trains & sewing machines [thaddea]

She should never have agreed to go with him. This she knew with absolute certainty. It wasn’t as if he’d forced her. He’d wheedled, offered, suggested. And in the end, she’d had no choice but to say yes. Well, no. There was always a choice. She’d simply made the wrong one. And this wasn’t an easy thing for her to admit. She hated her own failures, those wrong choices in life. More appropriately, she downright abhorred them. So this evening she would be faced with the entirety of her wrong choice, would have to stare it in the face – or rather in the faces of tens of strangers. She should have just lied. She’d known, when he asked if she’d be spending the holidays with family, that there was something more coming. She really should have predicted it. It wasn’t as if Thomas was all that sly. But Thaddea had let her guard down, hadn’t followed through with her thought process. It was inexcusably unintelligent really, downright embarrassing. She’d answered candidly that no, she had no intention of spending the holidays with her family. She’d always been sketchy on giving details about her family. And for the most part, Thomas never asked. Why oh why didn’t she lie? Of course then he’d been thrilled to offer his home as a substitute for her own family. His face had lit up with this sort of excitement, as if he genuinely wanted her there. Usually she found their relationship to be something of convenience. They had a certain camaraderie. But she never fooled herself into thinking that if it came down between a night on the town with his man-friends, or a night in with her company – he would choose his male companions. And why shouldn’t he? His relationship with Thaddea, well it was professional. That was it.

She picked at the straps of her dress. She’d considered, very briefly, wearing the same dress from the Dale Halloween Party. Of course she would have dressed it down. She’d have eliminated that foolish mask, the fancy updo, and much of her jewelry. But instead, she’d waited. She had watched Thomas like a hawk, waiting for when he would decide to dress himself. What he would wear would of course reflect what her style choice would be. He was much more socially adapt them she ever dreamed she would be. He’d chosen a sweater, nice, but not cocktail dress nice. But neither was it sweatshirt-casual. This entire process was foolish and time consuming, but important. She’d rummaged through her clothing, eventually picking out the perfect dress. It was a dress yes, but nothing too formal. It was a nice little thing, nothing sparkly or fancy or all that exciting. You see, she rarely ever wore jeans or those god-awful black pants. She preferred dresses. They were professional, elegant. She was a woman, and unapologetically so. She turned to glance at Thomas from her peripheral vision. They’d arrived at the house, rung the bell. She was well and truly trapped, but she might as well learn something from the experience. Her eyes lingered with distaste on his sweater choice. It was an awkward thing, altogether unfitting and oddly decorated. It was childish, as if better suited for a ten year old. She pondered the meaning in this. Was his sweater choice an indication of mental immaturity? Had he some emotional instability in relation to his family that she had yet to observe? This was altogether very possible. After all, though he wasn’t a stranger, they all had their secrets. At his words she nodded. She’d spoken little since they’d left the apartment, her anxiety full to the brim.

“Yes.” She answered simply, stiffly. She returned in moments with bags in each arm, staring at the door. She cleared her throat, feeling it was her duty to inquire as subtly as possible about his mental well-being. “Did you purchase that sweater?” As she spoke the door opened, revealing a frowning little girl. Thaddea’s brows came together slightly, looking at the angry little girl. How was there so much displeasure in such a small body? Was there a chemical imbalance? She took another glance at Thomas, returning to her theory of mental instability. The little girl was shooed away, replaced by a smiling man and woman. The man, who had a good resemblance to Thomas, wore and equally horrendous sweater. She glanced between the two. It was easy to assume they were father and son. Perhaps the mental immaturity Thomas appeared to suffer from was inherited. And from the looks of his father – it would not heal with age. She tucked this piece of information away as a curly-haired woman bustled in. She was kissing cheeks, twittering hither and thither. Thaddea froze at the contact, her eyes wide. She’d never been fond of physical proximity. She’d learned to tolerate Thomas, but he was a special circumstance. She stood, awkward and rigid, as the family moved about her – taking coats and fussing. She stared straight ahead, wooden and refusing to move. She still had the bags clutched in her arms. Her lips were pressed in a thin line, her face a mask of analytic stone. She had walked into a mad house, she had concluded. She had found Thomas’ great secret, his weakness, the reason to fear him. It was quite clear his entire family was unstable, in their own ways. They were teetering on the edge of insanity. She swallowed, plots of foolish horror films running through her mind. She couldn’t help but wonder what they would be having for dinner and whether – to her horror – she might have become their dinner.

