When I read, I am lost to the world. I am pulled into the words, into the story, into the lives of the characters (even in poorly written books with bad plots and shallow characters). Sometimes, I am so deeply involved in the story printed on the pages that I cease to hear the voices, noises and (especially) cell phone rings of my story.

I spent July 30 through Aug. 10 in southern California, and, for the first time in nearly two years, I had plenty of time to read.

Looking for Alaska by John Green

No one should have to deal with a stranger’s sobs — especially not at 30,000 feet. But halfway through John Green’s second novel (Looking For Alaska) and halfway to California, I forced that burden upon the retired army general in seat 28A. He kept reading his newspaper; I e-mailed my sister an angry message from my iPod. “You should have warned me. You suck. I am very mad at you. Love, Becka”

About 20 minutes later, I had my tears under control and he asked me if I was coming or going.

“Coming. I’m teaching at Chapman.”

“Oh. Sad book?”

By the time we had landed, I had powered through the second half of the book, and I had explained that, No, I don’t teach architecture, those grids on my computer were for print design. And Yes, I get a little emotional over words. And No, I’m not staying in California long, but Yes, I had seen the beach there before.

The general’s demeanor was perfect for my emotional style: He acknowledged that I had been crying, but then he got on with the conversation. He quietly — silently — let me know that it was OK to feel however I was feeling and, with a few mundane questions, he “told” me he understood.

Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

This month, God (or something god-like) seems to be tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “Look at Me. Think about Me. I love you; love Me.” I’ve always been pretty secure in my belief in nothing in particular, but…

August 10: I was stressed out about breaking a lease and choosing a new place to live and the possibility of agreeing to live with a stranger and her cat. Then, with the chirping of digital crickets, my cell phone rang and I was offered a puppy from Kansas Specialty Dog Services and my housing situation became less of a choice.

Tap.

August 12: I shattered my computer screen in a moment of inattention in San Diego, and had been both actively avoiding making and too busy to keep an appointment with the geniuses at the Apple store to check it out. I was concerned Jesse Cash (my favorite genius) had no option but to tell me I had killed my computer and would need to spend $3,000 to replace it. But a new genius plugged my computer into an external monitor and keyboard and, instead of proclaiming a time of death, assured me that I’d be OK.

Tap. Tap.

August 13: My landlord threatened to take me to court — and, waving receipts for $2.30 faxes, let me know I wasn’t welcome on her property (but that I still had to pay rent). Then, buckets of tears later, she scrawled a note on a half-sheet of paper that releases me from my lease and even made a little joke. Our friendship was more important than money.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I have begun to count the second book of my California trip — Eat Pray Love — among the evidence in God’s favor.

My trip to California was supposed to be half-work, half-vacation. But six days in, it felt like all work. I was low on sleep, low on joy and even lower on peace; I had spent 144 hours without a moment alone (we were staying in dorms), and the lack of time to recharge was taking its toll.

So, when Greg went to WalMart I asked him to buy me a book — any book. He called from the store and asked for more direction than that, and all I could think to say was, “Eat Pray Love.” Then he asked me if I liked Jodi Picoult. I said, “Uh, sure, that’s fine, just not The Tenth Circle or My Sister’s Keeper.” (And thought “No! No! No!”). I fully expected to be reading Picoult’s Picture Perfect that night, but when Greg showed up at my dorm room door, he presented a WalMart bag holding Eat Pray Love.

Uh… TAP.

The book is basically a travelogue — the story of one woman’s travels through Italy, India and Indonesia as she recovers from a nasty divorce — but it’s also a story about finding God (or gods, or energy, or peace, or…). I cried while reading on the way home from California, too. My tears — this time happy — were met with puzzled concern by the soft-voiced Persian woman sitting next to me. She tried to comfort me, but quickly realized that I was sharing in the joy of the author and switched to asking about the book.

I’m still not sure what any of this shoulder tapping means. It could be that God (or gods) has been there all along, but He (they) just recently decided that I need to start recognizing my charmed life for a spiritually affected one. On the other hand, I’ve been charmed all along; if whoever or whatever caused it wanted me to care, wouldn’t He (they) have let me know by now. Or, maybe, I am just searching for a reason to be so lucky (because damn am I lucky!). I’ll figure it out. Or maybe not.

