“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 tothe 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.
The chandelier, the windowpanes, the television, the guitar hanging on the wall. A bookcase where Mark has photos and his award displayed. There are several thick books on music theory, history, art and culture. I run my finger across some of the spines, wiping off a thin layer of dust off them. I hear Dean and Mark talking about putting on a fresh pot of coffee for everyone, but I’m drawn to this guitar hanging beside a tall bookcase.
It’s well crafted, with six strings, and a few nicks on the body. I run my fingertips across the strings and am reminded of the time Andy tried to teach me guitar. The guitar was always too big for me, and I could never get a good enough grip on it to play, so I gave it up rather quickly, much to Andy’s dismay. But still, he and I laughed at every foul, stray string I plucked. The intense flooding back of memories worsens my headache.
“It was his,” Mark says from behind me, holding a steaming cup of coffee, and I spy Dean sitting on the sofa. “It was the one he used on tour. You can take it down if you want.”
I remember this guitar; it was one he purchased for his birthday one year. He spent a few hours stringing and tuning it himself, and then he played me a John Denver song on it.
“No, no, I’ll leave it on the wall,” I say, brushing my hands off. “I was wondering what happened to it.” Of course, I had several of Andy’s guitars and various other instruments, but I nevercould pin down the location of this particular one. I had almost forgotten about it.
“I’m going to use it tonight, so I’ll take it down anyway,” Mark explains, reaching over my shoulder to unhook it from the wall, and he places it in a case already laid out on the table. I sit down next to Dean, and Mark sits down across from us in a matching plush armchair. “It’s been just over five years, right?”
“Yeah. The first of December was the anniversary,” I look down at my feet. “I can’t believe it’s been that long.” I say, even though I can believe it has been that long. It feels like so much has changed in the short time. I can’t believe that was even me.
“Me either. It feels like just yesterday that we were touring,” Mark says. “It’s still so fresh in my mind.”
“It must have been traumatic,” Dean sympathizes with Mark and quietly sips on his coffee. “For the both of you.”
“I watched it, you know.” Mark rubs his forehead, looking a little distressed.
I don’t want to rehash this like we did at the funeral. I hate thinking about it. I don’t want to tell Mark he can’t talk about this event that clearly affected him so terribly, just as terrible as it did me, but I know that if I hear the story again, I’ll get upset. I’m already stressed because my head is bothering me.
