Still With Me (13 page)

“You’re Mr. Delègue?” the driver asked. “Here, I have a package for you.”

Jeremy snatched it roughly. She was the only one who knew he was there.

“Where did you come from? Who sent you? Where did you pick up this package?” he asked excitedly.

“I can’t tell you,” the driver replied with clear distrust. “Me, I deliver. That’s all. And if the sender didn’t leave an address on the package, I can’t tell you any more than that.”

“Tell me where you came from!” Jeremy exclaimed, suddenly rising.

“Whoa there, whoa. Don’t talk to me that way.”

Jeremy regretted getting carried away. He forced himself to unclench his teeth, to relax his face, and lower his
voice. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it has to do with my wife and my kids and…We had a falling out…I want to see them, speak to them…”

The taxi driver dropped his guard. “Yeah, but look, dispatch told me not to say anything. Because the client said not to and the rules is the rules. I’m not going to risk my job over a lovers’ quarrel, all right? Have a good day.”

Jeremy thought about getting up and following him with more questions. He just wanted to get a glimpse of them, to see them from afar. But reluctantly, he decided to respect Victoria’s decision.

He opened the package quickly. It contained a letter and the videotape he’d recorded two years earlier.

Jeremy,

This letter is addressed to the one I loved and lost. To you, maybe, Jeremy. If you’re having one of your days of sincerity, you’ll know what I mean.

If that’s not the case, these words will seem ridiculous to you. You’ll probably make fun of me—my precautions, my fear.

Jeremy, I don’t want to talk to you or to see you. It’s too difficult. Even writing this letter is an ordeal, I’m telling you. Who am I even writing to? What should I say? What should I tell you? How much should I reveal? Will you re-read this letter tomorrow, and what will you think? Will you use it against me in the divorce proceedings? You’re 100 percent capable of it, to make me look like a crazy person. So you see, I’m writing this letter on the computer, and I’m not signing it. I’m forced to play a few moves ahead—not to beat you, because you’ll always be stronger than me, but to protect myself.

I can’t go on living like this. I can’t take on your mental imbalances. That’s probably hard for you to hear. Because today, you don’t know anything about what’s happened. You only have memories of the happy days and a few of your peculiar birthdays. You don’t even know your own children.

My last real hope was this tape, Jeremy. After seeing it and reading your letter, I was torn between the horror of the mission you set out for me and happiness, knowing that the man I loved still existed somewhere behind that infernal mask.

The day after your recording, I started the process of having you committed. You were adamantly opposed to it. You didn’t remember recording the tape or writing the letter. I had to call a judge to have you hospitalized against your will. The doctors spent a lot of time with you. Your case broke all their clinical models. And then, I started to believe you were getting better, in the possibility of a new happiness. You followed your treatment, and you became reasonable again, attentive, loving. I gave my permission for you to be treated at home, like you wanted. The doctors agreed. They thought it would be good for you. You came back, and we were hopeful, the kids and me. You should’ve seen them, crowding around you, smiling, responsive to your every command—Simon mostly because Thomas, even if he was curious, stayed defensive at the same time. We were learning how to be a family again.

And then everything went back to the way it was. Little by little, until all hell broke loose. A hell worse than the last one because the flames were licking wounds that had barely healed. That’s when I realized you’d played a terrible trick on us. With your smiles, your gentle words, acting like a responsible father and husband—you were buying time. Time to build a life somewhere else. What a cruel and miserable charade. You became worse than before. It got so I was scared of you, shaking whenever I heard your voice. I was scared of the father of my children! And my children were just as scared. Had he taken his medication? What lies was he telling? Will he come home tonight? Will he yell?

Jeremy, you lost yourself in the shambles of your mind: intelligent and fragile at the same time, stubborn and anxious, violent and aloof. You would sometimes “nudge” me in front of the kids. I never thought it would get to that point.

