Still With Me

by Thierry Cohen

  “What?”

  “Where are you?” He almost had to shout to be heard, which only made the baby scream louder.

  “Don’t yell like that—you’ll scare him,” Victoria warned. “I’m at the gym. I just finished my class. Oh my goodness, he needs to settle down, the little monster. Put the telephone next to his ear.”

  Jeremy obeyed without comprehending fully. He didn’t hear what Victoria said, but the baby grew quiet. His eyes seemed to be searching for the origin of the voice. Then finally, he fell completely silent, still trembling with hic-cups, his skin clearing slowly.

  “There,” Victoria said with satisfaction. “His mommy’s voice made him happy. If he cries again, pick him up. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Happy birthday, my love.”

  Jeremy thought he was going crazy. Victoria hung up, and he stood there, frozen on two heavy legs, unable to take his eyes off the telephone.

  The same nightmare. I wake up on my birthday and part of my life has vanished. This time I’m married. I have a child. Is this some kind of joke?

  The baby started crying again, bringing Jeremy out of his trance. The screams irritated him. They interrupted his thinking about this new crisis. Jeremy hesitated to pick him up.

  “What do I care about this kid?” Jeremy grumbled out loud, immediately regretting his hostility.

  I don’t even know how to hold a baby.

  Jeremy finally moved to pick up the little boy. His tiny head fell back abruptly. Jeremy vaguely remembered a tip he’d once heard and placed a hand under the baby’s neck for support. He leaned the baby against his shoulder and felt the little body stiffen under his fingers with each cry. He hesitantly paced back and forth across the few feet that separated the bed from the bathroom door. The baby hushed.

  Jeremy remembered the electric calendar from his last awakening and walked over to the wall. The photo of Essaouira had been replaced with a picture of the Russian Cross bridges in Lyon. He’d spent the first years of his life there after his parents left Morocco. The day and the month were the same, but the year had changed: MAY 8, 2004.

  Two years! Two years since I went to the hospital. Two years I can’t remember. Two years evaporated.

  Tears suddenly slid down his cheeks, emptying the lump in his stomach. At that moment, a key turned in the front door lock. Victoria came in. She had changed. Her hair was shorter, cut into a bob, her features transformed. Jeremy thought she’d blossomed, rounder than before, more feminine. Even more beautiful.

  “Hello, my loves,” she called out joyously.

  Jeremy turned away and wiped his eyes on the baby’s bib.

  Victoria walked up to him and placed a kiss on the baby’s forehead. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re crying.”

  Should he tell her about this new episode? It seemed wiser to wait and try to figure out what had happened.

  He forced a weak smile. “I’m not crying. It’s…the little one. His tears wet my cheeks.”

  She pouted a little to show her surprise. A look at the baby transformed her. “So, my sweet, you cried for your mommy?” She took the baby and held him against her body tenderly. “Is that how you wish Daddy a happy birthday?”

  She faced Jeremy, offering her lips for a kiss. “Happy birthday, my love.”

  Then she started to bounce her son again. Jeremy relaxed. Victoria was such a beautiful mother. She was his wife. They had a baby together. A son. He wasn’t a teenage boy lost in love anymore. Now he was a father and a husband. It was hard for him to understand, but the reality of the scene persuaded him.

  He tried to reassure himself. If I’m sick, I’ll get better.

  “Daddy’s going to give you your milk, okay? I’m going to fix lunch for our guests.”

  Victoria placed the baby in Jeremy’s arms authoritatively and held out the bottle. Jeremy was astonished by the fragility of this little creature. He was so lightweight, so vulnerable. Physical contact with the baby made him feel better. Jeremy moved the nipple close to the baby’s mouth.

  “You can be so clumsy, Jeremy,” Victoria said, correcting his stance. “Lean the bottle a little more toward him and hold it in the second position or he’ll choke. It’s like you’ve never done this before.” She went back into the kitchen, calling back to Jeremy, “Don’t you think he looks more like you every day?”

