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  The first thing I noticed were the blue eyes―decidedly blue eyes―fringed with brown lashes that matched his eyebrows but were darker than his longish hair. Those eyes. There was a look in them, a look on his face that didn’t belong there. As if he knew me. As if he felt something . . . unique toward me. No one had ever looked at me like that before. No one should be looking at me like that now.

  I turned away. This made no sense. But, then, neither did the fact that he was able to sneak up on me. Or that he seemed to bring with him a sense of my unremembered past, and in a soothing way, no less. This felt right―being here with him. But maybe it was just me―me and my imagination. Was he even real?

  I looked at him again. Oh, yes. He was real. And, now that I noticed, he was―well, good-looking. Not too handsome. And his eyes were almost hypnotic. His nose was just right for his face, he had a strong jawline, and his lips looked like . . . . Alright. That's enough. What was I thinking? I didn’t even know him.

  Or did I?

  As if in response to my unspoken thoughts, he smiled―a contagious grin that persuaded me to smile in spite of wondering if he could possibly know what I hadn’t even allowed myself to finish thinking. It was so strange, yet his presence was strangely reassuring. He looked about my age, maybe a little older. But I didn’t remember seeing him at school.

  And I still felt inexplicably good.

  So, what to say now? I hadn’t the foggiest idea, so I just sat there and didn’t say anything. As much as I wanted to keep looking at him, I looked away. He must think I’m an idiot.

  "I know better." It sounded like the same male voice―gentle, amused. But it was inside my head. How did it get in there?

  I turned quickly toward him, surprise certainly written all over my face. But no fear. This was indeed new and different.

  “We just moved here, and I was checking out the high school. My sister will be starting there Monday.”

  Better not voice what I had been thinking. What should I say?

  "Oh." Why did conversational skills fail me at the worst possible times?

  “Do you go there?” he inquired.

  Brain and tongue still not coordinated, “Go where?”

  “The high school,” he responded, pointing toward the brick building across the park and fields from us.

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” A little better. “I’m a senior this year.” Afterthought, “How about you?”

  “I graduated from high school a while ago. I'm in college now. But my sister, Melinda, is a freshman.”

  Another pause.

  “My name is Will Stuart. And you are . . . ?”

  “Cassandra Campbell. But I usually go by Cassie. Cassandra seems kind of long and formal.” Oops. Too much information.

  He grinned at me again, and replied, “Yeah, that’s why I go by Will. It’s actually William Joseph, but the whole thing at once sounds rather pretentious.”

  “Yeah.” Insightful response, that. I looked down. Why was he talking to me, anyway? Obviously attractive, apparently intelligent. And in college. Out of my league. And why did I care? I had already decided that I wasn’t going to even think about anything remotely like a dating relationship for a long time. If ever.

  Who could possibly be interested in me anyway? I had gone out of my way to make sure nobody would be. No makeup, no hair styling, no fashionable clothes. I was all about mastering the high school curriculum, not pursuing social connections. Especially romantic ones. Too complex. Too intimate. Way too scary.

  Prior self-indoctrination now kicked in, and the very fact that I still felt unreasonably secure in spite of my obvious ineptitude suddenly made the situation unnerving. Best to call it quits before confirming to him that I really was as inexperienced and foolish as I seemed. Time for excuses―

  “Well, it’s getting pretty late and I have to get home for dinner.” Did that sound lame? I risked another glance, then couldn’t end it. There was that look on his face again. The one that shouldn't be there.

  This made no sense (repeating myself). It must be my imagination.

  "It's not." I was wrong before. The voice wasn't just inside my head. It gently reverberated throughout my entire being. Whoa . . . .

  Time to go. I almost leapt out of the swing. And stood there. Did I really want to leave? Was there any chance I would ever feel this way again? Or meet him again?

  Shakily, “Well, maybe I'll see you around?” Possible? Perhaps. Probable? No―not by a long shot.

