by Ina Zajac
She took another drink. Dan wouldn’t approve. It had been three years since she’d gotten wasted and fallen off that totem pole in the quad. He had carried her to the student health building and prayed over her broken arm. She had been his prayer-in-progress ever since.
“He’ll just have to sign a pre-nup,” Uncle Erik said. “And, you’ll have to come back to New York. That meeting is January 4th. We’ve got to discuss the collection.”
Oh hell. Since the shooting, the ten-work Rabbotino collection had been held in a secure location, hidden away from public scrutiny. They were all oil on forty-eight-by-sixty-inch Belgian linen, awash in browns, blacks and blues—interwoven into nightmares. Even before her father’s death, critics had praised his “soul scratchers” for their sinister subtext. They were the beloved children of his tortured mind. Both of her parents had been trust fund babies, so there had never been a need to sell them. Now they were hers. She thought about how much more the collection would fetch at auction if the crazy orphan died beforehand. She had been fighting dark thoughts all day. Today was not only her twenty-first birthday, but also one hundred days away from the tenth anniversary of her parents’ death day.
“You’ve really grown up,” he said, interrupting her introspection. “You’re so much like her now—just like a dark-haired Ingrid.”
The sound of her mother’s name made her swallow hard. Mama would hate her thinking this way. After everything she had done for her. God, she had to stop thinking this way. She would find some way to be happy—right now. She looked out the window down to the Seattle Center below them. Some sort of concert was going on outside the Experimental Music Project Museum. There were several hundred people down there, probably having the time of their lives. A tiny light from the stage, like a beacon, caught her eye.
“Sorry I can’t stay much longer, but I’m sure you’ve got some girlfriends to go out with tonight.”
“Sure,” she lied. “Going out dancing.”
“There are still some things we need to talk about,” he said as he checked the time on his phone. He took out his wallet, put his credit card on the edge of the table, and pulled out a small, white velvet box. “Your father’s former students want a retrospective, a show in the spring. They want you to be involved with the planning, and to say a few words.”
She closed her eyes and tried to shake away the image. There would be hors d’oeuvres. There would be critics—skinny women with harsh eyes. They would size her up and wonder if she was psycho too. There would be photographers. They would expect her to cry.
Beams of sunlight demanded her attention. She took a sideways glance toward the sun disappearing behind the Olympic Mountains. Copper brilliance cast off Puget Sound. It was the Seattle tourist money shot. She took another drink, and another, until her glass was empty, except for few holdout gold flakes at the bottom. He watched. He wanted an answer.
“You really want me to host a show? Talk to people about him? I can’t.” She turned back to face him, but her field of vision was muddled with iridescent blotches. “I can’t talk to people… about him.”
“You’ll be great,” he said. “You can share your story, raise awareness—about domestic violence, about mental health issues.”
His suggestion disgusted her. Mortification bore into her forehead and nested into the space where her brain had been. She’d used her mother’s maiden name, Sorenson, since the shooting for a reason. It was unbearable, the thought that she would be recast as that pathetic little girl who had shivered and listened to her parents die. The girl who’d lurked in the shadow of Christmas.
The waiter had come back with the drinks. Her uncle was speaking to him, his tone mellow. “Yes, and add a chocolate mousse for her. Anything she wants.”
The taste of her gin and tonic made her gag a little, so she squeezed the lime on the rim, tossed it in, and stirred it with the little black straw. Curious, she wondered what was in the velvet box. She wanted to reach for it, but didn’t dare.
“I see you aren’t wearing an engagement ring yet,” he said. She hadn’t been in a big hurry; it could wait until January, or whenever. “I guess I should give this to Dan to give to you, but he’s not here. So, happy engagement.” His enthusiasm fell flat as he leaned over and brought her hand in his. He lowered his voice. “It was your mother’s.” He popped back the lid. Of course it was. He took it out and put it on her left ring finger. It was a tad snug, not bad. “Maybe it can be a nice, long engagement,” he said with a hopeful smile. “And if you change your mind, you can always wear it on your other hand.”
Applause startled her, yanking her back into the world. Why were people clapping? Didn’t they realize her heart was breaking? A woman at the next table offered her congratulations.
