Save Me, Kurt Cobain Page 12

  As I approached the kiosk, I realized Verne would have called Gillian, and the workers might be looking for a girl with Kool-Aid blue hair. I pulled my hat on, just in case.

  For the first half hour of the ferry ride, I flinched at every footstep, waiting to feel a hand clamp on my shoulder and to be led off to wherever they haul teen runaways. I plugged in my laptop at one of those workstations with little dividers to prevent snooping.

  I had the idea of getting myself a Nanaimo bar, because it was Christmas, and when in Rome. I fixated on the idea: the coconut, the custard, the chocolate. There were few other passengers, so I left my laptop on my seat with my jacket draped on top. When I returned, I ate the square in two bites, sprinkling coconut over the keyboard. I had downloaded fourteen email messages. They all said the same thing: WHERE ARE YOU?

  After my mother disappeared, there was silence, phone calls, and silence. When Kurt Cobain disappeared, the world went biblical: candlelit vigils and suicides. Grunge was officially dead, or so everyone said. There’s even a photo of Kurt Cobain holding baby Frances Bean in which he’s wearing a T-shirt that reads Grunge is dead, a sentiment people later called prophetic. But I guess I was proof that the music didn’t die after all.

  I hadn’t responded to Obe’s message. He wasn’t one for sentiment or wordiness, but I could not risk telling him anything or I might tell him everything. I needed to find Janey Keogh. I knew, despite my uneven upbringing, that it was rude to show up unannounced on Christmas Day, but I had been waiting a long time.

  By the time I made it to North Vancouver, there was a light dusting of snow on the ground, which is uncommon enough to send us West Coasters into a panic. I pulled up to the house in a yellow taxi, because public transit only took me so far. By then, it was four p.m. and already falling dark. The cabdriver, wearing a blue-and-white Canucks scarf, seemed nervous having me in his car. He was visibly relieved when I handed him the cash, a big chunk of the money from Aunt Gillian, and then he sped away.

  Janey Keogh lived in a small town house with a wooden porch that slanted like a smirk. There was a single string of white Christmas lights wound around the porch rail, and a stroller by the front door. Lights glowed behind the curtains. For one heartbeat I considered not going in, not disturbing the scene, which seemed as cozy as the inside of a snow globe. Then I leaned on the doorbell as if I were on the stoop bleeding from a gunshot wound.

  Through the window, I saw a girl my age dressed entirely in pink, standing on one leg and talking on a cell phone. She glanced at the door, annoyed, and cracked it open. I heard overflow noise from a TV, a boing-boing sound like a cartoon, and a child howling.

  “I’ll call you back in a sec. Someone’s here,” the girl said into the phone, and then she stared at me.

  “Yeah?” she asked, by way of greeting. “Are you collecting for something? I don’t have money.” I focused on her silver nose ring, even though it wasn’t a novelty. Half my school had one. I hadn’t pictured this scenario. I had imagined Janey, alone, ready to take all my questions.

  “Janey?” My doorbell ringing had been belligerent, but my vocal cords collapsed when I tried to speak. I knew she wasn’t Janey, of course. Janey would be entering middle age.

  “Um, no-oh,” the girl said, as if saying duh.

  “Can I come in?” It was clear this chick was not going to extend the invitation, even though I was standing in the freezing cold.

  “State your business,” she quipped, which seemed like something she’d heard in a movie. She ignored the shouts from another room, two kids’ voices. She was obviously used to tuning it out.

  “I’m Nico. I just came in from Victoria,” I said, tugging off my hat. I took a big step into the hall. Wet snow slapped on the floor. “My mom knew your mom.”

  I felt a wave of dizziness saying “mom” twice in one sentence. It was a word I avoided.

  “Angela, but I go by Ange. And she is not my mother. She’s my stepmother, and an evil one. She leaves me with the brats all the time.”

  “You have a sister?” I had so wanted a sister.

  “One stepsister, one stepbrother,” she said, eyeing her phone. I was not interesting enough to keep her from her conversation. “They’re watching Frosty or some shit like that.”

