Dead Man's Playlist: Chapter 3

The motel came back to her in pieces.

Not like a dream. more like a smell - stale smoke, plastic coffee lids, damp towels. A burned-out lightbulb flickering above a vending machine humming in a lonely hallway.

After 'Fast Car' ended, Junie sat for what felt like an hour, record spinning in silence, her father's voice echoing like a skipped groove in her memory. They'd almost left. That was real. The song proved it. But why had they come back? Why hadn't she known?

She spent the next morning in the campus library, diving into old records - not vinyl this time, but public records, newspaper archives, anything she could access. She found their old address in a rental registry from 2005. A property transfer dated two weeks after the motel trip. Her mother had taken her off the lease.

It meant something. She wasn't sure what yet. By 10 AM, Junie was dialing Arizona. This time, her mother picked up.

"Junie?" The voice was cautious, like someone answering the phone after a bad dream.

"Hey, Mom," Junie said, careful.

"Everything okay?" A long pause.

"I don't know," she ventured. They sat in silence for a beat. Then Junie took a breath and jumped in. "Did we almost move to California?" The question landed like a rock in a still pond. Silence rippled out.

"...Where did that come from?" her mother asked, slow and flat.

"Just answer, please." Another pause. Then, quietly,

"Yes." Junie blinked. She'd expected denial. Deflection. Even vitriol. Anything but confirmation.

"Why?" She could hear her mother sighing now.

"It wasn't working. Your dad...we thought maybe a change would fix it. New place, new start. You don't remember?"

"I remember the motel." That hung in the air. "Why didn't we go?" Junie asked. A long exhale on the other side of the line.

"Because change doesn't fix what's broken Junie. If you're the one that's cracked, you can't just fix it. I thought I could outrun it. I couldn't. And he..." She trailed off. "He gave up," she said finally. "He always did."

Junie's chest tightened. "He said he wanted to keep going."

"Well," her mother snapped, "that's easy to say when you're already halfway out the door." Junie didn't respond. Her mother softened, "Why are you asking about this now?"

"He left me records. I've been listening to them." Another silence.

"...He left you those, huh?"

"You knew?"

"he mentioned it. Once." Junie's fingers dug into the edge of the table.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because. I didn't want him living in your head the way he lived in mind. Rattling around in there causing a ruckus. And because it's none of your business." Junie opened her mouth. Closed it. "You want the truth?" her mother asked. "Here it is, sweetheart. Your father loved his world. He loved his music more than people. More than me. Sometimes more than you. It was his fantasy. His escape from himself and from us. You go ahead and listen to those records, you'll hear a lot of pretty words, and maybe some of them are true. But don't forget who he was when the music stopped. Don't forget who left."

Click. She hung up.

-

Junie didn't cry. She stood in the kitchen, starting at her reflection in the microwave door, and felt something colder than grief settle behind her ribs. She went to the crate. Pulled out Volume IV.

She didn't care what it said. She needed something, anything, that could cut through the fog her mother had left in her wake. The sleeve was black, like the others. The label said:

TRACK 4 - Miles Davis, 'Blue in Green,' - For the things we bury.

She flipped it over. No additional notes. She put the record on the player and lowered the needle. The hiss came first. Then the trumpet, smooth and mournful, painting the room in shades of blue. Her father's voice followed, softer than before.

"I almost didn't record this one. But you deserve the whole picture. Not just the good vinyl." Junie sat down on the rug, knees to her chest. "Your mom and I were different kinds of broken. She needed noise to drown things out. I needed silence to think. That motel - God, that was the loudest silence I've ever heard. You were asleep on the bed. She was sitting by the door with her head in her hands. I was trying to figure out what part of me had gone numb." A long breath.

"We came back because we didn't know how to leave." The trumpet wept softly behind his words. "She was right about one thing, though. I gave up. I always gave up." Junie closed her eyes. "But I never gave up on you. Not once. I just didn't know how to stay without making everything worse." The record ended. She sat in stillness for a long time. Then she remembered the manila envelope.

She hadn't opened it yet. The one the neighbor, Ralph, had given her. "Don't open until Volume IV," he'd said. And this was Volume IV. Her hands trembled as she peeled it open. Inside, a photograph, a folded letter and a pressed yellow flower.

The photograph was old. Her father, much younger, stood on the porch of a cabin near a lake. He wore a flannel shirt, holding a fishing pole and a paper cup of coffee. The smile on his face was unguarded. Happy. the letter was handwritten.

Junie

If you're reading this, you made it to the hard part. Good.

There's more ahead. But first, I want you to know something no one else knows. The cabin in the photo, it's real. Northern California. I bought it in '96. Kept it quiet. Never told your mother. I went there sometimes, when things got too loud.

I always meant to take you. If you want to go, the address is on the back of the photo. You might find something there I never had the guts to say out loud. Or you might just find quiet. Either way, it's yours now. Keep listening

- Dad.

Junie turned over the photo. Sure enough, an address. Scrawled across the back in blue ink. Her heart kicked like a cymbal struck too hard, ringing. She glanced at the crate. More records. More songs. More pieces. And now, a place. She didn't decide, not really. She was already packing before she realized what she was doing. She had to see it, and it pulled at her heart like a string.

-

The drive to Northern California was long, and Junie made it alone.

She left before sunrise, the crates strapped in the backseat, the letter in her glovebox, and a furiously growing, gnawing curiosity burrowed deep beneath her ribs. She didn't tell anyone. Not her mother. Not her friends. Not her boss at the bookstore. She just...went.

The address led to a small cabin nestled among pine trees beside a quiet lake. The driveway was overgrown. The porch sagged slightly. But it was there. Real. She used the spare key her father had taped inside the letter, tucked behind the flower.

The cabin smelled like cedar and dust and something faintly sweet. A wood stove, a sagging couch, shelves lined with books, and in one corner...a record player.

Next to it, a black envelope. Volume V - Side A. Her breath caught. There was a new note: "Don't play this one at home."

Want to Read More?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10