I'm Thinking Of Ending Things Part 16

I'VE BEEN WALKING AND CRAWLING around this school forever.

I think there's a perception that fear and terror and dread are fleeting. That they hit hard and fast when they do, but they don't last. It's not true. They don't fade unless they're replaced by some other feeling. Deep fear will stay and spread if it can. You can't outrun or outsmart or subdue it. Untreated, it will only fester. Fear is a rash.

I can see myself sitting in the blue chair beside my bookshelf in my room. The lamp is on. I try to think about it, the soft light it emits. I want this to be in my mind. I'm thinking of my old shoes, the blue ones I wear only in the house, like slippers. I need to focus on something outside this school, beyond the darkness, the crippling, oppressive silence, and the song.

My room. I've spent so much time in that room, and it still exists. It's still there, even when I'm not. It's real. My room is real.

I just have to think about it. Focus on it. Then it's real.

In my room, I have books. They comfort me. I have an old brown teapot. There's a chip in the spout. I bought it at a garage sale for one dollar a long time ago. I can see the teapot sitting on my desk amid the pens, pencils, notepads, and my full shelves.

My favorite blue chair is imprinted with my body weight. My shape. I've sat in it hundreds of times, thousands. It's molded to my form, to me alone. I can go there now and sit in the quiet of my mind, where I've been before. I have a candle. I have one, only one; I've never lit it. Not once. It's a deep red, almost crimson. It's in the shape of an elephant, the white wick rising out of the animal's back.

It was a gift from my parents after I graduated high school at the top of my cla.s.s.

I always thought I would light that candle one day. I never did. The more time pa.s.sed, the harder it became to light. Whenever I thought an occasion might be special enough to burn the candle, it felt like I was settling. So I would wait for a better occasion. It's still there, unlit, on top of a bookcase. There was never an occasion special enough. How could that be?

-He'd been working at the school for more than thirty years. No previous incidents. Nothing in his file.

-Nothing? That's unusual, too. More than thirty years at one job. At one school.

-Lived out in an old place. I think it was originally his parents' farmhouse. They both died a long time ago, so I'm told. Everyone I talk to says he was quite gentle. He just didn't seem to know how to talk to people. Couldn't relate to them. Or didn't try. I don't think he was interested in socializing. He took lots of his breaks out in his truck. He'd just go sit in his pickup at the back of the school. That was his break.

-And what was it about his hearing?

-He had cochlear implants. His hearing had become pretty bad. He had allergies to certain foods, milk and dairy. He had a delicate const.i.tution. He didn't like to go down to the school's boiler room in the bas.e.m.e.nt. He'd always ask someone else to go if there was work to be done down there.

-Strange.

-And all those notebooks and diaries and books. Always his nose in a book. I remember seeing him in one of the science labs, after school had ended, and he was standing there, looking at nothing. I watched him for a bit and then went into the cla.s.sroom. He didn't notice me. He wasn't cleaning as he should have been. He had no reason to be in there, so I very gently asked what he was doing. There was a moment before he replied, and then he turned, calmly put a finger to his mouth, and "shhh-ed" me. I couldn't believe it.

-Very strange.

-And before I could say anything else, he said, "I don't even want to hear the clock." Then he just walked by me and left. I'd forgotten about it until all this happened.

-If he was so smart, you wonder, why was he pus.h.i.+ng a mop for so long? Why didn't he do something else?

-You have to interact with coworkers in most jobs. You can't just sit in your truck.

-Still, a school custodian? That's what I don't understand. If he wanted to be alone, why did he work at a job where he was surrounded by people? Wouldn't that be a kind of self-torture?

-Yeah, come to think of it, I guess it probably would.

On my hands and knees, crawling along what I think is the music room. Blood drips from my nose onto the floor. I'm not in the room. I'm in a narrow hall on the outside. There are windows into the room. My head is thumping, on fire. There are many red chairs and black music stands. There is no order.

I can't get Jake's parents out of my mind. How his mom hugged me. She didn't want to let me go. She looked so poorly by the end. She was worried, scared. Not for herself. For us. Maybe she knew. I think she always knew.

I'm thinking a million thoughts. I'm feeling disoriented, confused. He asked me what I thought about them. Now I know what I think. It's not that they weren't happy but that they were stuck. Stuck together, stuck out there. There was an underlying resentfulness from each for the other. With me being there, it was best-behavior time. But they couldn't fully hide the truth. Something had upset them.

I'm thinking of childhood. Memories. I can't stop myself. These moments of childhood I haven't thought about in years or ever. I can't focus. I can't keep people straight. I'm thinking about everyone.

"We're just talking," Jake said.

"We're communicating," I replied. "We're thinking."