  She put one hand on her hip, which was covered in hot-pink velour. It was likely a knockoff of those super-pricey tracksuits girls had sold kidneys for. Her brown hair was swept back by a headband with silver rhinestones. She wore enormous matching rhinestone-studded hoop earrings, so I knew she’d thought about her ensemble even though she was trying to look as if she hadn’t.

  “I need to talk to your mother. Will she be home soon?”

  “She’s not my fucking mother!”

  “Okay, Ange, but can you let me wait inside?” I asked, leaning on her name. “It’s taken me hours to get here and I’m fucking freezing.” I kicked off my boots, which splattered grimy slush on the tiles. I was staying.

  “Fine, whatever you said your name is, come in, but you can’t do drugs here.”

  “What? Are you kidding?” I followed her into the small sitting room at the front of the house. She gripped her phone like a barbell and sat down in a leather recliner without inviting me to sit. Did she think I was a street kid? I felt bad about everything. I hate myself and I want to die, I thought, trying it on for size. I’m not even sure the words held any meaning. I wondered if that was how Kurt Cobain felt singing the band’s big hits over and over.

  The house was small and narrow. A dwarf artificial tree decorated with tinsel sat by the front window. Barbie dresses and Lego pieces were scattered like buckshot all over the carpet, along with tangles of ribbons and tumbleweeds of wrapping paper. There was a square glass coffee table, a sofa covered with a crocheted blanket, and a gray suede armchair. On the table was a plate with cookie crumbs on it and an empty mug. I realized it was the remnants of milk and cookies for Santa, left out the night before. I sat on the sofa, which sighed under my weight. The noise had stopped.

  “You want to check on the kids?”

  “No. They’re fine. You say your mom knows Janey?”

  “Knew. My mom’s dead.”

  “Shit, are you talking about Annalee?” She leaned forward, her phone sliding along the pink velour and onto the floor. “Janey told me about her. She named my stepsister, Lila, after her. The middle name, anyway.”

  I took a deep breath, inhaling a meaty smell from the kitchen. A roast. I decided to let her talk.

  “Was she really…you know…”

  “Was she really murdered?” Ange was pissing me off. Even the fact that she called herself Ange was pissing me off. Where was Janey, anyway? It was Christmas, for God’s sake. Ange had a gold necklace that spelled out Angel in swirly script, and that annoyed me, too. She’d probably shoplifted it. “We don’t know. She was never found,” I told her.

  “So creepy,” she pronounced, and gave a shiver, as if she’d tasted something bitter. “Janey said your mom was her best friend. She said she’d find you one day.”

  One day. I had lived in the same house my whole life.

  “Well, I made it easier for her. When’s she coming back?”

  “Any time now. She’s out with my dad getting a scooter for Lila. Jason got one, so Lila needs one, too. Everything has to be fair.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Janey was a wild child, or so my dad says. She pretends to be goody-goody now, but for sure she, like, got into the hard stuff when she lived in Puerto Rico.” Ange widened her eyes, letting her news sink in.

  “Oh yeah? Your dad told you that?” I rubbed at a worn patch on the armrest. I still wore the bandages where I’d hurt my hand on the ferry. They were puckered and curling up at the sides like cooked bacon.

  “He hinted. I think it was supposed to be a warning. Hugs-not-drugs deal. He only gets me half time, so he tries to make it count before I go back to my mom.”

  “Been there,” I said, which wasn’t true,
but I wanted her to keep talking. “What else did she say about my mother?”

  “Did you know they went to a Nirvana concert? Janey showed me a photo. Oh God, Kurt Cobain. Sooo beautiful.”

  I tensed, my body going into alert at the mention of Nirvana and Cobain. There was more mewling from the basement, and a call of “Ange! Come quick, the TV is broken.”

  “They always do this. Try to change the channel on their own. They’re going to start fighting in three, two, one…” She sighed and got up, her track pants flapping as she went.