Thaddea hadn’t been to a Christmas celebration, really any sort of family holiday celebration, in almost three years. She realized it right as she walked through the door. It nearly froze her in her tracks. A part of her had perhaps been desperate to ignore this fact- the numerous Christmas days and nights spent alone. She hadn’t bought or decorated a tree, hadn’t bought presents, hadn’t done any of it. And it wasn’t that she didn’t want to. Christmas had been one of her favorite holidays when she was younger, even in her early months as a housewife with Zachary. She wasn’t religious, though she knew some were and had nothing against them. For her, it was more about the spirit. There were all the lights, the smiles and songs, the fire and hot cocoa. It was cliché, she knew it was, but privately it meant a lot to her. And here were all these people, these people who loved each other – and loved Thomas. They had all of this, the tree and the cocoa and taste-less sweaters. She followed Thomas mutely, lost in a sort of child-like reminiscence and wonder. She set the presents gently under the tree, her eyes drawn to the array of gifts.

They were haphazard. She clutched her hands to herself, forcing herself not to set about organizing them. She would have liked to pile them – by recipient and size ideally. And most of them were not properly labeled. She had gone through with her labeler and labeled all of Thomas’ gifts for him. She still found herself occasionally sneaking around with her labeler. A part of her was still convinced that something she would do – some little thing - would send him over the edge. That he would stumble away, but he didn’t. Every day she woke up, and he was still snoring in his room. He woke up at a different time each morning – whenever he rolled over really. She had a set schedule. She liked getting up, making breakfast. She used to just peel an orange. They were her favorite fruit. But recently she’d begun cooking – like she used to for Alisander. She made pancakes and bacon and eggs on toast. She suspected he liked the pancakes best. Occasionally she even baked fruit or chocolate into them. She liked the idea of being useful, meaningful. She hadn’t been so for so many months now.

She pushed these thoughts forcefully away as she followed Thomas. He settled his hand on the small of her back, guiding her. Weeks ago, she might have jumped, might have edged away – but she found it comforting now. If anything, she moved a half-step closer to him. She could feel quiet warmth from his palm. She followed him to a loveseat, hesitating for a moment when he settled down. There was room for her, but not enough room that there would be ample space between them. They would all but be cuddled together. Thaddea wasn’t a cuddler, or at least hadn’t cuddled in quite some time. She steeled herself and settled down somewhat awkwardly next to him. She wasn’t exactly scrunched up away from him, but she hadn’t nestled up with him either. It was a happy medium. She was quite proud of herself actually. She found she was behaving quite appropriately. Though to the outside looker, her discomfort was amply clear. But perhaps with time she would be able to relax. She looked up sharply as a woman approached, her curly blonde hair falling around her shoulders. Thaddea’s gut immediately clenched uncertainly, becoming subtly more rigid with nervousness. “We live together out of mutual convenience.” She answered formally, glancing at Thomas uncertainly. She shifted uncomfortably, stiffening as Farrah continued. “Greece.” She answered monosyllabically, her voice cold and professional. She sat absolutely straight, her hands clasped in her lap so tightly her knuckles pulsed white. She stared straight ahead. Technically, what she said was true. She’d been born in Greece, nearly twenty years before. She pressed her lips together. She could stare nowhere but straight ahead. Everywhere she looked, she imagined eyes on her – asking her questions, wanting her gone. She knew she shouldn’t have come, she’d known it all along.

