The Geography of Lost Things

by Jessica Brody

  “Do you—” I begin haltingly, trying to build up the courage to ask what I came here to ask. “Do you remember what was on this tape?”

  Nolan clearly hears the break in my voice because he flashes me a curious look before returning his gaze to the cassette. “Not really. No. I assume it’s a recording of me and Adam going at each other like drunks brawling in a bar.”

  Despite myself, I chuckle at that. “Yeah, there’s some of that on there.”

  Nolan snorts like it’s still a sore spot. “He was always jealous of the attention I got as the lead singer.”

  “But there was something else on there too. Something important. Or maybe important. I don’t know. I can’t tell. It was cut off.” I feel myself start to ramble. I press my lips together.

  Nolan lifts his eyebrows. “What?”

  I falter, wondering if coming here was a huge mistake. What if he has no idea what I’m talking about? What if he doesn’t remember the song Jackson wrote?

  I feel a gentle nudge on my leg, and I look over at Nico. He’s nodding encouragingly. “It’s okay,” he whispers, as though he can feel the courage slipping out of me.

  I take another deep breath. “A song. That Jackson wrote.”

  For a long, painful moment, Nolan’s expression is completely blank. And in that moment, I convince myself that we came all this way for nothing. There are no answers to be found about Jackson Collins. There are only more questions. Always more questions. Like a maze that never ends. Just when you think you’ve found your way out, you turn into another dead end. Another disappointment.

  SNAP!

  I blink and look at Nolan. He’s snapping his fingers rapidly, like he’s trying to jog his memory.

  Then, with one final click, it comes to him.

  “ ‘While She Sleeps.’ ”

  “What?” I ask.

  “That was the name of the song he wrote. We were going to put it on the third album.” He scoffs. “It would have been the only decent thing on that album.”

  I’m suddenly speechless. I don’t think I ever fully believed that we’d get to this point. That he’d actually remember. I think somewhere deep down inside, I prayed he wouldn’t.

  But now here we are. On the precipice. On the edge of that same gaping chasm where I stood six years ago as my parents’ marriage ended and I had to choose which side I would stay on. Somehow I’ve returned to that same terrifying ledge. That same terrifying choice.

  To forgive Jackson.

  Or to forget him.

  “Do you remember,” I begin, my voice shaking, “what the song was about?”

  “Yeah.” Nolan grows very quiet. “Jackson wrote it about the night you almost died.”

  I shake my head, chuckling nervously. “You must be mistaken. I didn’t almost die.”

  Nolan blows out a heavy breath. “Jackson told me about it on the tour. We were having drinks after the show one night, and it all just came pouring out. He told me about how he almost got you killed.”

  “What?” I ask, flabbergasted. “The song must be about someone else, then. That never happened to me.”

  “You never knew,” Nolan says with such confidence, it makes me shudder. “It happened right before your ninth birthday. You were supposed to go to—”

  “Tomato and Vine,” I say numbly.

  “That’s it,” Nolan says. “Jackson was drunk, but he took you in the car anyway. He blacked out behind the wheel, and when he came to, the car was no longer on the road. He couldn’t even remember what had happened.”

  A chill travels up my spine as the missing pieces from that night begin to rain down on me.

  The empty park.

  The crumbling swing set.

  The strange man who came to pick us up.

  Jackson’s vacant smile.

  “Change of plans! We’re going to the park! Tomato and Vine is closed.”

  “He . . . ,” I start to say, but I can’t bring myself to finish.

  Thankfully Nolan finishes for me. “He never forgave himself for that. For putting you in that kind of danger. He said for a while he couldn’t even bring himself to look at you. It was too painful.”

  “So he left,” I conclude.

  Nolan nods. “He loved being on the road with us. But I think more than anything, he just felt like it was better that way. Safer. That night really weighed on his mind. All the time. I remember him calling me once, after the band had broken up. He had gone back home to you because he said he wanted to try to be a father again. But when he called, he was a total wreck. Drunk and rambling from a bar somewhere. He told me he just couldn’t do it. He was too terrified he’d make another mistake.”

  Suddenly, I feel like the room is spinning. The world is blurring. The familiar shapes and colors don’t make sense anymore. Everything is all jumbled up. Blue is red and red is green and black and white smear together to form the murkiest shade of gray.

  “Do you remember your ninth birthday?”

  “I think about that night all the time.”

  “About how badly I screwed up. About what a mess I was.”

  That’s what he said to me when I was twelve years old. It was the day he taught me how to shift gears in his Firebird and then took me to the Frosty Frog for ice cream. Right before he left for the second time. He was trying to apologize. I just didn’t know what he was apologizing for. I had it all wrong.

  “I just wanted you to know I will never do that to you again. I promise.”

  I thought he was promising not to leave.

  But really, he was promising me that he would leave. If that’s what it took to protect me.

  From him.

  “Are you okay?” Nico asks, and it’s only then that I realize I’m crying. For how long, I can’t be sure.

