shine

The iconic visuals of my city are the sky needle and misty grey skies. Emerald green pine forests stepping into the dark tumultuous sea. We have some famous exports: grunge, glass art, Jimi Hendrix, and Kurt Cobain. You probably think of a few different things when I say Seattle, like big computer companies or bad coffee with too much sugar. My late mom falls into the latter category, best known for two hit singles in the 80’s and late 90’s, both saccharine sweet and unoriginal much like the coffee.

My gratitude for her accomplishments began and ended with the royalty cheques that bought our small two bedroom apartment in Belltown and kept my fridge full. The cliché pop ballad of a summer romance put her on the map at an early age when I was 4, I don’t think she ever looked back on a conventional life from that point. Her most iconic work was a love song from 99’ written for my absentee father, who was never there for her, even when she fell ill. Though I wasn’t much better, when she passed in 2004 she was practically a stranger, we hadn’t been close. Closer to my heart, was my godmother, legally appointed guardian and former employer Frieda.

I had worked at Frieda’s bistro for the eponymous Frieda, my mother’s best friend from childhood. It wasn’t a glamorous job, I had waited tables, polished glassware and scrubbed toilets up until 2 weeks prior. I had shown up for an evening shift only to be hassled for being late, hassled for my eyes being red and glassy. I quit on the spot and decided to celebrate my newfound freedom. The night was legendary, so was the bar tab. Some rapport with the owner had bought me some time to repay it but without a cheque coming for a few months it left me concerned. Whenever cash was short I had a plan, there was a stockpile of my mother’s old crap to sell. Memorabilia, signed vinyl, t-shirts and prints. There was a whole closet full of the stuff in her old room and I had always been adept at forging her signature.

I rifled through the contents of the musty closet, its left door permanently stuck from the countless layers of paint. I knew there would be a jacket and possibly tour shirts in one of the old boxes. As a pile of forgotten clothes and hangers shifted, I heard a hollow knock. Jackpot. I could feel a cardboard box under an old winter jacket, I pulled it from the pile, knocking clothing across the floor. I opened the box revealing an embroidered leather jacket, once worn on stage. I considered its value, $1000… maybe $2000? There were also a pile of concert T shirts, men’s size large. My mother had a seemingly endless supply of them, oversized and often paint or bleach stained. These were crisp and folded neatly with, yes—the tags still attached. As I dumped the contents of the box a black, hard bound, notebook dropped to the floor, tumbling under my bed. As I reached for it my fingers grazed its cover, something was etched into the smooth leather.

“SHINE”

The book was well worn with several colorful ticket stubs and pieces of paper between its pages. I opened the book to where where a faded airline ticket protruded and instantly recognized the words. Messily scrawled across the page, the lyrics of my mother’s greatest hit. Written in the upper margin was the date June 3rd, 1998, nearly four years after my father had disappeared from our lives. My father who we were better off without.

“For Clark”

My stomach churned. My whole childhood she had recounted old stories of her and Clark, driving down the coast to Santa Barbara. Stories of the roar of a sold-out arena, thousands of voices singing along with her and the glow of the lights. She would repeat those stories until there was no one there to listen to them. As friends and family dwindled, she would remember the same memories aloud in a fog, slurring her words. I had left her too, I moved to New York to pursue a life separate from hers. I stared off at the wall and closed the book. I could sell it.

I logged onto a memorabilia forum I had joined online. It was a surefire way to get a quick sale from eager collectors indulging their nostalgia. I listed the jacket and shirts first. I stopped to consider a price for the notebook. I wrote:

“Original Lyrics, Inquire directly”

I left my laptop open as I wandered to the fridge. I began haphazardly preparing pasta with the last of the wilted vegetables in the crisper when I heard a chime. I rushed to the computer and saw a direct message. It was from a regular buyer who I would have blacklisted long ago for inappropriate requests. Redeemed only by his swift wire transfers and poor negotiation skills, I still sold to him regularly. His message read:

“Pleasant evening,

If you include on stage photography of the jacket, I will give you $1800.

Pending handwriting verification (Helen at the EMP) I will give you $20,000 for the notebook with lyrics.

Regards, Frederick”

The lights seemed slightly brighter and the bubbling of pasta water was tuned out as I stared at the message. $20,000. I needed to respond while he was still online. I didn’t spare any time:

“No photos, Jacket for $1500. I will ask Helen when she can verify. You pay shipping.”

I waited in silence. Five minutes later he responded:

“Meet Helen next Thursday, I’ll wire $$$$ for jacket tmrw, send express. Deal.”

