by Jenny Manzer
“I’m trying,” I repeated, but I could feel the hate forming little barnacles inside me. How could Verne do that?
I gave Obe his Christmas present, a Star Wars pillowcase I’d bought online. Obe had always been pissed that his had been stolen at a Scouts’ campout. Obe lasted longer in Scouts than I did in Brownies. He was very goal oriented: task attempted, accomplished, reward given. That was the way Obe operated, which was why he aced his courses. I could imagine him writing books one day or being an absent-minded professor with elbow patches.
He thanked me and gave a little laugh of delight, like a soap bubble popping. He handed me my gift, which was wrapped in a Sears flyer. It was a secondhand paperback copy of a biography of Kurt Cobain, Heavier Than Heaven. I’d already read all the books in the library on Cobain, and reread them, including the one that made the case that his wife, Courtney Love, might have had him killed. I hadn’t been able to find Heavier Than Heaven, which I’d heard was one of the best biographies. The book cover was a black-and-white photo of him, his blond hair falling over his eye, a slight smirk-grin on his face, as if he knows something you don’t, but maybe he’ll tell you down the road.
“Thanks, Obe,” I said.
We had known each other so long that we didn’t always have to talk. He had some new CDs, so we listened to them for a while. Obe was on an old ska band kick. After a couple of albums, I got anxious about making my ferry. Verne would be driving me in our small, rusted car that was the color of a dried apricot.
I walked home, feeling hollowed out, swinging the book in my hand. On my way, I stopped at Wellburns and bought a few packets of Kool-Aid—berry blue and lemon-lime—some aluminum foil, and Saran Wrap. When I got home I ignored Verne, went to the bathroom, and got to work mixing the paste. I rummaged under the sink to find petroleum jelly.
“Everything okay?” Verne asked. “Takeoff time in two hours.” Verne had been saying “takeoff time” since I was five.
“Yeah,” I said, smearing the jelly around my forehead. The Vaseline had congealed, and was hard, like ice cream. I couldn’t remember when we’d last used it. I checked to make sure the bathroom door was locked, then added a big dollop of conditioner to the Kool-Aid paste I had made. I massaged it in my hair, and then shrouded my entire head in plastic wrap, which made it look like a wasp’s nest. I had a dollar-store navy knit cap ready to put on.
I pushed open the door, freed from our moss-green bathroom, last renovated circa 1980. My temples throbbed under the plastic wrap. I smelled like sickly sweet fruit punch. When I got to the other side of the water, I would look different. I would be different.
Nirvana’s music made me feel better even though it was dark. I had never heard music before that sounded how I felt. Sometimes Nirvana was soft like R.E.M. Other times they were loud, like the Pixies, but mostly they were both at once, soft and loud in the same song. Moody and introspective, then electrified with anger. I was like that, too. I might have seemed soft-spoken, but my thoughts were often raging. When I discovered my mother’s hidden albums, I could feel myself turning a corner, as if swinging right into the path of a speeding car. I was silent the whole drive to the Victoria Clipper ferry terminal, which was right downtown on the Inner Harbour, just a few steps from the Royal London Wax Museum. Obe and I used to love that hokey place. We’d always try to hug the figure of Mahatma Gandhi.
“Nico,” Verne said as he cranked on the parking brake. December rain ricocheted off the roof of the car. “I know you’re mad at me.”
“Yes,” I said, looking down at my hands in my lap. They seemed pale and oddly shaped, like white coral underwater.
“Don’t let that ruin this trip for you. Just enjoy the city and being with Aunt Gillian.” The plastic wrap under my hat itched like crazy.
“I won’t,” I said, still rigid with anger. The car door stuck, so I pushed it hard with my shoulder. I didn’t want to miss my ferry. My heart bashed against my chest, because I realized that without my hair showing, I might not be recognizable in my passport photo.
Verne popped the trunk, and I swung my big backpack on, hooking my knapsack onto my shoulder. I tried to march faster than him, but his legs were so much longer that he could easily keep my pace.
“You have that American cash?” he asked.
“Yes.” He’d given it to me just before we left.
“Aunt Gillian will meet you at the terminal. Do not go anywhere. Just wait for her. And don’t let any strange men sit next to you.”
“I won’t.”
