Still With Me

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.