Chapter 14
“You good?” Dean asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just a little restless.”
“Worried about tonight?” He asks.
“Yeah.” I say again—it’ll be my first time in the place where Andy was last alive. Of course I’m worried about tonight.
“Don’t be,” Dean tries to reassure me, but it’s not that simple. “I’ve got you.”
“Will you call an ambulance if I ask?”
“If that’s what you want. But try not to ask.”
“It’s what I want,” I confirm. Dean puts his right hand on my leg, settling me. I didn’t even realize I was bouncing my leg until he stilled it. “But I’ll try not to ask.”
“You’re going to be fine tonight. You are in good health. You take your medications. You have no side effects of concern. You have no symptoms of any serious condition. You got this.”
I smile softly. “Thank you. You know just what I needed to hear.”
“Let’s stop at the grocery store before checking in, yeah?” Dean asks, and I agree. He plugs it into the GPS—fifteen minutes from our current location.
When we pull into the parking lot of the small general market in town, there’s already a few other cars in the parking lot.
One dangerous looking motorcycle included.
Even though it’s just a small grocery, there’s a beautiful view of rolling hills and tall, thin trees.
Once out of the van, I take out my phone to snap a picture.
I turn the camera towards Dean and snap a photo of him as well.
“What are you doing?” He asks.
“What’s it look like?” I snicker. “I’m taking your picture.”
“What for?” He grins, and I snap another photo of him smiling wide.
“So the cops have something to prove I was with you when they find me dead in a ditch.” I laugh.
“Yeah, right,” He takes my phone from me, and snaps a selfie, looking ultra serious. “Your phone is ancient.”
“It gets the job done.”
“These photos look like they’re from 1950.” He swipes through my shots of him. “Come here. Let’s take a photo of us.”
He has to hunch and bend down a bit, but Dean puts his arm around me while we huddle together, and we smile into the front facing camera of my geriatric iPhone.
I stare at our faces, cheeks, noses rosy.
We look good together. It takes my phone a second or two to get the shot, and we probably look ridiculous to passersby, taking a selfie in a grocery store parking lot, but I know I’ll treasure this photo for years to come.
Shivering, we hurry into the store to retrieve a few items on our list: bread, chicken, pasta, sauce, cereal, instant coffee, milk. Gentle muzak plays on an overhead stereo, and a lone cashier arranges cigarettes behind the counter. The linoleum floor is checkerboard and busted up.
Dean selects a blue basket from the mismatched stack in the corner by the newsstand, and we walk down the first aisle, where there’s a man already browsing the ground beef in the refrigerated section.
Pausing to look at the loaves of bread on the left, I select a white Italian loaf to go with our chicken parmesan, while Dean looks for the perfect thigh.
I glance towards the end of the aisle, where the other man is still checking out various beefs.
Something about him strikes me as vaguely familiar, although I’ve never been to this grocery market, let alone St. Agatha.
Curly brown hair. Scruffy beard. Brown leather jacket with scuffed boots.
Am I delusional for thinking I know this man?
He turns, and I try not to stare, but I can’t help it.
I think I know him—although I’ve only ever usually seen him behind a bass guitar.
The last time I saw him was in a suit, crying his eyes out.
“Mark Evans?” I ask aloud. This could be a long shot.
“Madeline McKinney,” He smiles. I was right on the nose. He’s Andy’s old bandmate—his touring bassist. “What in god’s name are you doing here?”
“I could be asking you the same question.” I return his smile, while Dean watches, holding a package of chicken. Mark comes closer, greeting me with a warm hug. He smells like coffee and cigarettes and reminds me of grandpa’s attic or a dusty basement.
“I live here now,” Mark tells me. “I moved, a year or two after the funeral. Alison’s Mom is Canadian.
” He says, showing off his golden wedding band.
Alison, the band’s manager, always had a thing for Mark.
I’m glad the attraction was returned, they got married, and it’s good they can be close to her parents—the border isn’t that far from here. I bet Andy would be happy for them.
“Oh—” I start to say, but I’m startled by Dean’s hand on my shoulder.
“But–uh, what are you doing here?” Mark asks.
“I’m here to see a concert for Andy tonight. At The Belladonna,” I swallow hard, I doubt Mark has been back there. He was the one who called me to say that Andy died in front of him after leaving The Belladonna in an ambulance. “Are you going?”