  I sniffle and wipe the tears with the back of my hand. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you,” Nolan says. “I think Jackson really wanted you to know. He just never had the courage to tell you himself. That’s why he wrote the song. The best ones usually come from the darkest places.”

  I let out a quiet sob. I feel helpless and lost. I thought coming here would make me feel better, but now I’m more confused than ever.

  “Do you remember any of the words?” I ask Nolan. Because I don’t know what else to ask for. I don’t know what to hope for anymore. I don’t know what my life looks like when I leave this house.

  Nolan flashes me a pitying look, and I feel my heart sink yet again.

  He stands up and reaches out his hand for me to take.

  “I can do even better,” he says. “I still have the lyrics.”

  The entire basement of Nolan Cook’s house has been converted into an impressive music studio, filled with guitars, drum kits, keyboards, a fully enclosed glass vocal booth, and a professional mixing board.

  The search takes almost an hour, and by the end, Nolan has torn apart the whole room. But, miraculously, he finds it.

  He holds up a single sheet of cream-colored paper, monogrammed with the logo for the Radisson Hotel in Salt Lake City. The edges are creased and bent, but I recognize the handwriting that fills both sides of the page.

  It’s the same handwriting that was carelessly scribbled on two separate Post-it Notes stuck to the fridge.

  I’m sorry. I have to do this.

  The same handwriting that appeared on a large yellow envelope that showed up at my front door six days ago, along with a set of car keys.

  For California Collins.

  Three life-changing messages.

  One messenger.

  And now, a fourth. A final message.

  One that I’m certain is about to change my life again.

  Nolan hands me the piece of paper, but I don’t dare look at it. In my mind, I run through all the possible outcomes of this moment. All the possible people I will become when it’s over.

  The lead singer of a semi-famous, washed-up, post-grunge band hands you the key to unloc
king your whole relationship with your father. Do you feel:

  A More sad?

  B More angry?

  C Less angry?

  And that last option, that’s the one that scares me.

  For the past nine years, my anger toward Jackson is all I’ve had. It’s what has kept me connected to him. It’s the glue that’s held me together. As long as I felt anger toward my father, I could hold on to some semblance of sanity.

  But what happens if I have to let that go?

  What will I be left with then?

  I glance over at Nico, who’s watching me with that intense blue-eyed gaze of his. And that’s when I realize what the anger could never do for me.

  It could never allow me to trust.

  It could never allow me to love.

  At least not fully. At least not with everything I am. Because the anger always laid claim on a small piece of me. It always had one hand on the wheel, steering me away from people. Away from possible heartache. Away from Nico.

  I will never have a second chance with Jackson. I will never be able to have the relationship I wanted with him.

  But I do have a second chance with Nico.

  I have a chance to be the person I want to be.

  I blink away the tears and stare down at the piece of paper in my hand.

  Without a word, just a silent understanding, Nolan and Nico bow out of the room, and I’m left alone.

  With Jackson.

  “While She Sleeps”

  Tires squeal,

  Brakes fail.

  I fall off the edge

  While she sleeps.

  Lives flash,

  Glass cracks.

  I destroy what’s left

  While she sleeps.

  I hope she never wakes to see

  The man that I’ve turned out to be.

  The demons that I fight

  Are better fought at night.

  And I’m a better man by far

  When she can’t see the scars.

  Doors slam

  At three a.m.

  I try to forget

  While she sleeps.

  Night descends,

  Shadows bend.

  I shake hands with death

  While she sleeps.

  I hope she never wakes to see

  The man that I’ve turned out to be.

  The demons that I fight

  Are better fought at night.

  And I’m a better man by far

  When she can’t see the scars.

  So the last time that I leave,

  I’ll do it while she sleeps.

  By the time Nolan Cook walks us back to the foyer and opens the front door, the sun is already dipping below the horizon, turning the sky into a breathtaking, iridescent shade of pink.

  “Well,” Nolan says, still sounding just as nervous as he did when we arrived. “It was nice to finally meet the famous California. I’m glad you stopped by.”

  I clutch the piece of paper with Jackson’s scribbled lyrics to my chest. “I am too.” I flash him a grin. “And it was nice to finally meet the famous Nolan Cook.”

  “Oh, wait,” Nolan says, suddenly remembering something. He dashes back into the great room and returns a moment later holding the black cassette tape I found in Jackson’s stereo. “You forgot this.”

  He starts to hand it to me, but then his eyes seem to catch on the handwritten label, and his gaze clouds over for a moment. “Actually, um”—he runs his hands through his hair—“do you mind if I keep this? I don’t have a lot of mementos from that tour. I threw almost everything away after the band broke up. It wasn’t the best time of my life, but it would still be nice to have something to remember it by, you know?”

  I nod, because I do know.

  I exactly know.

  “No,” I say, keeping my voice stern. “You can’t have it.”

  Nico and Nolan both look up at me in surprise.

  I crack a small smile and gesture to the paper still clutched to my chest. “But I will trade you for it.”