When I was resting and scratched the back of my head with my hand, I felt a bald spot the size of a quarter. I've pulled out more hair. Hair isn't alive. All those visible cells have already died. It's dead, lifeless, when we touch and cut and style it. We see it, touch it, clean it, care for it, but it's dead. My hands still have red on them.

Now it's my heart. I'm angry with it. The constant beating. We're wired to be unaware of it, so why am I aware of it now? Why is the beating making me angry? Because I don't have a choice. When you become aware of your heart, you want it to stop beating. You need a break from the constant rhythm, a rest. We all need a rest.

The most important things are perpetually overlooked. Until something like this. Then they are impossible to ignore. What does that say?

We're mad at these limits and needs. Human limits and fragility. You can't be only alone. Everything's both ethereal and clunky. So much to depend on, and so much to fear. So many requirements.

What's a day? A night? There's grace in doing the right thing, in making a human decision. We always have the choice. Every day. We all do. For as long as we live, we always have the choice. Everyone we meet in our life has the same choice to consider, over and over. We can try to ignore it, but there's only one question for us all.

We think the end of this hall leads back to one of the large halls with all those lockers. We've been everywhere. There's nowhere else to go. It's the same old school. The same one as always.

We can't go back upstairs again. We can't. We tried. We really tried. We did our best. How long can we suffer?

We sit here. Here. We've been here, sitting.

Of course we're uncomfortable. We have to be. I knew it. I know it. I said it myself: I'm going to say something that will upset you now: I know what you look like. I know your feet and hands and your skin. I know your head and your hair and your heart.

You shouldn't bite your nails.

I know I shouldn't. I know that. We're sorry.

We remember now. The painting. It's still in our pocket. The painting Jake's mom gave us. The portrait of Jake that was meant to be a surprise. We'll hang it on the wall with the other pictures. We take it out of our pocket, slowly unfold it. We don't want to look, but have to. It took a long time to paint it, hours, days, years, minutes, seconds. The face is there looking at us. All of us are in there. Distorted. Blurry. Fragmented. Explicit and unmistakable. Paint on my hands.

The face is definitely mine. The man. It's recognizable in the way all self-portraits are. It's me. Jake.

Are you good? Are you?

There's grace in doing the right thing, in making a choice. Isn't there?

DANCING THE NIGHT AWAY. TICKETS ARE $10.

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We've gone back to the custodian's room. It was inevitable. We understand that now. It's what we knew would happen. There was no other option. After everything, it's all there is.

We pa.s.sed the woodworking and auto cla.s.srooms. We went by a door that read Dance Studio. There was another that read Student Council. We saw the drama department. We didn't try any of those doors. What's the point? We've been walking by these doors on these floors for years. After all this time, even the dust is familiar. We don't care if they're clean.

The custodian's room is ours. It's where we're meant to be. In the end, we can't deny who we are, who we were, where we've been. Who we want to be doesn't matter when there's no way to get there.

We pa.s.sed the door to the bas.e.m.e.nt.

This is who we are. Fingernails. Fistfuls of hair. Blood on our own hands.

We saw the photos. The man. We understand. We do. We wish it weren't true.

Whoever works here, the custodian, he's not in here. We realize it as we look at his face in the photo. He's not here anymore. He's already gone.

It's us. We're in here now. With Jake. Just us. Us all alone.

In the car. We never saw the man in the school. The custodian. Only Jake saw him. He wanted us to follow him into the school, to go looking for him. He wanted to be in here with us, with no way out.

Jake's shoes. In the locker room. He took them off. He took them off himself and left them in the gym. He put on the rubber boots. It was him all along. It was Jake. The man. Because he is Jake. We are. We can't hold it in any longer. The tears come. Tears again.

His brother. That story about his brother being the troubled one. We think that's made up. That's why his dad was so happy we were visiting, that we'd been kind to Jake. He was the troubled one. Jake. Not his brother. There is no brother. There should have been, but there wasn't. And Jake's parents? They died a long time ago, like the hair that we can see, the hair that grows on our head, the hair that falls out. It's already dead. Dead a long time ago.

Jake once told me, "Sometimes a thought is closer to truth, to reality, than an action. You can say anything, you can do anything, but you can't fake a thought."

JAKE IS BEYOND HELP NOW. He tried. Help never came.

Jake knew we were going to end it. Somehow he knew. We never told him. We were only thinking about it. But he knew. He didn't want to be alone. He couldn't face it.

The music starts again, from the beginning. Louder this time. It doesn't matter. The small closet beside the desk is empty. We push all the empty wire hangers to one side and step in. It's hard to breathe. It will be better in here. We'll stay in here, wait. The music stops. It's quiet. Pure silence. This is where we'll stay until it's time.

It's Jake. It was Jake. We're in here together. All of us.