Her uncle shook his head and stood up. “This is my niece, for Christ’s sake,” he scolded the woman. The word “niece” brought a collective gasp from those around them.
He leaned over and gave her an awkward hug. “I hate to leave you like this, but I’ll call when I get back from Taiwan.” He kissed her on the top of her head. “I love you, you know that.”
Did she? His hasty exit seemed to activate a dark energy field around her, powered perhaps by her own sense of unworthiness. She kept her head down so her long hair shielded her from the curious eyes she sensed. Dan would be home by New Year’s, she reminded herself. He would have been here now if the travel dates had been up to him.
She took another sip of her drink and admired her mother’s ring. It was a glorious marquise, wide at the center with tapered points at the top and bottom. Mama used to fiddle with it when she was upset. Via had no idea what its carat weight was; it was probably a bit showy. But it had rested against her mother’s skin for sixteen years, and that made it priceless. She wiggled her finger and got lost in a million mirrors of divine complexity. They’d taken it from her dead body, she realized. The death day countdown was on. How was she ever going to find the strength to make it through the holidays? Did she even want to? Stop it, she told herself. She had to stop thinking this way.
The view had shifted again, east toward the snarled traffic of I-5. She had missed Lake Union entirely. A new server came with chocolate mousse.
“Another drink, miss?” he asked.
She looked back out the window, down at the world going on below. The sun was setting on her twenty-first birthday.
“Sure, why not?”
CHAPTER 3
MATT
MATT ADJUSTED his bass strap so the smiley faces were right-side up. He ran his hand though his hair just above his right ear, then again until it was close enough to perfect. Time for one more song; the first seven were toast. How had another set gotten away from him? The best ones always did. It didn’t matter that they weren’t getting paid or that their set had been cut to just half an hour. Gigging in the shadow of the Space Needle made him feel alive.
“We’re Obliviot,” he said into his mic. He used his mellow-cool stage voice. Serious enough for the guys, but with a tinge of sexy he hoped the girls would appreciate. He gave them a moment to settle down. “Thanks, thanks. We’ll be playing Nectar next Saturday—come check us out.”
“And the Showbox!” Nick yelled from behind the drum kit.
“Oh, that’s right,” Matt conceded. “We’re playing the Showbox December 21st to raise money for Seattle Kidz Rock. All of your holiday favorites.”
“No favorites!” Nick yelled down. “No requests, no regrets!”
Matt shot his best friend a shut-your-face glare, then turned back toward the crowd. It was a good mix of teenagers, rockers, hipsters and hippies. Matt squinted and averted his eyes from the intensity of the setting sun reflected off the purple-mirrored side of the EMP Museum. “We have time for one more.” He glanced back to make sure the guys were ready. A garbled chorus of requests rose up to the stage, but he waved them off, laughing as he looked back out over the sea of faces. “You all think you want to hear ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit.
’ I hear you back there,” he said. A hard whistle came from the back. “But, what you’re going to get is ‘Breed’ and you’re going to love it.”
Josh stepped forward and unleashed the lesser-known Nirvana guitar riff. Feedback-heavy and distorted, it met Nick’s beat, fast and fierce. Matt and Jeremy joined in, let the noise build, then broke it loose all over the crowd. The mosh kids surged forward. They launched their bodies into each other, hard and hyper. Security hadn’t wanted anything rowdy, but hey, it was their last song. The next act was reggae, so people would mellow out soon enough.
Matt teased the crowd with a smug, drawn-out, “You’re wel—come,” then focused on his favorite four-string bass, a green Mike Lull-custom he called Envy. He had a lot of gear, but she felt so comfortable against his stomach, so easy on his fingers. At times, he could swear she was the one playing him.
Jeremy screamed into the mic. His attempt at the Cobain rasp made Matt shudder, but the crowd didn’t seem to mind. They were all about the beat. It was always about the beat. Nick sounded right on time, steady, in the pocket as always.
