“Neither do I. I don’t understand. You know that’s why I left. We’ll talk about it tonight. I’ll call before eight. Don’t forget their baths. And make sure they’re in bed by seven thirty at the latest.”
“Wait, I meant…”
“No. Tonight, Jeremy, tonight. Oh, and by the way, happy birthday.”
Jeremy paced the living room, mulling over Victoria’s words, trying to find a clue. She was mad at him. Mad enough to leave him alone with the kids. They were probably arguing. He felt guilty. Victoria couldn’t have been in the wrong.
What did I do to her? What kind of man have I become? I don’t want to lose her. Not yet.
She had criticized his conduct with the kids. He wasn’t a good father. Or any better as a husband.
We’re probably just going through the normal cycles of married life.
Jeremy took a measure of comfort from this theory. It was a waypoint along the road of their relationship. They could get past it. Jeremy—the Jeremy who existed in that moment, the sentimental amnesiac—knew he was strong enough to stand the test. But the other Jeremy? He felt a mounting hatred for the double who was making a mess of his life. How could he risk losing everything? How could he hurt Victoria?
Jeremy dropped into the armchair. I’m going schizoid. I’m going to lose my head if I don’t stay the way I am—the one who loves her, who appreciates the gift of life and feels grateful.
He wanted to call Victoria back and apologize for everything he’d said and done. But what good would that do? He didn’t know anything about the events leading up to the situation. He thought it might be a good idea to call Pierre, talk to him, explain that he was having another episode.
Jeremy scrolled through his phone contacts and found Pierre.
A woman’s voice answered.
“Clotilde?”
“Yes? Who’s on the line?”
“Jeremy.”
“Jeremy? I didn’t recognize your voice.”
“Could you pass me to Pierre?”
“Me, I’m doing fine, thank you,” she said with a sneer in her voice. “I’ll get him for you.”
She called to Pierre.
“Jeremy?” Pierre was on the line.
“Yes, I’m calling you—”
“About Victoria?” So Pierre was up to speed. “We talked on the phone last night. She told me about your fight, and she called me again this morning to tell me she was leaving for two days to visit her parents. Things aren’t so good right now.”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand.”
“Jeremy, don’t play dumb. You can’t tell me this came as a surprise.”
“Pierre, I really don’t understand anything…I’m having another bout of amnesia…”
“Not that, please,” Pierre shot back, exasperated.
Jeremy was taken aback. He’d expected compassion or at least surprise.
“Don’t take me for an idiot, Jeremy. If you have a modicum of respect for me, lay off the bullshit crises.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Oh, please,” Pierre said wearily.
“Pierre, it’s the truth. It’s like the last time, six years ago, and the time before that, eight years ago, and…”
“And like all the other times,” Pierre thundered.
Jeremy started. What was Pierre getting at? Had he had other relapses that he couldn’t remember?
“You use this as an excuse every time you do something stupid. The last time, it was to get out of going to your mother-in-law’s birthday party. And the time before that, to avoid the consequences of your extramarital affairs…It’s total bullshit, Jeremy.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. You think I’m faking?”
“What do you take me for? An idiot? I’m going to tell you something, Jeremy, because you’re my friend: stop making it all about you, thinking you can toy with other people. We’re not idiots, you know. You’re becoming more and more impossible to deal with. You’re wearing me out, Jeremy.” Pierre’s voice was getting louder and angrier.
Jeremy needed to think about what Pierre was saying. But he had to say something, form some kind of argument. Jeremy felt powerless. He didn’t say a word.
Pierre must have taken his silence for a confession and started talking again. “Okay, I gotta go. As for Victoria, play dead until tomorrow. And talk to her honestly. I’m sorry to have been a little hard on you, but I think you needed a wake-up call. Okay, bye.”
Overwhelmed, Jeremy put down the phone.
So that’s who I am. A manipulator, unfaithful, disrespectful…That’s why Victoria left. It’s a nightmare.
Looking for clues to his past, Jeremy remembered the photo albums. He found them on a shelf in the office. The first three he already knew. The fourth was dedicated to Simon. Jeremy appeared less and less frequently in the photos. He flipped rapidly through the pages and was surprised to discover a shot with his father and mother posing proudly, grandchildren on their laps. His mother had aged since their reconciliation. She was a little more stooped, paler, more fragile. But it was his father’s physique that stopped his heart. What happened to the impressive man he knew? Where was the superhero who, in Jeremy’s childhood dreams, saved his little family from the most frightening monsters? He was thinner. His chest seemed to drag under the weight of fatigue. The rests he’d never taken must have caught up with him, claiming his health in the process.
Did the photo mean he and his father reconciled? Had they seen each other again? Did his father forgive him for his unacceptable, unworthy behavior? The image suggested it might be true. But Jeremy wasn’t in the photo.
Or maybe I’m the one behind the camera, Jeremy reassured himself. He didn’t want to go any further with this train of thought. Their relationship had gotten better. The photo proved it. That was enough.
Jeremy found another photo. Pierre and Clotilde were seated on a restaurant patio. Pierre held Thomas and Simon on his knees. Thomas was laughing. Pierre was making a funny face. Clotilde, she looked away. What a weird girl. Does she ever look happy?