This was a situation her psychology books had not prepared her for. At first she had read them in relation to her topic of instruction. History was a very psychological profession. It wasn’t made up simply of things that had happened, but rather why they had happened. There were no coincidences, only unpredictable chains of events. But there were motives, definitely reasons and desires. It was a bit like a crime show. Sure, there were the accidental deaths, but those were very rarely the truly interesting ones. What people yearned for was the passion, the guilt, but overall – the reason to identify. There was something truly thrilling about it all. And that was what had got her started on the psychology books. She wanted to understand why people did things. And with her rather impartial detached nature, she was able to analyze – often with little remorse for rash or potentially offensive judgments. She’d begun silently observing her peers. She watched them for how they behaved, whether they lined up with any chapters in her books. Occasionally she made comments, but for the most part she had learned that this practice was frowned upon. She’d kept her observations to herself. Though she’d derived great entertainment from making said observations. Later, the psychology books had become a sort of guide. As blind as she was to her own problems (such as the OCD), she was perfectly aware of her social failings. The psychology books had become a jumping point, despite their failure to make her aware of her own psychological problems. She’d begun reading, much to her shame, the “how-to” books of social interactions. She’d read analyses, playful guides, anything she could force herself to take seriously. A few of these had resulted in awkward encounters – usually because she had skipped some step or another. But the way she saw it, she was making massive improvements. Hell, she had a roommate and an invitation to a holiday dinner. That was surely an improvement – or pity – one of the two.

Her brows drew together uncomfortably, her lips pressing into a line. From her books, she knew she should be smiling politely. If she could manage, her eyes should even be “glittering” convincingly. But she wasn’t quite at that level of mastery yet. She glanced to Thomas, looking for some cue. He was staring hard at Farrah, with an expression she recognized as displeasure. She recognized it as she had observed it in others – as he had never displayed displeasure or annoyance towards her. She realized this with somewhat of a surprise. Due to the relationship they shared, Farrah and Thomas should have been enjoying each other’s company. The fact that they weren’t was somewhat perplexing. She leaned forward, mimicking Thomas’ posture though with a good deal more rigidness and a more inquisitive look to her stern features. She pursed her lips somewhat, pressing a finger against her lips. She peered at Farrah. Perhaps Farrah was an unusually unpleasant person. But then again, Thaddea had been told quite often that she was such things as a “bitch” a “control freak” and whatever a “ball-buster” was. And Thomas didn’t react to her with such distaste. This brought up the question of, what precisely was wrong with Farrah? “It’s far too expensive to pay to fly to Greece for every annual holiday, ridiculous really.” She waved a hand, dismissing the subject. She was now far more interested in Farrah’s mental state – or the injured mental state Thaddea interpreted her to have. At this point, Thaddea was really rolling. Perhaps it was a sort of defensive thing, something to take the attention off of herself – even better, an opportunity for her to start picking apart someone else. There was truly nothing she enjoyed doing more.

“Do you suffer from any form of autism?” She asked the question bluntly, entirely serious. There was no trace of a joke, a quiet jab, in her expression. She was honestly curious, for her evaluation of course. “You appear to display very little understanding of social rules or body language.” While from another it could have been a veiled insult, a smart comment meant to warn the other away – Thaddea was genuine. She hadn’t thought far enough ahead to consider the repercussions of her words. In a way, she thought she was helping. She was quite earnest, though still rigid and solemn. “I’ve read that these are often key signs of autism. Were you a slow learner? A slow developer?” She continued, only then thinking of the consequences of her words. She straightened abruptly, her hands folded in her lap. She looked to Thomas to see if she had crossed a line, perhaps broken that fragile strand that kept his displeasure from being aimed at her.