  Because he had been sitting, I hadn't been able to tell how tall he was except that he was longer than my five and a half feet. Now, as he unfolded himself from the swing, I could see that he must be at least six feet tall. Hmm. Just about right. For what? I stopped myself again. Time for a major reality check. And definitely time to go. Now.

  “Hope so. Nice to see you.” "See" me, not "meet" me? Odd. But he seemed to mean it.

  “Thanks,” I said as I turned toward home. Turning back, “Um, you, too.” How fast could I walk and not look like I was running away? Breathe. Breathe. I was already to the street and out of sight of the swings. I slowed down. Breathe.

  Was the good feeling still there? Yes, it was. For the moment, anyway. But it started with Will Stuart. Would it end without him? And never come back?

  Then it dawned on me. The new impressions I had been experiencing inside myself were so absorbing that I hadn't noticed: Not only could I not sense his presence, there had been nothing coming to me from inside Will Stuart at all. His thoughts and feelings were silent for me. Unless the comments that seemed deliberately placed in my head were from him, that is. But they felt totally different from the constant barrage that usually came at me from outside. I didn't mind them.

  In fact, now that I thought about it, this might open up a whole new realm of possibilities. Will Stuart was unlike anyone I had ever met. If he had some kind of unconventional ability; if he possessed some exceptional understanding of communication; if there was a way to control what emanates from the mind and, more to the point, what penetrates the mind, and he knew how . . . .

  Oh, to be free from the continual, unwanted influx of human turmoil! Maybe there was hope for me after all! But . . . hold on. Not too much hope. I didn't want to go through that again. Thus far in my life, the flight of expectation had never been worth the resultant crash of disappointment. And I wasn't at all convinced that it ever would be. I couldn't risk getting ahead of anything here.

  How could I find that out from him anyway, if it were, by some stretch of the imagination, even close to plausible? That wasn't something you just walked up and asked a person. And how would I manage to even meet him again, let alone develop the kind of relationship with him that would be necessary for him to be willing to share that kind of personal information?

  Bad idea. Very bad idea. I had to derail this train of thought now. I had enough trouble handling the few relationships I was already in, let alone coping with the input from the myriad people I was unavoidably exposed to on a daily basis. No more, please!

  Was the feeling still there? Yes, but it wasn't as strong. Sorrow welled up inside me. Why was I reacting this way? Did I really have to be so difficult? Was there anything I could do about it? Very heavy sigh. Dream on . . . .

  I walked faster in a vain attempt to elude the offending thought process in my own head. I had to stop thinking about this Will Stuart. Or anything to do with him.

  When I got home, I hung up my jacket on one of the hooks inside the kitchen door and called out, “Hi! I’m home!” Back to reality.

  “Hi, Hon’! Get some pizza! We’re just starting the movie!” Gina called back. This was a regular Saturday night event at our house. So I grabbed a paper plate, napkin, pizza and some water, then joined Mark and Gina in the family room. They both smiled at me as I walked in.

  “Hey, Kiddo. How’d it go with Sam?” Mark asked.

  Sam seemed worlds away right then. “Well, we got it finished. She’ll be fine.”

  He
laughed. “That girl. She could do it by herself if she wanted to, don’t you think?” I nodded, with a mouthful of pizza. He continued, “Well, it’s good for you to get out of the house, anyway.”

  Gina was putting the movie in the DVD player when Mark announced, "I forgot to tell you before. They’ve finally found another psychiatrist to take Dr. Baumgartner’s place at the medical school.”

  “Oh, really? Who?”

  “Let’s see. Uh . . . Stuart. That’s it. Richard Stuart.”

  I don’t know how big my eyes got, but I do know that I stopped eating so I wouldn’t miss any of the information Mark was providing. It must have just popped back into his thoughts, because I hadn't sensed it coming at all. Was this the same Stuart family? I couldn't seem to get away . . . .

  But did I really want to?

  “When is he coming?” asked Gina.

