The Red Thread (22 page)

“Jess,” she says in a soothing voice.

No matter how upset you are, or how worried they are, a mother can always say your name in the most soothing manner. It must be something every woman is programmed with when they’re born, that soothing voice gene. I’m sure some men too. I think my mom could stop an entire race from committing genocide; that is how sweet her voice is.

She smiles at me. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m fine.”

Fine.

The go-to answer for every person when they are not actually
fine
.

Fine; adj.

Well, healthy, all right, fit, blooming, thriving, in good shape, in good condition, in fine fettle, okay.

Antonyms: ill.

That is the textbook definition my thesaurus gives, but it’s not true. No one ever seems to use the word fine for what it really means. People use it to tell the biggest lie anyone can tell themselves and others. Saying you’re fine is like signing your own death certificate. Just send me to the morgue now, and let me rot.

So in that case, yes, I am fine.

“Talk to me, baby boy.”

Baby boy… that’s what my mom used to call me as a small boy when I would lie in bed at night. I used to love hearing those words on her tongue. Now it just sounds like mockery.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Jess.”

“Mom.” I can mock right back, Mother.

“I wish you would talk to me. What is going on in that mind of yours? You never tell anyone anything. You always keep your guards up and keep everyone away. Why do you do that? You have no idea how much it frightens your father and me. And Clara worries too. She called once a week to see how you were doing.”

I didn’t know Clara did that.

“You and Clara maybe.”

“Jess, your father loves you. He’s just….”

“Just what?”

“Stubborn. You two are so similar.” A small chuckle falls from her lips.

Similar? Dad and I? Is she joking, or is she just incredibly high?

“Yeah, right.”

“You both are so guarded by your feelings, it’s nerve-racking.”

Before she can go on with this silly idea, I cut her off. “Mom, what was your dream?”

“What?” she asks surprised.

“Your dreams? Didn’t you have any dreams or hopes? You couldn’t have envisioned your life as being a mother of a head case.”

“First, I told you I hate when you refer to yourself as crazy, and second I wouldn’t change this life for anything in the world. The queen of England could offer me her seat on the throne, and I would say no. Patrick Swayze could rise from the grave and ask me to be his wife… although, that one I would probably choose.”

I can’t stop my laugh.

Mom smiles. “There we go. I like when you laugh.”

“But didn’t you dream of anything before you had me and Clara?”

She smiles. “Yes, I did. I wanted to be a dancer.”

“Were you good?”

“I wasn’t bad,” she responds. I can almost see her memories, just by the way she smiles and closes her eyes.

“Why did you stop?”

“I met your father, and then I had Clara and then you. My family became my life.”

“And you were satisfied with that?”

“More than anything.”

“Mom, did I ruin yours or Dad’s life?”

Her jaw falls open. “What?”

“Did I ruin your lives? Dad told me he had dreams to open up a car shop, but then my insanity got worse, and he stopped enjoying cars. I ruined his love of cars. Am I a…
monster
, Mom?”

“No. You’re not a monster. You’re wonderful, Jess. You’re perfect.”

She throws her arms around me and pulls me close to her and continues to repeat, “You’re not a monster.” In my mom’s arms, I feel so safe and warm. I don’t know why, but I begin to cry, and I can’t stop the tears flowing as they soak her T-shirt. My sobs continue as she rubs my back in large circles and says, “Mom is here.” I know the sight is juvenile, but this is what I needed. Sometimes all a boy needs is his mother. Norman Bates would agree with me.

She kisses my forehead and looks at my tearstained face. “Jess you didn’t ruin anything. You hear me? You didn’t ruin a damn thing. Your father stopped with cars, not because
that
was his passion. He loved cars because he was able to do it with you.
You
were his passion.”

I nod, unable to find the words. It feels like a hand is grasping at my throat, making me unable to speak. So I answer with a low sob. My way of saying okay, I understand. I hug my mother once more, feeling like a newborn waiting for milk.

