The Geography of Lost Things

by Jessica Brody

  “NO!” I cry again. “It doesn’t end this way. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to tell Nolan Cook and not me. You don’t get to just die with a secret like that!”

  Fast-forward.

  Play.

  Fast-forward.

  Play.

  Silence.

  Click.

  The tape ends.

  2:29 P.M.

  PORTLAND, OR

  INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($181.25), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), LOST-KEY BUTTERFLY SCULPTURE (1), USELESS PHOTOGRAPH (1)

  I sit in the cramped office of Hank’s Classic Garage, listening to the whir of the printer as it spits out the last page of the sales contract. Nico is outside finishing cleaning out the Firebird.

  Hank grabs the stack of papers from the printer tray, gives them a tap, and sets them down in front of me with a pen. I sigh and start to flip through the contract. Most of the language is gibberish to me, but the gist is clear.

  I am giving up my father’s car. His prized possession. His pride and joy. He cared more about this car and that band than he ever did for me and my mom.

  This is an easy decision.

  And yet, when I get to the last page and see my name printed underneath the signature line—my full legal name—my hand starts to shake. I grip the pen tighter.

  Do it, Ali, I urge myself. This is what you wanted. You wanted to get rid of it. You wanted to throw it away. Of all the things to throw away, this should be the most obvious choice.

  I press the nib against the page, feeling how heavy the pen is in my hand. Like it’s made of lead.

  I stare at the name right above the signature line.

  California Collins.

  The name my father gave me. Because of a stupid song by a stupid band.

  Anything for California.

  Tears start to well up in my eyes. What a load of crap. Jackson wouldn’t have done anything for me. He did nothing for me. Except leave me a fake car that’s barely worth enough to pay off just one of the credit cards he maxed out in my mother’s name.

  But those words from the tape keep replaying in my mind.

  “I need her to know, and this is the only way I can think to tell her.”

  What did he want me to know? What did he need to tell me so badly that he could only write in an unrecorded song that will never be heard by anyone? Including me.

  “Are you okay?” Hank asks, startling me. I blink back the tears and look up at him.

  I clear my throat. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  He smiles, as though he understands exactly what I’m feeling. As though he, too, was abandoned by a father who cared more about a car than a child. “It can be tough to say good-bye to things we love,” he says.

  I chuckle. “That’s the funny part. I always hated that car.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the car.”

  I let out a shudder of a breath. “Oh. Right.”

  “I’ll give you a minute,” he says, and then pushes his chair back and steps out of the office, leaving me alone with the contract.

  I stare down at it again. Why does it feel like I’m selling so much more than just a car? Why does it feel like when I sign my name on this line, I’ll be letting him down? He let me down countless times!

  I pull the piece of sea glass out of my pocket and turn it around in my hand, remembering the words the man on the beach said to me.

  “The ocean forgives.”

  But I can’t.

  I just . . . can’t.

  I take a steeling breath and press the tip of the pen into the paper again. “Maybe someday I can forgive you,” I say to the page in front of me. “But for now, I just have to say good-bye to you.”

  Then, slowly, I scribble out a C, an A, an L, an I, an F.

  But that’s as far as I get, because just then, Nico bursts into the office screaming, “No penamen! No penamen!”

  I jump. My hand slips; the O of “California” becomes a jagged line halfway up the page. “Jeez, Nico! What are you doing? Don’t scare me like that.”

  “No penamen!”

  My faces scrunches up. “What?”

  “No penamen,” he repeats with more emphasis, as if that’s supposed to help.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Nico rolls his eyes. “We just watched it last night. ‘No penamen!’ ”

  I smile as I recognize the quote from the end of The Goonies. It’s the scene where Rosalita, the Spanish-speaking housekeeper, is trying to stop Mikey’s father from signing the paperwork to sell his house. Except she doesn’t speak any English, and the Goonie named Mouth has to translate.

  I finish the quote. “ ‘No pen. No write. No sign!’ ”

  Nico beams. “No penamen!”