  “He’s already here, with his family. I don’t know the wife’s name, but there are two kids. A son and a daughter. The daughter starts at the high school Monday. That’s how I found out. Her brother brought her in to register yesterday. I guess he and his dad moved here last month, before classes started at the university. The girl and her mom had to stay behind to finish packing up the house and all, and just got here.

  “Seem like good kids. I wonder if he plays basketball? He’s got to be six foot three or four, but he doesn't look heavy enough to play football.” Vintage Mark―always thinking about sports.

  By this time the movie had started and we settled in our habitual spots―Mark and Gina on the sofa, me curled up in the overstuffed chair. And, in my usual way, I didn’t really pay attention to the movie. Mark and Gina exuded love and warmth on occasions like this, and I soaked it up like a dry sponge. I tried to ignore the more intimate stuff from them involving each other, but focused in keenly on all the good stuff about me. I didn’t really believe that I was all they perceived me to be, but it was healing to me that they did. And I needed all the healing―and distraction―I could get right now. So I basked in it, as if it were the sun on a cold winter day.

  “Cassie. Cassie. Maybe you’d better go to bed.” Mark was gently nudging my leg with his foot from where he was sitting on the sofa.

  “Yeah,” I murmured drowsily, and dragged myself out of the too cushy chair. I must not have been asleep too long―the nightmares hadn’t started yet.

  “Sweet dreams,” Gina called after me.

  Not hardly. “You, too,” I replied, trudging down the hall to my bedroom.

  I walked through my bedroom door and closed it, shutting out the rest of the world. Well, that’s what I wished it would do, anyway. In truth, I had learned that distance, not doors―or walls, for that matter―was what kept the whirlwind of human thought and feeling from pulling me in. But I liked to think of this room as my sanctuary. That perception by itself generally made me feel at least a bit better. That, and the nightly prayers that Mark and Gina had taught me to say when I was younger. The complete relief that I often requested didn’t happen, but a quiet peace usually crept in, making sleep possible for at least a while before the nightmares kicked in.

  Gina and I had redecorated my room the summer before my freshman year in high school. She explained that I wasn’t a little girl any more. I was “a young woman, and should have a young woman’s room.” Sounded good to me, especially since I got to pick everything out myself with only peripheral coaching from her.

  The carpet was thick and forest green. It reminded me of the soft, cool grass I loved to feel under my feet in the summertime. The walls were the softest butter yellow we could find; the ceiling was a complimentary near white. I wanted curtains and bedding that matched, which generally weren’t hard to find, but a material that I liked was. Everything else was done, including the purchase of a double bed with headboard, nightstand, dresser with mirror, and desk with chair―all in a honey gold pine. Even the new computer, complete with a multi-function printer, had been set up for weeks before I finally noticed a weekend newspaper ad with bedding sets in a floral weave green fabric, some shades lighter than my carpet. Gina wanted to go right out and get it. So we did. (I generally avoided shopping. But, seeing as how it was for me . . . .)

  Oh, and the bookcases. Can’t forget the bookcases. A whole wall of them, in fact. You see, I read a lot―out of self-defense. Reading didn’t really keep the voices and all out, but it could be a useful distraction. I read everything from Shakespeare to Brontë and Austen; Doyle, Christie and Sayers to Lewis and Tolkein; and, some Asimov, Clarke and other science fiction, though relatively few. And, of course, current authors in the same genres. I occasionally went back to all the Montgomery, Alcott and other books Mark and Gina had given me when I was younger. And poetry. Longfellow and Browning (Elizabeth Barrett, that is) were two of my favorites. There were quite a few others, but those are representative. I did tend to read “older” stuff, probably because I enjoyed the more lyrical, elegant language that I generally found there. And I loved to use the language I read, in spite of the fact that I was teased about it at school (as Sam reminded me periodically). “What does she think she is, Webster or something?” was a typical quip aimed in my direction. (Which didn’t even make sense: Noah Webster was a “who,” not a “what.”)

