I start with the A’s and assemble a stack of albums that could easily be labeled “Malcolm and Quinn: The Greatest Hits.” AC/DC, The Beatles, The White Stripes, The Sundays, and the song Malcolm played during his sound check at Keegan’s—“I’ll Be You” by The Replacements. I’m in the mood to throw salt in my wounds before I lick them. In my quest to torture myself, I discover Amy Winehouse, her beautifully jazzy voice, genius lyrics, musical arrangements that sound like ’50s music. She’s like Adele with no hope. I work my way through my set list of pain, playing along when I can and making shit up when I can’t. I just want to hit hard and play loud. Oddly, Reggie sleeps through most of it.
When I’m done, I toss my sticks on top of my crappy electronic drums and collapse beside Reggie on the couch. He readjusts himself, turning in circles, before curling up at my feet and tucking his nose against his belly.
I turn on the TV and spend the next twenty minutes watching an infomercial about a mega juicer. I have to say, these people almost, almost, have me convinced that the green sludge they’re chugging down tastes delicious.
“Ugh, what the hell am I doing, Reggie?” He opens his working eye, then lets it fall closed again.
Time passes by so slowly, each second punctuated by the ticking brass clock on the wall. It’s hard to keep my mind from imagining what’s going on in the studio without me while simultaneously fighting the urge to check up on Malcolm. I need to know if he’s okay, but don’t want to risk inviting another comparison to his mother.
Then there’s the matter of really, really wanting to have a say in the final mix of the songs. But to do that, I have to listen to them. But where? The speaker on my laptop is crappy, and Auntsie, the vinyl queen, doesn’t own a CD player. I could take Reggie for a ride in the car; maybe even drive over the bridge to Keegan’s and get a second listen of the songs there. But that might be too much for Reggie. He didn’t do so well the last time he was in a car, and I don’t want to lock him in his crate and leave him alone. Not on his first day here.
That’s when I remember there’s another option, one that’s a lot closer to home. I shuffle my feet gently and rouse the little guy.
“Come on, Reggie. Shake the sleep off those paws. We’re taking a walk.”
THIRTY-THREE
Aaron, my boss at the Ben Franklin, is surprised when he looks up and sees me standing there with a dog in one hand and a CD in the other.
“Quinn! Is that a dog?”
Why do people keep asking that? Reggie barks as if to say, What do you think, Einstein?
Aaron is in his “office,” a converted supply closet adjacent to the beach chair aisle, writing out checks.
“This is Reggie. We adopted him this morning, and I didn’t want to leave him home alone.”
Aaron understands. He treats his ninety-pound Rottweiler like a furry child.
He takes a clipboard off the wall and starts flipping through pages.
“Are you on the schedule today?”
I laugh because he thinks I showed up to work with a dog, and he’s still okay with it. I love this place.
“Oh no, I’m not working today. I’m here to ask a favor.” I show him the CD and explain. Five minutes later, Reggie and I are sitting in side-by-side beach chairs in the back of the store, listening as Malcolm’s songs play on the store sound system. At my request, the music is turned up louder than the store’s usual summer play mix of Jack Johnson, Sinatra, The Beach Boys, and Bob Marley.
I recline in my chair like I’m sunning myself and close my eyes, trying to take in the songs as a whole, but I’m also making mental notes about the tracks I want to listen to again and things that need to change—the guitar levels on track two, the vocals on tracks one and two, the guitar on track three. Track four’s also too “bright” with too much high end, not enough bass. When the opening chords of track five, “That Last Night,” begin to play, I scoop up Reggie and sit him in my lap. I need a paw to hold. Tourists pass by clutching souvenir T-shirts and mugs, two kids twirl the postcard rack, and Aaron helps a customer get a boogie board down from the top shelf. All of this goes on around me while the darkest parts of my soul pour out of the overhead speakers without causing so much as a moment’s interruption in this ordinary summer day.