  I glance down at my messed-up half-signature. “What are you talking about? Why shouldn’t I sign it?”

  Nico steps farther into the office, and it’s only now that I notice he’s hiding something behind his back.

  I scoff. “Are you going to tell me you found a bag full of jewels that’s going to save all of Astoria from evil land developers? Just like in the movie?”

  “Um, no,” Nico says.

  I laugh. “Then what are you doing?”

  Nico steps forward, still hiding the mysterious object behind his back. “I don’t think you should sell the car.”

  I roll my eyes. “This again? Are we going on another trade-up adventure? Because I think I’ve had enough Craigslist for one lifetime.”

  He holds up his hand. “Let me finish. I don’t think you should sell the car . . . yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “At least not until you have all the answers you need.”

  I give him a quizzical look.

  “About Jackson,” he clarifies.

  I sigh, trying to keep myself from getting worked up.

  “Just hear me out,” Nico pleads. “I’ve been thinking about what Jackson said on that tape. What if there is some lost song he wrote about you? What if there was something he wanted to tell you?”

  “Then he should have told me when he was alive,” I argue. “He had plenty of chances.”

  Nico offers me a forlorn smile. “It’s not always that easy, and I think you know that.”

  I sigh and slump in the chair.

  Because I do that.

  We both know how hard it is, sometimes, to tell the truth.

  “If there’s something out there about your father that you don’t know, don’t you think it’s at least worth trying to figure out what it is? I’d just hate for you to sell this car and then later regret it.”

  “Are you saying you magically have all the answers about my dead father?”

  “No,” Nico says, before revealing what he’s been holding behind his back. He sets it down on the desk, and I see that it’s the photograph of Jackson and Nolan Cook, posing like rock stars in front of the Fear Epidemic tour bus. The one I found in the trunk of the car. Then, from the back pocket of his jeans, Nico pulls out the white envelope that the photograph came in. “But he might.”

  He points to the return address scribbled in the top left corner, and, for first time, I read what it says.

  Nolan Cook

  4250 NW 159th St.

  Tacoma, WA 98406

  3:25 P.M.

  INTERSTATE 5 FREEWAY

  INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($181.25), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), LOST-KEY BUTTERFLY SCULPTURE (1), PHOTO OF JACKSON COLLINS AND NOLAN COOK (1)

  “This is it,” Nico says as we follow the traffic onto the bridge that will take us across the Columbia River. “There’s no turning back now. Are you ready to enter enemy territory?”

  I chuckle and rest my hand atop Nico’s on the stick shift. “I’m ready.”

  Halfway across the bridge we pass a sign that says LEAVING OREGON, and a few seconds later, we sail under a second sign that reads ENTERING WASHINGTON.

  And just like that, I’ve left the safety of the rest of t
he world and entered his domain. The state where Fear Epidemic was born and Jackson died.

  It’s time to face the loud, angry music.

  Two and a half hours later, we pull up in front of a modest two-story rustic house at the end of a tree-lined cul-de-sac in Tacoma, and Nico kills the engine of the Firebird.

  I always imagined the lead singer of Fear Epidemic living in a giant mansion overlooking the ocean or something. This house is nice, but it’s not rock-star nice. Maybe they weren’t as popular as Jackson made them out to be. That certainly wouldn’t surprise me.

  We sit inside the Firebird for a long time without speaking. It’s a different kind of silence now. It’s not the shadowy pit that has followed us around since we left Russellville. There’s something almost comforting about the quiet between us. It’s become a constant along a road of unknowns.

  Finally, Nico turns to me from the driver’s seat and cocks an eyebrow. “Are you ready for this?”

  I keep my gaze trained on the house. “What if he doesn’t even live here anymore? Or wants nothing to do with me?”

  Nico shrugs. “I guess we won’t know until we knock.”

  “I guess,” I say, but I still don’t move.

  Nico places a warm hand on mine. “You can do this.”

  I take a deep breath and open the door. Nico jumps out of the driver’s side and runs around the front of the car to walk next to me. As though he’s afraid I might collapse and he wants to be right there if I do.