  Jeremy watched the baby suck his milk down hungrily, eyes bright, face well drawn, with a delicate nose. He looked more like Victoria. The idea of having a son troubled him deeply. He felt too young. A few days before, he had been someone else’s son. He thought of his parents. He hadn’t seen them since…in such a long time.

  From the kitchen, Victoria interrupted his reverie. “All done?”

  Yes, the baby had finished his bottle and dozed off, content.

  When Jeremy didn’t respond, Victoria appeared at the door to the living room. “You can give him to me now. I’ll put him to bed.”

  After giving the baby a few pecks on the forehead, she tucked him into his basket.

  “I’m going back to the kitchen. Will you come help me?” Jeremy followed after her, curious.

  “Drink your coffee, then you can help me peel the vegetables. I’m only going to fix an entree. I ordered the rest from the caterer.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jeremy answered.

  The casual ease of the situation unnerved him. But he started to feel a certain sense of satisfaction, carried along by everyday activities where he had a role to play and a wife and a child to care for. Despite his confusion, he was overjoyed to be standing in this kitchen with this level of intimacy with Victoria and surrounded by the odors of coffee and cooking.

  He looked at the vegetables on the table, his steaming mug, the half-eaten loaf of bread, and the unwrapped stick of butter. And suddenly he was very hungry. An intense feeling of emptiness, nausea, and restlessness filled his stomach and ran through his body in waves of heat and minute tremors. He remembered this feeling from childhood. A feeling of imbalance, loss of control, merging with pleasure when he knew the uneasiness would yield to the voluptuousness of total nourishment, warm and sweet.

  He took the bread, cut it, spread it thickly with butter, and bit into it eagerly. Then he gulped down a mouthful of sweet, scalding hot coffee, appreciating the smooth sensation of these substances streaming down his throat.

  Victoria laughed. “You’re that hungry? It’s like you haven’t eaten in…”

  Two years? Jeremy wanted to say it, but he held his tongue and took another bite of bread.

  Hunger appeased, he turned to the task of gathering information. “Who’s coming at noon?”

  “You forgot already?”

  That worried Jeremy. Is she talking about my condition? Do I forget often?

  “Well, it’s Pierre and Clotilde for lunch. Then for coffee, of course, your boss, who’ll be coming straight from the golf course because you know the boss likes to play golf. You were dead set on inviting him and it was your birthday, so…What about tonight for a romantic little dinner?”

  “Yes…of course…good idea,” Jeremy stammered.

  “It would be nice to go out to a restaurant, but I’m not ready to leave Thomas with a stranger yet. There’ll be other chances to celebrate. So let’s behave like responsible parents for now,” she said in a lighthearted tone.

  Jeremy seized the opportunity to ask the question that had been nagging at him. “And my parents—they’re not invited?”

  Victoria froze and looked at him in amazement. “Are you joking?”

  Her reaction terrified him. Was it that surprising to have his parents over on his birthday? He’d thought of them earlier and was eager to see them. He brought the coffee mug to his lips to give himself time to think. The first idea that came to mind was that maybe Victoria didn’t get along with them. The second idea paralyzed him. Were they…?

  Victoria was still staring at him, waiting for an answer.

  “And why wouldn’t I invite them?” he replied,
afraid of what Victoria might say.

  “Why?” she repeated, incredulous. “You don’t speak to them for three years and today, suddenly, you’re surprised they’re not invited?”

  Jeremy breathed a sigh of relief. They weren’t dead. But this comfort only lasted a split second because Victoria’s words sparked another painful thought. Are they still mad? After three years? It’s impossible. We never fought.

  Their family had always been peaceful. No drama, never any arguments. A family united as much by love as tragedy.

  His parents had bought a bar two months after Jeremy was born. It was a little neighborhood place that occupied all their time. His mother worked up to the minute Jeremy got out of school. His father was away longer. The bar consumed him. And when he came home at night, exhausted, he collapsed in front of the television so he could forget the next day would be the same as the one that just ended and all the days to come. As a child, Jeremy had longed to sit on his lap, talk to him, but his father never encouraged the behavior. They rarely chatted at the house; his father preferred the simplicity of eye contact and shared smiles. In the middle of all that silence, Jeremy sometimes thought he could hear his little sister’s whimper. She was never far off, woven into the shadows of their lives.

