Chapter 6 The Old Apartment
the old apartment
DAPHNE
So far Violet and I have spent the better part of an hour going through grandpa’s things to see what we want to keep, toss, or give away to charity.
The problem is, my grandfather was a bit of a hoarder, and every trinket he ever collected no doubt has a little story behind it.
As he grew older, he became more sentimental, and now that he’s gone, it’s my job to go through it all.
My parents took on the Herculean task of caring for him right up until the end, so cleaning out the little apartment above his bar is the least I can do.
“Whoa, mom, check this out.”
The moment my eyes fall on the polaroid in my daughter’s hands, I feel a lump form in my throat.
It’s Joe and Damien slumped onto a couch, both of them laughing hysterically.
They’re wearing faded jeans and ratty looking sleeveless shirts, all topped off with sky-high hair that practically hits the ceiling.
It suits them, though.
I glance down at the messy handwriting just below the picture.
Session Break: Babydoll ‘87.
“I think you may have found a piece of music history, baby girl.”
“Maybe we can use that at his service next week.” Violet chirps, peering up at me with her blue-grey eyes.
She’s 12, soon to be 13, and the older she gets, the more she looks like her father. Come to think of it, all the Bells look alike, with pronounced cheekbones and that same mischievous little twinkle in their eyes. Huxley was no different.
“Yeah. I think this would be a good one for your collage.”
She smiles. The Bell genes might be strong, but Violet’s got a little gap between her two front teeth just like me, along with the Carmichael freckles, and my lion’s mane of fiery red hair.
She’s been working on a tribute for the celebration of life, something my parents cooked up that we’re holding downstairs in the bar. They practically invited half the town to come out and share some memories, but for me, just keeping busy planning the thing has helped to keep the grief at bay.
And Violet’s been there every step of the way.
The afternoon slips into evening as we sort through box upon box of concert tickets and newspaper clippings, even coming across some behind the scenes photos of recording sessions with rock legends.
No matter how normal it must have been for him, it’s still surreal to see Joe in photos beside Poison, Motley Crüe, and Joan Jett to name a few.
He wasn’t famous the same way they were, but he had a distinct sound, and as a working musician he was in high demand.
My grandpa retired from music a little while after he met my grandma, opting for a quieter life in Emerald Bay where they raised my dad.
It was the kind of life he could have never had if he was still in the business, opening up The Hi-Dive in the early 90s, and building himself a little apartment upstairs so he’d have the world’s shortest commute.
But even through a career change, his love of music never faded. The second he found out I could sing, he nurtured that talent, paying for a vocal coach and even bringing me up on stage with him for open mic nights at the bar.
“I miss him so much.”
I’m a little surprised to hear my own voice, so lost in memories that the silence had completely taken over again. Violet inches closer, wrapping her slender arms around my waist and hugging me tight.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m sad too.”
She’s such a tender little soul, always in tune with everything around her. She’s been that way ever since she was a toddler. Sure she’s had her pre-teen meltdowns and tantrums, but I think Huxley and I did a pretty damn good job considering how unprepared we were for parenthood.
“Thanks for helping me with this.”
“It’s fine. It’s even kinda fun! Feels like I’m in a time machine.”
I grin.
“It does, doesn’t it… and you know what? Pass me that picture from earlier, I wanna send it to your grandpa Damien.”
Violet hops to it, dutifully rifling through the small pile of pictures we’ve made and passing the photo to me.
I slip out my phone, quickly snapping a picture of a picture before firing it off.
It’s a concept that will never stop feeling weird to me, but we’re long past the time of scanners and e-mail, something Violet always makes sure to remind me of.
ME
Found a good one. You and Joe.
My phone’s only halfway in my pocket before I feel it buzz in my hand. I let out a soft chuckle.
“What is it?” Violet asks.
“Just grandpa and his iPhone addiction.”
“Yeah, he’s been whooping my ass in Wordle all day,” she grumbles.
I swear, if Damien ever lost his phone, he’d go stir crazy.
DAMIEN
Straight from the vault, huh? If you find more, could you put them aside for me? I’d love to get them blown up and framed for the office.
ME
Of course, I know you two were really close.
