I'm Thinking of Ending Things(22)

“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.”