Save Me, Kurt Cobain by Jenny Manzer

Author:Jenny Manzer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2016-03-08T05:00:00+00:00

When I was little, in kindergarten, I would sometimes wake up and expect my mother to be standing over my bed. She used to do that. Verne said she liked to watch me sleep, which sounds boring, I know. She would watch my breath rise and fall, my eyes shut tight like a doll’s. Some days, I would forget that she was gone, dead, disappeared, and there would be this crackle of joy in me at the thought of seeing her. Then I would remember, and I would cry, howling, until Grandma Irene, who lived with us for a few months, made me wash my face and eat a bowl of cereal. Over the months, I stopped howling and became the Quiet Girl, a walk-on part in a movie.

When I woke up in the cabin, the lights were on, which meant the power had returned. My bones ached because I had been cold, even under the quilt and the blankets. Cobain had grunted that I should take the bed. He would sleep on the couch. I was only to stay one night, he said several times. I had fallen asleep at once, the quiet like a lake engulfing me. The deep sleep was almost unsettling. At home, I often lay awake. I’d try not to think about having to go to school the next day or my terrors of the Frog Man, this nasty half man, half frog who was the star of my nightmares. If the Frog Man touched you, he would leave warts on your skin. You would never be the same. Verne used to check under my bed for the Frog Man and then leave the light on without me having to ask.

As I peered around, I realized Cobain was gone. He wasn’t just in the woodshed, or feeding the turtles, or outside checking the weather. He was gone.

So there it was, Christmas Day, and I was on my own. People had to be searching for me. Verne would want me back, yearning to retrieve me as if I were a lost bicycle. No, Verne did love me. He did. But he didn’t fully claim me and make me feel as if I belonged. There was something in him that prevented it. And now it all made sense.

Having nothing else to do, I sketched Cobain playing his guitar. I used my style, spidery arms and legs, motion. I liked Daphne Odjig, a native artist from Ontario. I had seen her prints on cards.

When I was done with the sketch, I tried my cell phone. Verne would be looking for me at the ferry terminal, then everywhere, which made me sad. I could call home and say I was fine but not coming back for a while. But wherever we were was remote enough that we weren’t getting reception. The floor creaked as I walked to the fridge and yanked it open. The air smelled of woodsmoke and something else, gasoline and lemon, like an industrial floor cleaner. The cabin had been cleaned at some point.

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