Still With Me (9 page)

Jeremy,

You don’t want to talk about it? You don’t want to listen to me? I hope you at least want to read this. Like I tried to tell you yesterday, before you lost your temper, your mother called me last week. She wanted to see me. At first I refused. You never talked to me much about your parents, but what little you did say was enough to make me not want to meet them. But because I like to make up my own mind about things, I accepted her invitation. That’s not the only reason. Your attitude toward your parents always struck me as more than a little bizarre. We met at Le Neo. I don’t have to tell you that’s the new name of the bar your father ran for more than thirty years.

Your mother is a sweet woman. Shy. Intelligent. Nothing like the villain you made her out to be. How could such a sweet woman have been so mean to her son?

Here’s her version of the facts:

You were a charming little boy, pampered and spoiled despite your parents’ financial problems. The bar didn’t make much money. They had to open early and close late just to make ends meet and feed and clothe the little king (even then!). But you were happy. Until the death of your little sister. You retreated into your own world, talking and laughing less. You mother was afraid you felt responsible.

Home life was organized around you. You enjoyed certain privileges with your mother. You knew she couldn’t say no to you, and you took advantage. Overall, you became more and more solitary. You went out less and less. You stayed in your room reading or you went gallivanting on your own. She knew right away you were in love. Like all concerned mothers, she looked through your things and found poems, the desperate kind,
without a future
. When you decided to move out, your parents worried that you would isolate yourself completely. The six months that led up to your attempt, you were changed. You didn’t eat anymore. You didn’t work anymore. You didn’t sleep much. They wanted you to see a psychologist, but you refused. The last time they went to see you, it was two days before the suicide. You looked lost, but you didn’t want to talk. They were sick with worry. The night before your birthday, your mother called and invited you to cut the cake at their place the next day. You thanked her. To her, you seemed more positive, almost giddy. You told her that it was going to be a great day. She thought you meant your twentieth birthday.

Understandably, when they found out what you did, they were crushed. When they arrived at the hospital, you were unconscious. And when you came back to life, you refused to see them. They thought you were ashamed of what you’d done and that you weren’t ready to face them.

Right before you left the hospital, they came to see you. You didn’t say a word. I remember; I was there. Your mother talked to you, but you remained indifferent, absent. Then your father got angry. They were living a nightmare. They didn’t understand what was going on. Your mother spent her days crying.

The rest I know. You cut off all contact. Your father gradually sank into depression. He decided he’d lost his son that day and that he had to grieve. He forbade your mother from speaking your name.

That’s why your mother wanted to see me. She thought that I was responsible for the change. I didn’t tell her your version. How could they understand? I don’t even understand. Why the lies, Jeremy? What do you have against your parents? I’m discovering this pernicious nature in you that sometimes comes to the surface and makes you unkind. It’s just mean to treat your parents that way.

As usual, you absolutely didn’t want to talk about it. But can we continue to live this lie together, hiding this part of you and pretending everything’s all right? I know I can’t do that.

I hope tonight, when I come home, we’ll talk about it. I leave that up to you.

—Victoria, who loves you anyway

Jeremy felt sick after reading the letter. His eyes filled with tears. How was this possible? Was he really such a jerk? Why was it that during these reawakenings, when his amnesia obliterated parts of his past, he felt like a reasonable man, a good son, and a loving husband? What a paradox. He felt normal when nothing could be further from the truth.

One letter remained on the desk. He picked it up with trembling fingers. What else would he learn? How much more could he take?

The letter wasn’t dated. The handwriting was more frantic. Certain words were scratched out, nervously.

Jeremy,

I know you don’t like it when I write. But I don’t have any other way to express my feelings. I’m going to pieces, Jeremy.

Because the man I love doesn’t love me anymore. He doesn’t love his life, his family, his home. You’re not happy with me anymore. You keep up the facade, only to avoid hurting me or causing a scene. You dodge reality as soon as it’s not smiling on you anymore. At home, you go out like a light. You seem absorbed in other thoughts. What are they? I’m convinced your sons and I aren’t among them.

Thomas won’t speak to you anymore. He’s given up on your affection. You’re never present, always traveling, or when you are at home, you’re exhausted, unavailable. Do you realize that Thomas is having serious problems at school? He won’t do his work. But he’s so smart. The therapist said it was his way of punishing us. You for your absence and me for my failure to keep you at home. Do you at least know he sees a therapist every week?

And Simon—do you know what’s been going on with him lately? Does that interest you? It’s not work that’s stripped away your love. You use it to hide from us. We’re not enough for you anymore. It’s like our family life doesn’t give you the pleasure that you’re searching for endlessly. Or maybe you met another woman. Maybe you found in her what we once had. The problem isn’t knowing that you’re having an affair, it’s understanding how you got there. At first I thought I was responsible for the erosion of our love. Then I refused to feel guilty. The only abnormal element is you. Your invented childhood, your lies, your uncontrollable fears, your convenient amnesia. The problem comes from what you don’t want to see. I can’t do anything about it if you won’t let me into this other world you’ve created to escape yourself.

Despite all that, I believe we can still save our marriage.

—Victoria

Jeremy scanned the letter again and again, searching between the words and lines for a reason to hope. Pain clenched his chest. Victoria, his reason for living, his reason for dying, was threatening to leave him.

Suddenly, he heard a thud and then a scream from the kitchen. He didn’t react immediately, but Thomas came into the office, panicked. “What are you waiting for? Come quick!” He had fear in his eyes. And hatred.

