When the Lights Go Out(28)

I don’t think the obvious. That Ms. Geissler’s in the shower and can’t hear me. That she forgot to close the door on the way out rather than the way in. That she’s not here.

“Ms. Geissler?” I call again, with an urgency to my voice this time. “Hello? Are you here?”

And it’s only then that I hear the sound of a piano playing from upstairs. Classical music, I think. The kind you’ve heard before because it’s famous. Mozart. Beethoven. I don’t know which. The piano is quieted down from the distance, diluted, but still I hear it, the music staccato-like, sharp and disconnected.

And I breathe a sigh of relief because she’s here. Because she’s fine.

I could go home now.

I should go home now.

I should pull the door fully closed behind me and leave.

But instead I find myself hesitating at the base of the stairs. My hand grips the baluster as I stare up the flight of stairs, into the dark, cavernous second floor of the home. Because now the classical music has turned into some sort of ballad, and I find that it’s haunting and beautiful.

That it’s calling me, summoning me up the stairs.

Begging me to come and listen, to come and see.

And instead of leaving, my feet carry me up the stairs before I can think this through. I hold my breath as I go, listening only to the sound of the piano. Climbing upward, one step at a time.

The house is large, each room sprawling and grand, though they’re hard to see for the scarcity of light, which becomes even more dim with each minute that passes by. Upstairs, my legs carry me to the bedroom from which the music comes. The only room that, as far as I can see, boasts light. The door is pulled to and so there’s only a sliver of it. Only a sliver of light peeking from beneath the door slab.

I go to it.

Standing before the closed door, I listen to the sound of the piano play. My hand drops to the door’s handle and it’s unintentional when I turn the knob. I can’t help myself; it just happens. I press a hand flat against the door and push it open, so slowly so that it doesn’t squeak. I see her there on the piano’s bench, her back to me. Her fingers move nimbly over the piano keys, foot pressing against the pedal with obvious expertise. I find myself entranced by her song, by the rhythmic motion of her hands and feet.

And then she stops playing.

And it strikes me suddenly, an awareness.

She knows that I am here.

I shouldn’t be here.

All at once I feel like a trespasser. Like I’ve gone too far. This is not my home and I have no business being here.

She doesn’t turn. “Something I can help you with?” she asks and I gasp first before I laugh. A nervous laugh. An exhausted laugh. One I can’t make stop though I try. And only then does she turn and look at me as I press my hands to my mouth to smother the laugh.

Ms. Geissler looks to me to be about sixty years old. Her hair is short, a dyed blond that’s feathered around the edges. She wears glasses, dark, plastic frames that sit on the bridge of her nose. There’s a frailty about her, her body gaunt, cloaked in a cotton dress. She rises to her feet and only then do I see that she’s petite. There are lines on her face, laugh lines, frown lines, crow’s-feet. And yet they look more regal than old. She’s a beautiful woman.

“Jessie, isn’t it?” she asks, and though it takes a minute to find my voice, I say that it is. She says that it’s nice to meet me. She steps toward me, slipping her hand into mine. My hand shakes as it did this afternoon, a quiver that won’t quit.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say. Though I’ve done far worse than interrupt. “I rang the doorbell. I knocked. The front door was open,” I explain, voice as doddery as my hands, just barely managing to scrape the memories together and remember why I’m here. “You left your front door open,” I say again, for lack of anything better to say.

“Oh,” she says, chastising the door latch. How it’s old. How it doesn’t work properly. How she needs to get it fixed, as she needs to get many things in this old home fixed.

“How is everything with the carriage home?” she asks instead, and I tell her fine. I say how much I like it. I compliment the hardwood floors because I can think of nothing else to say. I say that they are pretty. I thank her for letting me stay there. She says it’s no bother.

It’s awkward and uncomfortable, all the conversation forced. I think then that I should leave. I’ve overstayed my welcome because I was never welcome in the first place.

But just as I’m about to say my goodbyes and go, a noise comes from somewhere upstairs. From the third floor of the home. What it sounds like to me is the thud of a textbook falling. Something heavy and dense. I glance upward, finding a hatch there, a pulldown ladder that when folded up and stowed away becomes one with the ceiling, as it is now.

“What’s that?” I ask, but Ms. Geissler’s face goes suddenly blank, and she shakes her head, asking, “What’s what?”

“The noise,” I say. “Is someone there?” as I point up toward the ceiling.

“I didn’t hear anything,” she replies.

I hold my breath and listen in vain for more noises coming from up above. But they don’t come. The house is silent, and I know then: I made it up.

My eyes burn. I rub at them, making them more red than they were before, still aware of my shaking hands.