Chapter 17 #2
Dean walks over to the sole bookcase where I have various pressings of Andy’s record on vinyl, even cassette tapes and CDs of the album, and a jar full of guitar picks. And of course, his GRAMMY award.
“I’ve never seen one of these in real life,” Dean says, looking at it.
“What are you talking about? Mark had one,” I laugh.
“I didn’t look at it though,” He rubs the placard with Andy’s name on it. “Is it real gold?” He jokes.
“24 karat.” I smile. Dean looks at the rest of the bookcase and selects a folder from a section of binders.
“What are these?” He asks.
“Songs he wrote, probably,” I guess, walking over to see what it could be. “He had hundreds of them. But he only ever recorded about 10 of them.”
“Would you ever release another album?” Dean asks me, thumbing through the papers.
“I don’t know, I don’t think there’s enough. I’m not even in touch with his record label anymore.”
“Take a look at this one. This is the one you sang.” He hands me pieces of paper with the lyrics to MADELINE handwritten on them.
“It is.” I smile at the memory of me, on stage singing.
“You were insanely cool up there,” Dean tells me. “I could have never done that.”
“I don’t know how I did, honestly. I think I just had to.” I admit, looking around the room. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with all of this stuff. I might just sell it.”
“What stuff?” Dean asks.
“The instruments. The recording equipment. It’s all just been sitting here since the day he died. I’ll keep the master song recordings and the lyrics of course. And a guitar. But I have no use for a cello.”
“Keep some of it. But give the rest of it to Mark,” Dean answers. “I think he’d like that.”
“I guess I should see if he wants it first.”
“I think he would. I think he really misses his friend.” Dean sets the folder down. “I don’t think I’ve ever said this, but I think you’re really brave, Madeline.”
“What do you mean?”
“For doing what you’ve done. For carrying on.”
“I didn’t have a choice.” I say.
“You did have a choice.” Dean whispers. “And you made the right one.” He pulls me into a hug.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, looking up at him. “I can cook you something.”
“Desperately.”
“All the food in my fridge is probably bad, actually.”
“It’s not too late to go out,” Dean offers. It’s nearing 9 p.m., and for my homebody self, it is too late to go out.
“How about take out?” I suggest.
“Name your place.” Dean hands me his phone. I choose a large margarita pizza from a nearby pizza joint as we walk back to the house. I sit at the dining room table as Dean picks up the books he knocked off earlier.
“I think I’m going to sell it,” I say aloud.
“The memorabilia?”
“Well, I’ll give it to Mark if he wants it. But I think I’m going to sell the house.”
“Where is this coming from?” Dean asks, concerned.
I contemplate it. Although I’ve just decided, it feels like the right thing to do.
I’m starting the next chapter of my life.
This house is just a place to live to me, and it has been for a while.
“I’d thought about it for a while a few years ago when a realtor made an offer.
I never worked up the courage to go through with it.
But if I’m going to go to Allagash with you, I’m going to need more money for a new place. I don’t have to decide right away.”
“You could always rent it.”
“I don’t think I’m cut out to be a landlord,” I laugh. “I can barely order a coffee.”
“You had no problem ordering pizza.”
“That’s different. I didn’t have to talk to anyone.”
“Thank goodness for online ordering.” Dean grins. “Where are your dishes?”
I point him to a cabinet above the sink, and he sets the table for two. As soon as he sets the plates down, the doorbell rings. I get the pizza and tip the delivery person a $10 bill. When I come back, Dean is waiting right where I left him. Right where he should be.
By the time we wake up the next day, it’s nearly afternoon.
Like literally, after noon. Although we didn’t stay up particularly late, in fact, I think I fell asleep on the sofa while watching Community reruns.
We must have been exhausted. I know I was.
Dean is still snoozing next to me, his mouth slightly parted, stubble on his chin starting to come in.
He looks like a mythical creature, a radiance emanating from him, backlit by the sun through my window.
It’s the first sunny day in what feels like forever.
I slip out of bed, leaving him resting, and get ready to throw in a load of laundry.
I dump the contents of my suitcase into the washing machine, eager to have my favorite sweater clean to snuggle in again.
After boiling myself like a lobster in the shower, I brush my teeth in the sink with a fresh toothbrush, pleased with myself for remembering to buy new ones before I left.
I set one aside for Dean. I’m very glad I woke up before him, as I don’t want him to smell my gargoyle breath.
I’m deciding whether or not to wear my hair up or down, when a large shadow is cast over my small bathroom. Dean.
“You look adorable in that robe,” He yawns. “So freaking adorable.”
“This is for you.” I hold out an orange toothbrush for Dean.
“Thank you.” He takes it from me, automatically going to stand at the sink. He uses a small dab of toothpaste, careful not to touch the tube to the brush. “Do you mind if I take a shower?” He asks, foaming at the mouth.
“Sure.” I reply, wiping my hands on the bath towel. “Are your clothes in the van? I can wash them.”
“Yeah, they are.” He says, smacking his forehead. “Fuck, we were supposed to return the van at 11.”
“Shower is all yours. Use whatever you want. I’ll be downstairs.” I leave the bathroom, and gently close the door, heading downstairs.
After getting Dean’s clothes into the washer, I settle into my work-from-home station. The first thing I do is google REALTORS NEAR ME. If I’m going to do this, I should do it right, right? The search results are overwhelming. There are so many people to choose from, and half of them are paid ads.
Fuck. This is going to be more complicated than I thought.
I don’t even know where to begin. I plug in a search for HOW TO SELL YOUR HOUSE.
Inspections, repairs, upgrades, agents. Not to mention going through the basement.
