Still With Me (11 page)

When Jeremy stepped outside, a cool breeze touched his face. But the sweetness of an evening in May had no power to move him.

He hailed a taxi.

As soon as they arrived at the apartment, Jeremy put Thomas to bed. He felt weak. In the taxi, an idea had drugged him. He didn’t know if it was a good one, but he had to take the chance.

In his desk, he quickly found his checkbook and his wallet, took his keys, and went out. Outside, he walked up
the street. The shop sign read, “Photo-Video.” It was when he saw the sign from the taxi that the idea hit him. He went in and walked over to the camcorders.

“May I help you?” the salesperson asked.

“I’d like to buy a camcorder.”

“Do you know what model?”

“I’ll take this one,” Jeremy said, pointing with his finger. “Could you walk me through how it works?”

Thomas had sunk into a deep slumber. Jeremy called the hospital, and a nurse told him that Simon was sleeping peacefully. He then proceeded with installing and adjusting the levels on his new camcorder. It took some time, and he felt tired.

Jeremy sat in the armchair. His image appeared on the television screen. He checked that it was well framed, pressed the record button, and began.

“Victoria, this tape is meant for you. Maybe it’s the solution to our problems. I hope so with all my heart. I’m so afraid to lose all three of you. So let me first tell you the story
as I’ve lived it. I tried to kill myself on May 8, 2001. The day I turned twenty. Because I loved you. I know my actions were stupid even if, paradoxically, they led me to you.

“On May 8, 2002, when I opened my eyes, you were there. I was stunned. I felt like I was waking up just after my suicide attempt. It was a terrible shock. A year of my life with you, gone. And what an important year…” He paused for a moment.

“That night, we went to the hospital. When you left me in the room, I was overwhelmed with exhaustion. My arms and legs felt heavy. I thought I was falling asleep, but no. It was beyond exhaustion. I couldn’t move. I had difficulty breathing. And next to me…You’re going to find this hard to believe, but…there was a man praying. An old man with a white beard. I was afraid. So afraid. He seemed so unreal and present at the same time. He was saying Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, with conviction. And misery.”

Jeremy’s memory of the old man interrupted his narrative, and he spent a few moments in silence. He knew that he would relive the scene in a few minutes, and the idea frightened him. He pushed the thought from his head and went on.

“When I woke up again, it was May 8, 2004. Two years had gone by. There was a baby next to me, and I didn’t know him. Can you imagine my surprise, my confusion? I gave up pretty quickly on finding a logical answer with my injured brain. My mother used to say you could only cook good food in good pots. My mother…” He smiled sadly. “How devastating to learn the harm I’ve done to my parents. I owe them an infinite amount of love. Of course, my suicide attempt wasn’t proof of that love; I know that now. But my behavior after the fact is even more incredible. I’ve been so cruel. When I saw my mother, I knew I’d made her unhappy…And Dad, who I didn’t see, who didn’t want to see me…I thought I’d become aware of all that and I’d be able to redeem myself. I would change. I would win back their love.”

Jeremy’s voice broke. He took a deep breath and continued.

“That night, I got into bed. I opened the little
Book of Psalms
that you gave me. I admit I had no idea why I should’ve been happy with this gift. I’d never been interested in religion. You were in the kitchen. Reading a few of the psalms tired me out. More than that even. Reading
them upset me and made me feel sick in a way I couldn’t overcome. I had that sensation again of sliding into the abyss. And then again, I heard a voice praying. Quietly but forcefully. He was there, the old man, engrossed in his prayer, his eyes closed, punctuating each word with a movement of his hand. How did he get in? I wanted to call out to you, but I couldn’t. I panicked. I was going to fall asleep and leave you alone with this crazy old man.”

Jeremy had trouble finishing his sentence. His voice was growing weaker. “Here, you see, I’m starting to feel the sickness inside me. I’m breathing harder, my arms and legs are tired. I’m sweating. But I have to go on.”

He took a deep breath. “When I woke up…we were…this morning. No memory of the past six years. It was at that moment that I realized I had another new reality. There was some good news. I found out I was the father of another little boy. That might be the only good thing I’ve been capable of. As for the bad, the list could come from the plot of a Brazilian soap opera. You’d left me. You didn’t love me anymore. My oldest son hated me. My parents had abandoned me. My best friend didn’t care about me anymore. And all because I’d acted like a bastard with the people I
love. What a nightmare! And irony of ironies, it turns out I blame amnesia whenever it’s convenient for me.”

Jeremy felt his strength leaving him and had to make a serious effort to concentrate. He had to finish. He focused on the lens of the camcorder with determination. “Victoria, you have to believe me. This is not an act. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Whatever it is, please do what I’m about to ask.

“I’m sick, Victoria. There’s no other explanation possible. Is it a form of schizophrenia or a mental disease? I don’t know. So, here goes: I’m asking you to have me committed and help me get better. To prove that I’m sick, you have this cassette and a letter that I left on my desk. Tomorrow, if I become the same person who destroyed my life—our life—I won’t be in favor of this confinement. So you can use these two pieces of evidence against me. Do it, I’m begging you. If you don’t believe in our love anymore, then do it for me. I can’t go on living this nightmare. And above all, don’t listen to anything I say to you. I’m a liar.”

Jeremy let his body sink back into the chair. Maybe he wasn’t in the frame anymore, but it didn’t matter. He’d said what he needed to. The satisfaction he felt met with the
fear that was overwhelming him; a terror approaching panic asphyxiated him. He was going to die again, to see the old man of his nightmares.

