Still With Me

Jeremy squeezed Simon’s hand. An unfit father, he was lucky to have such an exceptional son. A son who always kept hope alive that he’d find his father again, even paralyzed.

“Oh, yeah,” Simon went on. “I forgot to tell you that both Thomas and I are married. And we both have kids. I have a son and a daughter. My son is twelve years old. His name is Martin…like your father. Julie is six. I have photos.”

Simon got out his wallet and flipped it open. Jeremy saw two adorable children hugging each other on a beach.

“They’re cute, aren’t they?” Simon continued. “Thomas, he has a five-year-old son, Sacha. He lives in Lyon. He’s the administrative director for the French branch of some important American company. Me, I’m just an artist. I paint. My canvases sell all right. Geez, what else to say? You know, it’s not easy to sum up so many years in just a few words.”

The photos, Simon’s commentary, and the obvious joy he took in sharing with his father overwhelmed Jeremy. He had a family. Grandchildren even. By mastering his double, he’d helped to make the good things in their lives possible. “I’m happy for you. But tell me about your mother. It’s okay. I hope that she’s happy.”

Simon mumbled, embarrassed, “She never remarried, but she’s lived with the same man for fifteen years. His name’s Jacques. He’s a lawyer. She doesn’t work anymore. She’d rather take care of the grandkids. She’s a wonderful grandmother.”

Jeremy looked away. Victoria didn’t belong to him anymore. He’d only lived a few hours, a few days with her.

“I’m tired. Walk with me to my room, please?”

Simon seemed saddened by his father’s sudden fatigue. Simon pushed the wheelchair to Jeremy’s bed. There, he took off his father’s robe, picked him up, and laid him on the bed. Outside, the nurse aides were starting to serve dinner.

Simon tucked his father in. His hand moved hesitantly, stroking his forehead. “I’ll come back and see you…often. And I’ll be here, every year, on your birthday.”

Jeremy closed his hand and held out his fist. Simon stared at it a moment and then knocked his fist tenderly against his father’s.

“I remember that day so clearly. On that day, I was the one in a hospital bed, and you were standing next to me. I’ve needed you a lot over the years. I would’ve liked to have you as a father and see you happy with my mother. To have a real family, you know.” He held back the tears that threatened to strangle his voice, leaned over, and kissed his father.

“Please, don’t take too long to come back,” Simon whispered.

Then he went out, leaving Jeremy to drop into the sleep that waited for him.

NINE

May 8, 2055—Paris, France

It was his last day. He knew that as soon as he woke up.

Jeremy recognized the hospital. He had the same room. Or if it was a different one, it was identical.

He was old, and his body had stopped fighting. He couldn’t dispel the thick vapors weaving through his brain, asphyxiating his thoughts, interrupting his vision, and drowning out sounds. He wasn’t the motionless body washed by unknown hands. He was the mind that entered and left, searching for direction, doubting his own awareness.

The nurses wished him a happy birthday, like a child. One of them gave him the information he was expecting: “In one year, Mr. Delègue, you’ll celebrate eighty years on earth.”

Between two absences, Jeremy made some calculations and situated each of his actions in the short flashes of his life. A life of nine days. So much had happened. Few moments had been happy, but those that were still possessed the breath of passion for Jeremy.

Nine days. And so much sacrificed hope.

The nurses dressed him in a charcoal suit, white shirt, and a burgundy tie. They brushed his hair and sprayed him with cologne. He thought they were preparing him for a birthday party. He dreaded the moment they’d hand him a mirror so he could admire himself, but none of them thought of it. He didn’t want to see what he’d become. He tried to move his right hand, but it had become stiff like the rest of his body. A body that closed like a tomb over a mind only twenty years and nine days old.

He was a body without a life. He was an old man whose only hope was to see his son. He wanted to give meaning to his last hours, to say good-bye to life, not to slide stupidly into the a

byss, not to leave without one last look at a loved one, the caress of a loving hand.

Jeremy laughed inside at the idea that his son would still be interested in this wreck of flesh and bedsores. Did he never get tired of hope?

Though the window, the springtime sun caressed his skin. For a moment, he let his mind wander, imagining that the rays penetrated each of his pores and re-lit his cells, reaching as high as the vital functions and recharging the energy they no longer contained. Just a few more minutes and he’d be able to lift himself up, to walk, to speak and laugh.

A cloud veiled the sun, and Jeremy grumbled. He opened his eyes to size up the intruder. And there was Simon. Jeremy felt warmth invade him. A different source of energy. Simon met Jeremy’s gaze, and Jeremy knew what he was looking for. He let out a few mournful sounds, and Simon drew closer. Jeremy stared intensely at Simon, squinting and frowning. He had to make him understand that he was there.

Simon held his hand out to place it on the old man’s. With this contact, Jeremy felt his own move. He concentrated all his will in this part of his body, and his fingers wiggled. He concentrated harder, fearing that the thick mists of age would come to ravage the fruits of his effort. Simon understood and placed his eyes on the hand that struggled to move.

Then all his love, all his will, and all the energy of the sun and of his happiness to see his son again allowed him to fold his fingers and lift his fist a few inches off the bed.