“Mom, sometimes I just hate being the way I am. I’m so embarrassed over my condition and—”

She cuts me off. “Jess, you should
never
feel embarrassed or hate who you are. You are wonderful, and you are my son. I am proud to be your mother.”

She kisses my forehead and says she’ll fix me up a cup of tea. I nod and smile, and she closes the door behind her. I stand up, taking off my thick black-framed glasses and wipe the tears away. I look into the mirror to see my reflection with my red eyes. I look like a fucking mess.

I meet my mom in the kitchen, and she hands me a cup of tea. We sit there in silence and sip our teas. The warmth I feel from the tea and just being here with my mom overcomes me. I pull the hood of the zip-up hoodie I’m wearing up over my head. I love my hoodies. They make me feel safe in some way. They’re my own personal security blankets.

It’s funny how I sit here with my mom, and it’s like these past couple of days haven’t happened. I feel good again.

I almost feel whole.

I almost feel normal.

Normalcy is something I’ve always strived for. I’m close to getting there. I know it. I can feel it. I just wish I could totally feel normal now. I don’t want to feel like I’m going to fall apart into a million pieces every moment of the day. Some days, I just want to grab a blade and harm myself once more to stop those thoughts.

When I would cut, it never started with the blade. That was always the destination. It always started with a thought. A million thoughts flying through your mind. Racing, faster and faster. Then that thought turns into an itch. It’s like everything is itchy and you just can’t scratch it. Your head is itchy and your arms. And you keep scratching until you dig your fingernails deep into your skin. But that isn’t where the itch is. It’s the mind. Your mind is so itchy, and you can’t get to it… so that is when you grab the blade. The blade is the final point of the cutting process. That is when you finally grab the blade and you hold it in your fingers and you bring it to your flesh and cut. You cut, hoping to get rid of that itch finally. You cut to feel something. Or you cut to feel nothing. The sensation drowns everything out until nothing matters anymore. All that matters is the pain.

That sweet, glorious pain, which you welcome like an old friend. The truth is that pain became my best and closest friend.

Now how do you cut off a friendship like that?

CHRISTMAS IS
no longer in the air. The other houses have taken down their decorations. Usually after the holiday ends, you can still feel it, but I believe I’ve caught the last whiffs of the Christmas air.

I am lying in my bed, and I look over to my nightstand to see my cell phone still sitting there. After tea with my mom, I just went back upstairs to my room to relax and think. Usually thinking is bad for me, but now, that is all I want to do. Be alone with my thoughts. But I notice a name on my cell phone, and I smile at the sight of the letters that spell out Adam. I’m getting way too used to seeing this on my phone every day.

I read his text wishing me a good morning. It was sent while I was walking around.

Hello Adam!

Jess, you’re finally awake! Let’s do something tonight after therapy!

Shit. I forgot that was tonight. Dr. Wheeler will have a field day with me tonight after these two days of an emotional whirlwind.

Yeah, that sounds great.

My uncle Martin is going to cook dinner, and he wants to meet you :)

Oh shit.

Yay!

Oh shit.

It’s meet-the-parents time… well, the uncles. This is going to be the night his uncles decide I’m not good enough for their adorkably perfect and
sane
nephew.

You don’t have to wait around for me after therapy. I’ll come and pick you up. This is SO EXCITING! :D

I’m excited too
, I will my fingers to type.

I’m such a fucking liar. My heart is beating so fast that I’m afraid I might actually go into cardiac arrest. And it’s still early in the day. How the hell am I going to make it through the day to survive tonight?

Geez, my mind is a strange place. One moment I’m having a near–mental breakdown (again), and then the next moment I’m worrying over meeting my boyfriend’s—still gushing—family. What is wrong with my mind? Well, at least this is a normal freak-out. I strive to be normal, and this is what normal people think about.

I tear through my closet realizing that I have nothing that is good enough to meet a boyfriend’s family. All I see are T-shirts, hoodies, and cardigans. I grab a new button-up shirt I bought with Jill and pair it with a nice cardigan and a pair of my cleanest skinny jeans.