  Her name was Anna, and she was a year younger than Jeremy. Anna had been four months old when their mother found her motionless in bed, Jeremy standing next to her with tears streaming down his face. She’d left them alone for a few minutes to run an errand.

  “Sudden infant death syndrome,” the doctors called it, putting a name to the mystery without explaining it. Jeremy only spoke to his mother about his sister’s death once. He was eight years old. His teacher, worried about Jeremy’s behavior—too silent, too calm—had advised Mrs. Delègue to take him to see a therapist. It was during this visit that Jeremy’s mother described the scene, eyes bathed in tears.

  “I remember, Mommy,” he’d whispered. Aghast, his mother asked him to go on in detail, but he didn’t know what to say. He just knew. That’s all.

  “It’s not your fault. You were there. You saw it happen, that’s it,” she tried to explain.

  Nevertheless, he sometimes thought he detected an element of reproach in his mother’s tenderness and his father’s silence. But the love they surrounded him with had always eased his fear. And ultimately, that absence, its stifled pain, and the tears shed every year on the same day by his mother had cemented their love. So how, today, could he refuse to speak to them? The thought sickened him.

  “I want to see them,” Jeremy said.

  Victoria gazed at him in astonishment. “You never go see them or answer their phone calls. You never wanted them to meet Thomas, and now, this morning, you wake up and decide you want to invite them over for your birthday?”

  Jeremy balked at Victoria’s curt description. Although he was beginning to believe that this was real life—that he’d returned from his journey into nothingness—here was a reason to doubt.

  “How can I explain? Yes, I really do. Do you mind?” he stammered.

  Victoria grinned. “Don’t try to switch places with me, Jeremy. I’ve always wanted to have a normal relationship with them. But you wouldn’t listen. I’ve tried more than once to talk you into it. I’ve tried to tell you. I even wrote to you about it…”

  Jeremy wanted to eliminate the need for any argument. “You’re right,” he stammered. “These are my parents, and I was wrong to behave like that, and I want to see them.”

  “You’re acting really weird today. But I’m not complaining. Here, I’ll call them right away before you change your mind,” she said on her way out of the kitchen.

  Jeremy stayed behind and heard her talking on the phone.

  He felt miserable. How could he refuse to speak to his parents for almost three years? Wasn’t his suicide attempt hard enough on them? What thanklessness. On that day, he hadn’t thought of anyone but himself. He decided his life belonged to him exclusively, that he was a planet lost in a cold universe. And during his hallucinations, when his parents appeared to show him how disgraceful his decision really was, he’d chased them from his mind so he wouldn’t lose his courage.

  Up to this point, he’d considered his suicide attempt to be more or less a good thing. Hadn’t it won Victoria’s heart? Out of laziness, he’d avoided any thinking that would’ve led him to recognize the horror of his actions. Yes, without a doubt, his behavior had been egotistical, stupid, and mean.

  His mind floundered; only the conversation taking place over the phone kept him in the present.

  Victoria came back into the room. “All done. Your mother was even more surprised than I was. I think she cried a little. It turns out she just ate lunch. You’ll have to introduce her to Clotilde and Pierre. They’ve never met.”

  “My mom? What about my dad?”

  Victoria made a face. “She said it’s a bit too fast for him. She’ll try to persuade him, but don’t get your hopes up.”

  Victoria stepped out to pick up some groceries. The baby slept. Jeremy took advantage of Victoria’s absence by searching the apartment for clues about the past two years.