  It’s not a bad idea. I very well might collapse.

  I’ve spent my entire life hating this band. Blaming them for Jackson’s absence in my life. And here I am ready to walk into their lair like a sheep walking into the lion’s den.

  With my heart in my throat, I climb the steps of the front porch and ring the bell. A moment later, a middle-aged man opens the door. He looks nothing like the rock star I saw in all of those pictures. This man doesn’t have wild, untamed black locks. His salt-and-pepper hair is cut short and neatly combed. This man doesn’t have dark eyeliner rimming his lids. He wears square spectacles instead. And he’s not dressed in a sleeveless white T-shirt with a tangle of silver chains around his neck. He’s dressed smartly in dark jeans and a button-down navy-blue shirt. Like he’s going to brunch.

  At first, I’m convinced I’m too late. The lead singer of Fear Epidemic doesn’t live here anymore. This house belongs to someone else.

  But then I look a little closer. Behind the glasses. Past the gray hair and leathery skin. And that’s when I see it. That’s when I see him.

  The man who took my father away from me.

  The man with whom I was in constant competition for Jackson’s affection.

  Nolan Cook.

  But before I can say a single word, his hand goes to his mouth, and he takes a small step back from the door. “Oh my God.” He squints at me through the lenses of his glasses. “California?”

  I cringe at the sound of my own name spoken by the very voice that first sang it to Jackson.

  “You recognize me?” I ask.

  Nolan blinks again, as though making sure I’m real. “Yeah . . . of course. I . . . I mean, Jackson only showed me your photo a thousand times.” He lets out a small stutter of a laugh.

  Is he nervous?

  He runs his hands through his short hair, causing a few strands to stick up. It makes him look just the slightest bit more like the Nolan Cook I remember from the pictures. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say timidly. I’m not sure what the proper protocol is here. Do I shake his hand? Ask if I can come in? I’ve never met an actual celebrity before. Even though he’s never been renowned in my mind, in Jackson’s mind this man was a god. A legend. And despite my longtime hatred for anything to do with Fear Epidemic, a little of that star power seems to rub off on me.

  I extend my hand toward him at the very same moment that he pulls me into a hug. Like I’m his own long-lost daughter, and not the daughter of one of his random roadies.

  I wrap my arms clumsily around his back and give it a double pat.

  “It’s just so great to finally meet you,” he says. “Although I feel like I already know you.” He pulls away. “And who’s your friend?”

  “This is Nico,” I say, and Nico gives Nolan a little wave, clearly feeling just as awkward as I do.

  “Well, come in, come in.” Nolan opens the door wide, and we step into a vast great room with a gorgeous rustic décor. There’s a giant stone-covered fireplace on the back wall and a log beam running across the tall vaulted ceilings.

  “Beautiful house,” Nico says.

  “Thanks,” replies Nolan, sounding somewhat sheepish. “Royalty checks aren’t what they used to be, but I get by.” He starts to fidget with the hem of his shirt.

  Definitely nervous.

  But what on earth does he have to be nervous about?

  “Um,” Nolan begins, waving his hands around as though he doesn’t know where to put them. “Why don’t you sit down. Do you guys want anything to drink? Coffee? Water? Soda? Whiskey?” He stops himself. “Wait, how old are you two?”

  “Eighteen,” we both reply at once.

  “Soda,” Nolan decides, and walks into the kitchen to get the drinks.

  Nico and I sink down into the brown leather couch, and it’s only then, after we’re seated, that I notice the wall to the left of the fireplace is decorated with four black frames. Each of them holds a gold-coated record. I immediately stand back up and wander over to the wall, reading the plaque on each frame.

  “NEARLY A SAINT” – SINGLE.

  “SLEEP” – SINGLE.

  “DONE” – SINGLE.

  “ANYTHING FOR CALIFORNIA” – SINGLE.