The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

A third book has been living in my Mexican mermaid beach bag purse since I got back from California. My copy of The Time Traveler’s Wife is a little banged up, though I haven’t read a page.

While I was in Oceanside, Calif., visiting Natalie, we stopped by Target to buy me a rolling suitcase (my backpack and messenger bag wouldn’t fit the four yearbooks, pair of super cute jeans and the High School Musical beach towel Natalie bought me). After choosing a bright orange suitcase (and sadly walking way from the $24 glittery, pink camouflage one (complete with water bottle and make-up bag), Natalie and I stopped by the book section.

I was pretty sure I’d finish Eat Pray Love on the flight home, so on Natalie’s recommendation, I bought The Time Traveler’s Wife. Natalie grabbed a copy and led me around the store. She told me about her first read of the book (in Italy, basically non-stop). We wound through racks of clothing, talking about ideas (as opposed to people or things) pausing to interrupt ourselves to question the taste of Target’s newest featured designer and the practicality of corduroy shorts. She carried the book; I pulled the suitcase.

This short shopping trip — between an attempt to attend Spanish language Mass and dinner at a place that specialized in Teriyaki dishes — is the reason I happily lug the book everywhere I go. Even though I know I don’t have time right now to read — I need somewhere to live; I’m starting training for a new job; school starts next week — I desperately want to have books I am as excited to talk about as Natalie was to recommend The Time Traveler’s Wife to me. I miss that.

When I read, I am lost to the world, but it is the world — with its generals and its gods and its Natalies — that makes me want so badly to read.

About three or four months ago, I found Bridgette’s to do list on the sidewalk as I was walking home. It was raining. I have a policy of never returning trash to the sidewalk where I found it. So, I took it with me. As I walked, I read what she was planning to do: Yogify my life. Learn to Fight better (checked off). Move to a country you have never seen before (that one is in a different handwriting).

I called Autumn and said something to the effect of “I have found us a new friend.” I didn’t follow up on that. I never searched for Bridgettes on KU people search. I didn’t check Craig’s List lost items. I didn’t hang up posters around the neighborhood. I just squashed the list between paper towels under heavy books and waited for it to dry. Then I stuck it to my fridge under black, round magnets.

Bridgette’s list greeted me every time I walked into my apartment: Find a place to live (check). Learn to garden. Spend more time with nature. That list inspired more than a couple of moments of reflection. I asked myself frequently, “What Would Bridgette Do?”

Bridgette was a part of the move into Emily’s house. If she could move to a new home, so could I. Bridgette helped me to buy the bike, kiss the friend and dance at The Bottleneck (rum helped with that too). And, pathetic as it sounds, I kept plants alive (in part) because I worried that, someday, I’d get to tell Bridgette that I had learned to garden. I didn’t want to tell her I had killed my plants.

She became a part of my life — the same way I adopted the family in the photo I found in the Dumpster by my first apartment. She was a roommate I didn’t really have, but I knew so much about. Her list included things I had considered doing: Visit the Christopher Elbow factory in Kansas City. Make a trip to Washington (see the redwoods!). Go to First Fridays with Michael Bunn.

It was that item — one she says she still hasn’t completed — that allowed me to get in touch with Bridgette and led to coffee and an interview this evening; Michael had written his phone number on Bridgette’s list.

When I needed someone to profile for Max Utsler’s Multimedia Reporting class (ugh), I called Michael, told him I had something that Bridgette had lost and asked how to contact her. Four e-mails and 13 days later, Bridgette had agreed to meet with me at Java Break.

Here is some of what I found out:

Bridgette is 28, from New York (a suburb of New York City), she is five-two, skinny and has short dark hair. She’s working on her Master’s in English Lit. And she makes lists. It’s just something she does.

The list I found includes the things that help Bridgette to recharge. She said this list was a sort-of master list, which combined things from previous lists and focused on what was important. She said that she doesn’t think the type of list I’m used to — Buy groceries. Pay bills. Shower. — precludes the type of list she’s inclined to write. And, maybe more importantly, she explained her belief that putting a desire on paper or out into the world helps lead to its fulfillment.

