Iain Reid - I'm Thinking of Ending Things

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.”

“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.”

“I’m so used to fighting traffic,” I say. “The drive here was nice. I haven’t spent a lot of time in the country.”

“You’re from the suburbs, right?”

“Born and raised. About an hour or so outside the big city.”

“Yes, we’ve been to your part of the world. It’s right near the water?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think we’ve ever been there,” she says. I don’t know how to reply. Isn’t that a contradiction? She yawns, tired by the memory of past travels or the lack of them.

“I’m surprised you don’t remember the last time we were there,” Jake’s dad says.

“I remember lots of things,” Jake’s mom says. “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.

He is finished with his meal. His plate is fully cleaned. I’m not half done with my own. I turn my attention to my food, cutting a piece of rare meat. It’s dark and crusty on the outside, rare, pink, and oozy on the inside. There are traces of juice and blood on my plate. There’s some jellied salad I haven’t touched. My hunger has diminished. I mash some potato and carrot onto a morsel of meat and put it into my mouth.

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

“Absolutely,” says his father. “It’s too quiet around here when we’re alone, and—”

“I have an idea,” says Jake’s mother. “It’ll be fun.”

We all look at her.

“We used to play games a lot. To pass the time. There was one that was my favorite. And I think you’d be great at it. If you’re up for it. Why don’t you do Jake?” she says to me.

“Yes. Right,” Jake’s dad answers. “Good idea.”

Jake looks at me and then back down. He’s holding his fork over his empty plate.

“So, are we going to… do you mean, impersonate Jake?” I ask. “Is that the game?”

“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.

I clear my throat. “Hello, I’m Jake,” I say, deepening my voice. “Biochemistry has many virtues; so, too, do literature and philosophy.”

His father smiles and nods. His mother grins from ear to ear. I’m embarrassed. I don’t want to play this game.

“Not bad,” says his dad. “Not bad at all.”

“I knew she’d be good,” says his mom. “She knows him. Inside and out.”

Jake looks up. “I’ll go,” he says.

It’s the first thing he’s said in a while. Jake doesn’t like games.

“That’s the spirit,” says his mother, clapping.

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.

I look over at his mom and dad. They are wide-eyed, enjoying the performance. When Jake finishes, there’s a pause before his dad bursts out laughing. His mom buckles over, too. Jake’s not laughing.

And then a phone rings. For once it’s not my phone, though. It’s the farm’s landline, ringing sharply from another room.

“I better get that,” says his mother after the third ring, chuckling as she walks away.

His father picks up his fork and knife and starts eating again. I don’t feel hungry anymore. Jake asks me to pass the salad. I do, and he doesn’t say thank you.

His mom returns to the room. “Who was it?” Jake asks.

“No one,” she says, sitting down. “Wrong number.”

She shakes her head and stabs a carrot medallion with her fork.

“You should check your phone,” she says. I feel a twinge of something as she eyes me. “Really, we don’t mind.”

I CAN’T EAT DESSERT. NOTonly because I’m full. There was an awkward minute when the dessert was brought out, a sort of chocolate log cake with layers of whipped cream. I’d asked Jake to remind his parents that I’m lactose intolerant. He must have forgotten. I can’t touch that cake.

While Jake and his parents were in the kitchen, I checked my phone. It’s dead. Probably for the best. I’ll deal with it in the morning.

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. Like a computer glitch caused a small distortion to the dress. Maybe she spilled something on the other one? She’s also put a Band-Aid on the big toe that has no nail.

“Can we get you something else?” Jake’s father asks again. “Are you sure you won’t have some cake?”

“No, no. I’m fine, really. Dinner was amazing, and I’m stuffed.”

“It’s too bad you don’t like cream,” says Jake’s mom. “I know it’s a little fattening. But it’s tasty.”

“It does look good,” I say. I hold off correcting her about “not liking it.” It has nothing to do with liking it.

Jake hasn’t eaten his dessert. He hasn’t touched his fork or his plate. He’s resting back in his chair, playing with a strand of hair at the back of his head.

I feel a jolt, like I’ve been pinched, and realize, in shock, that I’m biting my nails. My index finger is in my mouth. I look at my hand. The nail on my thumb is almost half chewed off. When did I start this? I can’t recall, yet I must have been doing this all through dinner. I pull my hand back down to my side.

Is that why Jake was looking at me? How could I not have realized I was chewing my nails like that? I can feel a piece of nail in my mouth, stuck between my molars. Gross.

“Can you take the compost out for me tonight, Jake?” his mother asks. “Your dad’s back is still sore, and the bin is full.”

“Sure,” Jake replies.

Maybe it’s just me, but it feels like this whole meal has been a little weird. The house, his parents, the whole trip isn’t what I thought it would be. It hasn’t been fun or interesting. I didn’t think everything would be so old, outdated. It’s been uncomfortable since we arrived. His parents are fine — his dad especially — but neither is a great conversationalist. They’ve talked a lot, mostly about themselves. There’s also been some really long stretches of silence, cutlery scraping against plates, the music, the ticking clock, the fire popping.