I'm Thinking of Ending Things (9 page)

I'm also surprised we haven't met Jake's parents. Where are they? The table is set. The food's here. I can hear shuffling in another room, probably the kitchen. I help myself to a dinner roll, a warm dinner roll, rip it in half and smear a knob of butter across it. I stop myself from eating, realizing I'm the only one who's started. Jake's just sitting there. I'm ravenous.

I'm about to ask Jake about his parents again when the door to the entryway opens and they walk into the room, one behind the other.

I stand up to say hello.

“Sit, sit,” says his dad, motioning with his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Thanks for inviting me. The food smells great.”

“I hope you're hungry,” says Jake's mom, seating herself. “We're glad you're here.”

It happens quickly. No formal introductions. No handshakes. Now we're all here, at the table. I guess this is normal. I'm curious about Jake's parents. I can tell his dad's reserved, borderline standoffish. His mom is smiling a lot. She hasn't stopped since she appeared from the kitchen. Neither of Jake's parents reminds me of Jake. Not physically. His mom is more made-up than I would have guessed. She's wearing so much makeup I find it sort of unsettling. I would never say that to Jake. Her hair is dyed an inky black. It's glaring against her powdered-white complexion and varnished red lips. She also seems a bit shaky, or delicate, as if she might at any moment shatter like a dropped glass.

She's dressed in an outdated, short-sleeved blue velvet dress with frilly white lace around the neck and sleeves, as if she's just been or is going to a formal reception. Not a kind of dress I see often. It's out of season, more summery than wintry, and too fancy for a simple dinner. I feel underdressed. Also, her feet are bare. No shoes or socks or slippers. When I tucked a napkin into my lap, I caught a glimpse under the table: the big toe of her right foot is missing the nail. Her other toenails are painted red.

Jake's dad is wearing socks and leather slippers, blue work-style pants, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His glasses hang from around his neck on a string. He has a thin Band-Aid on his forehead, just above his left eye.

Food is passed around. We start eating.

“I've been having problems with my ears,” Jake's mom announces. I look up from my plate. She's looking right at me, smiling broadly. I can hear the ticking of the tall grandfather clock against the wall behind the table.

“You have more than a problem,” Jake's dad responds.

“Tinnitus,” she says, putting her hand on her husband's. “It is what it is.”

I look at Jake and then back at his mom. “Sorry,” I say. “Tinnitus. What is that?”

“It's not very fun,” says Jake's father. “No fun at all.”

“No, it's not,” says his mom. “I hear a buzzing in my ears. In my head. Not all of the time, but a lot of the time. A steady buzzing in the background of life. At first they thought it was just from earwax. But it's not.”

“That's terrible,” I say, glancing at Jake again. No reaction. He continues to shovel food into his mouth. “I think I've heard of this before,” I say.

“And my hearing is generally getting worse. It's all related.”

“She asks me to repeat myself
all
the time,” his dad says. He sips his wine. I sip mine, too.

“And it's the voices. I hear whispers.”

Another wide grin. Again I look at Jake, harder this time. I'm searching his face for answers, but I get nothing. He needs to step in here, help me. But he doesn't.

And it's right then, when I'm looking at Jake for some kind of help, that my phone starts ringing. Jake's mom jumps in her chair.
I can feel my face growing warmer. This isn't good. My phone is in my purse, which is down beside my chair.

Finally. Jake looks up at me. “Sorry, that's my phone. I thought it was dead,” I say.

“Your friend again? She's been calling all night.”

“Maybe you should answer that,” says Jake's mom. “We don't mind. If your friend needs something.”

“No, no. It's nothing important.”

“Maybe it is,” she says.

The phone keeps ringing. No one speaks. After a few rings, it stops.

“Anyway,” says Jake's dad, “these symptoms sound worse than they really are.” He reaches over, touching his wife's hand again. “It's not like what you see in the movies.”

I hear the beep that indicates a message has been left. Another one. I don't want to listen to the message. But I know I'll have to. I can't ignore this forever.

“The Whispers, as I call them,” Jake's mom says, “they aren't really voices like yours or mine. They don't say anything intelligible.”