  He opened a large white wardrobe sitting across from the bed. It held a lot of clothes, ties, and dress shirts. All of them name brand. He saw a briefcase sitting near the chair at the entrance to the apartment. It was inscribed with his initials, J.D. Inside he found a planner, some folders, a parking ticket, and a few receipts. In the planner was his schedule for the week: executive board meetings, team-building exercises, motivational meetings, meetings in Paris and the surrounding area. On Tuesday, he had had lunch with Pierre. Then again on Thursday. Pierre, his best friend. Other names were written down around the noon hour and often at dinnertime, but they told him nothing. The folders contained his work orders. On a business card he read, “Jeremy Delègue, Sales, Ile-de-France.”

  He leafed through a booklet. It promoted the company he worked for and its products—adhesives designed for some use he couldn’t fathom.

  None of these materials helped him. Quite the opposite: Jeremy felt a strange quiver of guilt, like he was violating someone else’s privacy. I need to see some photos. They’ll tell me something about the past few years and maybe give me some clues.

  He quickly found three albums sitting on a shelf. On the faux leather cover of the first album, the year 2001 was written in gold ink. Elegant handwriting provided captions for each of the photos taken in the course of his first year with Victoria. The first shot took him by surprise. He looked tired and wan, with vacant eyes. Victoria sat on his knees with her arms around his shoulders. She wore a big grin. He looked gloomy and sad. The contrast was obvious. According to the date, he was looking at a photo taken a few days after his release from the hospital.

  He flipped through the album. The further along he got, the more life and vitality seemed to return to him. The captions helped him with the timeline. “Monastir, our first vacation,” “Luberon, weekend,” “My birthday,” “New Year’s Day.” He noticed several people who appeared to be friends but were strangers to him now.

  Jeremy stopped on a snapshot of himself where he was alone, looking lost. His expression was hard to place. The longer he looked at it, the more he found it empty and very different from the ones he’d seen in other photos. He went back to the first pages and was surprised to see that in all the photos, even when he looked ecstatic, his eyes never changed. Like two black buttons sewn onto a teddy bear’s face. Then he told himself that everyone who looked closely at his own image would feel the same way. A feeling of strangeness. It had happened to him before when he’d played a childhood game, staring at his reflection in the mirror while repeating his own name. After a few minutes, his face became unrecognizable, an amalgamation of someone else’s flesh and unknown features—his name a series of meaningless letters and syllables.

  According to the title, the second album was devoted to his wedding. He and Victoria at the courthouse, she in a stunning w
hite dress, traditional and elegant, and he in a gray suit, white shirt, and charcoal tie. They were both smiling at their guests, hugging them, laughing. He didn’t see his parents, and his heart quaked. He looked for photos of the religious ceremony, but they were nowhere to be found. They must have had a civil union only.

  The third album was titled, “Our Family.” It opened with a few photos of pregnant Victoria. She had a baby bump, and it looked good on her. The world changed, and the people he loved changed with it; his universe altered, and he stayed the same.

  Then came photos of the birth. The first photo of Thomas showed a newborn baby lost in the blue of an oversized bib. The caption read, “Thomas, my prince.” The rest featured Thomas in different settings and outfits. In some, Jeremy played the role of father, baby in his arms or bottle in hand.

  Dizzy, he closed the album. None of these photos brought back any memories. He had looked through them with curiosity and anxiety, like he was violating the intimate secrets of a twin brother he had never known. This life wasn’t his.

  What can I do? Tell Victoria about this new bout of amnesia? Wait and count on a recovery? After all, these photos seem to show that I lived normally since my last episode.

  He didn’t hear Victoria come in. “What are you still doing in your underwear? Get dressed. It’s almost noon. Our guests will be here any minute.”

  Jeremy walked obediently to the bathroom.

  Clotilde was the kind of girl who was extremely pretty and completely annoying. A cold beauty, full of confidence. Jeremy didn’t like her. She was a poseur. An imposer as well. Her feelings and opinions prevailed over others, whom she barely listened to. Her relationship with Pierre seemed to be established on a tacit agreement: in exchange for her beauty, Pierre let her play the intellectual. Sometimes one of Clotilde’s opinions or attitudes kindled a spark of annoyance in his eyes or smile before he caught himself and looked at her again adoringly.

  Jeremy was shocked by how much affection Victoria seemed to have for Clotilde. They were so different.