“Victoria…I’m going to sleep,” he breathed. “You see…I’ve given you the proof of…my love. I’m doing it for you…for the kids…for my parents too…It’s the crazy person who…who hurt you…not the one you…you loved…”

He startled, turning his head to the right. His words were almost inaudible now.

“I hear him…Victoria…the prayer…he’s here…right in front of me.” Jeremy cried like a little child. “He’s…here…Victoria…I’m afraid…I’m so afraid…It’s the prayer for the dead again…Why?…Why?…What do you want? What does he want, Victoria? I’m crazy, Victoria…crazy…I…love you…”

It was a small apartment. A tiny room, furnished simply, with a small kitchenette. The white walls were bare. Jeremy was surprised by the incredible filth and disarray of the place. He squinted to make out piles of clothing draped over the bed next to him and even on the floor, along with the remnants of pizza, dirty cups, cans, and empty alcohol bottles on the coffee table and the carpet, cigarette butts crushed out on paper plates.

Jeremy felt suffocated, a sickness that came from something other than the cramped quarters and the incredible mess. It was the simple awareness of being in a new place this morning, caught in a new situation with new problems. He thought of going back to sleep and escaping reality when,
in the soup of off-putting food and stale tobacco odors, he detected a woman’s perfume. Strong. And very spicy. Lace fabric poked out from the folds of his sheets. Seeing the black bra, Jeremy received a shock. He sat up on the edge of the bed, put his hands over his face, and groaned.

This isn’t my house. The woman I sleep with in this bed isn’t Victoria. It’s not her scent. Hers is the one imprinted on my soul
.

Jeremy wanted to scream but held himself back. He felt like he was being tested. He knew he didn’t have the luxury of losing his head. He had to approach this new day with patience and acceptance.
I’m going to act like I would in a dream. A dream I can’t control. I’m going to face every event calmly, bow to the whims of the story, just float. Maybe there will be a nice surprise
.

He inspected his left hand and was comforted to see that he still wore his wedding band.

Did she have me committed? If she did, it didn’t work. Where is she? What’s happened to us?
He thought of Thomas, of Simon, the hospital. How outdated were his memories this time?

Jeremy got up and opened the closet. He had several suits, a dozen shirts, two pairs of shoes. Boxes were stacked
at the bottom of the closet. He started going through them when a woman’s voice surprised him.

“What are you looking for?”

He spun around to discover Clotilde, smiling, cheeks pink. She had just come in, and she was holding a loaf of bread and a bag of pastries. Jeremy said nothing, frozen with surprise.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Did I scare you? You look like a little boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar.” She laughed and headed into the kitchen. “I’m going to make breakfast while you sift through your treasure box. And good luck, because when you look at how it was packed…”

Jeremy remained crouched, petrified.
No. It’s impossible. Not that. Not her
.

He managed to stand and sit down on the bed. Clotilde came back into the room. “I put the coffee on. I’ll clean up in a minute. Quite the party, huh?”

Jeremy said nothing, vacillating between sadness and terror.

“Okay, fine. I see you haven’t fully recovered. Do you want a massage?” She came and sat behind him on the
bed. She nudged him and got him to lie down on his stomach. “Come on, relax. There you go, like that. You’re so stiff.”

Jeremy felt himself go limp. He had neither the will nor the strength to resist. He felt like he was a character in a grotesque puppet story. She sat astride his buttocks and ran her hands over his back.

“The drunkest last night was Bruno,” she said. “He said some crazy things. And honestly, I didn’t think it was funny. Retarded macho jokes. That guy has libido problems if you ask me. And he thought he was going to coax Sylvie into his bed with his crappy humor and his alcoholic breath? She turned him down quick. And she did everything she could to seduce the adorable Charles. But ever since his sudden enlightenment, that one, he hasn’t been the least bit interested in women. You know, you’d think a guy who’s attracted to men after more than twenty years of rather active heterosexuality—because, you know, he was a hot little bunny before—you’d think he’d at least become bisexual. But no! He’s only interested in men right now…Are you feeling any better? Hey, you could at least say something.”

Jeremy wasn’t listening to Clotilde anymore. Dazed, he found it impossible to get up. He wanted her to stop talking and disappear.

She stretched out on his back. “Would you prefer something more intimate? That might help you rediscover your emotional potential. No reason to dwell on yesterday’s little fiasco.” Clotilde kissed Jeremy’s neck and back.

Her kisses revolted him. Jeremy turned abruptly, and Clotilde fell to one side. “Get up and go away!” he roared, drawing himself up.

She looked at him in astonishment. “Are you joking? Are you feeling sick or something?” she asked, her voice torn between disbelief and anger.

“Get out!”

“What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy? Is this because I said something about your difficulty yesterday? I was only joking…you were drunk, that’s it. I mean, come on, I know you well enough to know—”

“Leave!”

Frightened, Clotilde backed away. Then, driven by rage and humiliation, she stood up and faced him. “Who do you think you are?” she shouted angrily. “You think you scare
me? You think you can play games with me? I’m not one of those little sluts you pick up at the bar and pay so they’ll leave as soon as you snap your fingers.”

Jeremy said nothing. He didn’t care about what she was saying anymore. Clotilde took his silence for weakness.

“You make me sick, asshole,” she spat with loathing. “I’m leaving. Your wife is right. You’re crazy. That’s right, you’re nothing but an impotent little freak. And don’t you dare call me with more excuses. This time I’m not coming back.” Clotilde slammed the door on her way out.