Still With Me

by Thierry Cohen

  “Like a crazy person. Pierre’s exactly right.” Jeremy let his gaze wander over Victoria’s face, so near, and he was suddenly aware of his luck.

  She squeezed his hand. “Jeremy, I’m worried about you. I think we should see a specialist.”

  “Don’t worry. Pierre’s right. Tomorrow, I’ll get my memory back. And if not, I promise I’ll go to the hospital.”

  “Unless you forget your promise from the day before,” Pierre quipped.

  “You’ll be there to remind me,” said Jeremy.

  “What if you go take a nap?” Pierre suggested. “It’ll be good for you.”

  At the thought of going to bed, Jeremy felt a ball of anxiety form in his stomach. He used humor to block the images taking shape in his mind. “I want to lie down and relax but not to sleep. What if I make another jump into the future? Five years, ten years, fifty years. I open my eyes and there, horror of horrors, I see a pair of dentures in a cup, and Victoria’s there drooling beside me.”

  “Charming.” She laughed.

  “And with that, I’ll be on my way,” Pierre interjected, getting to his feet. “I’m going to check up on Clotilde.”

  “Would you apologize to her for me?” Jeremy asked remorsefully.

  “No problem. I’ll explain everything and she’ll understand.”

  When Pierre was gone, Jeremy stretched out on the couch. Victoria disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a bottle of champagne and two fluted glasses.

  “We can still celebrate your birthday together.” She handed him a glass. “Are you thinking about your amnesia right now?”

  “I can’t think about anything else,” Jeremy said, and then corrected himself when he realized his mistake. “Even if I feel good right now with you.”

  Victoria smiled. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “I’m asking myself what will happen to our marriage if I don’t get my memory back tomorrow. In the end, our theory about an overnight recovery isn’t guaranteed.”

  “But the last time…”

  “Was the last time. You can’t make rules based on one time.”

  “Don’t worry. If it doesn’t happen, we’ll consult the leading experts. Nothing will spoil our happiness.”

  “Yes, we’re well on our way to an exceptional life,” Jeremy exclaimed ironically. “Isn’t it great to know that every year on my birthday I’ll wake up to new surprises? I’ll feel just like a kid on Christmas, running through every room in the house to count our children. And think how great it will be to discover new friends, perfect strangers, sprawling on my couch.”

  “Stop saying things like that. I mean, really, I’d rather take you that way.”

  “What does illness matter if I’m happy with you?” Jeremy whispered.

  Victoria stroked his face.

  “Let’s stay positive,” he continued. “The amnesia lets us take a step back from our lives so we can appreciate its worth.”

  Victoria smiled mischievously. “It’s true. And besides, I’d like us to seriously consider making another baby.”

  Jeremy gave her a puzzled look. “Oh really? But I just met the first one.”

  She pretended not to hear. “I think there shouldn’t be more than a two-year age difference between children, so they can form a real bond. And then, of course, we already have the bottles…”

  She lay against Jeremy. He felt intimidated by the situation and surprised by the intimacy, but happy.

  “Let’s make a baby brother for Thomas…right now,” she whispered.

  Jeremy couldn’t entirely abandon himself to the pleasure, observing the scene rather than living it.

  They’d finished the bottle of champagne, and Jeremy felt dizzy. He was having trouble gathering his thoughts. When Victoria handed him a small gift box, he tried to smile. A meaningless grin appeared on his numb face.

  “Ha,” Victoria burst out laughing. “You look like you’ve had enough. I’ve never seen you this tipsy after just a few glasses.”

  “I think I’m a little drunk,” said Jeremy. “And tired.”

  He opened the box and found a finely engraved, solid silver antique. Not sure what it was exactly, Jeremy turned it over a few times in his hand.

  “It’s a trinket that caught your attention in the window of a shop on Rosiers Street. A book of psalms in a silver box. When I saw your reaction to it, I was surprised. You looked…hypnotized. You, the one who never thinks about religion. And then I thought it must mean something to you.”

