《All The Lonely People》


 Part 1, Chapter 1

    ¡°Tell me a story,¡± Eleanor says, but I can¡¯t think of one--at least not one with a happy ending. I try to think of princesses and castles, but all I can see is her mother¡¯s face echoed in her own, so I am silent.


    ¡°Shhh. Not tonight,¡± I tell her. ¡°Daddy¡¯s tired. Close your eyes.¡±


    And she does. Squeezing them so tight that her tiny mouth turns slightly upwards into the makings of a smile. She rolls away, her back towards me, and I whisper, ¡°I love you.¡±


    I sit in the corner of her room waiting for the sound of heavy breathing. My ears attune to the waves coming from the sound machine. As Eleanor drifts to sleep, I can hear my own breathing match hers, becoming heavy.


    My hands start to shake, and I try to force myself to relax.


    Stay calm. Stay calm.


    I don¡¯t want to, but I start to cry. It starts to get harder and harder to control myself. My crying gets louder and I begin to lose control of my own body.


    I clasp a hand over my mouth, so I don¡¯t wake up Eleanor.


    I feel like I¡¯m suffocating, but I can¡¯t tell if I am.


    There¡¯s a faint echo in my ears, and everything gets blurry as I squeeze my eyes shut. The darkness rushes in and takes over and I can feel my heart beat slow and the tears stop.


    I exhale a long sigh, pulling my shirt up to dry the tears on my face.


    My mind drifts.


    At first there is emptiness¡ªan emotionless calm¡ªbut thoughts turn to tomorrow and what was to come. I try to think of the logistical aspects: we¡¯ll get up at seven, pancakes for breakfast, we¡¯ll get dressed. My suit hangs in my closet; my daughter¡¯s dress in hers. Should I do something with her hair? I could never do the braids or even the simple ponytails that my wife would do. I would rush it, trying to pull together all the hair no matter how many tangles or snarls were present. Even headbands were beyond my skill set. She could just wear her hair down with maybe a pink bow clipped on the side.


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    She is so peaceful when she sleeps. Her hands folded, underneath her head; a small, still smile as she dreams.


    I get up to leave, standing over her bed watching, thinking about how we hadn¡¯t talked about tomorrow. We had talked about tomorrow before, but not today. Not when tomorrow was tomorrow; just when the day was a few days away.


    I¡¯ll talk to her in the morning, but I know she won¡¯t understand. Not when her mouth is full of pancakes. Her five-year-old brain focused on chewing and swallowing and the sweetness of syrup.


    I¡¯ll tell her when we¡¯re getting dressed, but that won¡¯t be the right time either, because it¡¯s a new dress and she¡¯ll do what she always does in new dresses: dance and twirl and shout, ¡°I love this dress!¡± at the top of her lungs.


    And so, before leaving her to her dreams, I lean over and say, ¡°Hey, lady. Tomorrow¡¯s mommy¡¯s funeral. Tomorrow we say goodbye.¡±


    Downstairs it¡¯s quiet. I can hear the barely audible whisper of the sound machine, the buzz of the refrigerator, and the kick from the air conditioner as it turns on. I feel the weight begin to push on my chest. The same weight that¡¯s been there for the past several months. The crush of something unknown, but I know that it¡¯s known. It was the sense of impending death and the unwillingness to give in; that sense of wanting to fight, but knowing that you couldn¡¯t win. The aversion to speak of it until it was too late, and just letting the unspoken word live in the space between us as my eyes met hers.


    I can¡¯t seem to catch my breath. I breathe in deeply, but it¡¯s not enough. I feel like I¡¯m choking. I want it to end. I want tomorrow to be over and the next day to have a bit more sense to it.


    I want control.


    I want her here again.


    So I close my eyes and think of her.


    It feels good having her here with me again. At least in the form of a memory.


    But then, the moment passes. The pain returns. It feels raw, like broken glass. It¡¯s sharp and rough.


    I can¡¯t do this on my own.


    She always was a part of me. She always will be. I¡¯m not complete without her.


    Going to the kitchen, I grab a bottle of vodka and a shot glass. Pouring a shot, I down it quickly. People say that vodka doesn¡¯t have a taste, but they are really stupid. It tastes like alcohol, but it shifts my focus away from this feeling of pain to the taste, the burn, and I¡¯m not thinking all those other thoughts. I pour another shot and drink it. I can feel the weight begin to shift in my chest. Another shot and then another, and I put the bottle away, going upstairs to our room¡ªmy room¡ªlying down as things start becoming hazy.


    This bed is too big. This room is too dark.


    Before she was too sick, many nights I¡¯d already be in bed, reading with the sound of her nighttime routine in the background: water running, the whir of the electric toothbrush, the flush of the toilet.


    It¡¯s too quiet now.


    I roll over and close my eyes and think about sleeping until all is still.

 Part 1, Chapter 2

    I know it¡¯s her before she¡¯s fully in view.


    It was in how the wind caught her hair as she crests the apex of the bridge; turning and twisting in a familiar chaos before she brushes it away from her face, and I see her.


    She hasn¡¯t noticed that I am there. I¡¯m a solitary observer of her approach as her eyes are elsewhere; watching the river, catching glances with passersby and trading acknowledging smiles and head nods. But then she sees me, and our eyes connect. She is smiling, and I feel that I am smiling, too.


    It goes deeper than that, though. The smile, the joy that¡¯s shared between us. There¡¯s something deeply personal that¡¯s shared in the space between us. I can feel a quick constriction in my throat; a tightening and a dryness about my eyes. I want to look away and have a moment to compose myself, but I also want to share this sense of feeling and emotion with her so that she knows my love without having to say it.


    She is almost to me.


    She¡¯ll reach for me, and I¡¯ll reach for her.


    The wind catches her hair.


    I reach out to brush it away so I can see her eyes, but before I touch her, I¡¯m awake.


    And I¡¯m alone.


    Rolling over, I look at the alarm, and it¡¯s only three. The night weighs heavy. I¡¯m awake and I feel awake, but I know I should go back to sleep.


    The stars are out. Looking through an exposed slit in our blinds, I can see their tiny pinpricks of light.


    It¡¯s enough light to illuminate a single strand of red hair laying on what was her pillow. The red hue has faded to a dull orange that barely registers. Its sheen has gone. I can feel how brittle it is as I hold it between my fingers, pulling it straight, turning it to catch a bit of starlight; a reminder of her presence in the house.


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    She¡¯s there in her dresser, the clothes in her closet, her side of the bathroom sink, and in every crevice of the house as follicles and particles.


    I see her on the bridge.


    The wind catches her hair.


    She would say that it¡¯s too windy; that the wind is annoying.


    But I want to be that wind.


    The strand of hair snaps, and I let it drift down onto the sheets so that it can be found again on an equally lonely morning.


    I can hear unintelligible moaning coming from Eleanor¡¯s room. As I gather up some scraps of empathy, the moans turn into sad little sobs, and I stumble from my bed, down the hall, and into her room.


    ¡°Did you have a bad dream?¡± I ask her gently.


    Her eyes are wet and when she sees me she screams, ¡°Get out! Get out!¡±


    But she¡¯s only five, so I don¡¯t leave, and I ask, ¡°Do you not feel good?¡±


    ¡°Get out!¡± she screams again.


    I try a different approach. ¡°Did you get hurt?¡±


    ¡°Get out!¡±


    And another. ¡°Does your belly hurt?¡±


    ¡°Get out!¡±


    I kneel down, so that I¡¯m at her level. ¡°I want to help you. Can you tell me what¡¯s wrong?¡±


    Through the whimpers, the blubbering, and the tears, she says, ¡°I want Mommy.¡±


    And I¡¯m silent.


    She knows. I know she knows. She was there. We said goodbye. We talked about heaven and a better place and angels.


    ¡°Baby,¡± I say, but pause unsure of what to say next. Then quietly add, ¡°Mommy¡¯s not here.¡±


    ¡°I want Mommy!¡± she yells, sitting defiantly on her bed. ¡°Mommy-mommy-mommy-mommy!¡±


    ¡°Mommy¡¯s not here. Remember?¡±


    She has slid to the floor now. I reach for her, but she kicks at me. I try to pull her into a hug, but she slaps my hands away, using her feet to push herself further away, still repeating the screaming mantra of mommy-mommy-mommy.


    ¡°Do you want to come sleep in my room?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Mommy-mommy-mommy-mommy!¡± Each syllable is punctuated by her feet pounding at the floor.


    I feel helpless. I sit on the floor some distance away, leaning my head against the wall, thinking about how I¡¯d rather be sleeping.


    I¡¯m not sure how much time has passed. She isn¡¯t screaming or speaking, but she is still crying. I reach for her again to lift her back into bed and things intensify again, so I get up and leave her room, shutting her door, then shutting my door, laying back down in my bed, and within seconds I¡¯m asleep.

 Part 1, Chapter 3

    ¡°Would you like to say a few words?¡±


    I almost miss my cue. For the past hour my attention has been solely on Eleanor; an easy distraction to everything else. There is something about the childlike wonder of caskets that allows for a dissociative fantasy.


    ¡°Why is mommy in there?¡± Eleanor asked earlier, pointing to the cold, but shiny casket.


    ¡°Because mommy died,¡± I tell her.


    ¡°She looks like she¡¯s sleeping.¡±


    ¡°Well, when you die, it¡¯s like your body goes to sleep for a long, long time.¡±


    ¡°Why did mommy die?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Because she was sick for a long time.¡±


    ¡°Why was she sick?¡±


    I sigh. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Can I have some lemonade?¡±


    Her attention has been that of a bird, flitting around the church. To the stained glass windows, to the musicians, to the priest sprinkling the casket with holy water before we enshroud it in a white symbolic cloth. My attention follows hers; pointing things out, playing a game of Eye Spy.


    ¡°Do you see a pink flower?¡± An easy win after a few moments.


    ¡°Do you see Mama Mary?¡± She points to the statue in the corner. ¡°Nobody puts Mary in the corner,¡± I whisper, but she doesn¡¯t get it.


    ¡°Do you see anyone wearing black?¡± I ask. Too easy.


    I brush the back of her hair with my hand, adjusting the little pink butterfly hair clip holding the hair back from her face.


    ¡°Would you like to say a few words?¡± the priest asks again.


    I peel my hand from Eleanor¡¯s and stand, scooting her closer to my parents as I make my way to the lectern.


    I was never any good at this. She always had a far superior memory than I did. There¡¯d be times when she would bring up a memory from the past and I would have no recollection. Sometimes if I was lucky, there¡¯d be a faint glimmer, but she would relish in the memory and the feeling of that memory. Every action and every emotion was still fresh and I would be left there smiling and nodding, pretending to remember more than I did when the reality was that I didn¡¯t. Feeling is such a distinct and consistent companion to memory and I could never consistently tether myself to feeling in those moments that mattered so much to her.


    There¡¯d be nights when our conversations would end and we¡¯d drift to separate corners of the house and I would pour over the details that she had shared; internalizing the event, trying to force myself to remember¡ªto feel something. There were even times, moments with our daughter, things that happened in the not-too-distant past that I held no strong recollection or emotional attachment to.


    Why couldn¡¯t I remember something that was so firmly rooted in her mind? Was it not important to me? With each story, as she recounted it, it seemed as if it were something that would be important enough to remember, but for whatever reason it wasn¡¯t.


    Even now as I try to recall examples of those lapses of memory, I cannot recall those specific instances.


    But there is one memory that is firmly rooted.


    We stand, making small talk as we wait for our table. For whatever reason I¡¯m being shy. I want to make eye contact with her, but I can¡¯t, because every time I do, I can¡¯t stop smiling and she¡¯ll stop mid-sentence and ask ¡°What?¡±


    I believe that this memory is ingrained more firmly than any other because, although this event had only occurred once in reality, it played over in my head on an infinite loop before it had even occurred. So much anxiety was built around and toward this one moment that I can easily recall and feel how I felt in this memory.


    Before this occurrence, we had met several months prior. It wasn¡¯t love at first sight, but I was beginning to realize¡ªwhich was causing my boyish grin¡ªthat she was coming into focus.


    I had met and known many women who absorbed my thoughts and imagination, but she infected them. Since the phone call setting up that date, every stray thought led back to her.


    Before her, I had always regarded the idea of love as passion; as an emotion that surpassed all other emotions. Whenever she entered my thoughts, that heightened sensation was never there. Instead it was replaced by this nagging feeling of something drawing me towards some event.


    Because we were still strangers, it was easy to push that feeling away and try to chase down another sort of connection. Yet, that nagging feeling persisted, growing alongside my curiosity about what might happen.


    Through a friend of a friend we were introduced more formally and began conversing online. Before long, numbers were exchanged. Late nights in front of the glare of a computer screen were traded for late nights sitting in random spots throughout the apartment and city talking on our smartphones.


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    After several weeks, I finally built up enough courage to ask her out to dinner.


    I had spent the week before watching all the late night talk shows, practicing my small talk. A backup of talking points were stored on my smartphone in case we hit a dry spell or my memory proved faulty; easily accessible during a conveniently-timed bathroom break or fictitious celebrity sighting.


    That wasn¡¯t him? I could have swore. So, how about this weather?


    Over the course of actual meal courses and drinks and avenues of conversation, I began to realize that through my initial resistance an idea of what could be love had blossomed. As the hour grew late, the idea continued to grow.


    It wasn¡¯t passion¡ªor at least, my original idea of passion. It was the collision of two beings realizing that they¡ªout of billions of other beings¡ªought to belong to each other. As devoid of emotion as that might sound, there was still some semblance of emotion, but it wasn¡¯t emotion fueled by passion¡¯s fire. There was a spark¡ªno, several sparks¡ªfrom all the other little moments leading up to that night. That night, though, it was fanned; ever-growing, supported by both logic and reason.


    Once dinner was over, the conversation carried on outside as we walked down the city streets. Away from the noise and distractions of the restaurant, our attention was solely on each other. We walked side by side. For once I walked without my hands in my pockets, trying to judge her reaction as my fingertips purposefully, in the most accidental sort of way, brushed her own. I finally took the plunge and reached for her hand. She didn¡¯t shy away. My fingertips sliding across her palm, gently taking hold as her hand received mine.


    Palms met.


    Fingers grasped.


    Electricity.


    Love was more than just an idea or a feeling. For us it was a connection, so strong that it went beyond words or gestures. It was difficult imagining a time before her. She came into focus, existing. And in doing so, helped shape my own existence.


    Now it¡¯s difficult to grasp what this time without her will be like.


    Without her, a part of me feels like I am missing part of my existence. It¡¯s to be expected. It¡¯s part of the grieving process, but there is so much about me she shaped. Her distaste for beards is the reason I¡¯m always clean shaven. She helped provide the motivation and confidence for me to take my career to where it is today. She¡¯s the reason I¡¯m a good father. But as she got sicker and weaker, so did my confidence in being a parent. How could I do this without her?


    When she finally said that science had enough of her and the trials stopped, we still thought we¡¯d have more time¨Ctime to prepare and plan and to have conversations. But what was months turned to weeks and then to days, and then she was gone.


    Throughout her decline, we kept hearing the thoughts and prayers mantra. But prayers were only pleas or near-silent whispers. They lacked the other half of what prayers should be: work and action. Because we couldn¡¯t do anything except sit and wait for the next batch of test results.


    Thoughts and prayers were typically coupled with the utterance that God has a plan. But this couldn¡¯t be God¡¯s plan. Why would God want my daughter to grow up without a mother? Eleanor deserves better.


    There have been many moments of quiet solitude where I was left to the dark recesses of my own thoughts. And I have thought about this a lot, but I have yet to find a way to explain, to rationalize why Veronica is gone.


    For a while, I had hope that there was an explanation, but then I remembered all those stories in the Bible about how God wanted Abraham to kill his son, or how he made a bet with the Devil and then proceeded to torture Job and his family. There¡¯s an element of pridefulness and vindictiveness and cruelty that¡¯s present in all of these stories that we quickly gloss over.


    Innocent people are killed so that His chosen people can conquer and have more land.


    He sends his angel to kill the firstborn of Egypt


    Laws are put in place where the punishment is being stoned to death


    And then ultimately, the culmination of God¡¯s great plan: the sacrifice of His only Son.


    If God exists and is an all-good, all-powerful God, why do we suffer? Why did Veronica have cancer? Why does cancer exist? Children all over the world are born with hideous, crippling diseases, but why does God allow them to suffer? Why do those diseases exist? Why do those children exist when the kindest thing God could do is to not let them be born? What does God gain by allowing such things to happen to innocent children?


    There isn¡¯t an answer that exists to these questions that is satisfactory. But even if there were answers to these questions, which there are not, such answers could not fully explain why there is suffering in this world, because they¡¯d be unable to explain why God allowed suffering into his creation in the first place.


    The problem with suffering is that a benevolent, all-powerful, all-loving God created a world in which there is suffering. That¡¯s the problem with suffering. The problem of suffering is not a problem about whether or not there is suffering in the world, because there is. The problem is that suffering exists at all.


    In a world where suffering exists, it makes sense to ask why there is suffering, or why there is suffering that is unnecessary. We do enough to ourselves in the choices that we make that cause suffering, whether causing ourselves or others to suffer. But cancer? That is unnecessary suffering.


    Why does God allow suffering? Why has He created a world that has unnecessary suffering in it?


    I¡¯ve asked and asked again, and I can¡¯t continue questioning what His motives are for hurting countless innocents. What''s the point in praying to a being that either can''t help or simply doesn''t care?


    Someone told me that God knows exactly what Eleanor and I have been through because of the sacrifice of His Son. But God doesn¡¯t know, because He got His Son back¡ªwith some wear and tear, but He got Him back. I don¡¯t understand the concept of sacrifice through this lense. I lost my wife and she is gone. She isn¡¯t coming back. Her body was ravaged by the disease and by all the medical trials and chemotherapy and she isn¡¯t coming back.


    I¡¯ve always had a hard time balancing this notion that God is Love, but for some reason God is also behind pain and suffering. Is the lesson here that love is pain? That we live to love and by doing that we live to suffer and be in pain?


    Why did He do this to her?


    What was the point?


    Why didn¡¯t He intervene? Why didn¡¯t He save her?


    Because God didn¡¯t intervene for whatever His reasons are, it seems to me that He allows suffering and cancer and all the unnecessarily awful things we endure to exist. They have God¡¯s permission to exist. Silence is consent, after all.


    What was the lesson in all this?


    What is He trying to show me!


    I feel a hand on my back and it¡¯s then that I realize my eyes are closed, leaning on the lectern, head down. I look up and see my daughter staring at her dangling, swinging feet. My mother, next to her, is crying.


    The priest is standing behind me; his hand on my back, his eyes full of empathy and concern and worry.


    I walk back to my seat and sit, taking my daughter¡¯s hand in my own, and that¡¯s when I start shaking again.

 Part 1, Chapter 4

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for your loss.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m holding space for you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m praying for you.¡±


    ¡°I''m sending you thoughts and prayers.¡±


    After you hear so many sympathetic platitudes your reaction almost becomes robotic.


    ¡°How are you doing?¡± is the worst of them all, mostly because people are only asking because they feel they have some moral obligation to and they ask to make themselves feel better. They really don¡¯t want you to answer honestly. So, ¡°I¡¯m doing okay,¡± is your best response so they can nod and curl their lips and wrinkle their foreheads in a sad sort of way before moving to the buffet line in the church¡¯s basement.


    No one says anything about the eulogy, except my parents indirectly when they ask me if they can take my daughter for a few weeks to give me space. ¡°Not right now,¡± I tell them.


    I wish I could tell people in a nice way to fuck off. I don¡¯t feel that they are really here for Eleanor or for me, but to make themselves feel better about doing their part. After this they¡¯ll go home and go back to their lives and everything will be back to normal for them.


    I need to find our new normal. I need routines established so that there¡¯s balance and distractions from everything else that will remain unbalanced for a little bit longer. My boss won¡¯t let me back in the office, but after significant begging, has allowed me to take on a project with no client contact that I can work on from home. My daughter will be back in kindergarten Monday and there¡¯s already a semblance of a schedule in my head.


    Wake up at six-thirty.


    I¡¯ll take a quick shower and get dressed.


    Then, I¡¯ll go to Eleanor¡¯s room and wake her up.


    She¡¯ll get dressed, brush her teeth, and then come downstairs to eat breakfast while I pack lunch.


    Veronica would always question this habit of brushing teeth before breakfast, but I always insisted that it¡¯s the most effective way of getting ready in the morning. All your bathroom tasks are done so you don¡¯t have to come back upstairs for any activities. You can sit, have breakfast, and be all ready to go without any wasted time or energy.


    Time and efficiency within the boundaries of time was always something I was really good at. I could analyze our activities for the day and understand immediately the best path to take for everyone¡¯s best interests. Whether it was a day-trip to go hiking in the mountains or something as simple as making toast, I could plan out the most efficient way to use our time.


    When interviewing potential candidates, for the ones I progressed through the interview process, I always gave them what I called the ¡°Toast Test.¡± I asked for them to detail out a plan for how they would make toast. It was a relatively simple task with no rules and it allowed me to see how their minds worked through a task and analyzed it.


    Because there is a way to make toast that is really efficient.


    Bread goes in the toaster, then you get out the butter, plate and knife. When the toast pops up, you butter it, the knife goes in the sink, butter goes in the fridge and by then your toast is at the perfect temperature for eating. I never understood why people got the butter out of the fridge as their first action. At the point the toast is in the toaster, you have no other tasks to accomplish and you¡¯re just waiting.


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    Veronica never appreciated my sense of timing or efficiency. She was more ¡°go with the flow¡± and it drove me crazy. Things needed to be planned out to avoid chaos. When I let things flow, things always ended poorly, at least in my opinion: meals were missed or late; Eleanor would go to bed late and be awake at her usual time, causing at least a full day of whining and tears; or I would be caught in my head over-analyzing everything and be grumpy.


    I look up, pulling myself away from my thoughts.


    People are leaving. I get up, smoothing out my dress pants and suit jacket, pick up Eleanor and walk to the doors.


    There¡¯s handshakes, hugs and head nods.


    My parents walk us to our car and help me buckle Eleanor in.


    ¡°Let us know if you need anything,¡± my mom tells me.


    I need my wife back.


    I don¡¯t say it, but I feel it; deeper than anything else that day.


    I close my door and wave goodbye to my parents. I can see that my mother has started to cry again as they turn to walk over to their car.


    ¡°Can we go to the park?¡± my daughter asks.


    ¡°Sure,¡± I say.


    There¡¯s a park close to our house that she loves. Even though she¡¯s small for her age, the big kid playground is the right size and she loves it. As soon as we reach the edge of the playground she takes off, mixing in with the half dozen other kids. It¡¯s busier than usual, most likely due to the better than usual weather. A couple kids are throwing the football back and forth on a peewee league field. Behind us it looks like little league practice has started for tee-ball.


    I wander the periphery of the playground watching my daughter¡¯s circuit up the stairs, up the ladder, down the slide, and then racing back to the beginning. Another dad is standing on the side, arms crossed:the watchful guardian.


    I know she¡¯s five, but as I¡¯m watching her race around I¡¯m amazed by how much of my wife is displayed in her personality. Somehow, and I mean this in a nice way, she got all of my wife¡¯s good qualities without the negative side effects. Even as I think it, I know it¡¯s not true. She demands her independence and exerts her fierce will over everyone, but there are times like last night where she¡¯s vulnerable and needs the right kind of companionship. She has an ¡°I can do anything¡± attitude but sometimes is too confident and trips over her own feet. She¡¯s a big believer in ¡°my body, my rules¡± but doesn¡¯t always apply those rules in the right circumstances. It¡¯s okay to skip an occasional bath time, but it¡¯s not okay to substitute a winter beanie for her bike helmet.


    ¡°Daddy, push me!¡± Eleanor yells from across the playground.


    Somehow I¡¯ve lost myself in my thoughts. I follow the voice and find her sitting in a swing across the playground. How did she get there? It¡¯s one of those toddler swings; the ones made out of a circle of rubber with four leg holes for your mutant children. It¡¯s too small for her now, but she¡¯s sitting there, legs dangling, smiling a big smile.There¡¯s no way she could have climbed in without help, but I have no recollection of doing so. I look around and the other dad is still standing there, arms folded, not paying attention to my confusion or the odd spectral my daughter is making of herself in that tiny swing.


    ¡°Hey baby,¡± I say. ¡°Did I forget to push you?¡±


    She laughs, so I start pushing her. She asks for faster, stronger, ¡°so-so high¡± so I oblige. I push her high enough that the seat does a little jerk at the top and she laughs. She¡¯s fearless.


    ¡°You know I love you, right?¡± I whisper as I swing her. ¡°I¡¯ll be here for you. If you ever want to talk just tell me.¡± I know she wouldn¡¯t understand, but I want to voice it anyways in case I forget to when she really needs it.


    She laughs again and then tells me to stop. I slow her down and lift her out, giving her a playful tug on her ponytail, and she¡¯s off, racing across the playground. I watch her run off wondering at what point she¡¯ll trip, fall, and scrape up her hands and knees. But she doesn¡¯t. She makes it to the structure¡¯s steps and begins her circuit again.


    ¡°Swing me, Daddy. Swing me.¡±


    I feel a small pull on my suit jacket and look down and it¡¯s her again sitting in a swing that¡¯s more appropriate for her age and size. I look back towards the playground structure and then back down at her. I just saw her over there, running around.


    My mind is playing tricks on me.


    Lifting her into the swing I begin to push her and she asks for faster, stronger, ¡°so-so high¡± and I oblige.

 Part 1, Chapter 5

    The week after the funeral was when I enacted my plan of establishing routine. It allowed me to focus on tasks versus emotion and to maintain whatever facade I had established. But when it comes to tasks and plans, there¡¯s no way to manage every aspect of your day. There are things you have control over; the actual routine moments of the day: waking up, getting ready, the preparation and eating of food, what time you leave for kindergarten, when you start work.


    Then there are so many other moments that can¡¯t be planned; the time between tasks¡ªthose moments when thought occurs, and if you¡¯re not careful, you¡¯re thinking about her, but there¡¯s also moments between those moments where darkness begins to seep into those thoughts.


    I began thinking about all the What-Ifs. What if we just hadn¡¯t tried the right trial and the next one would have been it? What if she had gone to the doctor sooner? What if we had waited another year before having kids and we would have known about the cancer, decided not to have kids, and now Eleanor wouldn¡¯t be growing up without a mother because she wouldn¡¯t exist right now.


    The one thought that permeates all other thoughts is the idea of being with her again. What if I could be with her again? The priest, during the funeral, while invoking the intercessions talked about that time when we¡¯d be joined together in heaven. It sounds good, but it doesn¡¯t really matter if you aren¡¯t sure what you believe. I know that it was meant to be a comfort, but it wasn¡¯t. It became something that I began obsessing over in those moments between moments when the darkness came.


    What if?


    What if I could be with her again?


    After I dropped Eleanor off at kindergarten and started the drive back home, the darkness would seep in while I was sitting at the stoplight. I would feel it pushing down on my chest. That would be the first indication. There wouldn¡¯t necessarily be a thought, because, I truly think, that I was so disconnected from the idea of thought or feeling at this point. It would arrive and its presence would be the reminder that I should feel something.


    I was never any good with feelings. When I was younger, I was a kaleidoscope of emotions full of bubbling, vibrant energy. But at some point, it was too much, and on a particularly vibrant, bubbly day my mother told me to stop being so crazy or she¡¯d put me on Ritalin. So I did, I shut down that energy and bottled it up and didn¡¯t let it escape. Soon that youthful, positive energy was replaced with moody adolescence which remained bottled up except for the occasional emotion filled outburst. It fueled my introversion and developed into a lack of emotional awareness in social situations, which led to some poor decision making in high school and college, as well as a limited circle of friends.


    From those experiences, a pattern began to emerge: feelings would be bottled up until there was a breaking point and then things would explode.


    Shortly after we were married, I landed my first management role. I was young, there was no training, and suddenly I was responsible for people. All that stress would be bottled up between nine and five, and as soon as I got home it would explode out of me. I wouldn¡¯t ask how Veronica¡¯s day was. I would just talk for an hour about my awful, stressful day.


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    I quickly realized that I needed an outlet, or my destructive nature would compound until it exploded.


    So I took up running. The stress would build up between nine and five, but after work I would go running and let my brain reset, working out all the stresses and issues that occurred during that day. It worked and it was a routine that I kept until Veronica started getting really sick.


    I can feel the darkness creeping in.


    ¡°Hello,¡± I whisper to it.


    ¡°You¡¯re getting fat,¡± the darkness says and I know it¡¯s right. I can feel the waistband of my pants digging into the fat around my belly. If Veronica was still around she would say that she loves me the way I am, but she isn¡¯t, so I agree with the darkness.


    The light turns green and as the car moves forward, I¡¯m stuck thinking about my eventual demise.


    What if I let go of the steering wheel and let the wheels drift over the line and over the edge of the shoulder? What if I sped up and drove into those orange barrels as fast as my not-so-fast car could go?


    The car would flip.


    I would veer into oncoming traffic.


    And I would be with Veronica again.


    But a part of me knows what would also happen if I drove through those barrels. The car might not flip. I probably wouldn¡¯t land in oncoming traffic and if I did, who would hit me? Would it be a mother in a minivan? What impact would my actions have?


    My memory drifts to an old memory.


    I was out celebrating with several college friends. Driving home with one of my roommates, we pulled off onto an exit ramp. It was almost midnight. There weren¡¯t a lot of cars on the road, but lying in the middle of the road was a body. I didn¡¯t see it until the last second as the headlights illuminated the body just in front of us. I jerked the car around it and quickly pulled off onto the shoulder. It was then that I saw several other cars parked on the shoulder just ahead of us, but no one had ventured out to check on the body.


    That particular area of the city was dark¡ªnot a lot of light pollution¡ªand the exit ramp we took was also an on ramp for another highway, so cars were still going fast.


    I got out of the car and walked down the shoulder towards the body. Before I could get too close a police car pulled up and blocked the exit ramp, lights flashing. The officer yelled at me to get back.


    Between the illumination of the flashing lights and the headlights of passing cars, I could see the body. It was twisted unnaturally, the right leg positioned in a way that made it look like those cartoonish sidewalk chalk drawings in TV police procedurals. There was no chance that person was still alive.


    As we waited for more officers to arrive, my old roommate and I stayed with some of the other onlookers. A girl, a teenager, who didn¡¯t see the body in time and ran over it was a complete mess.


    I think about the impact my accident would have on the witnesses. A child looking out the window of a passing vehicle. A little girl, Eleanor, just over five, without a father.


    I don¡¯t want to be responsible for that.


    But the darkness persists. ¡°What if you could be with her?¡±

 Part 1, Chapter 6

    When I was eight, I woke up one morning with a bad premonition. What caused that feeling was unclear, but there was something unknown that took me outside to my parent¡¯s garage looking for my favorite cat, Blackie. The house had only begun stirring, so no one was around when my search took me outside the house.


    A few weeks before, as my grandparents were clearing out the shed at their farm, they had uncovered an old telephone pole that had been shortened, painted white and converted into a basketball goal. It was delivered to our house on the back of my grandpa¡¯s trailer and sat untouched for several weeks until my dad took a wood-handled post digger and began to carve a hole, several feet deep, at the edge of our driveway.


    It was spring and, not too unusually for spring in the Midwest, the past several days were very rainy.


    I looked at the edges of the house for Blackie, but the unknown feeling drew me to that hole, and looking down inside it, I saw the floating body of my beloved cat. I laid down in the mud and reached as far as my little arms could go. Fingers struggled, and grasped, until they snagged on a paw. Fingers clenched, forming a fist around the paw and lifted until my other hand could help, and I pulled Blackie out of the hole.


    Sitting on the ground, holding the wet, already stiff body, I cried; not comprehending this experience, but knowing that something was different about my cat.


    Picking myself up, I headed into the garage carrying the body, calling for my parents. I entered the kitchen. My dad was pouring pancake batter onto a skillet and I was holding my cat, dripping water in a small puddle on the kitchen floor.


    It took a moment for my dad to register what was going on, but soon his arms were around me, gently prying Blackie from my embrace.


    My dad disappeared to presumably bury the cat.


    I was a blubbering, tearful mess, saying the cat''s name over and over again.


    My mom told me that I could go to my favorite bookstore and pick out a book to buy if I could only just calm down.


    ¡°Stop crying,¡± she told me. ¡°Things die. Now wipe your eyes and we can go buy that book.¡±


    A few days later, the trauma of it all was a distant memory.


    Watching my daughter pack her doll, a plastic cheese sandwich, and a couple spare pretend diapers into her backpack¡ªall for an afternoon hike¡ªI wonder if her relationship with loss is the same for her mother as mine was with my cat.


    For Eleanor, is it a distant memory filled with the occasional sense of ¡°Mommy loved eating chocolate chip cookies¡± or ¡°Mommy loved listening to this music.¡± It¡¯s in these moments where I begin to get a little bit angry at her for taking Mommy for granted and not missing her as much as I did, but then I remember she¡¯s five.


    What will Eleanor remember of her mother? Will she only remember the sickness? When she¡¯s older and is having playdates and sees other mothers interacting with their daughters, will she wonder why Mommy was too weak to play dolls or think about those times when Veronica yelled at her for singing too loudly when Mommy was trying to rest?


    That day, we take a familiar trail, one that all three of us used to take. I let us go at Eleanor¡¯s pace, not letting myself micromanage her as she scours the trail for shiny rocks to add to her collection. Somehow, after only a few hundred feet, I ended up carrying her backpack.


    I miss her.


    I miss my wife.


    For so long she had been ¡°Mommy¡± or ¡°Wife¡± that it feels odd forming her name on my tongue, but as we¡¯re plodding along this trail, I remember one of the early reasons why I said, ¡°This is the one,¡± and it was because of her name. There was a certain elegance and refinement in it: Veronica Grey. And within it there was a certain decorum that was prescribed in the way you wanted to be around her. She drew people to her with her personality and wit.


    Her extroverted tendencies made us even more of an odd match. When I was younger, my introvertedness combined with my seriousness and intensity usually led people to incorrect assumptions about my sexuality. Seriousness and intensity were my default setting. I didn¡¯t know how to carry myself through social situations. I was unable to pick up on social or emotional cues without feeling completely mentally drained after a night on the town.


    In retrospect, I believe that most of my personality traits were projections of the novels I read, movies I watched, and music I listened to. All those forms of media shaped an alternate reality in a world I didn¡¯t feel like I fit in. By the time I entered adulthood, my idea of relationships were a convoluted mess.


    If I had a checklist, I would have told you that I knew I wanted love. If you had asked for me to define love, I wouldn¡¯t have known where to begin. It was a feeling, but it wasn¡¯t until I felt that urging, that feeling of ¡°you ought to¡± with Veronica, that I knew what love could be.


    Before that moment, the idea of love was all about companionship. Seeking a connection¡ªwhatever that connection may be¡ªwith another person. All those times I felt passion or what I thought was love was just a fierce, strong connection; a rebellion against loneliness between two lonely human beings.


    That sense and desire for a connection is even stronger now that I spend most hours by myself. Strangely, the moments when I miss her most are the moments filled with things we never did together, like taking out the garbage. I think it¡¯s because of the quietness of those actions; that space between the house and the fence, in the darkness, where everything is still.


    A night underneath the stars on a picnic blanket. The sensation of grass beneath our fingers as we lean into one another.


    A multicolored parachute being flung into the air; laughing as Eleanor giggles, trying to grasp it in her chubby hands, barely able to stay balanced with her full diaper and undeveloped core.


    Flashlights under the sheets of a blanket fort.


    The sensation of warm skin underneath a cool sheet.


    Lying on the couch, head in her lap, sinking into her.


    There was a familiarity and comfortability we had achieved after only a few dates. There was a sense in our actions and how we responded to each other emotionally that we were, for lack of a better term, a good fit.


    Veronica leans down, eyes closing at the right moment. Lips parting and meeting my soft, parted lips. They meet, compress and release. Breath steams and rises in the space between as the kisses carry on.


    I tug her in closer, cupping the back of her head. Our tongues touch and I feel an unspoken need for more surging within her. I slide my hand down, my thumb caressing her jaw.


    This cannot be real.


    She feels alive, full and complete, and I want her more than I ever did.


    My mouth is on hers, my tongue pushing in again, seeking hers.


    A soft little moan escaped her lips. As it hits me, I feel swept away; I am gone.


    She is my world and I am hers.


    Veronica pulls back, just a little, and I watch her lips part, wet and pink from our kissing.


    ¡°I love you.¡± The words passed through my lips before I could stop them.


    The idea of love had been building since we first met with that persistent feeling of ¡°you ought to.¡± There was an immediate sense of relief in saying those words; it felt right. Saying anything else like ¡°I like you¡± felt empty and not as true as what I was truly feeling.


    Veronica¡¯s eyebrow raised. ¡°Why?¡±


    I think I was expecting something reciprocal instead of the challenge, and for a moment, the logic behind my confession was gone.


    ¡°I feel balanced,¡± I begin after a moment of silence. ¡°You keep me balanced. I¡¯m not perfect, but you help me be better than I am.¡± I can hear myself talking and it¡¯s not going well. This should have been one of those conversations I rehearsed in my head. Even now, thinking about those words and actions and where they led, I wonder if a part of my intensity was a calibrated and calculated plan to sleep with her, but then I remember my track record and tell myself that I¡¯m giving myself more credit than what was due.


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    There¡¯s silence between us, so I backtrack and say, ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡± It¡¯s more of a question than an apology, but she smiles and says, ¡°It¡¯s okay. I love you too.¡±


    Our declaration of intent was complete. It wasn¡¯t fueled by our momentary spark of passion. Neither was it fueled by logic; most evident by the lack of any substantive explanation. It was just something that was meant to be.


    My intent was to take her out to dinner, but we never left her apartment. We sat talking for hours.


    After a normal dinner hour came and went, we found ourselves in the kitchen cooking. Within the confines of that small space, for the first time in my life, I found myself perfectly in sync with another person. It was a dance without any choreography; both of us were aware of each other¡¯s proximity.


    Moving between tasks, cutting up this or that, sauteing, boiling, swapping spots.


    The occasional brushing and touching of fingertips.


    The occasional kiss with messy fingers or sharp instruments held up in awkward positions to avoid stains or stabbings.


    By the time dinner was ready we were ravenous, so conversation all but ceased until Veronica asked if I believed in soul mates.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± I say. ¡°I think I believe more in the concept of an alter ego.¡±


    ¡°A what?¡± she asked.


    ¡°When I¡¯m with you, it¡¯s as if you are another world; another planet. Completely different and distant as any other in our galaxy, but there is something about you that makes me want to leave the confines of my own world¡ªthe confines of my own ego¡ªand journey to you.¡±


    ¡°Across a bridge?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Sure,¡± I say before shoveling another forkful of food into my mouth.


    ¡°As long as it¡¯s a rainbow bridge.¡± And with that subtle comic book reference I knew that this was it.


    There¡¯s that silence again.


    The meal ends.


    I finished my wine.


    She catches me looking at my watch and sees the look I get when I realize how late it is and start calculating drive-time and the impact it¡¯ll have on my sleep and the following day.


    That¡¯s when she asks if I want to stay over.


    We clear and wash the dishes, putting the few leftovers we have into glass storage containers and then place them onto overcrowded shelves in the refrigerator.


    Soon the wine bottle is empty.


    Veronica leaves me alone in her bedroom as she goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. I¡¯m unsure what to do. Did she want to share her bed with me? Should I be a gentleman and insist that the floor would be fine? Presumably it was the bed and not the floor, because otherwise she would have left me in the living room next to the couch wondering why she denied my obviously sexy advances.


    Would this be a prolonged cuddle-fest or would there be sex involved? Was I ready to take things to the next level along with the accompaniment of additional emotions, attachments, and awkwardness?


    I unbuckled my pants and let them fall, only then remembering to remove my shoes. It¡¯s at that moment, as I¡¯m sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to remove my shoes from underneath my bunched pant legs, that she emerges from the bathroom.


    Veronica laughs at the sight.


    Going to her dresser, she pulls out a t-shirt and puts it on over her dress. I watch her and she watches me watching her. She slides her dress down and steps out of it, the t-shirt barely covering her underwear.


    I catch myself staring and dart my gaze back up to hers. She holds my gaze. It¡¯s a challenge and it¡¯s challenging to hold. I want to let my eyes drift and roam and soak in every inch of her, but to do so would cheapen all the moments that led to this particular moment.


    Reaching behind her back, she unhooks her bra and threads it through the sleeves of the t-shirt, placing it on top of her dresser before reaching for the light switch.


    It¡¯s dark now.


    We¡¯re lying in bed, our bodies pressed together, arms wrapped around each other. We¡¯re no longer talking but our lips still move: parting, meeting, compressing, releasing, testing, tasting.


    My hand slides down her body, resting on her lower back over her shirt, pressing her towards me. She rocks her hips, pushing in deeper against my crotch. Taking my hand, she guides it back up, placing it on her breast, and I immediately feel her nipple harden beneath the gentle rubbings of my thumb.


    Her breathing is heavier now.


    I can feel her pulse beneath my fingertips. I can hear her heart beating as I feel it in my own chest.


    Veronica opens her eyes and looks directly into mine, her eyes darkening to the color of an intense ocean storm and we sit there in silence, captured by each other¡¯s gaze.


    I can feel my mind slipping into hers, my consciousness fading into her, as she continues to kiss me.


    She reaches up and cups my face in her hands and traces the outline of my lips with her fingertips and I feel the gentle breeze of her breath as she softly kisses my lips and my head fills with light and air until it feels like it is going to explode.


    We continue to kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and the kisses grow deeper, stronger, and my body feels like it is on fire.


    I slide my hand down and pull her in even closer as she wraps her arms around me and pulls me just a little bit closer into her chest and I feel so content, so content, so complete, so safe.


    The world around us vanishes¡ªtime ceased to exist¡ªand there is only Veronica. She is part of me and I am part of her. We existed only within each other''s presence and sense of the present. There were no other thoughts to our motions, no pulling or testing from ghosts of the past or anxieties of the future. It was enough to just exist.


    For a moment, I let myself pretend that there are no other people on earth; that we are all alone and everything that has happened before was just a dream.


    I feel her fingers pulling my shirt up. I feel them running across my stomach so I pull my shirt up over my head and I can feel her hands on my skin, kissing me everywhere, all over my chest, on my shoulders, everywhere.


    Veronica sits up, pulling her shirt over her head and for a moment everything stops as I soak in the sight of her.