“I’m the one performing it,” Mark admits. It takes a lot in me not to gasp right there.
“You are.” I confirm. “That’ll be—”
“It’ll be good,” Mark shakes his head. “I’m sorry I haven’t reached out to you…. Alison told me to. I just was never sure how. Especially since the funeral was so…”
“Depressing.” I offer. “Dejecting.”
“You said it, not me,” Mark laughs. “How long are you in town for? Who is—”
“I’m Dean. Dean Ramsey,” Dean answers for me. “We’re here just for the night.”
“Shame you’re not in town for longer. I’m sure Alison would like to see you…I’d love to have you over for a dinner or something.”
“Well, it’s still nice to see you, Mark,” I give him a sweet smile, remembering him fondly. He was Andy’s childhood friend.
“You know what, actually, I think we put something in the cooker this morning. Why don’t you swing by before the concert and have dinner with us?” Mark asks.
I look at Dean expectantly.
“If it’s what you want to do.” He squeezes my shoulder.
“I’d like that a lot,” I accept Mark’s invitation. “You sure you don’t mind us crashing your dinner?” Dean returns the chicken to the refrigerator.
“Of course not. I’d love for you to come over. I’ll just have to pick up a few more things while I’m here,” Mark laughs, choosing a loaf of bread, and I get a whiff of cigarettes again. “You’ll get to meet Daisy.”
“Daisy?” I ask.
“The dog.” Mark winks.
Later that evening, gray skies dimming, we pull up to a small house on a large, sparse, hilly lot, except for a few bare trees with spider-like limbs.
We park in front of the mailbox. There’s a path, free of snow, shoveled from the curb up to the house, maybe 100 yards.
An exceptionally large, black dog bounds around from behind the house, and down the hill greeting us at the van.
“Hello there! You must be Daisy.” Dean pats her head, and she nearly bursts with excitement. Daisy jumps on him, nearly bringing him to the snow-covered ground, but Dean is still standing, catching himself on the front of the van.
I step around and look up the hill towards the house.
Mark and Allison are tiny figures standing on the porch, arms wrapped around themselves, waving at us.
We follow Daisy up to the house. Dean’s arm slides down from around my shoulders to the small of my back, guiding me carefully so I don’t slip on the icy pathway.
When we reach the porch, Mark holds the big, wooden door open. The porch is decorated with a swing and a large American flag hangs from the banister. Empty plant pots guard the door.
“Hello, hi,” Allison greets us. “Welcome.” She pulls me into a hug, right there on the porch.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” She murmurs, and it has been a long time.
Since Andy’s funeral, I guess. Dean and Mark shake hands as if it’s a business meeting, and Allison gives a side hug to Dean, who towers over everyone else. Mark pats Daisy’s head.
“Come in, it’s cold.” Mark ushers us inside, into a small mudroom. To my delight, the whole house smells more like a pot roast than it does cigarettes. We take off our shoes and boots, shaking the ice and snow from them, and follow Mark, Allison and Daisy into the main room of the home.
Although quaint and homely on the outside, the cabin is utterly gorgeous on the inside.
The long hallway leads to an open concept living room-dining room-kitchen, where the large kitchen is in one corner, complete with an island with a set of barstools.
The dining room table is across from large floor to ceiling windows that show off the snowy winter landscape, and a delicate glass chandelier hangs over the set table.
The sunken living room is opposite the dining area, where a massive cream sofa facing a television console takes up half the square footage.
Allison makes her way into the kitchen, checking on a slow cooker filled to the brim, but Mark stands with us in the dining area. “Can I take your coats?” He asks.
I shrug my coat off, and Dean takes it from me, handing it to Mark, who hangs it in a nearby coat closet, while I take in my surroundings. I must admit, it’s a little strange being in someone else’s home.
My chest flutters, and my head throbs. I recognize it as anxiety about being in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by people I don’t know very well. Even though I was at Dean’s house, I felt at home and welcomed there because of Dean—something here isn’t quite lining up for me.
Still, I resolve to relax, because it probably is all in my head. I take a deep breath, thinking about grounding techniques my therapist taught me, and look around the room for something to focus on.