The Geography of Lost Things

by Jessica Brody

  You must be looking for something . . . or you wouldn’t be here.

  “Can I have the key?” I ask Nico.

  “What? Why?”

  “I just need to . . .” I pause, trying to explain it to myself so I can explain it to Nico. But I can’t manage to do either of those things. “. . . check something.”

  He fumbles to get the silver key ring out of his pocket and hands it to me. Without thinking, I sprint back to the Firebird, drop my backpack on the ground, and jam the silver key into the lock of the trunk, popping it open.

  I stare into the open cavity, momentarily paralyzed. It’s the first time I’ve actually looked inside the trunk since that Pete guy dropped off the car at my house.

  My gaze zeroes in on the spare tire, tucked into the far left corner, and suddenly I’m seven years old again, searching the car for my stuffed rabbit, discovering Jackson’s secret stash instead. His “escape fund.”

  Before I can think or even explain what’s happening, I’m suddenly moving. I practically climb inside the trunk, pushing the spare tire aside and running my hands up and down the metal compartment.

  But there’s nothing.

  Nothing.

  And yet, I need there to be something. I need to know that my father didn’t leave me with nothing but a fake car, a cassette tape full of angry noise, and a mountain of debt. I need to find some tiny, infinitesimal proof that he wasn’t the man I always thought he was. That he wasn’t someone who just left. That maybe, just maybe, he cared enough to leave something valuable behind.

  So I keep searching. My hands running everywhere. All over the inside of the trunk. I search every inch, every pocket, every recess, every corner.

  But there’s still nothing.

  Of course, there’s nothing.

  Because this is Jackson we’re talking about.

  “Ali?” Nico asks from somewhere behind me. “Are you okay? What are you looking for?”

  “I’m looking for something that doesn’t exist!” I shout as I shove the tire back into place. I’m just about to slam the trunk lid shut when I see it. Tucked under the corner of the cargo mat. As though it had been jostled around over too many miles, too many curves in the road, until finally getting stuck there.

  A white letter-size envelope.

  Not unlike the one Nico found hidden in my backpack tonight.

  It seems Jackson and I were both keeping secrets stashed away.

  My heart catches in my chest as I think about what could possibly be inside. Was Jackson planning another escape before death took him first? Could he have possibly left me more than just a worthless clone of a car?

  I can sense Nico watching me. I don’t think he’s spotted the envelope yet. I think he’s too busy waiting to see what I’m going to do next.

  There’s only one thing to do next.

  I reach out and pull the envelope free from the mat. But my shoulders wilt when I feel it in my hands. It’s too thin. Whatever’s inside is definitely not the thick wad of hundred-dollar bills that I found at seven years old.

  There’s writing on the front of the envelope. An address scribbled in black pen. But I don’t even bother to read it. I turn the envelope over and open the flap, holding my breath as I pull out a faded old photograph. It looks like it was taken outside of one of those fancy, luxurious buses.

  A tour bus, I instantly realize.

  Because standing in front of it, right next to Jackson, is Nolan Cook, the lead singer of Fear Epidemic. I recognize him from the countless photos I found of the band online after Jackson first left. And from that night Jackson took me to see them at the Black Bear Saloon in Fort Bragg. Nolan’s ratty dark hair looks like it hasn’t been brushed in days. He still has that signature smudge of dark eyeliner ringing his eyes and that tangle of silver chains hanging from his neck.

  In the photograph, Jackson and Nolan are both striking ridiculous matching poses, strumming powerfully on invisible air guitars, as though the photographer shouted out at the last second, “Give me your best rock star!”

  Nolan is taking the direction very seriously. His mouth stretched wide—mid-scream—his eyes wild. Jackson, on the other hand, is laughing. His eyes are crinkled at the corners; his teeth are showing.

  He looks . . .

  I feel nauseous.

  Happy.

  On the back of the photograph, in the same handwriting that appears on the envelope, someone has written, “Good times.”