DAMIEN
Thanks kid, Joe was a hell of a guy. By the way, Pheebs and I are sending flowers straight to the bar for the service. Should be delivered the morning of the service. I’m sorry we can’t be there.
ME
No sorries. Enjoy Portugal, you’ve earned the holiday.
He sends me back a giant thumbs up and I roll my eyes. What is with middle-aged men and their obsession with that emoji?
DAMIEN
Tell V her grandma and grandpa are shopping for her!
I smile.
They spoil her, I swear, but then again, things could be a lot worse. Who would have thought that a one night stand with his son would have changed my life for the better?
“Hey mom, who’s this blond guy?”
“What?”
I put my phone down and she passes me another photo, this one much newer than the last. It’s of me, standing in front of the stage with my first guitar in hand. Beside me, hand on my shoulder, is someone I haven’t seen in years.
“That’s Frankie.”
I’d recognize those blue eyes and golden curls anywhere.
“He’s… an old friend.”
Violet raises her eyebrows, her head tilting ever-so-slightly.
“Hey, what’s with that look?”
“Nothing,” She replies with a wry smile. “It’s just the way you’re looking at him in this picture. Kinda suspicious.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just stating facts, mom.”
Jesus, am I that transparent? I guess I should have known nothing gets past this kid.
The thought of being back in Emerald Bay always makes me a little nervous. If I ran into him, what could I even say? I had a lot of time to think about that on the plane ride and all it did was make me nauseous.
“Frankie was just… someone I cared a lot about, a long time ago.”
“So like your boyfriend?”
I snort, doing my best to compose myself.
“Jesus V, no he… he was my friend. My best friend. We grew up together.”
“Then what happened?” She asks. “You never talk about him. He’s not even in any of your photo albums back home. Oh god, did he die?”
He’s not in the albums she knows about. All of the notes Frankie and I passed in class, the polaroids, and the mix CDs, they’re all stashed away in a little box I keep hidden in my closet.
“Do you remember when your friend Sabrina moved to that private school in Manhattan, and you two eventually stopped hanging out?”
“Yeah, and now she has friends who are way cooler than me,” Violet grumbles. “That’s what happened with you two?”
This is the part I can’t explain to her, because I can barely explain it to myself.
I’ve been sitting with it for 17 years, weaving it into songs, and trying to make sense of why I couldn’t just pick up the phone and call him.
It wasn’t some big fight that tore us apart, it was just… fucking awkward.
I brush a strand of frizzy hair away from her face.
“Sometimes, people just grow apart. You want to have new experiences, meet new friends, live your dreams, and you can’t take everyone with you. Does that make sense?”
Just in time to save me from this trainwreck-episode of parenting 101, the front door swings open and Huxley strides into the apartment, two big bags hanging off of his forearm.
“Sushi’s here!”
“V, will you set the table?” I ask, trying my best to look a little less obviously relieved.
“On it!” She scrambles to her feet, grabbing the bags from her dad before scurrying into the kitchen. “I’m so hungryyyy!”
Hux grins at me, kicking off his boots as he steps into the living room and surveys the damage. It’s the first time I’ve really taken it all in since we started, but the place is a disaster, with trinkets, photos, and notebooks strewn all over the floor.
“You look overwhelmed,” he chuckles, towering over me.
“A bit,” I confess with a little laugh. “We found this, though.”
He leans down, chuckling as he takes the polaroid, turning it over his hand.
“Is that a joint my dad’s smoking?”
“You’ll have to ask him— and while you’re at it, ask your mom why she allowed him to smoke indoors.”
Huxley snorts, brushing a strand of long dark hair away from his face.
“Dad’ll probably just roll his eyes and say something like: it was the eighties, everyone was doing it!”
“Yeah, those Bell men are all real stubborn, aren’t they?” I tease, gently shoving him in the shoulder.
He grins.
“I think you could say the same about Carmichael women.”
He’s a mountain of a man, with tree trunks for legs and big burly arms that threaten to bust out of whatever tight black t-shirt he’s wearing on a given day, but there’s always been a soft sort of kindness to him.
Five years ago, he was a pro wrestler who teamed up with his best friend, Deacon Knight.
Together, they were known as ‘The Bonesaw Brothers.’ Now, he does my PR.