    I stare at her: Veronica, the first true love of my life, my soul¡¯s mate, the one person I have always loved, always wanted, always thought about.


    She smiles as I sit there frozen, her eyes glow. She holds her hand out, pulling me to her. Her touch is like a blessing, it wraps me in love, love for her, love for everything around us.


    ¡°I love you,¡± I whisper into her ear.


    ¡°I know,¡± she whispers back.


    I leaned forward, kissing her on the lips before I slowly worked my way down to her belly, caressing the smooth skin with my tongue. Her moans sound like music and my only hope is that she will never stop.


    Pulling back, I take in her beauty.


    ¡°Kiss me,¡± Veronica moans breathlessly.


    I place a hand on her face and gently pull her to me, losing myself in the moment, the taste of her, the feel of her body next to mine.


    ¡°I love you,¡± she says.


    ¡°I know,¡± I whisper back.


    We hold each other close and then move our bodies closer and closer until we become one. I can feel her tongue on mine and my eyes start to close as we start to move together, until all is eventually still and I start to breathe again, surrounded by a halo of her hair as she straddles me.


    We move off of each other, not saying a word. Clothes are put back on and she falls asleep against me with her head nestled against my shoulder. Her t-shirt was pulled down slightly to reveal her shoulder. My eyes found a tiny mole there. I studied it until I fell asleep, memorizing its pattern.


    I wanted more, but the voice of ¡°you ought to¡± was quiet; it was enough.


    ¡°Daddy!¡±


    And I¡¯m pulled from my thoughts back to the present. My daughter is pointing off the trail where a herd of mule deer are gathering and foraging through the sparse grass and foliage. They heard her exclamation and looked up at us, assessing for a few moments before going back to their meal.


    We find a small boulder just off the beaten path and sit watching the deer for a while. Eleanor asks questions. What are they eating? What are their names? She starts naming them. Most of the names are princess names, except for a young buck she names Mister Poopy Pants.


    ¡°Which one do you think is the mommy?¡± she asks me.


    I¡¯m quiet for a little while; listening to the wind through the trees, the sound of water moving through a creek in the distance, the muted voices of other hikers up the trail.


    I begin to cry.


    Eleanor looks up at me. ¡°Why are you crying, Daddy?¡± she asks.


    I don¡¯t answer, so she takes my shaking hand in hers and continues watching the deer until, after some time, she roars a terrible roar and they run off and it¡¯s time for us to head home.


    Eleanor¡¯s exhausted by the time we get home, so we do a quick, easy dinner, bathtime and an early bedtime. For a while I sit with her as she is falling asleep. Thankfully my mind is an empty shell. I feel at peace for the first time in a long time.


    When I get downstairs, I get out the untouched journal a therapist suggested I purchase. Sitting down, I begin to write. There¡¯s no plan or premeditation going into it, but as I write, I recall my faulty memory, and so my writing begins to form as a collection of memories of Veronica.


    I stop, flexing my fingers, looking at my watch, realizing that it¡¯s later than I thought.


    Upstairs there¡¯s a thump, followed by the sound of feet walking across the floor.


    I get up from the couch, walking upstairs. This isn¡¯t an unusual occurrence. Typically Eleanor will wake, cross the room for a glass of water, and go back to sleep. Other times, the thump is her rolling out of bed, usually followed by crying, which is why I think it¡¯s the former.


    Opening the door, I pause.


    There, leaning over the bed is Veronica. She is stroking Eleanor¡¯s hair and singing softly to her an old hymn, a children¡¯s tune.. Eleanor¡¯s eyes are closed. She¡¯s deep asleep.


    Veronica is wearing her typical pajamas: underwear and a braless tank top. She looks healthy; healthier than she has for the last two years.


    ¡°Veronica?¡± I whisper?


    She looks up and smiles at me as she pulls up Eleanor¡¯s bed covers.


    I¡¯m at a loss for words. My mind is racing, trying to piece together the logic of this illogical situation.


    ¡°I missed you,¡± I say.


    And it¡¯s only then that she fades from view.

 Part 1, Chapter 7

    The next morning it all feels like a dream, but it¡¯s not something I can dismiss. My mind is distracted, running through those brief moments.


    Part of me expects Eleanor to say something during breakfast.


    I quiz her on her dreams, but there¡¯s nothing that jumps out; nothing about seeing a vision of her mother hovering above her bed. Eleanor says she had a bad dream about someone taking her pink purse, which is nothing out of the ordinary for her.


    As I wander distracted through the menial breakfast clean-up chores, Eleanor interrupts me for a game of hide-and-go-seek. I oblige, covering my eyes as she, round after round, hides quite obviously in very visible places.


    There will be a point in her life, probably once she¡¯s in middle school, where Eleanor will start hearing stories about how her parents were too soft, and created within her an attitude of entitlement and constant positive reinforcement. But it¡¯s true, especially with this game.


    I tip-toe through the house, pondering loudly, ¡°Where¡¯s Eleanor? Is she hiding in the curtains?¡± She¡¯s not, she¡¯s underneath the kitchen table.


    ¡°Is she hiding upstairs?¡± Instead of going up the stairs, I sit on the steps, pulling out my phone quickly, scanning through emails of hamburger coupons and e-book discounts as I do my best impression of someone stomping around.


    ¡°Where could she be?¡± I say exasperated after sliding my phone back into my pocket, hiding the evidence of my disconnectedness.


    Eleanor pops out with a ¡°Here I am!¡±


    Then we start over.


    With hands covering my eyes, I count. I hear the familiar thumping as she uses her hands and feet to clamber up the stairs. When I reach 20, I uncover my eyes and begin the search. I spend some time searching the main floor as I browse a news site for updates on the horribleness of the world. Heading towards the stairs, I hear a giggle behind me. Looking around our playroom, I see feet sticking out from underneath an armchair. I spend some time looking in our coat closet and behind some more curtains before asking, ¡°Are you behind this chair?¡± She squeals as she¡¯s found and I laugh. Squealing, Eleanor pushes out from behind the chair, running off towards the kitchen and I follow her.


    ¡°Mama!¡± she shouts.


    Eleanor pushes open the sliding glass door and runs out onto our porch. She¡¯s looking down into the yard, but before I can see what has captured her attention, I hear ¡°Daddy! I¡¯m upstairs!¡±


    I look towards the stairs, but when I look back through the open door, the Eleanor on the porch is gone.


    Besides experiencing the death of a loved one, there isn¡¯t anything else more mentally shattering than seeing something or someone where it doesn¡¯t belong. I¡¯ve had experiences in the past where I¡¯ve opened the front entry door on a dark night and have seen myself reflected in the glass of the storm door. When it happened, it didn¡¯t immediately register that I was there. My heart jumps and I think that someone is standing outside my house, but then within a matter of milliseconds, my brain catches up and logic provides the answer.


    In this circumstance there isn¡¯t a readily available explanation. Last night I justified the vision as stress-related and due to a lack of sleep.


    Today was different though. It reminded me of the lost time after the funeral when I took Eleanor to the playground. But it wasn¡¯t something that was easily explainable as a ghost, either. Sure, if I was seeing Veronica by herself, it would make sense¡ªif you believed in ghosts¡ªbut why would I also see a very-much-alive Eleanor?


    I turn around as I hear footsteps coming down the stairs.


    It¡¯s Eleanor, arms folded, looking very cross with me. ¡°I don¡¯t want to play this game anymore,¡± she says, huffing into the playroom and picking up a doll to play with.


    The town where I went to college was considered one of the most haunted towns in America. Freshman year there were girls telling stories of ghost babies crying in their closets or in shutdown elevator shafts. When a new dormitory was opened in a refurbished building that had been closed decades ago, stories surfaced of past tenants who had hung themselves in the bell tower, footsteps in nearby empty rooms, and one friend hearing whispers a few inches above his head at night as he lay in his dorm room alone. As haunted as the town was, I never experienced anything that would have been labeled as supernatural.


    Growing up in a religious household, there was a certain belief prescribed to ghosts, which led me into the belief that anyone experiencing a ghostly presence was being afflicted by an evil spirit. The foundation of religion made it easy to explain the uncertainty around death; providing a sense of hope that death isn¡¯t the end. By following a clear set of guidelines, religious followers could obtain entry into the afterlife or be reincarnated or get their own planet. It made the unknown of death easily more bearable.


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    Which would you prefer? The grandiose vision of the afterlife as you breathe your last, or nothing?


    As man evolved, religion emerged to provide context to the human experience. Lightning was attributed to the god of thunder, the sun rose and set because of the sun god, food grew and was harvested because of the harvest god, and so on and so forth until someone thought that all of the gods and rules were too complicated and founded a monotheistic religion.


    Gods became the god of the gaps; gaps in our knowledge.


    Over time, the stories changed. All those things that were once attributed to multiple gods¡ªthe seasons, the harvest, thunder and lightning¡ªwere attributed to one god. One capital-G God.


    Bands and tribes formed and as they split and took those stories with them, the idea of organized religion began to form and with it came the development of their moral code: the do¡¯s and don¡¯ts and the punishments or rewards ascribed to each. They didn¡¯t know that killing was wrong; it was just something you did.


    As man continued to evolve, science and philosophy started to come into play. Often I¡¯ve theorized about the story of the Tower of Babel and whether that was the first historical technological expansion, and if through that rush towards knowledge, that was when the idea and fear of God was introduced. Fear of what could be explained and the possibility of unlimited knowledge tore the tower down, destroying what could have been a golden age of advancement and replaced it with a dark age of hindered thought, morality and philosophy.


    After Babel, for millennia, religion continued to evolve, becoming more easily digestible. Regardless of the religion, it basically boils down to: do this and you¡¯re good, but do that and you¡¯re bad. It¡¯s a lesson in cause and effect. Good people get the afterlife, bad people don¡¯t.


    The biggest fault in all this, regardless of the stories about the (little-g) god or (big-G) God coming down to Earth to provide their wisdom and insight, is that religion was formed by Man which is prone to all sorts of corruption. When Judaism and Christianity were founded, there were all sorts of mass persecution from the main religious sects at that time. Everyone thought they were right and were willing to die or to kill for their belief. Even within those two religious groups there was plenty of persecution: the Spanish Inquisition, the various witch trials, slavery, the purging of Native Americans, not to mention that the role of women in these religions was non-existent and the leaders did everything they could to keep women from having a voice for centuries. The way we interact as a species, for better or worse¡ªmostly worse¡ªstems from the influence of religious dogma and practice.


    I think of recent examples of Rajneeshpuram or the Branch Davidians¡ªgroups that were labeled as cults, mostly by white Christians. Are we just as bad? Have we snuffed out the next religious evolution due to our fear and prejudices?


    I¡¯m often left pondering: who is the better person? The Christian who gives the homeless man a care package because the Bible tells us to listen to the cries of the poor, or the atheist who does the same action because it¡¯s the right thing to do?


    What I said the day of the funeral still rang true, but I still didn¡¯t know where that left me and what religious or non-religious label I wore. Could one be an agnostic Catholic? Could I be willing to admit that I don¡¯t know what is true, and that there is a high likelihood that everything I had ever believed was wrong? All I know is that if my daughter asks me if Mommy is in heaven, I would answer ¡°Yes¡± without hesitating.


    Several hours later I find myself alone downstairs. The journal is put away, the television is off, my smartphone is on the counter plugged in. I¡¯m free from distractions so that I can observe. The house is quiet. I can hear traffic in the distance, the sound of airplanes overhead, then footsteps. It¡¯s coming from my daughter¡¯s bedroom.


    Rising from the couch, I head towards the stairs when I hear the footsteps moving. Now I can tell they are visibly louder and heavier than my daughter¡¯s. They come out of the room and begin walking down the stairs at a familiar pace. Whatever it is, it paces around the kitchen. Going to the cabinet that holds the glasses, then to the sink, it pauses for a moment before heading towards me. Nothing is visible; only the sound. There¡¯s no disturbance in the air, nor in the room. The footsteps end as they come closer to me; not as if they were slowly fading into the ether, but as if they are slowing down and stopping right in front of me.


    Looking at my hands, I can see that they are shaking.


    ¡°Veronica?¡± I ask the empty space. I reach out, my hand shaking so badly that vibrating would be a better descriptor.


    Nothing.


    I¡¯m about to pull my hand back, but then she¡¯s there, my hand immediately tangled in her hair. I can feel it, every strand. My fingers reach out, touching the back of her neck. She leans her head into it and I can feel the warmth of her skin on my wrist, the exhale of her breath on the hairs of my arm.


    ¡°I thought you went to bed,¡± Veronica says. She moves in closer, pulling me into an embrace. Inhaling deeply she murmurs, ¡°You smell good.¡± I can feel myself tense and so can she. ¡°Are you okay?¡± she asks.


    Clearing my throat I say, ¡°Yeah. Sure. You just surprised me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad you didn¡¯t go to bed,¡± she says. ¡°You know how I haven¡¯t been feeling amazing?¡±


    My mind goes back in time to two years ago when the diagnosis came in. It was low energy and pain in the abdomen that led to the tests which eventually led to the diagnosis.


    Veronica sees the worry etched on my face and reaches up, cupping my cheek like she often did to Eleanor, and says, ¡°Hey, it¡¯s alright. I¡¯m pregnant. We¡¯re having another baby.¡±


    And then she¡¯s gone.


    I¡¯m back to where I was: at the foot of the stairs, alone.

 Part 1, Chapter 8

    As things between Veronica and I grew more serious, we began contemplating our living arrangements. At that moment in time, it didn¡¯t make much sense for us to move in together due to our commutes; one of us would lose and neither of us were a fan of being stuck in traffic.


    For me it was the lack of productivity that occured. For Veronica it was the added stress of being stuck in traffic and the increased probability of an accident.


    Usually after a long week of early mornings and late nights, the weekend was ours to spend together. One day, usually Saturday, we¡¯d spend our day indoors; shut off and decompressing from the noise of the world.


    Most of that day would be spent conversing or sitting side-by-side in silence or listening to music.


    It began an educational period.


    Veronica tutored me on the intricacies of the female psyche. When I told close friends about this, there was typically a sexist (¡°But I¡¯m not sexist¡±) joker commenting that she was teaching me how I was always wrong. It wasn¡¯t so much about how I was wrong, but why I was wrong.


    I considered myself pretty self-aware and with that came an awareness of my many faults. She helped me improve things I could improve, while embracing those faults that were unique aspects of my personality. Veronica, more than anything else, made me aware of my lack of empathy. While she didn¡¯t necessarily teach me to be more empathetic, she at least built in me the notion that I should consider empathy as an emotional reaction or, at the very least, the act of portraying empathy in my interactions with others.


    For her, I introduced her to the neo-geek culture of our generation. It was a well-balanced meal of indie films and comic book movies; novels of time-traveling romances or fantastical world-building; small-batch whiskeys and regional craft brews.


    During this time there was an album I knew by heart. It was the type of album that I always recommended when people asked what type of music I liked to listen to. It was the type of album that you had to listen to without distractions, with the lights turned down low, noise-canceling headphones, and the volume turned up comfortably high. If a certain green smokable bud was involved, it made the experience even deeper.


    When I played it for Veronica, I had to tell her to be quiet a half-dozen times before she listened. She wanted to know about the band, what else they did, were there any songs on the radio, and what each of the songs were about.


    ¡°Just listen,¡± I would tell her until she finally quieted down.


    Mallets on a bass drum softly defines the beat.


    A cello starts a low, slow whine.


    A guitar soon joins before a piano starts, playing the melody.


    It was a story about the loss of love from a relationship gone south. The story was sad, but by the end of the album there was hope.


    I could hear enough through the headphones to know where she was at in the album. Her eyes were distant; absorbing, listening to every musical note and lyrical word. There were moments when her eyes would focus and meet mine and I¡¯d know, just by that look, what she had experienced.


    There were so many times in the not-so-distant past when I would be caught up and carried away from our experiences together. In the age of technology and the streaming experience, there was an endless stream of distractions. I missed moments like this; moments where we were connected through a shared experience.


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    Sundays were usually reserved for the outdoors when weather permitted. We would hike or ride bikes, spending hours in the nearby foothills. Some nights we would spend underneath the stars. By then the city was quiet. In the right spot, you couldn¡¯t hear the hum of traffic on the freeway. We¡¯d look up speculating what we were seeing in constellations; sometimes seeing the slow trek of the space station across the night sky and on one rare occasion we saw Venus setting between the ridges of two nearby mountains.


    During the summer you could hear the buzz of insects, the rustling breath of air through the grass and trees, the croaking of frogs in the distance.


    Sweat was a beautiful thing during those months.


    In the quietness under the stars you feel perspiration building and sliding down your back. On some Saturdays to do our part for the climate, we wouldn¡¯t turn the air on in the apartment and we¡¯d spend most of the day in bed. She¡¯d lay on her belly reading and at times I would catch a single drop of sweat emerging from her hairline. My eyes would chase it down her neck, down between her shoulder blades until it disappeared under her shirt and my imagination took over.


    Occasionally, Veronica would catch me staring and would throw a book my way and I¡¯d flip through a couple pages, but I¡¯d mostly stare at her face, her neck, the low swoop of her tank top and think about what was hidden underneath. My imagination would wander. I¡¯d imagine my hands on her body, under her tank top, and then the inevitable finale. I would recommend in those moments that we retreat into the bedroom, but she would laugh and go back to reading.


    It¡¯s strange remembering those moments now. Most of the memories I have of us being physical involve her initiating the contact. Veronica thrived on physical contact. If we fought¡ªand we did¡ªshe would want a hug or to be held, but I would remain emotionally and as physically distant as I could.


    What would have happened if I just took her book away and took her by the hand instead and showed her what I wanted.


    ¡°I love you.¡±


    We¡¯re standing in the kitchen. Her back is towards me as she stands by the sink rinsing some berries. She turns, smiling, shaking the water off a double-handful of strawberries and blueberries. ¡°Why?¡± she asks. She sets the berries in a bowl, popping one in her mouth before handing the bowl to me.


    This declaration of love was a game we continued to play and one that I was horrible at.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t being loved enough?¡± I answer.


    She repositions the question, ¡°What do you love about me?¡±


    I pause too long and she smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly.


    ¡°I love that,¡± I say, reaching out and brushing her temples with my thumb. She leans into it.


    Veronica¡¯s eyes wrap around me. The strap of her tank top was covering my favorite mole, so I moved it, kissing the spot. ¡°I love that you¡¯re avoiding the question,¡± she says, shrugging her shoulder, moving the strap back into place.


    ¡°I love that you accept me for who I am and my declarations of love for what they are,¡± I say, smiling.


    She gives me the look that says I¡¯m in trouble, but then her eyes begin to crinkle again as her pursed lips become a smile.


    I think a part of me believed that throwing around the words ¡°I love you¡± cheapened the meaning of the words. It had to be something that was meant to be said rather than casually weaved into a conversation.


    As our lives progressed together, my rules around those words became a habit. For some reason I thought that my outward actions demonstrated enough, so the need to say it wasn¡¯t there on a regular basis. There were moments I felt like I should say it or that I needed to say it. There were moments when I felt so overwhelmed by the feeling of love, but felt awkward and vulnerable voicing it. I became comfortable in my role of being the one in the relationship who didn¡¯t say it.


    Towards the end, Veronica would hold Eleanor next to her on the bed, telling her over and over again how much she loved her. She would look up and our eyes would meet and she would mouth the words. I would lean over, kissing her on the forehead, feeling the need and the desire to say the words, but my throat would constrict and they wouldn¡¯t come out.


    One afternoon, this exchange took place and I left the room, stepping into the hallway, and leaning against the wall trying to collect myself.


    But then she was gone.


    Veronica slipped away before I could tell her that I loved her one final time.

 Part 1, Chapter 9

    When I was much younger, I used to have night terrors. They usually accompanied a fever and typically happened the night that my fever broke. I could never remember what the night terrors were about, but I remember waking up to my dad shaking me, calling my name, trying to wake me up. Often I¡¯d be trapped in the embrace of the night terrors and my mother would hold me while I moaned and thrashed in my sleep, singing and repeating my name over and over again until I regained consciousness. My parents got used to it over the years and as time passed, the night terrors became fun little anecdotes when we¡¯d reminisce.


    As I grew older, the more I could remember about my night terrors. The last night terror I experienced was years ago, during the first week of my freshman year of college. There was a kegger and the dorm was empty. I wasn¡¯t at the party because I had mild food poisoning and was fighting the fever that accompanied it. I woke up alone around midnight, with the terrifying sensation of being chased.


    I sat up for hours, even after my roommate returned in a drunken and more than likely stoned state, trying to remember more. Slowly an image began to form of a three-headed humanoid creature astride a lion with dragon wings. It was chasing me down a long tunnel that¡¯s just a little bit taller than myself, about seven feet wide, and stretched on for about thirty feet before its curve caused the end to disappear. My bare feet were slapping wetly against the wet floor of the tunnel. As the lion breathed fire, I could see that the walls and the floor of the tunnel were red, looking like the inside of someone¡¯s throat. I could see the three heads with their distorted, grotesque mouths open, roaring in anger as I remained just ahead of the grabbing claws of the lion. I¡¯m not sure how long the night terror had lasted, but the sensation felt like forever.


    Always running, but never getting away.


    The constant fear of being caught, torn apart and devoured.


    Years after that night, in a fit of anxiety, stress or depression, that feeling of being chased would return. When it did, I would sit or stand there, somewhat catatonic as that feeling of running, running¡ªsomewhat akin to the sensation of constantly falling in your dreams¡ªuntil I would shake or slap myself from the stupor.


    There¡¯d be times when, in those moments after I shook myself free from those thoughts, I¡¯d tell myself what I experienced wasn¡¯t an external experience. Because it was internal, whatever it was, and was a part of myself. Somewhere, deep in my subconsciousness, the beast was inside me; was me.


    Even after that experience with my cat, Blackie, there¡¯d be times I would let the beast out: shooting my BB gun into a nest of baby birds, kicking a soccer ball at a kitten, holding my dog by her neck against the ground as she struggled; whimpering, clawing, trying to bite until I released her, my forearm bleeding.


    The night terrors never returned, but there¡¯d be occasions where I¡¯d wake to Veronica telling stories about things I did in my sleep that I had no recollection of: odd conversations, sitting up wide-eyed and staring at her in the dark, and occasionally a few things I did to her that were quite a bit more naughty.


    There was one night when she was weak and lying in bed, and I was reading to Eleanor from a chapter book. A few sentences into a new chapter, Veronica interrupted from the bedroom, saying that I had already read the chapter to Eleanor the day before.


    No, I insisted, I hadn¡¯t picked this book up in a couple days.


    Veronica proceeded to describe the cake that was delivered to the children a couple pages later. Eleanor piped up at that point, agreeing with her mother.


    I grew frustrated. How could I not have any memory of reading that book?


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    Later that evening, once Eleanor was asleep, I confronted Veronica, asking her if she was just toying with me, but she insisted and stuck with her story.


    It¡¯s my memory. It¡¯s an unreliable thing.


    Yet, where my memory fails, inductive reasoning takes over.


    Rather than anchoring to information my senses were receiving, I began to think rationally through the logic of the situation. I started assigning blame to the typical causes of these mental faults: stress, anxiety and depression. I begin obsessively dissecting the events, looking for possible explanations, listing the obvious assumptions and developing hypotheses to test.


    Our human nature, by default, causes us to base decisions and thoughts on our most recent experiences. There was definitely a sense of cognitive dissonance as I experienced a heightened level of psychological stress while I sorted through these contradictory experiences: the visions of Veronica and Eleanor¡¯s duplicate self.


    Prior to these events, if someone had asked me if I believed in ghosts, I wouldn¡¯t have hesitated in my denial. Within that denial, though, I realize how hypocritical I am. For years, I blindly accepted the idea of faith and religion, regardless of the lack of science and occasional reason to prove it.


    With the discovery of the God Particle, science had basically rendered ghosts as a figment of our imaginations. Because the God Particle proved that everything in existence should have mass, ghosts should retain a certain frequency or particle that corresponded with their human body, making them detectable.


    That encounter with Veronica wasn¡¯t the only one. I hadn¡¯t seen her physical form since that night, but there were still moments of footsteps throughout the house that weren¡¯t associated with myself or Eleanor.


    A few nights ago as I lay awake, I could hear Veronica humming on her side of the bed. It was the same tune she used to hum when Eleanor was a baby, lying in our bed, nestled between us. I rolled over on my side, reaching across the bed to where Veronica used to lay, listening to her hum until I fell asleep.


    As this went on, it was a companionship that I became used to. I didn¡¯t feel as lonely as I once did. I stopped piling pillows on her side of the bed. I turned off the hallway light at night. I slept better, awoke more refreshed, and felt more connected to Eleanor. There was a strong likelihood that this was all part of my imagination, but I was happier. Not completely happy, per se, but happier than I had been, which was a considerable amount of progress.


    Checking in on Eleanor, I see that she¡¯s lying skewed sideways across her bed, her covers thrown off. I straightened her out, brushing her hair away from her eyes, and tucked her back underneath her covers.


    Going into my bedroom I begin my nighttime routine: going to the bathroom, washing my face, brushing my teeth, going to the bathroom again, and then climbing into bed with my e-reader before deciding to go to the bathroom one more time because of my indecisive bladder.


    Even though these events were random, I have a hope that I might see or hear something tonight.


    After a while, I can feel my eyes beginning to grow heavy. I realize that I haven¡¯t progressed to the next page for a while, so I close the cover of the e-reader, and let my eyes adjust to the darkness.


    Where Veronica¡¯s rocking chair used to be is the darkest corner of the room. We had set the chair there when we had Eleanor so that there wasn¡¯t any light pollution from outside the house or from the hallway. Now the corner is empty, the chair sold online when it became too uncomfortable for Veronica to sit in.


    I know I¡¯m tired, but in the darkness I can sense tiny movements.


    ¡°Veronica?¡± I whisper.


    The darkness grows, as if it¡¯s standing. The movement is sharp and sudden and I slide out of bed, standing, my back pressed against the wall. An image of the beast flashes in my head as it moves towards me. It appears as if it¡¯s three-legged, until I realize that it¡¯s moving towards me in a bipedal fashion, carrying something that stretches to the floor where its hand should be.


    With its movement comes an inaudible sound. It¡¯s deeper than Veronica¡¯s voice, but sounds far away.


    ¡°Why are you here?¡± I can hear it ask. ¡°Leave us alone.¡± It says something else, but I can¡¯t hear it as my head collides with the wall, hit by some unseen force. Sinking to the floor, I look up, and within the darkness I see my face. I¡¯m angry, scared, yelling while gripping the handle of Veronica¡¯s softball bat.


    ¡°Leave us alone,¡± I hear again as I drift into unconsciousness.

 Part 1, Chapter 10

    It had been several weeks since the encounter with my reflected self. It had shaken me to the core and left me questioning the makeup of my reality while wishing and hoping that Veronica would come back.


    Was I crazy?


    I retained all my faculties, but I¡¯m sure a crazy person would convince himself of that.


    Was I seeing a ghost?


    If I was, then why was I also seeing ghosts of Eleanor and myself?


    Maybe we were all dead and this was the version of purgatory or hell that I am stuck in.


    Every day these logic puzzles would bounce around my mind. I was useless at work. My boss told me to take some time off. When I came in the next day anyway, he told me not to return until I was back to my usual self. Without the distraction of work, I could feel myself slipping into a black hole of obsession over these encounters.


    I started seeing the impact on Eleanor, as well. I was silent and distant, lost in thought, so she was silent too. Days would go by without us talking, except for me asking for her to perform tasks: get dressed, brush your teeth, go to bed. A few nights ago after I tucked her in, while I was sitting on the floor waiting for her to fall asleep, I could hear her crying into her pillow. If Veronica were here, she would comfort her and ask her why she was so sad. I knew what the answer was: I wasn¡¯t being a good dad.


    The next morning, I called my parents and had them take Eleanor for a few days. Without her as a distraction, my entire day was spent thinking and theorizing about these recent events. I searched online for various articles about ghosts. Most came from sites I judged as sketchy. I listened to podcasts and watched videos on the subject. I searched and posted on social news aggregation sites, trading messages with a whole host of individuals from diverse backgrounds. It was too much. Information overload. No one had a solution or an answer, and I was just adding to the already cluttered paths of logic in my mind.


    I thought about going to see someone, whether it was a psychiatrist or a physicist, but I couldn¡¯t convince myself to give up the anonymity I had online.


    Taking a break, I went out for a run, letting my mind work out and categorize all the information spilling into the seams.


    In my freshman year dorm, the community bathroom had two rows of sinks, sitting opposite of one another with mirrors on either wall. As you stood there, looking into the mirror, it created an endless series of reflections. The effect was mesmerizing, especially with whatever stupor or hangover one was experiencing from the night before. There would be plenty of mornings where I¡¯d stand there, brushing my teeth and watch my reflections do the same, moving in unison. If I concentrated hard enough, I could see the motion of each image nudging the next. For the most part, that observation was a figment of my perceived reality. I couldn¡¯t actually see the ripple effect going from one reflection to the other, but I had listened enough to pass a mandatory science class to know that our perception¡ªwhat we see¡ªis actually the past. This is because light has a finite speed. Whether it¡¯s the light from stars several light-years away or the light from the sun, what we see has to travel to us. If you¡¯re sitting across the table and your dinner companion spills a dab of ketchup on their shirt, you¡¯re still seeing that in the past. Granted, it¡¯s a billionth of a second in the past, but it¡¯s still the past. The moon, for example, is just over one light second away, so when we look at the surface of the moon in the night sky, it is a view that is just over one second old.


    During that mandatory science class, the professor lectured one day on the Big Bang and how it wasn¡¯t a singular event, but one that we are still experiencing. He handed out printouts of photos from the Hubble telescope of distant supernovae. The photos were taken over a period of time and the exercise was measuring the photos to demonstrate how the universe was still expanding. For a long time, cosmologists had thought that the universe would one day stop expanding, but found, through the use of this giant telescope, that the universe¡¯s expansion was still accelerating without any signs of stopping. The most amazing piece of this discovery was that the universe started expanding long before the Earth was formed, but that¡¯s all relative to the overall age of the universe. Within that context, combined with the reality that the universe is still expanding, the fact that Earth formed and was followed by millions and billions of years of physical and cognitive evolution, it¡¯s mind-boggling to think of what¡¯s to come with the expansion of the universe over the next billion or so years. Will there be a point where there will be no mysteries of the universe, and the God of the Gaps will disappear into the annals of history?


    When I was a child there was some syndicated television show (I don¡¯t remember the name) that attempted to display some sort of spacetime paradox. In the two-dimensional animated short, there were a pair of twins. One of the twins boarded a spaceship that left Earth for a nearby star system. To the twin left of Earth, the mission would take 10 years in Earth time, but to the astronaut, because of the speed in which they were traveling, the round trip would only take six years.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    What would have happened if the space twin continued traveling until he reached the far edges of the expanded universe? Looking backwards and seeing the light from the distant stars and planets of our solar system, would he see past, present, and future all lined up, stretching into infinity? Would his journey be infinite? Could he travel on and on without reaching the end, or just like Sir Francis Drake navigating the Earth, would he eventually reach Earth again and again and again? What if our perception of the universe being infinite is wrong, and that it is actually finite? Would he reach the end and see that the universe is moving future to past instead of our perceived notion of time: past to future?


    If the universe is finite, does that make the whole notion of the spacetime continuum void? Would that make the universe timeless as well? Is time an illusion? Made up to explain the passing of seasons or the rotation of the Earth around the sun because, as humans, we¡¯re hardwired to experience it that way because of our biological, neurological and philosophical makeup? If time is relative to the observer, as fallible as humankind is in other arenas, could we be wrong about the idea of time? If there is no time and there never was and never will be, does that mean that only the present exists? Are we living through just a series of Nows that are coexisting throughout creation; everything existing at once completely and absolutely without time?


    The only evidence I have of seeing myself, Veronica or Eleanor is my memory; a structure of neurons and synapses firing in my brain in this Now. Those memories and the other memories of Veronica throughout the years are just records, stored in my brain, and I¡¯m only able to experience them in the Now. There is no time or place where she still exists. The lunch I ate a few hours ago is still not being eaten. This point in time is all that exists. The future doesn¡¯t exist, nor the past. Any actions in the past were done in the Now and any actions in the future will be done in the Now, as well.


    None of this can be explained in ways that my mind can cognitively understand. The mind by its nature functions on the basic understanding that reality consists of things that can be broken down and explained in a linear fashion. Even as I think this, I know this is flawed, because my understanding is limited and linear, but the universe isn¡¯t linear. For all I know, the distinction between past, present and future is only a persistent illusion. What if part of that illusion was that the past, present and future didn¡¯t exist on separate timelines, but coexisted together, all at once, in the Now. Could time, in its past, present and future forms, be folded on top of each other, like a piece of paper folded into three even panels, and humankind¡¯s experience with ghosts are just the encounters with bodies from another time coexisting alongside us? Does this also explain alien encounters? Could we also be experiencing the distant future where traveling at the speed of light and living in the far reaches of the cosmos has evolved humankind into these superorganisms with elongated skulls and a propensity for probing?


    When I was a child, for a short period, my parents and I lived in a rural part of the state. Most of our neighborhood was covered in trees, each house spread across a few acres and carving a swath between each was a relatively dense forest with a creek running through it.


    When it would rain, myself and a few neighbors around the same age would run north, following the creek, clutching paper plates. The creek would swell during big enough storms, changing course and flow. Over a safe embankment, we¡¯d lean over the churning, swirling water and drop our plates. The current would catch them and we¡¯d follow them down the creek, running through the tall grass, dodging trees and bushes, along a small dirt single-track our feet had carved, down, down till it reached a tunnel going underneath the road. There the plates would be sucked into the vortex. The winner would hoot and holler and then we¡¯d divide and walk back to our houses, wet and occasionally cold.


    It was always interesting watching how the storms would shape the forest. During the larger storms the creek would crest the embankment and spread 20 to 30 feet. The next day you could walk through the forest and see the path the creek had made by the flattened grass and the upturned trees.


    There¡¯d be times where we¡¯d find new ecosystems forming in the woods after a rain. One I remember, started as a small puddle after a storm; only an inch deep, maybe two feet in diameter. Normally it would have been an easy victim for a good splashing or stomping, but it went untouched. Over time more rain formed it into a larger puddle, then soon a small pond. It was away from the creek, but we¡¯d see minnows and tadpoles over time. On warm days you could lay on the cool ground and watch water bugs skittering across, speculating about where the water-dwelling creatures had come from. How did they get there? Were they pushed there by a storm? Did they evolve there from the micro-beings that were in the water to begin with?


    It was easy to see the passage of time within the forest. You¡¯d see it during rainy years with the creation of these curious ecosystems, and in the drier years when the creek would recede and we discovered an old limestone road buried in the creek bed.


    I used to think that my parents aged slowly, partly because I used to see them every day, but when I moved out and seeing them every day turned to three or four times a year, I saw the passage of age more clearly. Flipping through the library of photos and videos on my phone, I can see how quickly Eleanor grew while Veronica deteriorated.


    If the past doesn¡¯t exist or if it¡¯s coexisting alongside this present, what does that mean for Veronica¡¯s experiences, my experiences, or even Eleanor¡¯s? What does all this mean for the memory of Veronica? If time doesn¡¯t exist, are we all just coexisting together forever in our varying experiences of the Now, and somewhere across the cosmos a past Veronica is still present?

 Part 1, Chapter 11

    When something is broken, I have an unquenchable urge to fix it or, at the very least, be the catalyst that pulls together other resources to fix it. For the most part, if it¡¯s something that affects any aspect of my day¡¯s productivity, whether it¡¯s big or small, and it affects my overall efficiency, I have to eliminate it. It becomes a task that¡¯s on my to-do list, and I have to check it off. If it¡¯s an issue caused by external contributions, I¡¯m very content in my designated role of trying to fix it. If it¡¯s an issue caused by internal contributions, I am very challenged when it comes to self-diagnosis.


    I am my own worst enemy. As much effort as I put into diagnosing the faults in others, I cannot do the same for myself. There is effort, but I can never identify the main causality. Typically, I would dwell on a causality for a day, then decide that something else is the causality to that causality and dwell on that one for the next 24 hours. That pattern would continue until I¡¯d finally confront the issue and talk to someone else to get their opinion. Sometimes, just in the voicing of what was broken, my brain would piece it together.


    There are occasions though, when the puzzle will be too complex and by thinking and dwelling on it, I¡¯ll lose myself in a cesspool of anxiety and depression; ultimately forgetting what it was I was obsessing over after several drinks.


    Due to the recent circumstances, I told myself I wouldn¡¯t drink and I haven¡¯t, mainly because I wanted the stress and the anxiety to keep me going as I puzzled over the complicated logic of Veronica¡¯s appearance and Eleanor¡¯s and mine doppelganger.


    One day, I would believe that time was folded upon itself.


    Then the next, I would think that I was crazy and just imagining things.


    Followed the next day by a conversation with myself about the multiverse and that I¡¯ve somehow worn down the fabric of spacetime to see through it.


    Then, I would convince myself that I was insane.


    Part of the challenge was that I didn¡¯t talk to anyone. I kept my computer off to avoid the temptation of additional theories entering my already-addled brain. There were good resources out there with experiences of their own to compare against mine, but mine was my own experience and unique only to me. No one else was there to participate in those experiences with me. I kept my phone off for the same reason, except for two pre-arranged times throughout the day that I would call my parents and Eleanor. I had made the excuse that I was working a lot of hours on a big project with a lot of meetings and that¡¯s why I could only call twice a day. They accepted that reasoning without any resistance. I always wondered how much they knew I lied, and if they knew I was just being a bad parent.


    My mind is a complicated hell to be present in. There is no sense of control to my thoughts or actions. Since Eleanor has gone to live with my parents, this has felt like a procession of days; marching to the emotionless rhythm of nothingness. On the worst days, it feels like a waking nightmare. I feel like I¡¯m going mad trying to process the fact that Veronica is never coming back and what I felt I saw.


    The fact that I¡¯ve resigned myself to saying ¡°What I felt I saw¡± is an indicator that I¡¯ve begun to doubt what I saw. Besides the scientific theories that seemed to support what I had experienced, it was bordering on fantasy and magic.


    While I was in high school, my first real job was working at a local grocery store. I started as a bagger, sacking groceries for customers, limited to a vocabulary of ¡°Paper or plastic?¡± and ¡°Have a great day.¡± I was very eager in my job and started displaying those organizational skills that would carry me through college and into the workforce. Good baggers didn¡¯t just put things in bags; they found the pattern in ordinary purchases and organized them in a way where crushable items didn¡¯t get crushed and where space was maximized, while making sure the bag was never too heavy for its contents or the customer.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    I was soon promoted to cashier, where the movement of items across the scanner-scale and the keying in of items became my next challenge in efficiency. If you scanned too fast, every item wouldn¡¯t get caught. Likewise, if you had a bagger that wasn¡¯t as good as you and you scanned items in a random order, you would be left bagging groceries at the end due to their inefficiencies. But if you organized the items as you scanned them, sending the products down the conveyor belt in an orderly fashion to your assigned bagger, everyone wins.


    During slow times, I liked staying busy. I would stock the non-grocery department, face shelves, ring up customers at the VHS rental counter, or return to bagging. We also had a grocery-loading service where I¡¯d find myself most afternoons, loading cars and minivans with the customer¡¯s purchased groceries, refusing tips because that was against our policy.


    Typically we worked in pairs and for a couple weeks I was paired with a self-made albino.


    I say ¡°self-made¡± but he could have been an actual albino. Never having met a real-life albino, it was hard to tell. Self-made was my assumption because his hair was bleached white and he told me that he wore red contacts. He also carried a black marker in his pocket to darken his fingernails and touch-up the homemade tattoos hidden beneath his white buttoned up shirt.


    His name was Drake and he was a self-professed Wiccan.


    In between customer pickups he would tell me about his occultic dabblings in magick, which he insisted was spelled with a k. He told me of animal sacrifices and guardian summonings. He told me that his order¡¯s priest had given him a special consecrated Air Dagger. When they had begun a guardian summonings on the first night of the six night ritual, a strong windstorm began out of nowhere in the middle of the incantation. On day five of the ritual, he came to work and during a break showed me a massive bruise across his collarbone. Drake told me that during the incantation the night before, he was struck by an unseen force that knocked his Air Dagger into the bushes. He was more upset about the dagger than the painful yellow and purplish bruise.


    After that, I didn¡¯t see Drake for a week.


    When he came back I asked how the ritual ended. He smiled, telling me it was a success; that they had summoned a guardian.


    I asked how he knew. Did it speak? Did it perform any parlor tricks?


    ¡°He spoke,¡± Drake told me. ¡°¡®I am Asmodeus,¡¯ it said ¡®and I shall be free. We shall conquer death and Hell together and the Earth shall be mine.¡¯¡±


    I asked for a new shift after that.


    But even amidst all the creepiness and theatrics, the one thing that still resonated with me was how Drake viewed the magick that him and his goth clique were performing. He said that what we consider science now was considered magick 400 years ago. Even 100 years ago, there was still a strong belief in magick in civilized cultures. The people of Ireland, for example, still believed in changelings at the beginning of the twentieth century. Husbands killed their wives because they thought they were replaced by fairy folk, when in actuality they were probably experiencing postpartum depression.


    Drake said that all intentional acts are acts of nature. Everyone, including myself¡ªhe was trying to recruit me at one point¡ªhad the ability to merge with the primordial flow in the universe and produce changes in their environment. All one had to do was to determine their path and follow it.


    ¡°Magick,¡± he said, ¡°is the science of understanding yourself and once that self-discovery is made, that knowledge can be put into action. We are all microcosmic images of the universe and when we put our will into practice, focusing that energy on an intention, we are using the intention of the universe, because nothing can withstand the force of an indomitable will.¡±

 Part 1, Chapter 12

    Standing in front of the mirror I can see what a mess I am. I haven¡¯t showered in days. Dark rings encircle my eyes. The sparse facial hair I have has grown in patches. If I cared enough to notice, I probably would have noticed the stench of body odor.


    My parents are worried. Since I dropped off Eleanor, they¡¯ve called once or twice a day. Once, usually in the morning, so that Eleanor and I could talk. Then another time, usually at night when Eleanor¡¯s asleep, where they¡¯d phrase carefully guarded questions to better understand how I was doing. My answers were typically as guarded to make sure they felt that I was okay.


    Today was the first day they didn¡¯t call. When I hear a knock on the door, I expect that it is them stopping by to check in on me.


    But when I open the door, it¡¯s the parish priest, Father Matthias, standing on the doorstep.


