After the flashbacks came the voice in the attic. I felt compelled to go up to the small attic of my house. It was more of a crawlspace actually. I’d sit on the unfinished planks of wood that was the floor. It was there that I would hear “good daddies don’t do that” repeatedly. I didn’t know what it meant. I felt very young up there – like I was a little girl. I also remembered pretending as a child to have a daddy who was a garbageman. He had taken me to work with him on the garbage truck and inadvertently left me behind one day at this house on Basket Lane. They took me in to live with them. I waited for my garbageman daddy to come and find me. This fantasy had its beginnings in a joke my father used to tell. I would ask from time to time if I was adopted. My father would joke that they had found me out by the garbage cans one day. I never laughed at this joke. I never found it funny.