I barely skimmed the email; I couldn’t get past that four-letter word. “Deal” was Fredricks signature signoff, and it had never let me down. I couldn’t help it, I screamed and jumped up and down before rushing to the stove and turning off the burner. I scraped the sad vegetables into the trash and grabbed my jacket. I tucked the notebook into the pocket and flipped open my cell as I walked down the stairs of my building. Did I lock the door? Who cares? It was a night for celebration and drinks were on me.

When you buy a round for the bar, everyone twists in their seat to get a look at you. The cheers of adoration never last long but that warm fuzzy feeling can carry the whole night. I can’t say I remember the whole night or the friends I must have made, but I remember offering to buy waffles for five. I woke up still wearing my jacket and shoes in bed, they were wet and muddy, it must have rained.

I scraped myself up the next morning baffled by my alarm clock. It was 3pm. I panicked momentarily about work but remembered, that was behind me. I walked over to the stove, kicking off my shoes as I went. There was a pot of water ready to go, I turned on the stove and decided that macaroni and cheese would be a good idea. I unzipped my jacket and tossed it across the room, an ominous feeling of dread set over me. “There’s something wrong here”, I thought. My jacket was lighter than it should be but why…

It took four minutes before I shut off the burner and grabbed my jacket, the pockets empty. The notebook was nowhere to be seen. I frantically threw my shoes back on and rushed to retrace my steps. I came home, therefore I used the stairs. I ate waffles, had to be CJ’s. It had been a staple since I was a kid back when it was called AJ’s. I was stopped in my tracks; nausea had gotten the best of me and I needed to regroup. By the time I had regrouped the diner had closed. Mac and cheese would have to do.

As the week went by, I couldn’t find the book. Desperate calls to all my favorite bars, hopeless lost and found posts online and retracing my wild night didn’t yield any results. I had resorted to printing posters with tearaway strips. I made an email address specifically for finding the notebook. As Thursday approached, I began to lose hope. I couldn’t lose my buyer but maybe I could stall. I sent a message hastily:

“Can’t make Thursday can Helen reschedule?”

He responded promptly as always:

“Message me when things are SET.”

I felt relieved, I hadn’t received another offer even close to Fredrick’s.

By Saturday I was exhausted, I had considered forging the notebook. My phone began to ring, buzzing across my coffee table. I sat up from the couch and flipped it open, not recognizing the number.

“Hello?“

“Hi, what is it?” I answered.

“Are you missing something of sentimental value?”

“Yes, I would like it back” I responded, trying to hide any desperation in my voice.

I could make out that the voice on the other end belonged to an older woman. There was no way she could know the value of what she had found, could she?

“Well, I found It at CJ’s diner and I’m really happy I could find its owner. Do you have a pen and paper? I will give you my address, come get it tomorrow.” She said.

I was overjoyed, she was only 30 minutes away in West Seattle. I planned for a taxi to meet her in the early afternoon. I tucked my last few hundred-dollar bills into my jacket pocket, in case I needed to negotiate. I could see it in my mind’s eye, retrieve the journal for as little as possible and send it to Fredrick, express.

As I closed the cab door, I looked over the cedar shrubs at the small house. It was painted yellow with white trim; vines grew up a faded lattice and draped the door with a soft curtain of foliage. The brick walkway leading to the front door was overgrown with unruly weeds and moss yet the stairs to the porch were flanked with immaculate rose bushes. I quickly approached the door and knocked twice, only I couldn’t hear any response. I knocked again, harder with a slightly syncopated rhythm, still silence. I turned to leave when I heard the muffled voice of an elderly woman,

“Hold on”, she said.

The door creaked open and I craned my head downwards at the creased face of a woman much older than I had expected. Her hair was thin and coiffed into loose curls, quite typical I thought. Her glasses, however, were surprisingly modern in style. I had been staring too long, I quickly cleared my throat.

“You have something of mine?” I said, craning my neck further to investigate the hallway behind her.

“Is that how you say hello where you’re from?”, she quipped as her eyebrows lifted into a slight peak.

For the first time I met her eyes, they were a deep brown with a shocking ring of pale blue. I inhaled deeply to respond but she squinted as her cheeks tightened. I released my exasperated breath and settled into a stillness, mirroring her.

“You can come sit inside, the book is on my nightstand” she said, turning to walk down the hall.

I bowed slightly as I stepped inside, the smell of dryer sheets hung heavily in the air. Pacing uncertainly, I spotted the couch, it was yellow with a pink floral pattern and draped in a loosely knit blanket. The whole house looked as if it had been forgotten in time, the wallpaper, bookshelves and deep pile carpet screamed 70’s. There was however a modern television and mp3 dock perched on a doily-draped console.

“Would you like some cookies?” she called from the hall.

