Photo by Dan Wayman on Unsplash
When I logged into Goodreads for inspiration, I never imagined the vortex I’d tumble into. At the top of a long column of book reviews and reading updates, Rachel, a distant friend, had categorized Mouth to Mouth by Antoine Wilson under “Want to Read.” The listing caught my eye, not because of its prominent position, or because Rachel’s interests as a fellow writer held particular weight, but because of the author’s name. A flicker of recognition. Had I read his work before?
I clicked on the book summary and scanned a brief bio. This was the author’s third novel, his previous books unknown to me, and he lived in Los Angeles, my birth city. No further facts illuminated my “déjà who,” so I zoomed in on his author photo. Middle-aged man with a receding hairline, black glasses, handsome and hip. Still no bingo, but a familiar enough face to make me question if a younger version of myself had met him.
Antoine Wilson, I typed in the search bar. He had a Wikipedia page. “Born in 1971,” one year before me, and he had attended UCLA, as had I. Now I was getting somewhere. I must know this man, I thought, although superficially and briefly at best. I followed a link to his professional website, which included another link to “Slow Paparazzo,” his blog featuring tongue-in-cheek photographs of empty places recently graced by a celebrity’s presence. Antoine Wilson was not only a writer, but a photographer too. My skin tingled. Was this Antoine the same young coed who once took artsy photos of me, including some that were topless?
I had a vague memory of being compensated with enlarged prints after our session, and an even vaguer memory of the images, which likely languished in an attic box. In one, I recalled wearing Levi’s—nothing else—with my long and curly hair shielding my face and one modest breast. In another, I remembered with less clarity, a black camera hanging ironically from my neck.
Back in 1990, I reveled in the power of my burgeoning sexuality. Although I didn’t remember any romance or seduction between me and the photographer, it wouldn’t be a surprise if the thirty-odd years between now and then had erased the memory of a casual kiss. After all, my freshman year was a period rife with experimentation - as evidenced by seminude modeling. At present, I wondered what more might a few clicks on the Internet reveal? Would I uncover my reflection in his online portfolio, and confirm the suspicion that my photographer and Antoine were one and the same? I almost wished for it, if only to face proof of my youth.
Down a rabbit hole, I spiraled, pairing Antoine’s name with multiple keywords: writer, photographer, book, blog, UCLA, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook. In my quest to prove an association, I scoured articles, interviews, and book summaries. And with each virtual page, I peeled away another degree of separation. T. Coraghessan Boyle, a close friend of my parents (and of literati fame), had authored a blurb for Mr. Wilson’s first fiction. They were both Iowa MFA alums, albeit generations apart. Did they know each other personally? Were we once introduced? Rachel and Antoine had attended Santa Monica High School, which might explain her interest in reading his book, and why his name had rung familiar. Despite these accumulating connections, I wasn’t positive of my own, and still wished to validate a hunch.
Like an excavator, I scrolled through a list of Antoine’s publications, mining ore with the discovery of a piece published in The Paris Review titled “For Sarah.” For me? Of course not, I thought, but loaded the essay with excitement. It told the tale of Antoine discovering his debut novel shelved in a used bookstore, how he opened it, and found his own signed inscription: “for Sarah—I hope you enjoy my twisted little book!” He then wrote about traversing his “… mental Rolodex, trying to figure out who Sarah might have been.” A writer, a girlfriend, an anonymous fan?
In that hungry moment of devouring his words, I projected myself into the past - the proud recipient of Antoine Wilson’s signed novel. But alas… no such memory existed. Antoine’s Sarah was another Sarah amongst many, my seventies name as ubiquitous as Jennifer or Christine. In some ways, this acceptance that I was not the same Sarah who Antoine dedicated his essay to, relieved me. I had not forgotten a literal connection, thus my brain was not the sieve I feared.
I shut my laptop and considered how Antoine had grappled with the gaps in his memory. He couldn’t remember if the Sarah he’d inscribed a message to was a Sarah he should recall, only that the forfeiture of his book hurt less coming from a stranger. What answer was I chasing in my search, other than confirmation that I knew Antoine? Reciprocal confirmation that Antoine knew me? Yes, because more than a memory, I wished to be memorable.
Sarah G. Gamber is an aspiring North American novelist, living overseas in Granada, Spain with her husband, two teens, and a dachshund. Her writing is inspired by decades of world travel and immersion in foreign cultures.