Everything I Don't Remember Read Online Free PDF Page A

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