She had ruined Christmas, she was quite sure of it. It was a failure, yet another mark to chalk up on her list of shortcomings. Her breathing began to whistle. If she’d been a lesser woman, she might have even cried. As it was, she merely stiffened. Her body pulsed with self-loathing. She had thought herself clever. Pride, it was her ultimate downfall. She knew it, had known it for years. And yet she allowed it to rule her, to triumph over her again and again. It was despicable, imbecilic, intolerable even. Her fingers curled into her fists, her nails digging sharply into her skin. Thomas would throw her out, she could just see it. The family would stare from the windows, shaking their heads, their faces grim. An awkward silence would follow. Each would ask themselves the same question – how had Thomas managed to bring such a horrible woman? Why had she taken it upon herself to destroy their peaceful joyous holidays. Her stomach roiled with guilt. She would have hung her head, but the stiffness in her neck would not allow for it. She feared, when she fled home – to pack her things and flee her shame and failings – she may cry. She might sob, silently to herself, at her own stupidity.

Farrah stood, her voice cold. Thaddea knew, despite the turmoil in her mind, that she had been insulted. But she deserved it – not out of some remorse towards Farrah, but rather towards Thomas. She prepared for the berating, the fury, the hatred. All her psychology books had done her nothing. In the end, they had been as useless as everything else. If she was lucky, she’d be able to find a crap apartment somewhere, keep her head down, keep her job. If she wasn’t, well she’d relocated a number of times in her short history – while she fled Zachary’s all-knowing eyes. What was one more to her, truly? “I’m sorry.” The words burst shamefully from her lips. There were a few things Thaddea did not do – that were simply too far out of her character. She did not alter her schedule. She did not give out personal information unless absolutely required. And she very rarely apologized. But she was apologizing to Thomas, well and truly, with entire sincerity. She yearned for his forgiveness, a possible remedy to the situation before she found herself shoved into the cold – watching from the outside in on the only holiday dinner she’d been invited to in years.

But he began to laugh. Shock flitted across her face. She tilted back, taken physically aback by his reaction. She blinked rapidly, confusion mounting at his words. Terrific? By Farrah’s reaction, Thaddea had grievously insulted her. Wouldn’t Thomas be angry at the verbal assault on a beloved sister? She pursed her lips, watching him, searching for some reasoning behind his sudden hysteria. Perhaps he was ill, or so angry that his hormones were causing involuntary bodily functions. She had heard of that, read of it really. At funerals, occasionally the mourners would laugh not because of joy or amusement – but as an involuntary action, rather an expression of their overwhelming grief. He stood then, gesturing towards the kitchen and going on about family and drinks and refreshments. She stared at him in bewilderment, rising to stand at his side. Her voice was low, nearly a whisper. Should this escalate into the fight she had been expecting, she had little desire to draw undesired attention to herself. “Aren’t you angry with me?” She moved, blocking his way to the kitchen. She needed to understand, or it would drive her insane. “Truly, I would gladly go before ruining any further holiday celebration among your family.” She watched him intently, still wondering in the back of her mind whether he was suffering some medical disaster resulting in laughter and strange emotional outbursts.

For some reason, an image of those cliché rose portraits came to mind. Many of them were photographs, close ups. The petals were impossibly clear, each far too perfect to be believed. The coloring was unreal, something that seemed impossible to actually occur naturally. Some were blood red, starting light in the middle and getting increasingly darker as it moved towards the edge of the petals. Others were light shades of blushing pink, or yellow, or creamy ivory white. And on so many of them, frozen in motion, were droplets of water or ice. They were perfect, captured morning dew. Such portraits tended to hang above offices, in religious places. She remembered seeing a number of them in high school guidance counselor offices. It was as if they were supposed to be comforting, or peaceful. She didn’t really see it that way. To her they seemed fake, like a smile plastered on tight lips. They were an act, an attempt at beauty. But underneath it was one of thousands of such photographs, of portraits hanging upon walls. There was no originality, no sincerity. And thus, there was no meaning. There was something sad about them, pathetic even. It was almost depressing. She wasn’t sure why this particular thought entered her mind at that moment. But it did. And Thaddea found herself subconsciously scanning the walls of the Roth household. Did they have such portraits, such lies upon their painted home? What were they trying to display? Her gaze flicked about, landing on family portraits, and other such normal things. But there were no roses, no frozen raindrops. A wave of calm washed over her, as if the mere absence of the roses was an assurance, was a promise of sorts. It was foolish, irrational. But it calmed her nonetheless, as if she could trust this family – this group of people she couldn’t hope to understand.

