I'm Thinking of Ending Things(31)

“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.





—We’ve talked with almost everyone he’d worked with and have been able to put a picture together. He’d been developing physical problems. Issues. Everyone noticed. He had a rash on his arm and neck. His forehead would get sweaty. Someone saw him a few weeks ago at his desk in a sort of daze, just looking at the wall.

—That all sounds alarming.

—I know it does now. But in the context of then, it seemed private, like his own health issue. No one wanted to meddle. There were a few incidents. Over the last year or so he was playing his music quite loud during his breaks. And when people would ask him to turn it down, he’d just ignore them and start the song over again.

—No one thought to make a formal complaint?

—For playing music? Didn’t seem like a big deal.

—I guess not.

—Two people we’ve interviewed mentioned he had notebooks. He wrote a lot. But no one ever asked about what he was writing.

—No, I suppose not.

—We found those notebooks.

—What was in them?

—His writing.

—He had very neat, precise penmanship.

—But what about the content?

—The content of what?

—The notebooks. Isn’t that what matters? What he was writing about? The content? What it might mean?

—Right. Well, we haven’t read them yet.





“Do you want to stop for something sweet?”

We were on a mini roll there, conversationally, but I’ve stopped asking questions. I haven’t mentioned Jake’s family again. I shouldn’t pester him. Maybe privacy is a good thing. I’m still thinking about what he said, though. I felt like I was starting to really understand him, appreciate things he’s been through. Sympathize.

I also haven’t mentioned my headache again, not since we got in the car. The wine made it worse, maybe. The air in that old house. My whole head is sore. I’m holding it in such a way, with my neck taut and slightly forward, so that the pressure is relieved somewhat, only somewhat. Any movement, bump, or twitch is uncomfortable.

“We could stop, sure,” I say.

“But do you want to?”

“I’m indifferent, but happy to if you want to.”

“You and your nonanswers.”

“What?”

“The only place open this late is Dairy Queen. But they’ll definitely have some nondairy stuff.” So he does remember. About my intolerance.

It’s dark outside the car. We’ve been talking less on the drive home than on the drive there. Both tired, I guess; introspective. Hard to tell if it’s snowing. I think it is. Not heavily, though. Not yet. It’s just starting. I laugh, more to myself, and look out the window.

“What?” he asks.

“It’s pretty funny. I can’t eat dessert at your parents’ place because there’s dairy in it, and we’re stopping to get something to eat at Dairy Queen. And it’s the middle of winter. It’s freezing out; it’s snowing, I think. It’s fine; it’s just funny.” I think it’s other things, too, but decide not to say anything.

“I haven’t had a Skor Blizzard in ages. I think that’s what I’ll get,” he says. Skor Blizzard. I knew it. So predictable.

We pull in. The lot is empty. There’s a pay phone booth in one corner and a metal garbage bin in the other. Don’t see too many pay phones anymore. Most have been removed.

“I still have a headache,” I say. “Think I’m tired.”

“I thought it was better.”

“Not really.” It’s worse. It’s bordering on a migraine.

“How bad? Migrainous?”