The Memory Wall

by Lev AC Rosen

  “That’s some fighting,” the dwarf says. Severkin turns around and looks him over. He wears lightweight leather with a copper badge in the shape of a mountain on his chest. He has a short black beard and a leather helmet that covers his nose but has two huge openings for his eyes.

  “You too,” Severkin says. “You also run pretty well.”

  The dwarf laughs. “I would have never taken an undersmelk on by myself. I was out patrolling—didn’t expect it. They say the giants stirring is what’s driving them overground, making them angry.”

  “I’d believe it,” Severkin says. “I saw a giant last night. It rose from the ocean and made a wave so huge my ship was dashed on the rocks. It was headed for Wellhall.”

  The dwarf nods, his mouth a grim line. “They call that one Grimwater. He’s huge, and the only one we’ve seen from the sea. He’s been attacking Wellhall nightly for three days, but they drive him off with their cannons and ballistae. He keeps coming back, though. It’s a good thing he’s the only one from the sea awake so far. The land giants are smaller. Still need an army to take one down, but at least they can be taken down.”

  “So it’s true? All the giants are waking?” He’d hoped the one in the ocean had somehow been an oddity, an aberration.

  “Aye.” The dwarf nods. “We dwarves have felt them stirring for years. It’s why the peace was made. We need to fight together. But we can talk more of that in town. You look like you need some mead in you, or a shower at least.” Severkin looks down at his blood-soaked clothes. “And, as a member of the National Guard, I can reward you for your valor in slaying the undersmelk. That’ll help you get some new clothes.”

  “Thanks,” Severkin says. He doesn’t trust the dwarf, not really, but he needs more arrows. “I’m Severkin.”

  “Rel,” the dwarf says, shaking his hand. “C’mon, I’ll take you to Bridgefall.”

  NICK WAKES up to Dad knocking on the door of his room. He opens it before Nick can reply. Mom always waits until he says it’s okay to come in. Waited. Will wait. He conjugates his mother’s presence in his head, trying to figure out what state she’s in.

  “Bookstore today,” Dad says quickly. “Better get ready.” Then he closes the door, leaving Nick alone in the dark, rubbing his eyes. He’d only played the game a little, just through that first big fight, before he’d felt crazy tired. He’d gone to sleep, wanting to play in the morning, take it all in with fresh eyes. But now he feels guilty. He should have been looking up more symptoms, maybe searching his parents’ room. He thinks maybe if he can find out what Grandpa did, he can prove that it didn’t line up with Alzheimer’s. He’d told himself he’d do that today. He’d forgotten about the bookstore. If they get it over with quickly, he can come home and maybe sneak into their bedroom then. But the bookstore never goes quickly with Dad. Dad will have to sign any copies of his book they have, and chat with Traci, and agree to come in and give another talk. Nick sighs, and rolls out of bed.

  The boss fight had been awesome. He could practically feel the creature’s breath through its tentacles and that moment where he had rolled under the thing and killed it by stabbing upward had made him feel amazing and powerful. The controls were ten steps ahead of anything else on the market—it was like they’d been able to sense what he wanted to do. The graphics were so intense he could feel the world—smell it, taste it. It was nice to be in a reality where he got to be Severkin again. And Severkin is even more of a badass now. If Severkin’s mom needed rescuing, he’d break her out in less than a day. But Nick isn’t Severkin.

  He showers and dresses and heads downstairs to eat. Dad isn’t in the kitchen, so Nick pours himself some cereal and milk and eats alone, not looking at the stove, where he can hear Mom cooking and humming, but instead staring at the seat Mom usually sits in, wondering if this was what it was going to be like for the rest of his life.

  Dad comes in and looks down at him.

  “Ready for the bookstore?” he asks. Cheerfully. Just his tone is like a prick of rage poison in Nick’s blood. Nick feels his hand clench into a fist as he turns slowly to look up at Dad.

  “Sure,” he says. The school will give him his books at the beginning of the year, but Mom and Dad always wanted him to buy copies of the novels and history books he would be reading, so he could write in them, highlight them, and keep them. He has shelves of books from middle school that he doesn’t think he’ll ever look at again, but they make his parents happy.