  “Thank you,” Jeremy managed to reply, surprised by the peculiar gift.

  He opened the box and took out the little book printed on parchment paper. He had to make an effort to read the words on the cover: Book of Psalms. Hebrew/French.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No, it’s really nice…I’m…Well, the drinks. I’m going to go lie down for a minute.”

  “Okay, I’ll clean up.”

  She got up, put the glasses and bottle on a platter, and headed to the kitchen. Left alone, Jeremy suddenly felt sweat beading on his temples. An icy blast shook his arms and legs, his stomach and his back. He opened the little book and flipped through it, breathing heavily. He held it farther from his eyes and then brought it close again.

  You bring frail mortals to the point of being crushed, then say, “People, repent!” For from your viewpoint, a thousand years are merely like yesterday or a night watch. When you sweep them away, they become like sleep; by morning they are like growing grass, growing and flowering in the morning, but by evening cut down and dried up.

  Jeremy felt a burning sensation in his stomach. Was it reading the words that was causing the pain? He was breathing hard. He wanted to get up, but his legs wouldn’t obey. The same feelings I had at the hospital.

  Jeremy’s eyelids felt heavy. He felt so tired that he had to lie down. But he was afraid to sleep. What would be waiting for him when he woke up? And what was the pain in his stomach? He started reading again.

  The span of our life is seventy years, or if we are strong, eighty; yet at best it is toil and sorrow, over in a moment, and then we are gone. Who grasps the power of your anger and wrath to the degree that the fear due you should inspire? So teach us to count our days, so that we will become wise. Return, Adonai! How long must it go on? Take pity on your servants!

  The Book of Psalms fell from his hands, and he couldn’t pick it up again. His arms and legs went rigid. He heard Victoria in the kitchen. He tried to call to her, but no sound left his mouth. He heard a murmur and saw a gleam near the window, but he couldn’t turn his head. Jeremy was now completely paralyzed, drenched in sweat. Only his eyes could still move. He fought for air and struggled to stay awake for a few more seconds.

  Then he saw the old man—there, in front of the window. He was reciting the same prayer. The one for the dead. What was he doing here? Who was he? Jeremy had to warn Victoria—to tell her there was a madman in the apartment.

  Warn her!

  Warn her!

  He tried calling out, but there was no air left. He gasped for a few seconds before giving in to the night.

  FOUR

  “Daddy, Daddy.” The child’s voice was soft but persistent. “Daddy, wake up.”

  Jeremy straightened his head slowly. Next to him a little boy whose enormous black eyes seemed to overwhelm the finer features of his face was sitting cross-legged on the bed. Chin resting in the palm of his hand, long black hair falling down the nape of his neck, he pouted at Jeremy.

  “Come on, wake up, Daddy. It’s time.”

  Jeremy let his head fall back on the pillow. He tried to organize his thoughts as to where—and when—he was. But the only images that came to mind were from his twenty-third birthday: the wonderful night with Victoria, his drunkenness, the Book of Psalms, and the old man. Fear mingled with fatigue swept over him.

  Not this again. I can’t do it anymore.

  “I’m hungry. I want my milk,” the little voice insisted.
<
br />   Jeremy didn’t respond. It’s happening again. This boy is calling me Daddy. He must be Thomas. That means I’ve landed a few years from my last memories. Three or four years.

  Jeremy heaved a sigh of despair. He was unable to think. He’d lost his will.

  Tired of waiting, the boy got up and left the room.

  Jeremy stayed in bed. He covered his eyes with his forearm, less to protect his eyes from the light than to escape from reality. Then he heard the sound of broken glass and shot up instinctively.

  He’d moved too fast. Dizziness overwhelmed him. He got out of bed, but his legs weren’t ready to support his weight. Eyes half closed, leaning on furniture, he walked in the direction of the noise.

  The boy was in the kitchen. Standing on a stool, he rummaged through the cupboard. He didn’t bother turning around. “I want my milk,” he said petulantly.

