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...