Jeg Elsker Deg

The Prince of Wales Library isn't on Prince of Wales Drive, it's on 14th Ave. There is a library on Prince of Wales, but they've named it Sunrise. It's as though someone got the signs mixed up and then didn't want to admit they'd made a mistake. I used to go to the Prince of Wales branch a lot, in the winters, to find a quiet corner and write. It's in my neighborhood, sort of. It's not too busy, but busy enough that I'd always bring my headphones and something to listen to.

I'm thinking of one Monday morning in particular, a couple of years ago, sitting in a quiet corner at that library, working on my book and listening to the radio, turned way down so I wouldn't be distracted by it—I like to listen to unfamiliar music when I'm working so my brain doesn't snag on lyrics I know. That's why it was so strange when, in the middle of a song I'd never heard before, a lyric jumped out at me as though the music had been temporarily cranked up. Even stranger: the words weren't in English, but I knew what they meant—knew intrinsically, the way you know the phone number of your best friend from elementary school. You know it almost without knowing you know it, without trying to know it, and you'll probably always know it even if you forget other, actually important information. 

At first, I wouldn't have been able to give you a literal translation, I just knew that it was a phrase that meant something affectionate, something you'd say to someone very, very important to you. 

Jeg elsker deg.

I love you? 

I checked the name of the song—Norway. 

A memory came to me like my eyes were adjusting to a dark room. Sitting in my grandparents' living room on my Grandpa Glen's lap, him teaching me to count in Norwegian, teaching me an old Norwegian prayer, saying to me, "Jeg elsker deg," all in his deep, rumbling voice that I could feel reverberating in my spine. 

I loved his voice. It was familiar and comforting, one of those distinct, constant, grounding things from my childhood. He talked and laughed just like he sang, and I heard him sing often. He sang bass in a band with his brothers. They did hymns and old country music, and there was even yodeling sometimes. They often did this old Jim Reeves song called Suppertime; the chorus goes, "Come home, come home it's suppertime, the shadows lengthen fast. Come home, come home it's suppertime, we're going home at last."

He passed away yesterday, and ever since I got the phone call I've had that song in my head, on repeat, like a sweet gift, sung in my grandpa's familiar, comforting voice. 

I've been thinking about how beautiful it is that the words you say to a little kid can mean so much to them thirty years later, that they can remember what you meant even if they don't consciously remember exactly what you said, and that if you sing to someone enough when you're with them, they'll still be able to hear you long after you go away. 

The Voicemail

It's 11:45 on Sunday night and I'm doing that thing you're not supposed to do where you burn your eyeballs out on your phone screen before going to bed. Barclay is reading Dune, because Barclay is always reading Dune, because Dune is a migonstrous novel that would take any reasonably literate person ten years to finish.

I'm watching a funny video on Instagram and I turn my phone to Barclay so he can see it too, because don't you love it when you're reading a difficult book and someone keeps interrupting you to show you mildly funny videos of strangers from a social media realm in which you've specifically chosen not to partake? Barclay loves that.

As I turn the screen to him, he says, "Oh, someone's trying to call you."

Which is interesting, as it is 11:45 on a Sunday night. Generally, at this time, all the spammers, the scammers, the telemarketers, and appointment reminderers have gone to sleep. Generally, you don't call someone at 11:45 PM unless it's an emergency. So my heart beats a bit faster and I check the number. Local, but not a number saved in my phone. Which is interesting as, if you are having an emergency, you would generally, generally call someone you know, who would have your phone number saved in their phone. Right? I think.

I ask Barclay if he knows the number, and he says he doesn't. He shrugs. "Probably a wrong number."

So I watch the phone ring. The screen goes black and then lights up with a new voicemail.

Curious, I access the message and put it on speaker phone. Barclay has set his book down; he's probably thinking, too, about how people don't call at 11:45 PM on a Sunday night unless they have a very good reason, and he wants to know what the very good reason is.

It's a man's voice, not one I recognize. "Hey Suzy," he says, "I missed your call earlier today."

Which is interesting, because I didn't call anyone earlier today. I swear. 

I think. 

Did I? I rack my brain. It's funny how someone can make you doubt yourself. I know I didn't call anyone today; I spent the entire day with Barclay and the kids. But this stranger on the phone says I called him and why would anyone lie about that? 

But wait, it gets weirder.

"I can't wait to meet up," he says. "I know I messed up before but I really want to try this again."

WAIT WHAT.

"Since the moment I met you, I just thought you were really cute and—"

It goes on like that. Rambling, weirdly intimate, apologetic. On speaker phone, with my wonderful husband lying beside me looking completely bewildered. Understandably so, I'd say. If the roles were reversed I don't even know what I'd be up to at this point. Climbing into that phone to drag some lady out of it by her hair.

He ends with, "Okay, call me back. I love you," and the phone beeps at me, same as it does after every old innocuous message. 

"End of message. To erase this message, press 7."

"Okay," I say, completely gobsmacked. I might be asleep, I think. "So first of all—" First of all what? There is no first of all. There is nothing. I'm just more confused than I've ever been in my entire life. But I should probably say something to reassure Barclay that I'm not, like, cheating. I should say something reassuring. "I don't know this, I didn't call this, I don't know who, I'm just as, I'm not sure what..." This is probably not reassuring. This sounds super guilty, actually. But I'm legitimately questioning my sanity at this point, checking my recent calls screen to see if I made any phone calls earlier today, as though I could possibly have done something like this without knowing it. 

Barclay's cool though, save for those first few moments of looking like my phone had grown legs and kicked him in the face. 

"I know," he says, "I believe you. Spam?"

"But...he called me Suzy," I say. "If it was spam, wouldn't he have used my real name, not my nickname?" I have changed lanes very quickly, from trying to reassure my husband that I'm not having an affair to brushing off his plausible explanations that it's anything but. If my name were Susanna or something like that, I could see a spammer calling me Suzy. But my name is Elena. How...?

So then we spend a bit of time trying to figure out if there is a place on the internet where my nickname is connected to my phone number (there isn't, as far as we can tell). We reverse look-up the number, but come up with nothing. (I reverse look-up both mine and Barclay's phone numbers and come up with nothing there too—is reverse look-up a thing that actually works for anyone?)

Finally, Barclay's like, "Welp, I guess we'll never know." 

And he rolls over and goes to sleep.

But I, even though I know for a fact that I did not recognize that voice and do not know that person and did not call that person etcetera etcetera, just lay awake and keep being stumped.

So now I come to you, dear internet. Is this a spam call? Have any of you received one like this? What is the end game here? How did he know my nickname? Have I lost my mind? 

Plz advise. 

And may we all learn to be as chill as Barclay.