Still With Me

“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.”