The remaining letters detailed the divorce proceedings initiated at Victoria’s request. Jeremy was crushed. His ordeal had taken a tragic turn. Their life together was over. Victoria didn’t want anything to do with him. The only positive element in what he read was that she had believed his story, tried to fight—to fight with him—against the illness. But she had to give up, and now he was the one she fought against.
She took me back. She still hoped I could change. She still loved me then. What a cruel disappointment it must have been for her to see me slip back into my madness. She must have suffered. And the kids. They must hate me.
Suddenly, Jeremy heard a knock at the door. His first instinct was to open it, but as he started to turn the knob, he hesitated. What would he discover next?
Jeremy resigned himself to the inevitable and opened the door.
“Finally! Were you sleeping or what?” Leaning against the door jamb, a young man was catching his breath. He wore faded jeans, a T-shirt that said, “Be mine,” and a pair of silver sneakers. He had long auburn hair that contained traces of old hair dye. He walked over to the bed and flopped down. He stretched out, flung his arms to the sides, and stared at the ceiling.
Jeremy stood motionless in front of the open door.
“Hey man, close the door. How long are you going to stand there?”
Jeremy obeyed passively and stood leaning against the door jamb.
The young man was still panting. “Holy shit, you’ll never guess what happened to me. I was followed by the cops. They must’ve been tipped off.”
He sat up on one elbow to better tell his story. “Picture this. I was leaving my place, totally cool and everything. I mean, when I say cool, I mean I was a little messed up after the craziness last night at your party. Then all of a sudden, I knew something was wrong. My sixth sense, right? So I look across the street, and I see these two guys in this crappy car. I mean, shit, only cops hang out two at a time in shitty cars. Why haven’t those motherfuckers figured out that two guys in a car, no matter what, is immediately suspicious? Okay, anyway, I said to myself, ‘Marco, they’re coming for your ass.’ But I didn’t panic. I started walking all cool and all, thinking about the best way to get the hell out of there.”
Excited, Marco jumped up and started to act out the scene. “I mean, shit, I still had at least fifty thousand dollars’ worth of blow on me. Can you imagine? And I knew I had no time to lose because those two weren’t there to check my papers. They were there to pick me up, for sure. They got a tip, I’m telling you.
“I heard them start their car behind me. And that’s when I realized I had an advantage. They were in a car, and I was on foot. You get it, dude? We’re in Montmartre! You see what I mean? How you gonna get around in a car on those streets? They probably thought I was gonna help ’em out by getting in my own car and letting them follow me to my first stop. A cop’s wet dream, right? Okay, so I turn right, and I just start running down the Sacré-Coeur. Two hundred thirty-seven steps. That’s more than a car can do! And after I shook ’em, I dove straight down this little street I know. They were probably just getting out of their car. Holy shit, what fucking idiots!”
Marco burst into hysterical laughter and looked at Jeremy, nodding, waiting for his reaction. “Come on? Nothing? Don’t worry; it was a while ago. Nobody followed me, I swear.”
Marco sat back down on the bed, and his face became serious. “Okay, fine, I wanted to ask you something. You’re the only person I can ask. You’re cool. We’re friends, right? And you wouldn’t fuck me over. Not for money, anyway; you have more than enough.”
Marco kept his head down, waiting for some encouragement from Jeremy. Jeremy couldn’t stand there much longer saying nothing. But he couldn’t admit he didn’t understand a word of Marco’s story either, or that he didn’t even know who Marco was.
He decided to play the stranger’s game. He’d have time to figure things out later.
“What do you want from me?” he asked quietly.
“Okay…So…I can’t go home with the blow on me. If they catch me with it, I’m screwed. So…I wanted to leave it with you. Then later, I’ll go home. If they’re there, they’ll take me and grill me. They can always hold me for interrogation. But between the cops and Stako’s men, I’ll take the cops every time. And so then, if I keep my mouth shut and I don’t have anything on me, they’ll have to let me go. I’ll tell Stako to send one of his boys over for the stash.”
“And why would I do that for you?”
Marco looked surprised. “Why? ’Cause you’re my friend. ’Cause I helped you out when you were in the loony bin. I thought it was obvious.”
Jeremy couldn’t believe it. He hung out with this creep! He was his friend, his accomplice. A light shudder ran the length of his body, and he wanted to laugh. A laugh that, if he let it out, would have ended in a sob.
“Okay, fine. Leave me the…blow,” he stammered.
“Thanks for having my back, Jem. You’re cool.”
Jeremy smiled at the nickname. It was the same as the life he lived: ugly and short.
