Everything I Don't Remember (4 page)

“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.

*

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.]

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.

*