NOVEMBER 1st, 1994, SEATTLE, WA
THE SOUND OF a guitar being strummed was what woke Reagan up. She wasn't that deeply submerged in sleep, but the gentle sound drifting through the living room caused her to stir awake on the couch.
She lifted her head sleepily, blinking to clear her vision.
It was definitely a guitar that she was hearing. She couldn't rule out that she wasn't dreaming, but as she sat up under the tangled quilt that someone (Dave - who else?) had laid over her, she realized that the sound of the guitar being played was indeed real.
It was magical and terrifying, all at the same time.
When was the last time that she'd heard Dave play? She couldn't remember. Every now and then, Reagan had caught snatches of strings being plucked from across the house, but they never endured for more than a minute before the guitar they belonged to was slammed down.
She had begun to truly miss Dave's playing. As time had passed, the melody of his musical talents had started to weave its way into her dreams, making her sorely yearn for the times when it had lit her from within. It had been so long -- too long.
So unfair.
Reagan swung her legs quietly over the edge of the couch, standing up. Gracie was down for a nap, but that clearly had not deterred Dave from doing the thing he had so dreaded for the last several months. Like the flicker of lightning bug, a golden light was beginning to flutter to life inside the Grohl residence. With every note that gently rang out, the light grew stronger.
Reagan's heart thumped as she crept down the hallway, padding by each empty room with the cunning of an undercover spy. She knew by then that this opportunity called for her treating Dave like a skittish cat -- if he knew she was skulking up on him, he would quite literally drop everything and run.
She followed the guitar playing until finally, she was standing outside the door to the room that she and Dave had both abandoned. Inside of it was a graveyard of instruments. What had once been a place for them to both play, whether it was guitar or drums, had turned into a dusty, bleak museum of happier times. Even Reagan's hand-me-down drum set had been shoved into hibernation, taken apart piece by piece until she'd determined that it was effectively dismantled and forgotten.
Reagan curled her fingers around the door frame, the door slightly ajar in front of her. All she had to do was tilt her head further to the right and she would be able to see Dave through the crevice. Truthfully, that was all she wanted. To see him playing.
With her fingertip, Reagan nudged the door open wider. It parted with satisfying silence, giving her the chance to exhale with relief through her nose.
Dave was sitting on one of the creaky stools that usually found its home behind a drum set. His feet were propped up on a rung and in his lap was an old Fender, one that Reagan had seen him play countless times in the past. His back was to her, hunched over the instrument, but she envisioned his face with perfect clarity.
Reagan didn't know if the mere sound of his playing was what was making her so sentimental, but she was overwhelmed by the urge to run up behind Dave and throw her arms around him. It didn't help that he looked strangely frail sitting on the stool, his thin back stretched into a curve and his hair brushing almost past his shoulders. He'd started growing it out again.
A lump formed in Reagan's throat. The piece that Dave was playing was unrecognizable to her, but it was beautiful regardless. As far as she was concerned, he could have raked his fingernails up and down the guitar's neck, producing the kind of screeching feedback that would make most people cover their ears, and she would have been happy.
It was sheer joy to simply see him touching a guitar. Cradling it the way he had cradled Gracie as a newborn. Working out the kinks of a note and refining it so that it thrummed perfectly, hanging in the air with a cursory echo.
It was more than Reagan could have ever asked for.
The nightmare of losing Kurt had conjured up enough pain to last her a lifetime. The only thing harder than saying goodbye to him had been watching Dave forget so easily who he was.
He was still like the Dave she knew -- in some ways. After the first few painful weeks following Kurt's death, some of his natural charm had gradually resurfaced. He'd cracked jokes to her in the kitchen while they'd eaten breakfast, mimicked silly cartoon voices for Gracie, and looked at them both with so much love in his eyes that Reagan had to wonder how one human body could contain that much adoration.
To any outsider, Dave was fine. He was going through the motions, following the grieving process one step at a time with a wan smile on his face. He called his mother. He answered the phone and responded to Nirvana business when necessary. He cooked dinner. He loved his wife and daughter without a hint of hesitation.
But Reagan knew all about the scary darkness underneath his responsible exterior. She had watched, fighting back sobs, as he had lugged any stray instrument lying around their house into the forgotten music room. She hadn't said a word as a fine sheen of sweat had dampened his forehead with every guitar, piece of a drum set, pedal and amplifier that he'd dragged into the room and shut away.