  Nolan guffaws. “Sounds like a good deal to me.”

  Ten minutes later, Nico and I sit in the Firebird, still parked outside of Nolan Cook’s house, surrounded by the remnants of our trip.

  I’ve spread them all out around me—on the dashboard, across the center console, even in my lap. And one by one, I let my gaze fall over every single item, starting from the very beginning.

  The large yellow envelope delivered to my door, containing the title to a car that I never thought I would keep.

  The amber-colored sea glass I found on the beach in Fort Bragg, proof that the ocean really does forgive.

  The butterfly statue that Wes crafted out of found keys.

  The photograph of Jackson posing with Nolan Cook outside the Fear Epidemic tour bus.

  And finally, the lyrics to Jackson’s song.

  A shiver runs through me as I realize that somehow each of these things has led me to the next. If Pete hadn’t delivered that yellow envelope to me, I never would have found my way back to Fort Bragg. If I hadn’t picked up that piece of sea glass on the beach, I probably never would have been lured into Wes’s shop by the sea glass wind chime in the window. If Wes hadn’t given me that butterfly statue, I never would have rediscovered Jackson’s cassette tape in the center console. And if I never listened to that tape, I never would have sought out the man in this photograph. And I never would have read Jackson’s lyrics.

  The final rewrite of my story.

  I’m sorry. I have to do this.

  In my mind those words were always tangled up with the band. With the man in this photograph.

  I have to do this.

  I have to be with them.

  I have to go where they are.

  I have to do what I want to do.

  Because I’m selfish and irresponsible and immature.

  But really, all of this time, those exact same words were tangled up in something else. Something I never understood until now.

  Until this car, this road, this coast, this collection of lost things led me to it.

  Like landmarks on a treasure map. A trail leading to some buried chest of jewels or a pirate ship full of gold.

  Or maybe just something as simple and precious as the truth.

  WEDNESDAY

  I hope she never wakes to see

  The man that I’ve turned out to be.

  The demons that I fight

  Are better fought at night.

  And I’m a better man by far

  When she can’t see the scars.

  —“While She Sleeps,” from the Untitled Third Album by Fear Epidemic

  Written by Jackson Collins

  Never released

  9:30 A.M.

  TACOMA, WA

  INVENTORY: ENOUGH

  Nico parks the Firebird in front of the post office and kills the ignition. His eyes are bloodshot, and his cheek still shows the indentation from the Firebird’s back seat, where we slept last night.

  I reach into the glove box, pull out the white envelope that’s been sitting at the bottom of my backpack for the past month, and run my fingertips over the words “University of California at Davis.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told the nice woman at the admissions office on the phone earlier this morning, as I was begging for an extension for my financial aid award. “I had to work out a few family issues first. But I definitely still want to go.”

  I get out of the car, and Nico walks beside me to the mailbox. I hold the envelope with two hands, as though I’m afraid it might blow away.

  “My mom will be okay,” I say aloud, though I’m not sure who I’m talking to, exactly. Nico, the envelope, myself?

  It’s Nico who responds. “She’ll be okay.”

  I take a deep breath and finally slide the envelope into the slot. I wait for the panic, but it doesn’t come. All that follows is the sweet exhilaration of possibility.

  “So, what now?” Nico asks. He ta
kes my hand, and we walk back to the parking lot.

  I eye the Firebird, glinting in the sunlight. “I guess we have to go home. I need to finish packing up the house. The moving truck is coming at the end of the week. And graduation is on Saturday.”

  Nico stares off into the distance, and I can tell he’s thinking about everything that’s waiting for him back in Russellville. “Yes. Home would definitely be the responsible location.”

  “But,” I say tauntingly, “we don’t necessarily need to go straight home.”

  He cocks a single eyebrow. “Where did you have in mind?”

  I smirk back at him. “Does it really matter?”

  Ali and Nico’s New Rules of the Road:

  1. Fungicide the rules.

  Nico leans in close to me and brushes a strand of curly hair away from my ear. If he were any other boy, in any other story, he would whisper something sweet and romantic like, “I’d go anywhere with you.” Or even “I’d do anything for you, California.”

  But he doesn’t.

  Because he’s not.

  So, instead he whispers, “I think Peanut M&M’s are way better than plain.”

  The chills travel up my body, and before he can pull away from my ear, I turn and capture his mouth with mine. I wrap my arms around the back of his neck and press my body into him. It feels like a first kiss and a last kiss all wrapped into one.

  It feels like a promise.

  A promise he will keep.

  We both will.

  We walk over to the Firebird, and Nico tosses me the silver key ring. “How about we stay off the freeways for a while. Just until you get better at downshifting.”

  “Hey, I can downshift.”

  He scoffs. “Yeah, if you call downshifting ‘causing your passenger to lose his breakfast.’ ”

  “I was just trying to show you what this car can really do.”

  Nico crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay, hot stuff. Show me what this old clunker can do.”

  I point the silver key at him and in a sharp tone say, “Do not call my car an old clunker. This is a classic.”