The Red Thread (26 page)

She looks over, and her fake overzealous smile grows.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“She saw us,” I answer.

Before anything else can be said, Mrs. Rattree is standing before us. I look up at her old, wrinkly face.

“How are you, Mrs. Rattree?” Clara asks.

“I’m fabulous, my dear,” she answers.

“That’s good.”

“It’s nice to see you out and about, Jess. You look healthy. Are those meds of yours doing the job?”

I grip the wooden bench beneath. I need to hold on to something to stop me from pushing the bitch down.

“We’re actually having sibling bonding time, I’m sorry, Mrs. Rattree,” Clara states in a soft voice. It’s a good thing she’s here, because I wouldn’t be afraid to tell Mrs. Rattree off.

“Oh that sounds wonderful. I always wished I had a sister. I would always have someone to gossip with,” she annoyingly says.

Yeah, gossip about me. I wish she would just go.

She looks at her watch and lets out an overdramatic gasp. My guess is that someone punctured a hole in her and she’s letting out air. Mrs. Rattree is just a giant bubble of hot air.

“I must go. I have so many things to do. Au revoir.”

“Bye,” I say, trying to use the harshest tone I could muster.

Mrs. Rattree walks away without looking back. She doesn’t even notice how much we didn’t want her here. In her imaginary world, no one could ever dare dislike such a “noble and sophisticated” woman like herself.

She can go screw herself.

“Well, she’s always an interesting woman.”

“More like an annoying woman,” I spit out.

Clara seems to almost choke on her giggle, but she regains her composure. Her smile disappears.

“Sorry, that was mean of me to laugh at that.”

“Clara, she’s a mean woman,” I tell her, unable to see how she can ever feel bad for Mrs. Rattree. I don’t think anyone in Wilshire cares for the woman.

“I know. I still feel bad for laughing, though.”

My sister is always kind to everyone no matter how much of an asshole they are. I pull her into a hug and rest my head on her shoulder.

“You’re too nice sometimes.”

“And you’re too cynical.”

“I guess we even each other out,” I say with a smirk, and we break out laughing once again. “So I guess it’s my turn to pick a stranger now.”

I look around the park to find someone good. My eyes focus on a man in a nice suit holding an expensive-looking cell phone up to his ear. I point at him and tell Clara to stay focused on him.

“Okay, his name is John, but it’s not his real name. The name is ordinary and plain, because he is on the run. He refuses to tell anyone his true name, in fear of his enemies finding him. He is married, and to protect his wife, he got her into hiding, and now she is safe somewhere in the mountains. He is an ex-spy, and after moving on, one of his enemies is back and is trying to finish the job. ‘John’ is hiding in this small town, because who would expect him to hide in a small town. He is on the phone with an old spy buddy of his, and he is making plans to meet him tonight to help him out, because tomorrow he’s going to go after his enemy so he can see his beautiful wife once again. The end.”

Clara quickly claps and smiles. “That was amazing.”

I stand up and give a mock bow, laughing. “It was okay. Unoriginal, but it’s been a while since I’ve played.”

“It is still much better than what I could ever come up with. Bravo.”

We spend the next hour like this going back and forth telling stories, each one getting more ridiculous than the last. When it seems like we have made up stories about everyone, our speech turns into silence, and I just watch the people going about their business. They all seem so into their lives. Some of them have smiles while others look determined. But each person has his or her own life. I always forget that there isn’t just one world; there are millions of worlds. Every person lives in a universe of their own making where they are their own god.

“Remember when we were kids and we would go apple picking with Mom?” Clara asks, breaking the silence.

“Yeah. That was fun.”

We haven’t been in years, though, not since I was in middle school.

“I used to be so terrified of bees,” Clara continues.

“And I would tell you to stop being such a baby,” I add onto her story.

“And then you got stung by one and you cried. We were forced to go home because of that.”

My cheeks grow red. “Yeah, I like to forget about that part of the story.”

“But it’s such a cute story.”

