I’m Thinking of Ending Things

by Iain Reid

He’s sitting here, beside me. What’s he thinking about? He doesn’t have a clue. It’s not going to be easy. I don’t want to hurt him.

I was thinking then that I should tell him about the Caller. But I just couldn’t. I wanted to forget about it. Telling him would make it more serious than I wanted it to be. That was the closest I came to telling him.

When I was very young, maybe six or seven, I woke up one night and saw a man at my window. I hadn’t thought about that in a long time.

HOW DO WE KNOW WHEN something is menacing? What cues us that something is not innocent? Instinct always trumps reason.

go to the bathroom. My room was very quiet. There was no coming to. I was immediately wide-awake. This was unusual for me. It always takes me a few seconds, or even minutes, to come to. This time, I woke up like I’d been kicked. I was lying on my back, which was also unusual. I normally sleep on my side or stomach. The covers were up around me, tight, like I’d just been tucked in. I was hot, sweating. My pillow was moist. My door was closed, and the night-light that I usually left on was off. The room was dark. The overhead fan was on high. It was spinning fast, I remember that part well. Really spinning.

And then the man waved. I wasn’t expecting it. I honestly don’t know if it was definitely a wave or a movement of his hand. Maybe it was just a wavelike gesture. The wave changed everything. It had an effect of malice, as if he were suggesting I could never be completely on my own, that he would be around, that he would be back. I was suddenly afraid. The thing is, that feeling is just as real to me now as it was then. The visuals are just as real.

‘The meaning of my existence is that life has addressed a question to me. Or, conversely, I myself am a question which is addressed to the world, and I must communicate my answer, for otherwise I am dependent upon the world’s answer.’”

“It’s funny,” says Jake. “What?” “I was into Jung for a bit there, too. To really know ourselves we have to question ourselves. I always liked that idea. Anyway, sorry. Go on.”

‘You are the new man. How delicious cannot forget, special taste. Return the turn flavor.’

My phone rings. I grab it from my purse, which is on the floor near my feet. “Who’s that?” asks Jake. I see my own number displayed. “Oh, it’s just a friend. I don’t need to answer.”

“A memory is its own thing each time it’s recalled. It’s not absolute. Stories based on actual events often share more with fiction than fact. Both fictions and memories are recalled and retold. They’re both forms of stories. Stories are the way we learn. Stories are how we understand each other. But reality happens only once.”

“So you’re saying that it doesn’t matter if the story I just told you is made up or if it actually happened?” “Every story is made up. Even the real ones.”

“What would you say if I told you I’m the smartest human on earth?”

“The most attractive thing in the world is the combination of confidence and self-consciousness. Blended together in the proper amounts. Too much of either and all is lost.

He never let me finish my story. I never kissed Doug after our lesson. Jake assumed. He assumed I kissed Doug. But a kiss needs two people who want to kiss, or it’s something else.

It was one of the bad headaches I’ve been getting recently.

Forfeiting solitude, independence, is a much greater sacrifice than most of us realize. Sharing a habitat, a life, is for sure harder than being alone.

Is intelligence always good? I wonder. What if intelligence is wasted? What if intelligence leads to more loneliness rather than to fulfillment? What if instead of productivity and clarity, it generates pain, isolation, and regret?

“Just how it feels. You and me,” he says. “The singular velocity of flow.”

How much of you can fall off before something important is lost?

“There was no dependency. Dependency equates to seriousness.”

—Why not reach out to someone, right? Talk to someone. He had coworkers. It wasn’t like he was working in a place without other people. There were people around all the time. —I know. It didn’t have to happen this way.

—Not a lot. He was smart, well-read. He knew things. He’d had an earlier career, some sort of academic work, PhD level, I think. That didn’t last, and he ended up here. —He wasn’t married? —No, he wasn’t married. No wife. No kids. No one. It’s rare these days to see someone living like that, entirely alone.

It seems to me, maybe for the first time, that there are varying degrees of dead. Like there are varying degrees of everything: of being alive, of being in love, of being committed, of being sure.

I look up and see someone in the house, in the upstairs window. A gaunt figure, standing, looking down at us. A woman with long straight hair. The tip of my nose is frozen. “Is that your mom?” I wave. No response. “She probably can’t see you. Too dark out here.”

“What are your folks doing?” “They’ll be down.”

Beyond the entrance to this room, past the staircase, is a scratched-up, ragged door. It’s closed. “What’s in there?” Jake looks at me as if I’ve asked a really stupid question. “Just some more rooms. And the basement is through there.”

“It isn’t finished. Just a nasty hole in the ground for the water heater and stuff like that. We don’t use it. It’s a waste of space. There’s nothing down there.” “A hole in the ground?”

“What are the scratches on the door from?” “From when we had a dog.”

“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’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.

—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.

My only concerns: my headache and the vague metallic taste in my mouth I’ve been noticing the last few days.

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.”

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.

His glasses hang from around his neck on a string. He has a thin Band-Aid on his forehead, just above his left eye.

“And it’s the voices. I hear whispers.”

“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.”

“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.”

“Sleep paralysis,” says his mother. “It’s a serious condition. Debilitating.”

Seeing someone with their parents is a tangible reminder that we’re all composites.

“There’s nothing around here. Not for miles.

“And with the new highway, none of these back roads ever get used anymore. You could walk home down the middle and not get run over.” “Might take a while and be a bit cold.” His mother laughs, though I’m not sure why. “But you’d be safe.”

“Jake was here before. With his last girlfriend.” She winks at me, or it’s something in the wink genus. I just can’t tell whether it’s a tick or deliberate. “Don’t you remember, Jake? All that food we ate?” “It’s not memorable,” Jake replies.

“It’s so nice to have you here with us,” says Jake’s mom. “Jake never brings his girlfriends around. This is really great.”

If you’re up for it. Why don’t you do Jake?” she says to me.

“Yes,” says his mom. “Do his voice, talk like him, do whatever like him. Oh, that would be fun.” Jake’s father puts down his cutlery. “This is such a good game.” “I’m not—It’s just—I’m not very good at that kind of thing.” “Do his voice. Just for a laugh,” his mother insists. I look at Jake. He won’t make eye contact. “Okay,” I say, stalling. I don’t feel comfortable trying to imitate him in front of his parents, but I don’t want to disappoint them. They are waiting. Staring at me.

Jake starts talking in what is clearly meant to be my voice. It’s slightly higher pitched than his own, but not comically high. He’s not mocking me; he’s mimicking me. He’s using subtle but accurate hand and facial gestures, brushing invisible hair behind an ear. It’s startling, precise, off-putting. Unpleasant. This isn’t a gag impersonation. He’s taking this seriously, too seriously. He’s becoming me in front of everyone.

When Jake’s mom returns to the table, she’s wearing a different dress. No one else seems to notice. Maybe she does this all the time? Changing outfits for dessert? It’s a subtle change. It’s the same style of dress but a different color.

She’s also put a Band-Aid on the big toe that has no nail.