At home, I make sure all my notes are in order before calling Ricky.
“Quinn Gallo!” he yells when he hears my voice. “We’ve been waiting on you, girl. Here, let me put you on speaker.”
Great. So much for my plan to ask him not to mention it’s me.
“Hey y’all, say ‘hey’ to Quinn,” Ricky says, sounding farther away now that he’s on speaker.
In the background, I hear Liam say, “Hey, Q,” and Kiki say, “Hey, Quinny!” I think I hear another male voice say my name, but I’m not sure if it’s Malcolm or Travis.
“Tell us what you got, Quinn,” Ricky says.
I give them my notes for changes, track by track, and I’m pleased when I hear Ricky acknowledging what I’m saying, and in many cases, validating my choices and opinions. Thankfully, when I’m finished, he takes me off speakerphone.
“You have a great ear, girl,” he says. “You ever think about doing this for a livin’?”
I’ve never thought about doing anything for a living.
“Me? A recording engineer?”
“Hells yeah,” Ricky says. “I don’t exactly see you as a touring musician, but I think you’d be amazing behind the scenes. Think about it. After this project wraps up, I’d be happy to talk your ear off about this crazy business.”
It’s hard to picture adult Quinn, arriving at work every day, being in charge of something big like producing an album. And yet, that’s what I am, right? An adult. Legally, at least. Next month, when I turn nineteen, I’ll have been one for a whole year.
“Wow, Ricky. Thank you. So I can call you?”
“Anytime, Quinn Gallo. Anytime. You’ve got my card.”
According to Ricky, a professional drummer I am not. I kind of knew that. But I have a bright future in sound. Ha! Yeah, right. I’d like to say I’m going to get on that, but after I hang up, all I can think about is Malcolm. Was he in the room when I called? Did he leave when he heard my voice? Is he angry? I should have handled the situation better. He didn’t know the narcotic prescribed to ease the pain in his hand would also ease the pain in his life—that he’d become addicted. I caught Malcolm having a weak moment, like that time he showed up drunk on the boardwalk. Only this time instead of trying to help, I pounced on him. Then I followed that by telling him to find another drummer. Why?
Because he pushed my love away.
That’s it, isn’t it? And the worst part is, I let him.
Around ten that night, Auntsie finds me pretty much how she left me: on the couch. Reggie is asleep at my feet and the Weather Channel is on, looping that same fragment of a tune over and over again. My “drums,” two mugs, the albums I failed to reshelve, and an empty box of cereal—the remains of my lunch and dinner—are on the coffee table, along with the two books from Auntsie’s reading list that I opened, then abandoned (To the Lighthouse and Written on the Body).
Auntsie takes in the mess. “Amy Winehouse? Oh boy. I’d ask how your day went, but that says it all right there,” she says.
“‘Tears Dry on Their Own’ and ‘Addicted’ really speak to me,” I say. I’ve been listening to “Wake up Alone” too, but I don’t want to bring up my absent nights.
Auntsie tickles Reggie between the ears and rouses him. He didn’t notice her come in, but considering he was able to sleep through my drumming, I’m not surprised. It’s possible “deafness” can be added to his list of conditions.
He gets all excited when he sees Auntsie. He leaps from the couch and dances on his hind legs in front of her, pawing at her knees. His yap sounds like he’s saying, “Hello, hello, hello.” Auntsie bend
s down and picks him up. Holding him at arm’s length, she looks him in the eye.
“Seems like someone has made himself right at home.” She turns to me. “Not sure how we’ll get him in the crate tonight.”
“I miss my drums,” I say, ignoring her comment about Reggie and his crate.
“Stop trying to change the subject. You’ve already turned our shelter dog into a pampered couch potato.” With Reggie tucked in the crook of one arm, Auntsie motions for me to move my feet and sits down. Her eyes pan from my electronic kit to the space briefly inhabited by the real deal.
“Technically, the drums were never yours, Quinn baby. You were borrowing them. And they never spent much time here anyway.”