  “Well, let’s get going, then.” Dad makes a “come with me” motion, and Nick takes a deep breath and unclenches his hand. “Bowl in the sink,” Dad reminds him. Nick leaves his bowl where it is and follows Dad outside.

  They drive to the bookstore in silence. Nick gets to sit in the passenger seat. The seat isn’t quite comfortable—usually Nick pushes it back a few inches, but he doesn’t feel like it today. He just stares out the window. When Dad pulls the car into the large parking lot that’s shared by the various stores and restaurants of the shopping center, he turns to Nick, his face all solemn, so Nick talks before his dad can.

  “Let’s get my books,” Nick says, opening his door. “I want to get home and play my game.”

  The bookstore was called A Place for Learning when Nick was little, but six years ago it had been bought out by a chain. The same woman still runs it. Traci is working the register when they come in, and puts her arms up as though she’s rejoicing in church when she sees them. She’s older than Nick’s parents and wears her hair in long braids that are almost entirely gray.

  “Lamont!” she calls, her voice half fangirl scream, half singsong. People look over at Nick and his father, and Nick looks down at his shoes. Traci runs out from behind the counter and gives Dad a huge hug, then gives Nick one, too. “We have plenty of your new book in stock,” she says, pointing at a nearby display. “If you want to sign them.” The display shows the latest of Dad’s books, its bright black-and-white cover with the chain of red hearts: Across the Line: A History of Interracial Love and Marriage in America. It’s his fourth book. In his first one, I Go Back, he traced his own heritage all the way back to Africa and recounted what it meant to him. That one landed him on Oprah, where he traced her heritage, too, and became a bestseller. Then came Before We Were Free, on the history of pre–Civil War civil rights activists, and Stories Across the Ocean, where he took traditional African folktales and showed how they transformed into American Southern tall tales and fables—that one is Nick’s favorite.

  Sometimes, when he’s just with his family, Nick’s dad jokes about being a professional Black Man. Nick liked it more when he was younger, how famous Dad was, hearing the stories over and over again about where he came from, about how his great-great-great-grandfather was one of the first black men in the army, and how his ancestors before that fought back against their white masters in the South, and even before that, about where in Africa his ancestors came from. He still likes it, but it’s become less impressive somehow. Dad has all the answers, but only on one subject, and Nick’s questions all fall into other realms.

  It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate it. When Nick was little—like ten or younger—and kids in his class would say something racist, like “You can’t be Luke Skywalker, you’re black,” he would say that wasn’t true and then call over a teacher to confirm it. But as he’s gotten older and has had to say the same things over and over, teach the same lessons to the same people, he’s gotten tired of it and has just stopped. If Dad wants to educate, let him educate. It’s not Nick’s job to make white people stop being racist. It’s theirs. He doesn’t know how Dad has kept it up for so long.

  “I’d be happy to sign some books,” Nick’s dad says, a big smile on his face. “But we’re here doing a little school shopping. I have Nick’s book list….Maybe you could give us a hand?” Dad takes the book list from his pocket with a flourish.

  “Of course, of course,” Traci says, still smiling. She looks at the list. “Junior high? Seventh grade? Are yo
u really that big now, Nicky?” She takes a step back, as if evaluating him.

  Nick sighs. “Yeah,” he says.

  “Oh yeah, he’s a teenager,” Traci says with a laugh.

  Nick tries to smile. He likes Traci. She’s silly, and fawns over Dad too much, but she’s smart, too, and used to read him books when he was little.

  “Where’s Sophie?” Traci asks suddenly. Nick shivers and wanders over to the display of Dad’s books, to look at the covers.

  “Ah,” Dad says delicately. “She’s at Sunrise now.”

  There is a long pause, and Nick fingers the corner of one of Dad’s books. It’s sharp as a razorblade. He bends it back and forth, listening to the tiny rustle it makes, like a stifled sob or a sigh.

  “Oh, Lamont,” Traci says. She pauses, and Nick can tell she’s looking over at him. He opens the front cover of Dad’s book and reads the dedication: For Sophie, the love of my life and the most amazing inspiration I have ever found.

