“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 comescloser, 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.”
