“I see that.”
“Follow me.”
Dean follows me through the rest of the house: the living room, the back deck, the “study” which is really just a massive storage closet, and last of all, the bedroom.
“Do you want to see the studio?” I ask.
“What’s the studio?”
“Get your jacket.” I lead Dean outside, down the back porch and through the unshoveled snow. “It might be a little dusty in here, sorry.” I crack open the door to what used to be a garage, and then was converted into Andy’s recording studio. I flip on an industrial light switch, and the small room is illuminated.
“So this is the studio.” Dean takes a look around. There’s a small, round table in the center of the room, and a makeshift recording booth in the back. Several of Andy’s instruments are displayed here—it was my shrine to him. Guitars hang on the wall, a drum set is in the corner and a cello stands in the other.
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 MADELINEhandwritten 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.”
