Although I missed Devin when I returned to school in the fall without him, his life had moved in a different direction, bypassing the immediate need for a degree. With only two semesters to go before graduation, I had to make some decisions for the future. Interested in bridal consumer behavior and the role marriage played in the lives of women, I researched graduate programs over the summer that could accommodate my new passion. I did not know where this interest might lead. I had no idea what a specialist in bridal consumer behavior might do to earn a living.

Had I more talent and courage, I may have planned to move to New York City to try to break into the fashion industry. Some of my more gifted fashion friends sought employment in San Francisco. A few spoke vaguely of New York, but only the most aggressive threatened to pursue this option. The best designers probably did not earn their degrees at state colleges in California anyway. Most of the fashion students mailed resumes to major department stores hoping to be accepted into a management training program leading to a prestigious career as an apparel buyer. While my textile science background could have given me a distinct advantage, I had no desire to work in retail for the rest of my life. I wanted evenings, weekends and holidays off to pursue my own interests such as freestyle skating.

Before settling on further education, I approached one of my professors whom I respected, though I got the distinct impression that my obscure fascination with wedding apparel perplexed her. I asked her opinion on finding relevant employment. “You just have to knock on doors,” she replied indifferently. When I continued to stare at her dissatisfied with her flat response, she admitted, “Some times you have to make your own job in this business.” I had no idea what that meant, but I did not like the sound of it. Graduating from college at twenty years old, I preferred not to hear that my degree was unmarketable and I might have to employ myself with little practical experience. Textile science positions were not common in California, but I could have moved to the southeastern states to locate employment with a textile manufacturer or finisher. I never bothered this professor again. She obviously had better things to do than offer advice to students.

I identified a university in Virginia whose Family and Consumer Sciences department offered a Master of Arts degree specializing in consumer psychology. After speaking to several professors over the telephone, I decided this program suited my needs. Unfortunately, I had to pick up additional background courses to earn full admission with an assistantship and reduced tuition. The few precious elective credits that I planned to invest in fun fashion classes were reallocated to fill these requirements. My brimming schedule could not accommodate all of the classes, and I had to save two of them for the summer session after graduation.

My sister, Carole, accompanied me to college that final year. She floundered as she began her university education vacillating between wanting to become an accountant and a politician. Endowed with a sensible temperament and uncommon fortitude, by her second semester, Carole dove into a pre-medical program and worked tirelessly for the next twelve years. Carole developed into a focused, straight-faced woman whose determination saw her through countless challenges. No one could hurt Carole or divert her from her chosen path. At least, it seemed that way to me. When a boyfriend ceased to please her, she cast him off apathetically. Since Carole was the younger daughter, my misfortunes had paved the way for her. Our mother was too exhausted from terrorizing me to interfere with Carole’s social life. Carole also fit more neatly into our mother’s success mold. She never entertained a foolish ambition or had a fantastic dream. Through Carole our mother could live her dream of having a career and socially respected title. From the moment Carole declared her intention to become a medical doctor, my mother treated me like a poor relation. Where I had failed, Carole would succeed and provide our mother with bragging rights into her golden years.

If I ever envied Carole it was for her ability to protect herself from negative influences. She did not participate in activities or relationships that ultimately would not benefit her. I often allowed my emotions to cloud my judgement. However, I pitied Carole for her lack of vitality and inventiveness. While nothing upset her, nothing made her happy either.

While passing out faculty recommendation forms for graduate study in the department office, I saw a notice on the bulletin board. An assistantship was available in the spring semester for a senior Textile and Fashion student to help set up laboratory classes and work in the main office. I immediately told the chairperson that I wanted the job. It paid twice as much per hour as I earned in the bridal salon. I would not have to work as many hours and the experience would look good on my application for graduate school. Getting that job was a stroke of good fortune for me. I subleased an apartment with two other girls whom I had never met before. Toward the end of Christmas break, I moved out of my parents’ house for the second time.