So, if I’m talking to the lucid Jeremy today, I have something difficult but necessary to ask you. Don’t come any closer. You’re sick. Find the solution you need to get better, but leave me out of your life. For the good of our children. Forgive me, Jeremy. I have to think of them. I have to protect them. I did everything I could to help you get out of your nightmare, but I couldn’t do it. I don’t want to try anymore. I just can’t.

Jeremy walked in the direction of the shop where two years earlier he’d bought the camcorder. A ball of flame burned in his stomach. He had re-read the letter several times before leaving the bar. That she had written and sent the tape was an encouragement. She had sent him an implicit message: If you are who you say you are, then make an effort. Try to work it out.

I persecuted them. I abused Victoria in front of the kids. I made them unhappy. I have to stop everything. I have to figure things out, take ownership of my life again
.

He went into the shop. As soon as the salesman saw Jeremy, he recoiled.

“You recognize me?”

The clerk stood timidly behind the counter, leaning back slightly, as if prepared to dodge a blow. “Yes…yes…of course. You have to understand, I didn’t do anything wrong. They asked me to write a letter testifying that you
were the one who purchased the camcorder and the tape. All I did was tell the truth. I didn’t know what it was about. I assure you.”

“Yes. You did the right thing. I—”

“The right thing?” the clerk asked, blinking hard. “The right thing? That’s not what you said the last time.”

“I have to see the contents of this tape right now.” Jeremy interrupted with such force that the man behind the counter stiffened cautiously again.

“Follow me. We have viewing rooms.”

Jeremy sat alone in a small compartment. The clerk had started the tape and closed the door discreetly.

When he saw himself on the screen, Jeremy thought he looked old. And tired.

What do I look like today, two years later?

At the beginning, he spoke clearly. Forming his words with great emotion, but intelligibly. Then came the part where he started to choke. In his body, he felt the pangs of his distress return and discovered that he was swallowing hard, that his breath became ragged, like he was trying to help the man on the screen. In all probability, the symptoms would reappear tonight.

Then came the moment he was waiting for. He peered closely at the screen, disturbed by the image of his face deformed with fear—a palpable, atrocious fear. He saw himself tremble, his eyes full of tears, hiccupping as he panted, expelling high-and low-pitched sounds, some even shrill.

“I hear him…Victoria…the priest…he’s here…right in front of me…”

There was nothing. And yet he’d been so sure the man was there, next to him. But Jeremy couldn’t hear him now, didn’t see him.

What did Victoria think when she saw the tape? I was talking about a man who doesn’t exist. But somehow she believed me. She must have cried. She must have suffered for the one she loved, no better now than his own hallucinations
.

Jeremy’s trail had led nowhere. He’d naively hoped that the old man and his sad prayer had been recorded. But in the video that continued to play, he saw nothing more than a sleeping man. Up until then, he’d tried to glean clues from his past that would form a point of departure. A common thread for him to follow, leading to the true meaning of his nightmare. And he had found one. It was based more on intuition than logical facts, but it had monopolized his will.
Nothing in what he’d just seen made him feel better about the idea.

He was about to eject the tape when, on screen, he saw his head roll slowly to one side. It might have been nothing but a twitch in his sleep. But then, a few seconds later, his head rolled to the other side. Then again. And again, more quickly. It became a regular movement. Eventually, Jeremy heard a whisper. He turned up the sound but could make out few muffled noises. On the screen, his head swayed, and a scowl spread across his face. A horrible scowl. It could mean only suffering. Terrible suffering. The whisper grew louder, but the words were still just as incomprehensible. There was nothing human left in his face. And then suddenly he howled: “No! My God, no!” A cry of excruciating pain in a voice he no longer recognized. Finally, his face relaxed.

Jeremy sat mesmerized by the scene. The cry was his own, and he had suffered. He didn’t have any precise memory, and yet the pain struck a chord in him. He hadn’t seen anything explicit. It could’ve been nothing more than the nightmare of a man brought low by disease.