Me being immature, I stick my tongue out at her, and she just laughs. How dare she laugh at my pain. I give her the middle finger, and Clara just continues to laugh, and soon my laughter joins with hers. It’s nice to be carefree sometimes.

After our laughter dies, she stands up and looks down at me. She puts out her hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

She helps me stand, and I walk beside her out of the park.

“Where to now?”

“It’s a surprise,” she answers with a coy smile. What does she have planned now?

“Oh gosh.”

“Don’t be scared.”

“Can’t help it,” I respond.

Clara drags me along through the quiet town, keeping a death grip on my wrist. I might be incredibly skinny, but I won’t blow away. I run my free hand through my hair and let it fall wherever it wants. Clara halts abruptly, and I almost collide with the sidewalk as I come to a quick stop. Clara lets go of my wrist, and I massage the small ache away. Damn, Clara really has a tight grip.

“We’re here.”

“Home?”

We stand outside our two-story house with the white paint and blue shutters. Um, okay?

“No. My car. Get in.”

“So bossy today.”

I get into the car, and she starts driving. She turns on the radio, and each station is playing some tarty blonde pop singer, who uses way too much auto-tune. It’s not music; it’s pain to the ears. Clara seems to agree because she pulls out a CD and puts it into the small slit above the radio. A soft melody plays out, followed by a sweet voice. This is much better.

“So one semester left,” I say to start conversation.

“Don’t remind me. It’s depressing.”

“Aren’t you going to grad school?”

“Yeah, I am. Art education.”

“You always have everything planned out, don’t you?” I ask.

“It’s how I am. I don’t like being spontaneous. I feel lost when I don’t know where I’m going, especially with my life. I’m excited though because next semester I’m going to be student teaching.”

“Let’s just hope you don’t get a classroom of little monsters.”

“Jess, shut up. They could be amazing.” She has a giant smile on her face, and I know she is imagining something along the lines of
The Sound of Music
where she teaches wonderful children how to sing, or well, in her case, paint.

“You forget how children are. They’re cruel little fuckers.” And then there is me, ruining all of her dreams about what teaching will be like. I’m good like that.

“You really are a cynical bastard, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I am.”

It’s true too. I’ve always been this way. People have always given me a reason to be distrustful of them.

“So where are we going?”

“No matter how many times you ask, I won’t tell you.”

We pass a sign reading “You Have Left Wilshire.” I like where this is going. Where is Clara taking me? I hope this isn’t some elaborate plan to murder me or something, because that would really put a damper on this exquisite day.

“So do you like the theater?” she asks in a fake British accent, which is actually quite good.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, look in the glove compartment.”

I open up the small gray door to find two white tickets, and I pull them out. I read the name on them, and it’s a play I’ve never heard of. Something called
The Cause of My Pain
.

“What is it about?”

“I don’t know. I read about it online, and it sounded good, so I ordered two tickets for us the other day.”

“What if I was working?”

“I would’ve asked a friend, then, but you were my top choice.”

“I feel so special,” I kid.

“Oh you are, little brother.”

We spend the rest of the car ride singing along to the music and laughing until we finally pull up to a small brick theater. It looks like one of those old-timey movie theaters with the white marquee at the top.
The Cause of My Pain
sits high above in black letters, and I follow Clara inside the building to learn the cause of this unknown person’s pain. I wonder if this is a play about torture.

We find our seats in the theater, which isn’t too packed, but that is what you get for going to a show at an odd time in the middle of the day. The lights dim, and the people come out onto the stage. A woman sits alone on stage, and she is silent. She just looks at the audience and sighs before erupting into a monologue about her sad and lonely life.

THE PLAY
comes to an end, and the small cast is lined up on stage and taking their rightful bows. My sister and I clap in our seats. It’s safe to say the play was
not
about a person getting tortured, but it told the story of a woman with depression and how her life just spirals out of control. She loses her boyfriend and stops talking to her family, and the play ends with her committing suicide. In the end she gives a beautiful soliloquy about how her entire life has come to this and how there is no way out. The writer comes onto the stage, and he looks like he is only a college student. I clap even harder as he bows on the stage, and I feel an itch on my face. I go to scratch it only to realize I’m crying. How did I not realize I was crying?