    ¡°Hi,¡± I say. I¡¯m sure it sounds more like a question since he¡¯s the last person I expected to see. But he¡¯s also the first human being I have talked to face-to-face in over a week and I feel awkward and out of practice.


    ¡°Hello,¡± Father Matthias says. ¡°I hope you don¡¯t mind that I am stopping by unannounced.¡±


    ¡°Oh no, it¡¯s fine,¡± I lied. I can feel my stress levels increasing; a tightness in the back of my head.


    ¡°Your parents¡ª¡± of course it was my parents, ¡°¡ªreached out to me. They¡¯ve been worried. Frankly, I¡¯ve been a bit worried about you since the funeral. I hadn¡¯t seen you at mass since then. You or Eleanor.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say, drawing out the syllables. ¡°It¡¯s been a tough few weeks.¡±


    ¡°Do you mind if I come in?¡± he asks.


    I hold the door open to him in response and he steps inside.


    I follow closely behind him, turning on a couple of lights, picking up discarded delivery boxes off the sofa and coffee table, carrying them into the kitchen and placing them on top of the dirty dishes piled high on top of the counter.


    ¡°Do you want something to drink?¡± I ask.


    ¡°No. Thank you though,¡± Father Matthias responds.


    I find the cleanest dirty cup on the counter and fill it up for myself with water from the tap.


    When I return to the living room, he¡¯s still standing, observing, taking in the wanton destruction of my apparent distress.


    ¡°Please, sit,¡± I say, gesturing to the couch. He smiles, nods a thank you, and sits.


    A long silence stretches between us before he turns to me and asks, ¡°How are you doing?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been a tough few weeks,¡± I repeat.


    He smiles gently. ¡°That doesn¡¯t answer my question, though. How are you doing?¡±


    There¡¯s something genuine about the way that Father Matthias asks the question, the way he leans in and holds my gaze. It doesn¡¯t feel like he¡¯s there to say a prayer to make himself feel better about performing his priestly duty for a parishioner, but because he cares about me.


    ¡°Do you want my honest answer or the answer I¡¯ve been giving everyone since Veronica died?¡± I ask.


    ¡°If you want to share your honest answer,¡± Father Matthias responds, ¡°I¡¯d rather hear that.¡±


    I pause. Taking a moment to form the words.


    ¡°I feel broken,¡± I start. ¡°I feel like my mind especially is broken. I keep seeing and experiencing things and there¡¯s no explanation that truly makes sense of those things. But something deep within feels broken as well. I don¡¯t know what to call it. My heart? A soul perhaps? I can¡¯t seem to function as a parent anymore without Veronica. Everything I try to do for Eleanor is wrong and I feel like I¡¯ll just hurt her or cause her more trauma.¡±


    I¡¯m quiet.


    Father Matthias is quiet too. He breathes in deeply and exhales a thoughtful ¡°Hmmmm¡± before speaking. ¡°Thank you for sharing,¡± he says slowly. ¡°I appreciate that you felt willing to be open with me and share those feelings. At the funeral when you spoke, I could sense that there was a lot of confusion and anger regarding Veronica¡¯s death, does that sound accurate?¡±


    I nod.


    He continued, ¡°You said something along the lines of¡ªand forgive me if I phrase this inaccurately¡ª¡¯If God is a good God, why does cancer exist?¡¯ Does that sound right?¡±


    Again, I nod.


    ¡°Suffering and why we suffer is an important, but tough question. I come across examples of suffering almost daily and when I encounter suffering amongst our parish and parishioners, this question comes up a lot: how can God be good or just or all-powerful, when there is so much evil and suffering in the world? So much suffering that God appears to do nothing about. How can God be Love and sustain what He has created when there is so much suffering?¡±


    He pauses, so I interject with, ¡°My parents used to say that our suffering is caused by our sins. We sin, so God punishes us with all the things we suffer from.¡±


    ¡°But there¡¯s the irony,¡± Father Matthias says, smiling. ¡°There¡¯s a story where one of the disciples asked Jesus how often he should forgive his brother and Jesus tells him that he should forgive him ¡®seventy-times-seven.¡¯ The point of that number, at least the way I was taught in theology class, was that it was meant to represent an infinite number. So, if we are to forgive an infinite amount of times, shouldn¡¯t God also? So what would be the point of causing us to suffer?¡±


    ¡°Then what is the point?¡± I ask.


    ¡°If we are created in God¡¯s image, and if we, as creations of God, suffer, then God must also be suffering. The central image of our church, behind the altar, is of a crucified God. And I believe that he walks alongside his crucified people. He doesn¡¯t observe our suffering from a distance, but is within our suffering; suffering alongside us. And that brings us into solidarity with suffering on a universal level. It joins all of our suffering as one, so we are never alone in it. But that¡¯s where we have to separate out what is truly in God¡¯s control and what is in ours. While God knows and understands suffering and suffers alongside of us, we can¡¯t truly lay pain at God¡¯s feet and ask, ¡®Why does this exist?¡¯ Why can¡¯t you stop suffering?


    ¡°Most of what we suffer comes from man not living in harmony with Nature. That lack of harmony is Chaos; the heart of suffering. God didn¡¯t create your wife¡¯s cancer. Nature did not create your wife¡¯s cancer. Man did. It was in their rebellion against Nature that created it. Unknown to them, in their discovery and pursuit of knowledge and the sciences, that as they were seeking control over Nature, what they were truly seeking to gain control over was God. And in that, Chaos was born; a cancer upon the world. Only by seeking a closer harmony with Nature, can we truly have life and be free of suffering.¡±


    ¡°Why haven¡¯t you ever shared this at Mass?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Because,¡± Father Matthias responds, ¡°people aren¡¯t really looking for this answer. A part of them is attached to their suffering and they wouldn¡¯t accept such a simple answer to a complex problem. Telling ourselves that we were given dominance over Nature was the biggest lie of religion. Adam named the animals not because he held dominance over them, but because he knew and understood them in a way where he could speak into existence what they were.¡±


    It was too much. For weeks, months, since the beginning of Veronica¡¯s sickness, I had built up an anger within me. I had stoked the fire and I couldn¡¯t justify the existence of that burning inferno within me any longer. It was doused. Still hot. Still smoldering. Still there. But no longer roaring.


    I¡¯m quiet for a moment, wrestling with the torrent of emotions gripping my chest.


    While I couldn¡¯t blame God for her suffering, I still had blame for myself. Veronica was alone when she died. I left her alone in her suffering; amplifying it in her final moments.


    ¡°She died alone,¡± I whisper.


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    ¡°She didn¡¯t die alone,¡± Father Mattias says, laying a comforting hand on my shoulder.


    ¡°No,¡± I say. ¡°She did. She did. I left the room and she was gone. I didn¡¯t tell her goodbye. I didn¡¯t tell her that I loved her.¡± I wipe a few errant tears off my cheeks.


    ¡°Veronica knew you loved her.¡±


    ¡°Did she? Sure. Maybe. But not then. Not at that moment.¡±


    ¡°She knew. She knew.¡± Father Matthias pats me on the shoulder as he says this before removing his hand and resting it in his lap. ¡°Love is a funny thing. There¡¯s teenagers in our youth group that are going through this cycle of being in and out of love with each other. ¡®So-and-so is in love with so-and-so,¡¯ I hear almost daily in the rumor mill. Love as an emotion can live and die in and outside of any moment. But Love as a force, as an ideal, as the manifestation of God in the universe, doesn¡¯t die. It lives and is felt in every moment. That is what I believe you held for Veronica. Not the emotion, but the force. And that is felt and was felt by her no matter where you were when she died. She knew you loved her. She felt it all around her.¡±


    I sit, letting his words sink in, feeling the tears course down my face, watching them drip from my jawline and pitter-patter onto my pants leaving a dark impression of their passing.


    I sigh, wiping my eyes again and sit up. ¡°Well, that was fun.¡±


    Father Matthias laughs, ¡°Was it?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I shake my head, ¡°not really.¡±


    ¡°Grief takes time. It doesn¡¯t always go through clear, established stages. You need to be patient with yourself. Give yourself some grace. You¡¯ll get through it. You and Eleanor both.¡±


    Father Matthias stands, wiping the back of his black dress pants as he does, a few crumbs of food falling back down onto the couch cushions. He opens his mouth to make his farewells, but pauses. Reaching down to the coffee table, he picks up a scrap of paper, a drawing of the shadowy figure with the softball bat on it.


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Do you believe in ghosts?¡± I replied.


    ¡°No,¡± he says. ¡°At least not in the traditional, Hollywood sense of ghosts. I do think people can experience something that is akin to ghosts, but is more than likely a memory or if supernatural, a blessed vision of an angel or saint that is living in the presence of God. Why?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I say. ¡°Never mind. It¡¯s nothing,¡± I gesture to the drawing. ¡°Just a doodle.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s cool,¡± Father Matthias says. ¡°Makes me think of that baseball movie when they are all out in that field and all the ball players start to appear. Now that¡¯s a good ghost story.¡±


    We say our goodbyes and Father Matthias leaves, saying as his parting words, that he¡¯ll pray for me.


    I don¡¯t say it, but they¡¯re needed, because I don¡¯t know what the fuck I am going to do.


    Leaning against the door, I let myself slide down to the floor.


    The image of Veronica dying alone in her bed surrounds me. She wasn¡¯t alone, Father Matthias had shared. But she was, at least in the sense that I wasn¡¯t there physically.


    What I had done to her was unforgivable. And I knew that I would eventually do the same to Eleanor.


    Something feels broken inside me, as if a distant earthquake was pushing a tidal wave towards me, looming over me, almost to the point of crashing down and destroying everything. Pulling my knees to my chest, I close my eyes, letting my thoughts drift.


    We are in Veronica¡¯s apartment.


    All is quiet.


    She reaches out to me as I¡¯m rushing around, trying to get out the door for an appointment. My focus is on the tasks, not on her. Veronica grabs my hand as I walk past, grabbing my jacket. She pulls me into an embrace, wrapping her arms around my back and shoulder, but I don¡¯t have time. I need to leave, so I inhale, my chest pushing forward as it inflates, ending the embrace as I walk out the door.


    We are sitting in our house having dinner.


    Eleanor, not even a year old, sits between us in a high chair.


    I had gotten home from work later than usual. I was tired and hungry, and as soon as I walked in the door, I started to judge Veronica¡¯s organizational and planning skills as dinner preparations still hadn''t started. Veronica tried to explain that Eleanor was off her typical napping schedule, but I saw so many different paths the day could have taken for Veronica that would have led to having an on-time dinner that I just took over the entire process: hastily peeling and chopping vegetables, laying them out in a stone baker and placing it in the oven as I started to cook chicken thighs on the stove. In the background Veronica paced, bouncing Eleanor on her hip, asking if she could help, but I dismissed her saying that I had everything under control.


    As we sat at the table eating dinner, all was quiet except for the occasional squeals and intense mashing of food coming from Eleanor. This wasn¡¯t unusual behavior for me and my assholery typically would continue for the rest of the night.


    ¡°All I want is for you to say you¡¯re sorry,¡± Veronica says quietly.


    ¡°For what,¡± I responded immediately. I don¡¯t even pause for a moment to consider my actions or attitude.


    ¡°For the way you talked to me or aren¡¯t talking to me,¡± Veronica says.


    ¡°I don¡¯t mind helping with dinner,¡± I start with. ¡°But if you had given me a head¡¯s up, I would have been in the right mental space to dive in and help out. Or I would have tried coming home earlier so that we could have had dinner at a normal time. If we don¡¯t eat at our normal time, Eleanor¡¯s bedtime routine is pushed back. We have to clean-up dinner, then bath, then teeth brushing, and book reading. There¡¯s only so much time and when we push things back, she always is a little bit more difficult to put to sleep and she never sleeps in, so for every minute of lost sleep, we¡¯re putting her and us at risk for having a crappy day tomorrow. And the later she goes to bed, the less time we have for ourselves.¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± she says, ¡°but it¡¯s not about what you said, but the way you said it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry that you misinterpreted what I said,¡± I responded.


    ¡°It¡¯s not really an apology if you¡¯re not admitting fault.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t feel like I need to apologize. I came home with the expectation that I could sit, eat and relax. There was no head¡¯s up that I¡¯d be entering into this chaotic mess. My day in the office was chaotic enough.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m sorry that I failed your expectations in playing the part of a 1950¡¯s housewife,¡± Veronica says, her voice raising.


    Eleanor senses the growing tension and starts to cry. Veronica gets up from the table to pull her out of her highchair, with a ¡°Hey, hey, hey. Everything¡¯s alright.¡±


    I can¡¯t stand it.


    I shove the rest of the food on my plate into my mouth. ¡°I¡¯m going out.¡±


    ¡°Where are you going?¡± Veronica asks.


    ¡°Out. I just need some time to wind down. I¡¯ll clean up the mess when I get home.¡±


    She calls my cell as I¡¯m driving and I reject it, sending it to voicemail. If she wants to know where I am, she can use the phone location app that she always forgets she has.


    Pulling into a hole-in-the-wall comic book shop, I go in. Escapism is key. I hadn¡¯t bought any comics in a long time. What was disposable income is now going to disposable diapers. I¡¯d still stop by, looking at the covers on the shelf, appreciating the art while remaining confused about the current story arcs. Occasionally I¡¯d buy trades, but only for stories that began and ended within in. There were so many crossover events that it was easy to accidentally pick up a trade that was only one part of a story and before you knew it, you had an irritated wife wondering why you had overspent your allocated monthly budget ... again.


    Flipping through a trade, I¡¯m tapped on the shoulder.


    ¡°Do you work here?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say, turning back to the trade I¡¯m flipping through. I realize I was too short and not very helpful so I look back up, but she¡¯s already walking away. I watch her walk down the aisle, appreciating her short edgy haircut. She was attractive. At least from behind.


    My mind wandered, building a fantastical relationship with Comic Book Girl. What was she like? Would she understand me better than Veronica? Would she accept my various psychosis? Would she apply emotional words and phrases when it wasn¡¯t intended?


    It wasn¡¯t the first time I had let my mind wander. There was a girl at the coffee shop with a bird tattoo on her wrist, a female coworker I¡¯d work long hours with, and a woman running ahead of me on the trail that managed to keep at a pace I couldn¡¯t overtake.


    But then I start feeling guilty. Why was I thinking such thoughts? Why did I think that Veronica didn¡¯t understand me or accept my psychosis? Why did I lack empathy? Was it because, at the heart of it all, I was a borderline sociopath?


    It was a lack of control.


    It was a lack of trying.


    It was a lack of trying to control what I had allowed to unravel.


    Sometimes I wondered what was wrong with me.


    Driving home that night, while crossing a bridge, I look in the rearview mirror and see a semi merge into the right lane, pushing a black family sedan against the guardrail. The car looks like it¡¯s being squeezed like a bar of soap until it pops out, flipping, the trunk popping open and suitcases and clothes tumbling through the air.


    What am I doing?


    Why am I driving in the middle of the night?


    Why am I not with my family?


    Love is hard. No one had ever told me that. Love had always seemed to be the easiest human emotion to convey, because it naturally happens. But love on an emotional level was fleeting.


    When things were new and fresh, the fabric of our relationship was a tight weave. There were moments in time when love was everything. A force, as Father Matthias described it, radiating from Veronica every moment of every day, but after a while it was only a spark in me on most occasions. I had forgotten what it meant to get lost within the idea of love. To fully let go and to just let it wash over me.


    I couldn¡¯t keep holding on to this idea of Veronica. I had to let her go so I could fully embrace what it means to be a father and to love a child. Even though Eleanor was without a mother, I had to provide her with that sense of whatever it is that mothers give their children.


    Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I call my parents and ask them to bring Eleanor back home.


    Then I begin to cry. The weight that had been present for so long began to shift and I feel a brief moment of euphoria before I choke and gasp and sputter, beginning to shake and sob as I let Veronica go.


    My head is in my hands; my hands resting on my knees as I catch my breath, watching the tears mark the wood flooring beneath me. A warm, gentle hand touches my shoulder. Looking up, it¡¯s Veronica. Her face is curious and full of empathy and life.


    ¡°Are you a ghost?¡± she asks.

 Part I, Chapter 13

    On our honeymoon we traveled to Italy. During our tour of Florence, we stumbled upon the fingers of Galileo nestled in a bell-shaped jar at the city¡¯s science museum. They were posed, pointing up as if at the stars that he observed. As we reached the front of the line, like so many other people ahead of us we point and murmur about the great man of science in reverent awe, except for me who wouldn¡¯t miss the chance to say irreverently, ¡°Ow,¡± in my best extra-terrestrial impersonation.


    Galileo had started the renaissance of modern science that continued through Newton, Einstein, Wheeler and DeWitt, and countless others. Physicists began looking further out into the stars and also deeper within our physiology to discover more about the makeup of the universe. Theories expanded; some bordering on the fantastical, barely able to be proven given the limitation of our tools, techniques, and minds. Where one theory might end, another one begins, while still another one tries to smooth out the gaps of knowledge in between the other two.


    It began with the idea that the Earth revolved around the Sun, then the discovery that the Earth wasn¡¯t flat, followed by the discovery of gravity. Newton, through the motion of apples falling from a tree, published the theory of gravity; explaining the motion of the moon and the planets. There were still gaps in this theory that Einstein helped fill by defining that the medium that transmits gravity is space itself as seen by how the Earth is kept in orbit because it moves across an environment curved due to the Sun¡¯s presence.


    Space was soon defined within three dimensions through length, width, depth; left, right, back, forth and up, down. Time became the fourth dimension. Scientists and theorists soon began to debate the existence of other dimensions. The first four were easily visible and measurable, but what about other, smaller dimensions that are in the microscopic depths of space?


    Math and the sciences were never my strong suit in school. As linear as math was, I could never see the pattern that it presented. Even as I try to organize these thoughts on paper I¡¯m annoyed by the limited knowledge I have and the attention I can give before I have to shift focus due to the pressure building behind my eyes.


    Even now I find every science documentary fascinating as they delve in and dissect the mysteries of the universe, especially around the presence of mathematics in nature. These patterns tend to repeat enough that ultimately they could be replicable; taking the complexities of the universe and explaining it at a fundamental level. So much so that the idea of replicating the universe and creating one that is almost completely indistinguishable from our own seems possible. It¡¯s a matter of knowing the defined laws of physics¡ªgravity, quantum mechanics, electromagnetism, nuclear forces¡ªas well as the undefined¡ªwormholes, black holes, dark matter, matter-antimatter asymmetry¡ªand identifying the relationships that tell you ¡°by how much¡± and if you could create the same genesis conditions, you¡¯ll create a universe with the same chemical, physiological, and biological makeup as our own.


    A big piece of this puzzle is trying to pull ourselves out of the box we fit ourselves in by defining things like space and time. If we could forget those definitions when it comes to the universe, we could, in theory, enter a realm of dimensionless constants that would allow us to transcend the universe itself.


    When I was little, on special occasions my dad would put on a record from his collection and turn up the volume for one special song that began with a helicopter landing. With the volume turned up to eleven, we would sit next to the speaker feeling the sound waves vibrate through us before the drums and electric guitar kicked in. Before I understood what math or science was I used to imagine that those sound waves had some sort of physicality to them as they passed through me and how we were surrounded by vibrations. Some you could feel, like through the speaker, while others weren¡¯t as perceptival. It was this notion of a cosmic symphony; how once you dive in deep, past the microscopic level, past the idea of electrons, neutrons, protons, atoms and the subatomic, deeper until you¡¯ve transcended all sense and all that¡¯s left is an endless tapestry of vibrating strings composing what would eventually form itself into our universe.


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    Once you strip away the notion of God within the creation story, the randomness that formed the Earth is pretty complex and extremely random. Why do we find ourselves on this planet at this particular distance from the Sun, instead of the other planetary possibilities? Any closer to the Sun and our planet would be too hot for life to exist. Any further away and the planet is too cold. For some reason, Earth is disturbingly fine-tuned for life. If ours was the only cosmos created by the Big Bang, the randomness behind these life-friendly attributes would seem impossible. But if our reality allowed for the existence of a multiverse that contained an infinite amount of universes, more life-friendly ones could occur.


    If you shuffle a deck of cards enough times, the same pattern will emerge. Whether that pattern emerged to form another distinctly different world with distinctly different humanoid creatures, or created a world exactly like Earth with humans exactly like us who continued along the same path and trajectory as the people that came before us is the next question.


    Somewhere, in the far reaches of the infinite cosmos, there might be a galaxy that looks just like ours, with a planet just like ours, with a house that looks like mine, inhabited by someone who looks just like Veronica and me and Eleanor. If there is a multiverse that contains this outcome, then there are a variety of other outcomes dictated by the choices those doppelg?ngers made and the paths they took. With the multiverse laid out like a row of reflected selves, whenever one of us is faced with several courses of action, each version could take a path creating many distinct temporal dimensional differences and distinct histories in their part of the cosmos. With those possible choices and outcomes, the combination of all the courses taken throughout history would be innumerable, creating an infinite number of similar universes to ours as each moment of every sequence is explored.


    Building a treehouse in our backyard, my dad and I were building the platform and my dad asked me to get out of the way and I did, tumbling off the side of the treehouse and down the wooden ladder. In this universe I fell to the bottom of the steps, my arm sliding in between the rungs and stopping myself with a wrenchful twisting of my shoulder. In another universe I fell to the ground, landing on my neck and paralyzing myself.


    During a particularly rainy summer, our extended family was canoeing on what normally was a calm river. Due to excessive rainfall, the river flowed faster than usual and in weeks past had flooded, tumbling massive trees over the banks and creating a challenging obstacle course. At one point, as we tried to round the massive roots of a tree that laid on its side in the river, our canoe was pushed up against the root system and was sucked underneath the water, taking me with it. Uncles and cousins grounded their canoes and leapt into the water, running and splashing to get alongside our canoe to lift it out. By that point, my eight-year old self had grabbed hold of the roots climbing out of the water, clinging desperately as the current still tried to pull me under. In another universe, I probably had inhaled a lot of water by the time my uncles pulled me out to the rocky beach, failing to resuscitate me.


    Somehow, if any of this is true, and the multiverse does exist with its randomness and complexity, somewhere in the far off cosmos I had found Veronica and Veronica had found me, and we were still together with Eleanor.

 Part 1, Chapter 14

    I stop and look around. A few boats are out on the river today. There¡¯s a couple small fishing boats, trying to catch the season¡¯s migrating freshwater salmon. A couple were party boats. Even though it was early in the day, barely noon, shirtless men and bikinied girls were standing on the deck, or in inner tubes, canoes or kayaks talking and laughing with beverages in hand.


    The area where the two rivers joined was always busy. Sometimes after work I would head out for a run and push my way through the lesser populated outskirts of downtown into a park near the rivers and onto a small dirt trail that eventually made its way to the mountains.


    I am almost to the bridge that crosses over the river. I skirt around a couple vehicle-deterrence poles and make my way onto the pedestrian walkway. My head is down, lost in thought, but something catches my eye: a muted flash of light on a swatch of red hair caught in the wind. Looking up, I see her emerge as she nears the apex of the bridge. She is walking, breathing deep as if coming off a series of sprints.


    The woman stops a few feet from me. She looks out onto the river, hands on her hips, catching her breath. Turning her head slightly she looks at me from the corner of her eyes. Catching me watching her, she smiles.


    ¡°It¡¯s a beautiful day,¡± she says.


    ¡°It¡¯s a little toasty,¡± I responded.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± she laughs. ¡°Running might have been a poor choice.¡± She sticks out her hand. ¡°I¡¯m Veronica.¡±


    I stick out my hand to take hers.


    Palms meet.


    Electricity.


    The memory is gone, but Veronica is still with me, physically here, kneeling next to me, her hand on my shoulder. My shoulder tingles from the very real sense of touch it was feeling.


    She repeats herself, ¡°Are you dead?¡±


    I look up, unsure what to say. For a conversation starter ¡°Are you a ghost?¡± wasn¡¯t what I expected, so after a moment I just said, ¡°No. I¡¯m not. Aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Veronica slides down to the floor next to me.


    We¡¯re both quiet for a moment. Trying to understand what was happening, and the possible lanes of logic that could explain it.


    I notice that Veronica touches her stomach self-consciously; a motion she did when she was pregnant with Eleanor.


    ¡°Are you pregnant with Eleanor?¡± I ask. Part of me knowing that by saying this I might have provided the name and inspiration for the name.


    ¡°No,¡± she says. ¡°She¡¯s sleeping upstairs.¡±


    My mind freezes, trying to piece together what this information could mean.


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    ¡°Is she five?¡±


    Veronica nods.


    ¡°So, you¡¯re pregnant¡ª¡±


    ¡°With our second,¡± she finishes.


    Another empty expanse of silence.


    ¡°Where am I?¡± she asks.


    ¡°You¡¯re in our¨Cmine and hers¨Chouse.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Veronica says. ¡°I recognize this house. It¡¯s the same as mine. Where is she? Your Veronica.¡±


    ¡°She died,¡± I tell her. ¡°Cancer. A couple months ago.¡±


    ¡°How is Eleanor?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Okay,¡± I say. ¡°She¡¯s with my parents.¡± I trail off, realizing that I don¡¯t really know how Eleanor is doing.


    ¡°How are you doing?¡± Veronica asks.


    ¡° I feel¡­¡± I trail off and start again. ¡°I feel like I¡¯m failing. I don¡¯t know how to be the best version of myself without you.¡±


    We begin to talk, sharing things, accepting without saying that the multiverse does exist. I talk to her about what it was like with my Veronica being diagnosed and going through treatments. She shares stories about her Eleanor that have similarities and subtle differences. No matter what universe Eleanor is in, she is still strong, independent, and a handful.


    Throughout our conversation I begin to pick out subtle differences about this Veronica. She appears less self-absorbed and more aware of the cause and effect outcomes of her actions. I know it¡¯s an odd thing to highlight and one that damages the memory of my Veronica, but during those times when I was at my most annoyed, those were the things I picked up on; seeing those trails leading back to other decision points that would have delivered greater efficiency or effectiveness in her actions. This sense of awareness from her wasn¡¯t just in relation to how she seemed to interact with her version of me, she¡¯s just more aware in general. She¡¯s in tune and connected to her surroundings. There¡¯s also these subtle things in the way she talks that demonstrates the personality differences.


    When she talks about him¡ªthis other me¡ªthere¡¯s a greater sense of connection between them. She¡¯s more aware of him, he¡¯s more aware of her, and he¡¯s aware of the cause and effect of his actions.


    I wonder at what point our universes diverged. What happened to make these subtle differences in who we were that led to us still being together? At the same time, how could my Veronica and I have been compatible for so long when compared to the obviously stronger compatibility in our doppelg?ngers? There wasn¡¯t this sense of ¡°you ought to¡± with them. It wasn¡¯t as if there were these cosmic waves pushing them together. They were drawn together without any pushing or nudging from outside forces. They fit together more deeply than we ever could, even before the cancer took root. It wasn¡¯t something that was easily explained, but the way she talked about him and how they interacted and communicated between each other and with Eleanor had love more ingrained within each action, word and deed. It was woven within the fabric of every word she spoke. It wasn¡¯t because they had to interact and communicate that way, but because it was who they were as a natural extension of themselves and their love for each other. She saw the love contained within each action and gesture he took, and likewise, he saw the love contained within each action and gesture she took.


    If this is what they had, what was it that Veronica and I had? Am I just remembering things wrong? Have my memories been contaminated by her fight with cancer and subsequent death?


    There is an element of cynicism that creeps in as I listen to this other Veronica. Maybe they too, at some point, will reach the same point of stagnation in their relationship; where things become routine and habitual. There¡¯s also a larger element of hope waging war against this cynicism and winning. Maybe they will be better than we ever would have been.


    I try to extract from her details about their universe. There¡¯s no time travel, no flying cars, no islands full of dinosaurs, no one has made it to Mars, and there are still white supremacists. The deck of cards were dealt almost the same, but with us as the exception. Somehow this universe received a better version of us.


    ¡°Eleanor misses you,¡± I told Veronica. ¡°She doesn¡¯t say it. She¡¯s trying to be strong, but I know she does.¡±


    Outside I hear car doors slam. My parents are here with Eleanor.


    And once again, Veronica is gone.

 Part 1, Chapter 15

    ¡°Daddy!¡±


    Eleanor rushes in, hugging me around my legs.


    My parents follow behind her. Their faces are strained and their body language is cautious. My dad nods to me while my mother asks how I¡¯m doing. I lie, saying I¡¯m doing much better.


    ¡°There were some things I needed to process,¡± I tell them, which is, for the most part, true.


    My mother surveys the wanton destruction laid about the house and with a sigh begins picking up garbage and random pieces of clutter. I sigh and do the same as my dad takes Eleanor and her suitcase upstairs.


    While in the kitchen putting dirty dishes in the sink and dishwasher, my mother tells me that I¡¯m a good dad.


    ¡°I¡¯m trying,¡± I tell her.


    ¡°You need to do better,¡± she tells me and the confrontation, subtle and quiet as it was, is now over.


    In that statement though, laid the heart of the matter. Even when I voiced that I was trying, the truth was that long ago I had stopped trying and let things grow stagnant. I built habits around that laziness, and now that it was me all alone without Veronica to help pick me up, I didn¡¯t know where to start.


    ¡°Father Matthias stopped by early,¡± I tell her.


    ¡°Oh?¡± she responds. I hoped that she would admit that she had asked him to stop by and check on me, but she didn''t. She instead responded with, ¡°How is he?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s good. We talked for a while.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s nice,¡± my mom says and I feel a little twinge inside my chest.


    Why the subterfuge? Why not tell me that they were worried about me; that they felt some kind of emotional feeling about me? Perhaps this is the legacy they have passed on to me: the inability to feel and to share those feelings.


    We ate dinner together and my parents left and I was back into the role of a parent.


    Eleanor and I went upstairs and we unpacked her suitcase, putting away the neatly folded clothes in her drawer. She pulled out one dress in particular, exclaiming that this new dress was her favorite dress ever. Grabbing her toiletries we headed into the bathroom for bath time. We sat and stood quietly as the bathtub filled up. Eleanor grabbed a couple toys and threw them in before climbing in herself.


    As she laid there, floating in the water, I asked, ¡°How was Grandma and Grandpa¡¯s?¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± she says.


    ¡°Did you guys do anything fun?¡±


    ¡°We went to the zoo.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah? What was your favorite animal?¡±


    ¡°The monkey! It was so, so funny!¡±


    ¡°Cool,¡± I say and we lapse into silence.


    After a while, she says, ¡°I can count to one-hundred in tens, want to hear? Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty.¡± She stops, losing her train of thought, and she spins around in the water. ¡°I need my hair washed. Make sure you use conditioner so it can be silky and smooth.¡±


    ¡°Did Grandma teach you that?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± she says, and so I wash her hair.


    Washing hair, as easy of a task as it is, was always something that was nitpicked. When Veronica was still around, I would do bathtime, and on the days she asked me to wash Eleanor¡¯s hair, I would do so. Without fail, after every bath as Eleanor sat on our bed and Veronica brushed her hair, Veronica would ask, ¡°Did you put in conditioner?¡± I could never get the combination of the right amount, application, and time in hair. There was always the question of whether or not I could accomplish this simple task from Veronica, and apparently I never could.


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    Eleanor asked if she could help and so I put a little squirt of shampoo in her hands and she proceeded to massage it in as I did the same. She laid down in the water, letting the soap fan out like a halo as it rinsed out. I brushed the hair that wasn¡¯t in the water with my hands so that it could rinse out as well. She sat up and I got out the dreaded conditioner, squirting a little bit in her hand and my own, and together we rubbed it in.


    Somehow, we¡¯d survive, silky and smooth hair or not.


    Out of the bathtub and somewhat dried off, she began her familiar routine of running and screaming down the hallway naked while I sat patiently on the floor holding a nightgown and a clean pair of underwear.


    Once Eleanor was convinced to get dressed, we brushed teeth and somehow in the mix of it, she rammed her shin into a step stool and there¡¯s crying and screaming, and I feel helpless all over again. I try to tell her a joke to distract her from the pain, but she screams at me even louder for telling a bad joke. Even though she isn¡¯t bleeding we put a bandage over the bruised spot and suddenly everything is better.


    I asked her to get three books to read and she got twelve. I told her three again and she chose four from her pile and I conceded. Two books on princesses, one book with talking bears, and one book about a worm that could spit rhymes.


    As she climbed into bed and I tucked her in, Eleanor asked, ¡°Can you tell me a story about Mommy?¡±


    I think for a moment and begin, ¡°A long time ago, Mommy was a princess that lived high atop a tower in a castle far, far away.¡±


    Eleanor laughs, ¡°Mommy wasn¡¯t a princess. Mommy was just mommy.¡±


    Fair enough.


    I start again. ¡°When you were growing in Mommy¡¯s belly, she was so excited to meet you. When you¡¯d kick and move around, Mommy would talk to you and tell you about her day and about all the exciting things we would do with you once you came into the world. She would play music and dance around the house. She would tell you to be strong and brave and fierce and to grow into the best version of yourself. And when you decided to come into the world, we were ready for you and Mommy was very brave and strong. You came out and Mommy cried because of how happy she was and she held you and gave you kisses. You opened your eyes and saw her, and she thought you were the most wonderful thing in the whole world. Mommy held you and you grabbed her finger and held on too, and she never let you go.¡±


    At some point, Eleanor had crawled out of bed and into my lap. I held her as the story went on, talking about how she grew from a tiny little infant into an army-crawling, screeching, laughing little baby. Eleanor would laugh at the littlest thing, reserving her belly-laughs for games of peek-a-boo. During days when naps were difficult, Veronica would load Eleanor into a stroller and walk around our neighborhood. The cries and screams would end as Eleanor would stare at the sky and the trees passing overhead. When Eleanor caught the flu, Veronica stayed up with her, holding and rocking her until they both passed out. When Eleanor was old enough, but still too young to understand what princesses were, Veronica would play dress-up with her, parading around the house in their regality, even when she was too sick. At night when Eleanor wouldn¡¯t fall asleep after a nap too early in the day, Veronica would stay up with her reading until ultimately, Eleanor fell asleep.


    On and on the memories went, with Eleanor snuggling deeper into my arms. ¡°I miss Mommy,¡± she whispers.


    ¡°I know, baby.¡±


    I pause for a moment, seeing the rabbit hole before me. ¡°Would you want to see Mommy again?¡± I ask.


    ¡°You mean in heaven,¡± Eleanor asks.


    ¡°Something like that,¡± I say.


    I hold her tightly in my arms, imagining the possibility of her having Veronica as a mother again. I think of the time I spent with the other Veronica a few hours before and all the things I missed about her and all the things I knew Eleanor needed from her mother. All those wishes and what-ifs began to take form, and I began to see the event horizon, light falling in all around us and we began pushing towards it. I could feel myself begin to shake. Opening an eye I could see my arms and hands and criss-crossed legs vibrating, shimmering in the dimness of the nightlight. Closing my eyes again I could see the light behind my eyes red-shift and then nothingness, feeling like we were getting pulled into a horizontal ring.


    Everything begins to happen at once.


    I am at the center of a whirlwind, and I am in the center of Eleanor¡¯s room. The air seems to be expanding and contracting with a whooshing sound. The room seems to be getting darker, and now the lights were all flickering and going in and out as the walls seemed to be falling around us and the ceiling cracks open.


    Eleanor is calm and I pull her in closer to me, holding her even tighter.


    I can see the future laid out before us with all of my unintentional failings, and how they would create a broken shell of what Eleanor¡¯s true potential was. I closed my eyes and began pouring every ounce of my will into a singular goal.


    Something breaks inside me, but I keep holding on. Eleanor grasps my forearm, calmly facing the unknown.


    ¡°I love you Daddy,¡± she says.


    Then all is still and quiet, except for the quiet resonance of something somewhere vibrating.


    Eleanor is gone and I am all alone.

 Part 2, Chapter 1

    I open my eyes and loosen my arms from around her. With a soft curling of her head, Eleanor nuzzles into my chest, nearly asleep.


    I couldn''t do it. I couldn''t let her go.


    I stay, seated on the floor, cross-legged, well past the point of numbness, until she¡¯s grown limp and heavy with sleep in my arms.


    Rolling to the side, I lay her down gently onto the floor of her room. Reaching into her bed, I grab a pillow and lift her head so I could slide it under, followed quickly and quietly by a blanket that I drape over her.


    I lay down next to her, watching her breathe in and out as I massage feeling back into my legs.


    Looking around I observe the shadows and the stillness of her room.


    ¡°Are you there?¡± I ask, but Veronica doesn¡¯t answer.


    And perhaps she never will.


    Had she ever answered me? Was all of this a delusion? Had a really tried to will Eleanor away from me?


    The reality of those thoughts sink in.


    Was the fragility of my mind so willing to readily accept the existence of the supernatural or the multiverse?


    Perhaps it was.


    Was I really so broken that the only course of action was to abandon Eleanor?


    Perhaps I was.


    I think about Father Matthias, his visit, and the words that he had shared. Perhaps it was time to forgive myself and let go of Veronica and the guilt I had placed on myself.


    Getting up, I cross the hallway to my bedroom. Turning on the lights I go to Veronica¡¯s dresser and open the drawers. All the evidence of her still remains there. Picking up a t-shirt, I put it to my face and inhale, breathing deeply what my imagination tells me is her scent, even though I know that it¡¯s long gone.


    Veronica would always tell me that I smelled good. Even after I stopped wearing cologne and switched my deodorant for a natural, smell-less crystal she would still hold me tight; breathing in the manly mustiness of my scent.


    Early on in our relationship, she used to steal my t-shirts and take them back to her apartment to sleep in. For one of her work trips, I made the grand gesture of wearing a shirt for two straight days without showering before sealing it in a ziplock bag to accompany her. It was a treasured prize and I remember how pleasant she looked in it when she¡¯d video call me at night from her hotel room.


    Veronica would always ask me for my opinion of her scent. She would try different perfumes to see what I liked most, but besides having a dislike for the ones that made my nose itch, I really had no opinion. My nose wasn¡¯t connected to my other senses and since it functioned independently, it didn¡¯t care. Unless, on the occasional mornings, when Veronica rolled over for some affection and exhaled heavily an unpleasant smell.


    I never expressed this to her, though, probably making her feel less desired than she was when I¡¯d turn to deflect a kiss to my cheek, or worse: turn away completely.


    Such was the pattern of my life with her: hold back, don¡¯t share, detach.


    I have to do better.


    I drop her t-shirt to the floor and begin emptying out the rest of her dresser.


    There¡¯s no thought or emotion to it. It becomes a task; this action of purging her from the room. The pile grows and before long I begin to question my methodology. This wasn¡¯t the most efficient path. So, before I move to the closet, I run downstairs to grab a few trash bags before changing my mind and collecting all the reusable canvas grocery bags we have lying around the house. I begin shoving her clothes into the bags, trying to fit as much in them as possible. I hear for a brief moment Veronica¡¯s nagging voice, telling me that I should fold the clothes, that it¡¯d be easier for the volunteers at the donation center, but I ignore it. All that extra effort would go to waste as the volunteers pull the clothes out, sorting it into different piles, before hanging or arranging the clothes in their own fashion. As I move to the closet, I don¡¯t even remove the hangers. Certainly the volunteers at the donation center will have some use for them. I roll the dresses, shirts, dress pants, and other vestments so that the hanger is tucked inside the folds of the clothes and then those too get stuffed into the canvas bags.


    There¡¯s some vestiges of memory as I do this. As devoid of thought I want my actions to be, I can¡¯t help but think of Veronica in these outfits. The memories, more like the fluttering of thoughts, are mostly negative; the unspoken thoughts I had whenever she wore something I didn¡¯t like. I wasn¡¯t that into fashion. I just had opinions that I never voiced.


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    She had a red and white horizontal-striped shirt that she wore during times of year when it wasn¡¯t okay to look like a candy-cane. There was a long-sleeved shirt she had bought for a date with a larger than necessary opening for her neck which allowed her to bare her shoulder. I normally would love the idea of a bared shoulder¡ªone that exposed the mole that I so dearly loved¡ªbut on her it wasn¡¯t as sexy as she had intended. Most things that she bought and wore in order to be ¡°sexy¡± she couldn¡¯t pull off in my mind. A big piece of that was because she didn¡¯t have to don a certain piece of clothing to be sexy.


    The times where she was most desirable were unintentional. It was the moments that she owned the room: talking with friends, recapping her life in an entertaining and gesticular fashion, or just talking with me one-on-one about national news or politics. It was in those moments where she was in command and showing her strength of self that I wanted her most.


    It was in those moments that the true nature of who she was¡ªher most ideal self¡ªshone through. It didn¡¯t matter what she was wearing¡ªalthough nothing never hurt¡ªbut it had to be something authentically her. I always thought that the outfits I despised most were the ones she bought after seeing it online or in a catalog. A photoshopped model wore it, it looked sexy, so she bought it, but it wasn¡¯t truly her.


    But, like most times, when it would have been appropriate to have communicated it, I left that sense of attraction and desire unspoken. It was easier that way. It was all in my mind, but I felt that if I shared what I was feeling, she would respond with a ¡°Why?¡± and then I¡¯d be out of the moment, having to justify my feelings; feelings that I never felt completely sure of. Why did I feel that way? Was my opinion wrong? Were they good or bad feelings? Was I good or bad for having those feelings? It was only in retrospect that I understood that Veronica needed to hear those feelings from me, if only for her to know that she was loved and desired.


    I have to do better.


    In the downstairs closet, closest to the front door, I find her ancient puffy imitation-down jacket. Early in our relationship Veronica had asked me if there was something she wore that I didn¡¯t like. Without hesitation I named this jacket. There were probably more offensive items of clothing and, so many years later, I can¡¯t remember this particular jacket¡¯s offense. Perhaps it was how it had no form to it and it made Veronica look like a purple marshmallow with limited moveability. Perhaps it was how its stuffing was made out of some sort of material that didn¡¯t insulate well and she was always complaining about how cold it was. Regardless, I don¡¯t remember the exact details and regardless of my objection, she still kept it as her primary winter coat.


    Into the canvas bag it goes.


    Probably five years ago, maybe seven, Veronica finally stumbled into a sense of fashion that was her own. It was a brand that she fell in love with that made her look effortlessly feminine, womanly, and with the birth of Eleanor, motherly. It was part pioneer and part modern woman; relaxed and well-worn; earth tones and soft, rugged natural materials. As her closet grew with these clothes, they became her everyday look. Even after Eleanor was born she wore their clothes¡ªespecially their dresses until the pants fit again. Thankfully, she didn¡¯t let herself slip into a postpartum sweatpants slump. Taking the time to put on something she felt herself in helped her manage motherhood easily.


