Finding Abbey Road (14 page)

From last night:

Dad: We know you can take care of yourself. We just want to hear from you.

The texts from my father nearly crush me. He's writing to me so carefully, like his daughter is a drug addict, or suicidal, or a toddler at risk of another tantrum. It's obvious that he's holding so much back: anger, frustration, worry, and yet there is one thing his messages scream at me, and it is the one thing I realize I cannot take:

Guilt. I know I have my reasons for being here. Of
course I do. But my parents still have their hold on me. Part of me is still their little girl . . .

And suddenly all my walls crash down. I'm a puddle in moments, sobbing into my sleeve. It's not fair that I should have to make them so sad, just to be me. All I'm trying to do is find the larger truth of my life. Isn't it hard enough to believe in myself while I'm doing that? How am I also supposed to be responsible for the hopes and dreams of my parents?

I take a deep breath and type back, first to Randy:

Summer: We're good. Sorry we had to leave. But we're close! More soon, but don't worry. Actually stumbled into an in-store show today, so, woo hoo!

Then to my parents.

Summer: I am safe and doing fine. We are having an amazing time and finding what we need to find. I'll be back soon. I'm so sorry to disappoint you.

I hit send.

Slide the phone safely back into airplane mode.

Then I can breathe again.

Around me, it is twilight in London, the streets warming with light, people bustling about. I think about how I am in a foreign city, on an island, across a sea on a planet in space, and the great big world makes me smile and shiver at once, a feeling something like foolish wonder. A feeling that justifies maybe the worst part of how I feel about breaking my parents' hearts:

For this moment, and earlier today onstage, to be here, to be now:

It's worth it.

7:48 p.m.

“Hey.” Susan is waiting for me at Oxford Circus, a fifteen-minute walk from the hostel. “I got you a chai. Do you want to sit or walk?”

“Walk,” I say, still feeling restless, needing movement.

It's misting, heavy and windless and coating us in moments. We walk through crowds with collars upturned. The mist makes coronas around the streetlamps.

Susan lights a cigarette. “Don't ever start smoking these,” she says, and then waves it at me with a smile. “Want one?”

“That's okay,” I say.

“Good for you. So,” says Susan. “You said you wanted to talk. Tell me your situation.”

I give her the short and hopefully sane-sounding version: about college, about music. Two futures. Zero people happy about it.

“That sounds about right,” she says. “I can certainly relate. For me, it was a band called the Go Static. I dropped out of high school my senior year to follow them on the road. I didn't want to miss a show, but I also wanted to convince them that they needed
me
to make it big. My friends called me a groupie, but they didn't get it. They didn't feel
the way I did when I heard that band. Neither did my parents.”

“I can certainly relate to all that,” I say. “So your parents weren't happy?”

Susan laughs. “They were furious. My dad kicked me out of the house. I had to bunk in with my aunt and uncle for almost a year before I could afford to rent a room in a flat with three other ladies. Turned out my dad had been saving up for me to go to university. A little bit of every paycheck since the day I was born. He told me if I didn't finish secondary school that year, he'd transfer all the savings to my younger brother. That I'd never get another chance.”

“Jeez. That's harsh. What did you do?”

Susan shrugs. “My dad never got it. That
was
my chance. I felt so sure. Besides, I'd never known he was saving for me. It was good of him to do, but it wasn't my choice. He had his dreams for me, and I had mine. I think you know a little something about this.”

“Maybe a little. And then you worked for Apple Records?”

“Not at first,” says Susan. “I was an unpaid assistant for a couple years, while working the late shift at a pub. They finally started to notice my work, and I got to work more closely with bands, manage tours. Those were amazing years. I'd never trade them.”

“So what do you do now?”

“Well, I have the flats to manage and the record store
to run. The store also has a recording studio that I oversee. I produce the occasional band when I have time. And I still consult for Apple now and then when they need someone with an eye for how to build an artist. It's not the days of dressing right and hurrying around the office, but it still keeps me connected to the world, to people's ears. Now, tell me about you.”

