Everything I Don't Remember Read online

  *

  In her fourth email, his mom writes that she is bewildered to hear about my goal of understanding what happened by mapping out Samuel’s last day. Do you seriously mean that you want to know exactly what we said to each other? Okay, this is how I remember our last phone call. I called his phone, Samuel answered, it was quarter past ten, they were on their way to the hospital.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Good.”

  “Did you pick her up?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Almost there.”

  “And it’s going okay?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Is she asleep?”

  “No, she’s sitting here.”

  He was using an impatient voice, as if I had asked if he had brushed his teeth that morning. In the background I could hear a piano melody that I recognized but couldn’t place.

  “How is she?”

  “Fine.”

  “And you?”

  “Fiiiine.”

  He sounded incredibly irritated when he said that last word, as if I had been dragging our conversation out for hours.

  “We’ll talk soon, then,” I said.

  “Bye.”

  That was the whole conversation. It took maybe a minute. Max. And after each monosyllabic response he was quiet, as though he wanted to make it clear that there was nothing more to say. We hung up. Fifteen minutes later I called back.

  “Are you there yet?”

  “Looking for a parking spot.”

  “Do you have the department number or should I text it to you?”

  “Got it, thanks.”

  “Did you get gas?”

  “Didn’t need to.”

  “How does she seem?”

  “Fine.”

  “Nervous?”

  “Sort of.”

  We were silent for a few seconds.

  “Can we talk later?” Samuel said.

  Our call lasted no longer than that. I asked him to call after the doctor’s appointment and then we hung up. That was the last time I heard his voice.

  Yours truly.

  *

  One Tuesday we were at the university, loading boxes of books and swag candy and projectors and a big yellow plastic sofa into the fifteen-footer. There had been some sort of fair there. The customer had said that it should only take a few hours, but it was past lunch and we still weren’t done. The sun was shining, students were lying on the grass, and in the distance I saw a slim figure with a loosely hanging backpack walking toward the subway. It was Samuel. I was sure of it. I never forget a face.

  *

  In her fifth email, his mom writes that she doesn’t agree with my simplistic description of Samuel. He was so much more than a person who “spent his money on experiences but didn’t care about food.” If you want to get to know him, you have to understand what a great child he was, how lonely he was as a teenager, how much he wanted to change the world when he started studying political science. You have to understand how difficult it was for him to get his degree and then be unemployed for eleven months, only to end up working at the Migration Board. It was so far removed from his dream. How many details do you need in order to understand him? Is it important to know that he had a stuffed toy lizard named Mushimushi that we lost on a vacation in Crete? That he was scared of sirens when he was little? That he started crying when he heard sad music and said that it “hurt him inside”? That he collected those plastic PEZ dispensers until he started middle school? That he loved the last few years of compulsory school but hated upper secondary? That he stopped calling his dad “Dad” after the divorce and started using his first name? Who decides what is important and what is superfluous? All I know is that the more details I give you the more details it seems like I’m leaving out. That makes me doubt this entire project.

  Regards.

  *

  I jumped down from the truck and went over to say hi. Samuel was wearing headphones, green ones, the kind with a headband, and when he didn’t hear me I tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He jumped like I had tried to force him off the path. Then he smiled and nodded.

  “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

  “That’s okay.”

  We stood in silence for a few seconds. He looked at me with knitted brows. His brain was working overtime to try to remember.

  “Are you Felix’s friend?”

  I shook my head.

  “Oh, right—we played basketball together, didn’t we? Or wait, were you in Sara’s grade?”

  “We met in Liljeholmen. At a pretty lame party.”

  “That’s right! At Tessan’s.”

  Samuel nodded and it looked like he remembered for real. I put out my right hand.

  “Vandad,” I said.

  “Samuel,” said Samuel.

  “So how’s it going?”

  I said it the way I had practiced at home in front of the mirror. The way I had heard hundreds of people say it, at parties, at movies, on buses when they ran into old classmates. But somehow it always sounded wrong when I was the one saying it.

  “Oh, I’m doing fine,” Samuel replied. “Although it’s also not great because I just gave a lecture and you know how it is, you’re standing there in front of a bunch of people who could be you a few years ago and the teacher wants you to talk about an average day at work and how you use your theoretical background in your job, and you do it, you say that you sit in your office and convince them that it’s worth throwing away four years on a worthless education and then they applaud and the teacher thanks you and then you leave and feel like a giant fucking fraud. That’s pretty much how things are going. How about you?”

  “Fine,” I said, nodding.

  Not that I knew exactly how he was feeling, but I understood him, I got what he was trying to say.

  “That’s kinda how I felt at my brother’s funeral,” I said. “When my mom wanted me to give a speech and say something positive.”

