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He tried calling out, but there was no air left. He gasped for a few seconds before giving in to the night.
FOUR
“Daddy, Daddy.” The child’s voice was soft but persistent. “Daddy, wake up.”
Jeremy straightened his head slowly. Next to him a little boy whose enormous black eyes seemed to overwhelm the finer features of his face was sitting cross-legged on the bed. Chin resting in the palm of his hand, long black hair falling down the nape of his neck, he pouted at Jeremy.
“Come on, wake up, Daddy. It’s time.”
Jeremy let his head fall back on the pillow. He tried to organize his thoughts as to where—and when—he was. But the only images that came to mind were from his twenty-third birthday: the wonderful night with Victoria, his drunkenness, the Book of Psalms, and the old man. Fear mingled with fatigue swept over him.
Not this again. I can’t do it anymore.
“I’m hungry. I want my milk,” the little voice insisted.
Jeremy didn’t respond. It’s happening again. This boy is calling me Daddy. He must be Thomas. That means I’ve landed a few years from my last memories. Three or four years.
Jeremy heaved a sigh of despair. He was unable to think. He’d lost his will.
Tired of waiting, the boy got up and left the room.
Jeremy stayed in bed. He covered his eyes with his forearm, less to protect his eyes from the light than to escape from reality. Then he heard the sound of broken glass and shot up instinctively.
He’d moved too fast. Dizziness overwhelmed him. He got out of bed, but his legs weren’t ready to support his weight. Eyes half closed, leaning on furniture, he walked in the direction of the noise.
The boy was in the kitchen. Standing on a stool, he rummaged through the cupboard. He didn’t bother turning around. “I want my milk,” he said petulantly.
Jeremy wondered what he was supposed to do. He was dumbstruck; he felt as though he lacked the authority or the ability to think and act. No doubt the day would hold more surprises. But he resolved then and there to engage with the present, starting with his role as father. Thomas was now perched on the edge of the counter.
“Don’t move. You’re going to hurt yourself. I’ll get it.”
The child had dropped a jar of jam. Shards of glass, shiny and dangerous, littered the cold tiles of the floor. Jeremy picked the boy up and set him on the kitchen table. Still, he felt detached. He wanted to leave the child, go back to bed, and refuse to play this game.
Jeremy looked for slippers. He found a pair of black leather moccasins at the end of the hallway and put them on. Using paper towels, he pushed the shards of glass into a corner. Then he started looking for a mug in the cupboard where the boy had been rummaging, and found one.
“No, I want my bottle,” said the child.
“Your bottle?”
The child looked too old for that, but Jeremy didn’t even want to understand. He grabbed the bottle that the boy pointed out with his finger and took a carton of milk from the refrigerator. The present moment swallowed him slowly, forcing his numb mind to perform the necessary gestures.
“You forgot the chocolate.”
“Oh, the chocolate. Where is it again?”
Looking bored, the child pointed to the cupboard. Jeremy found a box of chocolate powder. He opened the microwave, put the bottle inside, and looked at the buttons.
“The big button,” the boy said. Jeremy pressed it.
“On this number,” his son said, holding up two fingers.
While the bottle warmed, he took a moment to survey the kitchen. It wasn’t the same apartment as the previous morning. He wanted to see Victoria, talk to her. Where was she?
Jeremy looked at the child. He was very handsome. His big eyes captured Jeremy’s attention once more. He knew he’d seen them before. It only took a second for him to realize they were his. The boy looked like him. Because he’s mine. This thought gave Jeremy a degree of comfort.
The boy stared back at him with curiosity.
