Lauren
It’s around 4 PM, and I’m standing at the address Michael gave me for the recording studio near Spaulding Square. It looks like a two-level concrete warehouse from the outside. The only indication that I reached the right place is the Carrot Top Records logo sprayed on the door in graffiti.
On the inside, everything is decorated with seventies-style furniture in bright colors and slightly psychedelic patterns, framed gold and platinum records produced within these walls by local artists hanging proudly alongside photos of said artists in live shows and recording sessions. But the reception desk is empty.
I stop next to a photo of Michael holding an acoustic guitar and hunched over sheet music, deep in thought with a pencil in his hand. His jaw is smooth, hair falling over his face, and he seems so young. His eyes are focused and full of that intensity that has my heart fluttering every time, but at the same time, there’s something different about his demeanor, as if it’s lighter. Looking at the date, I realize why. This photo was taken a few weeks before Naomi was murdered.
“Can I help you?” A soft but stern voice startles me out of my musings. I turn to find a woman in her late fifties peering at me from the right-side corridor.
“Hi, I’m Lauren Banks.” Her face lights up at the mention of my name, and she approaches me with a hurried step.
“I am so happy to finally meet you.” She takes my hand and shakes it with warmth. “I’m Kathy, the LA branch manager. Both Trista and Mikey have told me so much about you.”
“Did Trista tell you that I steal all her food?” I ask dryly, and Kathy laughs, turning to look at the photo I was inspecting. “He was a handsome young fellow, even back then.”
“Have you been with Carrot Top long?” I ask with interest.
“From the very start, back in Boston. My daughter moved here with her family, and since they were already planning on opening the LA studio, Mikey and Davey offered me the job so I could be closer to her.” Her voice is full of fondness as she tells her story, sorrow invading her eyes when her gaze is drawn back to the photo I was looking at. “I took that photo, you know.”
“It’s a great photo.”
“It was the last one of Mikey before…” She trails off, probably not sure how much I know and what she’s allowed to say.
“Naomi?” I finish for her, and she smiles sadly.
“He disappeared for a while, and when he came back, he was different.” She shakes her head with a heavy sigh.
“How could he not be?” I ask with a whisper.
“I’ve been seeing more of that boy in the past two weeks, though.” Kathy points at the photo and smiles at me knowingly. “Especially this morning. I can’t remember the last time he walked in here humming.” A rush of heat climbs to my cheeks because I’m pretty sure the humming was due to ouryogaexercise before I left for work, and Kathy laughs, patting my arm. “He’s in the crypt. It’s that last room.” She points to the corridor to the left.
The crypt?
I shake off the bewilderment and smile at Kathy. “Is he in there with Rig Romero? I don’t want to interrupt.”
“No, they took a couple of hours break,” Kathy assures me. “They were making good pace, so Rig went home to run some errands and fetch a song he wanted to show Michael. He should be back soon, though.”
“Okay, thank you.”
Wandering down the hallway, I inspect all the photos, recognizing some of the artists in them, smiling when I reach the one someone took at the music awards of Michael, David, Trista, and their mom. The date would indicate Emily was at the final stretch of her pregnancy, which explains why she isn’t there as well.
My smile falters when I reach the black and white photo of Carrot Top’s grand opening. There are only a handful of people. Some, like Trista and Brian, I’ve met, some I recognize from photos, and I can safely assume the other subjects are the rest of the clan, if only by headcount. And then there’s a girl, dark hair in a loose ponytail and bright eyes gazing adoringly at Michael, who’s winking at her as he and David cut the ribbon together.
I can imagine the scene so vividly, how after the silky fabric fell, everyone cheered, and Michael turned to her with that boyish grin that says he doesn’t have a care in the world, which I guess he didn’t back then, before swooping her into his arms and whispering into her ear words about their forever.
A tear escapes the corner of my eye, my entire body aching for that boy and that girl and how their story ended.
Composing myself, I go to the door Kathy directed me to and walk in, which doesn’t get me any closer to figuring out why the room would be called a crypt.
Two computer screens and a laptop are sitting on a large shelf over a controller panel and a bunch of other equipment which I can’t name, and behind the glass, I see Michael sitting on a high stool, guitar in his lap, staring at the music stand before him.
He mumbles something to himself, brow furrowed as he leans forward and scribbles on the sheet music, then sits back to look at what he did before making a semi-satisfied expression and placing his fingers on the strings of his guitar and strumming. And when he inhales in preparation, I realize he’s about to sing the song he just wrote, a moment he hadn’t intended to share considering he doesn’t know I’m here.
But I can’t move away. Michael’s voice is deep and full of pain, turning hoarse and gruff with emotion at certain peaks of the song, his words raw and vulnerable.
“When I grow up
I want to forget