  Samuel looked at me. I looked at him. He didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t say any more. We didn’t know each other. But something had happened. Something arose when we spoke to each other. Both of us could feel it. It was clear that we ought to be friends. We exchanged numbers on the university’s gravelly paths; we said we would be in touch, both of us knew that this was something special.

  *

  In her sixth email, his mom writes that she certainly understands that an author can take poetic license. But there’s a difference between the truth and extreme exaggeration. I would never dream of calling Samuel ten times a day. I’m not a “control freak.” Who told you that? Was it Panther? I don’t have a “tendency to be clingy,” especially not compared to my mom. But I did enjoy talking to my son. And there were a lot of practical matters we had to go through after the fire. But sometimes two or three days would go by and we didn’t speak at all. One time, several years ago, I was sitting at the cafe in Kulturhuset, the one on the top floor, with a view of the Hötorget high-rises and the roundabout and the crowds of people. Suddenly I caught sight of my ex-husband crossing the open square at Plattan. Which was strange, because he left Sweden after the divorce and swore he would never return. It took a few seconds for me to realize that it was Samuel. When he was little he looked like me, but with each year that passed he looked more and more like his dad. It was something about his posture. One shoulder a bit lower than the other. The way they swung their arms as they walked. I reached for my phone and called him. I didn’t want anything in particular, I just wanted to say hi. His phone rang. I saw Samuel stop. He took out his phone. He looked at the screen. Then he stuck the phone back in his pocket again. But that wasn’t so strange. Maybe he was waiting for another call. Maybe he was in a hurry. That evening I called and he answered and we talked just like we usually did. Is this perfectly everyday memory one worth keeping? Maybe not. But either way, it’s true. Unlike the rumors you seem to believe.

  Sincerely.
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  *

  On the way back to the moving truck I thought of how I had known Hamza for twelve years and Niko for fourteen. After the funeral we didn’t talk about what had happened. They tried a few times at first, mostly Niko, but Hamza too. Every time they did, I protested in a way that kept them from trying again. It was different with Samuel. I don’t know why.

  Luciano watched Samuel go.

  “Who’s the fag?”

  “You’re the fag,” I said.

  “Both of you are fags,” said Bogdan.

  “Whoever doesn’t get back to work and make sure we’re done by five is the fag,” said Marre. “I have to pick up the kids from daycare.”

  Bogdan closed the rear door and Marre hopped up behind the wheel. All I had to do was go up to the driver’s side and look at him for him to apologize and shove over next to the others. He knew the drill, and soon we were on the highway and had dumped the goods at a warehouse and then we drove back to Vasastan to drop off our belts and gloves and joke with Blomberg that this was our last day of work ever.

  *

  In her seventh and final email, his mom writes that nagging won’t change anything. Neither I nor my daughter wishes to meet with you. Not even over “a quick cup of coffee.” What we want most of all is to ask you to drop all of this. But if you do persist in moving forward, it’s important for you to change all the names and specify that in no way did I stay “in the background” after the fire. I did not have a “sudden rush of bitterness” toward either Samuel or my mother. My siblings and I simply chose to divide up the responsibilities. My eldest brother took care of the practical matters surrounding the house—contacting the authorities, the insurance company, the firefighters, and the police. My younger brother was responsible for making sure Mom felt secure at the home, he informed the staff about what had happened and tried to stop by to see Mom as often as he could to keep her calm. On the doctors’ recommendation we decided not to tell her what had happened to the house. They said it would be best if she was allowed to believe that it was still there and that she could go back if she wanted to. I was responsible for Mom’s documents. I looked for missing receipts and contracts of sale and blueprints and organized them all in carefully labeled binders. But as usual, my efforts ended up being overshadowed. They always do. When Mom first got sick I spent a week canceling her newspaper subscriptions, paying her bills, and doing her taxes. At the same time, my youngest brother stopped by and replaced a bulb in an Advent star lamp. Then he hung it up in the dining-room window and Mom talked about that star for several weeks.

  “It hangs so perfectly in the window and it gives just the right amount of light and your brother even said he can install a timer on it! He’s quite the little electrician. I never saw the like. What would I do without him?”

  At the same time, I was taking care of all her financial matters and I hardly got a thank you in return. Apparently that was nothing compared to the time my brothers came by the home and took her to Kista to eat at a drive-in McDonald’s. They had banana milkshakes! And ate apple pie! To hear her tell it, her beloved sons had invented milkshakes, drive-in restaurants, the road, the sky, and the air around them as they sat there munching in the car. There are some things you’re just expected to do as a daughter. Those things always take more time. Toward the end I didn’t have as much time to visit her as my brothers did, so it was nice that Samuel had offered to take time off and drive to the hospital. I don’t feel guilty. I don’t regret anything. It was my brothers’ responsibility to keep the car in good shape. They ought to have told Samuel that the brakes were bad and the tires were worn down. If they had done that, everything would have turned out differently.