  Either the smell of the meat cooking made me sick or I didn’t like to hear her talk about Cobain, because I felt faint, like I had at the cabin. I stood up and headed to the hall, thinking I’d gulp some air. I walked right into Janey. She wore a cherry-red coat and clutched a massive plastic bag. She absorbed my knit hat, my unwashed blue hair sticking out of it, and my packs on the floor. None of it looked good.

  Her light brown hair was pulled away from her face into a messy bun. She peered at me from behind black-rimmed glasses: square frames, hipster style.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. “Are you a friend of Angela’s?” She scrutinized me, as if judging that to be unlikely.

  “Are you Janey Keogh?” I asked, even though I knew she was. I heard feet thumping up stairs.

  “I was. Before I was married. And who are you?” The tone was becoming less friendly.

  A child started screaming “Mom-MEE!”

  “I’m Nico—Nicola. Annalee’s daughter,” I said, my voice trembling on the last word.

  “My God,” she said. “You’ve grown up.”

  I stood in the hall, waiting. A red-haired child, probably three or four, appeared at Janey’s side and leaned against her hip, claiming her. The girl had Hello Kitty barrettes fastened by each ear. Tears streaked her face.

  Janey whispered to the girl. I heard “basement” and “TV,” and whatever she said must have been satisfactory, because the girl trundled off, giving me one last cold glance.

  “She can go watch TV with her brother,” Janey said, explaining as if I were an inspector from social services. What did I care? Why did mothers with young children always think everyone cared whether they fed their kids organic or what ballet school they chose? I was left alone plenty of times as a little girl, more than I could count. Besides, the kid had already been watching TV, possibly for hours, given that Angela was in charge.

  “I guess Angela showed you in,” she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Let me take off my coat. My husband’s just gone to get some whipping cream. He’ll be right back.”

  I was clearly making her nervous. I walked back into the sitting room.

  “Have a seat, Nico-lah,” she said, gesturing to the armchair. “Excuse the mess.”

  Jesus. She had avoided me for ten years and now she was worried about what I thought of her housekeeping?

  “Can you call me Nico?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

  “I haven’t seen you since you were tiny,” Janey said, sitting stiffly in her chair and looking cornered.

  “Uh-huh.” I kicked a piece of Lego away. I was suddenly not feeling so grown-up. Her whole house smelled like a family: the cookies, the roast, and the powdery plastic smell of new toys.

  “I always meant to find you. To talk.”

  Ange walked in, phone to ear, saw us together, and walked out again, no doubt to eavesdrop.

  “I’ve been in the same place for fifteen years.”

  “I’m not sure now is the time for this talk,” she said stiffly. “It’s Christmas.”

  Right. I had failed to notice.

  “What I mean is, we’ve got guests coming. They don’t know about my past.”

  “I won’t stay long.” I waited. I forced myself to look her in the eye.

  “It was a bit…complicated. Your father didn’t like me. He thought I was a bad influence. I did drugs,” she said, whispering the last part. “I don’t want Angela to know.”

  Of course, Angela already knew. Parents could be so clueless. I felt as if we were in an elevator together and she was going to exit at a different floor. I had to sprint to the important questions.

  “What was my mother like?”

  She thought for a moment, gazing up at the white stucco on the ceiling as if the words hung there.

  “She was like my sister. What can I say? She was beautiful, but you know that. She was gentle to others but tough on herself. You know her own parents died young. What else…” Janey removed her glasses and wiped the corner of her eye.

  “Music. She loved music. Annalee looked sweet, those brown eyes, but she liked loud, badass music and she hated unfairness. She loved mountains, and we joked about being ski bums together in Whistler even though she didn’t ski. She never drove, either, but she loved riding her bike.”

  I wondered if Janey had rehearsed this over the years. What she would say to me.

  “We still have her bike,” I interjected flatly. “It’s somewhere in our shed.” It was a touring bike with only three gears, and it needed a tune-up. The suspension was off. Still, I should have had it fixed and ridden it. Her wicker basket decorated with plastic flowers was still attached to the front.

  “And you. Nico, she loved you. She was scared to become a mom, but you should have seen her just after you were born. She couldn’t stop smiling.”