“It's tough on her, especially at night.”

“Night is the worst,” she says. “I don't sleep much anymore.”

“And when she does, it's not very restful. For any of us.”

I'm sort of grasping at straws here. I'm not sure what to say. “That's really tough. The more research done about sleep, the more we realize how important it is.”

My phone starts ringing again. I know it can't be, but it sounds louder this time.

“Seriously? You better answer that,” says Jake. He rubs his forehead.

His parents don't say anything, but exchange a glance.

I'm not going to answer it. I can't.

“I'm really sorry,” I say. “This is annoying for everyone.”

Jake is staring at me.

“Those things can be more trouble than they're worth at times,” says Jake's dad.

“Sleep paralysis,” says his mother. “It's a serious condition. Debilitating.”

“Have you heard of it?” his dad asks me.

“I think so,” I say.

“I can't move, but I'm awake. I'm conscious.”

His father is suddenly animated, gesturing with his fork as he speaks. “Sometimes I'll wake up in the middle of the night for no reason. I turn over and look at her. She's lying there beside me, on her back, perfectly still, her eyes—they're wide-open and she looks terrified. That always scares me. I'll never get used to it.” He stabs at the food on his plate and chews a mouthful.

“I feel a heavy weight. On my chest,” Jake's mom says. “It's often hard to breathe.”

My phone beeps again. This time it's a long message. I can tell. Jake drops his fork. We all turn to him.

“Sorry,” he says. Then there's quiet. I have never seen Jake so singularly focused on his plate of food. He stares at it, but he's stopped eating.

Is it my phone that has put him out? Or did I say something that bothered him? He seems different since we've arrived. His mood. It's as if I'm sitting here alone.

“So how was the drive?” his father asks, prompting Jake to speak, finally.

“It was fine. Busy at first, but after about half an hour or so, the roads calmed right down.”

“These country roads don't get a lot of use.”

Jake is similar to his parents in ways beyond appearance. Subtle movements. Gestures. Like them, he runs his hands together when thinking. He converses like them, too. A sudden redirection of the discussion away from topics he doesn't want to discuss. It's striking. Seeing someone with their parents is a tangible reminder that we're all composites.

“People don't like driving in the cold and snow, and I don't blame them,” Jake's mother says. “There's nothing around here. Not for miles. The empty roads make for relaxing trips, though, don't they? Especially at night.”

“And with the new highway, none of these back roads ever get used anymore. You could walk home down the middle and not get run over.”

“Might take a while and be a bit cold.” His mother laughs, though I'm not sure why. “But you'd be safe.”

“I'm so used to fighting traffic,” I say. “The drive here was nice. I haven't spent a lot of time in the country.”

“You're from the suburbs, right?”

“Born and raised. About an hour or so outside the big city.”

“Yes, we've been to your part of the world. It's right near the water?”

“Yes.”

“I don't think we've ever been there,” she says. I don't know how to reply. Isn't that a contradiction? She yawns, tired by the memory of past travels or the lack of them.

“I'm surprised you don't remember the last time we were there,” Jake's dad says.

“I remember lots of things,” Jake's mom says. “Jake was here before. With his last girlfriend.” She winks at me, or it's something in the wink genus. I just can't tell whether it's a tick or deliberate.

“Don't you remember, Jake? All that food we ate?”

“It's not memorable,” Jake replies.

He is finished with his meal. His plate is fully cleaned. I'm not half done with my own. I turn my attention to my food, cutting a piece of rare meat. It's dark and crusty on the outside, rare, pink, and oozy on the inside. There are traces of juice and blood on my plate. There's some jellied salad I haven't touched. My hunger has diminished. I mash some potato and carrot onto a morsel of meat and put it into my mouth.

“It's so nice to have you here with us,” says Jake's mom. “Jake never brings his girlfriends around. This is really great.”

“Absolutely,” says his father. “It's too quiet around here when we're alone, and—”

“I have an idea,” says Jake's mother. “It'll be fun.”

We all look at her.

