“What?”

“My wife, I mean. I know how it must seem. I know what you’re thinking. I’m sorry. You think she’s going mad or is mentally ill. She’s not. It’s just a hearing thing. She’s been under some stress.”

Again, I’m unsure how to respond. “I didn’t really think that,” I say. In truth, I’m not sure what I think.

“Her mind is still very sharp. I know she mentioned voices, but it’s not as dramatic as it sounds. They are small whispers and mumbles, you know. She’s having discussions with . . . them. With the whispers. Sometimes it’s just breathing. It’s innocuous.”

“That still must be hard,” I say.

“They’re considering cochlear implants, if her hearing worsens.”

“I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

“And all that smiling. I know it looks a little odd, but it’s just a reaction she has. In the past it would have upset me, but I’m used to it now. Poor thing. Her face starts to hurt from so much smiling. But you get used to these things.”

“I didn’t notice, or not so much.”

“You’ve been very good for him.” He turns toward the door. “You guys are a good match. Not that you need me to tell you. Certain things, like math and music, go together well, don’t they?”

I smile, nod. Smile again. I don’t know what else to do. “It’s been great getting to know Jake, and now meeting you and his mom.”

“We all like you. Especially Jakie. It makes sense. He needs you.”

I keep smiling. I can’t seem to stop.

I’M READY TO GO. I want to get out of here. I have my coat on. Jake’s already outside, warming up the car. I’m waiting for his mom. I have to say good-bye, but she’s gone back to the kitchen to put a plate of leftovers together for us. I don’t want it, but how can I say no? I’m standing here alone, waiting. I’m fiddling with the zipper on my coat. Up and down, up and down. I could have warmed up the car. He could have waited here.

She emerges from the kitchen. “I put a little of everything together,” she says, “some cake, too.” She hands me a single plate of food, covered in foil. “Try to keep it straight or you’ll have a mess on your hands.”

“Okay, I will. Thanks again for the lovely evening.”

“It was lovely, wasn’t it? And you’re sure you can’t stay overnight? We’d love for you to stay. We have room for you.”

She’s almost pleading. She’s close enough to me now that I can see more of the lines and wrinkles on her face. She looks older. Tired, drawn. It’s not the way I’d want to remember her.

“We wanted to stay, but I think Jake needs to get back.”

We stand for a moment, and then she leans in to give me a hug. We remain like this, with her squeezing me like she doesn’t want to let me go. I find myself doing the same thing back. For the first time tonight, I smell her perfume. Lilies. It’s a scent I recognize.

“Wait, I almost forgot,” she says. “Don’t go just yet.”

She releases me from her embrace, turns, and heads back to the kitchen again. Where’s Jake’s dad? I can smell the food on the plate. It’s unappetizing. I hope it won’t smell up the whole car for the entire drive home. Maybe we can put it in the trunk.

Jake’s mom returns. “I decided tonight that I want you to have this.”

She hands me a piece of paper. It’s been folded a few times. It’s small enough to fit into a pocket.

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “Thank you.”

“I’ve forgotten now, of course, how long exactly, but it’s been in the works for quite some time.”

I start to unfold it. She raises her hand. “No, no. Don’t open it here! You’re not ready yet!”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s a surprise. For you. Open it when you arrive.”

“When I arrive where?”

She doesn’t answer, just keeps smiling. Then she says, “It’s a painting.”

“Thank you. Is it one of yours?”

“Jake and I used to draw and paint together when he was younger, for hours at a time. He loved art.”

Did they do that in the dank basement? I wonder.

“We have a studio. It’s quiet. It was our favorite room in the house.”

“Was?”

“Is. Was. Oh, I don’t know, you’d have to ask Jake.”

Her eyes have welled up and I’m worried she’s going to outright cry.

“Thank you for the gift,” I say. “That’s so kind of you. We’ll both appreciate it, I’m sure. Thanks.”

“It’s for you. Only for you. It’s a portrait,” she says. “Of Jake.”