  *

  I waited a few days before I contacted Samuel. I thought there was no rush. I knew he was a special person because he talked to people he didn’t know as if he thought they were ace and he listened to people like he really was curious about what they had to say. And it wasn’t until later on that I got that what was special about Samuel wasn’t that he was a good or a bad listener, it was that he was an unusual listener. Because he listened without listening. Or, how about this. He listened without wanting to understand. Or he listened without caring. The most important thing for him was that he never wanted it to be quiet and there were many times I told him stuff that he didn’t seem to remember three weeks later. Other people might have gotten angry and said that he didn’t listen well enough. I thought his way of listening was perfect. You could say anything you wanted and if you told a story and it got a good reaction all you had to do was wait like six months because then you could tell it again and get almost as good a reaction the second time.

  *

  His mom ends her final email with a simple request: Thanks in advance for not contacting me again. [Her name.]

  BERLIN

  Panther sets out Turkish lentil soup, warms pita bread in the microwave, and says that it’s nice to see me. Was your trip okay? How long are you staying? Does it feel nostalgic to be back? The stairwell is weirdly quiet without your music. I, like, never thought I would miss a Rihanna instrumental on repeat [hums “What’s My Name?”]. How did it go with the book? It was never published, right? Does it suck to have worked on something for four years without finishing it? Here in Berlin everything is the same. The pierced bouncer with the fisting-depth ruler tattooed on his forearm still stands there outside Berghain. The little döner stand over by the zoo is still the best. That bitchy transvestite still works at Luzia. A couple new hipster places have opened in Neukölln, a few squatter apartments in Prenzlauer Berg have been shut down by the police. But how are you? Have you gotten through the worst of it? How was the funeral?

  *

  I suggested the place, Samuel said it sounded perfect, it was only a few stops from the apartment he was subletting in Hornstull. On the way to Spicy House I thought of all the nights I had sat there. It was the perfect place. No one ever bothered you. No one asked any questions. Everyone came in, ordered, was left alone. I still didn’t know the names of some of the bartenders. I opened the door, walked past the drunks by the gambling machines, ignored the biker gang in the corner and slid onto a barstool next to Samuel.

  *

  Panther says she knows the feeling. I still have Samuel in my phone. I know, it’s a little weird, but I can’t bear to delete it. There wouldn’t be any trace left of him if I did. The name after his would just jump up a spot. Now I see his name every time I look at my favorites [scrolling on an invisible cell phone]. And I still think about how sick it is that he no longer exists. Did you know he only came to visit me once? He was always coming up with new reasons why it wouldn’t work out for him to come down here. First he had no cash because it was expensive to sublet, and then he moved in with Vandad and all his money went to going out with him, and then he met Laide and there were all kinds of things to fix up around the house. And when he did come, I had the feeling that Vandad had, like, forced him to leave Stockholm. I don’t know what he was afraid of.

  *

  For a second we weren’t sure how to greet each other. Handshake? Fist bump? I went with the nod and Samuel reciprocated the nod and I said:

  “What are you drinking?”

  “I waited to order.”

  “Beer?”

  “Great.”

  I motioned two beers to the bartender and seasoned the bar with my hand to show him we wanted some nuts. We started by talking about how things were going (fine). Then we talked about our weekend plans (maybe going out, or staying home). Then Samuel started talking about fish parasites.

  “Sorry?” I said.

  “Fish parasites. There are some really disgusting fish parasites. Have you ever heard of isopods, for example?”

  *

  Panther says of course she remembers how they met. It was through basketball. We played in the same league; he was on the boys’ B team, which was totally worthless, and I was on the girls’ team, which won the national championship t
wice and got silver once. Once we got to know each other, the joke was that I should move over to their team so they could finally win a game, because at the time I looked pretty much like a boy. Probably no one would have noticed, and my real name works for boys and girls. But I’ve never liked it, which is why I started telling my teammates that people at school called me Panther and at school I said that people from basketball called me Panther, and soon people started calling me that, the name spread, and now even my sister calls me that. She played basketball too, and even she was better than Samuel, people called Samuel “Chickadee” because he was so scared of the ball and he was way too small to get rebounds. The first few times we saw each other outside of basketball we went to the Water Festival or hung around for hours at the twenty-four-hour McDonald’s on Hamngatan. And I remember thinking that Samuel was different from other guys because it was like he talked because he liked talking and not because he wanted to fuck. He felt non-sexual somehow. We became brother and sister; when things were rough at home I could crash at his place, his mom became my second mom, she understood without needing to know too much, she never asked why I needed to run away, I was welcomed into his family and I will always be grateful for that. They saved me when I needed it the most and I— I’m sorry. Sorry. I’ll pull myself together.