No, I live at home,” he said, “just across the hills and cows from here.”

We laughed. He was right. There wasn't much else that separated the communities.

“I live on the better side of the hill, though,” he advised.

“Oh? What's better about your side?” I asked, curious.

“Because on my side, there's a grocery store, a bowling alley, and a coffee shop.”

We laughed again.

The campus livened up after the first week. And so did my friendship with Travis. It was terrific to have met a friend so soon. He was funny, honest, and smart. His degree was in English and psychology. He didn't know what he wanted to do with his degree, but he had worked as a teaching assistant for the past few summers because he liked teaching.

One day we talked about his career plans. “My parents told me to take my time,” he told me, “and figure out what I really want to study before rushing into grad school.”

“What a good deal for you, if you like living at home. I used to be glad that I lived at home, but now I wonder if I haven't been too sheltered all my life. I've spent so much of my time giving and doing for my family and friends.”

He nodded. “The idea is to realize you can't fix everyone else.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“So when will you let me make dinner for you?” he asked.

“We've eaten at every fast-food restaurant in town,” I said. “So I'll take you up on your invitation.” I didn't want to offend him by turning him down too many times. We had started to spend a lot of time together, so it made sense that I would meet his family, because they were close to the campus, and I lived alone.

Travis and his teenaged sister lived with their parents in a beautiful home. His dad was an architect, and his mom was a nurse. Hanging out with the family was just the therapy I needed. I ate good food, laughed, and felt comfortable. They were warm people, and I immediately felt at ease with them.

Soon, I was going to their house several times a week. Travis's room had its own bath and was like a little apartment in the back of the house. He had a huge bed, a walk-in closet, a small refrigerator, and an air hockey table in the middle of the room. We played air hockey a couple of times, but we spent most of our time listening to
CD
s and talking.

Travis was a talker. Good grief, he loved talking. He was filled with “what ifs?” and “how comes?” His questions made me think about things that I probably never would have thought about. I started to realize that Jeff was not the only man who could hold an interesting conversation. Travis was also a great listener. I never rambled with him, because he always had a question, or nodded his head, or looked me directly in the eye. He would have made a good therapist—a heap better than the one I was seeing. But his keen observation could be both good and bad.

“Tell me what your issue is,” he asked me one midsummer evening, after a game of air hockey.

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“I mean, what the hell is wrong with you? Who broke your heart?”

I laughed. “It's that obvious?” My first impulse was to brush him off and leave it there. But instead, I told him everything. He listened carefully, without interrupting me or asking a lot of questions. Then he gave me general advice on love and how to deal with the consequences of our actions. He was nonjudgmental and open. Travis was just who I needed to restore my faith in men as a worthwhile species.

At about two in the morning, I fell asleep at the foot of his bed. It was the first peaceful night's sleep I'd had since leaving home.

My class met on Mondays and Wednesdays. I enjoyed teaching. In so many different ways, it fit me well. Summer classes are packed with a lot of material, so I didn't have much time to let my mind drift. I still thought about Jeff, but my thoughts were mostly occupied with the students and class preparation.

One night, Travis and I were grading papers, working on the floor of my living room, sitting on cushions in front of the coffee table. He suddenly confronted me about my love life.

“So what are you gonna do?” Travis asked while he took a break.

I looked over at him and frowned.

“Anaya!” he called again.

“What?”

“Are you daydreaming about him again? I asked you, What are you gonna do?”

“About what?”

“About
what
?” he said, mocking me. “You know about what. You still love him.”

I do still love him, but I don't feel like talking about it.

“What are you talking about?”

“This morning I saw a teaching assistant from the mass communications department ask you to lunch. You turned him down.”

“So? He wasn't my type. I don't have to go to lunch with somebody just because he asks me. I'm not desperate.”

“I didn't say you were desperate. You are lonely. Yet you won't even give anybody the time of day. What about the guy from the pizza parlor on Friday night? You told him you had a boyfriend.”

“He looked like a frog.”

“You need to keep it real with yourself, before you have any chance of keeping it real with anybody else.”

“I love him even more now than I ever have.” I was surprised to hear myself say that. But, for once, I didn't feel a lump in my throat, and I didn't tear up.

Am I healing?

“Do you think he loves his wife?”

“Yep.”

“Do you think he loves you?”

“Yep.”

“I think you should call him.”

“Nope.”

I got up and headed straight for the shower. Sometimes it amazed me how much I was becoming like my mom—just cutting off a conversation when I didn't want to talk about something.