I'm Thinking Of Ending Things Part 9

What's she saying? I can't make it out.

"Needs to get out of his own head, move on."

"He left the lab. That was his decision. He never should have started down that path in the first place. The thing is . . ."

Something here I can't make out.

"Yes, yes. I know he's smart. I know. But it doesn't mean he had to go that route."

". . . A job he can keep. Hold down."

Left the lab? So they are talking about Jake? What do they mean? Jake's still working there. It's getting harder to decipher the words. If I can just get a bit higher, closer.

The paint can tips and I crash against the wall. The voices stop. I freeze.

For a second, I think I hear someone move behind me. I shouldn't be down here. I shouldn't be listening. I turn to look back toward the stairs, but there's no one there. Just the shelves full of boxes, the dim light coming from upstairs. I don't hear the voices anymore, not at all. It's quiet. I'm alone.

An awful feeling of claustrophobia settles over me. What if someone were to close the trapdoor covering the stairs? I would be stuck down here. It would be dark. I'm not sure what I would do. I stand up, not wanting to think about it further, rubbing the knee I banged into the wall.

On my way back up the stairs I notice a lock and latch on the trapdoor, the one that hides the stairs when it's closed. The latch is screwed into the wall beside the stairs, but the lock's on the bottom of the trapdoor. You'd think it would be on the top side, so they could lock it from the top. The trapdoor can be closed and opened from either side, either pushed up if you're in the bas.e.m.e.nt, or pulled up if you're on the landing. But it can be locked only from below.

-Do we know the official cause of death?

-Bled out, from the puncture wounds.

-Awful.

-Bled for hours, we think. Quite a bit of blood.

-It must have been terrible to stumble across.

-Yes, I imagine it was. Horrible. Something you'd never forget.

The dining room is empty when I return from the bas.e.m.e.nt. 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 relations.h.i.+p 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, compa.s.sion 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 bas.e.m.e.nt? 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 bas.e.m.e.nt, 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.