“We used to play games a lot. To pass the time. There was one that was my favorite. And I think you'd be great at it. If you're up for it. Why don't you do Jake?” she says to me.

“Yes. Right,” Jake's dad answers. “Good idea.”

Jake looks at me and then back down. He's holding his fork over his empty plate.

“So, are we going to . . . do you mean, impersonate Jake?” I ask. “Is that the game?”

“Yes,” says his mom. “Do his voice, talk like him, do whatever like him. Oh, that would be fun.”

Jake's father puts down his cutlery. “This is such a good game.”

“I'm not— It's just— I'm not very good at that kind of thing.”

“Do his voice. Just for a laugh,” his mother insists.

I look at Jake. He won't make eye contact. “Okay,” I say, stalling. I don't feel comfortable trying to imitate him in front of his parents, but I don't want to disappoint them.

They are waiting. Staring at me.

I clear my throat. “Hello, I'm Jake,” I say, deepening my voice. “Biochemistry has many virtues; so, too, do literature and philosophy.”

His father smiles and nods. His mother grins from ear to ear. I'm embarrassed. I don't want to play this game.

“Not bad,” says his dad. “Not bad at all.”

“I knew she'd be good,” says his mom. “She knows him. Inside and out.”

Jake looks up. “I'll go,” he says.

It's the first thing he's said in a while. Jake doesn't like games.

“That's the spirit,” says his mother, clapping.

Jake starts talking in what is clearly meant to be my voice. It's slightly higher pitched than his own, but not comically high. He's not mocking me; he's mimicking me. He's using subtle but accurate hand and facial gestures, brushing invisible hair behind an ear. It's startling, precise, off-putting. Unpleasant. This isn't a gag impersonation. He's taking this seriously, too seriously. He's becoming me in front of everyone.

I look over at his mom and dad. They are wide-eyed, enjoying the performance. When Jake finishes, there's a pause before his dad bursts out laughing. His mom buckles over, too. Jake's not laughing.

And then a phone rings. For once it's not my phone, though. It's the farm's landline, ringing sharply from another room.

“I better get that,” says his mother after the third ring, chuckling as she walks away.

His father picks up his fork and knife and starts eating again. I don't feel hungry anymore. Jake asks me to pass the salad. I do, and he doesn't say thank you.

His mom returns to the room. “Who was it?” Jake asks.

“No one,” she says, sitting down. “Wrong number.”

She shakes her head and stabs a carrot medallion with her fork.

“You should check your phone,” she says. I feel a twinge of something as she eyes me. “Really, we don't mind.”

I CAN'T EAT DESSERT. NOT
only because I'm full. There was an awkward minute when the dessert was brought out, a sort of chocolate log cake with layers of whipped cream. I'd asked Jake to remind his parents that I'm lactose intolerant. He must have forgotten. I can't touch that cake.

While Jake and his parents were in the kitchen, I checked my phone. It's dead. Probably for the best. I'll deal with it in the morning.

When Jake's mom returns to the table, she's wearing a different dress. No one else seems to notice. Maybe she does this all the time? Changing outfits for dessert? It's a subtle change. It's the same style of dress but a different color. Like a computer glitch caused a small distortion to the dress. Maybe she spilled something on the other one? She's also put a Band-Aid on the big toe that has no nail.

“Can we get you something else?” Jake's father asks again. “Are you sure you won't have some cake?”

“No, no. I'm fine, really. Dinner was amazing, and I'm stuffed.”

“It's too bad you don't like cream,” says Jake's mom. “I know it's a little fattening. But it's tasty.”

“It does look good,” I say. I hold off correcting her about “not liking it.” It has nothing to do with liking it.

Jake hasn't eaten his dessert. He hasn't touched his fork or his plate. He's resting back in his chair, playing with a strand of hair at the back of his head.

I feel a jolt, like I've been pinched, and realize, in shock, that I'm biting my nails. My index finger is in my mouth. I look at my hand. The nail on my thumb is almost half chewed off. When did I
start this? I can't recall, yet I must have been doing this all through dinner. I pull my hand back down to my side.