My story about Bridgette earned an 88 percent. My teacher said the content was C work; the multimedia deserved an A+. I agree.

I didn’t give the story the attention, time and care it deserved — that Bridgette deserved.

But I have a pretty good excuse.

While I was working on the story, I got caught up in the things that should be on my own list. While I put off writing Bridgette’s story, I checked off three things:

Plant the front garden.

Spend more time with babies.

Get some use out of the Kitchenaid.

I’m out of town for the next 13 days and my roommates couldn’t care less about plants, so my garden might be dead when I get home; Isabella won’t remember that I massaged her teething gums and that we both laughed when she farted; and the cookie dough I mixed up never became cookies to send to Christopher like I planed, so I guess I didn’t really get anything done.

And maybe that’s the point. As a piece of wrinkled graph paper with scrawled reminders of Bridgette’s goals, the list encouraged me to try new things, to try Bridgette’s things. But Bridgette — this dreamer, writer, list-maker — has inspired me to figure out what’s important to me, to write it down and to get started. I hope Bridgette is right, that articulating my list will help make things happen. I’m ready.

I got the text message at 4:34 a.m.:

Alert: KU Police (Lawrence campus) - Student found dead off campus. Use caution w/ person of interest, Adolfo Garcia. Go to www.ku.edu.

I don’t know anyone named Adolfo Garcia, but I had already been buzzed out of REM, so I logged on.

The KU Web site gave more details: Jana Mackey was found dead in the home of Adolfo Garcia-Nunez just before midnight. She was 25. Garcia-Nunez, 46, was a “person of interest”… police were still looking for him.

That’s Jana. Dini’s Jana. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshit.

And that’s Fito.

Jana lived with my friend Autumn’s ex-boyfriend, Dini. Adolfo Garcia-Nunez had to be Fito, Jana’s ex-boyfriend. They weren’t friends of mine, but they weren’t strangers either.

As soon as it registered that Jana Mackey had to be Dini’s roommate Jana (because, I figured, how many Janas could possibly be spending time with much older, hispanic men?), I called Autumn. That was at 4:42.

Autumn soon confirmed what I had figured out, but it was at 4:34 a.m. that my everything changed.

Michigan Street.
Slain.
Hanging out.
Artist.
Relationship.
Law student.
Murder.

Murder.

I don’t know that I will ever read these words again without seeing Jana. Jana in that ugly orange shirt, with Fito, playing soccer in South Park last week. Last week. Jana, her long limbs almost tangled up, in the beautiful portrait he painted for her. Jana, laughing, her smile revealing more gums than imaginable, on the porch at FreeState the night Andrew and I made Autumn and Dini come to the Red Lion.

Jana.

We weren’t close. She was mostly just images and stories and the girl who raised the cat who swatted at my legs when I sat at the kitchen table. She was mostly just the owner of a lot of stuff in Dini’s house. Mostly a woman my friend looked up to and, though she never said it, felt she must compete with just a little.

Two and a half (or so) years ago, Jana met Fito. Yes, he was older than she. Yes, he had two kids. No, she didn’t know much about him… then.

But that was two and a half years ago.

I don’t know when they started dating, but Jana and Fito broke up a week (or so) ago. I don’t know much about it, but I know she knew they had different lives ahead of them. She understood how the age difference and his kids could factor into her life if she so chose. But he wasn’t just an old father. By that time, Jana knew him: He was an artist who played recreational soccer and cooked her dinner.

She knew he had spent two years in jail, but Fito didn’t just lie to Jana about his name. He told her his ex-girlfriend had manipulated the system, that she was crazy, that his sentence had been unjust. He was 46, yes. He had spent two years in jail. But to Jana, Fito proved himself to be more than those numbers.

And so, somehow, a week after they broke up, Jana ended up at his house. And, somehow, she ended up dead. Murdered. But police say she fought like hell; Fito was beat up pretty badly when they finally caught him a day later. That’s Jana.

But she could have been me. She could have been any of us.

Because she didn’t do anything wrong.

I want to be able to point to the details, to say “Look. It makes sense that she died because _____.” But it doesn’t. It might never make sense. I might never have enough information to make a rule. I want (I need) to be able to say, “I’ll be OK, as long as I don’t ______.”

