I'm Thinking of Ending Things (12 page)

“Teardrops are aerodynamic,” Jake says. “All cars should be shaped like teardrops.”

“What?” It comes out of nowhere, and I'm still thinking about the evening, everything that happened. Jake was quiet most of the night. I still don't know why. Everyone gets a little antsy around family, and it was the first time I'd met them. But still. He was definitely less talkative, less present.

I need to sleep. Two or three nights of long, uninterrupted sleep to catch up. No spinning thoughts, no bad dreams, no phone calls, no interruptions, no nightmares. I've been sleeping terribly for weeks. Maybe longer.

“It's funny to see some of these cars that are still being designed and marketed as fuel-efficient. Look how boxy that one is.” Jake points out the window to my right, but in the dark it's hard to see anything.

“I don't mind uniqueness,” I say. “Even things that are very unique. I like things that are different.”

“By definition, nothing can be
very
unique. It's either unique or it isn't.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I'm too tired for this.

“And cars shouldn't be unique. That driver probably complains about global warming and climate change and yet wants a ‘unique' car. Every car should be shaped like a teardrop. That would show people we're serious about fuel efficiency.”

He's off on a Jake rant. I don't really care about fuel efficiency, right now or even at the best of times. All I want to do is talk about what just happened at his parents' house and get home so I can get some sleep.

“WHO WAS THAT GIRL IN
the photo on your shelf?”

“What photo? What girl?”

“The girl with blond hair standing in a field or at the edge of a field. The one in your room.”

“Steph, I guess. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. She's pretty.”

“She's attractive. I never really saw her as beautiful or anything.”

She's very pretty. “Did you date her, or is she a friend?”

“Was a friend. We dated for a bit. Just after high school, for a bit after.”

“Was she also in biochemistry?”

“No, music. She was a musician.”

“What kind?”

“She played a lot of instruments. Taught. She was the first one to introduce me to some of the old stuff. You know, classics,
country, Dolly Parton, stuff like that. There were narratives in those songs.”

“Do you ever see her?”

“Not really. It didn't work out.”

He's not looking at me but straight ahead at the road. He's biting his thumbnail. If this were a different relationship, at a different time, maybe I would keep at him. Nag him more. Insist. But I know where we're headed now, so there's no point.

“Who was the guy in the background?”

“What?”

“In the background, behind her, there was a guy lying on the ground. He was looking at her. It wasn't you.”

“I don't know. I'd have to see the photo again.”

“You must know the one I mean.”

“I haven't looked at those photos in a long time.”

“It's the only one with her in it. And it's weird, because this guy . . .” I can't say it. Why can't I say it?

A minute goes by. I think he's going to let it fade, to ignore my question, but then he says, “It's probably my brother. I think I remember him being in one of those pictures.”

What? Jake has a brother? How has this not come up before?

“I didn't know you had a brother.”

“I thought you knew.”

“No! This is crazy. How did I not know this?”

I say it jokingly. But Jake is in serious mode, and I probably shouldn't joke.

“Are you two close?”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“Why not?”

“Family stuff. It's complicated. He took after my mom.”

“And you don't?”

For a second he glares at me, then looks back to the road. We're alone out here. It's late. We haven't passed many cars since the boxy one. Jake is focused on what lies ahead. Without looking at me he asks, “Does it seem normal to you?”

“What?”

“My house. My parents.”

“What do you care about normal?”

“Just answer. I want to know.”

“Sure. For the most part, yeah.”

I'm not going to get into how I really feel. Not now, not since that was the last time we'll be at the farm together.

“I'm not trying to pry, but okay, you have this brother, and how is he like your mom, exactly?”

I'm not sure how he'll react to the question. I think he was trying to change the subject away from his brother. But I think now's the best time to ask. It's the only time to ask.

Jake's rubbing his forehead with one hand, his other one on the wheel.

“A few years ago, my brother developed some problems. We didn't think it was anything serious. He'd always been extremely solitary. Couldn't relate to others. We thought he was depressed. Then he started following me around. He didn't do anything dangerous, but it was odd, the following. I asked him to stop, but he
didn't. There was not a lot of recourse to take. I kind of had to cut him out of my life, block him out. It's not like he couldn't take care of himself. He can. I don't believe he's seriously mentally ill. Not dangerously. I think he can be rehabilitated. I believe he's a genius and he's deeply unhappy. It's hard to spend that much time alone. It's hard not to have anyone. A person can live like that for a while, but . . . My brother got very sad, very lonely. He needed things, asked for things I couldn't help with. It's not a big deal anymore. But of course it changed the dynamic of our family.”

This is big. I feel like I understand his parents better now, and Jake, too, just in the last thirty seconds. I'm onto something, and I'm not prepared to let it go. This might have an influence on me, on us, on the question I've been thinking about. “What do you mean he followed you around?”

“It doesn't matter. He's not around anymore. It's over now.”

“But I'm interested.”

Jake turns up the radio, just a bit, but considering we're talking, it's annoying.

“My brother was on track to become a full professor but couldn't handle the environment. He had to leave his work. He could do the job, but everything else, anything to do with interacting with coworkers, was too hard on him. He'd start every day with a wave of anxiety at the thought of interacting with people. The strange part is he liked them. He just couldn't handle speaking with them. You know, like normal people. Small talk and that.”

I notice Jake has started to accelerate as he talks. I don't think he realizes how fast we're going.

“He needed to make a living but had to find a new job, somewhere he didn't have to give presentations, where he could blend into the walls. Around that time he was in a bad place, and he started following me around, talking to me, giving me orders and ultimatums, like a voice in my head, always there. He was interrupting my life, like a sort of sabotage. Subtle stuff.”

“How so?”