I hesitate, like I always do when it comes to talking about myself to another adult. But I remind myself that Susan is not Carlson Squared. She's not even Andre from Stanford. She's someone who already seems to understand more about me than anyone else except maybe Caleb.

“My parents just want what they think is best for me,” I say. “They want me to go to college, to have a real career. And honestly, why don't I want that? Like, that's the part that sometimes I cannot figure out.

“They're actually sorta fine with music but they just can't deal with me not doing things the way you're supposed to. High school, college, the usual. I'll probably get in. And part of me wants to go, too. It's just . . . these things are happening
now
. Dangerheart just got signed, we're close to finding Eli, and it's all so exciting. My parents say there will be plenty of time in my twenties, but . . . I was feeling the other day like my whole life is already planned out and I know that's kind of ridiculous but sometimes it can feel that way.”

We cross a busy intersection, and now Kensington
Gardens whispers darkly beside us: footsteps of walking couples, wheel turns of strollers, the flutter of fairy wings.

“A lot of people ask me if I wish I'd gone to university instead,” says Susan.

“Do you?”

“Never for a minute. I mean, I'm sure something good would have happened, we all have multiple lives we could live, and many of them would make you happy. I figure there's really no one thing you're
supposed
to do, except the one thing that's truest to what you love. Just because something is expected, what
everybody
does, doesn't mean it's what you have to do. Here's an idea: Don't do the expected thing. Do
your
thing.”

“That's what I feel like doing. But it's not going to be easy.”

“It certainly won't. But I doubt your parents are as draconian as my father was. It's a different world now. Odds are, they'll get over it, and still support you even if you don't do exactly what they were hoping.”

Hearing her words fills me with a nervous excitement, but I'm also getting overwhelmed by all the thoughts. “I probably just need to go home and take my punishment for this trip, first.”

“Sure. Your parents are a little bit right, too, you know. About the future. I mean, here's the thing: in ten years, you're going to be okay. I know that about you, Summer, knew it after five minutes. But that cuts both ways. While
you might be fine and have all the time in the world as an adult, you'll never be eighteen and have the chance to go off and be a freshman in college again. And you'll never be eighteen and be a part of a band that could go places. Both are adventures perfect for you, right now. Either one can happen. And, odds are, either one could happen again, in a not exact, but similar way, later on. In your twenties, your thirties. Hell, these days, in your forties or even fifties. What you have to do is decide which path feels most vital right now, in this moment, and follow that. It's probably hard, because I bet inside, your heart is screaming about both things.”

“It's been doing a lot of screaming.”

“Well, that's a good sign,” says Susan. She makes a small salute with her cigarette before stamping it out on the concrete. Then she puts her hands in her pockets and we walk for a minute without speaking.

“So which do I do?” I ask.

Susan puts her arm around me and smiles. “I can't wait to find out.”

8:19 p.m.

“We figured out where to meet Eli,” I say to Susan. We're leaving the leafy border of the gardens, now making our way toward Bush Hall. I explain how we unraveled the details of the note, and how Abbey Road is our goal.

Susan gets out her phone. “I'm friends with the scheduling manager,” she says while typing. “One o'clock is a pretty busy time of day at Abbey Road. I would assume he wants to meet you inside, as outside it will be mobbed with tourists, everyone taking pictures. I doubt Eli would want to put himself in the range of so many cameras.” She taps a few more times. “I'm asking her if she can send me the schedule.”

“We were thinking that was maybe just a starting point,” I say. “And then he'll want to take us somewhere else.” But I'm deflating, because what she's saying makes sense.

A little further into our walk, the schedule arrives. “All the studios will be booked solid,” Susan reports. “Outside or inside, that's a lot of faces who could recognize Eli. It just doesn't sound like him. He's been so careful. . . .”

“It seems like what he meant, though.” I pull the record sleeve out of my pocket.

“
See you there, just like the Piper
. . . ,” says Susan, reading over my shoulder.