The Clipper terminal was not the most exciting place to start a journey. The chairs and floor tiles were probably about one notch better than the bus terminal, which wasn’t saying much. The perky woman behind the counter wore a navy-blue uniform, and her hair was in a tight bun.
“Is this your first time going to Seattle? Traveling alone? Bet your dad’s a bit worried. Going to do some shopping, girl stuff, maybe buy some shoes?”
No. Yes. Uh-huh. Maybe. The last one I hedged, not wanting to appear as abnormal as I really was. There was nothing I hated more than shoe shopping, except perhaps bra shopping.
“Maybe you’ll go to the Pacific Science Center,” the lady suggested. People were always hopeful that I was a normal girl, and I always let them down.
“Sure, that would be great,” I said. The smell of conditioner and Kool-Aid hung in the air in a sweet, sticky curtain.
“May I have your passport, dear?” The woman, whose name tag said Peggy, wore bright orange lipstick. Coral Snake, I would have called it, if I made up lipstick names. I liked to think about stupid things like that. It made me less jittery. I slid my passport across the table. My hand had made the cover sweaty. She looked at me, and then the passport, and then my knit cap. My passport shows me with puffy blond hair. In the photo, I looked pensive, as if taking an eye exam.
I had arrived at the ferry terminal an hour early, as per the instructions on the ticket. I was sweating under my hat, and worried that a blue drop would roll down my forehead.
“Nicola, here are your documents back. You can take them over there now,” she said, gesturing to a guard in a gray uniform. I winced at hearing my full name, then realized that I had made it through step one. “It’s passengers only after that point, so best give your kisses and hugs now.”
I imagined Peggy to be a scrapbooker, maybe someone who canned her own fruit. That might be nice, having peaches off-season.
“Thank you,” I squeaked.
Verne stood, looking tall and conspicuous, as if the phone booth thing from Dr. Who had landed in the Clipper terminal. The Tardis.
“Have a great time, Nico. Enjoy your birthday present. When you come back, we’ll have our Christmas together, okay?” Verne clamped me in one of his bear hugs then, a squeeze and release.
I patted my hat to make sure it was still in place.
“Oh, I got you something for the trip.” He reached into his coat pocket. At first I thought it was a necklace, but it was a headlamp, the kind you take camping. He’d bought me a girlie one with a pink band and the white light dead center. I could walk around Seattle looking like a Cyclops. “It’s always good to have a source of light, in case the power goes out, or whatnot. Better safe than sorry.”
I thanked him and tucked it into my knapsack. My mind had been scoured of anything to say. Big dramatic moments were not my thing, but I still had those barnacles in my stomach. “Don’t forget to turn the heat on sometimes,” I added. “It’s cold.”
“I won’t.”
And with that, I handed my papers to the guard, was waved through, and entered the realm of Passengers Only. There were a lot of gray- and white-haired people, along with a few couples trying to control young children. It was a sea of Gore-Tex jackets. There was an urn of coffee, and I watched the seniors flutter around it like pigeons. Verne would be halfway home by now, probably listening to CFAX radio to stay on top of news and weather. I pulled out my Discman and listened to a Mudhoney CD. This is m
y mother’s, I thought, listening to Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge. The raw sounds calmed my nerves. Something was going to happen on this trip. I could feel it.
“Excuse me, miss, could you turn down that racket?”
I looked up, prepared to apologize, my usual strategy. A guy, maybe sixteen, was grinning at me, his face close to mine. He was obviously one of those people with no sense of personal space. He had a shaved head, which made his green eyes pop. There was a sprinkling of paprika freckles over his nose, making me think his hair was red. He was handsome.
“Excuse me?” I asked, lifting my headphones, squinting. I had no clue about how to flirt. I felt I had no goods to offer. I wore an A-cup. I would likely never be flabby, at least, because I walked. I walked like a speed-addicted postal worker. It was what I did.
“What are you listening to?” he asked. He looked like a ska guy. He had suspenders peeking out beneath his khaki parka. He was clearly like me, in a music time warp.
“Mudhoney,” I half shouted, looking around. I hadn’t been expecting a conversation.
“Well, that makes you the coolest girl in the room,” he said. “My name is Sean, by the way.” He strolled back to his knapsack, which was army surplus. He’d written The Jam on it, a way-old ska band. Of course, no one listened to what I liked, either. Grunge was supposedly a cross of punk and heavy metal or something. I didn’t like either alone, but together it was a perfect combination. It was the end of 2006, though, not 1992. Grunge was dead, or so I kept hearing.