  My gaze drifts back to the empty trunk that stands in front of me like a giant, gaping cavern. And suddenly I feel my own emptiness thrumming inside of me. It’s cold and bitter and dark. It’s an emptiness that I don’t think any amount of trades or money or things will ever fill. It’s an emptiness that feels like the deepest hole Jackson ever left behind.

  And then, I just feel stupid. Stupid for looking. Stupid for hoping.

  Of course there would be nothing of value in here. This is what Jackson valued. This photograph represents everything that was meaningful to him. Nolan Cook. The band. Being on the road. Being free.

  Of us.

  Good times.

  I quickly stuff the photograph back inside the envelope, toss it into the trunk, and slam the lid closed.

  “You okay?” Nico asks. He’s still standing beside me, his mind processing, analyzing. He’s struggling to put pieces together. Well, he might as well give up on that effort, because apparently some things can never be pieced back together once they’ve been broken.

  “Yes. Fine. Let’s go.” I scoop up my backpack and stalk toward the motel. Maybe Wes was right. Maybe I am looking for something. Maybe I’ve been looking for something my whole life.

  But I’m now more certain than ever that it’s not something that can be found.

  SUNDAY

  I don’t want to fight with you tonight

  Shouldn’t be this hard to keep alive

  Everything you do is all stained red

  Can you ever really raise the dead?

  —“Salvage Lot,” from the album Salvage Lot by Fear Epidemic

  Written by Nolan Cook, Slate Miller, Chris McCaden, and Adam French

  Released April 18, 2009

  8:05 A.M.

  BROOKINGS, OR

  INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($390.20), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), VINTAGE TYPEWRITER (1), LOST-KEY BUTTERFLY SCULPTURE (1), USELESS PHOTOGRAPH (1)

  The next morning I wake up to Nico’s phone chirping. The sun is streaming in through the window of our hotel room. Thankfully, last night we were able to get a room with two beds, and when I look over, Nico is lying propped up on the pillows, holding his phone above his head.

  I yawn. “What’s that?”

  “Response to the Craigslist post.”

  I’m suddenly wide-awake. “Really? Who? Where? What do they want to trade?”

  Nico chuckles. “Whoa. Slow down. I’m still reading it.”

  Relief floods through me. After getting so many lightning-fast responses for the last few items and then none last night, I was beginning to worry that trading the electric guitar for the old typewriter was a bad idea.

  Nico continues skimming the e-mail. It seems to take forever. I wonder if it’s another Mack Polonsky, sharing her life story. Finally Nico relays the news. “A woman named Emily Sweeney wants the typewriter. She’s in Bandon, Oregon. It’s about eighty miles north of here up the coast.”

  “Emily Sweeney,” I repeat. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

  Nico shrugs. “Doesn’t sound familiar to me.”

  “What is she willing to trade?”

  He squints at the screen. “That can’t be right.”

  “What?”

  “She says she wants to trade a brand-new Microsoft Surface Pro. Those things are worth, like, two grand.”

  I jump to my feet. “Two grand?! That’s amazing!”

  “But why?” Nico asks, still scowling at the screen. “Why would anyone want to trade an old typewriter for a bran
d-new tablet?”

  “Who cares! It’s just like you said, we have no idea why the typewriter is valuable to her. It just is. We don’t question. We go where the trades take us, remember?”

  I rush into the bathroom, brush my teeth, comb out my hair, and stuff my toiletries into my backpack. When I’m finished, Nico still hasn’t even gotten out of bed. He’s just lying there, watching me with an amused expression. “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He props himself farther up on the pillows. “I’m just enjoying this moment.”

  I glance down at my flimsy nightshirt and shorts and quickly cross my arms over my chest. “Ew! Stop! Are you checking me out?”

  12. No lustful leering of any kind.

  Nico chuckles. “No. I was basking in my victory.”

  I lower my arms. “What victory?”

  He smirks. “You suddenly realizing that I was right all along. About trading up. It’s a nice feeling. Being right.”

  I groan, pick his jeans up off the floor, and throw them at his face. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

  10:10 A.M.