  “We had four singles go gold,” Nolan says, reemerging from the kitchen with three cans—two sodas and a beer. He hands the sodas to us and pops open the beer for himself. “One of them was the song Jackson named you after.”

  “Right.” I take a sip of my soda. The taste is too sweet in my mouth, and I have to force myself to swallow it.

  “You’ll notice there are no singles from Salvage Lot up there,” Nolan says with a bitter laugh. He takes a long pull from his beer. “Yeah, that was what I think you kids today call an ‘epic fail.’ ”

  Nico guffaws, and I chuckle politely.

  “The whole tour was a disaster from the start,” Nolan goes on, taking a seat on one of the red armchairs. I sit back down next to Nico on the couch. He immediately grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze, reminding me that he’s right here. Ready to catch me if anything goes wrong.

  “Jackson,” I begin, but quickly correct myself: “My dad seemed to think it was the best experience of his life.”

  Nolan laughs at this and takes another sip of beer. “That’s Jackson for you. He made everything fun. The rest of us fought the whole time, but Jackson, he was always ready with a joke or a good story. He could always be counted on to break up the tension and keep us on track.”

  I think about the recording I found in the cassette player of the car. How Jackson was trying so hard to keep the guys from fighting. Clearly it didn’t work because they broke up anyway.

  “He was one of the best roadies we ever had,” Nolan goes on. “In fact, he was more than a roadie. At least to me. He was a friend.”

  I nod politely, because I don’t know what to say to that.

  I’m glad he was good at something?

  Too bad he was better at being a roadie than a dad?

  “How is he, by the way?” Nolan asks. “I haven’t heard from him in a few months.”

  And that’s when I feel all the blood drain from my face.

  Oh my God. He doesn’t know. How can he not know? How good of a friend could Jackson have been to him if he doesn’t even know that he’s dead?

  Nico gives my hand another squeeze, and I look desperately over at him. He raises his eyebrows, asking, Do you want me to do it?

  I shake my head
. No, it has to be me.

  “He’s . . . ,” I begin, feeling my voice catch. Although I have no idea why. I had no problem telling Nico he was dead. Why are these words getting stuck in my throat? They’re the exact same words.

  Maybe because it’s not actually the words themselves that matter.

  It’s the audience.

  It’s the speaker.

  And I’m definitely a different person now than I was five days ago.

  I take a giant gulp of my soda and swallow hard. “He died.”

  Nolan’s whole body seems to cave in on itself. But for some reason he doesn’t look surprised. Did he, too, see it coming? Just like Mom and I did? Did he, too, understood that Jackson Collins was never going to last?

  “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “He was a great guy.”

  I feel the familiar reaction bubbling up inside of me. The heat. The frustration. The angry words.

  A great guy? Really? Because that’s not the person I remember. That’s not the Jackson I grew up with. I grew up with a man who constantly disappointed us. Who was never there for us. You might have gotten to hang out with the good Jackson, the fun Jackson, the best-roadie-ever Jackson. Meanwhile, we got stuck with the other one.

  But I don’t say any of that. Because I’m not here to yell and fight and blame. I’ve been doing that my whole life, and I’m done. Jackson will never be the man I wanted him to be. He will never be the father that I felt I deserved. I get that. I’ve accepted it.

  Now I just want to know why.

  I take a deep breath, reach into the pocket of my hoodie, and pull out the cassette tape. I place it on the coffee table between us.

  Nolan seems to recognize it right away. His eyes light up like he’s seeing an old friend across a crowded room. “Whoa. Is that . . . ?” He answers his own question when he picks up the tape and reads the label. “It is. Oh my God. Where did you get this?”

  “Jackson had it when he died. He left it in the tape player of his car.”

  Nolan nods slowly, remembering something. “Right. I forgot I gave this to him after the band broke up.”

  “Why?”

  Nolan shrugs and turns the tape around in his hand. “He really wanted it, and we had no use for it. The third album was doomed from the start. We couldn’t write a good song to save our lives, and we all knew it. We were grasping at straws at that point, trying to resurrect something that should have stayed dead and buried.”