Jana was at the home of a man she trusted. She had known him for years. She had ended a relationship that had needed to be ended. It was just another breakup. She didn’t do anything wrong.

So what do I put in that blank? I’ll be OK, but as long as I don’t what? Trust? Love? Forgive?

An extensive autopsy has left those who knew her (and those who didn’t) with no more answers than the newspaper articles about her death. Nothing in this murder can tell me how to protect myself. Nothing in this murder is telling me it’s OK to trust, love and forgive.

Jana’s life will be celebrated at Liberty Hall on Wednesday afternoon. And if the joy I saw each time she smiled in my presence (and in Fito’s representation of that smile) is any indication, the music hall will be full. And maybe that’s where I should look for answers. Maybe Jana’s friends and family members can tell me that it’s OK —that it’s safe — to love.

Judging by the way she lived her life, I know Jana would.

I’ve never been quite comfortable inside Sunflower Outdoor and Bike in Lawrence, Kan. My best friend Cam worked in the bike part of the store, and the way he talked about it and the general atmosphere of the shop made me feel like this place was more than just a store that wanted my money; It was more credible, more elite, more… something. Better than every other bike store in the area. Whatever it was that set Sunflower apart, it was made very clear to me — though now I’m not sure how, or by whom — that I was not the target customer.

For a while, this bothered me. I hated feeling uncomfortable delivering a sandwich or stopping in to say hi to Cam. I hated feeling like any question I’d ask would later be cause for ridicule. My worst fear was that I’d leave and Cam would get shit for what I didn’t know.

So I stayed quiet. I’m sure his co-workers were aware that I was the girl who sometimes brought cookies, sandwiches or the dog. But I had no personality. No “me.”

When Cam and I stopped talking (Don’t ask.), I started actively avoiding Sunflower. Well, I guess actively is a little strong — I really didn’t have any reason to go in there anyway. This avoidance was working out pretty well until three things happened:

1. I started gaining weight because my roommates bring ice cream, cake and other things that taste good but are bad for you into the house, and I just can’t resist.

2. I rode in a car to Axtell, Kan., and back and fell in love with small country roads.

3. Gas hit $4 a gallon.

These three factors — along with some deep-seated emotional issues — combined and created an intense longing to be on a bicycle. A road bike. For hours. Every day.

It took me about two months to figure out where the money would come from and work up the courage to walk into the bike shop without Cam and ask for help. I wasn’t sure I should or could buy a bike without his advice, but another friend — Andrew — hooked me up with his friend Jesse who talked me through the first decisions about buying a bike.

Even though Jesse was polite and helpful, I was hesitant to ask all of the questions I was labeling in my head as “stupid.” Should I feel like I’m pushing my butt off the back of the seat? Because I do. Why should I buy a women’s bike instead of a non-gender-specific bike? Is there a difference that I’m going to notice between the Trek and the Specialized? Does it come in green? I debated with myself as to whether the embarrassment of having a question come back to haunt me (or Andrew) was worth not knowing. And I figured I could find some answers online when I got home.

During the three days it took for me to choose a bike, work up the courage to slap my credit card down on the counter and have the bike adjusted to fit my body, my view of the shop — and the people who work there — changed.

Jesse talked me through deciding how much money I should logically spend (even though the $1,700 bike was pretty impressive). He explained why and where I wanted carbon fiber components. He smiled. A lot. And then he introduced me to Thomas.

Thomas made hundreds of little adjustments to a bike I didn’t end up buying, and helped me pick out a helmet that comfortably fits my ponytail. He even put up with me bringing Kate along to help pick out the right “bike outfit.” And he told me I was wrong to feel like I didn’t deserve to be wearing a “bike outfit.” He explained that my butt would thank me for wearing padded shorts and that every cyclist — even amateur — should wear proper clothing. And he smiled. A lot.

Today I asked Jesse to be My Space friends with me (well, with my band), and tomorrow I will stop by the shop to deliver 12-packs of PBR for him and Thomas (because Andrew says that’s what makes a good tip at a bike shop). I might even be wearing my “bike outfit” when I stop in. Because I deserve it.