As the day goes on, my fingers fidget, and I play with my hair. I just can’t get it to go right, so I end up grabbing a black knit hat—my favorite one—and I let it slouch in the back. Tommy would call this my pretentious hipster look, especially with my glasses. It’s been days, and I still haven’t heard from Tommy. I’ve tried texting and calling him a few times, and not once has he answered. Alex has had the same problem. I just hope he’s okay. Sometimes I’m so selfish about my own problems and my illness, I forget about other people’s problems. I can be a real shit friend.

I grab my phone and dial his number, but I am met by the ongoing ringing. At least his phone is on, so he must want to answer. If he truly didn’t want to speak to anyone, wouldn’t he turn his phone off and send every message straight to voice mail? I do end up there, and I leave a message, hoping this will be the time he finally calls me back. I’ve called him thirteen times, and I’ve sent him thirty-three texts since I last saw him with Alex. Not one has gone answered.

I pocket my phone and sigh. How do you get someone to talk to you, when all they do is pretend to be tough? Tommy and I are so much alike in that aspect. He pretends to be so tough like he needs no one, and I pretend like I don’t care. Of course we need someone—maybe more than anyone else out there. I know it. But neither of us would ever admit it aloud.

I guess I know what I’m talking about to Dr. Wheeler tonight. But is it bad that my mind instantly goes back to Adam? No matter how much I think about other problems, my mind is like a rubber band. You stretch it and stretch it, but it flies right back.

By the time I need to leave for therapy, I’ve brushed my teeth four times and have had six cups of tea to get my nerves to settle down. My mom used to say: “Nothing a good cup of tea can’t solve.” Well, Mom, this is one of those times. My nerves are racing faster than a NASCAR track.

I sit in the office, with Dr. Wheeler in her seat. Every session begins the same—us in silence for about thirty seconds before she finally asks what my thoughts and feelings were for the whole week. It never gets easier for me. This is so much harder than it sounds, because she believes that if we can track our thoughts and feelings, we may be able to pinpoint the exact moment our depression kicks in or gets worse. My depression, I have no idea what it stems from. I’m just always sad and always have been. Trying to pinpoint why I’m depressed is like trying to find the hipster in a room full of the homeless. So every time I’m stuck here with nothing to say. The therapy and the pills help, but sometimes I do wonder if it is a waste of time.

“You’re quiet tonight, Jess.”

I look up and shrug. My mom says shrugging is a bad habit, which I should learn to stop. I always shrug in response.

“A lot has been going on.”

“Like what, Jess?”

That is one thing I notice she does. She uses my name a lot. I guess it’s her way of trying to make me feel comfortable. Honestly, the amount she uses my name just makes me feel like I’m going to vomit.

“I still haven’t heard from Tommy.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know. He just won’t talk to anyone. Something did happen with my dad, though.”

“What is that?”

I go on to tell her everything that took place inside my head, detailing every whirlwind of emotion that slapped me across the face. And as I finish, she asks the million-dollar question every therapist asks many times until you want to take the question and bury it alive to die a slow, painful, agonizing death.

“How did that make you feel?”

Really? What is it about that question that pisses me off so much? Is it because the answer is usually very obvious? Or is it the way she asks? Or maybe it’s just a stupid thing to ask. Every time I hear that question, it just sounds so condescending. How does that make you feel? Really? How the hell do you think it makes me feel? Obviously I feel grand that I felt like I ruined my father’s favorite hobby.

“I’m okay” is what I say instead.

Dr. Wheeler is a good person. She’s just aggravating sometimes with the way she speaks and questions everything. I get that it’s her job and all, but geez.

“Just okay?” she pressures on.

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”

“What are you hiding? You know these sessions are to help you. They aren’t for me, Jess.”

Except you get paid a hefty paycheck, but I don’t say that.

“I know. I feel guilty, I guess.”

“Why do you feel guilty? Is it because of your father?”

“Yeah, of course. I basically ruined something he loved doing.”

“Your mother said that he loved cars because of his time with you. He lost enjoyment not because you ruined it, but because he was worried over you. I think your father just wanted you to be okay.”