I nod, accepting my dose of tough love, then grab a pillow and hug it to my chest. “If they’d been my drums, they would have been the green sparkle kind anyway. Green sparkle drums are awesome.”
Auntsie pats my legs. “I’ll give you one more day of sad songs and wallowing. After that, it’s time to take the advice of Robert Frost.”
Do I even want to ask? I don’t have to. Auntsie’s already giving advice from the great American poet.
“Get up. Make your bed. And make up your mind about what kind of day it’s going to be.”
Leave it to some dead laureate to put a crimp in my plan to pursue glory on the pages of the Guinness Book of World Records.
“You never got to play cowbell,” I lament. “Remember? Malcolm said you could play cowbell.”
Auntsie squints at me. “Are we having the same conversation here? Have you been drinking?”
“What?! No.” I haven’t touched alcohol since my ill-fated evening with Mr. G. Sheesh. She was the one who wanted to play cowbell.
She looks at me sideways. “Just checking. Why don’t you walk Reggie? I’ll bring his crate up to your room, though I have the feeling it will go unused.”
“My room?”
“Yep. I’ve got to be at work early tomorrow. I’ll leave the matter of how and where he sleeps to you. Plus, you look like you could use the company.”
“How’s Mom?” I ask as I push myself off the couch and search for Reggie’s retractable leash. Auntsie stayed at my mom’s house and had dinner with Mom and Evie.
“She’s good. Looking forward to spending some time down here next week. Evie told her all about the recording session.”
“She did? What did Mom say?” I bend down and hook Reggie’s leash to his harness, trying to act like I don’t care about Auntsie’s answer.
“She was genuinely interested in the whole process. It was hard not to be. Evie was still riding a high.”
Of course. I’m sure it was Evie’s role in the process, not mine, that had her so intrigued. Immediately, I feel guilty for thinking that way. I can’t blame Mom if Evie’s her favorite. My straight-arrow sister has never given Mom one day’s trouble. But me? I’m not so easy to love, I get that, but I have tried super hard to not give Mom an ulcer or more gray hairs. After Lynn’s accident, and again after the scandal with my teacher, I attempted to tiptoe through life, fade into the background, not get in Mom’s way. But I did it with about as much grace as a giraffe on ice skates.
Worse though, I caused Mom to lose the friend she had in Lynn’s mom. They used to take walks together, were in the same book club, took turns driving Lynn and I places. After the accident, they didn’t have daughters the same age anymore. Lynn’s family moved a few towns away the year after she died, and even though I felt guilty about it—because I’d caused that too, hadn’t I?—I was relieved. I’d kept waiting in silent terror for them to ask me what really happened that day. If someone had asked, I would have told him or her that it was my bad idea to bike Mount Doom. But after they moved, I realized no one ever would. I shouldn’t have gotten off that easy.
It’s time to forgive yourself, Malcolm’s text said. I honestly don’t think I ever will, but maybe I should start by saying I’m sorry.
“I should call Mom tomorrow,” I say.
“I know she’d love to hear from you.”
In the years since Lynn’s death, I’ve accepted the life I’ve been dealt, welcoming it as a silent atonement for what I did. But I haven’t faced it, have I? I’ve never owned it. Never sat among support group members and announced my sins like Malcolm did. That moment in Keegan’s parking lot with Malcolm when I blurted out what I’d done, it was like breaking the airtight seal on the grief I’ve carried around with me all this time. And I’ve let some of the secrets and hurt spill out, but now it’s time to really own it.
I’m surprised when Auntsie speaks again. I’d forgotten she was here.
“I have the day off Wednesday. We should do something together. Something fun.”
“I want to visit the cemetery,” I say.
Auntsie nods slowly. “Okaaay. I was thinking Six Flags or a day trip to New York, but that works too.”
I’m not quite ready for fun, but I’m getting there.