  Jeremy wondered what he was supposed to do. He was dumbstruck; he felt as though he lacked the authority or the ability to think and act. No doubt the day would hold more surprises. But he resolved then and there to engage with the present, starting with his role as father. Thomas was now perched on the edge of the counter.

  “Don’t move. You’re going to hurt yourself. I’ll get it.”

  The child had dropped a jar of jam. Shards of glass, shiny and dangerous, littered the cold tiles of the floor. Jeremy picked the boy up and set him on the kitchen table. Still, he felt detached. He wanted to leave the child, go back to bed, and refuse to play this game.

  Jeremy looked for slippers. He found a pair of black leather moccasins at the end of the hallway and put them on. Using paper towels, he pushed the shards of glass into a corner. Then he started looking for a mug in the cupboard where the boy had been rummaging, and found one.

  “No, I want my bottle,” said the child.

  “Your bottle?”

  The child looked too old for that, but Jeremy didn’t even want to understand. He grabbed the bottle that the boy pointed out with his finger and took a carton of milk from the refrigerator. The present moment swallowed him slowly, forcing his numb mind to perform the necessary gestures.

  “You forgot the chocolate.”

  “Oh, the chocolate. Where is it again?”

  Looking bored, the child pointed to the cupboard. Jeremy found a box of chocolate powder. He opened the microwave, put the bottle inside, and looked at the buttons.

  “The big button,” the boy said. Jeremy pressed it.

  “On this number,” his son said, holding up two fingers.

  While the bottle warmed, he took a moment to survey the kitchen. It wasn’t the same apartment as the previous morning. He wanted to see Victoria, talk to her. Where was she?

  Jeremy looked at the child. He was very handsome. His big eyes captured Jeremy’s attention once more. He knew he’d seen them before. It only took a second for him to realize they were his. The boy looked like him. Because he’s mine. This thought gave Jeremy a degree of comfort.

  The boy stared back at him with curiosity.

  “Are you okay, Thomas?”

  The boy raised his eyebrows. “I’m not Thomas. I’m Simon.”

  Jeremy received this information with a tranquility that surprised him. Two children? Why not? From now on, nothing can surprise me. But then, how many years have I forgotten this time?

  “Simon, yes…Sorry, I’m not awake yet…And where is Thomas?”

  “Playing in his room.”

  The microwave stopped. Jeremy took the bottle, gave it to Simon, then started off toward the living room.

  He opened a door that led to an office. On another door he saw a Disney sign where someone had written, “Thomas and Simon.” He went in. An older boy was sitting in front of a television screen. He held a joystick in his lap, manipulating it with skill, moving a character along a colored ramp. The boy didn’t acknowledge Jeremy and stayed focused on his game.

  Jeremy came up to him and felt his heart jump. “Thomas?”

  The boy did not answer.

  Maybe it’s not him.

  “Thomas,” Jeremy said in a firmer voice.

  The child didn’t lift his head.

  He must be four or five years old. Six, maybe. Simon, he must be a year younger.

  “Think you could stop for five minutes, please?”

  The boy pressed the pause button and crossed his arms without taking his eyes off the screen.

  “Thomas.”

  “What?” the boy answered wearily.

  Well, it’s definitely him. And to think that’s the baby I held in my arms yesterday. It’s crazy.

  “You…have you eaten breakfast?” Jeremy improvised.

  The child shrugged his shoulders. Obviously he was sulking. Was it because Jeremy had interrupted his game?

  Jeremy walked up to him and knelt down. The boy lowered his head.

  “Look at me.”

  Thomas turned a pair of hard eyes on his father.

  He looks more like his mother. His whole face. He has the delicate features, the green eyes, the mouth. Jeremy was both moved and disturbed to find himself face-to-face with a little stranger whose features were so familiar and whom he last remembered as a baby in his arms.

  “Where’s your mother?” Jeremy asked.

  The question surprised the child, irritated him even. He stared at his father defiantly.

  “Like you don’t know,” he replied dryly.

  What was that supposed to mean?