All was well…but then it wasn’t. The sunset reflected against the EMP’s now fuchsia-mirrored side blazed into his eyes. He squinted and looked back to the drum kit. Nick’s disco ball hat wasn’t helping the situation. It was from his crazy cap collection, giving him a look that landed somewhere between Slash from Guns N’ Roses and Abe Lincoln at a rave. They locked eyes, and Nick gave him the “do it, do it,” head flick.
Matt’s nerves flared when he remembered their bet. He stared down and contemplated leaving the safety of the silver tape flanking him on both sides. Thankfully, he knew Nirvana basslines about as well as Krist Novoselic himself. Though his fingers autopiloted their way through the groove, his feet were unresponsive. He swallowed down the taste of dread. A three-hundred-dollar bet was a three-hundred-dollar bet, he reminded himself. He willed himself closer to the edge, but his boots seemed to fuse to the stage.
He preferred a dark club where he could only make out faces in the first couple of rows. Cute girls wearing white always stood out, their faces brightened by the stage lights. Tonight, he saw them all, rows and rows of people, all wanting something from him. Maybe something meaningful, something they could take away and keep forever. It was just too bright. He didn’t want to start thinking about it. Overthinking about it. But, it was too late. His mind was already off and running toward that place called crazy. It was all so stupid, and that’s what made it so paralyzing. At the sight of those hands outstretched toward him, he stepped back behind his protective tape marks.
He and Nick had been playing together since junior high, gigging in bars long before they could drink in them. Before Obliviot, they had been Salt-A-Slug, Weed Trinket, and Ear Slop. They found Josh and Jeremy a few years back and became Obliviot. The name captured what they were, nineties covers—no apologies.
Standing in his tapped off square, he felt Nick’s lava-hot glare searing into the back of his head.
Over the years the two of them had developed an extensive array of glances and nods. He doubted people watching their shows ever noticed their frequent facial banter. But, when they were in tight sync, they laid a platform for the rest of the band. Matt raised an eyebrow when a solo was going long, gave a wide-eyed bob when Josh was a bit off, and a dozen more. Nick had a particular grimace when Jeremy had his amp up too high. Matt would answer back with a frown that meant, “I know, he needs to get over himself. I can barely hear my own monitor.” There were also a variety of head tilts to convey the location of the choicest girls in the crowd.
He turned back. The look Nick was communicating was clear, “Do it now. Don’t be a little bitch.”
He tossed back an irritated nod that said, “Fine, fine.”
Their face lingo also translated into their off-stage world navigating the shark-infested waters of West-Coast cocaine trafficking. Their boss, Carlos, was a reef shark with a Jaws complex, who cruised the waters between Portland and Seattle. They secretly called him The Skeeze. He would go off if they were too late for their eight p.m. shift tonight at the club. Hotties was only five blocks away; they could still make it. Carlos wasn’t a fan of rock-and-roll time, which was standard time plus twenty minutes.
Warm air breezed against his face, smelling like chronic, funnel cakes, and beer. He stepped out between his monitor and a wedge. God, he didn’t want to have a heart attack in front of all of these people. If he passed out this close to the edge, he would fall. No doubt. What if they didn’t catch him? He would break his neck for sure. They would make him go to the hospital, no matter what he said. His imagination began to explode blood and guts everywhere.
He felt Nick’s support nudge him toward the edge. Just a few more inches. Push yourself. Just for a minute he told himself, then he would go back behind to the safety of his silver-tape pen. Down in front was a gaggle of cuties, he guessed sorority girls. They probably all looked amazing naked. Just like Kaytlyn. He inched closer toward the edge, just shy of their frantic fingers. He tried to focus on his own hands, on the song, but their energy terrified him. Sharp, sparkled fingernails reached up for him. They could grab at his boots, his jeans—that was okay. But they were getting dangerously close to the green sweetheart slung from his chest.
He focused on Envy’s rosewood neck. He looked down the fretboard; from the first to the twelfth to the twenty-first. “I’m good, I’m good,” he mumbled as he continued down to her pickups. He smiled when he reached the high-shine glory of her swamp ash body. It’s all about distraction, he reminded himself. Fear dies without attention.
He felt Nick’s approval slap him on the back. “That’s good, man. That’s good.” Relieved, he pulled back just in time. Something like a laser beam shot past him. He looked back. Ah, just the sunset reflecting off Nick’s disco ball hat. Idiot was going to blind somebody.