She had tried to be understanding. If anything, Reagan had agreed at that time with Dave's decision to cloak their collection of musical instruments in dust.
Then he had stopped listening to music.
He hadn't truly stopped, but Reagan didn't miss it whenever he dialed down the volume to a favorite song of his in the car. It didn't go unnoticed when he shut off the stereo in their house when she happened to turn it on. The only form of music that he seemed to truly take pleasure in were the songs he continued to sing to Gracie at night.
But the final straw had arrived when Reagan had caught Dave taking out the trash one day. She had left their bedroom and found him halfway out the front door, his hand gripping a bulging Hefty bag that was straining against a series of sharp corners poking out of its plastic.
"What are you doing?" Reagan had demanded.
"Taking out the trash?" Dave had replied, confused.
That was when Reagan had snatched the garbage bag away from him, ripping open the top to find a collection of records amongst the trash. She had broken down.
"Why are you throwing these out?" she'd whispered shrilly, tears escaping her eyes as she'd shaken the bag at him.
Dave had blinked. "The . . . records?"
"Yes!" Reagan had hissed back. "These are your records, Dave. Your favorites! What the hell are you doing?"
Something in her voice had snapped him into awareness. Realizing what he'd done, Dave had gotten down on his knees and pulled out each individual record that he'd stuffed into the bag. Some of them he'd had to wipe clean of half-eaten food, but the mortified look in his eyes had assured Reagan that he'd regretted it.
It had been a moment of madness -- so unlike him that Reagan had almost thrown up, wondering if the person she loved had thoroughly and forever changed.
That had been the peak of his anguish. After that, Dave had mellowed considerably, but Reagan still hadn't seen him play. He had refused to give an explanation for it. To him, the reason was as plain as day.
As Dave played on, Reagan decided that she was allowed to approach him. She quietly crossed the room and snuck her arms around his waist, leaning her cheek on the top of his head. As she'd predicted, Dave stopped playing with a jolt. His guitar strings twanged in protest as he jerked his hand away from them, mid-strum.
"Jesus," he breathed. "You scared me."
"It sounds beautiful," Reagan murmured.
"What does?" An unmistakable dullness was laced in his voice.
"What you were playing. Obviously."
"It's not a 'what.' I don't know if it's anything."
"It doesn't have to be. Either way, I loved hearing it."
She kissed the side of his face just once. When he didn't wriggle away at that, Reagan kissed his face again, sidling her lips down his jawline and neck. Eventually Dave shifted out of her arms and set his guitar down, getting up abruptly from the stool.
Reagan bit the inside of her cheek, defeated. She should have known that their momentary reunion, threaded by the binding of music, would be temporary.
He looked uncomfortable as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his long cargos, his eyes sliding left and right in avoidance of Reagan's. It was as if he'd been caught doing something unforgivable rather than something he'd always done in front of her, since she had met him.
"Well, don't stop," Reagan said bluntly.
She was tired of encouraging his anti-music stance. Sure, he could dawdle on her radar by pretending to enjoy some vestige of their mutual passion, but Reagan was sick of seeing him drained. That's what he was -- drained. A core component of who he was had been mottled grim and gray and she couldn't imagine permitting it any longer.
Dave made a face and shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm done. I didn't even really feel like it. I was just messing around."
"Doesn't the phrase 'messing around' require some form of amateurity?"
"I'm not following you."
"I'm saying that whatever you were playing sounded pretty well-formed. And good."
The compliment had a reverse effect on Dave. His eyebrows scrunched and he puckered his mouth as if Reagan had punched him in the stomach.
"It's not anything," he said. "I haven't written anything in months."
"First of all, that's a lie," Reagan accused. "You definitely wrote that recently and I know because I haven't heard it before. Second, why are you acting like you've committed a crime? You were playing guitar. So what?"
She knew the answer he was thinking without needing to hear him say it. For Dave, it was borderline criminal to enjoy any kind of musical craft, at least as of recently. His unspoken strike against music and playing went layers deep into his new, warped mentality, and having been caught practicing a new song gave the undeniable truth away.
He missed it badly.
"Reags," he sighed, pushing both his hands back through his floppy hair. "I really don't want to have this conversation right now."
"I want to have it."
"I can see that. But it's not a big deal. I was bored as shit, you and Gracie were sleeping, so I came in here and tried to distract myself."
"Can't you just admit that you miss this part of your life? Can you stop pretending like it doesn't matter anymore?"