WE HAVEN’T REALLY TALKED ABOUT the night. We haven’t discussed his parents. I thought it would be the first thing we’d do when we got back in the car, rehash the evening. I want to ask about his mom, the basement, tell him about the conversation with his dad in Jake’s bedroom, the way his mom hugged me, the gift she gave me. There’s so much I want to ask. But we’ve been in this car for a while now. How long? I’m not sure. And now I’m losing steam. I’m starting to fade. Should I just wait and talk about it all tomorrow when I have more energy?

I’m glad we didn’t stay the night. I’m relieved. Would Jake and I have shared that tiny single bed? I didn’t dislike his parents. It’s just that it was weird and I’m tired and want to be in my own bed tonight. I want to be alone.

I can’t imagine making small talk with his parents first thing in the morning. Too much to bear. The house was cold, too, and dark. It felt warm when we first got inside, but the longer we were there, the more I noticed the drafts. I wouldn’t have slept much.

“Teardrops are aerodynamic,” Jake says. “All cars should be shaped like teardrops.”

“What?” It comes out of nowhere, and I’m still thinking about the evening, everything that happened. Jake was quiet most of the night. I still don’t know why. Everyone gets a little antsy around family, and it was the first time I’d met them. But still. He was definitely less talkative, less present.

I need to sleep. Two or three nights of long, uninterrupted sleep to catch up. No spinning thoughts, no bad dreams, no phone calls, no interruptions, no nightmares. I’ve been sleeping terribly for weeks. Maybe longer.

“It’s funny to see some of these cars that are still being designed and marketed as fuel-efficient. Look how boxy that one is.” Jake points out the window to my right, but in the dark it’s hard to see anything.

“I don’t mind uniqueness,” I say. “Even things that are very unique. I like things that are different.”

“By definition, nothing can be very unique. It’s either unique or it isn’t.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I’m too tired for this.

“And cars shouldn’t be unique. That driver probably complains about global warming and climate change and yet wants a ‘unique’ car. Every car should be shaped like a teardrop. That would show people we’re serious about fuel efficiency.”

He’s off on a Jake rant. I don’t really care about fuel efficiency, right now or even at the best of times. All I want to do is talk about what just happened at his parents’ house and get home so I can get some sleep.

“WHO WAS THAT GIRL IN the photo on your shelf?”

“What photo? What girl?”

“The girl with blond hair standing in a field or at the edge of a field. The one in your room.”

“Steph, I guess. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. She’s pretty.”

“She’s attractive. I never really saw her as beautiful or anything.”

She’s very pretty. “Did you date her, or is she a friend?”

“Was a friend. We dated for a bit. Just after high school, for a bit after.”

“Was she also in biochemistry?”

“No, music. She was a musician.”

“What kind?”

“She played a lot of instruments. Taught. She was the first one to introduce me to some of the old stuff. You know, classics, country, Dolly Parton, stuff like that. There were narratives in those songs.”

“Do you ever see her?”

“Not really. It didn’t work out.”

He’s not looking at me but straight ahead at the road. He’s biting his thumbnail. If this were a different relationship, at a different time, maybe I would keep at him. Nag him more. Insist. But I know where we’re headed now, so there’s no point.

“Who was the guy in the background?”

“What?”

“In the background, behind her, there was a guy lying on the ground. He was looking at her. It wasn’t you.”

“I don’t know. I’d have to see the photo again.”

“You must know the one I mean.”

“I haven’t looked at those photos in a long time.”

“It’s the only one with her in it. And it’s weird, because this guy . . .” I can’t say it. Why can’t I say it?

A minute goes by. I think he’s going to let it fade, to ignore my question, but then he says, “It’s probably my brother. I think I remember him being in one of those pictures.”

What? Jake has a brother? How has this not come up before?

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“I thought you knew.”

“No! This is crazy. How did I not know this?”

I say it jokingly. But Jake is in serious mode, and I probably shouldn’t joke.

“Are you two close?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Family stuff. It’s complicated. He took after my mom.”