    Motherhood was effortless for Veronica and I found her desirable in that too. Her body filled out in all the right spots when she became a mother. Breastfeeding hadn¡¯t hurt her figure either. Even after Eleanor was weaned and her breasts shrunk, they were still an object of my attention during our often interrupted sexual explotations.


    But I never told her those things.


    Into the bags those clothes go.


    My thoughts turn from these memories. I have to do better, I remind myself. It becomes a mantra: I have to do better. I have to do better. I have to do better.


    I hear the bedroom door open upstairs. I¡¯m surprised that I don¡¯t immediately think that it¡¯s the visage of Veronica checking on Eleanor again, but then, with that thought,  I start thinking that it could be Veronica.


    But when I turn, it¡¯s Eleanor, determinedly stomping down the stairs.


    ¡°I have to go to the bathroom,¡± she says.


    ¡°Okay,¡± I tell her.


    ¡°I drank a lot of water and I have to go so bad.¡±


    She sounds a bit embarrassed, but I can tell, looking into her eyes that she is worried I might be mad, so she is trying to be cute and funny.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± I say. I take her to the bathroom and she hops up onto the seat.


    ¡°I have to go so bad,¡± she tells me again.


    ¡°You did a great job listening to your body,¡± I tell her as I hand her a folded piece of toilet paper to wipe herself with.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± she says, hopping down and stepping up to the stepstool to wash her hands.


    ¡°You should pull your pants up so you don¡¯t trip,¡± I say.


    She yawns into a laugh. ¡°Oh yeah. Thanks.¡±


    We head back up to her room and she climbs into bed, lays down, and closes her eyes. Within moments she¡¯s asleep.


    Back downstairs, I survey the pile of bags sitting by the front door. It feels like there¡¯s too much. Something should remain.


    There could be a day, years from now, when I¡¯m going through our digital photo roll, showing pictures of Veronica to Eleanor. In one picture Eleanor would see her mother wearing something fancy and ask inquisitively, ¡°What happened to that article of clothing?¡± I would go to a secret door in the house, pull it open and remove a box. Opening the lid, there would be a time capsule from her mother.


    I grabbed the bag of the pioneering modern woman clothes and started to unpack it, folding each piece with more care than I give my own wardrobe. Finding an empty plastic tub, I set them inside along with Veronica¡¯s jewelry box that contains all of her earrings, necklaces and bracelets.


    Down into the basement it goes to be uncovered at another time.


    I¡¯m tired.


    I think it¡¯s more from the weight shifting in my chest; away from my heart, letting me breathe again.


    When something has been hanging over you for so long, it¡¯s hard dissociating from that sensation, but when it¡¯s gone, it¡¯s gone. And so is Veronica.


    I have to do better. I have to do better.


    I¡¯m going to try.

 Part 2, Chapter 2

    ¡°Happy birthday.¡±


    Eleanor rolls over, her eyes squinting in the morning sun as she gazes at me. ¡°Happy birthday to you, too,¡± she mumbles.


    I laugh. ¡°That¡¯s not really how it works, but thank you.¡±


    I show her how I¡¯ve laid out her clothes for the day and give her instructions for the morning: get up, go potty, put on clothes, brush teeth, and come downstairs for breakfast. It¡¯s funny, but even though we have been through this routine for three years and she¡¯s been encouraged to act independently, Eleanor still needs to be reminded and each morning is filled with utterances of ¡°Ugh, I forgot!¡± as she slaps her forehead with the palm of her hand and I remind her to do better next time.


    Having woken up early and my own morning routine mostly complete, I head downstairs to start Eleanor¡¯s birthday-themed breakfast. It¡¯s pancakes and bacon. Nothing too unusual or special about them. Usually we¡¯ll have pancakes on the weekend, so it is special¡ªin a birthday sort of way¡ªto have them in the middle of the week.


    Upstairs I can hear Eleanor rummaging around. She has probably decided that the outfit I picked out for her wasn¡¯t fancy enough and is picking out a new one. Sure enough a few minutes later she comes downstairs wearing something completely different and much more fanciful.


    Eleanor sits at the table, kicking her feet and looking out the window to keep herself occupied as she waits patiently for her breakfast.


    ¡°Dad,¡± she starts.


    ¡°Since when am I ¡®Dad?¡¯¡± I ask, cutting her off.


    Eleanor tilts her head, giving me a look¨Cthe same look her mother used to give me¨Cto say that I¡¯m in trouble.


    ¡°Dad,¡± she says, drawing the word out into multiple syllables, ¡°I¡¯m six now.¡±


    She turns back to looking out the window; distracted, apparently forgetting what she had wanted to say.


    At the stove I pour a new pancake, bigger than the rest, and drop blueberries in the shape of the number six. After a while I flip it over, closely monitoring it till it reaches its optimal doneness before turning it onto a plate.


    I present the plate to Eleanor with a strip of bacon, a dab of butter, and a splash of maple syrup.


    Eleanor looks at it smiling. ¡°Is that a six?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I tell her. ¡°Very good.¡±


    ¡°Because I¡¯m six?¡±


    ¡°Yup. Happy birthday.¡±


    I put some pancakes and bacon on my plate and returned to the table.


    ¡°How does it feel to be six?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Eleanor responds. ¡°Okay, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± I say and we eat our breakfast in silence.


    When breakfast is finished and cleaned-up, our attention turns to getting Eleanor to her kindergarten on time . I pack her lunch and backpack while Eleanor makes another trip to the bathroom. After several reminders to get her shoes on, she¡¯s finally ready to go.


    Last night we worked on a birthday poster that¡¯s now tucked in her sparkly unicorn backpack, the last few inches sticking out of it. It¡¯s a list of her favorite things: her favorite song is from a movie musical she¡¯s never seen; her favorite book is a story of a warrior princess and her fat, stubby-legged pony; her favorite color is pink of course, followed closely by purple and black. At the bottom of the poster is a picture of her family: an awkwardly drawn and hardly recognizable image of myself and Veronica with Eleanor between us with her arms drawn coming out of her head. More than likely I¡¯ll hear about it from her teacher later as a sign that she¡¯s developmentally behind the other kids in her class, but who cares. She¡¯s six. She has plenty of years ahead of her to understand where arms sprout from.


    Walking through the house to the garage we weave through Eleanor¡¯s latest construction: her house. Her house is made from a few of her favorite things. It isn¡¯t a very discriminate list of favorites; just odds and ends from around the house¡ªtoys, household items, and clothes which should have been in the hamper with the other dirty items.


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    These items are placed in the most trippable locations. They are stacked on top of books, in the colander which should be in the kitchen, in an old backpack, or placed in a toy apple-red briefcase. They stretch from the edge of our kitchen, to the hallway leading to the garage, and into our spare bathroom that is now doubling as Eleanor¡¯s house¡¯s living room.


    I tried to explain to Eleanor that she shouldn¡¯t have people going to the bathroom in her living room, but she just laughed. Last night I contemplated cleaning the house up, but then realized how angry Eleanor would be with me, so I left it there.


    We¡¯re in such a hurry to get out the door that I almost forgot one of the most important parts to her birthday celebration.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I say, stopping her suddenly with a small pull on the back of her backpack


    We turn around, weaving between Eleanor¡¯s pretend house back to the living room. I point to a present hidden in the corner. Eleanor gasps, dropping her backpack, and runs towards it ripping off the wrapping paper, not even noticing that the box¡¯s seal was already broken. She reaches in and pulls out a doll.


    ¡°What is it?¡± she asks.


    ¡°It¡¯s a doll,¡± I say. ¡°Do you see her hair and how long it is? You can practice braiding it.¡±


    Eleanor gasps again, hugging the doll to her chest. ¡°I love it so much!¡± she exclaims. ¡°This is the best gift in the whole wide world!¡±


    The truth is that the doll was meant more for me than for her. The box¡¯s seal was broken, because over the last week, after Eleanor was in bed, I had taken the doll out to practice hair braiding; watching a dozen or so online tutorials until my fingers knew the patterns by heart.


    This was me trying to do better.


    I have Eleanor sit on the couch and proceed to divide her hair into three separate segments, rolling one on top of the other, forming a loose french braid. I steal one of the ponytail holders included with the doll and finish it off. Carrying her to the downstairs bathroom, I let Eleanor look at it in the mirror. She puts a tentative hand behind her head to feel the braid.


    ¡°What do you think?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Just like mommy does,¡± she says.


    I smile. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s get in the car fast, because now we¡¯re really late.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re never late,¡± Eleanor says.


    ¡°Yeah, you¡¯re right, but it¡¯s your birthday.¡±


    There¡¯s kindergarten and work and then we¡¯re back home. I¡¯ve invited my parents over and while they keep Eleanor entertained with more new dolls and a collection of other toys, I cook Eleanor one of her favorite meals: spaghetti. It¡¯s not the best flavor to pair with a chocolate cake, but she is the birthday girl, and what six-year-old understands the complexity of various flavor profiles, anyways?


    Instead of buying jars of spaghetti sauce from the store, I have on the stove at a low simmer a collection of canned whole plum tomatoes, basil, a ton of garlic, some red wine, and salt. The cake is already in the fridge cooling and I¡¯m already uncomfortably aware that Eleanor is on the path towards a late bedtime, but I¡¯m enjoying cooking from scratch too much to be truly bothered by that fact.


    This used to be our thing, Veronica¡¯s and mine: cooking. Since she passed, I would still cook most days of the week, but it was simplified and rushed. Today was the first time in six or so months that I was taking the time and enjoying it. In the recent past, if I was tempted to cook a pasta sauce from scratch, I would have skipped the simmer stage and went straight to plating, convincing myself that however bland it was in the moment, that overnight the flavors would seep into every nook and cranny and be even more delicious the next night for leftovers. Even though Eleanor was too young to appreciate the difference in those flavor profiles, I still hope that she would appreciate the meal and if she doesn¡¯t, I¡¯ll pile on the guilt and shame, making sure I remind her about all the time, energy, and effort I spent until she¡¯s recounting the story years later to her friends or children about the amazing dinner her father made on her sixth birthday.


    The noodles are the only thing I don¡¯t cook from scratch. I¡¯ve seen plenty of online demonstrations to appreciate the fine art of pasta making and to come up with a couple dozen reasons why I don¡¯t want a pasta machine in my house.


    Soon enough dinner is ready.


    We sat at the table, eating and talking. Eleanor, between bites of food, does most of the talking. She¡¯s decided tonight that she¡¯s my neighbor and she calls me by my first name, which coming from her sounds very odd. Her new dolls are her babies. They sit at the table as well, but when I try to strike up a conversation they remain silent. I try to point this out to Eleanor, but she tells me that babies don¡¯t talk, even though they are very clearly disproportionate women in their mid-twenties.


    We cut the cake, sing ¡°Happy Birthday,¡± and we¡¯re back to our usual bedtime routine of bathtime, teeth brushing, and stories. Eleanor¡¯s grandma sits in her room reading while my dad and I clean up in silence, which is our normal routine: just focusing on the task.


    As my mom comes down the stairs, I head up to tell Eleanor goodnight. Her eyes are heavy, but still open. I sit on the floor next to her bed. She reaches out, wiggling her fingers, until I take her hand in mind.


    ¡°Did you have a good birthday?¡± I ask.


    She nods her head as enthusiastically as her tired little body would allow her.


    ¡°I love you,¡± I tell her. ¡°Sweet dreams.¡±


    ¡°Sweet dreams to you, too,¡± she says and she rolls over, closing her eyes.

 Part 2, Chapter 3

    ¡°I can¡¯t hear very well,¡± Eleanor says from the backseat of the car.


    ¡°You know,¡± I say, briefly making eye contact in the rearview mirror, ¡°most people would say, ¡®Can you turn it up, please?¡¯¡±


    Eleanor sighs, exasperatedly, and asks again, ¡°Can you turn it up, please?¡±


    I smile and reach down, turning up the volume a couple notches.


    Since I introduced her to a movie musical that¡¯s a bit too mature for her, she¡¯s been listening to the soundtrack on repeat, belting out her favorite songs in the car or randomly in very public places. It¡¯s also increased her ratio of daily questions.


    ¡°Why is that girl¡¯s hair pink?¡± she¡¯ll ask.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I¡¯ll always respond.


    ¡°Is that the dad singing or his friend?¡± she¡¯ll ask multiple times during one song in particular.


    ¡°It¡¯s the dad,¡± I¡¯ll answer.


    ¡°Is that the friend singing now?¡± she¡¯ll ask a few moments later.


    ¡°Nope. Still the dad.¡±


    ¡°Why did that girl kiss the dad?¡± Eleanor asks from the backseat.


    I sigh. ¡°Because they wanted to introduce a pointless, fictionalized subplot about a historical figure while at the same time demonizing her and deconstructing her into the role of the ¡®other woman.¡¯¡±


    ¡°What does that mean?¡± Eleanor will ask.


    I sigh, throwing my hands up in defeat, and after that Eleanor is quiet for once. Longer than usual as she is probably contemplating the role of women in pop culture.


    ¡°I can¡¯t hear it all that well,¡± she says again.


    I turn up the volume a few more notches and we continue driving, Eleanor singing the songs that she knows at the top of her lungs.


    She¡¯s still singing as we pull into my parents'' driveway. As I pull in, I can see my mother watching from an upstairs window and before I can unbuckle Eleanor she¡¯s outside, standing on the welcome mat, smiling, arms wide and ready to receive her grandchild.


    Eleanor hops out, running to her, tripping, falling, scrabbling back up, running again until Grandma swoops her into her arms, twirling her around.


    Opening the trunk, I pull out her pillow and stuffed cat, along with her backpack full of dolls, a change of clothes, and who knows what else. Carrying it all inside the house I set it down in the living room.


    ¡°Do you want a bite to eat?¡± my mom asks me.


    ¡°No,¡± I say. ¡°Thank you, but I¡¯m good.¡±


    ¡°What time do you think you¡¯ll be back?¡± my dad asks.


    ¡°The concert is going to run pretty late, so I¡¯m guessing that I won¡¯t be back home until after midnight. I¡¯ll probably swing by tomorrow around ten.¡±


    My dad nods in agreement before stooping down to pick up Eleanor¡¯s belongings. She follows him down the hall to her bedroom. I can hear giggles from inside as she crawls her way onto the bed, jumping up and down in delight.


    ¡°Eleanor,¡± I call, ¡°I need to head out.¡±


    There¡¯s giggling and muffled noises. I can guess what¡¯s going on: Eleanor isn¡¯t listening and doesn¡¯t want to get down. Meanwhile my dad is talking to her, laying on some thick Catholic guilt by telling her how sad I¡¯ll be if she doesn¡¯t say goodbye. Which is partially true.


    As I pull out of the driveway I¡¯ll begin to think about her not saying goodbye and fantasize about her remembering that she wanted to say goodbye. She¡¯ll run out of the room, down the hall, outside, and burst into tears when she doesn¡¯t see my car. I¡¯ll be a few minutes away before I¡¯ll convince myself that it wasn¡¯t a fantasy and that she was really crying and call my parent¡¯s landline to talk to her only to find that she was done crying and too busy playing with her dolls to come to the phone. I¡¯ll tell my mom to tell Eleanor goodbye for me, and we¡¯ll hang up. But the fantasy would continue because my mother, meaning well, will tell Eleanor that she just missed a call from me and¡ªdoubling down on traditional, good ol¡¯ fashion Catholic guilt¡ªtell her that I was very sad, which will make Eleanor sad, and then she¡¯ll call me crying so hard that I can¡¯t understand her. I¡¯ll do my best to calm her down, telling her that I love her and that everything will be fine. Through the sobs, Eleanor would say, ¡°Okay, I love you, but can I watch a show?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± I¡¯ll tell her, ¡°if Grandma and Grandpa are okay with it.¡± Her tears will stop and she¡¯ll whisper that she loves me one more time before handing the phone to Grandma to hang up.


    The mind is a complicated place. Full of all these rabbit holes of imaginary issues made up of our insecurities and attachments.


    ¡°Bye, Daddy!¡±


    Eleanor rushes into me, tackling me around the knees.


    ¡°I love you,¡± I tell her, giving her a big hug. ¡°Have fun with Grandma and Grandpa.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Love you.¡± And she rushes back to her room.


    I say goodbye to my parents before heading back to the car.


    In the driver¡¯s seat I rummage through my pant pockets until I find what was hidden: a small plastic baggie with two edibles unfortunately melted together. Pulling them apart, I pop one in my mouth; a premeditated move to let the drivetime to the concert allow the cannabis to circulate in my bloodstream, so that by the time I arrive I¡¯ll have the beginnings of what I hope is a very heady, ethereal high.


    I had been looking forward to this concert for months. This particular singer, Har Mar Superstar, was as indie as you could get, only playing in smaller venues throughout the country. I had first heard him while rolling the radio dial on my commute, trying to avoid commercials and finding some actual, decent music. His voice cut through the mundaneness of my drive, making me blindly reach for my phone, pressing the home button, and asking the virtual assistant ¡°Who is singing this?¡±


    His catalog is small, but all of his albums are amazing. It¡¯s this mixture of soul and pop and R&B. It¡¯s fun and funky and the lyrics are inspirational and a little bit dirty. I started looking for videos of his performances online to see if he was as good as his albums portrayed him to be. Underneath the glare of the stage lights was this singer dancing around the stage in his underwear. His voice was just as good as it was on the albums and his moves were better than I could have imagined any white male pulling off.


    I wish I could have shared his music with Veronica. Honestly, I¡¯m not sure she would have enjoyed it. I think she would have enjoyed the music, but as soon as I showed her a video of him dancing and singing in his tighty-whities she would have dismissed it and I would be left alone listening to him on commutes or in the dark corners of the house with headphones blocking the sound.


    Eleanor liked the music. Granted it was without the context of the singer¡¯s outfit choices, which I¡¯m sure she would have found hilarious, and I only played songs that contained the least amount of innuendo. He fell into the genre I would play for her that was creatively labeled as ¡°Do you want to get funky?¡± Other genres were labeled as ¡°Do you want to rock your socks off?¡± or ¡°Do you want to get jiggy with it?¡± If I had asked her if she wanted to listen to artist A, B, or C she wouldn¡¯t recognize the names. Not that it matters, because if it wasn¡¯t sung by a princess or from her favorite musical she usually wasn¡¯t interested.


    Soon enough I arrived at the club. It was early. Perhaps too early, but I was curious about the opening bands and I already had a comfortably growing buzz snaking its way through my head making things feel fuzzy and more enlightened.


    One of the benefits of getting high¡ªone of many¡ªis that I never felt like drinking, so I ordered a four-dollar bottle of water instead of amassing a fortune on my tab for over-priced beer.


    The crowd was small, but the space was slowly filling up as I made my way closer to the stage. The space was intimate. The stage was probably six-inches off the ground and you could easily stand a foot away from it for the full sweat and saliva filled immersive experience.


    The first set was an electronic-DJ or at least I think that was the genre he fell into. It was all pre-arranged tracks that he overlaid with vocals. It was good, but forgettable. People moved to the beat. Nothing too crazy. They just watched and swayed, sipping at their beers while I sipped on my water.


    The DJ¡¯s booth provided a relatively mesmerizing light show. One audience member in particular was enthralled by it. Hands in pocket, eyes not blinking, and most definitely on mushrooms, he stared into the pulsating rainbow, rocking his head forward and back to the beat.


    When the DJ was done, the crowd shifted. Some people gathered into small, social circles, while others drifted off, closer to the bar. This allowed me to move in a little bit closer to the stage.


    The next act was even more off the wall. The lead singer was dressed in tight, leather pants with a thong sticking up out of the back. His top was made out of black fishnet layered with a black vest. Over his mouth was what I could only describe as a bedazzled bondage mask. His backing band were all shirtless men with glitter covering every inch of their torso.


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    The music started with a fluttering of cymbals before. The lead singer approached the microphone, gripping it in one hand. There was the faintest tremor in the vocal cords as his voice entered his throat, but the voice that came out was in a different league from that of any other voice in any other band. I was taken aback. Based on everything I had seen, this wasn¡¯t what I expected. The music was funky and groovy and the singer, regardless of the apparatus strapped to his face, had an amazing voice.


    I watched in shock until someone jostled me aside: another shirtless man with a gold bandana hiding the lower half of his face. He strutted to the front of the stage where he met a woman clad in a gold bikini. They began gyrating and thrusting towards each other while the singer bent over them, kissing and licking each in a more than platonic fashion.


    People were cheering and grooving to the music; drinks raised, hands in the air, heads bouncing to the left and right¡ªall as one. His music gripped them in the very center of their being. It was a strangely religious experience; a form of worship. The audience was enthralled and in his thrall; a deity being born before our eyes.. And it kept building. The singer was beyond perfection; sailing with each verse and refrain into the realm of chaos, and establishing the right order and balance, a few milliseconds away from catastrophe. Confetti cannons were shot, his fishnet shirt was ripped off by the bikini-clad girl and a few moments later he gracefully stepped out of his leather pants to reveal torn fishnet tights. Soon those were ripped off revealing a gold sequined banana hammock.


    People were bouncing, drinks were spilling, and I could feel the beat of the music coursing through me to the point that I allowed it to release in the form of a rhythmic head bob. Within the chaos, the audience had this sense of thrill about them. Life itself pulsated from them. I could feel it pulsing through me. They were happy. I was happy to be alive and everyone was celebrating this sense of life and perfection at the same time.


    There was more confetti.


    The flashing of lights sped up.


    There were flashes of nudity.


    The lead singer kept fondling himself.


    I loved it; every minute of it.


    And then, finally, almost at the point of climax, the music stopped and the house lights came back on, leaving me feeling somewhat unfulfilled and at such a heightened sense of ecstasy, the silence that followed was almost maddening.


    I wandered towards the back of the venue feeling alone. There was no one to share the experience with; no one to talk to about it. Just me and my thoughts and my empty bottle of water.


    ¡°That was insane,¡± I hear beside me.


    Looking up there¡¯s a man leaning against the wall next to me. He¡¯s dressed in a short-sleeved button up shirt, hair styled with more effort than I apply to mine, and with a short beard that I was immediately jealous of.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t seen anything like that,¡± he says.


    ¡°That was pretty amazing,¡± I say.


    ¡°Have you heard his music before?¡± he asks.


    ¡°No,¡± I tell him. ¡°I really just came for Har Mar.¡±


    ¡°Same here,¡± he says. He looks down at his almost empty beer cup and then back at me. ¡°Do you want a beer?¡±


    I¡¯m not sure how I feel or what state my high is in after that performance. I¡¯m not even sure I¡¯m still in my own body, but for whatever reason I say, ¡°Sure.¡±


    He looks like he¡¯s about to ask what kind of beer I want, but he stops, says that he¡¯ll be right back and leaves.


    Har Mar¡¯s backing band is setting up. The stage is still covered in glitter and confetti, but they don¡¯t seem to mind as they move through it, repositioning microphones and setting up their drum kit.


    They are an interesting juxtaposition to the last band. The trumpeter, saxophonist, bass player, guitar player, and drummer are all wearing these pastel-colored suits. They are smiling, joking with each other as they set up.


    The man is back, handing me a clear plastic cup of beer. Unsure of the social norms of accepting beer from strangers, I fish in my pocket for some loose cash, but he waves it off. We exchange names¡ªhis is Patrick¡ªand we sip our beers, watching the band tune their instruments, before leaving the stage to make their entrance in a few moments.


    ¡°Come on,¡± he says, motioning me forward towards the stage.


    For the main show, people were starting to press in, trying to get as close as possible for the full experience. Somehow we end up at the front of the stage just as Har Mar makes his grand entrance: spinning on the toes of his polished dress shoes, before grabbing the microphone in one hand, and beginning to croon.


    It¡¯s magical.


    And it¡¯s hard to describe. If you ran into Har Mar on the street, you¡¯d think he was a mailman, but as soon as he starts to talk he exudes this sense of swagger that no mailman on earth could pull off without coming off as cocky.


    At one point he does a little striptease as he unbuttons his shirt before launching himself, bare-chested, into a weird yoga-like headstand with more dexterity than is appropriate for his stature.


    It¡¯s a paradoxical night.


    Patrick is fully into the music. He¡¯s created a small space around himself in which he is swaying and moving and grooving to the music. It¡¯s an odd mixture of arms, shoulders, hips and legs. He was in his own world. He was John missing his Uma.


    I was content with my head bobs with the occasional side to side sway. It¡¯s not that I couldn¡¯t dance. If Eleanor was having a dance party, I could get down with some sick dad moves. If Eleanor was having a dance party, I could get down with some sick dad moves. Occasionally, Veronica and I would go out to clubs, but when in public I could never relax enough to dance with the same ease that Patrick exudes.


    ¡°You need to relax!¡± I hear over the music. Looking over, Patrick is smiling at me, gesturing at my stationary hips. ¡°Just let it go, man,¡± I can see him mouth. And he¡¯s back to dancing.


    But I can¡¯t let go. I think I¡¯m having fun, but a part of me knows that I won¡¯t have as much as I could if I just keep standing there moving to the music with the least possible effort; looking like a stiff goon. I wasn¡¯t worried about other people seeing me dance. It¡¯s just dancing, after all. I wasn¡¯t worried either about letting go. I knew what my body needed to do in order to move in a rhythmic fashion. I just didn¡¯t know how to tell myself that it was okay to do that; that I was safe enough and strong enough to let my body flow with the music. There was an illogical risk equation rattling about my head. It wasn¡¯t something that was easily formed into words or conscious thought. It was just there as a mental block; a fun block.


    There have been times, moments where the block was gone and I felt completely free and in sync with some sort of preordained pattern the universe had laid out: dancing with Eleanor; building a complicated profitability report at the office; running pel-mel down a trail at breakneck speed dodging rocks and trees.


    Here though there was no sense of the universe steering me in a certain direction. There was no sense of cause and effect behind my actions in the present and what might happen in the future. And that¡¯s when I see what the block was made of: fear. A big, black, gaping maw full of fear. A fear of not being in control.


    I offer a smile to Patrick and leave our space near the stage, pushing my way back to the bar; getting away from the music to clear my head. My ears are still ringing and my mind is still a jumbled mess of thoughts.


    A gentle hand touches my shoulder.


    ¡°You okay?¡±


    It¡¯s Patrick.


    ¡°Did I make you uncomfortable?¡± he asks. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean anything by it. You just looked like you wanted to have more fun than you were having.¡±


    I laugh, shaking my head. ¡°That¡¯s fairly accurate.¡±


    ¡°Are you okay?¡± he asks again.


    How do you explain to someone that this is the first time you¡¯re socializing since your wife died without making them feel uncomfortable?


    ¡°My wife died almost a year ago,¡± I began. ¡°This is the first time I¡¯ve been out on my own and all this,¡± I gesture to the stage, ¡°is a lot to take in.¡±


    ¡°Shit,¡± he says. He doesn¡¯t say sorry like most people would. Instead he rests his hand on mine in a reassuring manner and it¡¯s comforting¡ªstrangely comforting¡ªin an unexpected way. It lasts for only a second before he removes his hand and for a second longer I can feel the ghostly imprint of his soft, warm skin on my own.


    ¡°It was cancer,¡± I tell him, because usually that¡¯s the next question people ask: How did she die?


    There¡¯s silence, an awkward silence, a silence that stretches on way too long.


    I turned my attention back to the stage, only to see Har Mar hop off it, whipping and dragging the microphone cord behind him as he made his way to the bar and us. Patrick and I part as Har Mar hops onto the bar between us, beginning to belt out another ballad.


    Patrick is trapped in the spell of Har Har; back to his moving and grooving and I am feeling even more awkward as Har Mar is seemingly¡ªat least from my perception¡ªsinging to me. Patrick mouths, ¡°Let go,¡± but I don¡¯t, so he jostles into me, causing me to step back, my hip popping out and back with the beat. He over-emphasizes a shoulder roll, so I pull my hands out of my pockets, locking my elbows to my sides and do a slow shoulder rotation to the three, six, nine, and twelve on a clock.


    Somehow the clenched fist around my ability to have fun loosens and I feel slightly happier and a lot more free.


    I can feel the beat and the music run through me.


    I thought about those times running where I¡¯d find myself on a stretch of trail and lying before me I could see the pattern: what rocks and tree stumps I had to dodge around, where my stride could lengthen, where it had to shorten so I could quickly and deftly move through obstacles.


    Just like on those trails, here I was free.


    I catch Patrick¡¯s eye and he¡¯s laughing and smiling and there¡¯s this connection.


    One that feels strange and different and safe.


    Har Mar eventually jumped off the bar and makes his way back to the stage to finish his set and we follow closely behind in his wake.


    He plays another song or two before the band exits. Patrick, myself and the rest of the crowd chant and scream for an encore.


    They emerge, just as they planned¡ªthose teasers¡ªand begin to play again.


    A few more songs and it was over.


    Everyone began to make their exit, spilling into the street. Patrick and I are still within proximity of each other. Things feel awkward. I¡¯m not sure how to take a newly formed friendship and make it last past a social gathering like tonight. Once you reach your mid-thirties, making new friends is one of the most challenging aspects of life. Everyone has their patterns and circles and not everyone is willing to deviate from them.


    ¡°Do you want to get coffee sometime?¡± Patrick asks.


    ¡°That¡¯d be cool,¡± I say. ¡°Yeah. Sure.¡±


    He makes a motion with his hands. ¡°Do you have a,¡± he begins before I realize the hand gestures were his imitation of typing into a phone.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say, unlocking my phone and handing it to him.


    He types in his contact info into my phone and hands it back.


    ¡°Look,¡± he says. ¡°It sucks you lost your wife, but I¡¯m glad you came out and I¡¯m glad I met you. You¡¯ve got some sick dance moves.¡±


    ¡°My daughter tells me that I embarrass her.¡±


    ¡°You kind of embarrassed me,¡± Patrick says, laughing. ¡°I¡¯m kidding. There¡¯s no judgment here.¡± He shuffles a bit, hands in pockets. ¡°Last time Har Mar was in town he hit up this karaoke bar just down the street. Do you want to scope it out?¡±


    ¡°Oh man,¡± I say. ¡°That sounds pretty awesome, but I have an early morning.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± he says. ¡°Give me a call sometime.¡±


    He sticks out his hand and I take it.


    Turning, he starts walking down the street and I start back to my car trying to make sense of tonight.

 Part 2, Chapter 4

    I don¡¯t dream, except on rare occasions. Or at least I don¡¯t think I dream. Most mornings when I¡¯m awake I don¡¯t have a lingering memory of a dream. There are occasions of dreams and when those occasions do occur, they aren¡¯t pleasant ones. They are dark ones, typically full of terror, and sometimes preminitions of things to come.


    The night after the concert was an exception. The energy and vibrancy from the concert were carried into Slumberland, but instead of waking feeling exhausted, I awoke feeling refreshed and happy. A weight I didn¡¯t know was there had shifted.


    And with this came this urgency to see Eleanor again.


    I drove to my parents¡¯ house and stayed through lunch. When asked about the concert, I didn¡¯t mention Patrick or the fishnet stockings, but I did share what was appropriate for a six-year-old: the confetti, the lights, and the music.


    ¡°Did you dance, daddy?¡± Eleanor asked.


    ¡°I tried,¡± I told her. ¡°It was silly.¡±


    On the drive back, Eleanor regaled me of stories of her time at Grandma and Grandpa¡¯s house. Grandma and her played dressup and dolls. They baked cookies together, read books, and had cuddle time in bed. All in all, a very fun evening.


    Once home, Eleanor resumed her normal play routine and I was left with my thoughts.


    Part of me wanted to call Patrick, but I wasn¡¯t sure how to proceed. Frankly, I wasn¡¯t even sure what last night was. It had been awhile since I had made a friend and the connection we forged, while brief, felt oddly comfortable.


    In college I had made friendships that had lasted well past a decade post-graduation. When those friendships started there was a sense of a spark¡ªthat of an immediate connection and bond. In the years since, Veronica was the only other person I had fiercely bonded too.


    I couldn¡¯t help but wonder¡ªbecause of his dance moves and sense of style and fashion¡ªif there was something more to our connection last night. Thinking it felt odd and judgey.


    What did I mean by that? Did I think he was flirting with me? Was it my inflated sense of self that made him think he was flirting with me? Did I even know what flirting looked like anymore?


    When I was younger, I didn¡¯t have a process to realize I was straight. Based on the way I was raised¨Cmy Catholic upbringing, how conservative my household was¨Cit was my only option. Being anything other than straight wasn¡¯t an option, because we were raised believing that it was nurture instead of nature that led to that lifestyle. Homosexuality¡ªboth the orientation and the sexual act¡ªwas sinful. God had designed marriage as a lifelong union between man and woman and that any sexual attraction towards a member of the same sex was a rebellion against the natural order of things.


    We were taught that homosexuality came from abuse, neglect, and poor father figures; that it was a choice. We were told that there was a rise in homosexuality because our nation had turned into a paganized society¡ªlike the pagan cultures of old that were written about in the Bible. In particular, the story of Sodom and Gomorrah.


    In retrospect it was ironic due to the sexual proclivities of priests within our diocese. When the scandal broke, a priest I knew and had gone on camping trips with was one of the men accused and eventually convicted. As I read the news articles I saw names of kids I knew from Sunday school and I felt relieved and lucky to have been excluded from his fondlings and worse.


    Regardless of what I was taught, I had friends that were closeted. They were open about their homosexuality amongst close friends, myself included, but kept it hidden from others. As our circle of evangelical friends talked about how homosexuality was a choice I would hear from my homosexual friends, ¡°I wish I wasn¡¯t this way. I wish I could change, but I can¡¯t.¡±


    One of my closest friends who, in his own words, was in and out of therapy more times than he downloaded and deleted hookup apps. His adolescent years were spent constantly assessing social situations: being too careful, messing up, overcompensating¡ªall with this heightened sense of anxiety. When he messed up, he was never directly bullied. All the bullying was done in his head by himself.


    In the high school¡¯s locker room showers, he once stopped me and asked if I thought that he looked good in the shower. It was a question that was asked so innocently; a question that was framed by this sense of need. A need for acceptance, appreciation and validation, but asked in the wrong scenario. I told him no, intending to finish my thought by telling him that I wasn¡¯t looking at him because we were showering, but he quickly deflected by telling me that I wasn¡¯t his type.


    After college, I saw a large portion of my social circle disappear into relationships, families, and kids, but the other portion struggled through isolation and anxiety. In a society that oppressed and repressed them, the homosexual friends I had became depressed. Even after they embraced their sexuality as a part of themselves and left the isolation of the closet, they still felt isolated.


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    One friend committed suicide.


    Another became addicted to heroin.


    With all the dogma and judgement surrounding religion and sexual preferences, I finally reached a point where I didn¡¯t care. To clarify, I cared about the people involved and affected, but stopped caring about how people were interpreting the Bible or the constitution or whatever document they used to inform their version of the truth. I just wanted my friends to be happy and loved and accepted. I wanted them to stop asking, ¡°What¡¯s wrong with me?¡± and to understand that they were okay; that nothing was wrong with them.


    I had lost touch with my friend from the locker room shortly after graduation, but I wish I had heard him the way he wished he wanted to be heard. I wish I had told him that he was perfectly designed and that who he was was fine as long as it was rooted in truth and did good in the universe and allowed himself to be the best version of himself.


    But I also saw something within myself that was a curiosity; something that was never provided room to be explored. Who was I now that Veronica was no longer here? Was I the same person? Or was the room to evolve?


    The religious rules about sex also affected my self-described straight self. Growing up, I was taught that masturbation was wrong, because every sperm was sacred. Sex was only to be used for the procreation of children and to use any form of birth control was a sin.


    It affected early relationships and even created some internal shame and judgment in the early days of my relationship with Veronica.


    Who am I?


    I look at my phone. Should I call Patrick? Was it too soon? What would it mean if I waited a few days?


    Why am I so caught up in my own head?


    Patrick doesn¡¯t pick up, so instead of leaving a message I text him, asking if he wants to get coffee this week. And then I waited for his reply, questioning whether I had texted him too soon. But soon I can see that he¡¯s typing. I keep touching my screen to keep it from going to sleep. After a while his message appears, suggesting a date, time, and location. We go back and forth, settling the details, and it¡¯s set. There¡¯s a piece of me that¡¯s excited about forging this new connection.


    Eleanor is yelling for me in the downstairs bathroom.


    I set my phone down and run downstairs.


    Opening the door, I freeze. ¡°What is going on?¡± I ask horrified.


    Eleanor is sitting on the potty, her pants around her ankles and there is shit everywhere.


    There¡¯s a little brown streak on the wall next to the toilet paper, a small mound on the rug in front of the toilet, and turning around, I can see some smeared on the door frame. Worst of all is Eleanor¡¯s hands. They are covered from fingertips to her wrists with shit.


    The beginning of a laugh bursts from my lips and I shake my head. ¡°What happened?¡± I ask.


    Eleanor smiles, laughing a little bit, but then looks down, the mirth replaced with embarrassment. ¡°I wanted to know what it felt like.¡±


    ¡°And what did you learn?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Not to touch it?¡± she asks and I wonder why she has to form it as a question.


    ¡°Stay right there,¡± I tell her.


    Opening the bathroom closet, I pull out paper towels and a bottle of cleaning supplies. I start with the floor, wall, and door frame. Finding an old set of baby wipes that are thankfully still moist, I use them to clean Eleanor¡¯s hands.


    Gently, I remove her pants and underwear that are bunched around her ankles and help her hop down so I could clean her bottom.


    We¡¯re quiet throughout this process. Anything else I say will result in her feeling more shame and probably won¡¯t help her learn any additional lessons from this.


    Once she¡¯s as clean as can be, I pick Eleanor up, holding her as far away from my body as possible and carry her upstairs to shower.


    There¡¯s times when being a single parent is maddening. It¡¯s easy to find the hilarity of these situations, but at the same time you wish for someone close enough to share these moments with; someone that¡¯s connected on a deep level to myself and Eleanor.


    I¡¯ve tried sharing these stories with my parents, but they¡¯ve never appreciated or understood bathroom humor and usually end up asking if Eleanor is okay.


    There are parents of young kids at my office and they¡¯ve probably had similar experiences, but at the office we only talk about work, not our lives outside the office.


    This thought of sharing, turns into an urge to share, and so after asking Eleanor to get her shoes on ten or so times, we pile into the car, driving to a cemetery we hadn¡¯t visited in almost a year.


    Once out of the car, Eleanor begins to run, weaving through the headstones, stopping to pick the occasional dandelion to place on Veronica¡¯s grave.


    ¡°Eleanor¡¯s six,¡± I start. ¡°We miss you, but I think we¡¯re doing okay.¡±


    As Eleanor runs around Veronica¡¯s gravesite and those that surrounded hers, I tell Veronica about us, about Eleanor¡¯s exploits in first grade, a recent drawing she did, how I was teaching her a nursery rhyme on the electric piano, and how she contaminated our bathroom, but also, more than likely, boosted her immune system.


    ¡°I met a new friend last night. We¡¯re getting coffee in a few days. I¡¯m not really sure what to make of it. Part of me feels like he was flirting with me, but the other part of me feels like it¡¯s been so long since I¡¯ve made a new friend, that I don¡¯t know what flirting feels like. I hope it¡¯s okay.¡±


    Veronica doesn¡¯t say anything and I think for a moment longer if there¡¯s anything else I want to say, but I don¡¯t.


    I call for Eleanor and we begin walking back to the car.

 Part 2, Chapter 5

    Patrick and I planned on meeting at a coffee shop over lunch a few blocks away from my office. It¡¯s a unique place that¡¯s several steps up from the franchises that are scattered across the city. Inside, through a glass window, you can see their roasterie. I always loved a good coffee and this particular place was always a hub for the creative types from my office and others to mingle, share ideas, and get work done while being well caffeinated.


    When I order I don¡¯t get too creative: just a large drip coffee that I keep black without any additives. That¡¯s one of the things I appreciate about this particular shop¡¯s coffee: the complexity of their flavors, which always vary. Once it cools enough to sip, I can taste something nutty, with a hint of chocolate.


    I find a table and sit facing the entrance. When Patrick arrives, I wave and he nods in acknowledgement, waiting in line until it¡¯s his turn to order. He returns with a transparent cup full of what I assume to be their cold brew, with a bit of tan foam from the nitro-infusion bubbling to the surface.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I say. ¡°How are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m good,¡± he says, smiling. ¡°It¡¯s been a busy week since the concert. It always feels like anytime I step out of the flow of reality for a bit of fun, it always takes a little bit longer to settle back in. How have you been?¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± I respond and leave it at that.


    I can tell that I¡¯m not relaxed and a bit on edge. I¡¯m not sure if this is nervousness or something else. I feel like I¡¯m forcing my smiles and I can¡¯t stop fidgeting with my cup: playing with the sleeve, pulling it up and down. My eyes are dancing around the coffee shop; not distracted, but avoiding eye contact.


    He is telling me about what he does: he¡¯s a freelance writer, but I¡¯ve missed the other details.


    I could feel that I wasn¡¯t quite there; I wasn¡¯t as present as I wanted to be because frankly I wasn¡¯t in the present. Everything that I was doing was still being viewed through the lense of the past with the weight of my actions on the impending future, each working in tandem to resist and pull me out of this present moment.


    Within the past there was the pain of loss; something that I had grown accustomed to, creating an unconscious resistance to all other forms of connection. This was even to a degree projected onto Eleanor, even though my ability to work through that sense of resistance had gotten better over time.


    I need to relax. I need to let go.


    A piece of that resistance was judgment; a self-imposed judgment on how Veronica might feel about me getting out, making new friends. But more so around how I¡¯m making new connections and how¡¯d she¡¯d feel if she was still here, sick in bed, and unable to get outside to socialize.


    The cycles of guilt and shame.


    Another piece of resistance is deeper still on an emotional level; a sense and persistence of negativity. There¡¯s a flurry of thoughts running through my head and chief among them is this idea that I can¡¯t make friends¡ªthat I can¡¯t connect¡ªbecause I am broken.


    ¡°You mentioned that you have a daughter?¡± Patrick asks, pulling me back in.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°She¡¯s six. Her name is Eleanor.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a very old school name,¡± Patricks says.


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    I look up, meeting his eyes. My fidgeting stops and my scattered thoughts and attention freeze, focus, and align.


    Everything is tumbling, wrestling, agitating against one another; trying to push me away from the present back into my constant state of suffering.


    I need to let go.


    And so I do.


