Still With Me

—Victoria, who loves you anyway

Jeremy felt sick after reading the letter. His eyes filled with tears. H

ow was this possible? Was he really such a jerk? Why was it that during these re-awakenings, when his amnesia obliterated parts of his past, he felt like a reasonable man, a good son, and a loving husband? What a paradox. He felt normal when nothing could be further from the truth.

One letter remained on the desk. He picked it up with trembling fingers. What else would he learn? How much more could he take?

The letter wasn’t dated. The handwriting was more frantic. Certain words were scratched out, nervously.

Jeremy,

I know you don’t like it when I write. But I don’t have any other way to express my feelings. I’m going to pieces, Jeremy.

Because the man I love doesn’t love me anymore. He doesn’t love his life, his family, his home. You’re not happy with me anymore. You keep up the facade, only to avoid hurting me or causing a scene. You dodge reality as soon as it’s not smiling on you anymore. At home, you go out like a light. You seem absorbed in other thoughts. What are they? I’m convinced your sons and I aren’t among them.

Thomas won’t speak to you anymore. He’s given up on your affection. You’re never present, always traveling, or when you are at home, you’re exhausted, unavailable. Do you realize that Thomas is having serious problems at school? He won’t do his work. But he’s so smart. The therapist said it was his way of punishing us. You for your absence and me for my failure to keep you at home. Do you at least know he sees a therapist every week?

And Simon—do you know what’s been going on with him lately? Does that interest you? It’s not work that’s stripped away your love. You use it to hide from us. We’re not enough for you anymore. It’s like our family life doesn’t give you the pleasure that you’re searching for endlessly. Or maybe you met another woman. Maybe you found in her what we once had. The problem isn’t knowing that you’re having an affair, it’s understanding how you got there. At first I thought I was responsible for the erosion of our love. Then I refused to feel guilty. The only abnormal element is you. Your invented childhood, your lies, your uncontrollable fears, your convenient amnesia. The problem comes from what you don’t want to see. I can’t do anything about it if you won’t let me into this other world you’ve created to escape yourself.

Despite all that, I believe we can still save our marriage.

—Victoria

Jeremy scanned the letter again and again, searching between the words and lines for a reason to hope. Pain clenched his chest. Victoria, his reason for living, his reason for dying, was threatening to leave him.

Suddenly, he heard a thud and then a scream from the kitchen. He didn’t react immediately, but Thomas came into the office, panicked. “What are you waiting for? Come quick!” He had fear in his eyes. And hatred.

Jeremy leapt up. In the kitchen, Simon was on his back, unconscious. Blood gushed from his arm.

“He slipped and cut himself. His head hit the floor. Hard.” Thomas’s voice shook. He looked at Jeremy, waiting for him to say something reassuring. Jeremy crouched over Simon. He’d fallen on the pieces of glass Jeremy had pushed into a corner a few minutes earlier. His forearm was slashed in several places. His breathing was slow.

“Is…is he dead?” Thomas asked, sobbing. He stood behind his father, waiting for a diagnosis.

“Don’t worry,” Jeremy said in a reassuring tone.

Jeremy patted Simon on the cheeks. Simon opened his eyes.

“You’re all right, Simon. Everything’s fine. It’s bleeding a lot, but it’s nothing serious. We’re going to call an ambulance. But first, I’m going to bandage you up.” Jeremy pressed a cloth over the wound, not entirely certain of what he was doing or whether it would have any effect.

“Daddy, it hurts,” Simon said, sniffling. The little boy looked at him anxiously.

“It’s going to be all right.”

With Thomas at his heels, Jeremy picked Simon up and carried him to the living room. He set him down on the sofa and picked up the telephone. Thomas watched his father and held his little brother’s hand. Simon smiled.

“It’s not serious, Thomas. Daddy said so.”

“Okay, it’s not serious,” his older brother repeated.

Jeremy dialed 911, nervous. The child had lost a lot of blood, and while the bandage had slowed the bleeding, some was still seeping through.

“It’s urgent, it’s…my son,” Jeremy explained to the professional voice on the other end of the line. “He cut himself on the wrist. He bled. He lost consciousness. I made him a sort of tourniquet. My address?”

He stumbled over his words: “Yes, miss. I don’t…I’m a little panicked…I’m…My address, yes…” Jeremy, at a loss for words, felt ridiculous and weak at the same time.

“Nine Recollets Street, in the tenth arrondissement,” Thomas supplied coldly.

Jeremy repeated the address to the woman on the phone and hung up. “I…I forgot…But they’re arriving in a few minutes,” Jeremy announced, embarrassed.