With a certain suddenness, he had bent to her level. He didn’t tower over her, like some gargantuan giant. But he was a considerable amount taller than her. She tilted her head, blinking. Her lips were a calm line, her usual stiff regal manner. He seemed strangely desperate to reassure her, to make her believe her actions had some righteousness. She watched him closely, her gaze shrewd. If he simply meant to reassure her, it would be useless in her attempts to gain social acceptance with his family. But if he was honest, well that was something different, something that made a slight twinge to her lips. “I don’t understand your family.” She smiled then, a small thing, but genuine. She stood, and strangely, the sudden desire to grasp his hand overcame her. She wanted to thread her fingers in his, feel his warmth. She also wanted to show him something, prove something. But she didn’t really know what, couldn’t put a name to it. Her fingers twitched towards his before she forced them back. “But I,” She paused, searching for the words. There was a beating urgency in her, a sort of fiery need. She swallowed, forcing the words out with an awkward stiffness. “I’d like to be a part.”

She brushed nonexistent dust and debris from her dress, suddenly quite self conscious. She moved past him, color rising to her cheeks. She had the sense that she had made a fool of herself, said something that would change the careful reality she had built around herself. She moved towards the kitchen, Thomas on her heels. She had no sooner moved away from him than he was back, an older gentleman in tow. She watched her feet, shyness overtaking. Thomas was close, so close. She could step back, brush against him. She could almost feel his arm wind around her waist, hold her close. She clenched her teeth, pushing the image away with a trill of fear. The older man was talking to Thomas, something about girlfriends and living together. She forced herself to listen. She found herself acutely aware of Thomas, of his every movement, of his closeness. She snapped herself to attention, just as Thomas finished his question. She nodded her head, keeping her eyes low. She didn’t know if she could handle looking him full in the eyes, her blood still raced. She wanted to say something, to question their status. But she buttoned her lips firmly, unwilling to say a word. She couldn’t pinpoint where this surge of foolishness, of irrational emotion, had come from. But it scared her, more than she was willing to admit.

There was something she found calming about the sound of running water, the sight of it. She could never really explain it. It just kept on running. Nothing could truly stop it. Yes, occasionally a large boulder would find itself rolled amidst a stream or river. But the water always found a way. It coursed around, it made a new pathway for itself. The boulder became part of the river. The water, it seemed ,was ageless. It was old, eternal. No boulder, pebble, life form – could truly disturb it. But it was gentle, a quiet master. It was calm, wisdom. Though Thaddea would never have admitted, she would have liked the idea of heaven in the water. While the sky was majestic, beautiful to be sure. There was something eternal, alive, about the water.

But all of this, in reality, was utterly inconsequential. It didn’t matter, couldn’t matter, even if she would have liked it to. She was a realist, given to refuting such impossible ideas. And she was still a mere mortal. She would live longer, survive things she perhaps shouldn’t, if she kept an even head about her. But in the end, she was powerless. She couldn’t change what would happen to her. She knew, excluding the chances she became suddenly corrupt and maniacal, she would find himself eventually in some form of heaven, even if heaven was nothing at all. She would reside there, among the heavens, friend of sun and moon. But at times, she found himself questioning this, questioning her desire to find such a future. she looked forward with a deep yearning to reunion with those she had lost. But perhaps, well she couldn’t help asking, wouldn’t it be nice to simply sleep? Eternal rest after the exertion of life?