When they finally let us on the ferry, everyone rushed to claim seats as if the last person standing had to drop their pants. I looked around dumbly. Already couples and families were spreading out magazines and coffee cups and video games. The seats were blue or red, all in banks of four or six, facing each other as if on a train.
I had wanted to catch glimpses of the dark sea boiling as we crossed, but the prime window seats were already taken by parties of four or five or six. Parties. If there were a few of you, it became a party. I had to sit somewhere; it was a two-and-a-half-hour trip. People were beginning to notice me standing there. One woman looked up from helping her daughter open a plastic tub filled with green grapes. Her eyes locked on mine; then she turned away. The little girl extracted one grape and popped it in her mouth. She didn’t need to be greedy, since it was all for her. She wore a peach hairband and had two pigtails shooting out from either side of her head like spray from a garden hose. I wanted to gently tug on one of the girl’s pigtails, as if pulling a cord to signal a train stop.
“Hey, Mudhoney, over here.”
It was that guy, Sean, sitting in one of the banks of four, his long legs stretched out. I could feel my face getting hot. He made it sound like two words. Mud Honey.
“There’s space here,” he said, gesturing to the three seats, one of which was taken up with his army surplus bag.
Most of the free seats had been covered with bags or wet jackets. It was the best offer I would get. Sean was listening to something on his headphones and flashed me a smile. It didn’t count as sitting next to a strange man. He wasn’t quite a man yet, though he did seem strange, drumming his fingers on the armrest. The table had trays that folded out to make space if you wanted to eat or play cards. It would have been ideal for using the Ouija board.
If Sean didn’t want to chitchat, that was fine. The two rejects were sitting together, which probably made everyone else feel comfortable. The ship started to move. There would be no turning back. My calf muscles unclenched.
“Do you have a shaved head?” Sean shouted at me, still listening to his headphones.
“No,” I said. The answer seemed to satisfy him.
“Bummer,” he muttered, crossing and uncrossing his legs at the ankle. He was one of those tall guys who appeared boneless. The people around me had settled down, drinking more coffee, talking, reading brochures about what to do in Seattle. I tried to guess which ones were returning home to Seattle and which were from Victoria. Middle-aged, middle-class Americans favored high-end, branded sportswear: ball caps with logos, jerseys, golf shirts, expensive sneakers with silver laces. It was as if wealthy Americans took everything seriously, even leisure time. They all seemed to be reading the same silver-and-blue paperback novel: A Time to Cry by Jasper Jameson. I patted my head, which was warm under the knit hat. I would have to rinse out the Kool-Aid at some point. Planning ahead was not one of my strengths, as guidance counselors often reminded me.
A young woman in a blue collared shirt was making the rounds of the ship, taking drink and snack orders. The plastic card on the table listed the options: various packs containing a hodgepodge of mini-snacks if your palate had ADHD and couldn’t decide if it wanted crackers with cheese spread, dried cranberries, or salami. I settled on a packet of almonds and a Sprite. My small stature and my current waiflike appearance gave me a roughly 35 percent chance of being served a beer.
I opened my knapsack and rummaged through the CDs, settling upon Incesticide, the Nirvana compilation album first released in 1992. I had wanted it for weeks. My mother had owned it. I couldn’t believe it. I had read that the album came out just after several singles from Nevermind were released, so the record company didn’t give it heavy promotion. Incesticide contained “Sliver,” the song about a boy visiting his grandparents’ house when his parents go out—and he just wants to go home. It’s simple kid-lyrics about bike riding and bashing your toe, and having trouble chewing meat, and wanting your mother. People tried to make a big deal about Cobain’s lyrics and song titles, but sometimes they were just random, like “Sliver.” The title had nothing to do with the song, and if you thought it did, the joke was on you.
The other song on the album I loved was “Dive,” straight-ahead driving guitar. All the songs were simply produced, more punk and rough edges than what came later.
