Still With Me (12 page)

Jeremy fell back onto the bed.
I cheated on Victoria. With Pierre’s wife. I lost everything. Everything. I didn’t change. My plan failed. I didn’t get better. I’m sick. I’m crazy. Crazy
. He screamed these last words, grabbing a glass from the table and throwing it violently against the wall. “I’m crazy! I’m crazy!” He sobbed, collapsing onto the bed.

Then he heard the sound of liquid overflowing and smelled the reek of burning coffee. He felt the same hunger as on his last awakenings. But it felt insignificant compared to his tragedy.

Soon, a twisted idea made him smile bitterly:
I’m unhappy. But then again, I’m only unhappy for a few hours
now and then, when I’m aware of how sick I am. The rest of the time, I’m a happy man. A jerk, a bad husband, an unfit father, but a man who lives as he pleases. Why not be satisfied with that? All I have to do is wait for this day to be over so I can go back to my life of debauchery
.

But he could never accept it. He had to learn the truth. Not knowing was torture. Already a few ideas were surfacing in his mind.

Jeremy walked over to the closet and continued his investigation. In a box he discovered some papers. On one folder he read the word
divorce
, and his heart sank. He opened it and found a letter from a lawyer dated January 4, 2012.

If I’m waking up on the eighth of May again, then my last period of amnesia dates back to at least two years ago
.

He scanned the court papers, looking for more information.

Mr. Jeremy Delègue left his home over six months ago. He has given no notice to his children or spouse since then…

While Mr. Delègue has indeed delivered a sum of ten thousand euros to his wife, it was only after the appeal process began for these exact purposes…

Mr. Delègue completed a long course of treatment at the Sainte-Anne Psychiatric Hospital in Paris. The detention occurred at his request (see items #3 and #4) due to serious concerns. The report of the doctor who monitored and cared for him during these six months is clear. He states that Mr. Delègue is suffering from a rare mental illness that manifests as a split personality…

He also notes that Mr. Delègue is gifted with an exceptional intelligence, which he uses to manipulate the people around him…

Mr. Delègue was released on October 2, 2010, after making significant progress and with the understanding that he would continue his treatment…

His spouse, who supported him during his treatment, welcomed him warmly…Two weeks later, Mr. Delègue stopped taking his medication. He quickly reestablished his old habits: nightly disappearances, heavy alcohol consumption, verbal abuse…

The remaining letters detailed the divorce proceedings initiated at Victoria’s request. Jeremy was crushed. His ordeal had taken a tragic turn. Their life together was over. Victoria didn’t want anything to do with him. The only positive element in what he read was that she had believed his story, tried to fight—to fight with him—against the illness. But she had to give up, and now he was the one she fought against.

She took me back. She still hoped I could change. She still loved me then. What a cruel disappointment it must have been for her to see me slip back into my madness. She must have suffered. And the kids. They must hate me
.

Suddenly, Jeremy heard a knock at the door. His first instinct was to open it, but as he started to turn the knob, he hesitated. What would he discover next?

Jeremy resigned himself to the inevitable and opened the door.

“Finally! Were you sleeping or what?” Leaning against the door jamb, a young man was catching his breath. He wore faded jeans, a T-shirt that said, “Be mine,” and a
pair of silver sneakers. He had long auburn hair that contained traces of old hair dye. He walked over to the bed and flopped down. He stretched out, flung his arms to the sides, and stared at the ceiling.

Jeremy stood motionless in front of the open door.

“Hey man, close the door. How long are you going to stand there?”

Jeremy obeyed passively and stood leaning against the door jamb.

The young man was still panting. “Holy shit, you’ll never guess what happened to me. I was followed by the cops. They must’ve been tipped off.”

He sat up on one elbow to better tell his story. “Picture this. I was leaving my place, totally cool and everything. I mean, when I say cool, I mean I was a little messed up after the craziness last night at your party. Then all of a sudden, I knew something was wrong. My sixth sense, right? So I look across the street, and I see these two guys in this crappy car. I mean, shit, only cops hang out two at a time in shitty cars. Why haven’t those motherfuckers figured out that two guys in a car, no matter what, is immediately suspicious? Okay, anyway, I said to myself, ‘Marco, they’re coming for
your ass.’ But I didn’t panic. I started walking all cool and all, thinking about the best way to get the hell out of there.”

Excited, Marco jumped up and started to act out the scene. “I mean, shit, I still had at least fifty thousand dollars’ worth of blow on me. Can you imagine? And I knew I had no time to lose because those two weren’t there to check my papers. They were there to pick me up, for sure. They got a tip, I’m telling you.

“I heard them start their car behind me. And that’s when I realized I had an advantage. They were in a car, and I was on foot. You get it, dude? We’re in Montmartre! You see what I mean? How you gonna get around in a car on those streets? They probably thought I was gonna help ’em out by getting in my own car and letting them follow me to my first stop. A cop’s wet dream, right? Okay, so I turn right, and I just start running down the Sacré-Coeur. Two hundred thirty-seven steps. That’s more than a car can do! And after I shook ’em, I dove straight down this little street I know. They were probably just getting out of their car. Holy shit, what fucking idiots!”

Marco burst into hysterical laughter and looked at Jeremy, nodding, waiting for his reaction. “Come on?
Nothing? Don’t worry; it was a while ago. Nobody followed me, I swear.”

Marco sat back down on the bed, and his face became serious. “Okay, fine, I wanted to ask you something. You’re the only person I can ask. You’re cool. We’re friends, right? And you wouldn’t fuck me over. Not for money, anyway; you have more than enough.”