Nevertheless, he was now confident that his intuition was correct.

The salesman poked his head into the room, looking anxious.

“Was it you screaming like that? There are other customers in the store, you know. Are you quite finished?”

Jeremy got up and left without saying a word, leaving the salesman perplexed.

He stopped for a moment on the sidewalk, his eyes caught by the hustle and bustle of late afternoon.

Where to go now? Where to start?
He had to think, to rest and take his time. He headed back to the café.

The owner nodded, annoyed to see him again. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“Peppermint water.”

The owner hesitated before walking away with a sigh. “Don’t do anything stupid. Or be an idiot.”

At the table to his right, a woman watched Jeremy sadly. She had golden hair, dark eyes behind drooping eyelids, and thick lips revealing cigarette-stained teeth. She held one in the tips of her trembling fingers, guiding it to the corner of her mouth and taking long, nervous puffs. Everything about her suggested abandonment, as if she’d given up on the fight against disillusionment and age.

Jeremy smiled at her.

“You waiting for someone?” she asked.

He didn’t know what to say.

“I saw you get your package earlier, reading your letter. Crying. I haven’t seen a lot of men cry. Me, I was the one who cried. Before. When they took any interest in me.”

The woman must have been about forty, but looked ten years older.

“It’s my wife. She doesn’t want to talk to me or see me anymore,” Jeremy heard himself say.

“What? What kind of woman is that? The kind who makes men cry? You love her that much?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on. “Yes, you love her. And she doesn’t love you back. What a fool. If she knew how lucky she was to be loved that much. Was she the one who sent you the package?”

“Yes.”

“I heard you hassle the cabdriver for the sender’s address. You didn’t do a very good job. You got him riled.” She looked at Jeremy for a moment, frowning, still smoking her cigarette. “You want that address?”

Jeremy looked at her hopefully. “How would you get it?”

“I have a little idea.”

“And…why would you…?”

“Why? I don’t know. Maybe so I can feel like I’m part of a love story, even if it’s not my own. Especially not my own. Or maybe just so you’ll by me a glass of champagne. I’m tired of getting drunk on bad wine.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Okay, but I’m not promising anything. Let me see your cell phone.”

Jeremy obeyed.

“The cab was parked in front of the bar, and I have a very good visual memory,” she said, dialing a number. “And anyway, cab numbers are easy to remember. What’s your wife’s name?”

“Victoria. Victoria Delègue.” Jeremy thought for a moment before adding, “Or Victoria Kazan.”

The woman cocked her head, surprised.

“I mean, I don’t know if she used her married name or her maiden name,” Jeremy explained.

“Okay, it’s ringing.” The woman cleared her throat. “Hello, it’s Ms. Delègue-Kazan,” she said with an impressive amount of confidence. “I called a few hours ago for a delivery to Bistro Vert at twelve Armand-Carret Street
in the tenth arrondissement. Yes, they got it. Everything’s fine. But I have another package for the same place. Could you send another cab? Great. Oh, wait! Earlier, when the driver picked up the package, he stopped a few doors down from my place. I had to go get him. Could you verify the address you have for me? I’m sorry, did you say twenty-six Ménilmontant Street in the twentieth arrondissement? Yes, that’s the right one. The driver must’ve made a mistake.”

The woman gave Jeremy a wink as she repeated the address slowly.

“Okay, great,” she continued. “When can you pick it up? Half an hour? No, that’s too late. Oh well. I’ll call you sometime tomorrow for another order. Thank you. Good-bye.”

“Thank you,” Jeremy exclaimed. “Thank you so much. You were great.”

“I always knew how to hustle for little things like that,” she said with a nod.

“How can I ever thank you?”

“A glass of champagne. That was the deal.”

Jeremy got up and took her by the hand. “You’re like one of those fairy godmothers who appears at the moment all hope is lost.”

The woman laughed. “Do I look like a fairy godmother to you?”