Still With Me (18 page)

“You’re really off today,” said Vladimir. “Usually you’re the one who talks all the time. I have a hard time getting any rest because you’re so busy running your mouth. You never stop: the life you had, the one you’re going to have, all the twisted shit you want to do, how you’re going to get out of this hole, what you’re going to do when you
do
get out, what you’re going to do to your wife, the women you’ll have, the money you’ll make…And today, you got nothing to say. You won’t stop
thinking
. What’s wrong with you?”

Vladimir’s comment about Victoria made Jeremy start. What did he mean? Was Victoria in harm’s way? Or was it just a manner of speaking? He needed to know.

“It’s my wife,” Jeremy ventured.

“What about your wife?”

“She’s doing her thing.”

“What kind of thing?”

Jeremy waved his hand around vaguely. “Oh, a bunch of shit. She’s really pissing me off. Looks like she’s trying to get me put away for a few more years.”

“Ah, don’t worry. I’ll be out soon, and I swore I’d make her change her mind about getting involved.”

Jeremy felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Unable to speak, he settled for a slight nod. What else would Victoria have to endure? What was this monster capable of? Hitting her? Raping her? Killing her? He couldn’t take the risk. He had to gain control of himself and do something to protect her. But how? Kill Vladimir? What did he have to lose? What were a few more years of confinement compared to the health and safety of his wife? The choice was easy. But he knew he was physically incapable of doing it.

Then Jeremy had an idea. He had to hurry. In his locker, he found a pen, some paper, and envelopes. Who did he write to on other days?

“What are you doing?” Vladimir asked.

“I’m writing.”

“To your lawyer?”

“Yes,” Jeremy replied. “To my lawyer.”

He wrote two letters. Quickly. By the time he was done, Vladimir had fallen asleep, snoring loudly. Jeremy called to a guard with a sour, impassive face. Jeremy gave the guard one of the letters—the one addressed to Victoria. The guard
told him that mail had to be delivered in the morning but took it anyway and put it in his pocket.

“No one’s called for me?”

“Who do you think you are, Delègue? You’re in jail, not at the office. And I’m not your damn secretary.”

“It’s just that I might get a call tonight.”

“Listen, you’re not my buddy. Here, there are two tribes: the guards and the cons. Me, I know what side I’m on. So just be happy I took your letter. As for your phone call, even if there was one, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Thank you for taking the letter,” Jeremy said in a neutral tone.

The guard, who had probably expected a wise retort, seemed surprised. He muttered a few words and left.

The door closed with a thud that died in the echo of other, more distant sounds. Jeremy went to the window. His legs felt heavy. He looked into the courtyard and noticed two guards talking in front of an electric fence. He took the second letter, folded it, attached it to a bar of soap, and threw it at the two men. It bounced off the shoulder of the taller one, who did an about-face and looked up at the windows. But by then Jeremy had
already crouched down. He waited a few seconds before peering out again. The two guards were reading the note he’d thrown at them.

Jeremy crawled into bed. He felt his fatigue carry him toward the inevitable slumber. He thought bitterly about his few hours of consciousness. They hadn’t been a source of optimism. He was there in a cell, in the middle of a hostile environment, unable to further his investigation. But he had guaranteed himself a few more years behind bars. It was the only proof of love he was still capable of. When Vladimir and the other Jeremy went through with their plans in the gym, the guards would be there to catch them. The anonymous letter he’d thrown into the courtyard was clear enough. The other letter revealed his relationship with Clotilde to Victoria and Pierre, nullifying her abilities as an informant.

Jeremy had delivered Victoria from the threats against her. At the same time, he had condemned himself to rot in this hole, reducing his hope of finding a way out of this nightmare to ashes.

There was nothing left to do but go to sleep and wait. A wait he considered peaceful, or at least one he felt ready to
accept. In his mind, still alert, Jeremy replayed a few memories from his short life.

Then, like a cruel, glacial wind whipping through an open room, fear invaded him. A fear beyond measure. A fear that the little logic he had left could not contain. Suddenly his memory landed on a scene he didn’t recognize: he was one year old or a little older. He was standing up in his crib, crying. He screamed for his parents to come get him, to save him from the phantoms lurking in the shadows. Ghosts that had made his sister cry before finally silencing her. He realized that the terror invading him now was bringing back a memory of the same intensity. The darkness was there, on the verge of swallowing him. The ghosts were there, ready to make him suffer. In a few minutes, he would be one of them. The old man began his prayer. And for the first time, Jeremy was comforted by his presence, his familiar voice. This man was praying for him. He was there to help. Jeremy listened to the prayer like he’d listened to his mother’s lullabies. He’d go to sleep and forget his fear.

Neither hunger nor curiosity compelled him out of bed, but when he noticed a mirror above the sink, Jeremy got up quickly and stood in front of it. He couldn’t bring himself to look right away. Instead, he let a little water pool in his hands and wetted his face. He felt soft, tender skin under his fingers. Skin that melted under the weight of his stiff, rough hands. Then he looked at the reflective surface, and what he saw horrified him. His eyes ran hastily over his face, not knowing which detail to take in first. How many years had it taken to hollow out the features of his face like this? Dark circles underlined his eyes. New wrinkles had appeared in different places, next to his mouth and across his forehead mostly. His skin hung loose, and the oval of his
face was less even. As for his hair, it was lighter and exposed gulfs of flesh where, not long ago, locks had tumbled generously. A few splashes of gray even dotted his temples.