  BANDON, OR

  INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($390.20), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), VINTAGE TYPEWRITER (1), LOST-KEY BUTTERFLY SCULPTURE (1), USELESS PHOTOGRAPH (1)

  By the time we reach Bandon, the temperature outside has already risen to ninety degrees. It’s turning out to be a very hot day. We park in front of the Arcade Tavern, where Emily Sweeney has asked us to meet her, and Nico lugs the extremely heavy typewriter out of the back seat.

  “This can’t be right,” I say as we approach the front door of the single-story wood building. “It says it doesn’t open until eleven. What time did she say to meet her?”

  Nico tries to shrug with the typewriter in his arms, but his shoulders barely twitch. “I don’t remember. Check the e-mail.” He juts his hip toward me, and my cheeks flush as I realize he wants me to reach into the front pocket of his jeans to retrieve his phone.

  “Um,” I falter, staring blankly at his pants.

  “Ali, this is kind of heavy.”

  “Sorry!” Trying my best to avoid any contact with any body parts, I quickly dip my hand into Nico’s jeans and pull out the phone. I swipe to the last e-mail from Emily and scan the text. “Huh. She just says, ‘Come whenever. I’ll be here.’ ”

  “Try the door,” Nico says.

  I do. Surprisingly, it’s unlocked. I push it open, and Nico follows behind me into the building. The Arcade Tavern is clearly a dive bar of sorts. It has several pool tables, TV screens mounted to the walls, and even an old jukebox in the corner. But the place is completely empty and dark.

  “Hello?” Nico calls out, shifting the weight of the typewriter in his arms.

  “I don’t think this is the right—”

  But I’m cut off when someone shouts, “Oh, thank God, you’re here! I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

  I glance up to see a woman rushing toward us. She’s very thin, with a knot of messy brown hair atop her head, reminding me of a greyhound in a wig. Her clothes—sweatpants and a T-shirt—are all wrinkled, like she hasn’t changed them in days, and she has an unidentifiable brown stain on the front of her shirt.

  “Is that it?” she asks, her gaze darting anxiously to the typewriter that Nico is struggling to keep hold of. There’s something about this woman’s eyes that isn’t quite right. Like she’s on something. Or needs to be.

  “Yes,” Nico says, sounding a little uncertain about this whole exchange.

  “It’s gorgeous. It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I need. You two have saved my life.”

  I peer between her and the typewriter.

  Is this a prank?

  Nico clearly is asking himself the same question because he says, “So, you really want to trade this for a Surface Pro?”

  The woman scowls as though just the name of the device makes her ill. “Yes. I need to get rid of that thing. It’s ruining my life.”

  A typewriter is going to save her life, and a Surface Pro is ruining it?

  “Great,” Nico says uneasily. “Uh, can we see it?”

  The woman gets a far-off look in her eyes for a moment, as though she’s lost the train of this conversation and is trying to remember where she put it. Then her gaze suddenly snaps back to Nico. “Oh, right. Of course. It’s over here.”

  Emily beckons for us to follow her as she leads us through the bar, weaving around the pool tables to the very back of the room.

  “Still think you know her?” Nico whispers to me.

  “I was sitting near the door,” Emily explains over her shoulder. “But it was too much of a distraction. People coming and going, coming and going. So I moved back here.” We reach a small table in the corner, and my eyes widen as I take in the state of it.

  Yup. Emily Sweeney is definitely missing a few (very important) screws.

  The table is littered with what can be best described as debris. Empty paper coffee cups, used tissues, stacks of books, and countless pieces of paper with random scribblings on them. I tilt my head to try to read one of them, but all I can make out is:

  Broken tire swing in backyard?

  Maple?

  Oak?

  Something bonsai-ish. But not.

  Do the owners of this establishment know she’s here? Did she break in?

  Emily sifts through several random items on the table before finally locating a sleek silver tablet hiding under a yellow legal pad filled with more nonsense scribblings. She pushes it into my hands as though it were plague-ridden. “Here. Take it. Please. Get it out of my sight.”