  Thomas made Jeremy nervous. He wanted to hug him and kiss him, but the boy’s demeanor held him at bay.

  “Okay, I’ll let you play.” Jeremy left Thomas, who immediately returned to his game, and went back to the office. He collapsed into the armchair.

  I have two kids.

  He pivoted the chair and found himself looking at the electronic calendar hung on the wall. The image featured a school that resembled the one from his childhood. He read the date: MAY 8, 2010.

  This is insane. My last memory is six years old. My birthday. An endless nightmare.

  Jeremy struggled to place a few landmarks in the timeline. Thomas is six years old, just about. Simon is our second child. He must be at least one or two years younger. We moved. This is my twenty-ninth birthday.

  Jeremy sighed. He felt resigned. Is that all I know for sure? What good is a man who knows so little about his life?

  He wanted to look at himself in the mirror and left the office to search for the bathroom.

  In his reflection, he could read the signature of time on his face. The skin duller. His hair losing ground by the millimeter. Fine lines beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes. His life had been stolen. He was aging rapidly, in fits. Time struck him violently, with Jeremy passing out just long enough to be revived by the next blow.

  That’s it. My life feels like a series of vicious slaps that punctuate a few brief parentheses of reason. Flashes of light in a dark hallway. And I get older.

  Jeremy felt a cramp twist his stomach. He was hungry. The same hunger as last time. It was a sign of life that kindled his desire to act. He would eat to regain his strength, his clarity. He wanted to fight. Against what? Against whom? How? He still didn’t know. But he refused to give up.

  In the refrigerator, he found a piece of chicken, a bottle of fruit juice, and a plate of sliced meat. He ate and drank quickly to prevent his body from becoming weak, not really tasting the food but appreciating its texture in his mouth. Thomas came in, and Jeremy felt embarrassed by the sad spectacle.

  “Want to eat something with me?” he asked.

  Thomas didn’t respond. He went to the cupboard, opened it, and grabbed two bars of chocolate.

  “You know, you shouldn’t eat chocolate right now. If you haven’t had breakfast…”

  But Thomas left the room without waiting to hear what else his father had to say.

  Jeremy felt silly. Who am I to say something like that? He didn’t feel comfortable in the role of father—so completely new to him th
at he had to improvise.

  Jeremy heard the phone ring. Thinking it might be Victoria or his mother, he rushed into the living room. Thomas had already picked up. He spoke in a low, sad voice. “Yes…Cereal and a chocolate bar…He drank his milk…”

  Thomas was talking to Victoria. “When are you coming home?” the boy asked. “Why did you leave?”

  His voice broke. He was on the verge of tears. “I don’t want to stay here. You have to come get us…Yes, okay. Me too…Here he is.”

  Jeremy moved to take the telephone, but the boy called to his brother. Simon ran up and took the phone. Thomas turned and saw his father planted in the middle of the living room. Without saying a word, he wiped a tear from his cheek and went to his room. Jeremy wanted to hold him, console him. But that was impossible. He was the reason for Thomas’s unhappiness. Dismayed, Jeremy listened to Simon talk to Victoria.

  “Mommy?” Simon’s voice was cheerful. “Yes, my milk…Where are you? Are you coming home?” The little boy listened attentively, nodding his head. He mimicked the mannerisms of an adult having an important conversation.

  “I love you, Mommy. Lots and lots and lots…Okay…Promise. Me too.” He tried to hang up, but Jeremy leapt in and snatched the phone from his hands. Simon, surprised, looked at him with a frown.

  “Victoria!” Jeremy almost shouted.

  There was a silence, then, “Yes?”

  “Victoria, where are you?”

  “At my parents’. In the country.”

  “But why?”

  “Why?” Victoria’s voice was cold and sarcastic. “To relax.”

  “Are you…going to come back?”

  “Not today, Jeremy. I don’t want to talk about it. I need to get a little perspective. And believe me, it hurts not to see the children. I hope you’re taking good care of Thomas. He’s upset right now. Try talking to him. Try to behave like a father to him.”

  “I don’t understand…”