    I take a deep breath and apologize, telling Patrick that aside from the concert, this is the first time I have allowed myself to socialize with another adult outside of my parents. Eleanor is my world right now and everything revolves around her, but don¡¯t tell her because even though she wouldn¡¯t understand the idiom, deep down in her subconscious¡ªin her too mature for a six-year old mind¡ªit would definitely go to her head.


    Patrick doesn¡¯t have any children, but was always envious of his married friends that did.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing like being a parent,¡± I tell him. ¡°I had friends with children long before Eleanor came along. Any time one of my friends would hand me their child to hold, it always felt awkward. I didn¡¯t know how to hold them and I would typically stand there, holding them away from me by their armpits, until passing them off to my wife who would cradle them like a professional.


    ¡°When Eleanor was born, we ended up having a c-section. At the hospital they had a divider up so that Veronica and myself couldn¡¯t see the procedure, but at some point I heard the doctors say something, so I stood up looking down as they pulled Eleanor out screaming and covered in blood.


    ¡°The doctors and the nurses brought her over to the table to clean and let me cut her umbilical cord. They wrapped her in a warm blanket and they handed her to me. It was crazy, maybe even a little bit magical, but when they handed her to me, I took her in my arms, holding her close, and it felt right. It didn¡¯t feel awkward at all. It felt natural and right and it felt like she was where she needed to be.¡±


    The conversation shifts. I tell from the cadence of the conversation that we¡¯re feeling each other out, trying to understand and see the true essence of the other person. It¡¯s a freeing experience; this sense of living fully in the present; surrendering fully to the sense of what is, instead of being locked down by the sense of what was or what could be.


    There¡¯s this sense that we have nothing to lose since we just met and we¡¯re able to be clear and transparent in our conversations, because if there¡¯s a sense of incompatibility with this connection and we go our separate ways, there¡¯s no harm, no foul.


    Patrick catches me looking at my watch and I apologize, explaining that I need to head back to the office shortly. He laughs and we enter into this awkward phase in our conversation as we try to determine what¡¯s next.


    ¡°Do you want to have dinner sometime?¡± he asks.


    I pause, calculating, resistance beginning to bubble up as my defensive mechanisms begin to rise, sheltering myself.


    ¡°Look,¡± Patrick says, ¡°I knew who I was when I was eleven. I know you¡¯re going through some stuff, but you don¡¯t have to be alone. And,¡± he pauses, ¡°there¡¯s this feeling that I want to get to know you better as you¡¯re figuring out who you are after everything that has happened to you and Eleanor.¡±


    There¡¯s a vulnerability visible in what he just said. I can tell through that exposure of his true self a sense, fear begins to creep in as his eyes shift away from mine and he begins to play with his cold brew¡¯s paper straw that is already starting to deteriorate.


    An image comes to mind.


    Years ago, shortly after Veronica and I moved into our house, I had decided to plant a tree. When digging the hole, I discovered how rocky our ground was underneath the layers of grass and topsoil. It wasn¡¯t just pebbles, but large, fist-sized rocks, rounded over time.


    I remember holding one, feeling the smoothness of its shape, reflecting and wondering how much time it had taken for the rock to receive its shape. And I realized, as I was rubbing my thumb along its surface, that over time I too could shape this rock with my touch; that I could shape this thing that has stood the test of time for millions of years.


    This was my power.


    And a gift.


    Because once I shaped the rock to my desire, I could leave it for another to find and hold meaning to it until they begin to shape it with their hands into something new.


    Was I ready to be reshaped?


    ¡°Okay,¡± I say, ¡°but I¡¯m going to cook and you¡¯ll have a chance to meet Eleanor.¡±


    He smiles and we make plans.

 Part 2, Chapter 6

    The following weekend Patrick comes over.


    When I answer the door, Eleanor is hiding behind me, pressing the full weight of her body against my knees almost to the point of them buckling.


    Patrick bends down, sticking out his hand to introduce himself, and Eleanor only buries her face in further.


    ¡°I have something for you,¡± Patrick says, pulling his other hand out from behind his back, holding out a collection of pink carnations.


    Eleanor gasps. ¡°Pink! That¡¯s my favorite color!¡±


    She pulls herself away from me, tentatively reaching for them, but as soon as they¡¯re in her grasp she runs away into her playroom. Eleanor emerges a few minutes later with a plastic cup¡ªI¡¯m not sure where it came from¡ªand takes it to the kitchen to fill it with water, before setting her flowers in it. Because of the cup¡¯s circumference and the height of the stems, they fan out awkwardly, dropping over the lip of the cup, putting the cup at a potential tipping point.


    ¡°Do you have a pair of scissors?¡± Patrick asks.


    I walk into the kitchen, shuffling through a few drawers before finding a pair, handing them to him.


    ¡°How are you with scissors?¡± Patrick asks Eleanor. She shrugs. He looks over to me and I shake my head. ¡°Well,¡± he continues, ¡°make sure you ask your daddy to do this anytime you get flowers.¡±


    Patrick pulls the flowers out of the cup and sets a few of the stems against the blade of the scissors.


    ¡°No!¡± Eleanor shouts. ¡°That¡¯ll hurt them.¡±


    Patrick laughs. ¡°Flowers can¡¯t feel pain. When you cut them, it allows them to drink the water from the cup. Besides, it¡¯ll also make them look really pretty in the cup.¡±


    Eleanor nods and Patrick begins to cut and arrange the carnations in the cup while Eleanor watches intently.


    Turning my attention back to the kitchen I begin pulling from the fridge an assortment of ingredients for tonight¡¯s dinner.


    ¡°What can I help with?¡± Patrick asks.


    I turn from the activities and see that Eleanor is, once again and not surprisingly, in her playroom and at the same time her own little world.


    ¡°How do you feel about brussel sprouts?¡± I ask Patrick.


    ¡°Amazing,¡± he says, perhaps a little bit too enthusiastically.


    I laugh and rephrase, aware now that the intent of my question wasn¡¯t properly translated or received. ¡°How do you feel about preparing brussel sprouts?¡±


    ¡°Still amazing,¡± Patrick says, laughing.


    I hand him the bag of brussel sprouts and a colander. He takes it to the sink, upends the bag¡¯s contents into the colander and begins to wash them. As he goes to an available space on the counter on the opposite side of the stove, I hand him a chef¡¯s knife and he begins to cut them: first the stem, then he cuts the sprout in half and peels off the first layer of leaves.


    I continue preparing the main course. Spinach is chopped, along with garlic, basil, sun dried tomatoes before mixing it all together in some softened goat cheese and stuffing it inside some raw chicken breasts before placing it on the stove to sear


    We¡¯re silent while we work. Perhaps we¡¯re focused on the task at hand, but I know for myself that I am back to feeling shy and uncertain what to say as a conversation starter. It¡¯s an overwhelming sense of vulnerability, but I use the familiarity of my surroundings and my actions to loosen my grip on my sense of self.


    ¡°Do you cook often?¡± I ask. Ah, there¡¯s a good conversation starter.


    ¡°As often as I can,¡± Patrick responds. ¡°I¡¯ve always found that it¡¯s the perfect way to unwind after work. The laptop closes and instead of focusing on these invisible people that are somehow trading my work for invisible money, I can take care of myself.¡±


    I laugh. ¡°It¡¯s like a videogame. Collect all the tokens in the level, watch the cut scene, begin again.¡±


    ¡°Do you play?¡± he asks.


    I gesture towards Eleanor. ¡°She¡¯s my world. Most of the time after she goes to bed I¡¯ll have an hour, maybe two, to myself. I haven¡¯t felt the need to game in a long time. When I think about diving in, I can¡¯t motivate myself to. New games. All the setup to get to the actual playing. And then, it¡¯ll be time for bed. And I really like my sleep.¡±


    Patrick laughs. ¡°Sleep is the best cut scene.¡±


    Things are looser now. We discuss every subject that reach the tip of our tongues.


    I share about my parents and their never-ending drive to protect and shelter Eleanor; an extension of the years they spent trying to protect and shelter me.


    Patrick talks about his childhood and the various parental pressures put on him to be someone he wasn¡¯t. For him, being in the closet was annoying for a while. He wanted to be open to his family and friends, but didn¡¯t feel like he could. The continual pressure from his parents to be their vision of a perfect son was like continually getting punched on the arm; lightly, but over and over and over again. It was like PTSD, but somehow worse=. If it had only been a single traumatic event, it could have easily been resolved with a few months of therapy. After a while it became infuriating and the defenses created by dealing with the stress and anxiety kept getting higher and thicker. Until he exploded.


    We¡¯re quiet, aside from the crackling of the stuffed chicken breast searing in the cast iron on the stovetop. I pull it off, setting it inside the oven, next to the roasting brussel sprouts to come up to temperature.


    Eleanor has ventured into the kitchen to retrieve a juicebox from the fridge. She hands it to me to peel off the plastic on the straw. Handing it back to her, she pokes the straw in and takes a long drink.


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    ¡°Dad?¡±


    ¡°Eleanor?¡±


    ¡°Can girls marry other girls?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± I answered. ¡°Girls can marry anyone that they love.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Eleanor replies, ¡°because girls are awesome!¡± She shouts the last part, emphasizing the final two syllables. And then she¡¯s off, running, juicebox in hand, back to the playroom to play independently.


    Patrick and I lean against the counter, continuing to talk and connect.


    I talk about the last year and the struggles I had with my mental health.


    Patrick talked about coming out after graduating high school. It was a traumatic experience for him going from his parent¡¯s house to a college community with on campus pride parades and a gay bar and many people just like him, but the newness of being able to be his true self still made him feel ostracized even within such a welcoming community.


    We refill our drinks and soon food is ready.


    I call Eleanor for dinner and she immediately asks what she can do to help.


    ¡°She¡¯s such a good kid,¡± Patrick says.


    I hand her plates and silverware and she takes it to the table. Watching, I observe the haphazard way she sets the table: plates strewn across the table and the forks and knives placed with equal care. I sigh and head to the table to do it myself, but I pause. Why am I sighing? Why do I have this expectation that it will be done correctly when I¡¯ve never taken the time to show her?


    Eleanor has already disappeared again¡ªprobably back in her room¡ªbut I call her back into the kitchen.


    Squatting down till I¡¯m eye level with her, I ask, ¡°Eleanor, do you know why it¡¯s important to set the table?¡± She shakes her head. ¡°It¡¯s important to have a place to eat and gather. Food brings people together. So it¡¯s important to have a place to share food; someplace that is recognized as a gathering place, which for us is our table.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± she says hesitantly, drawing out each syllable as she twists; a motion she does when she is nervous or thinks that she¡¯s in trouble.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to show you how to set the table.¡± She nods, a smile breaking out across her face. ¡°Do you know why it¡¯s important to set the table properly?¡± Eleanor shakes her head. ¡°It¡¯s because there¡¯s a lot of effort put into the food we eat. Not just the time we spend preparing or cooking it in our kitchen, but all the other hands that touched our food: the farmers, the people who packed the food to send it to the store, everyone who worked at the store, even that nice cashier who gave you those stickers yesterday. When we set the table, we show respect and honor everyone who brought us this food to eat.¡±


    So I show her how to set the table while Patrick watches a short distance away. I show Eleanor how to center the plate in front of my seat and then the proper placement of the knife and fork. I let her set the other two place settings. She does it much slower and more carefully than before; more aware of her movement this time. When she¡¯s finished she smiles, proud of the work that she has done, and I give her a high-five to acknowledge her work.


    Our conversations during dinner steer away from the past, and our focus turns to Eleanor as she regales us about her day. Or rather her imaginary day, since everything she is describing took place while we were cooking dinner. Children¡¯s minds are funny that way. There¡¯s this enviable time in their lives where they aren¡¯t aware of time or the consequences of time.


    After dinner, the normal nighttime routine begins. Patrick insists on staying and helping with the cleanup, so I usher Eleanor upstairs to begin her bathtime.


    Once her hair is washed, Eleanor lays down in the tub and floats while I prepare her toothbrush before heading downstairs. Patrick is standing at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the cast iron. We begin the back and forth of ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have¡¯s¡± and ¡°I don¡¯t mind¡¯s¡± before Eleanor hollars, ¡°I¡¯m done!¡±


    As she¡¯s getting dressed, Eleanor tells me she has a secret. Bending down, she whispers in my ear asking if Patrick could read her a bedtime story. ¡°You¡¯re going to have to ask him yourself,¡± I tell her. And so, she goes downstairs. Patrick sees her, listens to her request, and graciously accepts.


    We trade spots: I continue the cleanup where he left off, and Patrick sits on the floor reading a book of longer-than-advertised princess stories. Eleanor sits besides him and as I observe them together, I¡¯m surprised by her sense of comfortability with him and his presence with her. Usually, when it comes to meeting new people, especially adults, she is cautious and on edge. Typically, the moment at the door where she hid behind my legs would continue until she was out of the vicinity of the strange adult or was coaxed out by some sweet treats or screen time bribes. But even without the bribes, she was comfortable and familiar with him.


    When I met Veronica, there was that sense of comfort and familiarity. It was always coupled with this nudging; this sense of ¡°you ought to¡± that felt like a magnetic pull and attraction. I feel something akin to that in my own sense of awareness of Patrick, but it¡¯s different. Since our coffee and during this meeting, I felt a certain sense of power over myself. With that power came a certain sense of awareness that the power came from the absence of loneliness.


    Reading time is over and I take Eleanor upstairs, tuck her in, and say goodnight.


    Downstairs the conversations continue.


    ¡°I was a theatre nerd,¡± I tell Patrick.


    ¡°Really?¡± Patrick responds. ¡°Acting?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I responded. ¡°Especially in college. I was the whitest actor to ever play Othello.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that the opposite of black face?¡±


    I laugh at the irreverence of his joke and continue, ¡°There was a night where I came home and saw the word ¡®faggot¡¯ carved into my dorm room door. It was the first time I was ever labeled something to that effect and I was a theatre nerd for a long time, playing roles where there were ample opportunities to hear comments like that. A month or so later, I wrote an op-ed in the school paper that got me in a lot of trouble with the jocks and the cool kids. It wasn¡¯t my intent, but the piece came across as a hit piece. The weekend after the story published, I went to a kegger and got punched in the face so hard I shit my pants by someone yelling ¡®faggot¡¯ as he swung his fist at my jaw. I share this, but I know that I didn¡¯t experience anything close to what you experienced growing up. I don¡¯t even think I can honestly say that I can relate, but I do empathize with you and your experiences.¡±


    ¡°I had a lot of fun tonight,¡± Patrick says. There¡¯s a moment of silence before he continues. ¡°Can I be candid with you? I¡¯m never one to jump into anything without a lot of analysis; psychoanalytical, pros and cons, the full gambit. Since I came out, I¡¯ve only had two serious relationships. It¡¯s not so much of a willingness to commit, but an unwillingness to be hurt or to put myself at the risk of being hurt. I¡¯m not sure what to think of you. I see that there¡¯s pieces of you still shattered from the loss of your wife and I want to be there to help piece you together as a friend, but I can¡¯t ignore that there¡¯s a certain level of attraction I have for you, as well as this pull to want something more. You have a beautiful daughter too and I¡¯d love to get to know her. I just.¡± He pauses. ¡°I just want you to know what¡¯s been banging around in my head since I saw you at the concert.¡±


    I¡¯m quiet. Perhaps too long, but he waits patiently.


    There¡¯s so many different thoughts and conflicting emotions. How can you organize and compartmentalize when every single one of your synapses is firing a different thought or feeling? Instead I focus on what isn¡¯t there and what¡¯s not there is any sense of resistance to what he shared or the need to reject it¡ªwhich surprises me more than anything else¡ªbut it allows a focusing and within that comes a calm and a voice that says, ¡°You ought to.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t really understand this journey that I¡¯m on,¡± I begin. ¡°I want to be happy and whole and I want all that for Eleanor and more. I¡¯m not sure who I am right now without Veronica, but I know that when I¡¯m with you, I don¡¯t feel alone anymore and I feel safe and I feel like I want to be the best version of myself, which I haven¡¯t been for quite some time.¡±


    We sit and chat some more before I realize how late it is and my body begins shutting down as it recognizes that I should be sleeping.


    Patrick says goodbye and as we part there¡¯s this unspoken understanding that we¡¯re going to give this a try. There¡¯s a sense of fear and anxiety for what the future might bring, but I push it aside to embrace this moment; finally letting go in the most fullest of ways.


    I¡¯m happy.


    And I¡¯m not alone.

 Part 2, Chapter 7

    Eleanor is still in my arms, asleep.


    I feel off-balance and a little ill. I roll her off my lap, onto the floor, and stand, massaging the feeling back into my tingling legs.


    It didn¡¯t work. I thought that through my sense and force of will I could send Eleanor to live with her mother and me¡ªa different version of me¡ªand she¡¯d be able to grow up happy and whole.


    ¡°Veronica?¡± I whisper into the darkness and there¡¯s no reply. Within the bowels of my intuition, there¡¯s a sense that whatever door was open before was now shut and I am now more fully and utterly alone.


    I¡¯m left with this thought of ¡°what now?¡±


    When Eleanor was born, she was perfect. There wasn¡¯t any sense of corruption or ruinousness about her. She was perfect and Veronica and I saw her potential, like any new parent does of their newborn, because within every child there¡¯s a sense of hope that something remarkable might occur during their lifetime that came from their hand. But with that sense of potential comes a realization that with that potential there will be suffering and it¡¯s every parent¡¯s hope that the suffering that their child undergoes comes from the world and not their home. Even within the decision to bring a child into the world there¡¯s a notion of acceptance that there will be suffering, because everyone knows the type of world they¡¯re bringing children into: it¡¯s rife with pain.


    Veronica and I both knew¡ªVeronica more deeply¡ªthat Eleanor would be born and at some point she would be introduced to this idea of suffering.


    It¡¯ll start small as Eleanor starts to experience moments of trouble. She would have the general illnesses that all the other kids have. At some point, most likely in middle school, there will be an awakening and a reckoning with her own failures and catastrophes. At some point, Eleanor will experience pain for the first time. It could start easily with small physical pains¡ªa stubbed toe or a scratch¡ªbut eventually will experience something larger¡ªa bike accident, a broken bone. Worse still she¡¯ll encounter psychological pain; a pain of the spirit. She¡¯ll be teased by other kids and told that she isn¡¯t worthy of their attention or affections. Just like me it¡¯ll grow inside her until she wonders if friendships are worth it and whether she should close herself off¡ªprotect herself¡ªfrom the potentiality of pain. She¡¯ll continue growing and maturing through high school and college. She¡¯ll form and break off relationships, and then, at some point, in many years or a few or maybe tomorrow, she¡¯s going to die and understand what true suffering is.


    Veronica and I knew that Eleanor would experience each step of that journey, because that¡¯s what being human boils down to. Even with that knowledge we still said yes to being there on the journey with her. We¡¯d help shield her from any suffering the world would throw at her before she was ready for it and be there for her even after she was ready just so she would know that she wasn¡¯t alone.


    Veronica, I think through the awareness that came from her own suffering, made sure that Eleanor was slowly made aware that suffering existed. When she would fall, Veronica would provide some level of comfort, but then help pick Eleanor up, dust her off, and send her on her way. Being able to do that, to send your child out to experience suffering¡ªhowever small¡ªis the worst possible form of sacrifice for a parent.


    I had friends growing up where their mother didn¡¯t make those sacrifices. They were always there as a sheltering wing. As the friends grew you could see the potential catastrophe at work, building inside of them. I had other friends whose father¡¯s couldn¡¯t make the sacrifice, and they never really grew up; repeating similar stories over multiple occurrences about their glory days: lifting weights, playing ball, drinking with their pals. There was always some form of saving grace, because eventually, sometimes as late as college, there was a conscious awareness of the need for sacrifice and they pushed themselves out into the world to be broken and betrayed.


    As I look down at Eleanor, asleep on the floor, I¡¯m aware of the ramifications of my own recent failings as a parent. How do I know that as a parent I am doing enough? Knowing myself and my psyche, I know that there will always be a sense that I¡¯m not doing as good of a job as I could and should. I don¡¯t know how Eleanor will grow into the person she should be and with that comes the realization that I don¡¯t know what type of person she could be. How can you discover the true self of someone that is still a child and direct them towards the path they should journey on? She¡¯s still a child and at some point, Eleanor will grow out of her childlike mindset and gain that sense of consciousness that everyone has at a certain point. At the moment she steps outside of the cave and into the light and consciousness is dawning, that¡¯s when she¡¯ll realize that suffering is a key part of her existence. The biggest issue with this awareness of suffering is that what is typically accompanying it is a sense of awareness that you can cause suffering in other people.


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    I worry that by being as broken as I am that she will become a creature of suffering and a creature that causes suffering in others like I do.


    I am not good enough for her and I can¡¯t be. It¡¯s not in my nature. My nature was built upon the mistakes I made and my parents made while raising me and the traumas their parents caused them and so on and so on. As I look down the rabbit hole, I could see my line of ancestors and all the guilt they held, passing down generation after generation.


    I know that I am not perfect, but I don¡¯t know how to stop the cycle of suffering and causing suffering while I am still present in Eleanor¡¯s life.


    The more I contemplate and analyze my actions tonight, I know that at the core of it, the decision to send Eleanor into the multiverse was the best possible outcome, whether it was a figment of my imagination or not. The intent was there: to provide for her the best possible outcome in the future. But it failed and I am left with this wrenching feeling of that failure and it leaves my chest heavy.


    There is a little voice inside of me that tells me that the other bigger voice¡ªthe one that is telling me that my role in Eleanor¡¯s life would leave her corrupt¡ªisn¡¯t telling the full truth. She will only become a creature of suffering if my will and her will are aligned towards that outcome. Likewise, I will only become more of a creature of suffering if my will and her will are aligned towards that outcome. We¡¯re inexplicably linked¡ªthis tiny child and myself; the beauty and the beast.


    Even with this sense of unity, I¡¯m torn. There¡¯s pieces of me that want to rally and prove that I can be a good parent, but I¡¯ve always run from the fight or tried to outwit or undermine the perceived champion of the conflict. In this scenario, though, the perceived champion is us and to undermine means that we would lose and the odds don¡¯t appear to be in our favor, at least with me in the picture.


    I want Eleanor to grow up happy. I want that for myself, but I can¡¯t see a path forward.


    Years ago, when I was younger, there was a period of time where I thought I wasn¡¯t good enough for the world and thought about killing myself. I forget a majority of the details, but I had overheard my parents talking to another parent at my school and gushing over how smart this other child was and how they wish I was into maths and sciences more. Looking back, I understand that was just how parents talk¡ªthey can¡¯t help but compare and hope and dream¡ªbut my adolescent mind took those words to heart and I felt backed into a corner. Math and the sciences were too terrible to face and I couldn¡¯t find any way around them. All I could think of for months was about how my parents wished I was someone else and I found myself in a fugue state, pushing away everything that made me who I was and embracing this other side of me that was chaotic, depressed, filled with anxiety and nihilism.


    I found myself back in the dark underbelly of the underworld being harrowed by the beast. I saw myself as an inhabitant of that dreaded place and began to lose hope and despair.


    Suicide wasn¡¯t a notion I was familiar with. For me it was just the idea of ending that sense of pain that permeated every fiber of my being. One afternoon when I got home from school, I took my belt out of my dresser drawer and threaded the buckle through the hook of a hanger. Kneeling on the ground of my closet, I put the belt around my neck and buckled it at the point it felt tight enough. Still kneeling, I leaned into it, letting the belt dig into my throat. I could feel my eyes begin to bulge out of my skull. I could feel myself wanting to breathe, but I leaned in further until the hanger broke and I fell forward hitting my head on the floor.


    After that effort failed, I raided our vitamin cabinet. I had heard that people could take too many pills and so I made a concoction of calcium, b-vitamins, biotin, and my parents multivitamins. I felt a little sick afterwards followed by a short spout of energy.


    I told my parents that I wanted to die, but they dismissed it as a ploy for more attention.


    Eventually, I saw that in order to escape the place I was in that sacrifice was needed. I had to let this part of me die and be reborn. When that new spirit came into being, I saw the error in the thought processes that framed the situation I was in and I began to build processes to keep the old self at bay. Processes that included cheating in math and the sciences all the way through my high school graduation in order to earn more praise from my parents.


    When Veronica died, I saw a part of me die with her, but I still clung to that old self and her, in a sense. It was an unwillingness to move on that put Eleanor and myself into this situation. If I let go¡ªif I truly let that version of myself die, I know that I would have to let Eleanor go as well.


    I know, deep within my soul, that someone would be able to care for her better than I and will love her more than I could.


    Even with me, Eleanor is still alone and for myself, even with Eleanor, I am truly alone.

 Part 2, Chapter 8

    Over the past several weeks I¡¯ve continued to keep my emotions in check and focus on work, in spite of the way I truly felt inside.


    I knew I could do it and never give in to the pain; that I could handle it all and keep the veil in place, nevering letting the hurt show. I thought that if I focused on work and on my routine that the pain would have less of a hold on me; that I could eventually put all this behind me and begin to forget about what had happened, but I was wrong.


    I am still trying to put it all behind me. I haven¡¯t stopped crying, especially in those moments where I¡¯m alone. I haven¡¯t stopped feeling the pain. Everyday is harder than the last. I feel so alone. I feel so lost. And with each passing day, I feel it getting more difficult to pick myself back up.


    Every morning when I wake up, I remember the pain of the day before. Every night as I lay in bed, I feel trapped and that there is no way out. I can remember an overwhelming feeling of suffocation.


    The pain is still fresh and raw.


    At times it is so bad that I¡¯ll put on a show for Eleanor to watch on the TV so that I can go to my room and cry alone.


    I am exhausted and feel like I am being ripped apart from the inside.


    My soul is being pulled in so many different directions. There are too many emotions and feelings to hold in, but that¡¯s what I am doing. When I feel them bubbling over, I scramble to gather and push them back in; shoving them down deeper than before.


    But the reality is that I don¡¯t know how much longer I can keep myself together.


    I am fighting as hard as I can, but I can¡¯t do it forever.


    Truth be told, I was so focused and intent on returning to normalcy that I didn¡¯t give my plan time to breathe; time to speak up and question my sanity and resolve in what I will do next.


    Regardless, My mind hasn¡¯t wavered from my decision.


    I must leave Eleanor¡¯s life. Forever.


    Over the past several weeks the plan slowly began to take shape, hidden behind our routines and sense of order. To everyone except myself, everything was back to normal; a sense of normalcy that hadn¡¯t been achieved since before Veronica died.


    I socialize with the other parents when I drop Eleanor off at school.


    I participate in the water cooler banter at work; smiling and laughing.


    I hug my parents after our weekend meals together, telling them I love them. This in itself isn¡¯t normal. It¡¯s something that was rare¡ªan action and phrase saved for only the most special of occasions, which typically were occasions that weren¡¯t all that special. I had told myself that they needed to see this as part of my healing process, so that when I was gone they had a really good memory to hold on to.


    With Eleanor I took the opportunity to be more engaged with her. During our dinners together, instead of our typical silence, I would quiz her, asking her to tell me about three good things that happened to her during the day. She would tell me stories about her teachers and her friends; stories full of her strong opinions about who had wronged her and what their punishment should be. As cute and as funny as this was, I could see that her awareness of suffering was beginning to form. As that idea began to form in my head, I could tell that my marginal parental instincts were wanting to kick in; wanting to coach her about other people¡¯s thoughts and feelings. Like this moment and so many others before, I felt connected with her and wonder if I am making the right choice. But as quickly as those thoughts bubbled up, I push them back down.


    I¡¯ve seen my patterns. I told myself that even if I tried, the hardness that had formed around my heart would only teach her how to be a creature that inflicts suffering in others, just as I do to her.


    Regardless, of those short periods of good parenting or the desire to try to be a good parent, I knew that it wasn¡¯t sustainable. At some point, I would fail and she would fail and we would be back on this never-ending loop of dysfunctionalism. But even with my strong sense of determinism, I still had these moments of doubt.


    I couldn¡¯t waver. I had to stay on the path I was on.


    Behind the safety of a private incognito browser window, I began to plot out my course, committing as much to memory as possible.


    My pack was mostly packed already: food, a light sleeping bag, layers of clothes, a few hundred dollars in cash. All in, it was pretty light; focused more so on survival versus comfortability.


    Tomorrow will be the day.


    I feel calm. Calmer than I should.


    But everything has been set into motion.


    The next morning, I drop Eleanor off with my parents to spend the weekend with them. It would be a weekend full of cookies and cuddles; the type of interactions Eleanor needed.


    When I arrive home, I change into comfortable running pants and a shirt. I fill up my water bladder and slide it into the back of my pack. Realistically, it¡¯s only enough for 30 hours, but it¡¯s enough to get me far enough away from home, but close enough to a trailhead with portable water. Strapping on a couple trekking poles to the sides of my pack, I¡¯m ready to go.


    I leave my smartphone, wallet, and keys sitting on the counter. Going to the garage, I open the overhead door using the remote to close it. As it closes behind me, I slide the remote on the floor back into the garage to be found at a later date.


    To my neighbors, this shouldn¡¯t appear out of the ordinary. I go out for runs regularly. Perhaps this time, I have a bit more gear than usual, but nothing that should raise any red flags.


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    I cut through the neighborhood, meeting up with a trail that cuts through to the foothills. No one was out today walking the area sidewalks. There were a few people on the trail: a couple mountain bikers and a few runners. The main trailhead was closed due to mud, so the timing couldn¡¯t have been more perfect.


    This trail is familiar and it¡¯s comforting seeing the familiar twists and turns of the trail.


    After a few hours I reached a community park and jumped on a trail that took me deeper into the foothills.


    Everything is going according to plan, so far.


    Once I¡¯m on a trail that is taking me deeper into the mountains, I begin to walk. The sun had started to set, but the goal was to continue through nightfall and into the next morning.


    My legs are sore. The salty crust of sweat around my eyes begins to sting. My upper back is sore from the jostling of my pack. My neck is stiff from the angle I had been holding it in for several hours.


    Once it¡¯s been dark for a little more than a couple hours, I don¡¯t see any other hikers for the rest of the night. It¡¯s an odd feeling hiking in the woods completely alone. I didn¡¯t bring my phone, so I don¡¯t have any music or podcasts to keep me company. My headlamp casts strange shadows about me. Off-trail it catches the occasional glowing of some animal¡¯s eyes. Most likely deer, I keep telling myself, even though I knew that one particular beast¡¯s eyes were too large and too far apart to be a friendly creature.


    Two hours before dawn breaks, my headlamp dies. I take it slow, using the light from the moon and stars to guide me. I carefully step around obstacles, but my cautiousness doesn¡¯t prevent me from tripping over a rock. My trekking poles don¡¯t catch me in time, so I land on my elbows and knees. It hurts, but I can¡¯t see the damage clearly. Rolling up my sleeves, I touch my elbows and I can feel wetness. I hold my fingers up to the light of the moon and see a shimmer of blood. I wipe the dirt and gravel off and spray some water in an attempt to clean the wounds.


    Pushing myself up into a standing position, my knees are immediately stiff and sore. My upper back from the impact is strained, causing it to radiate into my neck. I try to shake it off, but it hurts, so I continue on.


    Once the sun rises, I can clearly see the crusted blood on my pant leg and shirt. The numbness had faded and was replaced by a lancing, red pain.


    These injuries would be a cause for concern to any hikers I passed by, so once I heard the sound of running water, I left the trail, going downhill till I finally reached a small stream. In the cool morning mountain air, I stripped off my pants and shirt, washing them in the water, trying to remove the blood stains. The tears in the fabric will have to remain, but the fact that they were mostly clean of blood should help my presence on the trail be less noticeable.


    Cleaning and bandaging my knees and elbows took a lot longer. I saw that during the fall I had also bruised my thigh in a circumference as big as my fist. It was already deepening to a nice dark purple and was another contributor to my hobbling gait.


    After replenishing calories, I continued on. My legs and arms were stiff, so the typical efficiency of hiking and trekking poles wasn¡¯t there. I found that the more I continued walking the easier walking became and the pain receded to a dark corner of my parietal lobe. Soon walking became power-hiking, which became the occasional spurt of running.


    There was some strange internal energy that I was feeding off that made me feel like I was making the right decision.


    Looking at my watch, I could tell that it was around the time my parents would begin driving Eleanor back to my place. They probably called me once to let me know they were on their way. It was a normal habit for me not to pick up, so they probably wouldn¡¯t suspect anything until arriving at my house. My car would be in the driveway. They would knock a couple times, ring the doorbell, and call me again before getting out their spare set of keys and opening the front door. My smartphone would still be on the counter next to my wallet and keys. They¡¯d wander the house, calling my name, before fully realizing that I¡¯m not there. My dad will speculate that I went running and my mom would agree, trying to hide the tiny bit of worry in her voice. They would wait some more. Eleanor would occupy herself with her dolls unaware of the gradually increasing sense of paranoia and dread in the people around her. Eventually, it¡¯ll reach a point where awareness or at least a suspicion will arise and they¡¯ll come to the conclusion that they need to call someone, but can¡¯t do it with Eleanor at the house. My mom will offer to take Eleanor home with her and Eleanor goes willingly; the joy of spending another night at Hotel Grandma. My dad stays at my house and as soon as Mom and Eleanor leave he calls the police. He tells them that he thinks that I went running and how it¡¯s unusual for my smartphone to be at my house without me. There¡¯s a few hours of back and forth with the patrol officer who stopped by to look things over, but by sundown there would be a full search taking place in the foothills and surrounding mountains.


    I had six more hours to go before I needed to find someplace to lay low for a while. I had covered a decent amount of distance since I started¡ªclose to 40 miles by my best guess, but I had missed a turn off that would have pushed me further west and would have provided fresh water. If anything, I needed to go off-trail, crossing over the distant peaks before the sun sets and then and only then would I know for sure that I was in the clear.


    It was stupid and risky. There¡¯s a reason why there¡¯s trails; paths worn down over time by people finding the easiest way to where they were going. But I had reached a point where I wasn¡¯t sure where I was. I could see where I needed to go, but didn¡¯t know when my path would intersect with a trail that would take me there.


    The terrain was flat for a while, but soon it took me over several rolling hills and down into a steep valley that ended at a lake at the base of a peak. Best guess was that it was well over 13,000 feet. I could see the tiny outlines of hikers along the ridgeline, which most likely meant that the true trail was on the other side from where I was at. I looked up and down the valley, but couldn¡¯t see a better alternative than heading relatively straight up to the ridge line.


    I hiked to the base of the boulder field before packing my poles away. I begin making my way up and over them; carefully picking my way through the various sized boulders, occasionally slipping and causing rocks to tumble down to the valley below. Any time I saw hikers on the ridgeline, I stayed low, stopping to catch my breath.


    It was a slow journey. Several times I took a path that led to a giant boulder that I couldn¡¯t scale or go around and I had to double back. My water was running low as was my food supply. My stomach was cramping and I had to take a few bathroom breaks, crouched between boulders.


    I had to make it to the top. From there I could follow the trail down to the trailhead and refill my water and use the facilities to clean myself up. If I was correct in my assumption about which mountain I was hiking up, it would be another 10 miles until I was in a small town and could buy food.


    Walking. Hiking. Scrambling.


    The closer I got to the top, the steeper it became. The sun was beginning to set and there weren¡¯t any more hikers.


    It was dark before I could reach the ridgeline. I had hit a granite wall and I was too tired to head back down. I wedged my right foot into a crevice and used that to push myself up until my fingers found another crevice to grip. With my left foot I felt around until I found a narrow outcrop of rock and I pushed myself up and over.


    In the moonlight I could see the trail¡ªmaybe 100 feet up a hikable climb. I push forward, quickly losing my momentum and my hike becomes a crawl. I reach and grab hold of a small boulder as my feet go out from underneath me, but the boulder isn¡¯t stable either. As I put my weight on it, the boulder turns, beginning to roll, and I push myself away from its path, landing on loose scree that starts to break up underneath my weight. I claw with my hands and kick with my feet, trying to find some type of purchase. In the dim light, I can see the approaching cliff of the wall that I had just climbed and my movements become more frantic.


    In the final few milliseconds, I¡¯m hit by a wave of peaceful inevitability and stop my thrashing, tensing as I go over the cliff, falling for what feels like forever, before I crash into the ground and darkness descends.

 Part 2, Chapter 9

    It¡¯s quiet.


    I sit in the living room alone. Earbuds are in place and I¡¯m leaning against the front of the sofa, letting my mind drift as I listen to music streaming from my smartphone.


    There¡¯s a soft touch on my shoulder and I stir as Veronica lays on the sofa behind me. She pulls one of the earbuds out and places it in her own ear. She¡¯s silent, listening to the strums of the electric guitar and the opening lyrics. There¡¯s a point where the one voice is joined by two other women in perfect harmony. Their voices rise and fall, growing in energy, pushing and pulling against each other. I reach up, holding Veronica¡¯s hand against my shoulder as we continue listening to the short EP until it fades into silence.


    ¡°Did Eleanor go down easy for you?¡± I ask after a while.


    Veronica stretches out on the sofa, responding with a stretched ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°How are you feeling?¡± I ask her.


    ¡°Tired.¡± She pauses for a moment before adding, ¡°And hungry.¡±


    I smile and stand, going to the kitchen and opening the fridge. I grab a handful of leftovers and pull out a cast iron skillet from underneath the stove. After the oil has heated, I throw in a mixture of vegetables and chicken and crack open a couple fresh eggs. As I¡¯m stirring the concoction, Veronica comes behind me and wraps her arms around my chest, leaning into me¡ªpregnant belly first, followed by the rest of her.


    ¡°Is that for me?¡± she asks.


    I grunt in agreement and we stand there. Me stirring and her leaning in until I switch the burner off and step out of her embrace grabbing a plate to dump everything on there.


    At the table we sit with the single plate between us, eating in silence.


    ¡°Do you want to talk about it?¡± I ask her.


    She looks up and I can tell that part of her doesn¡¯t. Part of her wants to keep the experience to herself and part of me wants to be okay with it.


    ¡°He¡¯s you,¡± she begins, ¡°but different. I can¡¯t really explain why. He mentioned something about the multiverse and string theory, but I can¡¯t explain it. There was another version of me that died from cancer and another version of Eleanor, too. He was just sad and alone and didn¡¯t know how to be there for his daughter.¡±


    The silence stretches on between us.


    ¡°Well,¡± I say, ¡°at least we know it¡¯s not a ghost.¡±


    She laughs and we continue eating.


    ¡°Do you think we¡¯ll see him again?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Veronica responds. ¡°When I did see him it was random; there was no pattern to it. Most of the time, I didn¡¯t even know I was gone. His house is exactly the same as ours. I couldn¡¯t tell any difference. Most of the time I just thought I was going crazy.


    ¡°I feel sorry for him,¡± Veronica continues. ¡°Every time I saw him he looked sad. He told me that Eleanor misses me¡ªor rather her, the other version of me.¡±


    Upstairs there¡¯s a muffled thump and Veronica and I trade a knowing look. I push back from the table and head up the stairs.


    There, on the floor of her bedroom is Eleanor, still asleep. I contemplated picking her up and laying her in her bed, but I decided against it. Even though the floor was hard and uncomfortable¡ªsomething I knew from a couple nights keeping her company while she was sick¡ªEleanor obviously didn¡¯t mind as she lay curled up on her side.


    I reach into her bed to pull down her pillow and blanket, but freeze as I see another figure in her bed. Her face is towards me and I know it¡¯s her¡ªEleanor, my Eleanor¡ªsleeping in the same position she was in when I had tucked her in and gave her goodnight hugs, kisses, and cuddles.


    Crouching down, next to this other Eleanor, I study her. She is identical in every way to my Eleanor. She is even wearing the same goddamn pajamas. But everything about her is the same. She even sleeps the same way as my Eleanor with her hands folded and tucked beneath her chin; her mouth slightly open as she breathes in and out.


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    How is this possible?


    For weeks we had been experiencing these strange anomalies in our house: ghosts and visions of another me. I had only seen him once. Thinking he was an intruder in our bedroom, I beat him with my wife¡¯s softball bat. But then I saw his face; the mirror image of my own except more tired and sad, and then he was gone.


    As frequent as these sightings were, they were just that: sightings. Apparitions. Fleeting visions. They came and went within a matter of minutes. There was never this sense of thereness that this other sleeping Eleanor had.


    I¡¯m not sure how long I sat there watching her, but she didn¡¯t fade away.


    My mind reeling, I step back outside the room. Veronica is at the base of the stairs.


    ¡°Is everything okay?¡± she asks.


    I wave her up the stairs and point inside the room. Veronica puts her hand to her mouth in disbelief. But after a few moments, Veronica¡¯s motherly instincts kick in. She goes into the adjoining bedroom that we usually keep for guests and pulls out a pillow and blanket from a chest of drawers. Going into the bedroom, she lifts Eleanor''s head onto the pillow and covers her up.


    Following Veronica downstairs and back into the living room, we sit in silence.


    ¡°Did he¡ªthe other me¡ªsay anything to you about this?¡± I ask finally.


    ¡°No,¡± Veronica responds.


    I lean forward, putting my head in my hands. ¡°Okay,¡± I say after a while, ¡°can you run through everything with me again? How many times did you see him?¡±


    ¡°Three or four times, but I¡¯m not sure. There were so many other times where I thought I had heard or seen something or felt that you weren¡¯t you.¡±


    ¡°Did you feel like you were there or here?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure I was here,¡± Veronica responds. ¡°But our houses were identical.¡±


    ¡°When I saw him I knew that he was in our bed.¡±


    ¡°But when I saw him today,¡± Veronica says, ¡°it was as if I was there and here. Things were out of focus on the periphery, but I could see all this trash around his place.¡±


    I swore under my breath. Since the first sighting, Veronica and I would discuss and dissect what happened at length. It wasn¡¯t until today that I felt like there was a sense of escalation in these sightings. Given what had happened tonight, it meant that this other version of me could push and pull himself and others between multiverses. Even the idea of the multiverse was insane. I had always gravitated towards the spectrum of a strong skeptic. The idea of ghosts were always discounted as figments of the imagination, but to discount our shared experiences as hallucinations created by an aberration in our minds meant that we had to have a shared consciousness and that in itself was impossible.


    When I could escape on the weekend without jeopardizing family plans or father/daughter time, I would drive into the mountains, find a trailhead and run or hike to the top of a nearby peak. What I loved about that experience is that when you¡¯re up that high, you feel how small you are in the universe and are reminded that there is something bigger out there that you¡¯re connected to. It was a moment of calm and a sense of release. One that was short-lived, because eventually I would head down the mountain, get in my car, drive back home, and be back in the thickness of my patterns of anxiety, stress, and worry.