  I flip the device over until I have it right side up and lift the cover. To my surprise, it actually turns on. I tap on the screen and test out a few apps. Nico watches over my shoulder, clearly just as flabbergasted as I am to see that it works.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Nico asks, but Emily doesn’t answer, and when we look down, she’s leaning over the table, writing furiously on one of the pieces of paper. She has to write infinitesimally small to fit it into the two inches of space left on the page.

  “Locked in a supermarket?” she mutters as she writes. “No. How would they get past the cameras?” She then proceeds to violently scratch out what she just wrote before glancing up at us again. “What did you say?”

  “What’s wrong with the Surface Pro?” Nico repeats.

  “It connects to the Internet,” Emily says, as though this explains everything and she fully expects us to nod like we get it.

  We both nod, but certainly not because we get it.

  “Charlotte Brontë couldn’t get on the Internet and look how well that turned out. Jane Austen couldn’t get on the Internet and we got Mr. Darcy because of it. I was trying to find inspiration on Craigslist when I ran across your post and I thought, that’s what I need! I need to go old-school or go home on this one. I need to channel the greats!”

  Comprehension suddenly filters through me. “Wait. You’re a writer?”

  Emily casts her eyes around the table, gesturing to the mess. “Well, yeah.”

  “Emily Sweeney!” I repeat the name, all of the pieces falling into place. “I knew I’d heard that name before. You write those romance novels.”

  She looks offended. “Those romance novels?”

  I clear my throat, embarrassed. “I mean, those famous, amazing romance novels. I see them everywhere.”

  “Well, this one is not going to be anywhere unless I can get my act together.”

  I glance at the pages of scribbles and watch them morph before my eyes. They’re not the aimless rants of a madwoman; they’re brainstorms!

  I feel a flutter of excitement. I want to ask her all sorts of questions about her process, her inspirations, what it feels like to see something you wrote on a bookstore shelf.

  “So you’re writing a book right now?”

  She scoffs. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “First I nee
d an idea.”

  My gaze drifts back to the pages of scattered notes. “So, you haven’t started yet?”

  Emily sighs. “Nope. But don’t tell my agent that. He’s expecting the full manuscript in two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?”

  “Yes. Two weeks. So I really need to get a move on. Do we have a deal?”

  Emily stares expectantly at Nico, who seems to just now remember that he’s holding the insanely heavy typewriter. “Oh, right. Yes!”

  Emily’s eyes light up as she clears a space for Nico to set the machine down on the table. Once he does, Emily sits in front of it and runs her fingers reverently over the keys. “Yes. This is what I need. No distractions. No e-mail notifications. No Internet. I’ll be able to finish the novel in no time with this thing.” She glances around her cluttered table. “Oh, crap. I need to go out and buy some paper first.”

  She leaps to her feet and starts to stuff seemingly random items into the bag hanging from the back of her chair.

  “Do you need help carrying the typewriter to your car?” Nico asks.

  Emily waves her hand. “Nah. I’ll leave it here with the rest of my stuff. The owner of the bar and I have a special arrangement. She lets me sit here all day, even after closing. I have a key to the front door.”

  “Do you think she’d mind if I use the bathroom?” Nico asks, glancing around for a men’s room.

  “Sure. Go ahead. It’s over by the bar.”

  “Cool. Thanks.” Nico turns to me. “I’ll meet you out front?”

  I nod and watch in fascination as Emily continues to throw items into her bag, mumbling to herself. “Okay, wallet, phone, notebook. Keys!” She searches the debris on the table. “Keys, keys, keys.”

  “So,” I say conversationally, “how long have you been trying to come up with a new idea? I mean, how long does it normally take?”

  “Depends on the idea,” Emily replies absently, still hunting for her car keys.

  “What do you mean?”

  Emily grabs a half-full coffee mug from the table and downs the rest of it in one gulp. “Writing a novel is a two-way street. You have to like the idea that you’re writing, but the idea has to like you, too. It doesn’t matter if you are in love with a story idea; if it wants out, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Now, where are those keys?” She sets her coffee cup down and then lifts it up again, checking underneath it.