Back between his tape marks, he began to settle down. He fought to catch his breath. And it was over, just like that. The song was dust. The day was dust. While the cheers that welled up around him were sweet, he didn’t have time to take it all in. He leaned over and unplugged from his amp, then made his way off stage with the guys. He came down the metal stairs and into the makeshift backstage area, which wasn’t much more than a few tarps slung over half-assed fencing. He was surprised when he recognized the orange-painted path under his feet: the Seattle Center Labyrinth. They had gone on from the other side, so he hadn’t noticed that the stage had been set up on top of it. Cool, he had been standing over it that whole time. Maybe it was lucky. He wondered if it meant something amazing was about to happen.
“Matt, Matt,” a cute blonde shouted as he passed. She didn’t look familiar so he gave her a courtesy wave and kept walking. He needed a break from blondes. No more Kaytlyns. A low-drama brunette would be good. Maybe a mellow girl with soulful brown eyes.
He found his gig bag and got Envy situated.
Nick was in his face. His perma-grin would have been obnoxious on anyone else. Performing had that effect on him. He wasn’t high on anything other than being balls-to-the-wall awesome. Mr. Dedication would never get lit before a show. Nick had serious chops, and was the only person Matt knew who was determined enough to actually make it big someday. “Today it’s outside the EMP,” he said. “But someday it’ll be inside—the Sky Church, in front of that big-ass screen.”
They had a long-standing list of must-play Seattle venues. They still hadn’t played the Central or the Crocodile and they probably never would without an original set list. Someday.
“Where’s my three hundred bucks?”
“I’ll take it off your rent,” Nick said. “Let’s go. Josh and Jeremy said they’d get the gear when they’re done with goodies.” Obliviot was known for random, borderline inappropriate, giveaways. Tonight they had bacon-flavored bubble gum and zombie finger puppets. It was an all-ages show so they would save the glow-in-the-dark condoms for El Corazón and the Tractor Tavern.
; Nick looked down at his phone. “We’ve only got ten minutes. The Skeeze will go off if we’re late again.”
“Maybe he’ll fire us,” Matt said, looking toward the rising moon. How cool would that be, not having to worry about waking up in some nasty jail cell. “I’m good, good,” he told himself. It was going to be a long-ass night.
CHAPTER 4
VIA
VIA LEANED AGAINST the side of the 7-Eleven and pounded her third mini bottle of chardonnay. After leaving the Space Needle, she had walked around the same block three times—past that same Pink Elephant Car Wash, three times. She couldn’t find her car to save her life, which was proof she had no business behind the wheel anyway. She had called a cab company, but they could only take her as far as the West Seattle ferry terminal. If she were to walk onto the ferry, she would have to go to the upper deck and just knew she would run into people from church. And she didn’t want to go home anyway. Her chest felt toasty warm.
She scarfed down her last mini powdered donut and threw away the wrapper. It was a sign, an actual, literal sign. In the next parking lot over, the Hotties marquee changed colors for the two-hundredth time—hot pink to purple to white, and then red, red, red, and then hot pink to purple to white. The letters flashed, “Gallery Night. She’s a Masterpiece. Amateur Night. Win $750.”
She had nowhere else to be. Screw it. Why not? Before she’d started dating Dan, she and her college roommates had often gone dancing at the Blue Tonic, a bar just over the Canadian border where the drinking age was just nineteen. Its big dance floor had two dancing platforms, each surrounded by a gilded cage awash in spotlights. Toward the end of the night, the bouncers invited a few girls to go inside and dance a song or two. Ceremoniously opening the side doors, the bouncers escorted the chosen ones inside. There was no lock. The bars were wide enough that the girls could climb out at any time. Via had gone in often and never gotten out early—not once. Drinks could wait, her bladder could wait, flirting could wait. A fire alarm could wait, because her time there had felt precious and fleeting, and her soul had wanted to stay and dance forever. Rarely making eye contact with the men watching her, she’d felt their lustful stares. She had fed on their energy and lit up from the inside out.