    They were all forms of fear; the biggest one being the fear of letting go. Deep down there was a sense of belief that was rippling through me and I knew that I needed to let go of my sense of reality and accept what had happened and what was happening upstairs was my new reality. It was insane to resist what already was. I had to resist instead the personality defect that always led me to judge and analyze and retain control.


    There was something bigger than me at play here.


    ¡°What should we do?¡± Veronica asks.


    Before I can answer there¡¯s crying upstairs. I get up quickly and head up the stairs, Veronica a short distance behind me.


    Opening the bedroom door, the other Eleanor is sitting on the floor crying. Her eyes are halfway open, but she¡¯s rubbing the tears out of them, moaning and repeating, ¡°Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.¡± Our Eleanor is sitting up in her bed, rubbing her eyes as well.


    I kneel on the floor, stroking Eleanor¡¯s hair away from her face, some already matted with tears.


    ¡°Hey there. Daddy¡¯s here.¡±


    She looks up at me and screams. It¡¯s incomprehensible. Seeing Veronica in the doorway, Eleanor runs to her, wrapping her arms around her mother, saying over and over again, ¡°Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy.¡±


    Veronica kneels down, pulling her into her lap, making shushing sounds.


    Our Eleanor is quiet and I go to her, helping her lay back down in her bed, pulling her blanket on top of her. She lays there watching Veronica hold her doppelg?nger, rocking her back and forth.


    ¡°Do you want to lay down?¡± Veronica asks the other Eleanor.


    ¡°I want Daddy,¡± the other Eleanor sniffles.


    ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± I tell her, scooting closer.


    ¡°You¡¯re not my Daddy,¡± Eleanor says. ¡°Where¡¯s my daddy? I want my sad daddy.¡±


    My presence isn¡¯t helping, so I leave the room sitting down in the hallway, my feet resting several steps down on the stairs. I can hear Veronica calming the other Eleanor down and eventually it¡¯s quiet.


    Veronica comes out of the room and sits next to me. ¡°She¡¯s in the bed with our Eleanor,¡± she tells me.


    The silence grows between us.


    I reach over and hold Veronica¡¯s hand in mine. She leans into me, her other hand stroking my back.


    ¡°We need to talk to him,¡± she says.

 Part 2, Chapter 10

    I am still sitting in Eleanor¡¯s room. The walls are back in their original position. The cracked ceiling is whole again.


    But she is gone.


    Eleanor is gone.


    She¡¯s gone. She¡¯s gone. She¡¯s gone. She¡¯s gone. She¡¯s gone. She¡¯s gone.


    My lap still feels warm where she used to lay and part of me still feels her presence, hovering around me, on the other side of the veil.


    But she¡¯s gone. I know she is.


    The sense of absence grows; opening like a void within my chest. It¡¯s a feeling that is new to me. Even with the loss of Veronica I never felt this sense of loss. Perhaps it was because the loss of Veronica was gradual; day by day as she grew sicker and weaker. The sense of her loss was spread out over time.


    With Eleanor, she was just gone and I don¡¯t know what to do with that feeling.


    It¡¯s a stranglehold on my heart and lungs.


    Something that I had only felt once, almost six years ago.


    Two weeks before Eleanor¡¯s birth, Veronica¡¯s midwife realized that what she thought was Eleanor¡¯s head was really her butt and that she was in a frank breech position; folding up like a v, with her butt facing the birth canal. Veronica was devastated. Everything she had been planning for was driven from the desire to have a completely natural birthing experience¡ªno epidurals, no pain medicine. The position of Eleanor would make those plans nearly impossible and a cesarean section was inevitable. So the midwife offered to rotate Eleanor back into a head down position, facing Veronica¡¯s back. We agreed and the midwife left to find another nurse practitioner to assist.


    While we waited, I called my office and told them that I¡¯d be out for longer than expected.


    I tried to stay off my phone¡ªavoiding work emails and social media chatter¡ªtrying to be present for Veronica. She didn¡¯t talk and I didn¡¯t ask her to. Her eyes roamed around the room. Mine did too: following the pattern of the ceiling tiles, finding random objects in their patterns, counting the tiles. Until my eye settled on an imperfection in the corner; a piece that had broken off and had left a small, but gaping hole.


    I let my mind drift, looking as deep into the hole, thinking about the old idea of looking into the abyss long enough that the abyss would look back. Yet, I looked into the abyss, but the abyss did not look back. I looked longer, past the point where the abyss should have looked back, and back to the beginning of everything and the first instance of the catastrophe of life and there was just blackness.


    The midwife came back in with a nurse practitioner. The nurse had Veronica sit forward as she placed an electronic fetal monitor around her swollen belly. I stood back, watching them, unable to help. The midwife poked Veronica¡¯s belly, feeling for Eleanor. Once she had one hand around the baby¡¯s head and the other on her butt, she started to push in order to rotate. Veronica gasped in discomfort, gripping the edges of the bed. The midwife pushed harder. I could see the form of the baby begin to move. The midwife relaxed and Eleanor slipped back into her comfortable breech position. She tried again, being a little bit more forceful. Veronica¡¯s eyes were squeezed shut; her forehead creased with pain and worry.


    The fetal monitor made a sound and my eyes flew to it, seeing the spike in heart rate, the beeps closer together and more urgent. Everything stopped, the attention pulled back and given to the monitor. Everyone was silent and my chest clenched as we watched the heartbeat grow faster and faster.


    I couldn¡¯t breathe. I felt that if I breathed, something would happen. I didn¡¯t know what might happen. I think a part of me felt that if I didn¡¯t breathe, time would slow and slow enough for Eleanor to feel better, safer, and her heartbeat would slow back down to its normal rhythm.


    I held Veronica¡¯s hand, not talking and she didn¡¯t ask me to as the midwife and nurses fluttered around, making sure that everything was fine.


    And eventually it was and my chest released and Veronica and I shared a grateful smile.


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    The midwife explained that Eleanor¡¯s heartbeat had spiked because of the stress of the procedure; everything they were doing now was a precaution, but that everything should be fine.


    And it was. Several weeks later, Eleanor was born.


    But this feeling I am feeling now is familiar. If I held my breath would time slow? Would I hear Eleanor in the ether? Is she safe? Is she okay?


    ¡°Eleanor?¡± I called out in the darkened room. ¡°Veronica?¡± a few minutes later.


    It was only met by deafening silence.


    I make a sound of pain even though I¡¯m experiencing no real sense of pain. My chest hurts, but it is a feeling of fear and love and loss.


    It¡¯s a primal sense of fear; one of that originates in the sense of the unknown. I am in a cave, unable to know and understand what I am seeing and hearing in the surrounding night. There¡¯s shadows on the wall and I don¡¯t know what they are from.


    I beat the floor, trying to shake and dislodge this idea of fear, so that I can once again be back in control of my mental state. As my breathing slows, I reach back out towards that void between the multiverse, trying to connect and see if Eleanor was there.


    I can¡¯t touch it, it¡¯s no longer there.


    Focusing my will, I reach out again. I want this. I want to see her. I want to make sure she is okay. But there¡¯s only emptiness and nothingness.


    It¡¯s too quiet without her. There¡¯s usually a heightened sense of emotion wherever Eleanor went; whether it was her infectious laugh or her tantrums over her perfectly packed, but too full lunchbox. But sitting there, alone in her room, I can feel the weight of loneliness descending. I try to use that sense of loneliness and apply it towards centering myself; centering myself in the darkness, trying to reach out again.


    I can¡¯t reach her.


    I can¡¯t reach Veronica.


    There¡¯s nothing there.


    I¡¯m alone.


    It¡¯s different this time. The loneliness before was driven by the loss of Veronica, but I was never truly alone. I had Eleanor and my parents. Now, it¡¯s a stage of loneliness where I am more truly alone than ever before. I¡¯m lonely in the present moment, but the fact that Eleanor was no longer here would drive me into isolation in the future. I can already feel the walls of my psyche vibrating with the inability to tolerate this sense of loneliness. My existence was always constrained by the existence of other people in my life. Eleanor and before her, Veronica, were my anchors.


    What matters now?


    I can see the path stretched before me.


    Regardless of the excuses for missed days of school or ignoring phone calls from my parents, eventually Eleanor would be missed.


    And then what?


    I couldn¡¯t process it. I knew what would happen next, but I couldn¡¯t speak of it or let the thought of it cross my mind. This was too big to cover up and at some point, everything that I said or did would unravel and I would be exposed. It would be a fitting end for me: yelling and babbling about the multiverse and about Eleanor being united with her mother once again.


    Downstairs it¡¯s just as quiet. I know I need a distraction, something to calm the activity in my mind so I can think. Standing in front of my bookcase, I scan the titles but they all feel dull. I turn the television on, scanning through libraries of streamable movies and shows, but again, nothing feels right.


    I step out onto the front porch. The night air is crisp; cool, but not cold. Looking up I can see the stars in the night sky. I breathe in deeply and begin to feel that familiar sense of order begin to return. I step inside briefly to grab a light jacket and some keys, and after locking the front door I start walking. Less than a mile away there¡¯s an open area that takes me past the area''s light pollution. I walk, head down, following the sidewalks. It¡¯s late and there¡¯s no one out. Even though it¡¯s isolated, I don¡¯t feel isolated. I can hear all different signs of life: the hum of street traffic, the distant barking of neighborhood dogs and the yipping of coyotes. There¡¯s a few houses with lights still on and I can see shadowy movements of neighbors going about their nighttime routines or working by the light of their laptops and other screens.


    Eventually, I reach the open space and take a gravel trail deeper, away from the surrounding lights, letting them grow further and further away. Cresting a hill, I hop off the path and head downwards, and the lights and the sounds that accompanied the neighborhood disappear.


    Looking up, the stars and the planets are more visible. Squinting, I can almost make out the dusting of stars even further away that make up the Milky Way.


    Things are becoming calm and orderly. There wasn¡¯t a sense of peace, but there was a sense of what I needed to do. I didn¡¯t know where Eleanor was, but I had to trust the intention of my will. She was out there; close by, but unreachable through the fabric of the cosmos.


    ¡°Eleanor,¡± I whisper to the stars, ¡°I¡¯m sorry I let you go. I¡¯m sorry that I couldn¡¯t be there for you. I hope you know that I love you and that all I wanted for you was the best. I¡¯m sorry that I couldn¡¯t provide that. Tell mom I said hi.¡±


    Bending down, I pick up a handful of dry dirt and let it run between my fingers, letting go of my guilt.


    Letting go of Veronica.


    Letting go of Eleanor.

 Part 2, Chapter 11

    As I walk home from the trail, my mind becomes increasingly more troubled.


    There¡¯s a flash in the periphery of my vision and I can see the beast, the one from my childhood dreams, standing in the darkness, watching me with all four of its heads.


    I stop walking, closing my eyes, trying to will it away, but when I open them, it is still standing there. I shake my head, slamming the heel of my hand against it, over and over but I can still see it out of the corner of my eye.


    It isn¡¯t real. I know that it isn¡¯t real. It was just a dream.


    Steadying myself, I turn to face it and it¡¯s only then that I can see that it¡¯s not the beast from my dreams, but only a solitary coyote. It¡¯s watching me, so I watch it. When I turn back towards the trail, it turns to follow me. I yell, throwing my arms into the air, trying to make myself look as big as possible, and it skitters away into the darkness.


    I¡¯m suddenly more aware of my surroundings, feeling isolated with a nagging hint of fear beginning to creep towards the surface. I pick up my pace and soon I can see the lights of the neighborhood.


    When I arrive home, I can feel the pull towards the bottle of vodka, but I ignore it, knowing that I needed my mind to be clear and my body to be clean of any substances for what was to come next. Instead, I get ready for bed, and once completed, sit in the corner of my room on the floor. I plug my headphones into my phone, and put one earbud in and then the next. Pressing play, I let my mind drift as I listen to the soft, meditative chords of a piano. My eyes are growing heavy and when my head nods forward, heavy with sleep, I lay down and close my eyes.


    Soon I¡¯m asleep and the dreams begin.


    When I was a teenager, after constant begging, my parents finally conceded and bought me a dog. She was a purebred Border Collie that I named Jackie. Eventually, we ended up buying another dog¡ªthis time a male¡ªand started to breed them as a side business.


    Jackie was always somewhat disconnected from her puppies. When she was ready to give birth to her first litter, she was in her pen, pacing up and down a narrow path of dirt while giving birth. I found several puppies lying in the pen that I picked up, placing them inside Jackie¡¯s dog house. Arms spread, I wandered the pen, corralling Jackie into her dog house to give birth to the rest of the litter. Even after giving birth, she wouldn¡¯t stay inside the dog house, sitting in the far corner of the pen ignoring her offspring. It was as if she didn¡¯t know what to do, so my dad and I pushed her inside the dog house, blocking the door, checking in occasionally until she started to nurse her puppies at regular intervals; her maternal instincts finally kicking in.


    When I was in college, I had a dream about Jackie. In the dream, her stomach was distended, enlarged more so than any other pregnancy. She stood outside the dog house, her stomach moving in and out like a billow at an old-timey blacksmith forge, until blood started trickling out of her dilating vagina. The blood was soon followed by an oversized puppy, still in its embryonic sac. It slid out, thumping to the ground. I bent down, looking at the outline of the puppy inside the sac, waiting for it to move, but it never did. Turning my eyes they met Jackie¡¯s. Her eyes looked sad and full of pain. ¡°Why did you let this happen to me?¡± they seemed to ask. Her breath was quick, panting in and out, at the same speed of the movement of her stomach.


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    Thump. Another puppy, stillborn.


    I put my hand behind her ear, giving her a comforting scratch.


    Thump.


    Jackie¡¯s tongue hangs out of her mouth as her panting intensifies. In a strangely humanoid way, she begins to gasp for breath; sucking in huge amounts of air, letting it out in a whuff. Again and again, until she opened her mouth and let out a scream full of pain and horror.


    I awoke at that moment, feeling disturbed, and rightly so.


    It wasn¡¯t until months later that I understood that dream was a premonition. A large black labrador had jumped over the fence into her pen, sensing that she was in heat, and impregnated her. She was never the same after giving birth to the lab-mix puppies who were larger at birth than any of her previous litters. It tore her up inside and the floor of the dog house was slick with her blood after she gave birth to her final litter of puppies¡ªtwo of which were stillborn.


    A few months after they were weaned she died.


    In the aftermath of her death, I was harrowed by the images of the dream.


    The blood.


    The emerging embryonic sac, sliding in and out like a record needle stuck in a groove; pushing out and being sucked in over and over again.


    My dog, screaming.


    Dreams used to be where the mystics lived. A world filled with the known, the absolutely unknown, and elements of the partially unknown that our consciousness is constantly trying to sort through. Every layer of the dream state is full of anxieties and fears, hopes and desires.


    My eyes open and the room is dark, except for a tiny bit of light coming in from the street. Veronica¡¯s old rocking chair is back in the corner of the room and she sits there, rocking silently back and forth, tears streaming down her face. In her arms she¡¯s holding Eleanor. Eleanor is wrapped in a blanket, her tiny feet sticking out of the end. Pushing myself into a seated position, I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and stand, walking to them. Veronica doesn¡¯t say anything¡ªshe just sits there, looking at me, crying. I pull back the blanket around Eleanor¡¯s face. She¡¯s pale, her lips purple. I can see now that she isn¡¯t breathing; her chest is still.


    ¡°Why did you let her die?¡± Veronica screams at me.


    I stumble back, my hand still holding onto the blanket, and I fall, pulling Eleanor out of Veronica¡¯s lap where she lands stiffly on the floor. I brush the hair out of her face, adjusting her so that she lays flat on the floor, arms folded across her chest.


    ¡°Why did you let her die?¡± Veronica asks again. She slides down out of the chair and kicks out with her heel, connecting with my jaw.


    I fall to the floor, my mouth filling with blood. I let it trickle out of my mouth and onto the carpet. I feel the inside of my mouth with my tongue until I find a loose tooth. As my tongue brushes against it the tooth falls out. I choke, unable to spit it out; mouth opening and closing in gasps. I grit my teeth, but more teeth tumble loose, falling into the floor of my mouth on and around my tongue. I gag on the taste of blood and decay, my tongue pressing against the exposed gums and nerves, but I still can¡¯t spit the contents of my mouth out.


    Veronica hovers over me like a phantom, watching me choke on my own blood next to the body of our daughter. Breathing is getting difficult, even through my nose. There¡¯s a trickle of blood that I¡¯m spraying on myself and Eleanor with every exhale. The lack of oxygen combined with the sense of panic I¡¯m experiencing is making things fuzzy and I feel tired.


    ¡°Shhhh,¡± Veronica says, pinching my nostrils.


    I shake, trying to fight it off, but I feel tired; so tired.


    ¡°Shhhh,¡± Eleanor says as her corpse sits up. She reaches up, her still cold hand petting the top of my head.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I want to say, but I can¡¯t speak and the effort in trying to makes me choke even more.


    I¡¯m tired. I want to lay down, so I do and I descend to a place where the dreams can¡¯t chase me.

 Part 2, Chapter 12

    When my alarm goes off at its usual time, I wake up to silence.


    The house is quieter than usual. Typically, there would be the drone of the sound machine in Eleanor¡¯s room. Even when she was away visiting my parents I would have it on to maintain that sense of routine, but last night I broke that pattern and it made the house feel even emptier.


    I hadn¡¯t given much thought to what my actions should be, but I knew, at the very least, the shape the path needed to take.


    I followed my usual routine: pulling myself out of bed and hobbling into the bathroom with stiff muscles. I  start my morning ritual with a quick shower and shave before getting dressed for the day. Once completed, I walked to Eleanor¡¯s room. Opening the door, I looked at her empty bed and focused on what was next.


    I knew that what I was about to do would cause unimaginable pain to the people closest to us, especially my parents, but it was the only possible outcome. Who would believe me when I told them that I had magically willed my daughter into the multiverse?


    It had to be realistic, though. Even though I had been a theatre nerd in high school and college, I was never able to convince myself that I was a good actor. I always felt that I was always rehearsing a different version of myself. It wasn¡¯t until dress rehearsal, when the costume or makeup was on that I felt more complete as the character I was portraying. There were always moments during the play when I would feel myself letting go and slipping more fully into the persona, but when I reflected on those moments I always felt that I was just speaking the words the playwright wrote as a version of myself and not the actual character.


    How I approached these next moments had to feel authentic. There had to be truth rooted in my actions. I was worried about Eleanor¡ªthat much was true. I hoped she was safe and happy being with her mother again, but not knowing how she truly was still caused anxiety.


    So I focus on that feeling¨Cthat sense of anxiety¨Cand let it blossom inside my chest.


    I crinkle my brow looking at her empty bed and her name becomes a question. ¡°Eleanor?¡±


    Stepping out of Eleanor¡¯s room, I look in the bathroom, flipping on the light. ¡°Eleanor? Where are you, girl?¡±


    I head downstairs, looking in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the second bathroom, the garage, the basement¡ªall while calling her name.


    Grabbing my shoes, I slip them on quickly and head outside. ¡°Eleanor!¡± I call. I yell loud enough that I hope my neighbors hear me.


    I walk up our street, calling her name, letting my voice become more desperate.


    ¡°Eleanor!¡±


    Turning around, I walk down the street, back past our house, still calling.


    Checking my watch, I realize that it¡¯s almost time for the other children on my street to begin lining up for the school bus. Looking around, I see the faces of a couple children pressing their faces against the glass windows of their house, watching me pacing up and down the street.


    A front door opens and a neighbor steps out¡ªPeter, I believe.


    ¡°Have you seen Eleanor out this morning?¡± I ask.


    Possibly-Peter shakes his head, stepping down the concrete steps to his driveway, walking towards me. I notice that he isn¡¯t wearing any shoes, his socks darkening as they pick up moisture from their sprinklers.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± he asks.


    ¡°I woke up and I couldn''t find Eleanor. I¡¯ve looked everywhere and she isn¡¯t in the house.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± he asks.


    I don¡¯t immediately respond, because I feel like I need to be responding and acting more irrationally. I rub my hands through my hair as I continue looking around the neighborhood. ¡°I looked everywhere,¡± I repeat. ¡°But¡ª¡± I let the sentence trail off as I walk back to my house, leaving the front door open as I begin searching again. From the upstairs window I can see that possibly-Peter is watching our house. His wife is standing next to him and he¡¯s whispering in her ear. Their two school-aged children filter by with their backpacks, crossing the street to the bus stop. I call for Eleanor again, as loudly as I can, and I can see him stop talking to his wife, both of them looking up towards my house.


    I feel a bit pleased with myself and my performance so far.


    But what comes next?


    Is this the time I call the police? At what point would you realize that something was truly off and call the authorities?


    There was a story several years ago in the newspaper about a five-year old boy who had snuck out of his house at night during winter. The door had one of those handles that weren¡¯t made for little boy hands and the doorbell was too high for him to reach. The next morning the parents had awoken, began their morning routines, and eventually discovered that he was missing. When they finally ventured outside, they saw tiny little footprints leading away from their doorstep and around to the side of their house. There they discovered their son, frozen to death, next to their air conditioner.


    I remember reading that story with Veronica, thinking about the horror those parents must have gone through. They had probably searched the entire house before venturing outside and I already did¡ªventure outside, I mean.


    Perhaps this was the right time to call the police.


    Possibly-Peter and his wife are still outside and so I head down my driveway to the sidewalk.


    Pulling out my phone I dial 9-1-1. I explained stiffly that Eleanor was missing. The operator on the other end asks when the last time I saw her was and I tell them about last night and how she went to bed and how I checked in on her before going to bed myself; sometime around 11 PM


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    The operator asks if there were any signs of a break-in. I tell her no, but think better of it, and mention that I had forgotten to lock the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard; discovering it this morning. There¡¯s more questions and I try focusing on the answers while seeming distracted by the loss.


    ¡°An officer has been dispatched and should be arriving in the next five to ten minutes,¡± the operator tells me.


    ¡°Okay, thank you,¡± I tell her before hanging up.


    Possibly-Peter and his wife have crossed the street and are on the sidewalk just outside my house, a short distance away. I can tell that they weren¡¯t trying to eavesdrop, but by the look on the wife¡¯s face I could tell that they couldn¡¯t help but overhear.


    I nod, acknowledging their empathy and turn back to my phone to select my parents¡¯ contact card to call them. My mom picks up the phone and I ask for my dad; knowing that I needed the more rational side of their relationship to break the news to.


    ¡°We¡¯re coming over,¡± he tells me before hanging up.


    A few minutes later at the top of the street I can see the police car turning the corner and heading towards me. They pull into the driveway and a detective, a woman, along with a uniformed officer emerge.


    The rest of the morning is a flurry of questions and activities. After inspecting the rest of the house and spending the most time in Eleanor¡¯s room, we sit at the kitchen table and the detective begins by asking questions about Eleanor¡¯s description.


    ¡°How old is she?¡± she asks.


    ¡°She¡¯s five. Almost six. She¡¯ll be six in October.¡±


    ¡°Do you have a recent picture of her?¡±


    I pull out my phone, showing her a recent photo I had taken of her playing at a playground.


    The detective holds the photo, staring at it for a while, before she asks, ¡°Has anything changed? A recent haircut, perhaps?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I respond. ¡°This picture was from a few weeks ago. Her hair is a little bit longer.¡±


    ¡°Do you know when she went missing?¡±


    ¡°No. I went to bed around 11 PM. I checked in on her then and she was asleep in her bed. This morning I woke up at 6:30 AM and saw that she was missing.¡±


    She notates this on her notepad. ¡°Did you notice any unusual details?¡±


    ¡°I realized this morning that I left the sliding door unlocked.¡±


    ¡°Was it opened?¡±


    ¡°No. It was shut.¡± More writing. ¡°The switch¡ªthe lock¡ªwas down instead of up in the locked position,¡± I elaborate.


    ¡°Did anything else appear out of place?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Does Eleanor have any physical or mental issues?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s a five year-old, so there¡¯s that.¡±


    The detective tilts her head at my response. ¡°I mean, is she happy and healthy?¡±


    ¡°Her mother died several months back.¡±


    The detective pauses and looks intently at me. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that.¡±


    ¡°Eleanor misses her and sometimes cries about it, but I thought she was doing better.¡±


    ¡°Does Eleanor sleep walk?¡± she asks.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Has she ever wandered outside without your permission?¡±


    ¡°She has. We have a rule that going into the backyard is fine. Our backgate is always shut and locked, so she can¡¯t move from the backyard to the front yard. But the front yard is off limits unless I¡¯m out there. I¡¯ve caught her a couple times in the front yard without my knowledge and we¡¯ve sat down and talked about it. Most of the time, it was her going outside to get the mail or to collect rocks. She¡¯s never done this at night, though.¡±


    ¡°Does she have any health problems? Diabetes? Food allergies?¡±


    I shake my head.


    By this time another patrol car had arrived and I could see a couple officers in my backyard walking about, looking in window wells and underneath the porch.


    ¡°What was she wearing when she went to bed?¡± the detective asks me.


    ¡°Pajamas,¡± I tell her. ¡°Pink ones with gold stars.¡±


    ¡°Did you notice if anything else was missing?¡±


    ¡°There wasn¡¯t anything in her room that looked out of the ordinary.¡±


    ¡°Are her shoes here?¡±


    This question, in particular, catches me off guard. If she left on her own, Eleanor would have taken her shoes with her. She¡¯s very careful to always make sure she wears shoes outside, because of several trips and falls where she¡¯s scraped the tops of her toes. However, if she was abducted more than likely she would have been grabbed out of her bed and her shoes would have been left. I know the answer, but I get up from the table anyway, walk to the closet, open the door to it, and rifle through the disorganized mess until I find her favorite shoes. I hold them up so that the detective could see them. She nods, making a note.


    There¡¯s a knock on the front door. Before I could open it, it swings open and it¡¯s my dad, followed closely by my mother.


    ¡°Have they found her?¡± my mother immediately asks.


    I shake my head and she gasps, hand flying to her mouth. Fresh tears start to flow from her already red eyes.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± the detective says. ¡°Could we get something that might have Eleanor¡¯s DNA? A toothbrush or a hairbrush?¡± Leaving my parents, I retrieve those two items, and the officer has me place them directly into an evidence bag.


    The officers outside are by the sliding glass door, dusting it for prints. Will they only find mine? Should I have put on gloves and smudged the fingerprints already on the door handle? Their activities move inside as they dust the inside handle. I can see the prints emerge in the dark pattern; those of larger fingers higher up on the handle and Eleanor¡¯s, smaller and little bit lower. One officer takes photos of the fingerprints, while the other prepares a clear adhesive tape which he places on the surface of the door handle, lifting the prints off.


    Soon they take my fingerprints, as well as my parents. The entire process seems to take forever. Eventually, the officers and the detective filter out of our house and begin knocking on neighbors¡¯ doors.


    At some point, possibly-Peter¡¯s wife comes by with a tray of sandwiches. After dropping them off in the kitchen, she hangs out awkwardly. I couldn¡¯t tell if she was genuinely trying to help or if she was only interested in the neighborhood gossip. I¡¯m not really hungry, but I tell her thanks. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about Eleanor,¡± she says. ¡°John¡ª¡± that was his name! ¡°¡ªand I are praying for you.¡± Shortly after, not-Peter¡¯s wife leaves.


    My parents and I sit in silence at the kitchen table. How long will this go on before I can move on? I know that Eleanor is gone and isn¡¯t coming back. At what point will the police realize that there isn¡¯t any evidence of foul play and that she just vanished? At what point will my parents move on? But I know that question won¡¯t ever be answered. My mother, due to her personality and faith, would always hold on to some glimmer of hope that Eleanor would one day return. She would hold onto that hope until the day she dies.


    There¡¯s a soft knock on the door and the detective steps back into the house.


    ¡°Hey,¡± she says. ¡°I was just talking to one of your neighbors¡ª¡± she looks at her notepad ¡°¡ªClare. She lives just up the street from you. Do you know her?¡±


    ¡°Not directly,¡± I respond. ¡°I probably have seen her around the neighborhood.¡±


    ¡°She said something interesting that I wanted to follow up with. She said that yesterday, around 11:30 PM, she saw you running past her house.¡±


    Shit.

 Part 2, Chapter 13

    Standing in their doorway, I watch the two girls playing with their dolls, smiling at how well they are getting along.


    Truthfully, they¡¯re our Eleanor¡¯s dolls, but sharing has magically become easier overnight. In the past Eleanor has had problems with the concept of sharing. During playdates, she would gather all her toys in one place¡ªa collection of dolls, building blocks, toy furniture, and random knick-knacks¡ªignoring the other children. She¡¯d cycling through playing with each thing, unwilling to share anything, even if it had remained untouched for several minutes.


    This morning she woke up before Veronica and I. Running into our room she exclaimed, ¡°Mommy! Daddy! I have a new friend!¡±


    I¡¯m not sure how long they were awake prior to this exclamation. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall to watch their first interaction.


    They had been playing all morning.


    It had quickly become confusing having two Eleanors in the house. Veronica, over breakfast, suggested that we call them Ella and Nora. The other Eleanor clapped her hands in excitement. ¡°Just like the princess!¡± she gasped, shooting her hands out as if she was throwing icicles.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s what her name was,¡± I said. ¡°Her name was¡ª,¡± but I see Veronica shake her head and I let it drop.


    We let our Eleanor choose first and she chose Ella while the other Eleanor glumly took up the mantle of Nora.


    ¡°It¡¯s a cool name,¡± I told Nora. ¡°It sounds like the name of a hurricane.¡±


    ¡°Oh great,¡± she says in reply. ¡°You tell bad jokes, too.¡± She glares at me, crossing her arms.


    ¡°It¡¯s not a joke,¡± I tell her. ¡°Last year there was a hurricane¡ª¡± Out of the corner of my eye I see Veronica shake her head, so once again, I let it drop.


    Once breakfast and their re-naming was completed, the two girls went back to playing. Ella gave Nora a tour of our house before introducing her to the rest of her collection of dolls and stuffed animals.


    Veronica and I observed at a distance, occasionally whispering about what we were going to do beyond this moment.


    How do you introduce people to a doppelganger? How do you explain it to her grandparents, neighbors or her kindergarten teachers? The explanation wasn¡¯t explainable. Even though there were facilities scattered throughout the world searching for dark matter or trying to prove String Theory, there had been no significant discovery even though billions of dollars had been spent on the research and detection technology.


    Veronica¡¯s arms slide across my waist as she rests her chin on my shoulder, watching the girls.


    Whatever we say and however we say it, the evidence of some strange occurrence was there, playing with dolls in our Eleanor¡¯s room.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think we should tell anyone,¡± Veronica whispers.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because the other you might come back for her. We should give it a few days.¡±


    ¡°What if he doesn¡¯t come back for her? What if he can¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°It had to be an accident,¡± Veronica says. ¡°Who would send their daughter into the multiverse and not come looking for her?¡±


    I don¡¯t respond, because the answer that was reverberting around in my head was, ¡°I would¡± or at least another version of me. Nora wasn¡¯t here from some mishap of the universe, but was sent here intentionally because of the decisions a psychologically damaged version of myself made.


    The rest of the day played out normally¡ªor rather as normally as it could. There was lots of playtime, the occasional reminder to both the girls to take a break and go potty, and plenty of shrieking. Our Eleanor was a shrieker and so, apparently, was her doppleganger. The combined shrieks were almost unbearable, making it almost impossible to concentrate on other tasks or hold a conversation with Veronica. Ella and Nora would chase each other around the house, shrieking constantly, and our conversation would happen in short little bursts, splitting the various sides of our repartee into a question or comment followed by a pause as the two girls tore through the kitchen. Eventually our conversation would pick back up with an answer or comment only to be interrupted a few moments later


    Later that day, we sat on the floor of the living room,  reading a story about a witch and her very full broom when Nora climbed into my lap next to Ella. As I read, I was aware of the sensation of weight on both my legs. It was an odd experience, but it made me think of what was to come with baby number two. One would be bigger while the other was small. One would be lighter while the other was heavier. But now, with both girls on my lap, where would the little baby go? One of the girls would need to sit on the couch next me, so that I could hold their new baby brother in one of my arms. But then how would I turn the pages?


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°Daddy,¡± Ella nudges me, ¡°you¡¯re not reading.¡±


    I shake my head, focusing on the page; allowing myself to be more present while reading about how the witch tries unsuccessfully to get an elephant onto her broom.


    For bedtime, Veronica arranged a makeshift bed for Nora on the floor. She piled several blankets for cushioning before laying down a sheet, pillow, and another blanket for Nora to lay underneath.


    The two girls settle into their beds and after several shushings close their eyes and go to sleep.


    Veronica and I leave the room and sit on the stairs.


    My mind is full of what ifs and what should we dos.


    Sensing the building chaos in my brain, Veronica puts her hand on my knee and says, ¡°Let¡¯s see what tomorrow brings.¡±


    And I nod, acknowledging and accepting that, as usual, she was right. We need to see what tomorrow brings.


    Eventually, we go downstairs, sitting in the kitchen, talking and theorizing about tomorrow and the day after that. We¡¯d call the school, telling them that our Eleanor was down with the flu. That would buy us a few days with them and my parents before any suspicions arose. We weren¡¯t very social with our immediate neighbors, so if we weren¡¯t outside with the girls we should be fine. But one day, if the other me doesn¡¯t come back, we would need to be able to explain.


    ¡°What if we just told the truth?¡± I ask Veronica.


    ¡°What?¡± Why?¡±


    ¡°Because she does exist. She can¡¯t just stay in our house all the time. She¡¯ll need to go to school or the doctor and how do we explain that?¡±


    ¡°We could homeschool them,¡± Veronica says.


    I laugh. ¡°Sure. That fixes the challenges with school. But what about everyone else? What happens when our neighbors see two identical girls running around our front yard?¡±


    ¡°Couldn¡¯t we just say that she¡¯s our niece?¡± Veronica offers.


    ¡°We¡¯re only children,¡± I respond. ¡°Besides, she doesn¡¯t have a birth certificate or a social security number.¡±


    ¡°Could I tell them that there was a mixup during Eleanor¡¯s birth and I really had twins?¡± Veronica asks. ¡°One of them was taken away and now we¡¯ve found her¡ªPraise Jesus.¡±


    ¡°How many people have you told your birth story to? How could you have left out that you had twins?¡±


    Upstairs there¡¯s a thump and soft footsteps. I can hear the girls¡¯ door open. Getting up from the table, I walk over. Ella and Nora are standing at the top of the stairs, holding hands.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I whisper, ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be in bed.¡±


    ¡°I had a bad dream,¡± Ella says.


    ¡°Me too,¡± says Nora.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I tell them. ¡°Was it scary?¡±


    They nod.


    ¡°It was just a dream and it¡¯s over now. Would you like mommy and daddy to tuck you in?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not my real daddy,¡± Nora says.


    Veronica comes up behind me. ¡°Would you like me to tuck you in?¡±


    Nora smiles and nods.


    Back in their room, I kneel on the floor next to Ella¡¯s bed while Veronica sits on the floor with her hand on the rising and falling chest of Nora. Ella¡¯s eyes are getting tired, and I¡¯m sure Nora¡¯s are doing the name. Her eyes begin to shut slowly. Lower, lower her eyelids fall, but then they shoot open. Ella scoots backward in her bed, looking at me and then past me, her eyes darting around the room, wide with fear. I hear Nora gasp as well.


    ¡°Did you hear that?¡± Ella asks.


    I look at Veronica. She shrugs and I shake my head.


    ¡°Shhhhh,¡± Nora says, putting her finger to her mouth to quiet us.


    ¡°There it is again,¡± Ella says.


    Crossing the room, I turn off the ocean sounds coming from the sound machine. I stand still, arms folded, watching the two girls. Veronica is looking around as well. I don¡¯t hear anything, but the girls continue to gasp and point every few seconds to various places in their room. It¡¯s like a game, but their facial reactions tell me that it¡¯s not a fun one. There¡¯s genuine concern and fear written across their faces.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Veronica asks. ¡°What are you hearing?¡±


    ¡°Mommy,¡± Ella says, ¡°someone is crying.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a girl,¡± Nora exclaims, ¡°it¡¯s another little girl.¡±


    I closed my eyes, focusing, and sure enough, I could hear the faint sobs of a little girl.


    ¡°Why is she sad, Daddy?¡± Ella asks.


    ¡°It¡¯s probably a neighbor,¡± I respond.


    I get up, leaving the bedroom, and head downstairs.


    I open the sliding glass door that leads to the porch and listen. Nothing.


    I walk to the front door, open it, and step outside listening. Nothing.


    When I get back upstairs. Veronica and the girls are sitting next to each other, their attention focused on the corner of the room next to the dresser.


    ¡°It¡¯s coming from there,¡± Veronica says, pointing to the corner.


    I edge closer and sure enough, the sound is slightly louder.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s happening again,¡± Veronica whispers.


    ¡°What?¡± I ask.


    ¡°It¡¯s him,¡± Veronica says. ¡°The other you. He¡¯s messing with the multiverse.¡±


    I step closer. ¡°Who are you?¡± I ask, speaking into the shadows that occupy that corner of the room.


    We listen intently and we can hear the crying subside.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± I ask again, a bit louder


    There¡¯s a distant scream, mostly inaudible. But through the garbled sounds and gasps and coughs I hear, ¡°Daddy!¡±

 Part 2, Chapter 14

    The house is finally quiet.


    My parents decided to stay overnight in case there would be any news. I set out camping cots for them in the living room, laying sheets, blankets, and pillows on top.


    Before retreating upstairs to my room, I gave my mom a hug. She felt frail. When she pulled back, I studied her face. She looked like she had aged 10 years over the course of a day.


    Godammit. Why am I doing this?


    Through the blinds I can see a solitary police car sitting on the opposite side of the street from my house.


    It¡¯s so quiet.


    When Eleanor was 16-months old, Veronica had to leave for a work trip. It was only a couple days, but it was the first time Veronica and Eleanor had been separated overnight.


    Every night, at some point, Eleanor would find her way from her crib to our bed¡ªusually with Veronica¡¯s help. She¡¯d wake throughout the night and Veronica would feed her in bed; both of them falling quickly back to sleep and me none the wiser.


    Before Veronica left on her trip, there wasn¡¯t any preparation. No night-weaning. No trial nights where I was solely responsible for Eleanor¡¯s sleep routine and she was solely dependent on me to help her sleep.


    In the weeks leading up to the trip, to help the transition, I¡¯d take Eleanor after her bedtime feeding and finish the nighttime routine: tucking her in, sitting next to her crib, waiting for her to fall asleep.


    Even then, Eleanor would reach for the door, crying for Mama. I would calmly and logically tell her that she already had milk and that Daddy was doing bedtime and sometimes it worked. Other times, it didn¡¯t, and I would lay her down in the crib, letting her thrash for a minute or two before asking if she wanted Daddy to pick her up again. ¡°I¡¯ll pick you up, but you got to stop crying.¡± When she would stop crying and nod in agreement to the terms I set forth, I¡¯d bend down and scoop her up, walking her back and forth in her room. After a few circuits, she would relax and lay her head on my shoulder, eventually falling asleep.


    But this change in routine wasn¡¯t enough to help Eleanor sleep throughout the night. Eleanor would still wake in the middle of the night demanding milk and cuddles from her mother.


    Veronica¡¯s flight was early, so she left in the wee hours of the morning. Shortly after her departure, Eleanor awoke, pushing herself up to stand in her crib, crying out for milk.


    ¡°Mama ma!¡±


    I picked her up, walking her back and forth, reminding her that Mama had left, but would return.


    ¡°Mama ma.¡±


    ¡°Mama is coming back,¡± I repeated. ¡°Mommies always come back.¡±


    Mommies always come back.


    That thought turned over in my head as I stared at the ceiling of my bedroom.


    It was late, but I could still hear my parents whispering downstairs. I can make out my mom¡¯s voice asking if we might hear anything tonight? Will there be any news? Should they go to sleep? Should they just wait by the phone?


    I wasn¡¯t entirely sure how this entire scenario would play out. If I wasn¡¯t already considered a subject in the detective¡¯s case, there was a high likelihood that I soon would be.


    A few years ago there was a story about a man whose wife and daughters disappeared in the middle of the night. Pretty immediately there were stories from the wife¡¯s friends and neighbors about her toxic relationship with her husband. There were rumors of him cheating on her with a male coworker or about her secretly wanting a divorce. At first, as those stories were being voiced through the more gossipy areas of the internet, they were easily dismissed. The husband was on the local news and on social media making seemingly heartfelt pleas for the abductor to safely return his family to him. But in a short period of time the FBI got involved. He was interrogated, and eventually cracked, leading authorities to an abandoned mine shaft in the middle of the foothills where he had suffocated and buried his family.


    I remember the plea he made to the cameras, begging for the safe return of his family. Something was off in his eyes. While he spoke with emotion and his voice would crack, what he was saying and how he was saying it along with the rest of his body language never connected with his eyes. His eyes remained void of any emotion. It was then, days before he was arrested, that I knew that he was responsible.


    Was riding this out the safest choice?


    Would I eventually crack, spewing stories about the multiverse, the power of will, and magick?


    How long could I hold out for?


    Would I be able to carry the burden of my secret knowledge across countless interactions between family and friends? Or would that cause me to break?


    Would there be the right concoction of booze and drugs to lower my inhibitions and cause me to rant and rave about what I had done?


    Would I take to the internet and find some random thread of conspiracies and share my secrets there?


    Or would I post hidden messages in obscure social media posts that hinted at what I did only to be decrypted five years from now when I¡¯m some crazy guy in an asylum drawing images of a black hole on the wall with my own feces?


    Sometimes running away is the easiest decision.


    At a dance when I was eight-years old, I was making fun of other kids that were dancing with girls. My mother caught wind of the nasty things I was saying and told me that if I didn¡¯t cut it out, she would make me dance with a girl.


    At that time, as a child growing up in the early 90¡¯s, and as sheltered as I was, cooties was somewhat synonymous with AIDS. And knowing that girls were full of cooties and other contagious diseases, I ran for my life.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The dance was at a community center that was sheltered by a hundred acres of woods. Even though it was dark, I was familiar enough with the landscape to duck down a dark path and circle behind one of the other buildings and crawl beneath a pine tree to hide and watch. After a while I heard the music stop and heard the DJ mumble something into the microphone. The music never started back up and soon I saw people milling about as if to leave. Several figures went to their cars, but instead of driving off, they came back carrying giant flashlights¡ªthe kind that would take eight D batteries and you¡¯d have to occasionally slap it with the side of your hand to work. The flashlights and the figures disappeared into the woods in all directions. It was at that point that I knew I was in trouble.