I must be sixty years old
. He thought this in a wave of discouragement. Then, more reasonably, he corrected himself.
No, forty-five or fifty. But I’m old
.

He splashed more water on his face, as if it could erase what he’d seen, erase the texture of his skin and repair the scars.

Jeremy lay down on his bed and looked at the smooth, bright ceiling.
My life flew by. I haven’t woken up in years. I grew old without her. And she grew old without me. So many years. So many years
.

He wanted to give up. He had no reason to live out these present moments. The date, his location, whatever led him here—none of these things interested him anymore. He was going to wait. Wait until he fell back asleep so he could wake up even older and then repeat the process until he died. After all, he wasn’t more than a few days away from that.

The midday meal tray had been slipped in and removed without Jeremy touching it. He’d found a way to leave his body. He was still lying down, letting his thoughts wander,
flowing, settling for a moment only to explode or die away slowly to make room for others. He’d watched the movie version of his life without trying to make sense of it. Victoria’s face, over and over again. He’d had her love and lost it. Every image of her brought with it a different emotion. A bottomless reservoir of heat, even if behind each shiver of happiness, cold blasts of pain threatened to snuff out the burning embers of Jeremy’s most comforting memories.

The door opened, and a guard entered. “You ready, Delègue?” The guard looked around the cell and huffed angrily. “But…you haven’t gotten your stuff together? Are you fucking with me? I mean, you sure seemed happy to be getting out. You have ten minutes,” he shouted before leaving.

As Jeremy absorbed the meaning of these words, his chaotic thoughts came back into order.

Should he consider the news good or bad? What did it mean for him? He had no positive expectations anymore. Only recovery could provide closure. And even then. A lot of time had passed. Years. What did he have left to save? And what was the other Jeremy capable of on the outside? He started to gather his things in a big black trash bag.
That at least gave him the chance to make a few more discoveries. He was accustomed to the task by now. Jeremy smiled, thinking that his condition gave him some routine. It only took a few days to learn new habits. He opened his cupboard and threw the contents on his bed. Among the clothes, he found a shabby box containing a few papers. He set it on the desk and started his research.

First he found a letter from Clotilde dated June 6, 2018.

Dear Asshole,

I don’t know what you’re trying to do. Maybe nothing.

When Pierre showed me the letter you sent to Victoria, I was thoroughly confused. At first I took it as an act of love. Idiot that I am! And yes. I thought you did it to sever my relationship with Pierre so you could have me all to yourself. Then I realized that didn’t make any sense. You’re incapable of doing something like that because you’re incapable of love.

Pierre was crushed. He asked me to leave immediately. And the worst part was it made me sad. I was leaving the man who loved me because of the man who didn’t anymore. I was finally forced to admit you were the person Pierre sometimes described you as: a lunatic who takes pleasure in hurting others.

I could’ve begged Pierre to forgive me, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. We’ve traveled too far in opposite directions, and the distance won’t allow us to hear each other anymore. I’m alone with my hatred for you. And I’ll find a way to make you pay, Jeremy. You taught me how to be cruel. I’ll find a way; believe me.

—Clotilde

So part of his plan had worked. Victoria had received the letter. He was sorry to learn that Pierre had suffered. But Jeremy had no doubt done him a favor by revealing the nature of the relationship between Clotilde and the other Jeremy. He found another letter and recognized the handwriting immediately. Suddenly flushed, he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. The letter was dated March 18, 2020.

Jeremy,

I always believed that one day we would reestablish a normal relationship: that of a father, mother, and son who loved each other beyond all the hardships they faced. The first time we saw each other after your suicide attempt, more than twenty years ago, I left feeling hopeful. I’d found you again—caring, attentive, sensible. I was happy to tell your father, and he forgot his pride, smiling at the mention of the few hours we spent together. I’m certain he even regretted not going. But our joy was short-lived. Just as quickly, you slipped away from us. Again, you refused to see us. Again, we didn’t understand. And the pain was even greater because we’d accepted the sweet promise of rebuilding a new future with you. I called you, I begged you, but nothing could bring you back.

It was all like a bad dream. A dream that started on the day when, wanting to die, you killed us instead. Victoria and Pierre operate under the theory that you wake up from your madness every so often on your birthday. Maybe that’s true.

Your father and I held onto that notion and others. Each one lets us stop drifting for a while, escape the suffocating heat of our unhappiness, and breathe a little fresh air. It’s so hard knowing that our son, the only child we have left, hates us.

Then your father gave up hope. He forbade us from talking about you or saying your name. He wanted to believe you didn’t exist anymore and that you were as good as dead on that day. For him, the story ended. He stopped going for walks or seeing his friends. Even the grandkids’ visits weren’t enough to soothe his pain. He fell ill. I took care of him, hoping every day that you would come knock on our door and that your homecoming would be like a miracle cure. But these last four years have been terrible. He completely lost his mind. I’m surprised to find that I hate you sometimes when, in his wandering eyes, I see you appear. We always thought our retirement would be like a warm, welcoming beach. We’d wash ashore after years of braving the storms, just waiting for them to calm. The sweetness and serenity of endless warm sand. But you’ve made these years a living hell.

You father died last night. He suffered. And in his last painful moments, he called to you.

Maybe, from where he was, he forgave you. Not me.