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Fiction

I can’t remember anything.

I don’t remember what I looked like as a kid. I don’t remember my parents when they were young. I don’t remember how I got to school, or which school it was. I don’t remember my teachers or classmates. Don’t remember the games I used to play.

Sometimes I close my eyes and try to visualize my youth. I see a few blurry shapes. A few blurry shapes, and nothing more.

I don’t remember being rebellious as a teenager. I don’t remember trying alcohol, cigarettes or weed. I don’t remember falling in love or having sex for the first time. I don’t remember my friends. Don’t remember what I used to do.

Sometimes I see someone from my past, and they tell me something we used to laugh about. I smile, but I don’t remember the meaning of those jokes anymore.

I don’t remember my high school graduation. I don’t remember applying for university. I don’t even know which degree I got, and it doesn’t matter because I don’t remember learning anything.

Sometimes I get birthday wishes from numbers I don’t recognize, sharing stories from another life. I reply with a quick thank you and go about my day. I have no idea who these people are.

I don’t remember my first real job, or even the city it was in. I don’t remember my boss or coworkers. I don’t remember how much money I used to make. I don’t remember the apartment I rented or how it looked. Don’t remember the girlfriend who lived with me then.

Sometimes I read a book and have a visceral reaction, as if it actually happened to me. Sometimes I even internalize the story and accept it as my own. What’s the difference between truth and fiction?

I don’t remember getting married. I don’t remember getting divorced. If I have kids, I don’t know who they are because they don’t live with me. I don’t remember my parents dying. Don’t remember how many siblings I’ve got or where they are.

You might think that my life is devoid of meaning, but it’s not true.

While I envy people who can call on their memories at any time, my own memories are of a different kind. They are lived. Even though I can’t bring up images in my mind, my body remembers the experience.

Sometimes I feel the pain, and I know it’s coming from my past. I get heartaches. I walk somewhere, and the sharp sensation of nostalgia flushes through me. I don’t have memories, but I hear the echo of my memories every day.

My body remembers the experience, even if it’s inaccessible to my own consciousness. Everything I’ve lived through has left an imprint. I don’t dwell on the past — I can’t. Instead, I live in the moment, trying to do my best with what I’ve got. Really, I think life is pretty good now.

Does it matter that we don’t remember if we got the lesson anyway?

§

Ghosts are real. You can’t see them, but you can feel them. They follow you. They haunt you. Some of them eventually fade away; others stay for life.

Step 1: Fill up a thin-spout pouring kettle with 400 ml of cold water. Turn on a gas stove.

Unlike what you see in movies, real ghosts are not see-through dead people. When they want to appear, they just enter your mind. When they are done, they leave.

Step 2: Use a kitchen scale to weigh 30 grams of freshly roasted coffee beans. Then manually grind them with a Japanese ceramic mill, aiming for course but even grounds.

Every ghost is there for a reason, even if that reason seems opaque to you at first. While ghosts don’t have to look like people, they come from interactions with people. Every action leaves a trail that might become a ghost for someone else.

Step 3: Heat up the French press by swishing around 50 ml of boiling water, then empty it out.

Human interactions require closure. When they are left hanging, doors that should be closed are being left ajar. Soon, the ghosts start coming in. They fill the voids. They attach themselves to words, gestures and actions.

Step 4: Put coffee in the French press. Pour 60 ml of water, stir the grounds with a spoon and let them bloom for 30 seconds.

You’ve said something without thinking, and now it’s too late. The ghosts are forming. You say you’re sorry, but the ghosts won’t leave. They are becoming part of you, and you have to live with them.

Step 5: Fill up the French press with water. Place the lid on top. Wait for 4 minutes.

There are cries for help. Someone is in trouble. You want to save them, but you can’t. You’re too young. Your body fails you. You’re stunned, left there standing and watching the pain unfold. Finally, you use all your strength to run away and hide. The ghost is unlocked.

You don’t keep your promise and let people down. You have a million reasons why, but each one sends a signal for ghosts to consider.

Someone important to you pisses you off, so you shut them out of your life forever. You think you’re done, but closure was not there.

Step 6: Press the filter down. Pour coffee into a mug.

You go through life accumulating ghosts. Some stay; some go. Some torment you; others keep out of the way and wait for their perfect moment.

You can’t avoid your ghosts forever. But, sometimes, you can try to act in a way the ghosts would have no reason to exist.

The coffee is now cold.

§

The first time it happened, I was five hours into a highway drive south to see my parents.

The sirens flashed behind me. I pulled over. The police officer took his time approaching.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to impound your car.”

I couldn’t believe it.

“What? Why?”

“Rental company called. You passed the 500-kilometre daily limit.”

I looked at the dashboard. The trip meter read 501.

“How can that be? It’s a rental!”

“Have you read the terms and conditions? Clearly says so in the fine print.”

He gave me a printout of the car rental agreement.

“What the fuck?”

The second time it happened, my car was being taken away by a tow truck. The landlord called.

“I just emailed you an eviction notice, effective immediately. Your stuff is in the shed outside.”

I couldn’t believe it.

“What? Why?”

“Utility company called. You passed the 500-kWh monthly limit.”

I checked my email. The meter statement read 501.