THIRTY-FOUR
It snowed on the morning they buried Lynn, big cotton-like flakes that melted as soon as they hit the ground, like the earth was swallowing all its beauty.
Winter took its last gasp that day. Much like summer is doing now. August’s heavy breath presses down on Auntsie and I, making me wish I wore a hat and sunscreen. Silently, we make our way to Lynn’s grave while the crickets, cicadas, and katydids sing a discordant song, their volume peaking with urgency every few seconds before it repeats all over again. Reggie trots beside us as we make our way between the rows of headstones, his jaunty steps offering a lightness to our heavy ones. He seems content to be surrounded by so much grass.
“You sure you don’t want to do this alone?” Auntsie says. “I can wait in the car.”
“I’m sure I can’t do this alone.”
I spent yesterday prepping to take the one-hour drive to the place where I said my final goodbye to Lynn three years ago. Or more like the place I was supposed to say my final goodbye. I don’t recall uttering a single word that day. Except for the snow, I don’t remember much. I’m trying to remember it now, but I can’t. What color was the coffin? Did I place a flower on the grave? Mostly I remember not wanting to be seen. As if all it would take was one glance for everyone to realize what I’d done.
In my hands I carry a bouquet of sunflowers. Tucked between the stems are a copy of the rough mix of “That Last Night” and a letter I wrote to Lynn. When we find the spot, I bend down and lay the bouquet in the shadow created by the stone angel who sits atop the headstone with her open wings and downcast eyes, keeping watch over my best friend.
I know Lynn will never read the letter, which is five pages, single-spaced. But I needed a place to put all my thoughts, and I want her to have them. I have hopes that somehow, wherever she is, she heard the song on Sunday and knew it was meant for her. Still, I’m not leaving that second part to chance. I reach into my bag and pull out a portable speaker, then cue up the song on my phone while Auntsie spreads a blanket. She barely has a chance to straighten it before Reggie hurls himself into the middle. Silly little dog. Auntsie and I sit on either side of him. He waits for us to get comfortable then he lays his chin on Auntsie’s knee.
“Ready?” I pose the question more to myself than Auntsie.
“Light it up,” she says, imitating Ricky. I get the feeling that the Ricky imitations are going to last around our house.
I stare at Lynn’s headstone, at the dates bookending her too-short time on earth. I consider announcing myself, letting her know I’m here. But in the end, I do the only thing that seems to make any sense and hit Play.
When the song is over, Auntsie grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. I can’t look at her.
“Lynn died because of me.” I say those words with conviction and ownership.
“What?! No she didn’t, Quinn baby. She was hit by a car. It was an accid
ent.”
“An accident I caused. I raced across the intersection that day. She was following me. I made her think it was safe, and she trusted me. It’s my fault she’s gone.”
“Nobody blames you. It could have easily been you.”
“It should have been me. I wish it had been me. I made a big mistake, and Lynn paid for it.”
I’m twisting my bracelet back and forth, making my wrist red. Auntsie puts her hand on top of mine to still it.
“Don’t, Quinn. Just don’t. After the accident…we thought we were going to lose you too. You were traumatized and retreated so far into yourself… No one knew how to reach you. It was like all the light was gone from your eyes. But I had no idea you blamed yourself.”
“Everyone blamed me.”
“Aww, Quinn. You’re wrong. So wrong. It’s time to forgive yourself.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“I get that. I totally do. But until you forgive yourself, you won’t love yourself.”
Love myself? I can barely peacefully coexist with myself.
I’m shaking my head. “I can’t.”
“You have to. If you don’t decide you’re worth every good thing this world has to offer, you’re going to stay stuck. Believe me, I know all about Stucksville. I lived there for quite a while.”
“When did you finally blow out of that town?”
Auntsie scoops up Reggie and kisses him on the head. “About a week ago. Don’t wait as long as me.”
THIRTY-FIVE
On our way home from North Jersey and the cemetery, Auntsie makes a detour off the Garden State Parkway.
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