I'm in way over my head. Andy did all of the work when we were buying it. Maybe I should just keep the house.
This is stressing me out—but people do this all the time, right? I can get through this. I have Dean on my team. Speak of the devil. He’s coming down the stairs, shirtless, with only his jeans on.
“Clothes ready yet?” He asks, leaning on the counter.
“Not yet,” I say, eyeing his tattoo. I look him up and down. “We could probably put them in the dryer now. About twenty minutes.”
“What are you looking at?” He smirks at me, the little dimple in the corner of his cheek popping.
“Nothing,” I avert my eyes back to my computer. “Just realtors. There’s so many.”
“So you’re really doing this, huh?” His smirk softens to a smile.
“I think I am. I’m trying to anyway, but I can’t seem to find a realtor.”
“I know a good one—Maureen Stevenson. I can call her for you. She’s really savvy. She got me a good price for my month-to-month apartment. She knows a good inspector as well and can help you get listed everywhere online.” Dean says without hesitation.
“Andy did all of this stuff when we bought the house,” I confide.
“You know where the deed to the house is?” He asks.
“I’m pretty sure it’s in the basement.” I think it is in the basement—it could very well be anywhere in the giant filing cabinet that my house has turned into.
“Okay, well, I’ll return the van, walk to the mechanic to pick up my truck and return here with some actual food. You find the deed. Sounds like a plan?”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” I agree, snapping my laptop shut.
Once Dean has dry clothes and leaves, I prepare myself to head into the basement.
I knew this day would come, I just didn’t realize it would be…
this soon. A few months after Andy died, I boxed what I thought was all of his belongings—-razors and boots be damned—and left them in a towering pile in our otherwise empty basement.
I resolved to never touch the boxes again, figuring I would die in this house, and it would be the problem of whoever was lucky enough to be executor of my estate.
The staircase down has always been rickety, and when I take the first step onto it, it creaks awfully loud underneath my weight.
At the bottom of the stairs, I try to remember where the hell the deed could be.
I vaguely remember a blue binder that has a bunch of papers Andy deemed important enough to keep.
Fuck, I think I’m going to have to just start opening boxes.
I knew this would come back to bite me. And now it’s biting me.
Pulling a box off the top of the pile, and setting it on the floor, I use a stray screwdriver to tear open the duct tape.
This doesn’t look like it’s it. It’s a bag with clothes with all the air vacuumed out.
Out of sheer curiosity, I open it, letting air back into the bag.
It smells musty as hell, but I pull out an old University of Maine sweatshirt.
I can’t help but laugh, neither of us went to this school. I wonder why I kept it.
Onto the next box. I tear that one open just as the first, and it’s a box of old shoes.
Next. I have to keep moving. The next one is going to be a winner for sure, I can feel it.
The tape is tricky on this one, as it’s taped doubly as much as the others.
Peeling the tape slowly, I reveal a bunch of papers, folders and binders. Bingo.
Kneeling down, I pull out a stack of papers, and arrange them on the floor.
I don’t catch on at first, these papers just seem like scribblings of Andy’s.
But they’re not just scribbles. They’re lyrics.
And at the very bottom of this box, in a small plastic bag, is a USB drive. I almost trip standing up.
I race up the stairs, and plug the drive into my laptop, hoping Andy didn’t load it up with malware or something. But if it’s what I think it is—what I’m praying it is—I’m about to be astonished.
Well, I’ll be damned.
There’s two folders on the drive: RECORDINGS 11/28/18 and NORTHERN SUMMER NIGHTS LYRICS. I knew he started recording what would have become his second album just before he went on tour, but I never found the tracks or lyrics on his computer anywhere and his label had nothing either.
I double click on the RECORDINGS folder, and sure enough, there’s 14 MP3 files, ranging from anywhere from two to six minutes. I’m stunned by the amount of songs—and they all seem to be originals. I click play on the first song: BETTER YET.
A lot of static leads to the start of the recording, then in Andy’s voice is a short voiceover announcing the date: November 28th, 2018, Recording One.
Just a few days before he died. First comes the drum intro, keyboards, and then guitar.
It feels like I’m listening to a true miracle.
I thought these recordings would have been lost to time and to my own carelessness.
I pull my feet up onto the dining chair, and I listen to each song with a careful ear. Each song is stunning in its own way. This album is far different from MADELINE. It’s braver, edgier and above all, happier. MADELINE was always a little on the solemn side, but this one is brighter.
“Fuck,” I say aloud, wiping a happy tear from my eyes. Just as the last song is finishing, there’s a knock at my door, and then it creaks open.
“Hey, it’s me.” Dean walks into the kitchen, holding a produce bag with fruits and vegetables in one arm and a bouquet of flowers in the other. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He asks, noticing me crying.
“Look at this,” I say, and he sets everything down on the counter before coming over, leaning over my chair. “Listen.”
I click play to BETTER YET. Dean takes my hand as the song finishes.
“What is this?” He asks. “Is this Andy?”
“It is,” I break into a grin. “There’s fourteen of them.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. Listen,” I whisper. Dean pulls up a chair, and we stare at the computer as I play the next song. “It’s his second album. I thought…I thought it was lost. Like, it was just gone. Deleted. Lost. But it’s not, it’s right here!”
“What are you going to do with it?” Dean asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Should I release it?”
“I think you could if you wanted,” He looks at me. “You’re in charge here.”
“What do you think Andy would have wanted?” I ask.
“I think he would want it out in the world. He recorded it for a reason.” Dean squeezes my knee. “But it’s up to you.”
It is up to me, and I know just what to do.