The Red Thread (4 page)

When he pays for the book, I can’t help but notice how tall he is. He is at least six foot tall. No, he has to be even taller. He’s like a giant overlooking all us tiny people. I might also notice how well his biceps fill out the sleeves of his tight T-shirt. Along with noticing his good looks, I am grateful to see someone actually buying a book from here. Too many people come in thinking they found just some random place to hang out. I hate how people don’t seem to buy books. They come in and peek through our books, but no one ever seems to buy them.

My heart finally returns to a normal pace as the door closes and the quiet man with the beautiful eyes is gone. Laurie turns toward me, and she has a wide smile.

“He was just so….” Even she can’t find the words.

“Yeah” is all I manage to respond.

THE DAY
goes by in a blur, and yet that strange, silent man never leaves my mind. When I walk home, I lay my hoodie and messenger bag on my bed. I eat and then I get into the car with my father, who got home from work right before dinner. It’s Wednesday night, which means it’s therapy night. Most people go out drinking at night, and I go to the doctor on Wednesday. I know how to party.

Dad waits in the waiting room with the newest mystery crime novel he is reading. They’re his guilty pleasures. No matter how bad they are, he eats them up like dessert.

In my doctor’s office I sit down on the sofa in front of Dr. Barbara Wheeler, an older woman in her midfifties, with her jet-black hair tied back in a neatly tied bun. Not a hair is out of place. She wears a light gray sweater with a long floral skirt. With her cheekbones and good complexion, she is one of those women who you know was beautiful in their day.

“How were you this week, Jess?” she speaks with a slight English accent.

“I was okay.”

“Only okay?”

“Yeah. For me, that is damn great.”

My therapy isn’t like how it looks in all the movies. Dr. Wheeler doesn’t hold a notepad in her hands and take notes, nor does she put me under hypnosis. She just sits there and listens. For forty-five minutes, it’s all about me, and to say that is unnerving would be an absolute understatement. I can say I know what it’s like to be put under a microscope, because that’s what therapy is like. You are sitting there as a person you hardly know anything about studies you and analyzes you.

“How is the medication affecting you? Is there any change in mood?”

“It’s helped,” I respond. “This new medication made me a bit sick at first, but my body is getting used to the Prozac. It’s not affecting the Trazodone or my other meds.”

“That’s good. Do you find that it is helping you more than the medication you were on before?”

I shrug.

“Is that a no?”

“It’s about the same, I guess.”

“So tell me about your thoughts and feelings for this week, Jess.”

Dr. Wheeler speaks with a soft, caring voice. She is a good doctor, but I just have trouble communicating. I tell her what she wants to know, and the session comes to an end. I pay her with a check, and she tells me to have a good week. I tell her to as well. But when I walk back out into the waiting room, there
he
is.

The beautiful stranger. Twice in one day?

He looks up as I walk out, and he gives me the same lopsided, wide grin he gave me earlier today. He’s even holding the violin book in his lap. Our eyes meet, and it’s as if an electric charge is exchanged between the two of us. I don’t know if he feels it, but it’s sending jolts throughout every single one of my bones.

“Ready to go, kiddo?” Dad asks, and I look over to him.

I can’t find the words, so all I do is nod. The moment the stranger and I had is over. He looks back down toward his book, and I zip up my hoodie. Dr. Wheeler walks out of the door.

“Adam Foster, you ready?”

The young man looks up and nods, following Dr. Wheeler to the office.

I watch as the door shuts behind him. I can now put a name to the stranger’s face. Adam Foster. I am overcome by two emotions: the desire to see him again but also the urgent need to never see his face again. Just seeing him is putting me through a whirlwind of emotion. Getting to know him might lead to my death. I was already sad, but if someone broke my heart… what would be left of me?

I’VE NEVER
actually thought about relationships or boyfriends before. Well, I have, but never about actually having one in reality. It’s always been a nice thought, but I always figured never for me. That happens to sane, happy guys. Not guys like me. For me the idea of a relationship has been nothing but stories. I read about them, and I hear about them, but it’d never actually happen in reality to a guy like me. It’s merely fantasy.