Marco kept his head down, waiting for some encouragement from Jeremy. Jeremy couldn’t stand there much longer saying nothing. But he couldn’t admit he didn’t understand a word of Marco’s story either, or that he didn’t even know who Marco was.

He decided to play the stranger’s game. He’d have time to figure things out later.

“What do you want from me?” he asked quietly.

“Okay…So…I can’t go home with the blow on me. If they catch me with it, I’m screwed. So…I wanted to leave it with you. Then later, I’ll go home. If they’re there, they’ll take me and grill me. They can always hold me for interrogation. But between the cops and Stako’s men, I’ll take the cops every time. And so then, if I keep my mouth shut and I
don’t have anything on me, they’ll have to let me go. I’ll tell Stako to send one of his boys over for the stash.”

“And why would I do that for you?”

Marco looked surprised. “Why? ’Cause you’re my friend. ’Cause I helped you out when you were in the loony bin. I thought it was obvious.”

Jeremy couldn’t believe it. He hung out with this creep! He was his friend, his accomplice. A light shudder ran the length of his body, and he wanted to laugh. A laugh that, if he let it out, would have ended in a sob.

“Okay, fine. Leave me the…blow,” he stammered.

“Thanks for having my back, Jem. You’re cool.”

Jeremy smiled at the nickname. It was the same as the life he lived: ugly and short.

The young drug dealer shoved his hands under his T-shirt and extracted two packages of white powder.

“You can taste it; it’s the best. But don’t fuck around. Don’t go snorting half of it or throwing a party on my tab, okay? Or you’re gonna have to settle up with Stako,” he said, eyeing his merchandise greedily. “Fuck, there’s seriously enough for fifty thousand bucks!”

Suddenly, he sat up. “Okay, cool, I’m gonna jet.” He stood and handed the packages to Jeremy.

“Put them away. Don’t leave them out. I’ve seen the savages who come through here. You’ll get a call sometime before tomorrow. One of Stako’s guys. Oh, yeah, and so you know it’s the right guy, he’ll ask if you know the score for the Lyon-Paris match.” Marco burst out in hysterical laughter. “I love it. It’s like a bad gangster movie.”

When the young man closed the door, Jeremy felt terribly alone, the victim of an incredible story with a momentum of its own.

In his confusion, he knew only one thing: He couldn’t lose Victoria and the kids without a fight. He had to organize his thoughts. Resume his story and search for clues. He had a hunch and needed to follow it, whether that meant finding himself or losing his mind. He didn’t have much time. A few hours. A few hours of reason in which to resolve years of madness.

Jeremy made his way back to the apartment that he remembered from what was at least two years earlier. He stood
in front of the building door before deciding to use the intercom.

“Yes?”

Despite the metallic sound, he knew it wasn’t Victoria’s voice. It belonged to an older woman.

“I’d like to speak to Victoria.”

A few seconds of silence went by while the woman seemed to be thinking. “She’s not here.”

“I have to find her. Where is she?”

“I don’t know. Good-bye.”

“Wait!”

The woman had disconnected.

Jeremy wished he had keys to the apartment. Victoria had no doubt taken them back.

He took out the cell phone that he’d found in his room and scrolled through the contacts list. With the exception of Clotilde and Pierre, they were all strangers. Finally, he found Victoria’s cell phone number.

On the fifth ring, the voice mail kicked in. He was bothered by Victoria’s carefree voice as he thought back to his previous reawakenings, so recent, and his moments of happiness. He took a deep breath to calm
his nerves and left a message that was coherent and persuasive.

“Victoria, it’s Jeremy. I’m calling you because you’re the only one who understands what I have to say. I’m having another episode. An episode that lets me recognize the horrors I’ve committed. I know you can believe me. Like the last time, when you did what I asked and had me committed. I also know it didn’t work, that I didn’t follow my treatment. I read the letters from the attorney. I don’t know what’s left of your feelings today or if you want to help me. I’m just looking for an explanation. I want to know what exactly happened the day after my recording. I’d also like to get the tape back. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. Call me back. Or come find me. Just to talk. I’m at the café across from our apartment…your apartment.

“I’m going to wait for you. Please don’t give up on me.”

He knew that Victoria would get in contact, that she wouldn’t abandon him, that she’d be able to tell the difference between the worthless person who hurt her and the person who loved her. He knew she’d understand that they were both victims of the same man.

Jeremy went into the little bar with a faded facade and sat facing the street. These moments of reflection permitted him to collect a few fragments of familiarity in the chaos of images and words. Maybe it was a false lead, but it was worth following. If only to keep hope alive.

When asked, he ordered an espresso. The owner served him with a hostile, “Here, Delègue.” Jeremy was clearly not a valued customer.

Jeremy took in his surroundings. The world around him was not bothered by his drama. A little old couple sat silently, wondering what to do with this new day. A blonde-haired student burned her tongue on an espresso and swore. A dreamy-eyed girl let her eyes wander across the reflections in the Formica table, no doubt smiling at a fond memory. A man at the bar looked around him, face lit with blithe joy, hoping to strike up a conversation with a fellow customer. A neglected-looking woman studied her glass of wine. A businessman, dressed in a supple fabric, was absorbed in his sports magazine.

Jeremy felt like an invisible observer, nostalgic for the day-to-day life in which he no longer belonged.

He still didn’t know what year it was that he’d woken up. Although this information was not especially useful,
he gave in to his curiosity, and noticing some daily newspapers hung on a wooden rack, he got up to get one. May 8, 2012. He noted the information without much emotion, then scanned the articles disinterestedly. It quickly reinforced the fact that he was no longer of this world.

Two hours went by before a taxi stopped in front of the café. The driver went in and asked the owner, “Is there a Mr. Delègue here?”

With a nod, the owner indicated Jeremy’s table.