Free Coming Home by David Lewis Page A

this dear grandfatherly man. Unlike her foster parents, Roeske had broken through, becoming almost a surrogate parent. In fact, her counseling sessions with him had made such a profound impression she nearly changed her career decision.
    To fulfill a class requirement, her roommate, Darlene, had signed up to answer calls for a suicide hotline. Every Tuesday and Thursday evening Darlene was on call, her phone linked to the local suicide prevention agency. It was a Tuesday in January when Darlene begged Jessie to take her place. She had mistakenly agreed to a midweek date, forgetting the previous obligation.
    “Are you kidding?” Jessie exclaimed. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
    “It’s easy,” Darlene said, explaining the basic procedure for talking someone out of suicide. Then she left Jessie alone sweating in her dorm room, hoping no one would find this Tuesday a particularly depressing day.
    Sure enough, when Jessie received a call from a despairing woman named Brenda, she surprised herself and rose to the occasion. Years of her own therapy had given her the right phrases to articulate. By the time she hung up, she had managed to pull Brenda out of her deep turmoil.
    Several weeks later, Jessie scheduled an appointment with her adviser.
    … “How do I get a master’s in counseling?” Jessie had asked. The college counselor had smiled curiously as if to say, That’s a good one, Jess .
    “I’m serious.”
    Another hesitation. “We don’t offer it. But somewhere else? Maybe another year of undergraduate studies. Two years of postgraduate. Give or take. Come to think of it, since you’re interested in Oregon, I’m sure the University of Portland offers something comparable—perhaps psychology?”
    But her adviser’s initial reaction continued to bother her. It’s obvious to everyone except me, she finally realized, and Brandon probably would have told her, “Work out your own problems first before you destroy someone else’s life.”
    Jessie dropped the idea. Besides, wasn’t she more at home in the world of business anyway, with its cold, hard facts and solid statistics? …
    Sighing again, she rolled down the window. Her evening headache was putting in an early appearance. Although she’d packed some aspirin in her overnight case, it was buried beneath a box of books.
    She glanced at the cell phone again and considered calling first. Her grandmother had never been one for impromptu visits. Jessie was sure her life was planned to the minute, as if living by a schedule etched in stone. Just showing up on the doorstep was bound to infuriate her, and it would virtually guarantee an unproductive visit.
    I’m not pussyfooting around her anymore, Jessie thought, leaving the cell on the passenger seat.

Chapter Nine
    THE PANELED WALLS were in dark mahogany. The oversized desk, also mahogany, dominated the small room. The carpet, a tightly woven beige, had been installed in 1965. Located toward the back of her colonial home, her deceased husband’s office looked out to the backyard, which was surrounded by tall privacy fences, with grass the greenest plush possible in arid Colorado. And flowers everywhere —marigolds, petunias, fuchsia—along the fence, lining the house, surrounding the gazebo.
    From the hidden speakers—one of handyman Bill’s miracle projects—an orchestral version of Grieg’s Holberg Suite resonated throughout the house. For years she’d taught her students the suite from Liszt’s piano transcription, but nothing could compare to the original orchestral score—an amazing piece, both triumphal and heartbreaking.
    Just outside, her handyman was putting the finishing touches on a white paint job to the gazebo, centered in the middle of her generous yard.
    … “As Victorian as they come,” he’d observed skeptically the day he’d shown her the plans.
    “Wonderful,” she replied.
    “Doris, I may be out of order but—”
    “Never stopped you before.”
    “Frankly, you