The Red Thread (25 page)

“Where is she?” I can’t stop my mouth.

Stupid, Jess, stupid. I berate myself as Peter crumbles apart even further than before. His whole face seems to be melting away.

“She’s in heaven with the angels and the Heavenly Father. Her mother left me shortly after… she couldn’t handle my grief. It’s like she didn’t care about our baby,” he says through choked sobs.

I can’t form any words as his sobs drown out the silence of the night. I close my eyes and cover my ears to stop the noise, but even his sobs can pierce through my manufactured barrier. I open my eyes and cast them down on him. He brings his hands up to his face and just continues to cry. The disdain I had before washes away, and sympathy takes its place. He lost so much and has so little. I would be the same way.

But aren’t I the same already?

As I stare down at the man on the floor, I no longer see a pathetic old man. He isn’t pathetic… he’s me. He’s incredibly sad, and like me he drowns his sorrows, although he takes a different path than I once did… but this could still be me. I no longer pity the man, because how can one pity someone for being sad? I am a sad man. In ten, twenty, thirty years, I could be him.

Just a man living so deep in pain, he becomes lost in his own sorrows.

Not being able to take the sight, or my own feelings anymore, I help Peter to his bed and tuck him in, making sure he is on his side in case he vomits. I don’t leave his house right away. After placing his keys on his dresser top, I look around at the pictures in his bedroom. I don’t recognize the man in any of them. In them is a man years younger than Peter. There is no sorrow or pain on his face. There is only life and happiness. In all the photos, Peter smiles brightly, and he is with a beautiful woman and an adorable young girl. It’s weird how much bereavement can affect a person. It changes you. It changes everything about you.

Before leaving, I place a water bottle by his bedside and a small note, just as Alex once did for me. Walking home, my thoughts stay on Peter. Is this what my future will become? Will I become
that
? The image of me crying drunk and pissing my pants in public places makes me want to vomit and cry right here in the middle of the cold street.

Then my thoughts turn to Richard, the old man who I promised to see again but failed to do so. Again, I’m a terrible person. He’s probably still waiting for me to sit down and drink tea and eat scones with him. But he’s just like Peter and me. Each one of us has had a tragedy in our lives, and each one of us has reacted differently. Peter took to drinking after his daughter’s death and the divorce with his wife, while Richard took a happier path after his wife’s death. He tries to live life for her and looks at each day as a blessing, while I took to cutting and suicide because of my mental illness when it became too much for me. But what is it about us that made us choose our paths in life? Why did Richard take a happy route, when Peter and I went the darker way? Peter and I gave into our darkness, while Richard was strong enough to fight it and succeed. What is his secret? Everyone in town thinks Richard is so crazy, but he’s not. He’s happy, and for many people happy just is not something you see or feel every day. Many pretend to be happy, but Richard really is.

I want to be like Richard.

I FINALLY
reach my house, and the first thing I need to do is wash my hands. After holding on to Peter, I still smell his odor on me, and I scrub as hard as I can to try to get rid of it. I finish and walk up to my bedroom and sit on my bed, letting out a long yawn. It’s been a lengthy night.

I strip off my clothes and get under the covers and swallow the pills that bring some balance to my life. Most people have God to thank for their well-being, I just have a doctor who prescribes me medication. Bless the medication-friendly doctors of today.

I close my eyes and relax, happy to be in bed after today. But my relaxation doesn’t last too long, because my phone begins to vibrate. I ignore it. They can call me back tomorrow. When the phone comes to a stop, I feel the pills taking effect, causing me to become drowsy, and then my damn phone starts to vibrate again. I sit up and grab the phone off my nightstand. A name shines brightly on my phone.

I am stunned and unable to move, but the phone continues to vibrate in my hands, and then I remember you have to hit answer to actually talk to someone.

“Hello?”

“Yo.”

I CAN’T
believe it. After all this time, Tommy has finally called me back. Does Alex know Tommy is connected with the world again?

“Tommy, where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you. Alex and I have been worried sick.”

