How do you know your Swedish friends?

I met her outside Hot Topic at the Palm Desert Mall in November 1999. She was a Swedish exchange student living with a friend of my mom's, and they thought we would hit it off. She had a mass of curly hair dyed an orangey-red, and was wearing brightly-colored clothing. There was a tiny gold star permanently glued to one of her teeth, affixed at the previous year's Roskilde festival. She simply sparkled. We quickly became close friends. When her host family abruptly went on a cruise without her, she joined my family for Thanksgiving dinner that year, bringing a Swedish jazz CD and butter in the shape of a turkey. We saw each other frequently, though we went to different high schools. Unfortunately, she had been placed at the affluent school three towns away, while I attended the much more normal, middle class high school. Still, we talked on the phone and went to the street fair often together.

She hated her host family; at eighteen, she thought they treated her unfairly as compared to the family's fourteen-year-old daughter. She was lonely and had a difficult time making friends at her school. At one time, she pleaded to be transferred and move into our house, but my parents declined unless we shared a room. She was moody, though, and also very needy. She had a flair for the dramatic. I couldn't picture sharing such a small space with her. This decision hurt our friendship, and we rarely saw each other in the final months she lived in the U.S. She went back to Sweden in June of 2000 and we lost contact for more than a year.

We began talking again in my first year of college, via MSN Messenger and email. Our closeness quickly returned and she invited me to come visit her and the polar bears in Sweden. In the spring of 2003, for my twentieth birthday, that's exactly what I did. I arrived at Copenhagen International Airport the day the Iraq war started. Because of this, my parents asked me to reconsider my trip, but there was no convincing me not to get on that plane. Once I walked through the exit and saw her waiting for me, I knew I'd made the right decision. She stood in the middle of the doorway with a lollipop in her mouth, and gave me a giant hug before I could put my bags down. We boarded the train to Malmö, where she lived, and so began my first Swedish adventure.

My favorite memories of her occurred in Sweden. I can't sleep on airplanes, so I'd been awake for 36 hours the day I arrived. She asked if I'd like to go to a concert, and of course I said yes. We headed to KB to see Krister Åström and Hidden Truck, a Swedish band I'd never heard of. They played folksy pop music and sang in English. I met a few of her friends, and we drank multiple ciders at the club. We got loud and talked through much of the set, and she somehow convinced me to claim I was an American journalist and make my way backstage. Alcohol and sleep deprivation make anything sound like a brilliant idea, so that's what I did. Suddenly I was backstage tipsily interviewing a pretty famous guy under false press credentials. We stumbled back to her apartment with a story I still love to tell.

She lived in a tiny studio apartment. All her kitchen utensils were pink with Hello Kitty on them. Her walls were painted bright blue. She slept on a lofted bed from Ikea with a futon below for me, but she implored me to climb to the top bunk and crash with her most nights. Her bathroom featured what's called a Stockholm Shower, which is little more than a hose attached to the sink and a corresponding drain in the middle of the floor. I was to stand very still, look straight ahead, and under no circumstances get any water on her makeup collection that hung on the back of the bathroom door.

The week of my birthday was spent drinking cider, struggling against the chilly winter air, and bonding with several of her friends. She bought me some clogs and an eyebrow piercing for my birthday. We traveled back to Copenhagen (and to the incredibly seedy Christiania) to check out the touristy sights and eat terrible pizza. In Christiania, slightly out of my head, I decided I was hungry and walked up to the nearest restaurant stall to get some food. I ordered a roll with cheese and scarfed it down while my companion stared at me, bewildered. "Did you see how much dirt was under his nails?" she asked me. No, I hadn't, and I didn't much care. She started to tease me about eating a cootie bun, and began singing an impromptu adaptation of a Destiny's Child song that was popular at the time. "My bun is too cootielicious for you," she sang. We laughed ourselves silly among the barefoot children and red-eyed dogs.

Too soon, though, the visit was over and I had to return to California for my next quarter of school. She gave me a mix CD of Swedish bands as a parting gift, and promised to visit as soon as she could afford the plane ticket. I began planning for her visit, intent on showing her that not all of California is awful.

Her visit never happened. The last time I saw her was when we hugged goodbye at the British Airways counter in Copenhagen. Eight months later, she was gone. What I didn't know was that her moodiness, her flair for the dramatic, were symptoms of a larger problem; one she'd been dealing with (and tormenting her friends with) for quite some time. I don't know the exact circumstances, and I don't want to know them. All I know is I woke up the next morning, seven years ago today, to terrible news. At just 21 years old, she was really gone.

I was a desert island, thousands of miles from the other people who were close to her. If I'd had a credit card at the time, I would have maxed it out to fly back to Sweden. Instead, I sat in my bedroom and shut off. Nobody understood, and beyond making me tea and sitting patiently in my house when I couldn't be alone, my friends didn't quite know what to do with me. I don't talk about her. In all honesty, I really can't talk about her. It makes people uncomfortable, and it brings up emotions I don't want to have. When people ask how I met my Swedish friends, I say "In Sweden." I'm evasive because it's still a raw nerve and frankly it's none of anyone's business. For years I had dreams about her, though they've mostly subsided. I strain to remember the sound of her voice. I talk to her in my head sometimes, though I don't really believe in heaven or other absurdities. I do believe the scientific truth that matter can neither be created or destroyed, and as long as I remember her, she'll keep on living. I think of her when I buy a vibrant makeup shade, and whenever I catch a glimpse of the scar on my eyebrow where her birthday gift once rested. Before abandoning me, she made sure I was absorbed by her treasured friends. I've become very close to them, and they are an invaluable resource in preserving her memory. Together, we are the ones who will miss her every day of our lives.