“Maybe it is,” she says.
The phone keeps ringing. No one speaks. After a few rings, it stops.
“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.”
I hear the beep that indicates a message has been left. Another one. I don’t want to listen to the message. But I know I’ll have to. I can’t ignore this forever.
“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.”
“And when she does, it’s not very restful. For any of us.”
I’m sort of grasping at straws here. I’m not sure what to say. “That’s really tough. The more research done about sleep, the more we realize how important it is.”
My phone starts ringing again. I know it can’t be, but it sounds louder this time.
“Seriously? You better answer that,” says Jake. He rubs his forehead.
His parents don’t say anything, but exchange a glance.
I’m not going to answer it. I can’t.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “This is annoying for everyone.”
Jake is staring at me.
“Those things can be more trouble than they’re worth at times,” says Jake’s dad.
“Sleep paralysis,” says his mother. “It’s a serious condition. Debilitating.”
“Have you heard of it?” his dad asks me.
“I think so,” I say.
“I can’t move, but I’m awake. I’m conscious.”
His father is suddenly animated, gesturing with his fork as he speaks. “Sometimes I’ll wake up in the middle of the night for no reason. I turn over and look at her. She’s lying there beside me, on her back, perfectly still, her eyes—they’re wide-open and she looks terrified. That always scares me. I’ll never get used to it.” He stabs at the food on his plate and chews a mouthful.
“I feel a heavy weight. On my chest,” Jake’s mom says. “It’s often hard to breathe.”
My phone beeps again. This time it’s a long message. I can tell. Jake drops his fork. We all turn to him.
“Sorry,” he says. Then there’s quiet. I have never seen Jake so singularly focused on his plate of food. He stares at it, but he’s stopped eating.
Is it my phone that has put him out? Or did I say something that bothered him? He seems different since we’ve arrived. His mood. It’s as if I’m sitting here alone.
“So how was the drive?” his father asks, prompting Jake to speak, finally.
“It was fine. Busy at first, but after about half an hour or so, the roads calmed right down.”
“These country roads don’t get a lot of use.”
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.”