Free Dreamland by Sarah Dessen Page A

face again, twisting one strand around a finger, and my mother’s face crumpled.
    â€œOh, my God,” she said, and as I watched she reached out one hand and pressed it against the TV screen, running her own finger across Cass’s face. Cass, unaware, half-smiled.
    â€œMom,” I said, and I was almost sorry now she’d seen it, she looked so pathetic crouched there, reaching out, with one of those hollow-eyed dolls—the Sunday School Teacher, apple and Bible in hand—watching from beside the magazine rack.
    Just then the sisters disappeared from the screen, as did Cass, replaced by Lamont Whipper’s big face. “Coming up next: Judy and Tamara’s older sister, who has a secret about one of their husbands to share with them—and with us! Stay tuned!”
    A Doublemint commercial came on but my mother remained crouched there, hand on the screen, as if she could still see Cass in front of her, close enough to touch.
    â€œShe’s okay,” she said softly. I wasn’t even sure she was talking to me. “She’s alive.”
    â€œOf course she is,” I said. “She’s fine.”
    She let her hand drop then, and sat back on her heels, wiping at her eyes. “I just am so glad ... she’s okay. She’s okay.”
    We sat there and watched the rest of the show, catching glimpses of Cass again and again, but never for as long. The third sister confessed to affairs with both husbands, which resulted in a full-out brawl during which we got to see Adam, who bounded onstage to break things up. My mother seemed horrified by this kind of behavior that went against everything she believed in—but she kept her eyes glued to the set. I had a feeling the Lamont Whipper Show would now become regular viewing in our house.
    When my father came home, she told him everything. He nodded, looking tired, then went to his study and shut the door. My mother watched him go, then walked to the kitchen and picked up the phone, drawing out the list of numbers they’d called that first day Cass was gone and finding the one for the show.
    â€œYes, I watched your program today,” she said in her best Junior League voice when someone answered, “and ... and what? Oh, yes, it was very good. Entertaining. But I’m trying to reach one of your staff members, and I was wondering ... oh, I understand. Of course. But could you give her a message, please? It’s kind of important.”
    My father came out of his study, took off his reading glasses, and tucked them in his front pocket. I thought about all those Yale bulletins stuck in his study drawer, and how he must feel to know Cass was working at a trash talk show, lining up angry confrontations and shocking confessions.
    â€œHer name is Cassandra O’Koren,” my mother said, and now her voice didn’t sound so strong. My father turned and watched her as she spoke, and I realized I was holding my breath. All I could see was my mother in front of the TV, one hand reaching out to touch Cass’s face, any way—the only way—she could. “And please just tell her, would you, that her family loves and misses her, very much. Thank you.”
    Â 
    After my first night with him, I expected Rogerson to show up at another game, or a party, or even just drive past my house slowly enough to draw me to the window or outside. He didn’t. First, I was surprised, then sad, then really, really pissed off. Rina said these phases were normal, even documented. She shared endless Clark bars with me, seeing me through what she called The Cycle of Recovery. I had just cleared Letting Go and Moving On when I saw him again.
    The cheerleading squad was at the Senior Center for an event called Senior Days, which consisted of different community groups performing and teaching everything from ballroom dancing to lanyard making. We were on hand to do one of our dance routines, as well as fill in the gaps while