My parents seem happy together. But all this happiness can lead to something much more painful. I’ve seen what heartbreak has done to people. Alex’s ex-girlfriend Nikki broke his heart last week. He’s been curled up in bed and walking around in a daze. His heart was shattered, and he looked as if he was about to keel over and die at a moment’s notice. I’m already unhappy, why would I want to be even more unhappy? Love is like a bomb, ready to explode at a moment’s notice.

For as long as I’ve known I have never been happy. People look down on me for being sad. Ever since I got out of the hospital, the people in this small town stare at me like I’m some kind of pariah, but are any of these people truly that content with their own lives that they can look down their noses at me? Is anyone truly ever happy? Or is it just a myth, some lie we’re all told to believe? Maybe my parents aren’t even happy? Maybe they are just buying into a societal norm that doesn’t actually exist. Society tells us all these things we should do. Society tells us that as long as we buy that nice car or that new iPod, we’ll be happy. It’s all so superficial. We might think we’re happy, but we’re really not. We’re just enjoying whatever new materialistic item we find. But that’s not happiness. Even love is superficial. It’s an idea we trick ourselves into believing so that we can be happy. Happiness is the biggest lie we tell ourselves.

I listen to the wind as it blows outside on this sleepless night. The branches, with the dying leaves, scratch along my window. The shadows of the branches stretch out along my walls like the fingers of a monster in a horror film. I stand up, wrapping the blanket around my body and stride over to the window. I look out at the night sky and look up at the moon shining high above, only half-full. I watch the leaves fall off the trees as they dance in the wind.

I throw my blanket to the ground, and I pull on a pair of dark skinny jeans over my briefs, and I pull on a tight sweater. I slowly sneak outside of the house, careful not to wake my parents. I lightly close the door and pocket my key. I zip up my hoodie and tug it over my head, and I start to walk. To where, I don’t know. I just let my legs take me wherever they want to go.

The night is cold, and the wind is brisk. I find myself in the old children’s park I used to spend time at with Ali, before she moved away. As kids we used to just sit on the swings, and I’d close my eyes and dream of flying. It was a time when I dreamed that in my future I’d be happy. I wish I could go back in time and tell that little kid he was wrong. It just got worse in the future.

I wonder if Ali ever thinks of me.

I sit on the swing, and I close my eyes, and I kick off the ground. I feel the bitter wind numb my cheeks, but I ignore it. I just allow myself to go faster, higher with each swing.

Higher and higher I soar. I imagine myself letting go of the creaky chains, but instead of being met with the ground, I’m met with the air. I’d just soar high above the town. I’d just float away, end up in some strange town, different from my own. No one would know who I was. I’d change my name and start a new life. Would I be happier? Probably not, but I like to pretend that in my nonsensical fantasy, I am happier wherever I end up.

The crunching of leaves catches my ears, and I open my eyes. I’m pulled back to reality as if I fell out of the sky and just hit the ground. The swing comes to a screeching halt, and I look up to see who’s there. The streetlights are too dim to make out who it is, but I see the slight outline of a man.

“Hello? Who is that?”

He doesn’t answer. I feel the faint notion of fear quiver through my spine. I watch enough horror films to know how these situations end up for skinny guys like me.

“I said, who is that?” I try to hide the fear in my voice, but I know that my question came out shaky instead of with the confidence I want to pretend I have. I feel like I’m the victim in a slasher film, just waiting to get stabbed to death by Jason Voorhees with his machete. And here I am just calling out who’s there instead of running. If I am going to die, I want it to be by my own hands. I don’t like the idea of not controlling my own life.

“D-d-d-don’t worry, i-it’s me….” The stranger comes into sight.

Three times in one day? This is impossible. Is this fate, or am I dreaming? I don’t believe in fate, so I must be asleep in my bed. I slightly pinch my leg, and when the stinging pain shoots through me, I know I’m awake.

“Oh, hi,” I say in my usually awkward manner, followed by silence, because nothing else comes to mind.

Adam comes into sight and motions his head toward the swing next to mine. I shrug and say it’s fine. He sits down beside me, and he pushes off the ground. We start to swing in silence.