This brought her back to thoughts of herself, of her blossoming relationship with Thomas. Could she explain it, if questioned, these feelings she sometimes had? She highly doubted so. She couldn’t even form a coherent string of thoughts for herself. She had suffered no great tragedy, no horrible loss. For she counted Zachary as a scourge more than a loss. Her heart had never been broken. What reason did she have to be irritable, to be a loner? What right did she have to reject company? And that was the core of it all. She was an abnormality. She had no excuse to give, no reason to justify her solitude. But her actions, they didn’t fit. She didn’t act like a human, she didn’t think like a member of normal society. Feeble things tied her to this location, this community, her identity, the necessity. These things branded her, whether she desired to be so or not.

She snapped back to attention, looking to Thomas. There was something like concern in his eyes. She shook her head quickly, taking an involuntary step away. She had let her musings, her sudden rich desires, to run away with her. She needed to remember who she was, what she was to him. And what she was, well she was nothing important, not truly, not like her sudden impulses made her want to believe she was. She found herself smiling slightly and nodding her head. She wanted away from the chaos, the milling bodies and horridly decorated sweaters. She felt like some animal on display, being poked and prodded. And their assumptions, well they scared her. Because she couldn’t decide whether she wanted them to be true. She nodded again, setting down her plate. “Please,” She gestured towards the labyrinth of rooms. She couldn’t help but be curious, wonder what the old walls would reveal about him. “You’re just lucky I forgot to pack my laminated labeler.” Her voice was stiff, characteristically cold and detached. But nonetheless, it was her attempt at humor, a poorly initiated joke.

She shouldn’t have spoken, she knew that. She was a creature given to preferences, suited to a life of solitude rather than one in the company of others. It was all highly irregular, completely out of character. She should have walked away, continued on her merry way. That first pivotal moment, the day she had found herself in the presence of Thomas Lula Roth, she should have turned and run. But how could she have possibly known, how could she have predicted the course in which he would take her life? She had had no particular reason to give Thomas her attention. The other professor had not been any particularly friendly acquaintance of hers. Actually, the only friendships Thaddea had truly formed was with Mr. Joshua Donovan Dale. And truly, that was less of a friendship. He was her student, she her professor. Their relationship was entirely professional. And her only basis for some form of fondness for him came from his work ethic and her appreciation of the quality of the papers he submitted.

So what had led to this? What had possibly influenced the path she had taken? The answer to this was uncharacteristically beyond her reasoning. For never, in the years since fleeing Zachary, had she ever imagined the sort of relationship she now shared with Thomas. She’d never imagined feeling so safe. Yes, safe. That was the crux of it, the center of it all. For a reason she could not fathom, a reason not entirely logical, Thomas made her feel safe. She felt protected, like the world would slow so she could take a breath and let her consuming fears melt away. Her lips twitched at the thought, the epiphany of sorts. She pushed the thought away. For the moment, in her present surroundings, she wasn’t at all equipped to analyze her newfound revelation.

Instead, she found herself mutely following Thomas. She nodded occasionally, her eyes roaming the halls. There was a coziness to the home. And contrary to Thomas’ beliefs, the home was not at all below her standards. It could do with some of her organizing touches, but it was a secure little place, full of worn wood and the painted wings of birds. It reminded her of the suburban home she had once grown up in, the carpets worn by trampling feet. She followed him up the stairs, sliding her hand along the smooth polished wood of the banister. With a certain degree of unwilling surge of emotion, she felt a sting in her eyes.

She hadn’t seen her childhood home in nearly three years. She floated after him, seeing his home - but also the home she had left behind. She could imagine the family portraits hung on their walls, images of her smiling brother and sister, her parents. She turned her head quickly away, increasing her pace to catch up. He had wandered ahead of her, while she had been lost in her reminiscing. She turned into the little room – struck still by the utter rightness of it. He sat on the bed, a happy sort of smile on his face. And despite the sting in her eyes, she found herself unconsciously mirroring that little smile. There was something about the room – a complete and perfect Thomas-ness to it. “It looks a lot like my home.” Her words were quiet, half unintentional. They slipped out before she could pull them back in.