  All the books were carefully placed in alphabetical order by author on the shelves of my library. Mark occasionally worried that my room in general and my bookshelves in particular were too neat. “It’s not normal,” he’d tell Gina. She would reply, “Oh, she’s fine, Mark. She just likes things in their place. Besides, what is ‘normal'?” I don’t know that he ever did come up with an answer to that question.

  They didn’t realize that I kept it so neat, and simple―with very little on the walls or furniture―because most things that I saw when I woke from bad dreams every night appeared monstrous to me: Misshapen and frightening. Having less stuff in the room, along with a small nightlight ostensibly for the purpose of not bumping into things when I ventured to my bathroom in the middle of the night, made the effect less terrifying.

  I gradually became more alert as I changed into a favorite pair of flannel pajamas (it felt like it was going to be cold) and finished up in the bathroom. By the time I pulled back the covers and slipped into bed, I was wide awake and thinking again, or still, about Will Stuart.

  No use wasting any more time and energy trying to avoid thinking about him.

  Was the feeling still there? No. It was gone. And I suddenly felt so sad that I wanted to cry.

  Should I be upset, or intrigued? Maybe both?

  So, the good feeling I had enjoyed with him earlier was finally gone. What would it take to get it back? Maybe I just had to be around him. Was it worth any more thought right now? Was he?

  Part of me wanted the answer to be “No,” but it wasn’t. So I thought about him, wondered about him, more. His face was much more pleasant to have in my mind than the dark dreams that always met me in my sleep. The good feeling was gone, but I could remember what it had felt like when I remembered him. So I stayed awake and focused on Will Stuart until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer.

  Finally, reluctantly, I dozed off.

  Chapter Two

  The next thing I knew, I was awake. And it wasn't because I was scared and shaking and sweating from the same nightmares that had haunted my every night for as long as I could remember. It was because light was coming in through my bedroom window. I quickly threw back the covers and went to the window to see where it was coming from. I blinked hard and looked again.

  The sun was up!

  It was a beautiful morning, and I had slept through the entire night without being disturbed by a single bad dream!

  I wandered back to my bed and sat down. I thought of all those years of therapy and strategies, and trying everything I could think of, and finally just accepting the fact that I was going to have sleep problems for the rest of my life. Now, for no apparent reason―gone. Why? What was different?

  Only one thi
ng―my encounter with Will Stuart yesterday. His face came clearly to mind, and my heart jumped a little when it did. Then followed the memory of his smile, his voice, and the feelings that came with him.

  I wonder what he's doing today?

  Not going to go there . . . .

  Well, whatever the reason, it sure felt good. I wasn't tired. I actually felt like I had rested. And not just physically. Instead of struggling through my usual morning pep talk to myself about how I needed to get up, start moving, and keep moving so I'd be able to make it through the day, I actually felt like getting up. I wanted to get up and do something. Anything. I just felt good. Almost lighthearted and . . . happy. How strange!

  I looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It was only 7:38 a.m. Whoa! Usually I couldn't even begin to peel my eyelids open until much later, especially on a weekend; so much later, in fact, that the day felt mostly over before I was able to drag myself out of bed.

  This was better. Much better.

  "Okay. Well. What should I do? What do I want to do?" I asked myself out loud. Besides see Will Stuart again, some part of me involuntarily added.

  Nope. Not doing this . . . .

  I decided to take my time in the shower, and go from there. I undressed, put my clothes in the hamper, and got in. The hot water felt particularly good in the chill of the morning. I stood under it until I was thoroughly rinsed, letting the water run down my head and back. When I got out, I first caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, then deliberately turned to study myself in it.

  My eyes were a nice color, but the circles under them were not. If I saw Will Stuart often enough that I consistently got a good night's sleep, maybe those would go away . . . .

  Enough, already!

  My face was an ordinary shape, with a nose that wasn't crooked or big. My mouth seemed fine. My teeth were straight. (The orthodontist was responsible for that. Courtesy of Mark and Gina, of course.) I wasn't fat, but I wasn't skinny, either. I was reasonably proportioned, without any particular bulges―at least, ones that shouldn't be there. My body seemed okay to me.