“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 justdidn’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!”
