I'm Thinking of Ending Things (19 page)

“We're just talking,” Jake said.

“We're communicating,” I replied. “We're thinking.”

When I was resting and scratched the back of my head with my hand, I felt a bald spot the size of a quarter. I've pulled out more hair. Hair isn't alive. All those visible cells have already died. It's dead, lifeless, when we touch and cut and style it. We see it, touch it, clean it, care for it, but it's dead. My hands still have red on them.

Now it's my heart. I'm angry with it. The constant beating. We're wired to be unaware of it, so why am I aware of it now? Why is the beating making me angry? Because I don't have a choice. When you become aware of your heart, you want it to stop beating. You need a break from the constant rhythm, a rest. We all need a rest.

The most important things are perpetually overlooked. Until something like this. Then they are impossible to ignore. What does that say?

We're mad at these limits and needs. Human limits and fragility. You can't be only alone. Everything's both ethereal and clunky. So much to depend on, and so much to fear. So many requirements.

What's a day? A night? There's grace in doing the right thing, in making a human decision. We always have the choice. Every day. We all do. For as long as we live, we always have the choice. Everyone we meet in our life has the same choice to consider, over and over. We can try to ignore it, but there's only one question for us all.

We think the end of this hall leads back to one of the large halls with all those lockers. We've been everywhere. There's nowhere else to go. It's the same old school. The same one as always.

We can't go back upstairs again. We can't. We tried. We really tried. We did our best. How long can we suffer?

We sit here. Here. We've been here, sitting.

Of course we're uncomfortable. We have to be. I knew it. I know it. I said it myself:

I'm going to say something that will upset you now: I know what you look like. I know your feet and hands and your skin. I know your head and your hair and your heart.

You shouldn't bite your nails.

I know I shouldn't. I know that. We're sorry.

We remember now. The painting. It's still in our pocket. The painting Jake's mom gave us. The portrait of Jake that was meant to be a surprise. We'll hang it on the wall with the other pictures. We take it out of our pocket, slowly unfold it. We don't want to look, but have to. It took a long time to paint it, hours, days, years, minutes, seconds. The face is there looking at us. All of us are in there. Distorted. Blurry. Fragmented. Explicit and unmistakable. Paint on my hands.

The face is definitely mine. The man. It's recognizable in the way all self-portraits are. It's me. Jake.

Are you good? Are you?

There's grace in doing the right thing, in making a choice. Isn't there?

DANCING THE NIGHT AWAY. TICKETS ARE $10.

WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

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W
e've gone back to the custodian's room. It was inevitable. We understand that now. It's what we knew would happen. There was no other option. After everything, it's all there is.

We passed the woodworking and auto classrooms. We went by a door that read
Dance Studio
. There was another that read
Student Council
. We saw the drama department. We didn't try any of those doors. What's the point? We've been walking by these doors on these floors for years. After all this time, even the dust is familiar. We don't care if they're clean.

The custodian's room is ours. It's where we're meant to be. In the end, we can't deny who we are, who we were, where we've been. Who we want to be doesn't matter when there's no way to get there.

We passed the door to the basement.

This is who we are. Fingernails. Fistfuls of hair. Blood on our own hands.

We saw the photos. The man. We understand. We do. We wish it weren't true.

Whoever works here, the custodian, he's not in here. We realize it as we look at his face in the photo. He's not here anymore. He's already gone.

It's us. We're in here now. With Jake. Just us. Us all alone.

In the car. We never saw the man in the school. The custodian. Only Jake saw him. He wanted us to follow him into the school, to go looking for him. He wanted to be in here with us, with no way out.

Jake's shoes. In the locker room.
He
took them off. He took them off himself and left them in the gym. He put on the rubber boots. It was him all along. It was Jake. The man. Because he is Jake. We are. We can't hold it in any longer. The tears come. Tears again.

His brother. That story about his brother being the troubled one. We think that's made up. That's why his dad was so happy we were visiting, that we'd been kind to Jake.
He
was the troubled one. Jake. Not his brother. There is no brother. There should have been, but there wasn't. And Jake's parents? They died a long time ago, like the hair that we can see, the hair that grows on our head, the hair that falls out. It's already dead. Dead a long time ago.

Jake once told me, “Sometimes a thought is closer to truth, to reality, than an action. You can say anything, you can do anything, but you can't fake a thought.”

JAKE IS BEYOND HELP NOW.
He tried. Help never came.

Jake knew we were going to end it. Somehow he knew. We never told him. We were only thinking about it. But he knew. He didn't want to be alone. He couldn't face it.

The music starts again, from the beginning. Louder this time. It doesn't matter. The small closet beside the desk is empty. We
push all the empty wire hangers to one side and step in. It's hard to breathe. It will be better in here. We'll stay in here, wait. The music stops. It's quiet. Pure silence. This is where we'll stay until it's time.

It's Jake. It was Jake. We're in here together. All of us.

Movements, actions, they can mislead or disguise the truth. Actions are, by definition, acted, performed. They are abstractions. Actions are constructions.

Allegory, elaborate metaphor. We don't just understand or recognize significance and validity through experience. We accept, reject, and discern through examples.

That night, long ago, when we met at the pub. The song was playing that night. He was listening to his team chat and discuss questions but not talking at all. He was still part of it. He was engaged. He was thinking. And maybe he was enjoying himself. He was taking small sips of beer. He was sort of sniffing the back of his hand, off and on, absentmindedly, one of the ticks he developed when he concentrated on something, when he was relaxed. It was so rare to be relaxed in this kind of setting. But he'd actually made it out, away from his room, to the pub, with other people. That was difficult and significant.

And the girl.

She. He. We. Me.

She was sitting beside him. She was pretty and talkative. She laughed a lot. She was comfortable in her own skin. He desperately wanted to say hello to her. She smiled at him. For sure, it was a smile. Empirically. No question. That was real. And he smiled back. She had kind eyes.

He remembers her. She sat beside him and didn't move away. She was smart and funny. She was at ease. “You guys are doing pretty well” is what she said, and she smiled. That was the first thing she said to Jake. To us.

“You guys are doing pretty well.”

He held up his beer glass. “We're helpfully fortified.”

They talked a little bit more. He wrote his number on a napkin. He wanted to give it to her. He couldn't. He couldn't do it. He didn't.

It would have been nice to see her again, even just to talk, but he never did. He thought he might run into her. He hoped that kind of chance existed. It might have been easier the second time, that it might have progressed. But he didn't get that chance. It never happened. He had to make it happen. He had to think about her. Thoughts are real. He wrote about her. About them. Us.