I'm Thinking of Ending Things(21)

“Who’s this?” I ask, touching the frame.

Jake doesn’t stand but looks up from the book he’s taken from the coffee table. “My great-grandma. She was born in 1885 or something.”

She’s skinny and pale. She looks shy.

“She wasn’t a happy person. She had issues.”

I’m surprised by his tone. It carries an edge of uncharacteristic annoyance.

“Maybe she had a tough life?” I offer.

“Her problems were hard on everyone. It doesn’t matter. I don’t even know why we keep that photo up. It’s a sad story.”

I want to ask more about her but don’t.

“Who’s this?” It’s a child, a toddler, maybe three or four.

“You don’t know?”

“No. How would I know?”

“It’s me.”

I lean closer to get a better look. “What? No way. That can’t be you. The photo is too old.”

“That’s just because it’s black-and-white. It’s me.”

I’m not sure I believe him. The child is barefoot and standing on a dirt road beside a tricycle. The child has long hair and is glaring at the camera. I look even closer and feel a twinge in my stomach. It doesn’t look like Jake. Not at all. It looks like a little girl. More precise: it looks like me.





—They say he’d pretty much stopped talking.

—Stopped talking?

—Became nonverbal. Would work but not talk. It was awkward for everyone. I would pass him in the hall, would say hi, and he’d have a hard time looking at me square in the eye. He’d blush, become distant.

—Really?

—Yeah, I remember regretting hiring him. And not because he was incompetent. Everything was always clean and tidy. He did his job. But it got to the point where I had this feeling, you know? I sensed something. Like he wasn’t quite normal.

—This sort of justifies your feeling.

—It does. I should have acted, done something, I guess, based on my gut.

—You can’t start second-guessing after the fact. We can’t let the actions of one man make us feel guilty. This isn’t about us. We’re the normal ones. It’s only about him.

—You’re right. It’s good to be reminded of that.

—So what now?

—We try to forget this, all of it. We find a replacement. We move on.





At the table now, the smells are very good, thankfully. We skipped lunch today in preparation for this meal. I wanted to ensure I’d be hungry, and I am. My only concerns: my headache and the vague metallic taste in my mouth I’ve been noticing the last few days. It happens when I eat certain foods, and seems to be the worst with fruit and veggies. A chemical flavor. I have no idea what causes it. When I’ve noticed it, it’s turned me off whatever I’m eating, and I’m hoping it doesn’t happen now.

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.