Well, this is interesting.

“So, what are you doing out here?” I’m the first one to break the silence on this weird moment we’re having.

“Just w-w-w-walking,” he stutters. “How about you?”

I nod. “Yeah. Me too. I couldn’t sleep.”

“N-n-neither c-c-could I.”

“Are you cold?” I ask.

“I’m okay. W-w-why do y-you ask?”

“You’re stuttering, so I thought you might be cold.”

I stop my swinging and look over to see his cheeks grow red in the faint light of the streetlights and underneath the half-moon. He looks away.

“It’s n-not the c-c-c-cold.”

Oh. Shit.

“I’m so sorry. Damn, I didn’t know.”

Adam lets out an awkward laugh. “I-it’s fine. You d-d-didn’t know.”

The seeds of guilt, which have been planted inside me, begin to grow. The vines plant themselves into the cores of my body.

“I’m sorry again,” I apologize once more.

Adam gives me a small, embarrassed smile and just waves my apology off, as if what I said was no big deal. Meanwhile the seed of guilt has now turned into a full-blown tree in my stomach.

I want to change the subject, but not a thought comes to mind, so I do the most reasonable thing I can think of.

“I have to go,” I tell him. “Good night.”

He gives me a smile and tells me good night, and I rush home as quick as I can, hoping to leave my mortification behind me, for it to just stay in the playground.

Sneaking back into my house is as easy as it is to sneak out. Once my parents are asleep, they are asleep. Not even the apocalypse could wake those two up. I make my way up to my bedroom, and I grab my medication. After stripping down to my underwear, I down three small white round pills. Trazodone is great for falling asleep. Not so great for depression, to be honest.

A COUPLE
of days later, and I haven’t seen Adam again. I don’t know whether I’m happy or saddened by that. It’s funny how I can feel so many opposing feelings at once, each battling one another out.

On Saturday morning I wake up to the sounds of a car pulling up the driveway. I wipe the sleep from my eyes, and after opening my curtains, I see a small silver car sitting outside. The motor is turned off and a beautiful twenty-two-year-old woman, with wavy light brown hair, steps outside. She holds a suitcase in hand, and a duffel bag hangs off one shoulder. Clara Holbrooke, my older sister.

I quickly dress, and I make my way downstairs, just in time to see my dad bringing her into a tight hug. He and my mom kiss her and gush over how much they missed her. Finally Clara turns her attention to me, and she pulls me into a tight hug. I close my eyes and wrap my arms around her thin waist.

“I didn’t know you were coming home this weekend.”

“Well, I’m done with midterms, and I wanted to come home for the weekend, and besides I missed you, little brother.”

“Yeah, you too, big sister.”

I help her bring her bags to her bedroom, which is right next door to mine. Her room is much livelier than mine with her light pink walls and beautiful paintings covering the walls. Each painting is of a different cottage or landscape, many by an artist named Thomas Kinkade. She’s always loved art.

“So how is school?” I inquire of her, as she opens her first bag. I take a seat in her swivel chair, which sits in front of a small white desk.

“School has been amazing so far. I’m so sad that after next semester, I’ll be finished with my undergraduate degree.” I listen as she goes on about her school and how much she loves the campus. I like how happy she gets when she talks about it, so even though I’ve heard it all before, I still let her go on. As she continues to beam away about her love of the school, her smile just continues to grow wider and brighter.

She comes to a stop, and she turns toward me. I see the seriousness in her eyes, and I know what she is going to ask.

“Have you been… okay, Jess?”

I was only waiting for the moment she’d ask. She’s never been able to last longer than a half hour before asking me how I’m feeling.

“I’m okay.”

“Really? Have you had any of your…
dark days
?” She grabs my hands and holds them in her smooth, pale fingers.

Clara nicknamed my bad moments the
dark days
. Even though I’ve always been sad, I’ve had my moments where I just slipped into something worse, something darker. It’s like something so dark, so unholy takes me over and I just can’t control it.

“Not while I’ve been home again,” I respond.

She gives me a sad smile. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to visit more at the hospital.”