Cassie Linden Finds Her Sweet Spot

Chapter One

Halfway up the driveway Andrew’s ringtone brought her to a stop.

Cassie had just spoken with him the day before, and he didn’t usually call again so soon.

She threw the rental into park and rummaged in her bag, trying to grab her phone before he disconnected.

Once he was gone, she’d never get him back.

“Mom?” His voice was wobbly, and she knew in an instant something was wrong. Her mind raced through a dozen scenarios: he was hurt, sick, in trouble. All kinds of misfortune could befall a kid away at college.

“Sweetie,” she said, her heart suspended, “what’s going on?”

“The frat had a party last night…”

“Okaay.” She waited. Nothing good could be coming.

“It kinda got out of hand. People were drinking and stuff, and…um…a kid fell and hit his head.”

“Oh Andrew.” Her stomach lurched in a sickening way. Those damn fraternities with the drinking culture. Worse in New Orleans, where it was always a big party. “Is he all right?”

“I don’t know. He’s in the hospital.”

“Did you see it happen?” She felt ill at the thought of this poor boy, hurt so badly he’d landed in the hospital. Then a shameful rush of relief that it wasn’t her son.

“A few of us were goofing around. I didn’t see him fall, but he hit his head on the tile floor.

” He sounded like he was about to come apart, and she wanted to wrap him in her arms like when he was little.

Only he was nineteen and thirteen hundred miles away.

“Were you drinking too?” she asked without much hope.

Of course he’d been drinking. Things like that didn’t happen when kids were sober.

“A little. I mean, yeah, a lot, actually. Campus police came, then they called New Orleans P.D.”

A gust of fear blew through her. He had no idea. “Did you talk to the police? No one pushed him, right?”

“No, no one pushed him. He just fell. But they took statements from all of us.”

“Andrew.” She tried to keep her voice calm so she wouldn’t upset him further. “Why didn’t you call Dad or me right away? You shouldn’t have said anything to the police without an attorney. One of us could have flown down.”

“I realize that now, but it happened so fast, and they said they just needed to find out what happened. I didn’t do anything.

It was an accident.” A hint of defensiveness, like maybe there was more to it.

But she couldn’t think of that right now.

The immediate issue was her son could be in legal jeopardy.

“If they’re questioning you, you need a lawyer.

” A boy was seriously hurt, maybe brain damaged.

The police or the university could be looking to set an example.

“I’ll come right down. I’m sure I can get a flight tonight or tomorrow.

Where are you now, at the frat house?” She’d call Shelly and let her know what was happening.

Dad would be all right for a few more days until she settled things with Andrew.

“No, don’t come.” He’d pulled himself together a little. “There’s nothing you can do. If the police want to talk to us again, I’ll say I want a lawyer. I won’t do anything without talking to you or Dad first.”

“I think I should come down there.”

“Mom, no. Don’t come.”

“Are you sure? I hate the thought of you dealing with this all alone.” Every maternal instinct told her to get on a plane, but she didn’t want to be a helicopter parent either, swooping in at the first sign of trouble. He needed to learn to deal with the consequences of his actions.

But still. He was her son.

“Yeah, I’m sure. It’s better if you don’t come.”

“You could stay with me in a hotel for a few days, get out of that frat house.” She’d had reservations about Tulane, but Phil had gone there and Andrew had grown up hearing about the French Quarter and Mardi Gras and Phil’s frat buddies, who were still his best friends.

She’d tried to interest him in other schools, but there was never a question of Andrew going anywhere but Tulane.

“Mom!”

“All right. Okay.” She gave way reluctantly. “But let me know what’s happening and how that poor boy is doing. And for God’s sake Andrew, if the police contact you or there’s any disciplinary action from the university, I want to know right away. Understand? This was beyond stupid of all of you.”

“I know. I understand.” He sounded contrite. He was basically a good kid, had never been in any real trouble before. She knew drinking and carousing went on in the fraternity, but this was serious.

“I love you,” she said, a hitch in her voice. “It’ll be okay, we’ll get through this.”

“I love you too,” he mumbled.