Jeremy closed the album and looked at his desk. It was tidy, clean. He opened the first drawer and found his bank statements, pay slips, his most recent tax return. He’d become a sales manager. He made a good living. His checkbooks revealed he was a spender and took care of himself: suits, shoes, haircuts, restaurants.
The last drawer was locked, doubling his curiosity. The information he’d gathered so far hadn’t shed any light on his current situation. But if he was careful to hide documents or items in his desk, they must be important. He looked for the key on the desk and then throughout the room. He opened the closet, looked under piles of sweaters and shirts, searched the pockets on every jacket, all in vain.
Then he noticed a small box placed on a stand near the door. He went up to it, picked up the box, and tried opening it. The container, made of metal and composite materials, seemed almost hermetically sealed. An area slightly darker than the rest resembled a fingerprint. He ran his finger over it. He heard a click, and the door opened. The box held a keychain and a card holder containing American Express and Visa cards, both in his name, as well as a wad of cash. He took the keys, went to the desk, and opened the drawer.
Several objects were arranged inside. He discovered a framed black-and-white photo, and emotion overwhelmed him. It was one of the rare photos from his childhood. He stood between his parents. Their expressions betrayed their pride and shyness about posing as a family. Jeremy was six years old at the time.
Why would he hide it there? It deserved a place in his living room or on his desk.
Jeremy also recognized the silver case containing the Book of Psalms that Victoria had given him. He picked it up apprehensively. The last time he’d held it in his hands, he had gone to sleep battling horrific sensations and strange visions. He opened the tarnished box, removed the book, and noticed that several pages had been brutally torn out. He checked the numbers of the miss
ing psalms: thirty, seventy-seven, and ninety. Was he the one who had committed this act? He knew it wasn’t possible. Even if he’d never really observed religious law, he had a certain respect for sacred objects. And even if his attempt at suicide went against the essential laws of the religion he was born into, he was a believer, in his own way.
Jeremy also found a packet of letters tied with red ribbon. He took it off and slid the sheets of paper between his hands. They were written by Victoria. The first dated to May 14, 2001, a few days after his suicide attempt:
Jeremy,
My letter probably surprises you. After all, we spend a lot of time together, and I talk to you all the time (too much?). But faced with your silence, I only know how to be silly or discuss uninteresting topics. The situation is not trivial. I find myself watching over a man who wanted to die for me and who now won’t even speak to me. You only talk in your sleep. You say strange things. You talk passionately with invisible beings.
The doctors say you experienced a major psychological shock that you’ll come out of gradually.
So I wait.
Because you mean that much to me.
With you, I shared my first laughter, my first dreams. We were kids, and you accepted my ramblings, my princess fantasies. If we had known how to kiss, how to embrace, we would’ve done it. But at the time, it was enough just to pretend to be in love and hold hands. We were pure and true. And then I grew up. I wanted to find a new audience, more of a challenge. I distanced myself from you. I gave you a bit part. I knew you were in love with me, and that made me happy because I was thoughtless and only wanted to be wanted by others. I forgot about you. You were part of my childhood, and I didn’t want to be a child anymore. I wanted to be a woman who makes her own decisions about joy, love, and life. Because I loved life, Jeremy.
Madly.
Of course, today you might think your actions seduced me by being extreme—that you fed my pride once again with an act of love to end all others. But you’d be wrong. It was the intensity of your words that inspired me. I went to your place after your confession because you had said what I always wanted to hear. You didn’t care about the circumstances or consequences. You declared your love because you had to.
As if it was a question of life or death.
But I didn’t give you life, so you chose death. I didn’t find your act heroic. Quite the contrary; I found it ridiculous. Only life leads to love. I don’t understand why you did it. I’ll never understand. It was excessive, overdramatic. It scares me. You scare me. But not your love. Your love doesn’t scare me.
I want to be with you, to see you heal and smile.
You’re an important part of my life.
You woke me up. You took me out of my dream of life and brought me back to life itself.
All without a single kiss,
Victoria
Victoria’s words called many images to Jeremy’s mind: memories of childhood, of the years Jeremy spent hoping for Victoria’s love. For a few moments, Jeremy let nostalgia wash over him and rock him gently. He felt good. Or at the very least, he felt emotions powerful enough to make him forget his questions, doubts, and fears.
The second sheet was an e-mail printout from January 17, 2002.
My love,
I love you (but I think I already told you that). I miss you. Mom told me I could’ve gone with you. I wasn’t sure. I have to think about taking care of my father, who was shaken up when I called off my engagement with Hugo.
I just wanted to tell you that during the train ride, I thought about us. For a long time. And I’ve decided we make the perfect couple. Rather reassuring, don’t you think?
Remember to check the faucets, turn out the light, and cut the gas. (I like saying that…like we’re already an old couple!)
Until tomorrow, my king,
Victoria
Jeremy recognized Victoria in these few lines and was happy to see signs of a familiarity that otherwise escaped him.
Next he found several love notes. The kind a woman leaves for her lover to find on the nightstand in the morning when he wakes up, on the mirror in the bathroom, or in a jacket pocket. Then came a letter dated November 1, 2003.
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. H
ow was this possible? Was he really such a jerk? Why was it that during these re-awakenings, 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?
Still With Me Page 6