Jeremy leapt up. In the kitchen, Simon was on his back, unconscious. Blood gushed from his arm.

“He slipped and cut himself. His head hit the floor. Hard.” Thomas’s voice shook. He looked at Jeremy, waiting
for him to say something reassuring. Jeremy crouched over Simon. He’d fallen on the pieces of glass Jeremy had pushed into a corner a few minutes earlier. His forearm was slashed in several places. His breathing was slow.

“Is…is he dead?” Thomas asked, sobbing. He stood behind his father, waiting for a diagnosis.

“Don’t worry,” Jeremy said in a reassuring tone.

Jeremy patted Simon on the cheeks. Simon opened his eyes.

“You’re all right, Simon. Everything’s fine. It’s bleeding a lot, but it’s nothing serious. We’re going to call an ambulance. But first, I’m going to bandage you up.” Jeremy pressed a cloth over the wound, not entirely certain of what he was doing or whether it would have any effect.

“Daddy, it hurts,” Simon said, sniffling. The little boy looked at him anxiously.

“It’s going to be all right.”

With Thomas at his heels, Jeremy picked Simon up and carried him to the living room. He set him down on the sofa and picked up the telephone. Thomas watched his father and held his little brother’s hand. Simon smiled.

“It’s not serious, Thomas. Daddy said so.”

“Okay, it’s not serious,” his older brother repeated.

Jeremy dialed 911, nervous. The child had lost a lot of blood, and while the bandage had slowed the bleeding, some was still seeping through.

“It’s urgent, it’s…my son,” Jeremy explained to the professional voice on the other end of the line. “He cut himself on the wrist. He bled. He lost consciousness. I made him a sort of tourniquet. My address?”

He stumbled over his words: “Yes, miss. I don’t…I’m a little panicked…I’m…My address, yes…” Jeremy, at a loss for words, felt ridiculous and weak at the same time.

“Nine Recollets Street, in the tenth arrondissement,” Thomas supplied coldly.

Jeremy repeated the address to the woman on the phone and hung up. “I…I forgot…But they’re arriving in a few minutes,” Jeremy announced, embarrassed.

“Daddy, it hurts.” Simon’s face was by now very pale. Sweat pasted his curly brown locks to his forehead.

“The doctor’s coming. It’s going to be all right.”

“We have to call Mom,” Thomas said.

“Yes, you’re right. But not now. Let’s wait until the doctors are here. We’ll call her when we know more.”

The three of them sat in silence. Thomas held onto his little brother’s hand. Jeremy stroked his face. Once again, the present caught hold of him, more violently this time. He’d been absorbed completely by the urgency, fear, and necessity. And now the guilt.
I’m not a responsible husband. I’m not a responsible father. I’m a danger to my family when I’m having a crisis. And I’m an unfit father when I’m well
.

It was the arrival of the ambulance that pulled him out of these dark thoughts. Under Thomas’s fearful gaze, the EMT examined Simon. “He didn’t lose that much blood. One vein severed and maybe a scratched tendon. We have to move him to the hospital for service. You’ll come along?”

“Yes, of course,” Jeremy replied. “Thomas and I will go.”

“Where are we going?” Simon asked weakly.

“To the hospital. We’re going with you.”

“I’m going in an ambulance?”

“Yes.”

“With a siren?”

“If you want,” the EMT replied with a wink.

“Cool.”

The operation was over. The doctors had reassured Jeremy. Thomas was sitting on a bench, knees folded, head between his arms. His demeanor remained cold and distant.

I can tell Thomas doesn’t like me. He judges me, evaluating my performance. Everything I do disappoints him. Yet somehow he doesn’t seem to hate me. He needs a father and hopes I’ll fulfill my role. But what can I do? Is it possible to regain his confidence? And tomorrow, will I become the father he fears again?

Jeremy sat down next to him. Thomas lifted his head with an inquisitive look.

“He’s fine. They gave him a few stitches.”

“Did it hurt?” Thomas asked weakly.

“No. He’s sleeping now.” Jeremy took his hand and wanted to draw him closer, but Thomas resisted, bursting into tears. Jeremy took him by the shoulders, feeling more opposition. He insisted, and Thomas finally gave in.

“Everything’s going to be fine. You acted very grown up. I admire your courage. You were afraid, weren’t you?”

Thomas sniffed, replying with a nod.

“And you didn’t show it. So you wouldn’t scare him. I’m proud of you, Son.” Hearing these words, Thomas removed his face from his father’s shoulder to look at him, perplexed.

“It’s true. I’m really very proud of you.” They sat pressed against each other.

I’m supposed to love him, protect him, comfort him. But I feel so young. I’m not ready for these responsibilities
.

A ringtone sounded. Thomas sat up. He reached into his pocket and took out a cell phone. “It’s Mom. You tell her?”

Jeremy took the phone. “Victoria?”

“Jeremy? Where’s Thomas? I left my phone with him.”

“He’s next to me.”

“Is that so? What are you doing?”

“Don’t get upset, but…we’re at the hospital.”

“What? Why? What happened?” Victoria almost screamed.

“It’s Simon. He cut himself.”

“He cut himself? How? My God!” Victoria panicked.

“Victoria, calm down. Everything’s fine, I assure you. Simon’s fine. They gave him stitches. He’s resting.”

“They gave him…What are you talking about? What happened?”

“He broke a jar and fell on a piece of glass. It’s an ugly cut on the forearm, but nothing serious, really.”