“Yeah” I called back as I reclined on the sofa.

“Too bad! I’m not your grandmother.” she cackled, catching me off guard.

I stood from the sofa and pursed my lips as she rounded the corner. She was clutching the black book in her hand. She looked at me over her glasses as I inched towards the door.

“Do you mind closing that?” she said, her eyebrows creeping back to that pointed formation.

“I need to be on my way” I said as I held out my hand visualizing the $20,000 payout.

She placed the journal in my hand. As I turned to leave, I could feel her pull. She hadn’t let go yet.

“You know I had to read it to find out who it belonged to. I hope you don’t…”

“It’s all fine, thanks” I interrupted.

I pulled slightly to test if she had decided to release me from this standoff.

“It wasn’t exactly easy to find you” she said, pulling harder still. “I don’t expect anything in terms of a reward…”

“Yeah, I don’t really…” I started, but I could see I had worn through her patience.

“Quite the undertaking and I could really use a favor. Would you be willing to drive me to an appointment of mine?” she said, her grip on the journal relaxing.

“Yeah, don’t have a car or anything…”

She interrupted again, “No, no, you can use mine. My grandson will drive me back after, it’s close to where I found your journal”. My arm quickly jerked backwards as she released her grip on my precious bounty.

I considered the savings on cab fare and reluctantly agreed. We walked to the garage as she clicked a small remote. I realize she had been fully dressed from the moment I arrived. She clutched a a small burgundy purse under her arm and placed a set of keys in my hand. The garage door slowly opened revealing a deep red BMW which I assumed was from the 90’s.

“Nice ride” I chuckled.

“It’s a manual, but I know you can drive one” she said pointing at the journal.

I remembered learning the summer I was 16 with my mother’s well-used Volkswagen beetle, stalling on Aurora Avenue. Surely some details had been omitted from my mother’s account, typical. I thought back to the day, I was startled by the horn when I angrily struck the steering wheel. She had laughed and I left her in the passenger seat. I found my own way home. Fortunately, Frieda had been a much better instructor and I had gotten my license later that year.

I opened the door and noticed the interior was immaculate, a miniature plastic Seattle Mariners baseball helmet hung from the rearview mirror. I pulled my seatbelt on and adjusted the driver’s seat before starting the car.

“My name’s Liza, by the way” The woman said.

“Oh, yeah. I’m…”

“I know” Liza said, pointing at the notebook, which was protruding from the pocket of my jacket.

I began to pull away from the garage as I heard a slight grinding sound. I panicked and punched the clutch.

“Easy now, it’ll come to you” Liza said, reassuringly.

I tried again, exhaling to relax. I pulled out into the narrow road and started towards the city.

Liza broke the silence, “I may have read more than a few pages, just to be clear.”

“Great, I didn’t read anything” I replied, keeping my eyes on the road.

“Oh, well… do you plan to?” Liza said.

“No” I responded without pause.

“Then what are your plans for it?”

“I’m selling it, it has lyrics, right? People pay well for that stuff.” I made eye contact. Liza’s brow was furrowed, her concern was clear.

“Don’t you think you should at least read through it first? It was your mother’s journal and not everything in there…” Liza trailed off.

“If you’d like to buy it, you can cut me a cheque for $20,000.” I said insolently.

There was a long silence. Liza finally broke it asking what I thought of sushi. The conversation felt forced at first, but she was relentless. Soon I broke down and engaged, teasing her for thinking sushi was some hot new trend. The conversation began to flow as we discussed just about anything with the slightest bit of relevance. Liza was sharp, never letting the conversation stall or a joke get past her. In what I had perceived to be a few minutes we had arrived at a small clinic, not 4 blocks from my house.

She bid me farewell and good luck, but not without pointing out that the book was no longer in my pocket. It had fallen into the seat of the car and Liza was now passing it to me once more. I reached tentatively for the book and to my surprise, Liza handed it to me. She asked if I would like to join her for breakfast the next day to discuss the journal. I accepted her invitation, I knew I wouldn’t open it before it was sealed in a shipping envelope and sent to Fredrick. I asked if she could hold onto it for another day, and maybe note the pages that had lyrics, for verification later. She agreed, only after informing me breakfast was at 8:00am. Stuck I accepted, passing her back the journal.

Arriving home that night I logged back into the forum and messaged Fredrick to reschedule verification of the journal. He responded nearly instantly setting an appointment with an employee of the Experience Music Project. The appointment was three weeks away, I put the possibility of anything going awry out of my mind.

