I'm Thinking of Ending Things (20 page)

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 relationship, 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 relationship 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 muffle 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.

What holds this together? What gives life significance? What gives it shape and depth? In the end it comes for us all. So why do we wait for it instead of making it happen? What am I waiting for?

I wish I'd done better. I wish I could have done more. I close my eyes. Tears slip out. I hear the boots, the rubber boots. Jake's boots. My boots. Out there, in here.

He stands at the door. It creaks open. We're together. Him. Me. Us. At last.

What if it doesn't get better? What if death isn't an escape? What if the maggots continue to feed and feed and feed and continue to be felt?

I hold my hands behind my back and look at him. He's wearing something on his head and face. He's still wearing the yellow rubber gloves. I want to look away, to close my eyes.

He takes a step toward me. He gets up close. Close enough that I can reach out and touch him. I can hear him breathing under the mask. I can smell him. I know what he wants. He's ready. For the end. He's ready.

Critical balance is needed in everything. Our temperature-controlled incubators in which we grow large volumes, more than
twenty liters, of yeast and
E. coli
cultures that have been genetically engineered to overexpress a protein of our choosing.

When we choose to bring the end closer, we create a new beginning.

It's all the extra mass we can't see that makes the formation of galaxies and the rotational velocities of stars around galaxies mathematically possible.

He lifts the bottom of the mask off his chin and mouth. I can see the stubble on his chin, his chapped, cracked lips. I put a hand on his shoulder. I have to concentrate to keep my hand from shaking. We're all here together now. All of us.

One day on Venus is like one hundred and fifteen Earth days. . . . It's the brightest object in the sky.

He puts a metal hanger from the closet into my hand. “I'm thinking of ending things,” he says.

I straighten it out and bend it in half so both pointy ends stick in the same direction.

“I'm sorry for everything,” I say. I'm sorry, I think.

“You can do this. You can help me now.”

He's right. I have to. We have to help. That's why we're here.

I bring my right hand around and jam it in as hard as I can. Twice, in and out.

One more. In. Out. I slam the ends into my neck, upward, under my chin, with all my strength.

And then I fall onto my side. More blood. Something—spit, blood—bubbles from my mouth. So many small punctures. It hurts, all of it, but we feel nothing.

It's done now, and I'm sorry.

I look at my hands. One is shaking. I try to steady one with the other. I can't. I slump back into the closet. A single unit, back to one. Me. Only me. Jake. Alone again.

I decided. I had to. No more thinking. I answered the question.

—There's one other thing I wanted to ask about: the note.

—What?

—The note. Near his body. I was told there was a note.

—You heard about that?

—Yes.

—It wasn't so much of a note as . . . well, it was detailed.

—Detailed?

—Some kind of diary, maybe, or story.

—Story?

—I mean, he wrote about characters, or maybe they were people he knew. But then, he's in the story, too, except he's not the one telling it. Well, maybe he is. In a way. I don't know. I'm not sure I follow it. I can't tell what's true and what's not. And yet . . .

—Does it explain why? Does it explain why he . . . ended things?

—I'm not sure. We're not really sure. Maybe.

—What do you mean? He either explained it or he didn't.

—It's just . . .

—What?

—It's not that simple. I don't know. Here. Look at this.

—What is all this? This is a lot of pages. Is this what he wrote?

—Yes. You should read it. But maybe start at the end. Then circle back. First, though, I think you better sit down.

Nita Pronovost. Alison Callahan. Samantha Haywood.

“Jean,” “Jimmy,” Stephanie Sinclair, Jennifer Bergstrom, Meagan Harris, Nina Cordes, Kevin Hanson, Adria Iwasutiak, Amy Prentice, Loretta Eldridge, Sarah St. Pierre, David Winter, Léa Antigny, Martha Sharpe, Chris Garnham, Kenny Anderton, Sjón, METZ.

Everyone at Simon & Schuster Canada, Scout Press, and Text Publishing.

My friends. My family.

Thank you.

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Iain Reid

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First Scout Press hardcover edition June 2016

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