Reagan's questions shoved the crux of the issue straight into the spotlight. No more hiding. She had finally confronted Dave, speaking aloud the concerns that had taken root in her heart. She'd been gentle with his feelings for nearly the entire year, but she wasn't afraid to push him, not now when he needed it most.
"It doesn't matter," Dave said monotonously. "It's done."
"It's not done!" Reagan shot back. "You're like a fucking zombie. It kills me to see you trying so hard, acting like everything is going back to normal, when it's so obviously not normal."
"'Normal' is us being a family," Dave replied. His voice was tight, rigid in a way that didn't sound like him. "'Normal' is us getting through this goddamn nightmare. That's what normal is now. Waking up and getting through the day like everyone else."
"That's not a life."
"It is a life. It's my life and I chose it. You and Gracie are my 'normal' and that's what is important to me."
"Bullshit!"
Dave scoffed loudly and turned around, throwing his hands up. "How is that bullshit?" he demanded. "Jesus fuck, Reagan, that's an award-winning answer as far as I'm fucking concerned. What wife doesn't want to hear that?"
"I'm not just some wife. And you're not just some husband. You're not even just some guy. You're Dave, and 'normal' to Dave is playing music and loving music and breathing music"
"I know who I am. Thanks, though."
"I don't think you do." Reagan navigated around a bass drum laying on its side and another Fender guitar, walking up to Dave and laying one hand on his chest. She looked into his eyes.
"Reagan," he said, wrapping his hand over hers. "I . . . I can't." His voice gave out on the last word, muffling past his lips with audible pain.
"Yes you can. I know you can. It was always so easy for you. It always has been. It's your happiness."
"You and Gracie-,"
"I know, I know. Me and Gracie, I get it. You love us."
"Priority." Dave spoke the word through his teeth, refusing to complete an entire sentence.
"It's also your priority to be happy, you know. Completely happy, not just halfway. I don't care if you say that you're ninety-nine percent complete, because even I know that that missing one percent is the music. And you're not you without it. I don't even truly know you without it."
"What? Is that you saying that you're unhappy with me? That it's not the same relationship if I'm not playing?"
"Of course not."
"Christ. If you divorced me over something so dumb-,"
Reagan rolled her eyes and pressed her pointer finger against Dave's mouth, silencing him.
"Where are you getting 'divorce' from?" she inquired, huffing impatiently. "Don't be so dramatic. I love you, Dave. Nothing would ever make me not love you. Not even this."
"So what's the big deal?" Dave mumbled out against Reagan's finger.
"The big deal is that I care about you. More than I care about myself. And if anyone is going to get you back on track, I know it will be me."
Dave did not have a reply. Reagan caressed her fingertip across his cheekbone and down his chin.
"Be happy," she whispered. "Truly and totally happy. Do what you love."
"I wouldn't even know where to start."
"See, that's not true. You know exactly where to start." Reagan paused, feeling herself begin to edge into a forbidden territory. "What about Tom Petty?"
Automatically, Dave stepped back from her. Panic, and then frustration, raced across his face as he clasped both hands around the back of his head.
"I don't think that's a good idea," he said.
It was the same answer he'd given before. When Tom Petty had contacted Dave, asking him to be the drummer for the Heartbreakers during their upcoming Saturday Night Live performance, Dave had balked. He had sworn to Reagan that he wouldn't, casting the opportunity aside as if it were an ordinary ad in the paper, but Reagan had seen the turmoil in his decision.
She knew that a part of Dave, no matter how dismally small, was intrigued. It was a unique offer, a rare and huge one, and although Dave's guilt and fear over agreeing to it had been obvious, it was also evident that it was tempting. Tempting because not only was it Tom Petty, but it was also Tom Petty resurrecting Dave's greatest passion in the world.
"He wants you in his band," Reagan reminded him firmly. "He wants you to play for him."
"I don't want to be somebody's drummer for the rest of forever."
Dave's response coaxed a minor shock of anticipatory excitement out of Reagan.
"You don't have to be," she said eagerly. "You could do anything, be anything. Go solo. Or find a new band, or-,"
"Reags," Dave began, sounding like he was going to say more, though he faltered and shook his head. He turned his back to her and paced the room, walking towards the window.
"Come on," Reagan whispered. "I know you want this. You can't run from it forever. It's going to catch up to you."
"I figured."