“Are you okay?” Clara asks as she looks over.

I nod, unable to speak. The heroine, Johanna, and her struggles, just mirrored my own life. Her pain was my pain. Her words were my own. I look at the actress on the stage, but I don’t see her. I only see the character. It’s funny how after you see something, you never see the person behind the role anymore, you only see the character, and they become real to you. They become more real than the actual person. I won’t remember the actress’s name from tonight, but Johanna will be sketched onto my brain for a lifetime.

Clara and I leave the theater and walk back toward her car.

“So what did you think?”

“I’m just glad it wasn’t a musical,” I quip. Seriously, I really hate musicals. They just annoy the hell out of me. They’re so light and cheery, and it just makes me want to vomit.

“I’m being serious.”

“Me too,” I respond. “It was really good. Thank you for taking me to see that, Clara.”

“I love you, Jess.”

“Yeah, I love you too.”

We drive back home in silence. I listen to the tranquil wind outside as it whistles against the window. I lean my head against the glass and I take in the serene sounds. I let out a yawn and close my eyes.

I ALMOST
jump as I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I look up to see Clara.

“We’re home.”

Shit. I fell asleep? I nod, everything in my mind too fuzzy to make use of my tongue. I follow my sister into the house as she ties her long hair back into a messy bun, with strands falling out all along the sides of her face.

“Want a cup of tea?” she asks.

“Oh my gosh, yes.”

She laughs and tells me to sit in my bedroom. She’ll bring up two cups for us. I kick off my shoes and throw my coat onto the floor. I think back on the day, and it was great. I don’t get too many days like this with my family because usually something is wrong with me, so I try to cherish the moments I get.

Clara walks in with two cups of tea and hands me mine. I take a sip, and the hot liquid soothes my cold body. She sits down beside me and drinks her tea.

“I had such a good day, Jess.” She smiles a wide, sweet smile.

“Me too. Thank you again for today. It was amazing.”

“For you, anything. I just want you to be happy. You deserve it.”

“You’re the best, really,” I respond. And she really is.

“So when are you going to formally introduce us to Adam? I know you met his family. When is our turn?”

“Oh you know, I’m just incredibly embarrassed of all of you peasants who are beneath men like us. That is all.”

“Oh of course.”

We laugh, but she says, “I really want to meet him. Mom was telling me about how she invited him to dinner.”

“I’ll tell him. I will. Promise.”

“Good. I need to make sure he’s good for my brother.”

She kisses my forehead and says to relax for the rest of the day. That is exactly what I do. I drink my tea and sit back on my bed with a book. I look over at my phone sitting on my nightstand, pick up my phone, and text Adam.

JESS!!! I’ve missed you today :D

I love how Adam always seems to be an excited child.

I was out with my sister. We saw a play.

Was it good?

It was actually pretty great.

I leave out how much I connected with the play, and I don’t tell him about Peter. I want to keep this day going in the lighthearted direction because it’s nice to just have a day where everything is great. I finally take a deep breath and send a second text right afterward. I hope I won’t regret this one….

Would you like to come over for dinner soon?

I almost want to delete the text as soon as I send it. A part of me just doesn’t want to share this magnificent human being with anyone because it’s like he’s mine, and I don’t want him to belong to anyone else. Now that makes me sound like a lunatic. I don’t mean I’m going to go all
Misery
on him or anything, but it’s nice to know there is a guy out there who cares about me and not another guy.

I’d love to :)

Awesome!

I don’t know if I should be afraid or excited about this. I love the idea of him coming to dinner and meeting my family, but I’m also terrified about the idea. What if they don’t like each other? Or what if they like each other a bit too much and it becomes kind of weird?