“Don’t worry, Jess. I’ve been staying with a friend. I had to get away from my father’s house. I ran and took a break from life.”

“Who’s the friend?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

“That guy, Markus Stills.”

Now I’m sorry I asked. Markus Stills is Wilshire’s resident, and pretty much only, drug dealer. He is the guy who always supplies Tommy with his pot, and I don’t know if I actually trust Tommy staying there with him.

“Markus Stills? Why him?”

“Because he wouldn’t ask any questions. He doesn’t give a fuck about anyone, and that is what I needed. I love you and Alex, but you guys would ask me too many questions to the point I was uncomfortable. I just needed to disappear for a while, man.”

I nod. I know he can’t see me, but I understand what he means. Sometimes it’s good to disappear and pretend no one knows who you are. I can’t state how many times I’ve wished I could do that in my own life.

“Yeah, I get you.”

“Good.”

Silence.

“So, how are you? Any dark days?” Tommy asks.

“Only a couple.”

“Are you okay?” Fear drips through his words.

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, good point.”

More silence follows. I know there is so much left unsaid right now, but I won’t force him to talk, just like how he never forced me to talk.

“I want to see you soon,” I tell him.

“I’ll text you the address tomorrow. Good night, Jess.”

And then I’m met by silence. I plug my phone in and fall back into my bed. Everything in life is just going crazy. I’m in love. My best friend has run away to a drug dealer’s house… what is going on with the world?

The nonstop thoughts make it harder to fall asleep this night, but soon the pills push the thoughts away and allow everything to just become a blurry haze that fades into darkness.

IT’S MIDDAY,
and I still haven’t received a text from Tommy about his whereabouts. It’s been fourteen hours since the phone call, and it has been only silence since. My hands are fidgety, and my foot won’t stop tapping. Why hasn’t he texted me yet? I hope nothing happened. What if he overdosed last night while with Markus?

I grab my phone and dial his number.

“Hello?” Tommy asks, obviously fatigued.

He just woke up?

“Hey, you never texted me the address.”

“I’ve been asleep. I’ll text you it in a moment. Bye.”

He hangs up. He’s never been a guy you want to wake up. He’s been known to be a monster in the mornings. A text finally comes in with the address, followed by a second one:
Let me sleep asshole

I do just that. I don’t text him or call him or bother him. I just let him sleep. He deserves to rest. I slide my phone into the tight pocket of my skinny jeans, and I lie back onto my own bed. I woke up incredibly early and couldn’t fall back to sleep, anticipating Tommy’s text. I just really want to be there for him. He is a great friend to me and he always knows what I need, so it’s time for me to pay back the favor to him. It’s time for me to become selfless and to stop using my disease as a reason to ignore others.

I get up and finally leave my bedroom. It’s about time. I’ve been dressed since 9:00 a.m. I find Clara in the kitchen, making herself a late lunch.

“Hey, little brother. Want any lunch?” she asks from the stove.

“What are you making?” I smell blueberries.

“Blueberry pancakes.”

I sigh. I don’t get the love people have for pancakes.

“Isn’t that breakfast?”

“I was craving breakfast for lunch.”

“Yeah, I’ll have some.” I don’t want to disappoint her.

“Good. I was planning to make you some anyway. Now make yourself a cup of tea, and sit your butt down at the table. I’m treating you to a
gourmet
lunch today.” She holds up her spatula, and I can see the batter sizzling on the pan.

“Yes,
very
gourmet,” I say with a smirk.

“Shut up.”

We break out into giggles, and I grab my favorite teacup and get my kettle settled beside her pan. When my tea is finished I take it to the table, and Clara hands over a plate of delicious-smelling blueberry pancakes. I haven’t had these in months, not since before my stay in the hospital, and damn I missed even the smell of them.

“Thanks, Clara.”

“Of course. I was craving them today.”

I take a bite, and I almost orgasm from how good they are. Yeah, they’re
that
good. I thank her again, and I basically inhale every last bite.

“Where’s Mom?” I ask, when I notice I don’t hear anyone else in the house.