The Incesticide cover was artwork by Kurt Cobain featuring a skeletal figure with an oddly shaped doll clinging to its shoulder, and two flowers—one withered, one alive—by its wristbone. I shuddered, fascinated. There was something about dead flowers. While it was creepy, the skeleton was crouched in a kind of yoga pose, almost contemplative. The doll figure suggested…well, I didn’t know. Hope? The back of the album showed a photo of a rubber duck, an item belonging to Cobain.
Sean was studying me. I smiled as if to say “Yeah?” I put my headphones back on and hit play. “Dive” started up, all searing and ominous. It seemed unlikely anyone would ever pick me, like the chorus said. I was never picked for anything, certainly not gym teams. I had stamina but was uncoordinated. I was clumsy. I tended to drop things.
While I listened, I thought that some people have the ability to bring a song to life, to sell it, to make you feel it. That’s something Grandma Irene once said to me, talking about Frank Sinatra. I pulled out the liner notes, remembering that Cobain was credited on Incesticide as Kurdt Kobain, an alternate spelling he sometimes used.
As I unfolded the liner notes, a Polaroid fell out and fluttered to the floor. The photo was dark, aquatic, like a shark tank. Someone had written The Forge, March 9, 1991 on the frame in blue marker. It took me only a second to realize: that someone was my mother. I felt my organs rearrange themselves and lurch back into place.
The photo was of Nirvana bassist Krist Novoselic playing a barefoot set in Victoria at the Forge, a bar since renamed and rebranded. To the right was Kurt Cobain, his blond hair covering his face, head down, focused on his guitar—his lifeline. The stop would have been a blip on their last tour before they went big, galactic, selling close to thirty million records. But there was someone else in the photo. I could see her velvet chestnut hair in the front row. She was half turning that beautiful aquiline nose to the camera, knowing her friend was pushing the button. Her face was blurry because she was dancing. She could be willing him to pick me, pick me. Would she have done that? She was quiet, introspective, but she could be a wild child, I’d heard. She was passionate about music. Kurt Cobain shar
ed all those traits, it seemed to me. He knew all about dangerous feelings.
I held the Polaroid, forgetting where I was and who I was. The ship seemed to be spinning. I’d heard talk that Nirvana had played one show in Victoria, when they were largely unknown, before Nevermind took off like a supernova. One show. Only sixty or so people had been there. I pressed the Polaroid to my chest, as if it could stop my heart from flopping up and down. I thought I might do something crazy, like demand that the captain turn around or hurl myself overboard, anything to distract myself from the feelings I was having. My mother was at a Nirvana concert, the Nirvana concert. Concert promoters in Victoria still agonized over not booking that one.
I placed the photo facedown on my thigh and extracted my laptop from my knapsack. My legs were trembling, making the screen shake. Ten seconds later the set list for Nirvana, the Forge, March 9, 1991, popped up. I had saved it as a PDF during one of my late-night Internet sessions. The band opened with a cover of “Love Buzz” by Shocking Blue, probably roaring onto the stage. They followed with “Sliver” and “Dive.” I closed my eyes for a second to let it all sink in. My mother loved Nirvana. She’d stood just a few feet away from Kurt Cobain. She maybe even touched him.
I plugged my headphones into my CD player and listened to “Sliver,” trying to imagine Annalee’s face as she heard it, how she danced. Aunt Gillian had once told me, “Your mother liked to go a little wild,” but I didn’t know what that meant. Grandma Irene thought flavored coffee beans were wild. Verne was much the same. I suspected Aunt Gillian could let loose, but not in front of her underage niece. I also sometimes thought my aunt was a lesbian but that no one had bothered to tell me yet.
Sean drummed his fingers so hard on the table that I could feel the vibrations. Was he trying to bug me? Now he was drinking a beer he had managed to obtain, even though I was sure he wasn’t legal. He tapped the bottle, asking.
Yeah, I wanted some. I nodded. He smiled, looked to see if anyone was watching, then poured half his beer into a plastic cup. He passed it to me with a big grin. I downed it in one gulp. Sean raised his auburn eyebrows. The beer, flat as it was, tasted good. One more and I’d be ready to face my future. I smiled at Sean. Then I dug around for another CD from my mother’s collection. It would be her copy of Bleach, the first Nirvana album. It was recorded for $606.17, and the band members, who were sick at the time, drank a lot of cough syrup. I gave Sean the thumbs-up while keeping my headphones on. I was trying to ignore how cute he was.