I’m pretty sure these guys know me as more than just “the girl who delivers sandwiches.” Now, I might just be “the girl who rides a Specialized Allez.” I like that. And I’m pretty excited that I know them well enough to know that they won’t make fun of me next time I ask (what is to me) the most important question: Does it come in green?

I hate the apostrophe in Father’s Day.

To my grammatically hardwired mind, the apostrophe-”s” construction is trying to force me to choose a dad. And that’s a problem, because I’ve never really had just one.

My relationship with my first dad — my biological father — exists somewhere between the “guilt trip” e-mails my mother sends me every couple of months to remind me of his birthday, his role in my birth or the fifth commandment and his phone number stored in my cell phone under his first name. We haven’t spoken since Christmas two years ago, and I can’t remember the last time we had a real conversation. Still, I am beginning to appreciate what he has given me; I’m pretty sure my natural affinity for math might have something to do with his, and I love that my pretty feet and skinny fingers match his mother’s.

I appreciate some of the genes, but beyond that, and more importantly, my dad gave me the freedom to look for others to fill in the gaps in our relationship.

And I found them.

Three of these men, in particular, have made such an impact on the way I view my future — and my past — that the official way of punctuating last Sunday’s holiday seems insulting.

Glenn Kahler

When I left Broken Arrow to start at a brand new school, I wanted everything to be perfect. The first thing I remember trying to control was the identity of the girl who sat across from me in Ms. French’s fourth-grade class. Her name was neatly lettered on the pencil-shaped name tag taped to her desk: Jessica Kahler. So, each time a girl walked into the room (usually accompanied by her mother) I sent out mental messages, trying to will the girl to either be Jessica or to walk away from her desk, depending on how I liked the looks of her. When a cute, smiley, blonde girl walked into the room holding her mom’s hand, I wished and wished and wished and wished for her to turn way from that seat. But for all the wishing in the world, that girl sat down, introduced herself and declared that we would be friends.

I didn’t quite believe Jessica’s prediction at first, but about two hours later we had bonded, and within the week she had invited me over.

Fourth grade was a long time ago, and the story of how Jessica ended up as my best friend is the only thing of that year I remember in vivid detail. But I do have muddled memories of the time I spent at her house. I remember eating meals at the Kahler’s kitchen table and being treated like a member of the family. And I remember her dad, Glenn, asking me about my day at school as though he truly cared about the crush I had on a boy in my class (I wouldn’t tell him who because Jessie liked the same guy) and the books I enjoyed reading. Mr. Kahler even engaged my fourth-grade mind in religious discussions — he believed, I didn’t.

It wasn’t until recently that I understood the impact Mr. Kahler has had on all my relationships with men. He was, though I never phrased it like this, the archetype of a father — and thus a crush, a boyfriend, a future husband, perhaps — for my fourth-grade self. And, though a recent description of my ideal guy would include characteristics from many different people from my past, Glenn Kahler, as my first Ward Cleaver, taught me about fathers.

Grandpa

I think I was in middle school when I realized my grandpa — on my mom’s side — was a dad. I mean, I knew he was my mom’s dad, but I hadn’t really ever thought about what that meant. My grandpa is no Glenn Kahler; he doesn’t pray at the table or offer rides to the mall or the movies … he’s a different kind of dad.

While Glenn would bandage a knee skinned on a bike ride and talk you through hurt feelings, Grandpa is just there. Always. He is a safety net kind of dad.

My mom takes him out at least once a week — gambling and dinner, usually — and she talks to him at least once a day. Most of their phone calls are initiated by Grandpa, who just wants to know how his stocks are doing (Mom looks online for him) and whether she’s had any business at her shop.

Grandpa is also a tomato plant-delivering, big coloring book-buying, can’t-remember-which-kid-is-which kind of dad (it’s OK because he has eight children and 23 grandchildren).

He’s a “there” kind of father, and this realization — that he’s a dad — has allowed me to see that someone in my family (my family) can be there. He’s also helped me to start considering what I will do when a “there” kind of dad isn’t anymore. Grandpa is 86.

Dennis Jacques

Grandpa and Glenn showed me that dads could be reliable, that I didn’t have to be strong because they would be there. My best friend’s dad, Dennis, though, showed me that dads could be people too.

