11. Escaping

The longer I’m in this cabin that once belonged to Uncle Robert—that still belongs to him—the longer I think that something strange must have happened to him. Something sinister or even supernatural.

If he did leave voluntarily, he decided to leave everything behind. Maybe the only things he took were the clothes on his back and the wallet in his pocket and the keys to his car (or motorcycle, according to Mom).

I think this as I’m rifling through one of the milk crates in the walk-in closet of my room. I glanced in here the day we arrived, but until today I hadn’t looked through his stuff. On the floor below the shirts and pants and jackets all crammed together on hangers are three milk crates stuffed with records. Full-length vinyl albums, some double albums with fantastic artwork, some looking worn and frayed, others in spectacular shape.

Now I understand the stereo system in the corner with the turntable. When I first got here, I was psyched to see the large, waist-high speakers in each corner of the room until I saw what they were attached to. No iPod connection going on here. But tonight as I’m supposed to be studying, I’m surveying the tunes my forty-one-year-old uncle collected.

Turns out he had something in common with someone else in my family.

Musical taste. Maybe my father’s only admirable quality.

The records aren’t arranged in any sort of way I can see. I find some old Beatles albums, some Elvis, the Who, Pink Floyd. I wonder if they’re all classics; I don’t see anything current.

Then I spot a Nirvana album.

A Pixies record.

The Coldplay album piques my interest since it’s so recent.

I put on New Order’s Brotherhood album from 1986 and start making piles of the records. Is it bad to put Elvis with the Beatles? I make a separate stack for some of my favorites that I picked up from my mother: The Smiths, Depeche Mode, The Cure. There’s a pile for groups I’ve never heard of: Hüsker Dü, Meat Puppets, Front 242.

There are newer releases that make me think Uncle Robert lived here recently—albums I have on my iPod, some I downloaded in the past year.

I hear a knock on the door.

“What’s all this?” Mom asks. She’s wearing a robe and has her hair in a towel.

“Uncle Robert has quite the collection.”

She bends over and picks up an LP from one of my stacks. “I remember this group.”

“Never heard of them,” I say.

“Cocteau Twins.”

“That how you say it?”

“I might have even been with Robert when he bought this.”

“What do they sound like?”

“You should put them on and try it out. Just not too loud.”

“It’s not like we have neighbors who are going to complain.”

“Yes, but you still have a mother who doesn’t like to feel like her house is a rock concert.”

She stays and listens to music with me for a while, the sounds exotic and otherworldly and powerful. Maybe it’s because they’re from another era, or maybe it’s because they’re coming from my uncle’s record player, which actually sounds pretty amazing.

“He always loved music,” Mom says. “If he could have chosen to be anything in his life, it would have been a musician.”

“Why didn’t he?”

Mom shakes her head, listening to the music, seeming to be in a far-off place. “It’s one thing to have dreams. Or even the ability to pursue them. But you also need encouragement. Your grandfather was a loving man, Chris, but my mother’s death really sucked hope out of him. He tried, but he just didn’t have enough to pass around. I think I got the rest of what was left inside. Robert was pretty much on his own.”

“Why’d he come back here?”

“I don’t know,” Mom says. “I just don’t know.”

“Why did you?”

“I wanted to get as far from your father as I possibly could. And the only place that seemed far enough away was Solitary.”

Mom continues to sort through records with me as we sample the albums. The music seems to bring her back to another life, to another time, the way all good music does.

I feel like there’s another universe just inside the closet next to my bed.

I know where I’ll go when I need to escape.