    Eventually I heard people yelling and I could hear my name being called. I could sense that every second I stayed hidden was another layer of punishment I would receive for my actions. It was a balancing act of emotion and inaction versus logic and action: this desire to remain safe from the spread of cootie transmitted diseases and to not be killed by my possibly psychotic mother. How long could I stay hidden so that I didn¡¯t have to dance with a girl but just long enough that my parent¡¯s worry overran their desire to punish me? More than likely I would still be punished, but if I stayed out long enough would the punishment be less severe?.


    After a while I saw a figure approaching from the parking lot. He must have seen me because he walked straight to the tree I was hiding under. Upon reaching it, he knelt down and peered underneath. There was enough light that I could see that he had a kind face.


    ¡°Hey,¡± he said, ¡°everyone is really worried about you. I don¡¯t think you need to worry about dancing with a girl¡ª¡± I sighed in relief ¡°¡ªbut your mom is really freaked out. You need to come out and say you¡¯re sorry and I promise you that you aren¡¯t going to be punished too harshly. Your family loves you. They¡¯re worried. A lot of people are. Here.¡± He extends his hand. I hesitate. ¡°Come on now. It¡¯s going to be fine. You¡¯re going to be fine.¡±


    I take his hand and with his help crawl out from underneath the itchy scratchy pine needles. I brush myself off and look towards the community center. The stranger places a hand against my back and nudges me forward to start walking back to my waiting parents. I remember looking back and him waving before I went inside.


    My mom is there. When she sees me she doesn¡¯t rush forward and embrace me. She looks at me and in that look I understand what my punishment will be. I won¡¯t get spanked. I won¡¯t necessarily be grounded. But I will have this memory and so will she and she will make sure I don¡¯t forget it. At first it will be comments made daily; ¡°I can¡¯t believe you would pull a stunt like this¡± and ¡°I can¡¯t believe you would do this to me.¡±. But then those comments would fade only to be turned into a fun anecdote to shame me in front of potential girlfriends or prom dates. ¡°You have to be careful with that one,¡± my mother would tell them, pointing at me. ¡°If you get to close, he might run away.¡±


    Sometimes running away is an option, but it doesn¡¯t always have the best consequences.


    I wonder how Eleanor is. Was waking up to her mother again good for her? What¡¯s it like having a twin? A tiny laugh escapes my lips at the thought of it. Eleanor, being Eleanor, would probably take having two of her in stride, but if the other Eleanor is anything like her, there would be conflict. They would probably try to control each other''s looks, fighting over who should plan the other¡¯s fantastical outfit for the day.


    I wish I could observe her in her new habitat. Not to say hi or anything, but just to check in; make sure she¡¯s okay.


    Sitting up in bed, I swing my legs over the side and slide to the floor. My parents, at this point, are quiet and hopefully asleep, so the house is still. I don¡¯t quite know how I had blended the two worlds together in the first place, but I start by just whispering her name: ¡°Eleanor.¡±


    Nothing. Not even an audible shifting between worlds.


    Opening my bedroom door I cross to her room and it¡¯s still empty.


    I sit on her floor and close my eyes and try to picture her, breathing in and out slowly. I can see her, centered in my mind in the space between my eyes, and with each breath I can see her growing larger and more visible, but when I open my eyes again, she isn¡¯t there.


    Changing my position, I lay on her floor with my arms spread above my head, allowing as much contact with the floor as possible. I start breathing again, following my breath from the moment it begins, to its climax, down through the exhale.


    All the while, my focus is on her.


    My will, every ounce of my energy is directed towards her.


    But she still doesn¡¯t appear.


    My slow, methodical, meditative breathing becomes faster; sucking in as much oxygen as possible, allowing it to billow my chest and stomach, before blowing it out, and immediately sucking in a new lungful.


    Inhale. Hold the breath. Exhale. The sound of my chest cavity deflating, slowly and loudly, provides a sense of peace.


    In and out. In and out.


    All with Eleanor in the center of my existence.


    In and out. In and out. Faster and faster.


    I can see the edges of my vision vibrate and tingle. There¡¯s pinpricks of sensation on my hands and up my arms. The sound of blood rushing in my ears is so loud. My heart thumps in my throat, rattling it. I suck in another breath and my chest vibrates. It hurts. So much pain. And pleasure. All I can think of is of her: Eleanor. My head is full of music; the vibrational tones of the universe that I had heard the other day. I want to hold her again.


    My lungs collapse. I feel like I can¡¯t take another breath, but I feel the air sliding into my lungs as I inhale.


    I didn¡¯t cross over.


    I have failed.


    Not just in this attempt to cross back over, but in life. Especially in this post-Veronica life as a single dad.


    I have failed myself.


    And I have failed Eleanor.


    ¡°Eleanor,¡± I whisper. ¡°Daddy loves you. I hope you know that.¡±


    But she doesn¡¯t.


    I could have told her that I loved her before she left, just as I could have to Veronica before she died, but I didn¡¯t.


    I just shoved her away.


    The visual of that action comes to mind. Not the visual of me sitting on the floor of her room, sending her out into the multiverse. But a visual of me shoving her away physically. I could see her there, sitting right next to me. Her body language is communicating that all she wants is a hug; just some form of physical connection to tell her that she is loved and that everything¨Cmaybe not now but at some point in the future¨Cwould be okay.


    But I just shove her away.


    And the look in her eyes breaks me.


    It cuts so much deeper than the look she had when I told her that her mother had died. She had known that mommy was going to die. There was an inevitability that it was going to happen. We had talked about it. We had talked about what would happen and how daddy would be there for her.


    From that moment Veronica died, Eleanor and I became one; connected on a much deeper level.


    And I just shoved her away.


    And by doing that, I shoved a part of myself away.


    I pull her pillow off her bed and bury my face in it, beginning to sob and shake.


    When it finally subsides, I lay on my side and stare into space.


    My breathing has normalized, as has my vision, but there¡¯s a ringing in my ears that I can¡¯t shake, and a voice permanating the walls of the room and my mind repeating over and over again that the only way out of this mess was to kill myself.


    It started as a suggestion, but the voice became more insistent. ¡°Just do it,¡± it would say. ¡°You¡¯re broken. You¡¯re just a worthless piece of shit. Just do it. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself.¡±


    Over and over again until sleep overpowered the voice and the dreams descended.

 Part 2, Chapter 15

    There¡¯s a man, standing on top of a hill overlooking the barren wasteland of the desolate valley. In the distance is a row of mountains, their peaks glistening with snow.


    He stands amidst three trees. Their branches have been shorn, but they show signs of new growth; tiny leaves and buds forming, pushing through the young bark. He uses one for support; his hand gripping it like a staff, leaning into it. A band of leaves encircles his head like a wreath or a crown. He stands there waiting, watching the valley below.


    A woman sits on a throne. She is clothed in golden linens. A staff rests in one hand, shorn from the same tree that the man was gripping. No, it''s not a staff now, but a scepter. The new growth is still visible; jutting from the sides and top. In her other hand she holds the stock of a sunflower; the head drooping off to the side. She sits in judgment watching me.


    There was a battle in that desolate valley. Two armies fought. One army won. They divided the spoils and put into chains the defeated soldiers. As a symbol of their conquest, they left the conquered king lying where he was killed with ten swords buried to the hilt, methodically aligned from the crown of his head to the small of his back.


    The man leaves the hill and continues down away from the valley. He is carrying his makeshift staff, cut from the grove of three trees. The new growth still clings to its trunk.


    Coming to a river, he crosses at a juncture that is dotted with tree trunks that were sunk into the bedrock. He uses his staff for balance as he steps from tree trunk to tree trunk until he loses his balance and falls in.


    Another queen sits on a throne in her kingdom in the clouds watching the man fall into the river. She sits in judgment of him, clutching the executioner¡¯s sword in one hand while with the other she gestures, willing him to rise dripping from the river.


    The Baphomet stands naked, with his arms raised high above his goat head in exaltations, basking in the praise of his followers as they call out loudly, ¡°Yalla! Yalla!¡±


    He speaks not a word, but he stands silently, watching me. Both a man and a woman with the face of a goat.


    I am filled with dread as I watch the Baphomet. It doesn¡¯t move, but I can see it¡¯s beady black eyes. He/she knows the beast that had plagued my dreams as a child.


    They are related, but they are not.


    They are the same, but they are not.


    In the barren wasteland of the desolate Valley of the Goat, I stand alone before the Baphomet. As I stand alone in the Valley of the Goat, I fear no evil, except the Know. To be in the Know is a horrible thing. To know is to know and experience fully the consequential weight of my actions.


    ¡°Hello,¡± the Baphomet says, his/her arms are still raised. ¡°How are you doing?¡± The voice that comes out of his/her mouth is layered, an echo upon an echo; a chorus of men and women fighting for dominance over its vocal chords. ¡°Would you like to be in the Know, Mr. Man-Child?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say hesitantly. ¡°No Know for me.¡±


    The Baphomet bares his teeth. ¡°Then I would assume, Man-Child, that you are in the know about the Know. Fore, to know that you are in the know is to know.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± I whisper back. My pace quickens as I leave the Valley of the Goats behind me, clutching a staff shorn from the trunk of a straight tree with little shoots of new growth.


    On my journey, I came to a river. I¡¯m not sure how I knew, but at that moment I was aware that there was no bridge for miles, but, at the same time, I knew I had to cross the river. It was predestined.


    I first attempted to wade across it, but the current was too strong and upon my first stumble I turned around and headed back towards the river bank.


    Following the river upstream, I came to a section where there were seven tree stumps buried in the bedrock. Jumping from the river bank I landed on the first stump. Taking my staff in both hands I use it for balance as I step from one stump to the next. There¡¯s movement on the riverbank, just outside of my periphery, and I turn distracted. My balance is off and I fall into the water. My head goes under and I thrash, attempting to head towards the surface, losing my staff in the process. Arm over arm I swim for the opposite shore, until the water is shallow enough for me to stand and trudge onto the bank.


    Exhausted I throw myself to the ground, arms wide, welcoming the warm rays of the sun as my clothes begin to dry.


    ¡°Hello, fair traveler,¡± I hear.


    Opening my eyes and squinting in the midday sun, the visage of a maiden slowly comes into view. Her hair is golden, cascading down her shoulders and forms a halo around her face. She is holding my recovered staff, arms wrapped around, leaning into it as if she is weary, although her face is bright and full of joy.


    ¡°Come,¡± she says softly, beckoning me with her free hand. I stare at her questioningly, unsure if I should follow or not, but before I could decide, she turns to walk away.


    I push myself up and follow closely behind. We walk for a day and night, walking mile after mile in silence. The path winds its way up a mountain, until we come to a kingdom in the clouds. Its parapets rose into infinity; rock a mortar disappearing in an instance of clouds only to appear a fathom or two higher.


    At the gate she bade me farewell and I was ushered into a room by a handful of servants. There they bathed me and once I was cleaned, they showed me a closet of fresh clothing.. Once I was dressed I sat on the edge of the bed and waited.


    Time and space stretched and coalesced and once again I found myself herded by a group of servants. Down and down and further down; spiraling through a maze of stairs and hallways until I was pushed through the doorway of a massive room. It was empty, save for a chair at the opposite end of the room. Occupying the chair was a woman: the maiden from before. Walking closer, I saw that she was holding my staff in one hand while the other held a sunflower with a drooping head.


    ¡°Your majesty,¡± I say, going to one knee.


    ¡°Not my majesty,¡± she responds, ¡°but yours.¡±


    My eyes are on the ground, awkwardly casting back and forth in the silence that ensues.


    ¡°There''s darkness about,¡± she says finally. ¡°It arose in the west when you arrived and it is devouring all in its path. Did you bring it with you?¡±


    ¡°The only darkness I have with me comes from within,¡± I tell her. ¡°I have carried it with me a long while.¡±


    ¡°It is not from here and neither are you,¡± the woman says. ¡°I sense goodness in you, so I do not think that your darkness within and this darkness are the same, but I cannot help but think that the darkness was caused by your journey here.¡±


    ¡°If it did come because of me, I will do anything in my power to stop it,¡± I tell her.


    ¡°Then will you become my king?¡± she asks.


    ¡°If that is your will then it is mine as well.¡±


    Rising, she took my hand and led me from the throne room. Her touch was light and her hand was warm, soft and soothing. It was both there and not there, but I felt tethered to her, so I went where she led.


    Opening a door¡ªone of many down an expansive hall¡ªshe ushers me inside, closing it behind her.


    Pulling the drawstrings of her gown, she lets it drop to the floor, stepping out of it.


    Gods, she was beautiful.


    ¡°Will you be my king and help me defeat the darkness?¡± she asks.


    I meet her eyes. ¡°Yes, my queen. I will.¡±


    Walking to the bed, she lays down on her bed, opening her legs and baring her sex.


    ¡°Will you be my king and help me defeat the darkness?¡± she asks again.


    ¡°Yes, I shall,¡± I promise again.


    I pull my shirt up over my head and let my pants drop. I climb onto the bed, kneeling before her, letting my eyes meet hers.


    One more time she asks, ¡°Will you be my king and help me defeat the darkness?¡±


    ¡°I promise,¡± I tell her. ¡°I will do everything in my power to undo the darkness that is upon your land.¡±


    Laying down upon her, she accepts me and folds herself around me and we are one.


    Time jumps and moves in and out of existence and I am standing on a battlefield with my army stretched behind me and the darkness looming before me. We surge forward, the earth and my insides rumbling, my teeth rattling together, the darkness a blur until metal and horses and men collide.


    The sun immediately disappears. Not even a hint of it is in the darkened sky.


    We¡¯re blind, but there¡¯s screaming all about. I swing my sword, but it doesn¡¯t hit anything. Something streaks by and I whirl my horse around, blade at the ready, but it¡¯s nothing¡ªonly darkness.


    And then all is quiet; a heavy quietness of fog in the thick woods. I hear the sound of running, heavy footsteps thumping above me on the ridgeline. Whatever it is it runs one way and then there¡¯s silence and then it runs back the opposite direction. It¡¯s close and I peer into the darkness, trying to focus, trying to perceive something, anything. The thumping footsteps start again. It¡¯s closer this time, but before I can react, I¡¯m knocked from my horse.


    I land on my stomach in the dirt, my breath pushed from me. Pushing myself up with my elbows and hands I see two cloven hooves before me.


    ¡°Yalla! Yalla!¡± the Baphomet¡¯s followers cry.


    The Goat King places a hoof on my back and presses me back down in the dirt. I contemplate struggling, but I know all is lost.


    There¡¯s the familiar ring of a sword as it leaves its scabbard and a whirl as it cuts through the air and then pain, unfathomable pain, as it pushes through skin, connective tissue, muscle and bone.


    Another sword leaves its scabbard, it whirls, and buries itself.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    My legs don¡¯t work. I want to leave this world and all its pain, but I can¡¯t. Unconsciousness won¡¯t take me, either.


    The ring, the whirl, more pain.


    Blinking back tears, I see the Baphomet standing before me. He lays down in front of me so our heads are level.


    Ring, whirl, pain.


    ¡°My child, my child,¡± he/she whispers. ¡°Why did you send her into our world?¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Eleanor,¡± the Goat King says.


    Ring, whirl, my lungs collapse and I can¡¯t speak, involuntary spitting out a mouthful of blood instead.


    The Baphomet reaches forward and with his hand, gently wipes the bloody spittle from my mouth. I can¡¯t feel anything anymore, just the pressure caused by another sword being buried in my spine.


    ¡°She was the purest of the pure and you cast her out of your world and into this one. She became the Darkness and the Darkness ate of her and became her.¡±


    The sides of my vision were clouding with blackness as I fought to draw air into my torn lungs, but it was to know avail. I couldn¡¯t breathe, I was close to death, but for some reason I wasn¡¯t dying. At least not yet. Even as a sword tore through my heart, I still lived.


    ¡°She was love and now she is hate,¡± the Goat King tells me. ¡°She was hope and now she is despair. She was forgiveness and now she is a curse. She was truth and now she is lies. She was joy and now she is sadness. She was peace and now she is fear. She was life and now she brings death. And all of these things we beheld in her at once after she revealed herself on this plane, and we felt that what we beheld could be understood fore she was born to be all of these things at once: love, hate, hope, despair, forgiveness, a curse, truth, lies, joy, sadness, peace, fear, life and death These are a dream of her making; of your making. And so it will remain, until she dies a violent death and the flame of her darkness goes out.¡±


    My body shudders and I lose what feeling remained in my hands and fingers.


    I¡¯m sorry, Eleanor, so sorry. But I know that it isn¡¯t enough.


    ¡°She was a good little girl and now she is Darkness. And she will continue to be the Darkness, talking to the dark soul within herself.¡±


    Eleanor, I¡¯m sorry. Oh, Eleanor. Eleanor. Eleanor. Eleanor.


    The Baphomet stands and from my limited field of vision, I can see him drawing his own sword. I feel the tip¡¯s pressure gently on the nape of my neck. The pressure increases as it bites through skin, sinew, bone, until finally blackness.


    I¡¯m floating in the void. My soul is anchored to a dying star that is transitioning into a black hole and I can feel my being floating closer and closer to the event horizon until I am at its edge peering in. I know I need to go in, but I can still feel myself breathing, so I will myself to stop breathing, but even in that space where time stretches on, I still feel like I have a choice; that I can choose to exist; to exist and choose to do better.


    And so I choose to exist.


    Fresh, cool air fills my lungs and I¡¯m conscious of tears slowly running down my cheeks as I lay awake on the floor of Eleanor¡¯s room in the pre-dawn light.


    ¡°Daddy?¡± her voice is quiet.


    Eleanor isn¡¯t quite there, but in the darkness by her bedroom door there¡¯s a ripple of light in the shape of her.


    ¡°She¡¯s crying again,¡± I can hear her say.


    I pause. ¡°Who is crying?¡±


    ¡°The other girl. She¡¯s sad and she sounds hurt and we can¡¯t sleep.¡± The ripple moves as if to leave and I reach out my hand connecting with nothing that collesces into something. And just like that Eleanor is there, standing over me, fully formed and truly there and sitting on the edge of her bed is her doppleganger.


    ¡°Daddy!¡± The one who I now assume is my Eleanor jumps up and crushes me in the tightest, fiercest hug I had ever felt from someone that small. We stay there, holding and squeezing each other, until she breaks away, still holding my hand. ¡°Ella,¡± she says proudly, ¡°this is my daddy¡ªthe sad daddy¡ªI keep telling you about.¡±


    ¡°Why do you look like my daddy?¡± the other Eleanor¡ªElla¡ªasks.


    The moment is too real and unreal to form any real response, so I ask, ¡°Have you ever heard of the multiverse?¡±


    They stare at me in silence with their big eyes until my Eleanor asks, ¡°Verse? Like a singing verse?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say, ¡°it¡¯s like when you¡¯re at the toy store and you see rows upon rows of the same doll and each of those dolls will eventually go to a different home. Even though they are the same, they live very different lives because of their environments.¡±


    ¡°What kind of doll is it?¡± Ella asks.


    ¡°Is it a princess doll?¡± asks my Eleanor.


    ¡°Let¡¯s say it is,¡± I respond.


    ¡°What color is it¡¯s dress?¡± asks Ella.


    ¡°Pink.¡±


    ¡°Can you buy other dresses for it?¡± my Eleanor asks.


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    The two Eleanors sit, contemplating the analogy. It¡¯s quiet and I can¡¯t help but smile.


    ¡°I missed you, Eleanor,¡± I say.


    ¡°My name is Nora now,¡± my Eleanor answers.


    ¡°Nora? Like the singer?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I¡¯m named after a princess,¡± chimes in Ella.


    ¡°Are you?¡± I ask and she nods gleefully. ¡°Which one?¡± I ask and she shoots out her hands like she is throwing flames and I am even more confused. Are there different princesses with different superpowers in this universe?


    My Eleanor¡ªNora¡ªis staring intently at me.


    ¡°Are you okay?¡± I ask her.


    She nods, but then asks, ¡°Why didn¡¯t you want me?¡±


    ¡°Oh, baby,¡± I say, ¡°I did want you, but I didn¡¯t feel like I could be a good daddy for you.¡±


    Nora scoots forward and hugs me tight around the waist. ¡°You¡¯re a good daddy. You just need to learn how to be happy again.¡±


    I hear footsteps coming across the hallway a moment before the girls¡¯ bedroom door opens. Veronica and my doppelganger stand in the door frame, half covered in shadows from the darkened hallway. My other self doesn¡¯t seem pleased, but Veronica¡¯s tone and stance seems neutral.


    ¡°I was wondering how long it would take before you arrive,¡± she said casually.


    ¡°Mommy, mommy, mommy.¡± The girls rush her and Veronica shushes them with the power that only a mother can have and ushers them into their respective beds.


    I tuck Nora in, kneeling on the floor next to her makeshift bed. She pushes her tiny hand out from underneath the bed covers and wiggles her fingers, beckoning me to intertwine my fingers with hers and I oblige. She smiles sleepily as her other hand emerges, stroking my face. Nora runs her finger down my nose, tracing the lines by my eyes. I smile at her and she smiles back.


    ¡°I love you, Daddy,¡± she says.


    ¡°I love you too.¡±


    Moments later I¡¯m downstairs with the other two grownups. Veronica and the other me sit on the couch opposite myself as I remain standing, leaning against the wall for support.


    My doppleganger is silent, staring at me, studying me in a way that I suppose I would do if I was in the exact same situation. Besides, everything he was probably wanting to know was being asked by Veronica.


    ¡°Why did you do it?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t feel like I could be a good father to her. She needed her mother.¡±


    ¡°She needed you. You¡¯re all she talks about. She knows that he¡ª¡± Veronica gestures to my doppelganger ¡°¡ªisn¡¯t her father. She loves you and she misses you.¡±


    ¡°I know. But I had to know if she would be better here. I didn¡¯t know if she would make it here, but I had to try.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s consequences to these dabblings. We haven¡¯t told anyone about her. How could we? How could we explain our two Eleanors to his¡ªyour¡ªparents?¡±


    ¡°Trust me,¡± I respond, ¡°it was hard telling my parents in my universe that she disappeared.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re such a fucking asshole,¡± the other me says. ¡°You¡¯re so casual about it. ¡®Oh, poor me. It was so hard.¡¯ Just like that. How could you rip their hearts out like that?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure they were the perfect parents in your world,¡± I respond, a bit defensive.


    ¡°No,¡± he says, ¡°they weren¡¯t. But they did their best given their upbringing and the environment they were raised in. Regardless, they didn¡¯t deserve having their granddaughter ripped out of their lives.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t the easiest decision.¡±


    ¡°But you still made it,¡± Veronica states.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°And now you¡¯re here.¡±


    ¡°And now I¡¯m here.¡±


    ¡°And what are the consequences?¡± the other me asks.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Usually scientists have the answers,¡± he continues, ¡°but in our world and I¡¯m assuming yours, the multiverse hasn¡¯t been discovered. How do you know there aren¡¯t other undiscovered consequences to your actions in a realm that is completely unknown and undiscovered? The laws of nature are only the laws we have come to know. Where does wind come from? What is fire? You strike a match and it is there and you could tell me all about oxidation, but it doesn¡¯t explain what fire is. With everything else they are either tagged and categorized as the unknown or the mysteries of the universe.¡±


    ¡°The Eleanors mentioned hearing a girl crying in their room. Have you heard it?¡± I ask.


    My doppleganger and Veronica exchange a look.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Veronica says.


    ¡°Consequences,¡± the other me says.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± I ask.


    ¡°We¡¯re pretty sure that the voice we are hearing is Eleanor,¡± my doppleganger replies.


    ¡°That¡¯s impossible.¡±


    ¡°If these two multiverses exist¡ªyours and ours¡ªthen others must exist,¡± Veronica says. ¡°Our two worlds are almost identical, but at some point they diverged and created these two different paths. In your world, I died. In this one, I¡¯m alive. Two choices. A fork in the road.¡±


    ¡°If,¡± my other self interjects, ¡°throughout your history, there were other forks¡ªother decision points¡ªthen there would be more than one outcome to your decision to send your Eleanor into the multiverse.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s impossible,¡± I say.


    ¡°Impossible was reaching into the multiverse and finding me,¡± Veronica responds.


    Upstairs there¡¯s a single scream for ¡°Daddy!¡± All three of us stand up as one and we hear the single scream joined by the other¡¯s voice and together they scream, ¡°Mommy! Daddy! Mommy! Daddy!¡± as we run up the stairs to the girls¡¯ room.


    Flinging the door open, we see the two Eleanors clinging to each other, screaming, pointing to the dark corner of their room.


    There¡¯s something in the inky blackness. I can feel its presence oozing out; so similar to the Darkness in my dream.


    There¡¯s another scream. Veronica jumps, grabbing her husband¡¯s arm. It¡¯s her. I know it¡¯s her.


    ¡°Everybody out,¡± I tell them.


    Veronica opens her mouth to object, but the intensity of my gaze causes her to instead turn, ushering my other self and the girls out of the room.


    Shutting the door, I turn my focus to the seemingly empty corner of the room. I don¡¯t hear anything, but I can feel something. It¡¯s a disturbance; a sense of wrongness. Whatever it is, it begins to pile an unseen weight on my chest.


    Consequences.


    ¡°Eleanor?¡± I whisper into the darkness.


    Faintly I begin to hear crying.


    ¡°Eleanor?¡±


    And through the darkness I hear faintly, ¡°Please don¡¯t hurt me, Daddy.¡± I can tell that it¡¯s her, the words a plea, broken up by sobs.


    ¡°Oh, baby, I wouldn¡¯t ever hurt you.¡±


    ¡°But he does,¡± she responds, ¡°and he wears your face.¡±


    Even with the nightlight on, I can sense the darkness growing and with it a sense of oppression pushing down on me. I reach for Eleanor, wherever she is and I meet resistance. Not the wall, but something solid within the darkness. Focusing my will, I reach out with both hands, searching for a crack and upon not finding one, digging in further, trying to create one.


    Fingers clawing, stretching, pushing, opening a gap within the darkness. I pushed further and further into the darkness, pushing my fingers deeper until slivers of light began glowing around them. Fingers twisting, flicking, pushing, pushing and tugging. Everything around the darkness is brightening into a foggy, hazy glow.


    I reach inside, my fingers first grasping cloth, then a wrist, and I pull her towards me and into the girls¡¯ room.


    Eleanor shakes against me and I hold her, whispering ¡°Shhhh, it¡¯s okay,¡± over and over again. Even as she clings to me I can tell that something is different. She feels off. Eleanor was always on the petite side, but this one feels skinnier. When I step back and kneel down so that I¡¯m the same height as her, I can see that it¡¯s more than just being skinny. There¡¯s dark circles under her eyes. Her cheekbones are more pronounced. When I rest my hand on her shoulder she flinches and when I move the neck of her shirt, I can see bruising on her collarbone in the shape of fingers.


    ¡°Who did this to you?¡± I whisper.


    ¡°You did.¡± She can barely get the words out as she starts sobbing again.


    The bedroom door slowly opens and Veronica steps inside. Her hand immediately goes to her mouth as she sees Eleanor.


    ¡°Mommy?¡± Eleanor asks before running to her.


    Veronica falls to her knees as Eleanor holds onto her.


    Turning from the embrace, Eleanor¡¯s eyes search mine. ¡°Why did you send me away, Daddy?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I start to say but then stop. What more could I say?


    Veronica tries to soothe Eleanor as she touches, caresses, and inspects her. She sucks in sharply when she sees the bruises on the collarbone and rolling up a sleeve uncovers more bruising on her forearm.


    ¡°Who did this to you?¡± Veronica asks.


    ¡°Daddy did.¡±


    Veronica looks at me, but my attention is directed back to the corner. There is something there, moving in the darkness.


    ¡°It was Daddy,¡± Eleanor continues, ¡°but it wasn¡¯t Daddy. He didn¡¯t want to be called Daddy.¡±


    ¡°What was his name?¡± I ask, but somehow I already know.


    ¡°Asmodeus,¡± the third Eleanor whispered. ¡°He kept saying that he was the destroyer of worlds.¡±

 Part 3, Chapter 1

    ¡°Asmodeus.¡±


    I whisper the name, letting each syllable roll over my tongue, feeling the weight of a name that dripped with hate and fear and pain.


    I grab Veronica by the shoulders and tell her, ¡°You need to get out of here.¡±


    She can see the worry etched across my face and she nods.


    ¡°But it was just some story a punk kid working at the grocery store told,¡± the other me says.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s a story now,¡± I say as I pick up Eleanor the Third and deposit her into his arms.


    ¡°What are you going to do?¡± Veronica asks.


    ¡°I have no idea.¡±


    Stepping into the hallway, I watch as they go down the stairs. They grab car keys, phones, half-filled water bottles, and snacks before turning the corner to the garage and disappearing from view. I can hear the garage door open, the start of the car¡¯s engine, but it isn¡¯t until I hear the garage door close again that I step back into the bedroom and close the door.


    There is still an inky darkness floating in the corner of the room.


    As I did before, I focus my will, this time pushing it into the darkness before I start to reach into it, but it doesn¡¯t give. The darkness doesn¡¯t give. Sliding the lamp from the dresser I angle the light towards the darkness, but the darkness doesn¡¯t dissipate. It absorbs the light instead; turning the violet-blue blackness even blacker.


    Setting the lamp down on the floor, I step back a few feet and sit down on the floor, facing the darkness. I focus on the lamp, willing it to permeate the blackness; to obliterate it. After a while, the lamp¡¯s light starts to glow with an almost rainbowlike brilliance, taking on the colors strewn around the room. I watch the steady succession of colors emerge¡ªpinks and purples, blues and greens¡ªpulsing and fading one after the other.


    There¡¯s a strong barrier there, but barriers can be broken.


    ¡°Come on,¡± I whisper. I can feel a restless energy growing inside me and push it out and away from me towards the darkness. The lamp shudders as the darkness resists; wobbly sparks appear as the light dims until it joins the darkness.


    It¡¯s quiet, but I can feel something¡ªsomeone.


    I hear a giggle, just over my shoulder. It begins low, growing in volume and pitch. It makes my blood run cold. I can hear it say something, but I can¡¯t make out the words. The intonation, the cadence is familiar, yet different.


    I turn to look, expecting to see someone that looks just like me, except a little bit more perverse and perhaps a lot more murderous, but no one is there.


    I wait. I don¡¯t engage. How do you engage with someone who isn¡¯t really there or at the very least, isn¡¯t fully there in this multiverse¡ªjust one foot, one toe in. Enough to project a piece of himself, but still stay hidden. How do you capture a voice¡ªwaves of sound¡ªand hold it fast?


    As black as the darkness is, I can still see ripples. It¡¯s moving in and out¡ªvery alive¡ªsucking and pushing. It seems to thin and thicken, but still remains shapeless. It¡¯s curious and unsettling at the same time. It¡¯s blurring and sharpening as if you can see more and more and then less and less.


    I break my gaze from it. I have to see what is in front of me, not what¡¯s beyond. It¡¯s black and clear and doesn¡¯t move at all. I can feel it pulling at me again; the gravitational force of a black hole pulling me towards it until my legs unfold from underneath me, lengthening till they¡¯re straight and I am standing¡ªno, resting¡ªat an impossible angle, my toes scrapping the carpet trying to cling to this realm and the mirage of control I have over it. I can feel it pulling at my head and I feel that if my toes don¡¯t let go of the carpet that my head would be pulled from my neck and I will tumble into the darkness with only my mind intact.


    I close my eyes and push out all the air in my lungs, relinquishing my hold on this world. I can feel the darkness pull me in and I tumble through it, head to navel and around and over again till I open my mouth and gasp for air and find myself in the world again.


    At least in a world.


    Instead of traveling between worlds and ending up in the same location I am someplace unfamiliar and foreign. Pushing myself to my feet, I turn, taking in my environment: the concrete floor and walls, the fluorescent lights, the pile of blankets, the teddy bear missing a cliched eye. This was where she lived.


    ¡°Eleanor,¡± I whisper.


    She lived here. For how long? My poor baby.


    I turn my head to look behind me and I see him. I take in his long hair and patchy beard, the burn marks across his naked chest, the scabbed over holes in his feet and hands. The stigmata or some twisted form of self-harm?


    The image of him and the thought of Eleanor with him pulls at my heart and a sob breaks from my lips so suddenly and violently that I¡¯m shaking with fear and anger.


    A sick smile curls his lips at the sight of my pain. ¡°You deserve it,¡± he says, ¡°after being such a tight, dry cunt and taking her from me.¡±


    I wrap my arms around my midsection and chest, holding myself together as my breathing calms down. ¡°Asmodeus,¡± I say.


    His smile grows even wider as he bows to me, sweeping his arms back grandly. ¡°The Destroyer of Worlds,¡± he finishes.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I am you and you are me, but I am something different,¡± Asmodeus says. His eyes are wide and bright. He keeps his gaze fixed on me as he stalks around me like a predator. ¡°I was born of flame and sulfur. Fallen down to the abyss and fighting and clawing my way to the top for millenia. You haven¡¯t seen me. You haven¡¯t heard of me. A mortal playing with the greatest of stakes. I am your old flame.¡± It¡¯s the ramblings of someone not fully in control of his mental faculties. He sucks in a long breath, letting it fill his chest, puffing it up and pushing his shoulders back. ¡°She was my flesh and blood. Not really, but I wanted her. Her lips were as perfect as the mirrored mask of my mask. I wanted what I was taught to do. To rule her. To bring her to heel¡ªheel to heel¡ªclick, clack, not in Kansas.¡± He throws his head back and laughs at this. ¡°I wanted to know everything about her, but she didn¡¯t have much to share. It was all I wanted. I wanted her to fear me. I wanted her to hate me; just as much and more as my Eleanor hated me. And she did, but not as much as she could¡ªnot as much as she would have¡ªand you snatched her from me.¡±


    He steps closer, assessing me, sniffing me. ¡°Where did she come from? Where did you come from?¡± I don¡¯t answer. ¡°You must have been in a dream. You must have been in the past. You must have been in the future. You must have been in a nightmare¡ªhad a nightmare.¡±


    He reaches for me, but I knock his hand away, spitting out, ¡°Don¡¯t you dare touch me! Leave me alone!¡±


    ¡°Alone?¡± Asmodeus laughs. ¡°Alone you¡¯re a cock and asshole on two legs stumbling about in a world of hopelessness. Pissing. Shitting. Shitting and pissing. Pissing and fucking.¡± He jerks his hips back and forth, humping the air. He laughs again.


    ¡°Alone,¡± he mumbles. ¡°Alone, alone, alone. Alone you¡¯re lost. Always hating, loathing, loving unlove and unloving love. If you were ever able to find love, it would be as if you¡¯ve taken the pain of what happened to you and placed it elsewhere, so that you could feel again. If you were lucky, by the time you found what was needed and were able to forgive yourself, you¡¯d be able to love again. It¡¯s like discovering the secret of life: the thing you would have hated if you¡¯d known it. It''s easy to discover. Its discovery happens in the most ordinary ways. You put your head in your navel¡ªright there,¡± he jabs a finger in my stomach suddenly and I jerk away from the touch, ¡°¡ªand you breathe in deep and you say to the world, ¡®I like my own smell!¡¯ The pain you¡¯ve hidden from your past is there and I¡¯ll reveal it to you. And after I do, I¡¯m going to haunt you until I find your little girl again and bring her home to me.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to lay a finger on her!¡± I push against him, but he pushes back, harder, knocking me down to the floor with ease, stepping into the space I had held to tower over me.


    ¡°Why would Eleanor cling to you?¡± Asmodeus asks. ¡°You discarded her. You sent her here. ¡®Oh, Daddy!¡¯¡± he cries, micking her. ¡°¡®Daddy let me go. He put me here. He doesn¡¯t love me.¡¯¡±


    I must have reacted to this, because he smiles, squatting down to my level and jabbing a finger into my chest. ¡°There¡¯s your soreness; that piece of your pride that will proceed you to your death. Look at your hands. Feel the pinch of your insides. Why did you send her away? A little girl needed her daddy. She called for you. She cried for you.¡±


    He reaches up and cups my cheek gently. ¡°Was it because you felt shame?¡± he asked. ¡°The shame of a father who failed? Or the shame of your sex¡ªyour dinky-winky¡ªwhen you¡¯d wake up hard in the morning only to discover that she had crawled in bed with you. Pressed against you, unaware of how much shame you felt about your nature.¡±


    Images that weren¡¯t real flashed in my head of Eleanor sleeping. The softness of her skin. The part of her lips and the rising and falling of her chest while she breathed. I shake my head, dislodging his hand and chasing those thoughts away.


    ¡°How hard you must have cried to keep that beautiful darkness inside you¡ªburied deep. A day isn¡¯t enough for you to cling to the warmth of the little things when the darkness chases to consume you. The night is a battle to bear. When you slumber, the feeling you feel is less powerful but you can still feel the sharpness of its teeth and you¡¯ll hold on to that feeling like a rabid dog; like a hyena on a dead zebra, devouring the rectum first.¡± He laughs.


    I can see the burn marks on Eleanor¡¯s arm. The dark bruises. The dark circles under her eyes. ¡°Did you hurt her?¡± I ask.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Asmodeus responds, pridefully. ¡°I wanted her to fear me; to know me. To know why she should fear me. What I was capable of.¡±


    I roar, bowling into him, knocking Asmodeus to the floor. He laughed as my fist pummeled his face over and over again.


    Exhausted, I roll off of him, wiping my bloody knuckles against my pants.


    Asmodeus, pushes himself up, resting on his elbows. He spits a mouthful of blood up at me, the glob landing on my shirt. ¡°You hit like that pimply boy with no cock and heavy glasses. With your rosary and your no ma¡¯am, yes ma¡¯am, no father, yes father, bless me father for I have sinned.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to kill you,¡± I gasp out. He laughed. ¡°You¡¯re a fucking monster.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re all monsters!¡± he spits back at me. ¡°We¡¯re all fixed the same. Life is nothing but a big fat dick in a sea of hormones. Life is just smells and screaming and shouting and jabbing and pulling and jerking! Life is nothing but a big, fat fuck. Nobody ever sat on your face and told you, ¡®Don¡¯t eat too much!¡¯ It¡¯s always sex. You have to get it all the time. Life is nothing but a giant cock; just a series of huge pricks poking you and me and everyone else. All those sexy pleasures and pressures all around.¡±


    He crawls over to me, grabbing hold of my leg to pull himself up. ¡°Do you remember the girl who made you sweat? The one who¡¯d say your name and you¡¯d feel the very center of your chest clench and flutter and move deep within your core? The first time you heard her say the word ¡®love?¡¯ That was one of her favorite sayings when she thought she was in control. She never liked being in control though. But she was so beautiful and so was her body. She was so close that first night when you sprayed inside her and you knew you¡¯d never forget her. The very next night you did a complete 180, shivering every time you saw another girl in a skirt; she was no longer first in your thoughts. It was then that you realized that women were the sea. You were just a little fish; a little fish swimming in a little sea. Sex was life. The whole fucking universe in a woman¡¯s womb.¡±


    Who was this version of me?


    As he spoke, images flashed in my head. Of him¡ªme. We were different, but also the same. He was the darkness that brewed within me for years. Were these images real? Dreams? Memories? Nightmares? At what point did our paths diverge and I became him? At what point did the darkness take over?


    Asmodeus ran his tongue down the length of his hand and used the spit and blood to push the hair out of his eyes, leaving a streak of red up his forehead and into his hairline. ¡°Do you remember the first girl you touched? You never touched her again because you touched a ghost that wasn¡¯t real. Do you remember the first girl that ever shoved herself at you? When you saw those dark hairs glistening off her thighs. Her moans and your heaving. Did she ever mention how your scrotum tickled the inside of her thighs as it slapped, slapped, slapped? Or did you just fuck in silence? Her face was so close to yours; kissing the side of your neck, sucking at your salty sweat as you stabbed within her and as she closed around you like a mother snake swallowing her son. Tugging you in and releasing and tugging you in again. I remember my first time. I thought I was stuck between her and my mother; between death and rebirth. I took her arms and pulled her bridegroom¡¯s yoke to the side. Straddling me she wrapped her thighs around my legs, turning her calves, and I pointed the tip of my cock through her towards the picture of my mother I kept next to my iron bed till I collapsed on top of her, her breasts feeling so right beneath me. She felt so fucking right between us. Do you remember her? I can show you her. She¡¯s here, there, over there. She¡¯s that finger sizzling in your asshole.¡±


    I wait for him to begin rambling again, but he doesn¡¯t. He watches me, pacing back and forth; waiting for me to react.


    When I don¡¯t, Asmodeus lunges towards me. I stumble back. He sees my fear and he smiles. Then, in the midst of my confusion, I see white, and then he¡¯s there right in front of me. He grabs me by the hair and punches me in the stomach with his free hand, driving me to my knees and he¡¯s there again, inches from my face. My blood is surging, my hands trembling in panic, but his eyes are sharp as knives.


    I don¡¯t know if he¡¯s going to kill me in the next moment, but I speak as slowly and as calmly as I can. ¡°What do you want?¡±


    He grins, blood in his teeth. ¡°I didn¡¯t know what my purpose was until you brought Eleanor to me. Before she came, I walked the Earth alone like Cain. Years before, I knew I needed to make a name for myself, so I went to the moon like so many others before me. There I found an abandoned ship on the moon¡¯s dark side with the name Asmodeus written on the side. It whispered to me and told me that when I kill my family I will not be cursed as Cain; that when I kill them I would rise and become the right hand of god. To destroy was power. To destroy was death, but also life. When I came back to Earth, my family looked at me with joy at my homecoming. But their eyes turned to sorrow and pain as I killed them. The ship told me that I had to save them from themselves¡ªmy Veronica and my baby, Eleanor. But then when they were gone, I was alone and I no longer heard the voice of god.¡±


    ¡°You killed them?¡± I whisper.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Asmodeus whispers, ¡°I did. I had to. I killed my wife and my daughter and then I killed everyone else on my little blue planet, until there was no one left in this lonely existence.¡± He walks over to a pillar and swipes his fingers to reveal several lit buttons. He presses one of the buttons and three of the four walls that surrounded us began to become translucent.


    We¡¯re surrounded by darkness. Tiny, flickering orbs of light flicker in the distance.


    ¡°Where are we?¡± I ask.


    ¡°In the vastness of space,¡± Asmodeus replies. He points in the distance and I can see an orb, glowing and flickering. Its surface was red and orange, but it looked alive, like the sun.