One night in January 2006, as I ate apple slices standing up, in my favorite party dress and brand new black heels, my best friend talked on his cell phone. But then he hung up, and everything changed.

“Becka, I have to go home.”

My first reaction was annoyance. He had promised to be my date to go chaperone my little sister’s church dance, and he was going to bail.

“Your cousin has been in an accident.”

“Haley? She’s OK, right?”

He just shook his head.

My relationship with the men in that family allowed me to be strong, be weak and recover from a death for which I was really a second-hand griever. Yes, Haley was my cousin (by blood), but she was also my “adoptive” father’s “adopted” daughter. She was my best friend’s little brother’s best friend. She was mine, yes, but it was at their house that she ate dinner frequently, and they were the ones who gave her rides and asked her about homework and treated her like family.

When Dennis stepped in front of the pierced, dyed, studded denim and leather crowd at Haley’s funeral and said the words her best friend was unable to say, the words we were all too shocked and sad to say, I saw that dads can cry. His tears didn’t change his being the strongest father I had ever had — the one who could (and would) change the oil in my car, the one who gave me a bike and helped me with school projects … the one who stuck Post-it notes declaring his love for his wife all over their house.

These men have taught me what it is to be a father’s daughter — and what to look for when trying to find a father for my future daughters. And so, despite what Wikipedia and Whitehouse.gov (I checked) say about how to punctuate last Sunday’s national holiday, I still hate that apostrophe.

Happy Fathers’ Day, Dads.

I still haven’t seen the first half of High School Musical 2. Maybe I never will.

We haven’t lived together for years — after that one awful semester in an all-girls’ dorm — but Kate Brown was my roommate until just a few weeks ago. She was that place’s one saving grace. She was the only person who could have possibly made our cinder-block room feel like home. She was the only person who could make me feel safe when everything began to fall apart.

I am fully convinced that she is the only person who could have resolved somewhat-serious disagreements with pillow fights from across the room and the only person who could have made talking about a sex column in the school newspaper more intellectual than differential equations homework. (What are the bases, anyway?)

But really, it’s not the plastic box of chocolate cookie ingredients we carried to C.J.’s apartment, the hand-painted dishes we made or her late-night Coyote Ugly (or Saved!) DVD intros on repeat that kept me awake long after she had fallen asleep that made Kate my roommate. It was High School Musical 2, on Tivo (probably actually Moxi, but who’s worried about brand names?), two years and three apartments after we stopped living together that is making it so hard to accept that Kate’s label has lost its singular nature; she is now my first roommate, my freshman year roommate, my insert-qualifier-that-the-new-roommates-don’t-have-here roommate.

When HSM2 premiered, Kate and her two roommates recorded it on DVR. The day they watched it, at least three other people were crammed into her living room. When I knocked on her door — sobbing after a fight with the ex-boyfriend-turned-best-friend-turned-what-the-hell-is-he? — she just invited me in. I sat with her on the floor with my back against her couch and watched Vanessa and Troy figure out summer lovin’ in full-on musical style. All I remember about the movie is that Miley Cyrus is dancing in the final scene. And that I felt safe.

But when I got “home” to my new place tonight, a two-page, carefully stapled lease was on my bed. Rent. Security deposit. Rules (no dogs… with a line crossed through it). I scribbled my name at the bottom of the lease; Haven — she lives across the hall — signed one too.

I lived with Kate for the Fall 2004 semester; since then, I’ve lived alone, and she has lived with nine other girls in two places. But today was, officially, Kate’s last day as my roommate… my only roommate ever.

My friendship with Kate has changed a lot since we shared a mini-fridge and nearly everything but our toothbrushes during our first semester of college, but this is the first time I’ve ever really thought about how much has stayed the same. We have lunch plans for Wednesday, and I anticipate her supportive giggles when I tell her about my recent changes-of-plans, her just-prying-because-she-knows-I-want-to-tell-her questions about my love life and the way she carefully expresses any hint of disapproval at our differences. I’m excited to be updated about her housing situation, to hear about her internship at Vintage and to catch up on the details of the life plan.

But mostly, I look forward to just being me and feeling safe. With my (what’s the perfect modifier?) roommate.