Movements, actions, they can mislead or disguise the truth. Actions are, by definition, acted, performed. They are abstractions. Actions are constructions.

Allegory, elaborate metaphor. We don't just understand or recognize significance and validity through experience. We accept, reject, and discern through examples.

That night, long ago, when we met at the pub. The song was playing that night. He was listening to his team chat and discuss questions but not talking at all. He was still part of it. He was engaged. He was thinking. And maybe he was enjoying himself. He was taking small sips of beer. He was sort of sniffing the back of his hand, off and on, absentmindedly, one of the ticks he developed when he concentrated on something, when he was relaxed. It was so rare to be relaxed in this kind of setting. But he'd actually made it out, away from his room, to the pub, with other people. That was difficult and significant.

And the girl.

She. He. We. Me.

She was sitting beside him. She was pretty and talkative. She laughed a lot. She was comfortable in her own skin. He desperately wanted to say h.e.l.lo to her. She smiled at him. For sure, it was a smile. Empirically. No question. That was real. And he smiled back. She had kind eyes.

He remembers her. She sat beside him and didn't move away. She was smart and funny. She was at ease. "You guys are doing pretty well" is what she said, and she smiled. That was the first thing she said to Jake. To us.

"You guys are doing pretty well."

He held up his beer gla.s.s. "We're helpfully fortified."

They talked a little bit more. He wrote his number on a napkin. He wanted to give it to her. He couldn't. He couldn't do it. He didn't.

It would have been nice to see her again, even just to talk, but he never did. He thought he might run into her. He hoped that kind of chance existed. It might have been easier the second time, that it might have progressed. But he didn't get that chance. It never happened. He had to make it happen. He had to think about her. Thoughts are real. He wrote about her. About them. Us.

Would anything be different if she had had his number? If she'd been able to call him? If they had talked on the phone, met again, if he'd asked her out? Would he have stayed at the lab? Would they have gone on a road trip together? Would she have kissed him? Would they have entered into a relations.h.i.+p, two instead of one? If things had gone well, would she have visited the house where he was raised? They could have stopped for ice cream on the way home, no matter the weather. Together. But we never did. Would any of it have made a difference? Yes. No. Maybe. It doesn't matter now. It didn't happen. The burden is not hers. She would have forgotten so soon after that first night, that single, brief meeting in the pub.

She doesn't even know we exist anymore. The onus is ours alone.

That was so long ago. Years. It was inconsequential to her and to everyone else. Except us.

So much has happened since then. With us, with Jake's parents, the girls at the Dairy Queen, Ms. Veal-but we're all here. In this school. Nowhere else. All part of the same thing. We had to try putting her with us. To see what could happen. It was her story to tell.

We hear the steps again, the boots. Slow steps, far away still. They're coming this way. They will get louder. He's taking his time. He knows we have nowhere to go. He knew all along. Now he's coming.

The steps are getting closer.

People talk about the ability to endure. To endure anything and everything, to keep going, to be strong. But you can do that only if you're not alone. That's always the infrastructure life's built on. A closeness with others. Alone it all becomes a struggle of mere endurance.

What can we do when there's no one else? When we've tried to sustain fully on our own? What do we do when we're always alone? When there's no one else, ever? What does life mean then? Does it mean anything? What is a day then? A week? A year? A lifetime? What is a lifetime? It all means something else. We have to try another way, another option. The only other option.

It's not that we can't accept and acknowledge love, and empathy, not that we can't experience it. But with whom? When there is no one? So we come back to the decision, the question. It's the same one. In the end, it's up to us all. What do we decide to do? Continue or not. Go on? Or?

Are you good or bad? It was the wrong question. It was always the wrong question. No one can answer that. The Caller knew it from the beginning without even thinking. I knew it. I did. There's only one question, and we all needed her help to answer.

WE DECIDE NOT TO THINK about our heartbeat.

Interaction, connection, is compulsory. It's something we all need. Solitude won't sustain itself forever, until it does.

We can never be the best kisser alone.

Maybe that's how we know when a relations.h.i.+p is real. When someone else previously unconnected to us knows us in a way never thought or believed possible.

I hold my hand over my mouth to m.u.f.fle my own sound. My hand is shaking. I don't want to feel anything. I don't want to see him. I don't want to hear anything anymore. I don't want to see. It's not nice.

I've made the decision. There's no other way. It's too late. After what has happened, for all this time, for all these years. Maybe if I'd offered her the napkin with my number at the pub. Maybe if I'd been able to call her. Maybe it wouldn't have happened like this. But I couldn't. I didn't.

He's at the door. He's just standing there. He did this. He brought us here. It was always him. It's only him.

I reach out and touch the door, waiting. Another step, closer. There's no rush.

There is a choice. We all have a choice.