Our speed is still picking up.

“He started wearing my clothes.”

“Wearing your clothes?”

“Like I said, he has some issues,
had
some issues. I don't think it's a permanent thing. He's better now, all better.”

“Were you close? Before he got sick?”

“We were never overly close. But we got along. We're both smart and competitive, so that creates a bond. I don't know. I never saw it coming—his illness, I mean. He just sort of lost it. It can happen. But it makes you wonder about knowing people. He's my brother. But I don't know if I ever really knew him.”

“Must be tough. For everyone.”

“Yeah.”

Jake doesn't seem to be increasing the speed, but we're still going too fast. It's not nice out. And it's dark.

“So is that what your dad was talking about when he said your mom has been stressed?”

“When did he tell you that? Why's he telling you that?”

He steps harder on the gas again. I hear the engine revving this time.

“He saw me in your room. He came in to talk to me. He mentioned your mom's condition. Not in detail, but . . . How fast are we going, Jake?”

“Did he mention trichotillomania?”

“What?”

“How she pulls out her hair. My brother had it, too. She's very self-conscious about it. She's pulled out most of her eyebrows and eyelashes. She's already started on her head. I could see some thinner spots tonight.”

“That's terrible.”

“My mom's pretty fragile. She'll be fine. I didn't realize it had gotten so bad. I wouldn't have invited you had I known it would be so tense tonight. Somehow, in my head, it wasn't going to be like that. But I wanted you to see where I'm from.”

It's the first time since we arrived at the house, the first time all evening, that I feel a bit closer to Jake. He's letting me in on something. I appreciate his honesty. He didn't have to tell me any of this. It's not easy stuff to talk about, to think about. This is the kind of thing, the kind of feeling that complicates everything. Maybe I haven't made up my mind yet, about him, about us, about ending things.

“Families have quirks. All of them.”

“Thanks for coming,” he says. “Really.”

I feel a hand on mine.

—We've talked with almost everyone he'd worked with and have been able to put a picture together. He'd been developing physical problems. Issues. Everyone noticed. He had a rash on his arm and neck. His forehead would get sweaty. Someone saw him a few weeks ago at his desk in a sort of daze, just looking at the wall.

—That all sounds alarming.

—I know it does now. But in the context of then, it seemed private, like his own health issue. No one wanted to meddle. There were a few incidents. Over the last year or so he was playing his music quite loud during his breaks. And when people would ask him to turn it down, he'd just ignore them and start the song over again.

—No one thought to make a formal complaint?

—For playing music? Didn't seem like a big deal.

—I guess not.

—Two people we've interviewed mentioned he had notebooks. He wrote a lot. But no one ever asked about what he was writing.

—No, I suppose not.

—We found those notebooks.

—What was in them?

—His writing.

—He had very neat, precise penmanship.

—But what about the content?

—The content of what?

—The notebooks. Isn't that what matters? What he was writing about? The content? What it might mean?

—Right. Well, we haven't read them yet.

“D
o you want to stop for something sweet?”

We were on a mini roll there, conversationally, but I've stopped asking questions. I haven't mentioned Jake's family again. I shouldn't pester him. Maybe privacy is a good thing. I'm still thinking about what he said, though. I felt like I was starting to really understand him, appreciate things he's been through. Sympathize.

I also haven't mentioned my headache again, not since we got in the car. The wine made it worse, maybe. The air in that old house. My whole head is sore. I'm holding it in such a way, with my neck taut and slightly forward, so that the pressure is relieved somewhat, only somewhat. Any movement, bump, or twitch is uncomfortable.

“We could stop, sure,” I say.

“But do you want to?”

“I'm indifferent, but happy to if you want to.”

“You and your nonanswers.”

“What?”

“The only place open this late is Dairy Queen. But they'll definitely have some nondairy stuff.” So he does remember. About my intolerance.

It's dark outside the car. We've been talking less on the drive home than on the drive there. Both tired, I guess; introspective. Hard to tell if it's snowing. I think it is. Not heavily, though. Not yet. It's just starting. I laugh, more to myself, and look out the window.

“What?” he asks.

“It's pretty funny. I can't eat dessert at your parents' place because there's dairy in it, and we're stopping to get something to eat at Dairy Queen. And it's the middle of winter. It's freezing out; it's snowing, I think. It's fine; it's just funny.” I think it's other things, too, but decide not to say anything.

“I haven't had a Skor Blizzard in ages. I think that's what I'll get,” he says. Skor Blizzard. I knew it. So predictable.

We pull in. The lot is empty. There's a pay phone booth in one corner and a metal garbage bin in the other. Don't see too many pay phones anymore. Most have been removed.

“I still have a headache,” I say. “Think I'm tired.”

“I thought it was better.”

“Not really.” It's worse. It's bordering on a migraine.

“How bad? Migrainous?”

“It's not too bad.”

Outside the car, it's cold, windy. The snow is getting heavier now for sure. More swirling than falling. It's not staying on the ground yet. It will once it gets going. Hopefully I'll be in bed by then, with some Advil. If my headache is gone tomorrow, I'll spend the morning shoveling. The cold feels nice on my head.

“Has the feel of a big storm,” says Jake. “Wind is freezing.”

Looking into the brightly lit Dairy Queen makes me feel nauseated. Of course the Dairy Queen is empty. You have to wonder why it's even open tonight. I noticed the hours on the door and calculated that they're closing in eight minutes. There is no bell chime or the expected overhead Muzak upon entry. The empty tables are clean, no balled napkins or empty cups or crumbs. The store is prepped for close. The dull, metallic drone from the machines and freezers creates a cumulative noise. It reminds me of a dial tone. There's a scent in here, too, almost chemical. We wait, looking up at the glowing menu.