Reagan almost exclaimed that Kurt would have certainly wanted Dave to keep going, but she snapped her mouth shut before she could even say it. The truth was that no one knew, herself included, what Kurt would have wanted. The idea that one of his dying wishes had been for Dave to keep playing sounded ridiculous, especially to Reagan, and she regretted even thinking it. Kurt's wants were a mystery, even in lieu of his death.
What truly mattered was what Dave wanted. Not what anyone else wanted -- not even what she wanted. For every claim of denial that he gave, there was always one flashing glimmer of yes in his eyes. Yes, he would always love music. Yes, he wanted to keep playing. Yes, he wanted to play for the rest of his life.
"I don't want to pressure you," Reagan murmured. "That's not what I'm trying to do. I just want you to know that it's okay. You know . . . to do this."
Dave picked up a discarded cymbal off the floor, holding it in both hands. He stared at it wordlessly before throwing it back down to the ground. It thumped on the carpet, neglecting to shimmer and clang as a cymbal normally would, but the gesture alone was enough to make Reagan flinch.
"Let's say I do want to keep doing this," Dave said, continuing to look away from Reagan. "How would that affect us?"
"It wouldn't affect us. At least not anymore than it already has for the past three years."
"But you don't want it to be how it is now?" Dave asked. He faced Reagan again, swallowing hard. "No shows. No touring. Just you, me and Gracie. It'd be . . . a normal life. We could be together."
Reagan offered him a small smile. "It's a little late for me to accept that version of normal. My normal is being married to a musician."
"What about Virginia?" Dave pressed quietly. "A house there . . ." He went to Reagan, grabbing her right hand dangling at her side. "Another baby," he whispered.
She leaned in and laid her cheek on his chest. "We can still have all of that. I know it's possible, even with you continuing to play."
"Are you sure?"
"Dave. I'm going to ask you something. Answer truthfully, please."
"O . . . kay?"
"What do you want? Without consideration as to what I want, though you already know that. What do you want?"
Dave considered her question silently. She felt his fingers press into the small of her back, gripping her tightly before releasing some of the pressure. His voice was small when he answered.
"To keep doing this," he admitted.
That one little confession shined as if though the sun had finally peered out from behind a haze of never-ending clouds.
"So do it," Reagan whispered. "You keep doing it. Nothing will change, things will just be better. It will be how it used to be, like in the beginning. And Gracie and I will always be waiting for you when you come home."
Dave sighed. "You're talking like I'm going on tour tomorrow."
"You probably could, if you really wanted to."
"Yeah. Me and my one man band. Great stuff."
"How about you start with the Heartbreakers for now and take it from there?"
"I don't know . . . Saturday Night Live . . . the last time I played that, I was . . ."
In Nirvana. With Krist. And Kurt. I know.
Just thinking the words resulted in a quick stab of pain, but Reagan inhaled it away for Dave's sake, mustering a playful smile onto her face.
"If you turn down Tom Petty, you'll be the most idiot drummer that ever lived," she insisted. "And I'll never forgive you. And my dad will never forgive you."
Dave chuckled huskily. "Richard won't forgive me?"
"He loves Tom Petty. What can I say?"
"I'm not promising anything," Dave warned, yanking Reagan closer by her hips until they were pressed chest to chest. "I don't know what your expectations are, but it's not like I'm going to be making a record in the next week."
"I don't have any expectations," Reagan shrugged. "Just that you try to be happy, whatever that may entail for you."
"You're slick," Dave said accusingly, narrowing his eyes. "All that shit about music being the missing piece in my life and now you're telling me to do whatever makes me happy?"
"Well, the music part was implied, in case you missed it."
Dave laughed and the sound of his laugh was tired. He hugged Reagan close, kissing the crown of her head and swaying her slightly in his arms.
"I'll get back to Tom," he assured her. "I'll do the gig. Even if it's going to be weird as shit."
"It won't be that weird. It will be fun, trust me. It'll give you the kick in the ass that you need."
"You're a good enough kick in the ass as it is. A pain in the ass, too."
"Will you play that song again for me?" Reagan asked, tilting her eyes up to his excitedly.
"It's shitty. I need to work on it."
"Which part?"
"All of it."
"So the singing part and the guitar part?"
Dave snorted. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"Look at you. It's like a whole new world is opening up. You're gonna' be out from behind the kit in no time and you'll be singing," Reagan grinned.
"Somehow, I really doubt that," Dave chuckled.