The young drug dealer shoved his hands under his T-shirt and extracted two packages of white powder.
“You can taste it; it’s the best. But don’t fuck around. Don’t go snorting half of it or throwing a party on my tab, okay? Or you’re gonna have to settle up with Stako,” he said, eyeing his merchandise greedily. “Fuck, there’s seriously enough for fifty thousand bucks!”
Suddenly, he sat up. “Okay, cool, I’m gonna jet.” He stood and handed the packages to Jeremy.
“Put them away. Don’t leave them out. I’ve seen the savages who come through here. You’ll get a call sometime before tomorrow. One of Stako’s guys. Oh, yeah, and so you know it’s the right guy, he’ll ask if you know the score for the Lyon-Paris match.” Marco burst out in hysterical laughter. “I love it. It’s like a bad gangster movie.”
When the young man closed the door, Jeremy felt terribly alone, the victim of an incredible story with a momentum of its own.
In his confusion, he knew only one thing: He couldn’t lose Victoria and the kids without a fight. He had to organize his thoughts. Resume his story and search for clues. He had a hunch and needed to follow it, whether that meant finding himself or losing his mind. He didn’t have much time. A few hours. A few hours of reason in which to resolve years of madness.
Jeremy made his way back to the apartment that he remembered from what was at least two years earlier. He stood in front of the building door before deciding to use the intercom.
“Yes?”
Despite the metallic sound, he knew it wasn’t Victoria’s voice. It belonged to an older woman.
“I’d like to speak to Victoria.”
A few seconds of silence went by while the woman seemed to be thinking. “She’s not here.”
“I have to find her. Where is she?”
“I don’t know. Good-bye.”
“Wait!”
The woman had disconnected.
Jeremy wished he had keys to the apartment. Victoria had no doubt taken them back.
He took out the cell phone that he’d found in his room and scrolled through the contacts list. With the exception of Clotilde and Pierre, they were all strangers. Finally, he found Victoria’s cell phone number.
On the fifth ring, the voice mail kicked in. He was bothered by Victoria’s carefree voice as he thought back to his previous re-awakenings, so recent, and his moments of happiness. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and left a message that was coherent and persuasive.
“Victoria, it’s Jeremy. I’m calling you because you’re the only one who understands what I have to say. I’m having another episode. An episode that lets me recognize the horrors I’ve committed. I know you can believe me. Like the last time, when you did what I asked and had me committed. I also know it didn’t work, that I didn’t follow my treatment. I read the letters from the attorney. I don’t know what’s left of your feelings tod
ay or if you want to help me. I’m just looking for an explanation. I want to know what exactly happened the day after my recording. I’d also like to get the tape back. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. Call me back. Or come find me. Just to talk. I’m at the café across from our apartment…your apartment.
“I’m going to wait for you. Please don’t give up on me.”
He knew that Victoria would get in contact, that she wouldn’t abandon him, that she’d be able to tell the difference between the worthless person who hurt her and the person who loved her. He knew she’d understand that they were both victims of the same man.
Jeremy went into the little bar with a faded facade and sat facing the street. These moments of reflection permitted him to collect a few fragments of familiarity in the chaos of images and words. Maybe it was a false lead, but it was worth following. If only to keep hope alive.
When asked, he ordered an espresso. The owner served him with a hostile, “Here, Delègue.” Jeremy was clearly not a valued customer.
Jeremy took in his surroundings. The world around him was not bothered by his drama. A little old couple sat silently, wondering what to do with this new day. A blonde-haired student burned her tongue on an espresso and swore. A dreamy-eyed girl let her eyes wander across the reflections in the Formica table, no doubt smiling at a fond memory. A man at the bar looked around him, face lit with blithe joy, hoping to strike up a conversation with a fellow customer. A neglected-looking woman studied her glass of wine. A businessman, dressed in a supple fabric, was absorbed in his sports magazine.
Jeremy felt like an invisible observer, nostalgic for the day-to-day life in which he no longer belonged.
He still didn’t know what year it was that he’d woken up. Although this information was not especially useful, he gave in to his curiosity, and noticing some daily newspapers hung on a wooden rack, he got up to get one. May 8, 2012. He noted the information without much emotion, then scanned the articles disinterestedly. It quickly reinforced the fact that he was no longer of this world.
Two hours went by before a taxi stopped in front of the café. The driver went in and asked the owner, “Is there a Mr. Delègue here?”
With a nod, the owner indicated Jeremy’s table.
“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 test
ifying 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.
Still With Me Page 9