“Oh she went to the store to buy some groceries. I thought you and I could spend the day together. Or are you working?”

“Not today,” I answer.

Honestly I don’t remember if I was working today, but I figured after last night I get a free shot at skipping work today. I don’t want to face Peter after what happened.

“Marvelous,” she shouts in enthusiasm, “I have such a grand day planned. I was hoping you’d say yes.”

Technically I didn’t say yes. I just said I wasn’t working, but I don’t say any of this out loud. I haven’t hung out with my sister in so long that it actually sounds exciting. I mean, she won’t be home for vacation forever. She does have to go back to school at some point in the next few weeks. I should take up as much time with her as I can before she is back studying for exams and writing nonstop essays again. She should be paid to be an academic, because she is honestly brilliant at it, and she actually loves school. If she could, she would probably do it for the rest of her life instead of getting a job. Getting paid to go to school sounds like a pretty good gig to me.

We finish up lunch, and I tell her I just need to finish getting ready before we head out. I try to brush my mop of hair but quickly give up. There’s no point in trying to do anything to it. My hair has a mind of its own and will do whatever it wants. Tommy is the one who told me I have constant sex hair. I always look like I’ve just finished having the best sex of my life. If only.

I grab my beaten-up Chuck Taylors and my peacoat, and I’m out the door with my sister walking beside me. The sun seems to have melted most of the snow outside, and it doesn’t feel like I’m walking on constant slush. I know winter has its fans, but I just want spring to get here already. I’ve had enough winter to last a lifetime, but I think that every year.

“So where to?” I ask my sister after following her down the sidewalks for a bit.

“I thought we’d just go to the park. We can play that game we used to play.”

“The one where we made up stories about strangers?”

Clara and I had this game where we went to the park every week just about, and we would each pick one stranger. We would go on to tell the most elaborate story we could about that person, trying to give them as much backstory as we could and where they were headed in life. It was a fun children’s game.

“That’s the one. You always were such a good storyteller, Jess. Mom and I used to think you would grow up to become some great novelist.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, we did. I still think you will someday. I wish you didn’t stop writing. You were so good.”

“I was mediocre at best.”

I really wasn’t that good. I always think about how cool it’d be to be a writer, but I don’t even know what I’d write about. I can create a short, lousy story about a stranger in a park, but my imagination isn’t grand enough to create an entire novel. I could always write about my life, but that’d just be boring. Who’d pay to read that?

“You were
good
. Now listen to your sister, because she is always right.”

“Did you just refer to yourself in third person?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, I don’t take advice from people who talk in third person. It’s just plain weird.”

“That crazy woman who used to live next door,” she starts.

“Margo,” I cut in.

“Yes, that’s the one. Margo used to do that all the time, and it was so strange. Dad used to say the rudest things about her behind her back.”

“He would always call her a crazy old loon who should be put in a home.”

“She was nice, though,” Clara says.

We come to the park and take our usual seat on the same bench we always sat on as children. The park isn’t too crowded. That’s what you get for going on a weekday, but I’m okay with that. I prefer not to feel claustrophobic. Sometimes I get overwhelmed when too many people are around. It’ll become hard for me to breathe and I sweat profusely.

A woman in her early thirties, and her small dog walk by us.

“You go first,” I tell my sister.

“Okay, um, so she is a socialite. She has traveled here all the way from Russia because she has dreams to become a model. She stopped off in Wilshire, though, because her sick cousin is here, and after this she is off to New York to try to live her dream. Her cousin is the heir to a chocolate fortune because his ancestor is the man who invented chocolate.” She stops to laugh at her own joke. “And now she is here… but soon she will meet a man who will change her ways and make her a good person. The end.”

I give a little clap and see Mrs. Rattree walk by. I haven’t seen her since that day in the bookshop when Jill told her off. That was a beautiful moment.

“She always looks so mean,” Clara states.

If the Wicked Witch of the West existed, it’d be Mrs. Rattree. She looks like her in the early part of the movie before Dorothy goes to Oz. Now where is a house when you need it?