I'm Thinking of Ending Things

~ ~ ~

The dining room is empty when I return from the basement. The table has been cleared except for my dessert plate.

I poke my head into the kitchen. The dirty plates are stacked and rinsed, but not washed. The sink is filled with grayish water. The faucet drips. Drips.

“Jake?” I call. Where is he? Where is everyone? Maybe Jake is taking out the table scraps to the compost in the shed.

I spot the stairs to the second floor. Soft green carpet on the treads. Wood-paneled walls. More photographs. A lot are of the same elderly couple. They’re all old photographs, none of Jake when he was younger.

Jake told me he would show me the upper floor after dinner, so why not go check it out now? I head straight to the top, where there’s a window. I look out, but it’s too dark to see outside.

On my left is a door with a small stylized J hanging from it. Jake’s old bedroom. I walk in. I sit down on Jake’s bed and look around. Lots of books. Four full cases. Candles on top of each bookcase. The bed is soft. The blanket on top is what I would expect in an old farmhouse — knitted and homemade. It’s a small bed for such a tall guy, just a single. I put my hands out beside me, palms down, and bob up and down, like an apple dropped in water. The springs squeak a bit, showing their age and years of use. Old springs. Old house.

I stand. I walk past a heavily used, comfy-looking blue chair, over to the desk in front of a window. There’s not much on the desk. Some pens, pencils in a mug. A brown teapot. A few books. A pair of large silver scissors. I slide open the top drawer of the desk. There’s the usual desk stuff in there — paper clips, notepads. There’s also a brown envelope. It has Us printed on the outside. It looks like Jake’s handwriting. I can’t just leave it. I pick it up, open it.

Inside are photos. I probably shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not really my business. I flip through them. There are about twenty or thirty. They’re all close-up shots. Body parts. Knees. Elbows. Fingers. Lots of toes. Some lips and teeth, gums. A few extreme close-ups, just hair and skin, pimples maybe. I can’t tell if they’re all the same person or not. I put them back in the envelope.

I’ve never seen photos like that. Are they some sort of art thing? Like for a show, or display, or some installation? Jake has mentioned to me that he’s into photography and that the only activity he did outside of school was art lessons. He said he has a really nice camera that he saved up for.

There are lots of photos around the room, too, scenes, some of flowers and trees, and people. I don’t recognize any of the faces. The only one of Jake I’ve seen in the house is that one downstairs by the fire, the one he claimed was him when he was a kid. But it wasn’t. I’m sure it wasn’t. That means I’ve never seen a photo of Jake. He’s shy, I know, but still.

I pick up a framed photo from a shelf. A blond girl. She has a blue bandanna headband, tied in the front. His high school girlfriend? She’d been deeply in love with him, or so Jake claimed, and the relationship had never quite meant the same thing to him as it had to her. I bring the photo up to my face, almost touching my nose. But Jake had said she was a brunette and tall. This woman is blond, like me, and short. Who is she?

In the background I notice someone else. It’s a man, not Jake. He’s looking at the girl in the photo. He’s connected to the woman. He’s close and is looking at her. Did Jake take the photo?

I jump as a hand touches my shoulder.

It’s not Jake. It’s his father. “You startled me,” I say.

“Sorry, I thought you were in here with Jake.”

I put the photo back on the shelf. It falls to the floor. I bend down and pick it up.

When I turn back to Jake’s dad, he’s grinning. He has a second Band-Aid on his forehead, above the original one.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, I just wasn’t sure if you were all right. You were trembling.”

“I’m fine. I’m a little cold, I guess. I was waiting for Jake. I hadn’t seen his room yet and just thought… Was I really trembling?”

“From the back, it looked like it — just a little.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about. I wasn’t shaking. How could I be? Am I cold? Maybe I am. I have been cold since before we sat to eat.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I am. I’m fine.” He’s right. I look down and notice my hand is trembling slightly. I bring my hands together behind me.

“He used to spend lots of time in here. We’re slowly converting it into a guest room,” Jake’s father says. “We never felt right putting our guests in here when it was still so reminiscent of a bookworm high schooler. Jake always liked his books and stories. And writing in his diaries. It was a comfort for him. He could work through things that way.”

“That’s nice. I’ve noticed he still likes to write. He spends a lot of time writing.”

“That’s how he makes sense of the world.”

I feel something as he says this, compassion for Jake, affection.

“It’s quiet in here,” I say, “at the back of the house. It would be good for writing.”

“Yes, and great for sleeping, too. But Jake, as you probably know, Jake was never a good sleeper. You guys are welcome to stay the night. We hoped you would. You don’t need to rush off. I told Jake. We want you to stay. We have plenty of food for the morning. Do you drink coffee?”

“Well, thanks, I should probably leave the decision up to Jake. I do love coffee. But Jake has to work in the morning.”

“Does he?” his father says, a puzzled look on his face. “Anyhow, it would be great if you stayed. Even just one night. And we want you to know, we’re very grateful that you’re here. For what you’re doing.”

I tuck some stray hairs behind my ear. What am I doing? I’m not sure I understand. “It’s nice to be here, and nice to meet you.”

“It’s good for Jake, all of this. You’ve been good for him. It’s been so long since… But, I just think this is good for him, finally. We’re hopeful.”

