Still With Me

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.