Still With Me by Thierry Cohen Page B

small scar. He should stay overnight for observation. Where’s his mother? He’s asking for her.”
    “She’ll be here tomorrow. But why keep him overnight?”
     
    “For the head injury. He did lose consciousness, after all.”
    Jeremy lowered his eyes to Thomas, watching him attentively. He expected a word of comfort for the child, but the surgeon said nothing.
    “Can we sleep with him?” asked the boy.
    “That’s not allowed.”
    “Can we see him?” Thomas insisted firmly.
    “Yes. But not too long. He needs rest,” the doctor said as he turned on his heels.
    “What a jerk,” Thomas said as the surgeon walked away.
    “Ha! You’re not supposed to say things like that,” Jeremy said to him.
    “I talk like you. You say worse things sometimes.”

    In the hospital room, Simon slept.
    He opened his eyes, smiling. “Thomas, where are you?”
    “Right next to you,” Jeremy answered. “So how are you, Son?”
    “Oh, Daddy, did you see the tape on my arm?”
    “It’s not tape, it’s a bandage,” Thomas quipped, smiling.
     
    “No, it’s tape.” Simon’s voice was weak. He wanted to move around and argue more, but sleep started to win him over.
    “Does it hurt?” Thomas asked.
    “No, not anymore. Where’s Mommy?”
    “She’s coming in a minute,” Jeremy reassured him, hoping the child would go to sleep before he caught on to the lie.
    “When do we go home?”
    “Oh, well, you have to stay here until tomorrow,” Jeremy answered, taking Simon’s hand.
    “Alone?”
    “No, we’ll wait until you go to sleep, and we’ll come back when you wake up.”
    “Promise?”
    “Yes, I promise,” said Jeremy, making a fist.
    Simon looked at him with curiosity.
    “Look, here’s what friends do when they swear the truth.” Jeremy took Simon’s hand, closed it into a fist, and tapped his knuckled against his son’s.
    Simon smiled. Thomas stepped forward to repeat the gesture. They exchanged a knowing glance.
    “We’re friends now, Daddy?” Simon asked.
    “Yes, more than friends.”
     
    Jeremy felt a gentle warmth wash over him. It corresponded to the strength of the invisible bond that united him and his sons deeply, one that sealed their fates more than words or circumstances ever could. The children needed him so they could grow up. They wanted to find a place in their father’s eyes. In his heart. And Jeremy knew from that moment forward his life would turn on more than just his relationship with Victoria. He had a family. He was responsible for it. The idea of not being able to assume responsibility for them in the days, the months, the years to follow—it enraged him.
    A few minutes later, Simon fell asleep. Thomas and Jeremy sat beside him on the bed for a moment longer. Then Thomas closed his eyes and lay down next to his brother, exhausted by his emotions. Jeremy sat there watching them sleep calmly, united.
    They’re mine. These are my sons, and I love them. But what kind of love is it? I remember once hearing a religious person say that man has three chances to make something of himself. First, with the love and support of his parents. If he doesn’t make it, his wife gives him another chance to become more than a careless, egotistical, immature man. If he fails, then his children are a last recourse. After that…he’s doomed. What have I done with my three chances? What have I done with the love I’ve been given? I’m an ungrateful son, an unworthy husband, and a bad father. If I don’t find a way of correcting my course now, then I’m lost. I’ll finish my days alone, hated by my own. Then I’ll be happy for some kind of amnesia to erase the memory of my mistakes. I have to act now and become the person I always was again, the person I am today .
    The telephone rang. Jeremy scrambled to pick up, glancing at the children. They still slept soundly, with tightly closed fists.
    “Hello? Thomas?”
    “It’s Jeremy.”
    “What’s going on? Why are you talking like that?”