I hear a door close somewhere upstairs. I look at Jake to see if he registers it, but he's lost in his own mind, looking straight ahead, intently, though seemingly at nothing.

"What are the scratches on the door from?"

"From when we had a dog."

I drift from the stove to the wall of paintings and sketches. I see there are several photographs on the wall, too. All the photos are black-and-white. Unlike the sketches, all the photos are framed. No one is smiling in these photos. Everyone is stern-faced. The photo in the middle is of a young girl, fourteen, maybe younger. She's standing, posed, in a white dress. It's faded.

"Who's this?" I ask, touching the frame.

Jake doesn't stand but looks up from the book he's taken from the coffee table. "My great-grandma. She was born in 1885 or something."

She's skinny and pale. She looks shy.

"She wasn't a happy person. She had issues."

I'm surprised by his tone. It carries an edge of uncharacteristic annoyance.

"Maybe she had a tough life?" I offer.

"Her problems were hard on everyone. It doesn't matter. I don't even know why we keep that photo up. It's a sad story."

I want to ask more about her but don't.

"Who's this?" It's a child, a toddler, maybe three or four.

"You don't know?"

"No. How would I know?"

"It's me."

I lean closer to get a better look. "What? No way. That can't be you. The photo is too old."

"That's just because it's black-and-white. It's me."

I'm not sure I believe him. The child is barefoot and standing on a dirt road beside a tricycle. The child has long hair and is glaring at the camera. I look even closer and feel a twinge in my stomach. It doesn't look like Jake. Not at all. It looks like a little girl. More precise: it looks like me.

-They say he'd pretty much stopped talking.

-Stopped talking?

-Became nonverbal. Would work but not talk. It was awkward for everyone. I would pa.s.s him in the hall, would say hi, and he'd have a hard time looking at me square in the eye. He'd blush, become distant.

-Really?

-Yeah, I remember regretting hiring him. And not because he was incompetent. Everything was always clean and tidy. He did his job. But it got to the point where I had this feeling, you know? I sensed something. Like he wasn't quite normal.

-This sort of justifies your feeling.

-It does. I should have acted, done something, I guess, based on my gut.

-You can't start second-guessing after the fact. We can't let the actions of one man make us feel guilty. This isn't about us. We're the normal ones. It's only about him.

-You're right. It's good to be reminded of that.

-So what now?

-We try to forget this, all of it. We find a replacement. We move on.

At the table now, the smells are very good, thankfully. We skipped lunch today in preparation for this meal. I wanted to ensure I'd be hungry, and I am. My only concerns: my headache and the vague metallic taste in my mouth I've been noticing the last few days. It happens when I eat certain foods, and seems to be the worst with fruit and veggies. A chemical flavor. I have no idea what causes it. When I've noticed it, it's turned me off whatever I'm eating, and I'm hoping it doesn't happen now.

I'm also surprised we haven't met Jake's parents. Where are they? The table is set. The food's here. I can hear shuffling in another room, probably the kitchen. I help myself to a dinner roll, a warm dinner roll, rip it in half and smear a k.n.o.b of b.u.t.ter across it. I stop myself from eating, realizing I'm the only one who's started. Jake's just sitting there. I'm ravenous.

I'm about to ask Jake about his parents again when the door to the entryway opens and they walk into the room, one behind the other.

I stand up to say h.e.l.lo.

"Sit, sit," says his dad, motioning with his hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Thanks for inviting me. The food smells great."

"I hope you're hungry," says Jake's mom, seating herself. "We're glad you're here."

It happens quickly. No formal introductions. No handshakes. Now we're all here, at the table. I guess this is normal. I'm curious about Jake's parents. I can tell his dad's reserved, borderline standoffish. His mom is smiling a lot. She hasn't stopped since she appeared from the kitchen. Neither of Jake's parents reminds me of Jake. Not physically. His mom is more made-up than I would have guessed. She's wearing so much makeup I find it sort of unsettling. I would never say that to Jake. Her hair is dyed an inky black. It's glaring against her powdered-white complexion and varnished red lips. She also seems a bit shaky, or delicate, as if she might at any moment shatter like a dropped gla.s.s.

She's dressed in an outdated, short-sleeved blue velvet dress with frilly white lace around the neck and sleeves, as if she's just been or is going to a formal reception. Not a kind of dress I see often. It's out of season, more summery than wintry, and too fancy for a simple dinner. I feel underdressed. Also, her feet are bare. No shoes or socks or slippers. When I tucked a napkin into my lap, I caught a glimpse under the table: the big toe of her right foot is missing the nail. Her other toenails are painted red.

Jake's dad is wearing socks and leather slippers, blue work-style pants, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His gla.s.ses hang from around his neck on a string. He has a thin Band-Aid on his forehead, just above his left eye.

Food is pa.s.sed around. We start eating.

"I've been having problems with my ears," Jake's mom announces. I look up from my plate. She's looking right at me, smiling broadly. I can hear the ticking of the tall grandfather clock against the wall behind the table.

"You have more than a problem," Jake's dad responds.

"Tinnitus," she says, putting her hand on her husband's. "It is what it is."

I look at Jake and then back at his mom. "Sorry," I say. "Tinnitus. What is that?"

"It's not very fun," says Jake's father. "No fun at all."

"No, it's not," says his mom. "I hear a buzzing in my ears. In my head. Not all of the time, but a lot of the time. A steady buzzing in the background of life. At first they thought it was just from earwax. But it's not."

"That's terrible," I say, glancing at Jake again. No reaction. He continues to shovel food into his mouth. "I think I've heard of this before," I say.

"And my hearing is generally getting worse. It's all related."

"She asks me to repeat myself all the time," his dad says. He sips his wine. I sip mine, too.

"And it's the voices. I hear whispers."

Another wide grin. Again I look at Jake, harder this time. I'm searching his face for answers, but I get nothing. He needs to step in here, help me. But he doesn't.

And it's right then, when I'm looking at Jake for some kind of help, that my phone starts ringing. Jake's mom jumps in her chair. I can feel my face growing warmer. This isn't good. My phone is in my purse, which is down beside my chair.

Finally. Jake looks up at me. "Sorry, that's my phone. I thought it was dead," I say.

"Your friend again? She's been calling all night."

"Maybe you should answer that," says Jake's mom. "We don't mind. If your friend needs something."

"No, no. It's nothing important."

"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.