  “I’m so sorry,” Traci says finally. Nick feels his shoulders relax, and he closes the book and puts it back.

  Nick wants to say she’ll be coming home soon. Soon as he figures out what’s really wrong with her. But he can’t open his mouth.

  “Thanks,” Dad says, and Nick wonders why he says it. “Do you want me to sign some of these books?” Suddenly Nick feels Dad’s hand on his shoulder; they’ve followed him over to the display. Dad rests his hand there for a moment, and then squeezes. Nick takes a deep breath and pulls his attention from the book display. Dad’s hand is warm on his shoulder, comforting as sunlight. He doesn’t know why it shattered him to hear Dad tell Traci about Mom, but he feels more broken than he did before, like pieces of glass being ground into sand. Dad’s hand holds him together for a moment, until he can rebuild. He doesn’t know how Dad knew he needed that, but he’s thankful.

  “Sign as many as you like. You can come sit behind the table if you want, and I’ll have someone bring them over.”

  Dad once told Nick he tried not to sign them all, in case Traci couldn’t sell them all. But Traci loves Dad. She invites him to speak every month, and he always goes. Nick and Mom go, too, and they sit in the back as Dad reads from his book and talks about black history and answers the questions from the couple dozen black people who live in the area and all get together for this. Sometimes people come and talk to Mom and ask Nick how proud he is of Dad, which is a question he can’t really answer without sounding like a really little kid. But it’s a lot. Or it was. He’s not sure now.

  Dad goes and sits at a counter, a stack of books with him, and takes out a pen from somewhere—he always has a pen prepared when they come—and starts signing. Traci brings another pile to him, then looks at the book list again.

  “I’ll go get these. Nicky, you want to give me a hand?” Nick nods and follows Traci around the store, picking out the books from the list.

  “Junior high,” she says, shaking her head and looking at the stacks of thick, glossy books. “You’re making me feel old, Nicky.”

  “But I’m not making you look it,” Nick says. Traci laughs, a heavy bell-ringing sound that Nick loves. “You are too charming, just like your father.” Nick smiles, but he knows this isn’t true. Traci is the only one he can charm. And only by repeating things Dad has said to her before and she’s forgotten. She forgets all the little compliments within days, but no one is locking her up.

  “Let’s see,” she says. “A Streetcar Named Desire, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde…” She plucks the books off the shelf and stacks them into a pile in Nick’s arms. “I think I’ll have another get-together soon, you know. Your dad can read again. It’ll be good for him, and you, to be around the community.”

  “That sounds cool,” Nick says—politely, he hopes. He doesn’t want another one of those gatherings right now. It’s not that he dislikes them—he actually thinks they’re sort of interesting, and there’s a good feeling to them, to being in a room filled with people who look like him. But he wouldn’t know what to do without Mom to sit with in the back. He wouldn’t know what to do every time Dad said “She’s gone to Sunrise House” and Nick would shatter again.

  “I’ll make sure to invite the Clarkes, too, and tell them to bring their daughter,” Traci says, half to herself. “She’ll be entering Reagan this year, too.”

  Nick nods and swallows. Usually he’s the only one under thirty at these readings. He’s not sure if it’s better that way.

  “Here we go, that should be the last of your books,” Traci says. “Let’s see how many books your dad has signed.” Nick carries his books back to the register. Dad has signed about a dozen books but seems to be talking to some customers. A few of them are looking over the book.

  “Nicky and I agreed it’s time for another little get-together, if you’re up for it,” Traci says to Dad. “Maybe…” She goes around to look at a calendar hanging on the wall behind the register. “Thursday? That good? You want to come read a little, talk to the usual folks?”

  “Sure, that sounds nice,” Dad says.

  “We’ll be allowed to see Mom by then,” Nick points out. He knows other things will happen by then, too—school will start, his friends will ignore him in the halls—but he feels weird scheduling something when they should check with Mom first. When does she want them to come? Every day? Shouldn’t she be the priority?