“He always talks about the farm.”

“He was excited for you to see it. We’ve been looking forward to having you here for so long. We were starting to think he’d never bring you home, after all this time.”

“Yeah,” is all I can think to say. “I know.” After all what time?

Jake’s dad checks behind him and then takes a step closer to me. He’s close enough that I could reach out and touch him. “She’s not crazy, you know. You should know that. I’m sorry about tonight.”

“What?”

“My wife, I mean. I know how it must seem. I know what you’re thinking. I’m sorry. You think she’s going mad or is mentally ill. She’s not. It’s just a hearing thing. She’s been under some stress.”

Again, I’m unsure how to respond. “I didn’t really think that,” I say. In truth, I’m not sure what I think.

“Her mind is still very sharp. I know she mentioned voices, but it’s not as dramatic as it sounds. They are small whispers and mumbles, you know. She’s having discussions with … them. With the whispers. Sometimes it’s just breathing. It’s innocuous.”

“That still must be hard,” I say.

“They’re considering cochlear implants, if her hearing worsens.”

“I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

“And all that smiling. I know it looks a little odd, but it’s just a reaction she has. In the past it would have upset me, but I’m used to it now. Poor thing. Her face starts to hurt from so much smiling. But you get used to these things.”

“I didn’t notice, or not so much.”

“You’ve been very good for him.” He turns toward the door. “You guys are a good match. Not that you need me to tell you. Certain things, like math and music, go together well, don’t they?”

I smile, nod. Smile again. I don’t know what else to do. “It’s been great getting to know Jake, and now meeting you and his mom.”

“We all like you. Especially Jakie. It makes sense. He needs you.”

I keep smiling. I can’t seem to stop.

I’M READY TO GO. I want to get out of here. I have my coat on. Jake’s already outside, warming up the car. I’m waiting for his mom. I have to say good-bye, but she’s gone back to the kitchen to put a plate of leftovers together for us. I don’t want it, but how can I say no? I’m standing here alone, waiting. I’m fiddling with the zipper on my coat. Up and down, up and down. I could have warmed up the car. He could have waited here.

She emerges from the kitchen. “I put a little of everything together,” she says, “some cake, too.” She hands me a single plate of food, covered in foil. “Try to keep it straight or you’ll have a mess on your hands.”

“Okay, I will. Thanks again for the lovely evening.”

“It was lovely, wasn’t it? And you’re sure you can’t stay overnight? We’d love for you to stay. We have room for you.”

She’s almost pleading. She’s close enough to me now that I can see more of the lines and wrinkles on her face. She looks older. Tired, drawn. It’s not the way I’d want to remember her.

“We wanted to stay, but I think Jake needs to get back.”

We stand for a moment, and then she leans in to give me a hug. We remain like this, with her squeezing me like she doesn’t want to let me go. I find myself doing the same thing back. For the first time tonight, I smell her perfume. Lilies. It’s a scent I recognize.

“Wait, I almost forgot,” she says. “Don’t go just yet.”

She releases me from her embrace, turns, and heads back to the kitchen again. Where’s Jake’s dad? I can smell the food on the plate. It’s unappetizing. I hope it won’t smell up the whole car for the entire drive home. Maybe we can put it in the trunk.

Jake’s mom returns. “I decided tonight that I want you to have this.”

She hands me a piece of paper. It’s been folded a few times. It’s small enough to fit into a pocket.

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “Thank you.”

“I’ve forgotten now, of course, how long exactly, but it’s been in the works for quite some time.”

I start to unfold it. She raises her hand. “No, no. Don’t open it here! You’re not ready yet!”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s a surprise. For you. Open it when you arrive.”

“When I arrive where?”

She doesn’t answer, just keeps smiling. Then she says, “It’s a painting.”

“Thank you. Is it one of yours?”

“Jake and I used to draw and paint together when he was younger, for hours at a time. He loved art.”

Did they do that in the dank basement? I wonder.

“We have a studio. It’s quiet. It was our favorite room in the house.”

“Was?”

“Is. Was. Oh, I don’t know, you’d have to ask Jake.”

Her eyes have welled up and I’m worried she’s going to outright cry.

“Thank you for the gift,” I say. “That’s so kind of you. We’ll both appreciate it, I’m sure. Thanks.”

“It’s for you. Only for you. It’s a portrait,” she says. “Of Jake.”

WE HAVEN’T REALLY TALKED ABOUT the night. We haven’t discussed his parents. I thought it would be the first thing we’d do when we got back in the car, rehash the evening. I want to ask about his mom, the basement, tell him about the conversation with his dad in Jake’s bedroom, the way his mom hugged me, the gift she gave me. There’s so much I want to ask. But we’ve been in this car for a while now. How long? I’m not sure. And now I’m losing steam. I’m starting to fade. Should I just wait and talk about it all tomorrow when I have more energy?

I’m glad we didn’t stay the night. I’m relieved. Would Jake and I have shared that tiny single bed? I didn’t dislike his parents. It’s just that it was weird and I’m tired and want to be in my own bed tonight. I want to be alone.

I can’t imagine making small talk with his parents first thing in the morning. Too much to bear. The house was cold, too, and dark. It felt warm when we first got inside, but the longer we were there, the more I noticed the drafts. I wouldn’t have slept much.

“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.