“Yeah, the album Pink Floyd recorded at Abbey Road.”

“Is it possible,” Susan wonders, “that he meant be like the actual Piper in the title? As in . . .”

Suddenly I see it, too. “
Be at the gates of dawn.
”

“He might mean . . . ,” says Susan.

“One a.m.,” I say, “not one p.m.”

“That would seem like a smarter plan to me on every possible level.”

I check my watch. “Okay, wow. That's a lot sooner than we planned.” My heart races. We should have time, but I still quicken my pace.

I can tell we're getting close to Bush Hall by the milling groups of people along the street.

A block before we arrive, Susan stops. “This is where I get off for the evening.”

“You don't want to see the show?” I ask.

“I do,” says Susan, “I just have too much work to catch up on. Plus, the later nightclub crowd can make me feel a little bit old. Come here. . . .”

She pulls me into a tight hug. Her coat is scratchy and damp. She smells like cigarettes. Somehow that is all so comforting.

“You have faith in what you truly feel inside, Summer,” Susan says in my ear. “And if you ever need another walk-and-talk, you just give me a call, time zones be damned.”

I pull back and find myself tearing up. “Thanks. Do you want us to let you know what happens tonight?”

“Sometime later,” says Susan, pulling away. “When there aren't eyes on us.”

“Okay. And thank you, Susan, for everything.”

“You bet.” She smiles and leaves. I watch her go for a moment, wiping my eyes, and then turn and head into the club.

I show my ID, I'm on the list, and in a minute I'm in. It's an excellent room. Ornately decorated with large
mirrors along the walls, elegant chandeliers, and then a black-and-white tiled floor. Like something out of Alice in Wonderland, all lit in pinks and reds and with a band currently blaring from the stage. They play triumphant rock, and the front half of the floor is packed.

Most of the crowd is older, and I shake off a feeling of being exposed, as if everyone can somehow tell that I'm young and American and a deep disappointment to my parents.

Luckily I find Caleb down the far side of the room, leaning against the wall. He's got his hands in his pockets, his hair falling half in his face. He's watching the show, but something about his face makes me think he's actually lost in thought. Somehow, though, he senses me and he looks up and his eyes zero in. He smiles, just a little one that says “hey,” but I can see that my presence has brought him back from wherever he was, lit him up inside, and I feel that happening inside me, too. He's also wearing a T-shirt that fits him great and damn, we need some alone time.

“How was your secret rendezvous!” he shouts into my ear when I hug him.

“Really cool! Just what I needed! You having a good time?”

“This band is loud!”

“Yes!”

Caleb shares his Coke with me, and we watch until the set break. We could be playing adult and having pints, but I
can tell Caleb wants to be totally there.

“Poor Skeletons are up next,” says Caleb. “We saw their soundcheck. They have full drums and bassist for tonight so it's a bigger sound. Pretty cool.” He looks around the club. “We've got to play a room like this someday.”

“Definitely.” I scan the groups nearby. “Where's Val?”

“She was going to go see about getting a pint.” Before I can respond he says, “And she informed me that she could control herself and that I had permission to come find her and drag her back if she was gone more than fifteen minutes.”

I nod, always fighting that first, skeptical impulse. “We figured something out about Eli's note,” I say, and explain the likely time change.

“Whoa,” says Caleb. “So we probably shouldn't go to the after party that Dale invited us to.”

“If we do we should keep a double-eye on Val,” I say, “and stay away from the brownies.”

“Yeah, no brownies.”

Onstage, the Poor Skeletons are starting to set up.

“I'm going to use the bathroom,” I say. “Be right back.”

We kiss and I push my way through the crowd. The line for the bathroom takes ten minutes, and by the time I've gotten out of there, the Poor Skeletons have already started. The crowd on the main floor has grown, so I am threading and pushing my way through them. I'm working my way across in zigzags. It's when I make a wide move around a
tightly packed group that my eye strays toward the bar.