Page 79 of The Night We Lost Him

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There are only two bedrooms upstairs.

I peek into the smaller room, which is now home to the baby and his older sibling. I try to imagine what it might have been like when my father was here—a bunk bed where the crib is, a small wooden desk instead of a blowup truck bed. The window doesn’t let in a lot of light. But it looks out on the alley, and there’s a rusting basketball hoop and two kids playing an intense game of one-on-one, running fiercely, no room for any cars trying to get by.

The closet door is open, the smell of baby detergent and fresh diapers hitting hard. I flick on the light. And I notice there are etchings on the wall. The marking of someone’s height. It could be my father’s. It could be the kids who lived here after him. There are no initials to indicate whose height is being measured, no names beside the lines. But I run my fingers along all the markings anyway, reaching up to the top height line.

And then I see it, just above the top height line. A small stenciling in the wood. Two little hearts sandwiching the bubbled-out names:

Cory & Liam

I run my fingers along the ridges, run my finger through his name.

This is when I hear the young mother clearing her throat. She is standing in the doorway.

“I just looked up your father. He did live here.”

“You thought I was lying?”

“I thought you were taking a long time.”

I point to the markings in the wood. “I love that you kept this. This plank with all the markings on it.”

She shrugs. “Closets are pricey.”

I want to ask her if I can make her a trade. I will design her a new closet, build it out, if I can come back and take this wood plank. The height etchings that may or may not be my father. The little love note that is. But it’s not just the plank I want. It’s the feel of this place, of this room. It’s what lives beneath the surface, lives in the history—despite how far he ran from it, from here. Him.

“He looks familiar to me, your father,” she says. “I think he came by too. Not that long ago, actually.”

I turn and look at her. “When?”

“Six months ago, maybe? Maybe longer. I don’t really remember exactly. And I can’t be sure it was him, but I think so.”

“He came to see the house?”

“I guess. He didn’t introduce himself, though. He stood outside on the sidewalk for a bit. He was with a woman.”

“A woman?”

She nods. “I went to the door, but they’d already left.”

I turn back toward the closet, take in the Cory & Liam again. I try to figure out what my father was doing here. Who he was doing it with.

She clears her throat. “So my other son is on his way home from soccer practice and I’m going to need the nursery back,” she says. “Unless you’re willing to offer up one of your father’s hotel rooms for bedtime.”

Not All Houses Are Homes

I plan to walk home.

I head down Ocean Avenue, circling onto the side streets. But as soon as my house is in view, I see all the lights off, Jack not waiting for me inside. And I keep going.

Maybe it’s knowing that Jack is still at the restaurant. Maybe it’s not knowing if he is coming home at all tonight. That is like him, after all. After he did the hard part of letting me know the plan, he may decide not to come back when I’m there too. He’s not going to do anything to make it harder on both of us.

So I head over to Tilden and hail a cab. We take the tunnel and head up to Perry Street. And I hop out at my father’s apartment.

The doorman has me on a list of approved visitors and takes me upstairs, unlocks the door.

The apartment is all windows and water with expansive views of the Hudson River. But the apartment itself feels empty. There are no mementos lining the countertops, no family photographs. The art on the wall is neutral, the furniture untouched. Had it felt like this when he lived here?

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