Although I enjoyed working in the bridal shop, this change breathed new life into my final year as an undergraduate student. I still worked an occasional Saturday in the salon, but I appreciated the time spent in the office with little more to do than study when the phone was not ringing. Since the apartment was within walking distance to campus, I brought my ratty old skates and roller-skated through a park on paved pathways to the university every morning. I rolled into the Fashion and Interior Design building, glided into the elevator, then down the second floor hallway where I changed into sneakers and stashed the skates in my locker. The faculty and other students found this unique and charming. After hours, I occasional skated in the lobby still able to do a back camel in spite of limited practice. Smooth office tile provided an ideal skating surface, and the area was large and open with a two-story ceiling.

The beginning of that spring term was a joyous time. I showed off my roller skating prowess for the students whose fashion design aptitude had diminished mine for the last three years. Some of them asked if I competed and what I planned to do with my skating talent. That was a good question, assuming I truly possessed any talent. Elated to be on my own under favorable circumstances, I merely delighted in a carefree skate to school and cherished the thought of my impending graduation. I pinned my hopes on graduate school where I could develop my interest in consumer behavior and hopefully become enlightened about earning a real living.

I had to take a psychology course to earn full acceptance to the master’s program in Virginia. During the first week, the professor introduced his teaching assistant to the class. The young ladies in the room collectively sat up straight and smiled. Mohammed was a tall and handsome graduate student planning to pursue a doctoral degree in behavioral psychology. Like the other girls in the psychology department, I noticed his suave good looks and debated whether I should fabricate an excuse to visit him during his office hours. Since I could think of no viable reason to stop at Mohammed’s office, I was happy to run into him one afternoon in the hall after class.

“You are in Dr. Huang’s class,” he greeted smiling broadly.

“Yes,” I agreed. “My name is Katherine.”

We chatted for a few minutes before he invited me to join him for coffee in the Student Union. I went with him happily describing my plans for graduate school. Our conversation resulted in a date for Saturday night. The week crawled by as I anticipated Saturday evening.

I wore an elegant black velvet dress for our date, curled my hair and decorated my face with sophisticated make-up. Mohammed obviously liked what he saw, which I assumed meant that he liked me as a person. Even though I shared a mature relationship with Devin, I was still terribly naïve. After that date, Mohammed and I began to see each other frequently. He often stopped by my apartment in the evenings. My roommates openly envied me for attracting such a good-looking suitor. Initially, Mohammed’s physical appearance and fashion sense drew me to him. As I spent more time in his company, I became entranced by his mannerisms. He behaved like a hero in a romance novel. Nothing could have been more pleasing to me as a lonely young girl than being treated like a queen by a tall, dark and handsome man. Like a cliché, my heart fluttered and my stomach quivered when I saw him. I began to fall in love with Mohammed and allowed myself to imagine that he was the perfect match for me.

I picked up the telephone routinely in the department office one afternoon during the second month of the semester. I was surprised to hear a nervous quaver in Carole’s voice. She announced that a moving van had come to the house and our mother was instructing the movers to carry all of the best pieces of furniture out to the truck. The pleasant office-girl smile dissipated from my face as my mouth dropped open in astonishment. I was not surprised that my mother decided to leave, but I was annoyed that she waited until I had also moved out. She seemed to believe that she had completed her duty of raising her young, as I was graduating from college that spring and Carole had begun her freshman year. While my father visited his relatives in Wisconsin, she seized the opportunity to get on with her life. I told Carole to stay out of her way and avoid provoking her. I would come home after work.

By the time I arrived, my mother was long gone. She left no forwarding address and nothing of value in the house. Carole and I were viciously angry. I phoned my uncle’s house and told my father what had happened. He said very little, realizing he faced a tumultuous battle. I pitied him for having to endure one more miserable struggle with her, but we both silently realized that this would ultimately be for the best. I wished that it had happened sooner while I still had time to salvage some of my childhood.

As I entered my apartment that evening, one of my roommates looked up from her studying to inform me that Mohammed had phoned several times. She said he sounded anxious, and she wondered if something might be wrong. I called him from my bedroom and explained what had transpired at my family home.

“Oh,” he began relieved, then added with unwavering seriousness: “And I was worried that you were out with someone else.”

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