By Liza’s sheer tenacity, we continued to meet. At first she wouldn’t allow me to leave without confirming our next rendezvous. After 2 weeks we a had full-on schedule, doctors on Tuesday and breakfast on Sunday. Every time we met, we would discuss a little bit of the journal. Piece by piece, Liza was revealing what was written in the journal. I believed she was trying to dissuade me from selling it, but I had already considered the money spent.

The Tuesday before the verification appointment included our new routine of driving Liza to her doctor’s offices downtown. I had never asked why she visited so frequently, and she hadn’t offered anything. Hoping to break an unusually long silence I turned and asked:

“Is your grandson ever going to pick up some slack and drop you off?”

I grinned sheepishly as Liza glanced over.

“I might have to install a meter box and start charging for my services” I said, hoping to establish my intent to joke.

“I haven’t spoken to him in quite some time.” Liza replied.

“Well your rides home must be awkward.” I said.

I had expected her to laugh or at least acknowledge the joke, but her brow only furrowed as she stared at the dashboard. Two minutes of silence passed as we sat, I could have sworn it had been hours. Finally, the terrible silence was broken by a soft sigh. Liza turned to look at me with tears in the corners of her eyes.

“People don’t always get it right. Then the longer you leave things the harder they can be to fix.”

We sat in silence at a stoplight. I couldn’t turn to look at her.

“I know things weren’t easy for you. They weren’t easy for your mother either but…” Liza started.

My ears began to feel numb as my grip tightened on the wheel. I interrupted.

“You weren’t there, reading her little stories of playing house doesn’t mean you…” I trailed off in frustration.

I pulled the car over.

“I don’t think I could ever understand I just think you should read the journal…” Liza protested.

I was through. I slammed the door and briskly walked down the block. My stomach tensed and my face felt numb as I quickened my pace. The car and Liza were becoming smaller and smaller in my mind with each step, but I could not shake my guilt. I couldn’t leave Liza there. I stopped and paced, my face was flushed, I was on the verge of cursing aloud. I began to return to the car. I needed to ready myself, I wouldn’t find an apology. I could just drive her six more blocks then be done. Her grandson would pick her up and I’d never speak to her again.

Liza was still in the passenger seat, she half-smiled when she saw me returning. I opened the door and sat down fumbling for the keys, which Liza had placed in the central console.

“I don’t plan to make this my business, and I’m glad you came back” Liza said.

I held my breath, searching for something to say. Thankfully, Liza intervened.

“How about you take a breath, and we switch seats.”

“I thought you don’t drive, Liza” I said exhaling deeply.

“I can, and I don’t ride the clutch unlike some people I know” Liza said, while slowly unfolding a smile.

We traded seats.

“I’ll take you to your meeting tomorrow with the museum people. I don’t want to take any chances that you drop that book again”, she said checking over her shoulder and starting the car.

I tried to hide my surprise as I looked at her furiously turning the steering wheel and pulling away from the curb. She seemed so spry. I wondered if she had constructed a fictitious grandson as an excuse, but quickly understood. We don’t always get things right, but I guess she had hoped to get things right with me after reading the journal.

When we arrived at the EMP we were greeted by Helen, she smiled and welcomed us. She walked with a surprisingly brisk pace as we followed her through concrete hallways and doors labeled “Employees only”. Thoroughly disoriented we arrived in a small, neat office. I could see print copies on her desk of my mother’s lyrics. She donned a pair of surgical style gloves as I passed her the book. She held it cautiously as though it were somehow fragile, placing it on a plastic sheet and gently flipping it open.

“Good, it’s in great condition.” She said.

Liza and I smiled and nodded.

“It’s clearly authentic, I’m excited to say these are likely the original lyrics for many of her songs. I understand you haven’t read any of the journal so far, is that correct?” Helen said tilting her head slightly.

I looked at Liza who sheepishly dodged eye contact.

“That’s correct, I haven’t read through anything except for the lyrics that were bookmarked.” I replied.

“Well, in time, if you feel comfortable…” Helen paused. “If you feel comfortable you can visit it any time you like. Please don’t hesitate to reach me.”

I tried to muster a response. I could hear the buzz of the fluorescent lighting and Liza catching her breath after our brisk walk. “Well I start a new job today and I really should…“ I started, but Liza cleared her throat. She wasn’t too subtle, the room became quiet again.

Helen broke the silence: “It’s truly a very generous donation, we’ve planned to display the lyrics in 2010. I don’t know if you’re interested but, there’s a page here you might like to read.”

I stepped towards Helen as she turned the book towards me. The page was adorned with small delicate writing neatly within the lines. It read:

my headstrong girl

you can be young

that’s okay

I know you’ll find your way

through it all

you’ve been so strong

I’m damn lucky

you’re my light

you’ll always

Shine