“How can that be? It’s a rental!”

“Have you read the terms and conditions? Clearly says so in the fine print. Anyway, I’ve already listed your apartment online for double the rent.”

“What the actual fuck?”

The third time it happened, I’d just hung up the phone and immediately got another call from the airline.

“We cancelled your return flight.”

I couldn’t believe it.

“What? Why?”

“Our records show that you skipped your departing flight today, so we’ve cancelled the return flight as well.”

I’d rented the car last minute but planned to fly back.

“How can that be? I paid for the whole trip.”

“Have you read the terms and conditions? Clearly says in the fine print that this is what we do.”

“Un-fucking-believable.”

The fourth time it happened, I was trying to call a cab. The call cut off, and I received a text from the phone company.

“We’re sorry to inform you that, as per the fine print in the terms and conditions, we’ve terminated your contract due to excessive roaming.”

I tried sending a middle-finger emoji back, but it failed to deliver.

So here I am, sitting on a concrete divider in July heat with the terms and conditions in my hand. The ink is smudging under my fingers from the sweat. I start reading and can’t hold back laughing. What a stupid situation to find yourself in. What a stupid, stupid day.

§

It was around 11:30 pm when Monika called, waking me up from a deep slumber.

“Can you come? I need you here.”

“Yes, of course.”

My chest tightened. She never called. I got up and walked to the bathroom to wash my face. Pausing before the mirror, I noticed a few grey hairs in my stubble. My eyes looked tired.

I put on black jeans, a t-shirt, a pair of distressed leather boots, drank a glass of water and walked out the door. A pleasantly cool breeze embraced me as I headed to her neighbourhood.

She was outside, as beautiful as ever, wearing a green cocktail dress that reminded me of summer days long past. Her lively ever-curious eyes locked onto mine. She took my hand and led me up the street.

“Let’s go.”

We walked a couple of blocks in silence. Then she turned her head as if to check whether I was still there. She smiled and my heart sank. Some things you never get over.

I thought of her often. Accidentally for the most part. It doesn’t take much to trigger a memory: a date on a calendar, a street corner, a phrase said by a friend, the colour of a stranger’s hair. You tend to remember the good. The bad fades away.

She turned into an alley. There was a bar we used to go to a lot. That night, it was packed, smoky and loud. A band was playing. As we passed through the crowd, someone I knew tapped my shoulder. The adjacent room was quieter, and we sat at the bar.

“Two vodkas, please.”

The bartender put two shots on the counter. She downed hers. Then took mine and downed it as well.

“So what is this about?”

She paused. The light above the bar illuminated her face — enchanting, but not mine anymore.

“I still love you.”

I woke up to the trill of a ringing phone and found myself on the couch in the living room, with a book on my chest. Must have fallen asleep reading. I saw the phone and picked it up. It was her.

“Can you come? I need you here.”

“No.”

§

On September 21, around three in the afternoon, Al was walking home from high school, following his everyday route: along Sinclair Street, then left and down Frederick Avenue. Unlike most teenagers, Al wasn’t listening to music. Instead, he was preoccupied with his prospects of getting into Harvard. Al was eighteen years old.

Harvard, of course, wasn’t easy to get into, but it was the only university on Al’s mind. Thinking of it consumed virtually every minute of his time. Al worked hard to get the best grades while playing basketball at school. He was a decent player, but could have been better if he actually liked the game. Money wasn’t a problem — when Al was born, his parents set up a trust fund for him. They were morticians. Doing very well, in fact.

Al wanted to go to Harvard to study finance. In four years, as a graduate, he would join an investment bank as a junior financial analyst, from where he imagined a steady climb up the career ladder until he gained enough confidence to move on. He would then quit to start a hedge fund, accelerating his way into early retirement. Al’s plan was to make enough to get out at forty and then devote his time to the bucket list he’d been postponing: travelling around the world, playing in a band, getting married. There will be plenty of time to do all that, he thought.

Girls liked Al. He was good-looking and seemed a bit mysterious. Amy, his classmate, invited him on a date, but he never went. Come to think of it, nobody ever remembered Al going on a date. He just didn’t seem to have the time. Last year, Al’s classmates went on a trip to San Francisco, but Al didn’t go. A few months ago, there was a party at Chris’s, when his parents left town, but Al didn’t come. Al’s younger sister, Mary, bought a joint once, but Al didn’t try.

Al was approaching his house when he saw Mrs. Kingsley, a retired neighbour, anxiously standing outside.

“Mrs. Kingsley, what’s going on?”

“My cat. She went up the tree and wouldn’t come down. Can you help me get her?”

“Sure, no problem.”

Al took his backpack off.

Between two properties stood an oak tree, mighty and high. Al raised his head and, squinting, saw a small cat at the very top. He grabbed a low-hanging branch and pulled himself up. Al climbed slowly. Some smaller branches squeaked under his weight. Halfway there, Al looked down and felt the vertigo starting to set in. He swallowed heavily but kept going, calling the cat’s name. Finally, the cat was almost within reach. Al extended his arm to grab her, but the branch underneath broke off, and he slipped.

You could hear a thud, followed by the scream of Mrs. Kingsley. Al was eighteen years old.

§