She stowed her phone but couldn’t banish the feeling he hadn’t told her something.

Even with all the drinking, how would a boy fall and hit his head like that?

She left the car and walked into the field, zipping her jacket against the brisk spring breeze.

Her parents had more than a grassy lawn.

The Lindens had five full acres with stone walls that dated to colonial times.

And just across the street was another twenty acres of undisturbed woods that had never been developed.

Her parents, refugees from the city, where it was hard to come by a tree, had fallen in love with all that open space.

But to Cassie, it had always felt oppressive.

Too much green. She much preferred Manhattan, where trees were tidily contained along the sidewalk, and even if you hated your neighbors, at least they were in the building.

She picked her way carefully across the field, which was pocked with rocks and holes where small animals lived. And of course, her father’s beehives, which she gave a wide berth.

Andrew was withholding, she was sure of it.

But she hadn’t been honest with him either. Not for his whole life. She knew she needed to tell him, especially now with her own concerns. She glanced up at the house but saw no sign of her dad. A spring day like this, she’d expected to find him outside with his hives.

She hadn’t been home in too long. Shelly, who lived all the way across the country, knew more about what was happening here than Cassie, who lived in New York City, an hour away.

“He’s slipping,” her sister had insisted.

“You need to check on him.” So Cassie had packed a bag—a small one—and left Phil a message that she was going to Connecticut for a few days.

Were you supposed to notify your ex of your whereabouts?

She doubted Phil would care one way or the other, but part of her—the part that couldn’t believe her marriage was over—was still going through the motions like a clock whose battery had run out of juice but kept on lurching forward anyway.

She started back to the car and continued up the long driveway. One thing at a time.

. . .

The smell hit her the minute she stepped into the house.

Something was burning!

“Dad!” She rushed to the kitchen where smoke curled from a blackened pan. She grabbed a dish towel and yanked the pan off the burner. Then turned off the flame and cranked open a window.

“Dad!” she hollered again. “Where are you, are you okay?”

“Shelly, is that you?” He came down the stairs slowly.

“It’s me, Cassie. You left the stove on. What were you cooking?”

“I was going to make a grilled cheese.” He had on a rumpled flannel shirt, and his hair stuck up like he’d just awakened from a nap. “When did you fly in?” He opened his arms for a hug, and she went into them, a lump rising in her throat that he thought she was Shelly.

“I’m Cassie,” she said. “Cassandra.”

“I know who you are.” He pulled back to look at her. “You think I don’t know my own daughter? Is your sister here too?”

“No, she’s in California.”

“California?” Her father looked uncertain. “Shelly said she was coming.”

Cassie swallowed. “That was me. I called to tell you I was driving up, remember?” But clearly he didn’t.

He seemed smaller than she remembered. Her father had never been a large man, but he’d had presence.

Whether you liked it or not, her dad, with his opinions, commanded a room.

Always Mr. Linden to her friends, while her mom insisted they call her Maggie.

“How about I make you another grilled cheese?” Cassie said.

“I’ll have one too.” She’d normally opt for a salad, but her dad looked pleased she’d offered and followed her into the kitchen.

The smoke had cleared, and she made a mental note to change the batteries in all the smoke detectors.

God knew when he’d last done it and what else was about to fall apart around here.

Her father watched closely as she took out four slices of bread and set a pat of butter in a pan, standing behind her in a way that always used to annoy her.

Her dad had a right way to do everything—coffee was scooped precisely, the toaster set exactly to medium, never light or dark. Her dad was a stickler for protocol.

“Fruit? Why do you want fruit?” he said suspiciously as she scoured the fridge for an apple or pear or something the slightest bit healthy. “You still on that crazy vegetarian diet?”

She took a breath, but no point rehashing that old argument.

“Not vegetarian; I eat chicken and fish. Just no red meat.” Actually, she was surprised he’d remembered.

But that was how dementia worked. She’d learned that with her mom.

Early on, especially, there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to what she held on to.

Things that packed an emotional punch, maybe.

Although as the disease progressed, her emotions had become all out of whack.

She’d weep at a TV commercial but stare at her girls blankly.