  There was a bump downstairs from Janey’s basement. A kid screeched. Time was running out. Janey sighed, a tear spilling down her cheek.

  “She was young, Nico. She had no parents to help her, and Verne was working all the time. She became…confused. I was out of town when you were little, and I couldn’t visit much. Besides, Verne didn’t like me staying too long.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I did the things that young people do, for one. I think that’s something you should ask your dad. But, Nico…”

  “Yeah?”

  “If Annalee said she was coming back for you, she was. I have never met anyone more determined. She never had much money, and she had to fight to get her parents cared for when they got sick, first her mother, then her father. She had some rough breaks.”

  “And then she got stuck with me. You don’t need to tell me, Janey. I know I was an accident. That’s been clear all my life.”

  “You were a happy accident, Nico. But your parents had problems. You really need to talk to your dad.”

  An oven timer went off in the kitchen. Janey let it ding. I had so many more questions. I wanted to know how my mother did her hair, if she liked art.

  “Do you have any idea where she might have been going? She said she would be back.”

  “You know the police asked me all that. And Verne did, too. I doubt she’d have traveled that far. I couldn’t think of anywhere she would have gone, not for long. Not without you.”

  “But you could imagine her going without Verne?”

  “I’m biased about Verne. After Annalee disappeared, he asked me not to speak to you. He made me promise. Nico, I’m so sorry. I’ve thought about you all the time. And I think of Annalee, of course. I still miss her. She had this jingly laugh.”

  I looked at Janey and I believed her, sort of, but she clearly had a job and kids and a husband and roasts to check and new friends she met at yoga and all kinds of busy, busy to fill in the cracks, the questions, and the fears about Annalee. I just had cracks.

  “There’s never been—” she started.

  “No, no body. No suspects. No nothing.”

  “Nico, I haven’t offered you anything. Are you hungry? Verne does know you’re here, right?” Her black-framed glasses sat slightly off-kilter.

  “Yes….We’re staying at a hotel downtown. Little Christmas holiday from Victoria.”

  “I have to admit, Nico. I still can’t make sense of it, even after all these years. She was so good. I mean she sometimes had a temper, but that’s because she cared about things.”

  “Did she love Kurt Cobain?”

&n
bsp; “Who didn’t?” said Janey, giving a hoarse laugh. Then she talked about how my mother liked vintage things and was pretty hopeless with technology, like burning CDs. “If it had been up to her, we’d all still be listening to vinyl,” she said with a sad smile.

  I heard the front door open, boots stamping, a closet opening, and then Janey’s husband appeared wearing a cable-knit sweater that looked fresh from the department store. He held a plastic grocery bag.

  “I got the last whipping cream in the Lower Mainland,” he said, and then noticed me. Janey introduced us, but he still looked confused, as if the seams of Christmas were being pulled out right before his eyes. Then the two kids ran after him, the red-haired girl and an older boy, who eyed me suspiciously. I was outnumbered.

  The doorbell rang, and the husband, Robert or Roger, opened the door to two silver-haired grandparents carrying bags of more presents. A breeze of sweet floral perfume surfed in on the cold air. There was Roger (or Robert) and Margaret and Kent and I couldn’t keep track of everyone. They were all watching, waiting for me to explain myself and to leave, or preferably just leave.

  “This is Nicola,” Janey told everyone. “She’s Annalee’s daughter.”

  The children blinked at me. The grandparents were confused and then concerned, perhaps at my tangled blue hair. Roger/Robert frowned, no doubt wondering if there would be enough places at the dinner table.

  “I can’t stay,” I shouted above the din, making my way to the door. “I have somewhere to be.”

  I struggled into my boots. Janey held up my jacket. There was a small tear on the elbow that I needed to have patched. I was wearing the vintage floral-print dress again, but it was wrinkled and seemed faded and cheap. The drab clothes of a poor person, not someone with a keen eye for something vintage made with care. Ange joined the crowd, as if on cue, probably wanting to see how the evening was going to play out. Her grandmother grabbed her and drew her into a tight embrace, setting off another wave of perfume.