Panicked, Jeremy tried to cling to the walls of the abyss that surrounded him. But the effort seemed impossible. He flew into a rage. He hadn’t had his second chance. He didn’t deserve this much suffering.
He understood now. But what good was it to realize his mistake if he couldn’t undo it? Was that his hell, like Abraham Chrikovitch said? No, impossible. He was about to die. What was the meaning of this nightmare? Could he wake up from it? He hadn’t had his second chance.
Then Jeremy spoke to the light, to God. He begged forgiveness. Yes, he had offended God! Yes, he had hurt his parents, his wife, his children. But now he understood the value of life. What could he do to earn God’s forgiveness? How could he express his suffering? How could he put words to his deep desire to live, to build a life, to make his loved ones happy?
They would forgive him, he knew it. They would forgive the person he was before his suicide. But God?
The words from a torn page rose up to assail his mind. The disordered sentences torn from memory. And he screamed. I call to you, Adonai; to Adonai I plead for mercy: “What advantage is there in my death, in my going down to the pit? Can the dust praise you? Can it proclaim your truth? Hear me, Adonai, and show me your favor! Adonai, be my helper!”
Suddenly Jeremy regained feeling in his body. The taste of alcohol and prescription pills reappeared on his tongue, and he felt nauseous.
Feeling his throat open to eject the poison, he called her name: “Victoria!”
And a hand squeezed his.
THANKS
To write is to be alone, inhabited by many people. But as soon as the text is finished, the future opens up to other people—the ones in real life. Those who prove willing to support you, advise you, encourage you, and help you live a few moments of life worthy of the most beautiful novel.
To thank the ones who first inspired me with their stories, I gave them a role in my texts. To thank my loved ones for surrounding me, I have only this page.
In order of appearance in my adventure:
No amount of water can quench love, torrents cannot drown it.
—Song of Solomon
Gyslène, my wife, and my first reader.
My children, Solal, Jonas, Yalone, and Amiel, my first fans.
My sister Sabrina Sebban, my first editor, passionate and attentive.
My brother Bruno. An enthusiastic reader, he relieved me of my work so that I could write.
Charm is the true gift of the fairies. Without it you’ve nothing; with it, all.
—Charles Perrault
Jessica Nelson. To her I owe the first magic call of a publishing house. She then encouraged me, advised me, and made the dream possible.
Poets are called by neighborly love to give the shirt off their backs.
—Albert Cohen
My friends Michel Bensoussan, Franky Chriqui, Bruno Merle, and Samy Dreyfuss, for…so many things.
You’re part of my family, one rank, one breath.
—Jean-Jacques Goldman
Their enthusiasm, assistance, and advice helped me move forward: Corinne Cohen, Laurette Cohen, Liliane and Ahava Cohen, Remy Atlan, Isabelle Bayle, Charles Chemla, Arnaud Cholley, Sylvie Cochet, Didier Dahan, Boris Gonzales, Olivier Gormand, Moïse and Yvonne Hadjadj, Amandine, Vanessa and Fabien Hazot, Catherine Paris, Jean-François Piscione, Virgonie Siksik, Cristiana Spataru.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Casablanca, Morocco, Thierry Cohen moved to France at the age of two, as part of a family with five children. After a dramatic childhood, he found comfort in reading books—particularly the works of Americans such as John Fante, Ernest Hemingway, and Philip Roth—and eventually became a writer himself. He penned Still with Me following the suicide of his best friend, in hopes of healing his own pain and helping others who may be considering suicide. In 2007, the book won France’s Grand Prix Jean d’Ormesson. Today, Cohen lives in Lyon with his wife and four children.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Summer Robinson is a writer and translator living in Seattle, Washington. Her work can be found in the blog Everyday Genius, the website Pangur Ban Party, Smalldoggies Magazine, and other literary journals.
Still With Me Page 17