Free Still With Me by Thierry Cohen

nostalgia wash over him and rock him gently. He felt good. Or at the very least, he felt emotions powerful enough to make him forget his questions, doubts, and fears.
    The second sheet was an e-mail printout from January 17, 2002.
     
My love,
I love you (but I think I already told you that). I miss you. Mom told me I could’ve gone with you. I wasn’t sure. I have to think about taking care of my father, who was shaken up when I called off my engagement with Hugo.
I just wanted to tell you that during the train ride, I thought about us. For a long time. And I’ve decided we make the perfect couple. Rather reassuring, don’t you think?
Remember to check the faucets, turn out the light, and cut the gas. (I like saying that…like we’re already an old couple!)
Until tomorrow, my king,
Victoria
    Jeremy recognized Victoria in these few lines and was happy to see signs of a familiarity that otherwise escaped him.
    Next he found several love notes. The kind a woman leaves for her lover to find on the nightstand in the morning when he wakes up, on the mirror in the bathroom, orin a jacket pocket. Then came a letter dated November 1, 2003.
Jeremy,
You don’t want to talk about it? You don’t want to listen to me? I hope you at least want to read this. Like I tried to tell you yesterday, before you lost your temper, your mother called me last week. She wanted to see me. At first I refused. You never talked to me much about your parents, but what little you did say was enough to make me not want to meet them. But because I like to make up my own mind about things, I accepted her invitation. That’s not the only reason. Your attitude toward your parents always struck me as more than a little bizarre. We met at Le Neo. I don’t have to tell you that’s the new name of the bar your father ran for more than thirty years.
Your mother is a sweet woman. Shy. Intelligent. Nothing like the villain you made her out to be. How could such a sweet woman have been so mean to her son?
Here’s her version of the facts:
You were a charming little boy, pampered and spoiled despite your parents’ financial problems. The bar didn’t make much money. They had to open early and close late just to make ends meet and feed and clothe the little king (even then!). But you were happy. Until the death of your little sister. You retreated into your own world, talking and laughing less. You mother was afraid you felt responsible.
Home life was organized around you. You enjoyed certain privileges with your mother. You knew she couldn’t say no to you, and you took advantage. Overall, you became more and more solitary. You went out less and less. You stayed in your room reading or you went gallivanting on your own. She knew right away you were in love. Like all concerned mothers, she looked through your things and found poems, the desperate kind, without a future . When you decided to move out, your parents worried that you would isolate yourself completely. The six months that led up to your attempt, you were changed. You didn’t eat anymore. You didn’t work anymore. You didn’t sleep much. They wanted you to see a psychologist, but you refused. The last time they went to see you, it was two days before the suicide. You looked lost, but you didn’t want to talk. They were sick with worry. The night before your birthday, your mother called and invited you to cut the cake at their place the next day. You thanked her. To her, you seemed more positive, almost giddy. You told her that it was going to be a great day. She thought you meant your twentieth birthday.
Understandably, when they found out what you did, they were crushed. When they arrived at the hospital, you were unconscious. And when you came back to life, you refused to see them. They thought you were ashamed of what you’d done and that you weren’t ready to face them.
Right before you left the hospital, they came to see you. You didn’t say a word. I remember; I was there. Your mother