When the Lights Go Out(74)

But I yank my arm away. “Why are you hiding him from me?” I ask. My voice becomes elevated, high-pitched, defensive. “Why don’t you want me to see him? Why don’t you want me to know that he’s there?”

And then I let slip the one thought that’s put down roots in the back of my mind, that’s replaced all logical thought.

“Why are you keeping my father from me?” I scream.

Her face falls flat and she goes white, even whiter than she was before. She shakes her head, presses a hand to her mouth but says nothing. Nothing at first, before she carefully breathes out, treading lightly, “You’re quite sure you saw a man in there?”

My heart nearly sings in relief. She believes me. She believes me.

I nod vigorously.

“Perhaps you’re right then. Perhaps someone is there,” she says with concern as she draws back the door and lets me in. “Why don’t you go see,” she suggests.

I think of my father, so close within reach. I soar past Ms. Geissler on the staircase, taking the steps two at a time up to the second floor. There I stand beneath that little hatch that leads up to the third floor. I listen for footsteps at first, hearing nothing, but remembering that I’ve stood here before and heard something.

He was here that night. Standing above me. Was he trying to contact me, to get my attention? To let me know that he was here?

I reach for the cord and give it a tug. The ladder unfurls before me, unfolding into makeshift steps. Two of the steps are split. Another is missing, just as Ms. Geissler said.

She warns me, “The steps, Jessie. They’re not safe,” though I go anyway, clutching the hand railing, which is unstable at best. “Bring the flashlight with you,” she says, attempting to hand it to me. But I don’t take it.

“There’s a light,” I tell her. “I saw the light. I don’t need a flashlight,” but she tells me to take it anyway, as she gives it a shake. I take it only to appease her, tucking it under the crook of an arm.

I begin to climb. I move slowly, walking though I want to run. The fourth step gives on me, splintering, and I shriek.

“Jessie!” Ms. Geissler yells, asking if I’m okay.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I say, gripping the railing harder and pulling myself up and over the broken step.

Ms. Geissler makes no attempt to follow, but stands instead at the bottom of the stairs. She crosses her arms against her chest, watching as I go. She tells me to be careful. She tells me to go slow.

I reach the top step and hoist myself into the attic. The room is murky. Out the open windows, the sun is lost somewhere beneath the horizon. It’s still nighttime, and yet there’s a flush to the sky. Morning will be here soon.

I barely make out a lamp, the same lamp that for the past few nights radiated light. One of those old Tiffany-style lamps, with the stained-glass shade. But when I go to turn it on, nothing happens. The lamp is dead, the lightbulb burned out. I turn the knob around and around but still nothing happens. All I hear is the idle click that mimics my heartbeat.

I orbit the room, looking for him. I trip over things that I can’t see. I hold my breath and listen, but I hear nothing. “Hello?” I ask, more begging than inquisitive.

“Come out so I can see you,” I whisper to the man. My father. I tell him I know that he’s here. That I want to see him, to meet him. That I’ve been waiting my whole life. I take small steps around the room, using my hands as a guide. My heartbeat pounds in my ear as I hold my breath, listening for breath, for footsteps, for him. A game of Marco Polo.

“Marco,” I chant aloud to myself, but there’s no reply.

I reach for the flashlight Ms. Geissler gave me. I turn it on. It casts a meager glow around the room, not much but enough. The light bounces on the wall from the tremor of my hands.

What I find is a wall of cardboard bankers boxes—dozens of them—with holes chewed out. Rodent droppings and old building supplies. Gallons of paint, boards of hardwood, boxes of screws and nails.

A makeshift nest—clumps of twigs and leaves—is nestled into the corner of the attic, and on it, there’s some hairless and fetal-looking thing that looks like it’s just climbed out of its mother’s womb. A mother squirrel stands over her baby, scowling at me.

What I don’t find is a four-poster bed. A white comforter. A cord dangling from the ceiling. A man. None of those things are here. It’s just a ratty and dilapidated attic inhabited by squirrels, just as Ms. Geissler has said.

I feel like I can’t breathe. The pain in my chest is immense, in my arm, my jaw, my abdomen. The room is empty, though as sure as I live and breathe, I saw a man here.

I stand looking out the window and toward the carriage home. I don’t know how long I stand there, staring, thinking that maybe he will appear. That somehow we’ll have swapped places. But he never appears.

I make my way back down the steps, where Ms. Geissler stands waiting for me. On her face is a complacent look. An I told you so look.

“Find what you were looking for?” she asks, though I can’t speak. A lump forms in my throat, but I will not cry. I cannot cry.

“I told you, Jessie,” she gloats, and I know then that she did this only to humor me. “There is no man there. Squirrels. Only squirrels.” And then she thrusts the ladder back up so that the squirrels can’t take over the rest of her home.