  “That’s okay, though, right?” Dad asks. “We’re going to have to give her a break from us now and then.”

  Nick wants to say no, it isn’t, but he thinks Dad should be able to realize that. Why would she need a break from them, after all? She hasn’t needed one before. He feels the ragebrew in his veins again, a sudden desire to burn all Dad’s books, watch those dedications dissolve in the smoke. But he folds his arms instead. “Sure,” he says.

  “It’ll be nice for you, Nicky,” Traci says, putting her arm around his shoulders. She smells like paper and coffee and a little bit like flowers, and Nick nods and says “Sure” again, and is surprised to feel the poison begin to drain from him.

  “Good, now how about we get you rung up? I hope you learn something this year, with all these books you’re buying.”

  • • •

  At home, Nick runs upstairs before Dad can say anything. He knows he should be snooping for information about his grandfather, but all he wants is to lose himself in the game. Everything outside the game is so sad now, so gray. The absence of his mother is everywhere, reminding him she needs to be rescued. And he can’t rescue her yet, isn’t sure how. But Severkin can slay giants.

  He turns on the console, but Dad opens the door without knocking, before Nick’s last save even loads. Dad comes in with the bag of books and sits down on the bed.

  “You want to talk about anything?” Dad asks.

  Nick thinks Dad has asked this a thousand times since yesterday, though he knows it can’t actually have been that many. “No,” he says. The game is taking a long time to load. Nick hopes they fix that with a patch soon.

  “It’s going to be weird, without your mom, I know that. But I’m going to try, Nick, to be the best dad I can. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah,” Nick says. The game’s loading screens are pictures from the game, first a view of Wellhall, then a farm, then a dwarven city. Under each of the pictures is a little information about the game. You can organize your inventory by pressing O at any time in the inventory screen. Wellhall is the capital city of both the gray elves and the dwarves. Remember to recruit companions! It’s easier to slay a giant with friends.

  “Okay, well.” Dad stands, taps his foot a few times, crosses and uncrosses his arms. “I’ll be here if you want to talk.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Nick says without looking up. Dad leaves, and Nick hears him go downstairs. The game is only 20 percent loaded. It’s taking forever. Nick puts down the controller and stands. His parents’ bedroom is just across the hall, and he can hear Dad downstairs, watching TV. Nick walks quietly across the hall and opens
the door slowly, so it whispers. The room is in disarray. Closets are open and empty, the armoire’s doors hanging out like the arms of a defeated knight. How much had they managed to squeeze into those suitcases? Nick pads over to the closet. Mom had kept an album here, and a shoebox. When he was little, she’d take them down and show him things—photos of his grandparents, a piece of the Berlin Wall, a lock of her hair from when she was a baby. But they’re gone now. At the home? Dad couldn’t have thrown them out, could he? He looks at the bottom of the closet, under the bed, but he doesn’t see them anywhere obvious, and he feels the shiver-tingle of fear—he’s been in here too long, Dad could come in. Nick pads back to his own room. The game is 99 percent loaded. Nick sits down to play. Where is Mom’s stuff?

  BRIDGEFALL ISN’T much to look at from where Severkin is standing. They’ve come to it across the plains, and it’s just a bridge connecting two cliffs over a huge ravine. It’s a big bridge, very big, with houses on either side of it, and still wide enough down the center to march an army, but Severkin had expected more somehow.

  “You gotta look at it from over there,” Rel says, as if sensing Severkin’s disappointment. He waves Severkin away with his hand, and Severkin walks down the side of the cliff to look at Bridgefall from the side. And then he is impressed.

  Under the bridge, hanging like wind chimes, are platforms, dozens of them, each larger than a house, all suspended by thick ropes and connected to one another with smaller bridges and spiral staircases. There are platforms hanging from platforms, and against the sides of the cliff are more platforms, built out like shelves. And this is where the life of the city is. There are inns swaying in the breeze, smithies and taverns, and people scurrying up and down the stairways. The lowest platforms hang just over the river at the bottom of the ravine, and the people there cast nets off the side and haul up fish. The city sways in the wind, but no one seems to mind.