    ¡°What is that?¡± I whisper, but I already know.


    ¡°Home,¡± Asmodeus says softly. ¡°At least it was.¡±


    We stand, watching the Earth burn in silence.


    ¡°You are not me,¡± I eventually whisper.


    ¡°What?¡± Asmodeus asks.


    ¡°You are not me,¡± I say again louder.


    He laughs. ¡°Oh, but I am. I am your unrealized potential. I am the shadow that¡¯s been attached to your back since birth.¡±


    ¡°What do you want?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I want Eleanor.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say. ¡°She¡¯s back home. She¡¯s safe.¡±


    He smiles. ¡°You can keep her. I have an infinite pool of Eleanors to choose from. Yours isn¡¯t the only one.¡±


    I search his face for the lie, but it isn¡¯t there. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°What did you do that sent your Eleanor here?¡± Asmodeus asks in return.


    ¡°Her mother, Veronica, died. I sent her to another multiverse to live with a version of her mother that was still alive.¡±


    Asmodeus places the palm of his hand against my face, patting my cheek gently before shoving me away. ¡°You fool. Every action, every decision point we arrive at, every decision we make, creates paths that form different variances of the multiverse. When you decided to send Eleanor into the multiverse, you also decided not to send her. But in the multiverse where you took Eleanor and pushed her towards the multiverse you intended for her to go, you set her being on a path that didn¡¯t have just one choice or two, but many.¡±


    ¡°How do you know?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Because when she appeared in my humble abode, there were ripples. Ripples that only one who has traveled between multiverses can see.¡±


    ¡°How many multiverses is she in?¡±


    ¡°This ship logged data of about a thousand different universes, but then I heard of about ten thousand more. And then found out about another ten thousand, but then I realized that maybe only two hundred and fifty exist. Would you like to see them? I would do that for you. I have searched through multiple different alternate universes and have mapped two hundred and fifty where their realities match our own, but who knows? If your actions caused these ripples, if you go back to the beginning of consciousness and mapped every decision ever made by every person in existence, you could come up with a number that hasn¡¯t been counted into existence.¡±


    ¡°How do you get to the other multiverses?¡±


    ¡°You have to start with self discovery. You have to tell yourself, ¡®First you must be yourself, find yourself, know who you are.¡¯ And then when you discover what drives you, what is part of your nature, and understand that it is as necessary to your existence as birds sing, as water flows, as fire burns. Because if you don¡¯t itch that itch, you can¡¯t breath, live, sing, love, fuck or do anything. So then you start singing and crying and crying from lack of breathing, of love, to love. And suddenly you¡¯re whole and you¡¯re beautiful and you¡¯re complete. Take off your mask and you will see that you have never been a problem in any way. Because the moment you stop seeing yourself as a problem, you¡¯re free. And when you¡¯re free, you¡¯re free to feel happy and that is the end of suffering. You can live life to the fullest. You can make every decision final. No take backs. Live, finally live, from that decision. Settle it. Explore it. Be it. And the creation of more universes won¡¯t stop with you.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your itch?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I destroyed my world. And when I find another Eleanor, I will use her to destroy your world. And we will keep at it until there is nothing; nothing in this universe and the next. Time will fold in on itself and everything will start anew.¡±


    It was at that moment I knew I had to kill this version of me: Asmodeus, the Destroyer of Worlds.


    ¡°How much could two multiverse travelers destroy?¡± I ask.


    I could see his eyes widen.


    ¡°You would join me?¡± Asmodeus asks.


    I step towards him, brushing his hair from his face, and pull his mouth to mine. He groans as he kisses me. I let my hands drift across his naked chest, my fingertips tracing the burn marks, the holes on his hands, disarming him with a charade of affection.


    He moans, pushing against me. ¡°Are you going to fuck me?¡± he asks. ¡°It¡¯s been so long since I have felt the touch of man. I want you. I want you to destroy me. I want to be fucked so hard that I can¡¯t even breath. I want to be fucked with so much force, that the skin of my asshole is torn away and there¡¯s blood everywhere. Can you do that? You will have to do this for me before we go and find our Eleanors. I need it so bad. You can do whatever you want to me. You can cum in my asshole over and over again. I need it so bad. I need it so bad. Will you?¡±


    As an answer, I turn him around, kissing between his shoulder blades and then, when he relaxes into me, I snake my arm around his neck until my elbow is at his chin. I pull tighter, grasping my wrist with my other hand. Realization dawns on him and he begins to swing his arms, reaching around, trying to grab me. He pulls my hair, my ear, but I shake it off, kicking him behind his knees till he falls to the ground, but he bends forward, throwing me over his head and my grip breaks.


    Twisting I pull away but quickly circle back towards him, kicking and grabbing and punching until I am sitting on top of his chest. His arms are still scrambling and scratching, but I push them down again and again until I get an opening and punch him in the nose. Blood erupts in a spray that covers his mouth. He sputters in surprise before recovering. He smiles through bloodied teeth and laughs saying, ¡°So you aren¡¯t going to fuck me, you fucking liar? You¡¯re a liar, you fucking liar. You¡¯re a fraud, a phony!¡±


    ¡°You are never going to see Eleanor again!¡± I scream at him.


    ¡°I will find you again,¡± he says. ¡°I will always find you. And I will find her. I will always find her.¡±


    I punch him again, silencing him. Asmodeus starts punching and kicking and rocking, trying to knock me off. Pushing his arms down again I lean in, using my weight to pin his arms as I press my forearm against his throat.


    I slam my forehead into his. My vision goes red for a moment, but slowly things come back into focus. I see tears welling up in his eyes. His lips are curled in a viscous snarl, red bubbles of air, saliva, and blood being pushed out from between them as he struggles for more air.


    With my free hand I continue to punch whatever I can connect with until I hear the snap of bone in his jaw and see the red meat of his tongue explode in his mouth as he bites through it.


    He¡¯s still alive. Breathing what tiny bits of air he can breathe through all the blood he was slowly choking on. ¡°El¡­ an¡­ or¡­ I¡­ will¡­¡±


    Gasping and crying I dug the heels of my hands into his eye sockets and pushed till I felt his eyeballs pop, the fluid sliding down the sides of his head: red and white becoming pink. Asmodeus screams a gurgling scream and I continue to push and squeeze until there''s a loud, sickening crunch and his head splits open, revealing the crackling, hot blackened organ beneath. His legs give a final shudder and are still.


    Rolling off him I lay on the ground gasping for air. I am panting and weeping and shaking all over.


    The reality of what I just did slowly came over me and I heaved what remained in my stomach onto the bloody, broken corpse beside me.

 Part 3, Chapter 2

    Once I felt stable enough, I pushed myself up and walked over to the makeshift bed and grabbed a blanket from it, tossing it over the still body of Asmodeus, making sure that the face that looked so much like my own was covered.


    At the pillar I inspect the exposed panel of buttons. When I push one of the buttons the three walls fade to a concrete gray again and when I push it again, the walls fade showing an infinite pool of stars and the burning Earth. Every other button I press doesn¡¯t appear to provide a function. I listen closely for any sign, but there¡¯s no whirs of clicks. Just silence.


    The fourth wall remains gray. I assume that it leads to the rest of the ship. When I inspect it, I can find no panels and no semblance of a door. How this room led to the cockpit¡ªcockpit? Is that the right term?¡ªdied with Asmodeus and I am apparently stuck here in this room with his corpse.


    Walking to the transparent walls I gaze into the expanse. The stars are so far away that for the longest time I can¡¯t decide if we¡¯re moving. The Earth still appears to be the same size as it was when Asmodeus first pointed it out.


    When I do finally sense movement the debate rages on in my head about whether I am seeing something or whether it¡¯s an illusion. The ship¡ªif I was indeed on a ship¡ªisn¡¯t providing any clues as it glides through space.


    How many Eleanors were out there?


    How many Eleanors were created in that one decision?


    One? A thousand? Ten thousand? Two hundred and fifty?


    Traveling through multiverses wasn¡¯t something I had any sense of control over. It was random at best and happened in fits and spurts.


    As I gazed at the stars, my mind drifted to comic books and the origin stories of countless superheroes that discovered their powers. There wasn¡¯t ever a story of a superhero that came upon his powers in a privileged way. There was never that sense of, ¡°Ahoy, you fair child. Because you have lived a peaceful life while accomplishing nothing and bothering no one, here are some superpowers.¡± It was always through tragedy that they truly fell into or discovered their powers.


    A family member¡¯s death. A mother. A father. An uncle.


    Imminent danger. A school bus accident. Drowning at the community pool.


    Natural and unnatural disasters. A storm to end all storms. An explosion at a biological testing facility. Nuclear fallout.


    Sure my theory has its flaws, but if you followed the chain of events from their origin story till what led them down the path of the hero¡¯s journey, there was always a moment or a period of discovery.


    First you must be yourself, find yourself, know who you are. Asmodeus¡¯ words echo in my head.


    Who am I?


    Veronica and Eleanor always defined my existence, but without them who was I?


    Who was I before Eleanor? Before Veronica?


    As my mind headed down that path, it was easy to recognize that there were so many times in my life when others defined who I was and clouded the idea of who I truly was or who I truly could be.


    My parents and their decisions to raise me the way they did: sheltering me from the outside world as much as they could; the conservative, religious lifestyle; the control exhibited over my media consumption; and the judgment, fear, and shame they put on me when I strayed from their path.


    My closest friends throughout grade school, middle school, high school, and college: making me their punching bag for jokes and ridicule; the times I¡¯d fight back¡ªwhether with fists or words¡ªand the times I¡¯d get pushed back down.


    The romantic relationships prior to Veronica or even during the early days of our relationship: trying to impress; struggling to impress; trying to walk that fine line between horniness and respect and the mutual respect that makes you horny; realizing that someone isn¡¯t right and struggling with those thoughts because was it me or was it her and not wanting to hurt anyone¡¯s feelings or be hurt; and trying to break things up while trying to balance that sense of truth, what¡¯s better for me, what¡¯s better for her, not knowing what¡¯s better for either one of us and still feeling horny.


    I recognized that through all those stories and memories, there was a sense of me bubbling beneath the surface; trying to identify the right way to surface without destroying so many carefully crafted towers of relationships. But I also recognized how often I built a wall around myself in an attempt to protect myself from getting hurt; causing very few true, meaningful relationships.


    With Veronica, once I had gotten past that awkward phase of posturing and peacocking, I was more myself; my true self. But was that even true? Was the most authentic version of myself cold, closed off and detached? Not all the time, but often enough where there was an easily recognized pattern in that behavior. In my mind¡¯s eye, I could see the moments where I felt truly free with Veronica: those times we cooked together in the kitchen, listening to music as we sat side-by-side, the conversations where I listened and wasn¡¯t distracted by my phone.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Alongside those memories were the times when I wasn¡¯t truly there. I knew that as Veronica got sicker, the walls around my heart grew thicker. I built them up, protecting myself from the inevitability of loss, and by doing that I wasn¡¯t there for Veronica as she passed or for Eleanor when she needed me most.


    Now that Veronica wasn¡¯t here, I could tell that I was lost¨Clistless, drifting without a rudder¨Cand had been for all these months; trying to rebuild a sense of self without her.


    Even as a parent, there were times where I felt truly myself: playing games or reading books with Eleanor, being in nature with her, or just sitting in silence enjoying her cuddles.


    But just as with Veronica, I could see all the times when I wasn¡¯t there for Eleanor. Especially now, when she needed me most, and I had pushed her away.


    And now Eleanor was lost too, drifting listlessly on a sea of multiverses.


    I couldn¡¯t reach her. Try as I might, I couldn¡¯t. Regardless of all the brow furrowing or how tight I made my fists. It didn¡¯t matter that I had defeated my shadow self. I was stuck.


    First you must be yourself, find yourself, know who you are.


    Okay. Okay. I get it.


    Going to a corner of the ship¡ªas far away as possible from Asmodeus¡ªI lay down, closing my eyes. Behind my eyelids, there¡¯s glows of dust particles and behind those I can see lines and paths caused by the light of the ship being bright enough to allow me to see a web of blood vessels. Resting my hands on my lower rib cage, I focus on the lines of the blood vessels¡ªtrying to follow them¡ªand begin to breathe. Slowly through my nose. Feeling my chest expand and deflate.


    Who am I?


    I am me. That is the easy answer.


    But who am I?


    I was a boy who loved running through the woods. Skating across the creek¡¯s ice in snow boots. Playing ice hockey with sharp rocks and sharp sticks. Following the frozen creek for what felt like miles, tracing its path behind my childhood neighborhood. Feeling free. Feeling the ability to be quiet and not feel judged for being quiet. Able to yell and whoop and shout and not feel judged for being too loud. Listening to the wind whip through the trees. Climbing trusted trees and sitting on trusted branches, arms wrapped trustingly around the trunk, and feeling the tree move back and forth in the wind. Being risky by climbing older, broken trees, and sitting on old, crumbly branches that suddenly give way causing momentary flight before falling to the ground and having the breath knocked out of me.


    The days spent at my grandparents¡¯ farm. The hayrides with my grandpa, whipping his tractor around with wildless abandon. Jumping off the wagon and running alongside it, trying to jump back on as my friends and cousins yell at me, stretching out their hands for me to grab onto.


    Sledding down my grandparents'' farm¡¯s enormous hill. Dodging cow pies and rocks and trying to see who could get the closest to the cliff that dropped down into their frozen creek. Running through their woods, regaled with stories of Jesse James and his nearby hidden cave and possible treasure troves that we never found.


    Feeling hurt. Feeling loved. Feeling others¡¯ hurt. And being hurt by love.


    Is this me? Still that hurt boy? Or the boy who felt peace in the woods?


    Getting angry. Feeling rebellious. Trying to find out who I was by making tiny mistakes and being too sheltered to make larger ones. Making tiny mistakes¡ªtiny sins¡ªand feeling shamed, judged, and fear from the possible punishment of hell.


    The spankings; the near constant spankings. Tightening my tiny butt at the right moment and having my mom¡¯s wooden spoon¡ªthe one she would use for mixing cookie dough or stirring simmering soups¡ªsplinter and break as she whacks it across my bottom. My dad used his belt, a switch, or the coal shovel from our wood burning stove.


    Not understanding why I was punished.


    Knowing why I was punished.


    Doing things just to get punished. To be seen. To be heard. Shouting through my actions and saying ¡°Look at me! Look at me! Do you see me? Understand me! I am my own person!¡±


    Feeling like a bad person, like a bad kid for being curious, asking questions, making tiny little rebellions that were viewed as the maniacal machinations of a child influenced too much by the outside world and seeing the outside world taken from me as punishment for my actions.


    Sitting with those feelings away from everyone else. My friends. My family. Trying to understand why I was different. Why I asked these bad questions or had bad thoughts. Was I a bad person? What could I do differently so that I could define myself and be defined by family and friends as a ¡°good person.¡±


    While I never saw an answer to those questions, I saw how those questions shaped me into the person I grew into and at the same time shaped my approach with Eleanor.


    But there was still a sad little boy inside me; buried deep within. The same one that would huddle beside his parents¡¯ deep freezer in the garage and read books to his cat. The same one that would sit alone in the darkness of his room, thinking about mistakes that were made and wondering why he was such a bad kid. The same one that just needed a hug; that needed to be told that it was alright, that I was alright, that there wasn¡¯t anything broken or defective about the way I was or the way that I thought, because I was a good boy.


    Opening my eyes, I can see the expanse of space, but there is something different. Before it looked like there were a myriad of stars surrounding me; stars that were just stars. Now I could tell that some were glowing differently than others; pulsating with a brighter light.


    ¡°Eleanor?¡± I ask.


    And those stars twinkled in reply.


    I¡¯d found her. I had finally found her.


    ¡°Hold on, baby. I¡¯m coming for you.¡±


    Not sure how to proceed, I stand, and picking a blinking light at random, I point towards it, pushing my finger toward the translucent glass ceiling of the ship, but where I thought I¡¯d meet resistance, the glass wasn¡¯t there. I looked down just as the floor flickered and disappeared, leaving me floating without the presence of gravity in the expanse of space.


    I looked back at the light and the abyss opened wide and swallowed me whole, pulling me toward the light.

 Part 3, Chapter 3

    Bracing myself against the blinding light, I squeeze my eyes shut. There¡¯s a loud sound whipping by me¡ªlike when you drive through a tunnel with the windows open¡ªechos upon echos, reverberating until there is silence.


    And I open my eyes.


    I¡¯m standing in a parking lot. It¡¯s warm. Perhaps summertime. But it¡¯s late in the evening. The sun has set, but the sky still has a dark blue haze towards the horizon, lit up with golds, purples and pinks.


    Looking around I try to get my bearings. I take note of the cars parked in perfect little lines in the gravel lot. There isn¡¯t anything that¡¯s a modern make. It¡¯s a mixture of boxy minivans, sharp-edged pickup trucks, and long angular station wagons. A majority of the station wagons and minivans have wood paneling¡ªsomething that was somewhat fashionable 30 years ago.


    On one side of the lot is what looks like an empty corral. Similar to the ones you¡¯d see in old timey westerns or at state fair rodeos.


    Opposite of the corral is a long rectangular building shaped like a barn with a sheet metal roof. And it¡¯s from this structure that most of the noise is coming from. The thumping bass of music. The shouting, joyous screams, and laughter of children. The deeper hum of adults conversing over the noise.


    This place is familiar in some deep recesses of my brain. A memory brought back to life.


    The deeper hum of the adults gets louder. I hear one voice over the others, but can¡¯t make out what they are saying until the music cuts off and through the loud speaker I hear my name and instantly remember what is taking place.


    There¡¯s shadowed movement inside the building and I can see some of the adults starting to walk towards the vehicles. Ducking behind a rusty pickup truck, I lay flat on the ground and watch.


    Keys come out, fitted into locks. Car doors open, some shuffling around, until they emerge with an assortment of bulky flashlights.


    The adults begin to disperse. I can see them looking behind the buildings, sweeping the parking lot with their flashlights, heading towards the surrounding woods, all while calling my name.


    As soon as they cleared the parking lot, I push myself up, dusting myself off. It¡¯s then that I remember the state I am in. Asmodeus¡¯s blood is still on my shirt; now dry, but still present. I try to brush it off and a few flecks fall to the ground. I scrap at it with my fingernail, but it''s still not enough. Sighing, I grab a handful of dust and gravel and rub it into my shirt, obscuring the blood.


    Satisfied, I head towards a familiar tree.


    I can see the whites of his/my eyes flashing in the moonlight before I can see the rest of him. There''s a vague memory coming to mind about what happens next. I remember this moment: hiding beneath the tree and this stranger, apparently me, coming up and talking to me. When I think about his face, it¡¯s cloudy. When I think about the conversation, it¡¯s muddled.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    I offer a friendly wave or at least what I hope is interpreted as a friendly wave. He watches me with wide eyes, not moving, but glancing to the side as if he¡¯s thinking about making a run for it.


    Squatting down, I pushed some of the low-hanging pine branches aside so I could see him more clearly.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I say. ¡°What are you doing down here?¡± He doesn¡¯t say anything, but stares down at the ground, picking at the dry pine needles that lay beneath him. ¡°You know,¡± I continue, ¡°when I was little¡ªaround your age¡ªmy mom tried to get me to dance with a girl and it was the scariest thing I had ever experienced.¡±


    He stops playing with the pine needles and looks up. ¡°What did you do?¡± my younger self asked.


    ¡°Well, I ran and hid. Just like you.¡±


    There¡¯s motion in the woods; lights flashing between trees. It draws his eye and I can feel how scared he is. It pulses out from him; a nervous, anxious energy that is so, so familiar.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I say, ¡°everyone is really worried about you. Your mom especially is freaked out. You don¡¯t need to worry about dancing with a girl.¡±


    ¡°But what about cooties?¡± he asks.


    I laugh. ¡°Cooties aren¡¯t real and no, girls don¡¯t have anything contagious about them.¡±


    ¡°What if they don¡¯t like me?¡± he asks.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Like what if I dance and they don¡¯t like the way I dance? What if the girls just think I¡¯m weird and don¡¯t like me like me.¡±


    ¡°Look,¡± I say, standing up. ¡°Does this look weird?¡± I do a little jig, spinning around, twirling my finger, and wiggling my butt a bit. He laughs and tries to cover it up by burying his face in his hands. ¡°I¡¯m not a great dancer, but when I do dance, I have fun. Who cares what people think as long as you have fun. And besides, eventually there will be someone who likes you for you, including how you dance.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± he says after considering it for a bit. ¡°How mad do you think Mom is?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯ll be pretty angry, but she¡¯ll be happy that you¡¯re okay. She loves you. She¡¯s worried. A lot of people are. Here.¡± I extend my hand, but he hesitates. ¡°Come on now. It¡¯s going to be fine. You¡¯re going to be fine.¡±


    He takes my hand and I help him crawl out from underneath the pine tree.


    For a while he stands there completely still, looking towards the now quiet dance. He takes a deep breath and I can hear him shaking as he draws it in. When he exhales, his shoulders droop and his head drops¡ªa dog with his tail tucked between his legs.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I say. ¡°Do you want a hug?¡± He nods and I step towards him, wrapping him¡ªwrapping myself¡ªup in a tight hug. ¡°You¡¯re a good kid,¡± I tell him, rubbing his back in soft circles and giving his shoulder a little squeeze.


    He nods his head and pulls away, walking back towards the dance, his head up a little bit higher, his shoulders a little bit straighter.


    I watch him walk away. As he nears the light of the dance, I see my mom running out to him. Her face is frantic. The worry of a lost child etched across her features¡ªsomething I distinctly relate to now.


    Turning to walk back towards the parking lot, I find myself back in the void. Another star is shining brighter than the others and I head towards it.

 Part 3, Chapter 4

    The cold wind is whipping through me, chilling me to the bone as I stand amidst tall, lonely, gray mountains. The sky is still a mixture of early morning violets and blues, pinks and purples. It is desolate where I¡¯ve landed. Nothing and nobody for as far as my eye can see. Not even a solitary mountain goat or a curious little marmet.


    It is familiar though. The mountains, while I can¡¯t name them, feel like they are from a mountain range near my home. There aren¡¯t any trees to protect myself from the merciless onslaught of wind. I¡¯m high above the remaining trees in the distance¡ªthirteen-thousand or fourteen-thousand feet above sea level. And my lungs are telling me just how thin the air was. I want more air and I can feel my heart begin to beat faster.


    You¡¯re okay, I remind myself. I steady my breathing; breathing in slowly and blowing it out slowly, waiting for my pulse to slow down.


    Looking around, I can see a dirt trail winding its way down the mountain. Turning, I half walk and half scramble up the hill until I can see where the trail ends: the top of an unknown peak. But it¡¯s not really a peak. It hardly ever is. It¡¯s just a collection of boulders; traveled upon and pushed around until it formed what it is now.


    I love hiking mountains. It was such a challenge. Not just physically, but mentally too. The first fourteener I hiked was with a friend¡ªa seasoned climber. When we got to the trailhead, I got out of the car and looked towards a distant peak, pointed and asked, ¡°Is that it?¡± My friend glanced, nodded, and we got to work. But what I pointed to wasn¡¯t actually the peak. The hardest part of any fourteener is the false summits. You think you¡¯re there after hours of hiking upwards, but when you reach what you think is the peak and look up, there¡¯s another one off in the distance, and then when you reach that one and look up, there¡¯s another, and another, until you¡¯re finally there.


    And when you¡¯re up there, looking down on all the peaks and valleys, the small lakes at the bottom of those valleys, and the other hikers following your footsteps, it puts a lot of things into perspective. What perspective I was never sure of, but being that high up on such a giant rock, I was always happy to be reminded of how small I was. It was always very humbling and peaceful.


    I always felt the most peace in nature.


    There were always plenty of days where I¡¯d find myself in the woods, deep in thought. Many times thinking about the nature of the path I was on. There was a time when that path that was winding its way up this mountain wasn¡¯t a path. It was grass, dirt, rocks and roots and one day someone decided that it was a good place to set their foot upon. Maybe they were following old deer or elk tracks. Maybe it was a bear foraging down in the meadow, using its bulk to push through the brambles. But someone first followed the path of nature and began to wear down the grass to dirt until a path began to form that others began to follow. The line of dirt became a groove, a single foot path, and then eventually became wider, until it became a place where nature could no longer hold ground.


    Nature was pushed out of the way by man.


    But it¡¯s too much. It¡¯s foreign. You¡¯re surrounded by trees and grass and animals that are constantly calling and beckoning you from the path¡ªto get back to that sense of what was.


    Stepping into the unknown. Venturing from a path that had been clearly defined to forge a new path. Looking out and wondering, ¡°What would happen if¡­¡±


    If I step from this path?


    If I take my foot off this same collection of dirt and rock that an infinite number of people and across the years have walked.


    If I step where no one has stepped before? Gone would be the familiar crunch of gravel; the slight comforting swish as your shoe brushes the path. Gone is the sense of predeterminism. The sense of faith and trust in doing what is known or what is accepted. I don¡¯t step from the path because no one else has. Or when you do, you¡¯re guilted by the signs posted in the park about not straying from the path and the damage you¡¯re doing to the natural habitat. I stay on the path because the people ahead of me and behind me are staying on it. The pack mentality. It¡¯s the sense of knowing exactly where you¡¯re going because so many people have gone before you. It¡¯s comforting and comfortable. It¡¯s familiar and safe.


    Stepping into something new. Unknown, yet known. Known, yet hidden. Away from the path into unexplored territory¡ªat least unexplored for a time; forgotten. The questions. The anxieties. The fear. The ¡°what ifs.¡± What if I step off the path here and step this way and shift my weight from one foot to the other? Will I trip? Will I fall? Is there a hole somewhere covered up by brush that I cannot see? But then I step off and everything is fine. For a time.


    If my footing isn¡¯t sure. If I¡¯m not venturing with confidence. If I¡¯m not aware of my surroundings and potential threats¡ªwhether from the side, above, or underfoot¡ªI can slip and fall and pick myself up and dust myself off and carry on and¡ªwhoops!¡ªanother stumbling, another dusting until.


    Until what? Do I keep venturing on? Do I keep forging ahead?


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Looking behind I can see other hikers are venturing down after me. The people closest to me are following the grass my feet have just flattened¡ªnothing else has stirred. But further on down the line I can see a haze of dust as people have worn down the grass to dirt. Forming a line in the dirt that has become a groove or even further away it has become wider so that nature can no longer take hold.


    But when I look at where I¡¯m standing I remember that sense of nature. It¡¯s there around me¡ªunderneath me. It''s a cycle. Birth. Death. Rebirth. Except when it isn¡¯t. Except when it¡¯s just being trampled underfoot by people that see an opportunity in the path I¡¯ve forged.


    ¡°Where is he going?¡±


    ¡°He looks like he¡¯s going places!¡±


    Step gently. Do not disturb. Or do I disturb? Do I shake things up? Do I ground my foot into the earth until the roots of grass are torn asunder to say clearly to the world, ¡°I am here.¡±


    Stop!


    Do you know why I am here? Why are you here? Where are you going? What are you doing?


    I am here. I am whole.


    Follow me, but know where we are going. We¡¯re here to do better. To be better. To be better tomorrow than we are today. To be better to each other. To be to each other a better version of ourselves. To be better for the earth beneath us.


    Step lightly and know where you tread.


    It¡¯s cold up here.


    A sudden wind pulls me from my thoughts and my eyes focus on the path ahead.


    My sense of reality is shaking. I can feel myself getting pulled back into the deep recesses of my mind.


    It¡¯s cold. I need to get down to a lower elevation and find some water and away from this thin air.


    But why was I brought here? What was it that drew me to this place?


    I can¡¯t head down the path, yet.


    I move onward, following the path upward, from boulder to boulder, rubbing my arms to keep warm, looking around for a clue. It was just rocks and more rocks, dirt, and¡ª


    The rising sun catches something that flashes in my peripheral vision. Turning, I look, waiting for whatever it was to flash again. But I don¡¯t see it, so I venture down in its general direction.


    My fingers are numb from the cold and I take my time. Gingerly placing one foot in front of the other, careful about how my weight is getting distributed, wary of the loose rocks along this route. My shoes don¡¯t have much traction and I feel them slide, so I sit down, letting my weight stop my movement.


    I¡¯m close enough now to see what has caught my eye: a body. It lay several dozen feet below me. It¡¯s twisted somewhat unnaturally and is still except for the wind that is moving his jacket and the straps of it¡¯s backpack.


    The way down isn¡¯t clear immediately. There¡¯s a sheer drop off that could probably be climbed up, but it''s not as easy going down, especially with my fingers losing feeling rapidly. But further down the slope, there¡¯s a clearer path. It¡¯s a mixture of loose skree, larger pieces of gravel, and sharp angular rocks. Taking off my shirt, I loop it around my back and wrap it around my hands, so that I can crab-crawl down it, letting my feet and hands maintain balance and control.


    I know who it is before I¡¯m there. The shoes are familiar. The legs¡ªone of which is twisted, obviously broken¡ªthe waist and torso¡ªall familiar shapes. Even before seeing the face, I know that it¡¯s me.


    His/my eyes are closed. There¡¯s a sense of peace about him as he lays there amongst the rocks and boulders. Kneeling down beside him, I put my hand on his chest. To my surprise it¡¯s still rising and falling; slowly, but steadily. There¡¯s a patch of dried blood beneath his head. His jacket is ripped in a dozen or so places, but his backpack is securely beneath him, which probably took a majority of the impact from his fall, protecting his spine.


    LIfting his head, I look at the wound. His hair is matted and sticky, but it¡¯s no longer bleeding.


    There¡¯s a shout from above. Two hikers, standing at the peak, are waving, yelling something.


    Cupping my hands around my mouth, I yell, ¡°He fell! He¡¯s unconscious, but breathing!¡±


    They shout something back, but I can¡¯t hear, but watch their movement as they talk to one another before one heads back towards the trail and the other, a woman, ventures down towards us.


    She stops at the dropoff and shouts that her husband is heading down the trail till he gets cell service so he can call in a rescue team. Digging into her pack she pulls out a fleece sweatshirt and throws it down to me. It¡¯s small, but I pull it on, grateful for the warmth. It¡¯s soon followed by a first aid kit.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to head back up to the top and see if I can catch other hikers that might have cell service or a walkie-talkie,¡± she says.


    I give her a thumbs up and she starts to gingerly make her way back towards the top.


    Kneeling back down, I take the drink tube that¡¯s hanging in the front of his still form and twist the bite valve, squeezing it, letting water slowly trickle out onto his wind and sun chapped lips. His mouth opens, his tongue licking at the water.


    Opening the first aid kit, I pull out gauze and apply it to the back of his head, wrapping it around his head as a makeshift tourniquet. Inspecting the rest of his body, I don¡¯t find any other lacerations that are still bleeding and even with the blood on the ground, it doesn¡¯t appear that he lost too much from the head wound. His leg, though broken, doesn¡¯t show signs of the bone breaking through the skin, but I can tell there¡¯s swelling. As I prod and poke and inspect him for injuries his eyes remain closed.


    Time passes and the peak gets more and more full of hikers. Some venture down, offering help or supplies, but most stand huddled at the top, talking and pointing.


    Eventually in the distance I can hear the whomp whomp whomp of a helicopter and soon it comes into view.


    ¡°They¡¯re here, buddy,¡± I say. Patting him/myself on the shoulder.


    ¡°Eleanor,¡± he whispers. ¡°Eleanor.¡±


    And I¡¯m back in the void.

 Part 3, Chapter 5

    I¡¯m standing outside my house. The sun is glinting just over the roof and I shield my eyes from its glare. The shades are open on the downstair¡¯s windows and I can see little shadows dancing inside.


    A little figure is suddenly at the window. It¡¯s Eleanor. Her eyes go wide and I can see her shout, ¡°Daddy!¡± before racing to the front door. Flinging the door open, she races down the uneven concrete steps, into the yard, and into my arms. I pick her up and she squeezes me tight, burrowing her head in the crook of my neck.


    ¡°You¡¯re here,¡± I whisper, feeling tears welling up.


    It¡¯s her. It¡¯s Eleanor, but as I hold her, she feels different. She¡¯s bigger. Heavier. Taller. When she pulls back and smiles, I can see that she has lost some of her baby teeth and new, bigger, crooked teeth are in their place. She¡¯s going to need braces.


    How long was I in the void? How long was I adrift for?


    ¡°You¡¯re home early.¡±


    It¡¯s a man¡¯s voice and I look up to see a man¡ªa stranger¡ªstanding at the top of the steps of my house. He has a thick head of dark brown hair and wears a tight-fitting t-shirt over a pair of dark gray, loose-fitting jeans. A black leather belt with a gold buckle cinches his waist. He has a large, muscular chest, broad shoulders and a slim waist. He looks like the kind of guy that I would work hard to impress so I could become friends with him.


    Who was he? And what was he doing in my house with Eleanor?


    I try to set Eleanor down, but she maintains a vice grip around my neck, wrapping her legs around my midsection, chanting, ¡°Daddy¡¯s home! Daddy¡¯s home! Daddy¡¯s home!¡±


    The man comes down the stairs and sandwiches Eleanor between us as he embraces me, planting a soft kiss on my cheek. He looks at the driveway and towards the street.


    ¡°Where¡¯s the car?¡± he asks.


    My cheek still feels warm from his kiss. A slight tingle growing and radiating down my spine. It¡¯s then that realization dawns that I am not back in my version of the multiverse. I stutter out a response about my car breaking down and calling a ride.


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you call? We could have picked you up,¡± he says.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to bother you,¡± I reply. ¡°Besides, it''s a nice day.¡±


    He touches the fleece sweatshirt. ¡°What are you wearing?¡±


    ¡°Something borrowed,¡± I say.


    The man touches my face. His hand feels cool. ¡°Your skin is all red.¡±


    ¡°Just waiting on the ride,¡± I say. ¡°It took a while.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got something that will help,¡± he says. ¡°Come on inside.¡±


    Eleanor climbs down from my arms and runs inside, stopping just inside the door to shout, ¡°Come on!¡±


    We follow inside.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    The house is different. The furniture in the front room has been rearranged. There¡¯s a tall bookcase against one wall that¡¯s new. On the shelves there¡¯s books, some small statues, a large abalone shell with some partially burnt bundles of herbs and wood, and framed photos: a picture of Eleanor; one of myself, Veronica, and Eleanor as a tiny, swaddled infant; and one of myself, the man, and Eleanor all smiling, arms wrapped around each other.


    The house smells different too. Before it smelled like an old, worn-in house; a collection of paint and carpet and dirty clothes and dirty bathrooms¡ªlingering smells from potty training and the process of death and dying. Now there¡¯s an earthiness to it. The smell of cedar, incense, coffee and whatever else. It wasn¡¯t overpowering, but subtle and pleasant and peaceful.


    The man disappears up the stairs for a brief moment, before coming down with a clear jar in his hands. ¡°Sit,¡± he says, motioning to the stairs. Sitting down, I close my eyes as he bends down, gently spreading the ointment from the jar on my face. It feels cool and I feel a soft sigh escaping my lips. ¡°It¡¯s good, right?¡± the man asks. I nod.


    He steps away, setting the jar on the nearby kitchen table. He returns, picking up a dark brown ukulele off the shelf and sits on the steps next to me. ¡°We were just having a bit of a music lesson,¡± he says as Eleanor sits next to him, cuddling into his side. ¡°Do you want to join?¡±


    I nod, moving to sit down on the floor, facing them.


    He strums and picks at the ukulele, playing around, before striking a few chords together and stopping altogether, before beginning to play again. They¡¯re nursery rhymes. He starts a verse, but quiets as Eleanor joins in. Her voice is timid, but she keeps smiling back and forth between him and myself; seeking our praise and adulation. The song is familiar, so when she falters, I gently pick up the verse, leading her back into it. The man smiles at me and I smile back.


    As the verses run out, the music shifts as he continues to play. Eleanor is feeling it, her gentle heart chasing the music; made from it. She gets up from the stairs and does a little dance. What you cannot comprehend is the love he is expressing in his music towards her and she to him in her dance. And seeing her alive and living in this way gives me great joy and I can feel my eyes itch as tears spring into them. She had always seen the world as a beautiful world to live in. I can see in her smile how much she still loves me even though she has never known me¡ªat least this version of me.


    At least there are versions of her where she is happy and I am still present in her life; versions in the multiverse where I didn¡¯t choose to send her away. Or maybe I did, but she didn¡¯t go. Why wouldn¡¯t she have gone? Was it because my will wasn¡¯t strong enough? Or because her will was stronger than mine and it was her love for me that kept her here?


    What does this mean for the other versions of her out there? When did the splintering begin and where did it end? Are there other versions like this one where we are still together? Both of us growing together, trying to make our way through this thing called life.


    ¡°Where are you at?¡± My eyes turn away from Eleanor to the man. He¡¯s still playing, but he¡¯s watching me.


    ¡°Far away,¡± I reply. ¡°Across the universe.¡±


    He smiles, the music changing to an older, familiar song. He starts to hum along with the music.


    ¡°She really loves you,¡± I say.


    ¡°She¡¯s a good kid.¡±


    Eleanor is still dancing and begins to sing along with the music, ¡°Nothing¡¯s going to change my world. Nothing¡¯s going to change my world.¡±


    He is still watching me, studying me. ¡°You¡¯re not really him,¡± he finally says. Not a question, but a statement. I shake my head. ¡°Then who are you?¡± he asks.


    ¡°A traveler,¡± I say. ¡°A sojourner through this existence and others.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Patrick,¡± he says.


    I stand and go over to Eleanor. ¡°Daddy¡¯s got to go.¡±


    The music stops and she stops dancing.


    ¡°No, Daddy. Stay!¡± She sticks out her lip dramatically, but there is truth in her plea.


    ¡°I need to go back,¡± I tell her. ¡°I¡¯ll be home later.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± she says, still pouting. But then she brightens and hugs me and jumps up and down saying, ¡°I love you. I love you. I love you.¡±


    ¡°I love you, too,¡± I say and I open the door and step outside.


    She is still watching from the window as I walk up the street and back into the void.

 Part 3, Chapter 6

    At the beginning there was nothing. Just an abyss of nothingness and darkness, but it was before light had come into existence, so the darkness was without a name. It just existed within the framework of nothing, yet nothing knew that it existed. It was from this state of nothingness that chaos emerged. The beginning of the void itself. The empty nothingness from which all matter sprung from and from which all matter is contained.


    At this point, a being of pure essence had been born and the nothingness contained a tiny part of its essence.


    The essence was the beginning of light. Light was the beginning of matter. And when light met darkness, the two combined and became known as the soul; a particle that is both darkness and light. By being part of darkness and part of light, the soul could live in either; a creature with light and darkness mixed together within it.


    This was the first order of the cosmos.


    From within the essence there was a spark that grew and grew until it burst into swirly, twirly gumdrops of energy that sparked an explosion that set the universe into motion.


    It happened in an instant and over a thousand millenia. From the womb of nothingness, nothing dilated as chaos shifted into position and through the cosmic birthing waves the universe came into being.


    Planets emerged and were destroyed in the wake of a thermonuclear storm and were formed again as existence rushed forward at a speed of 13.7 billion years per second.


    The first order of the cosmos was named Light.


    And the essence saw the Light and saw that it was good. And through the essence¡¯s words, the light gathered itself into a form, separating itself from the darkness and within that, darkness had a name and the second order of the cosmos came into being.


    The second order of the cosmos was named the Abyss. The Abyss was filled with darkness and that birthed the third order of the cosmos as the worlds were formed.


    The third order of the cosmos was named the Earth. The Earth separated from the heavens and the waters were all formed; separating chaos from order.


    And from order came Being, the fourth order of the cosmos. Within Being lived the soul, where darkness and light still were mixed together; living in order or outside of order, in chaos.


    And from Being came the fifth and final order of the cosmos, Consciousness, as the first symbiotic membrane pulled itself onto the shore and willed legs into existence.


    The algae and plankton of the waters were replaced by flora and fauna from the Earth. As well as algae that grew at the base of towering trees and enormous networks of fungi. Nourishment from the Earth allowed Consciousness to form into cohesive thought and with thought came desire and desire came in the form of procreation.


    Generation after generation of mankind rolled past me. From the ecstasy of coupling to the pain of birthing¡ªover and over again. Emerging from the womb¡ªcrawling, pushing, pulling out¡ªcrying out as a lightning strike reignites a dying star and a new being emerges from its mother¡ªcrawling, pushing, pushing out.


    Over and over again until I am crawling, pushing, being pulled out. Sucking in air for the first time. Crying.


    Where is my mother?


    And she is there holding my hands as I take my first steps.


    And then I am there, holding Eleanor¡¯s hands as she takes her first steps.


    Pulled back into my childhood. Feeling myself running through the woods. Bouncing off the walls with an enormous amount of energy. Laughing. Telling jokes¡ªmostly about pee-pee and poo-poo.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°I have a big penis!¡± I once shouted at the top of my lungs.


    ¡°Do you know what a big penis is?¡± one of the neighborhood boys asked me.


    ¡°Um, it¡¯s a thing on a horse. It has¡ª¡±


    He cuts me off. ¡°You¡¯re going to have to do better than that. How big is it?¡±


    ¡°I know!¡± I shout. ¡°I know! It¡¯s the biggest¡­¡± I¡¯m at a loss for words as my young mind sorts through other words I had heard other, cooler kids saying, but was unsure what their meaning was.


    ¡°I think you only have a small penis,¡± the boy says. ¡°The smallest penis in the whole world!¡±


    ¡°No way!¡± I shout, finally figuring out the right word. ¡°I have a giant cock!¡±


    And that was when my mother came upon us after calling and calling for me with no answer. She was scared something had happened, but the vulgarity of penis talk had sent her over the edge. She grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, telling me that if I don¡¯t cut it out and calm down she¡¯d put me on Ritalin.


    Closing myself off. Putting up barriers between what I feel and what I am expected to feel; barriers between what I should say and share and the potentiality of getting into trouble or being shamed.


    My uncles are pinning me to the floor of my Grandparents¡¯ house. It¡¯s a ritual during these family gatherings: torture the nephews.


    They are tickling and pinching. Sharp little pinches behind my knees, then on my thighs on either side of my testicles, and then near the perineum. I don¡¯t like how it feels. I don¡¯t like how it makes me feel, but I just lay still and take it until they get bored and move on to someone willing to kick and scream.


    ¡°Close your eyes. Go to sleep.¡± I¡¯m sitting on Eleanor¡¯s bed and she is laying under her covers, her eyes open, watching me.


    ¡°Daddy,¡± she begins, but I cut her off.


    ¡°It¡¯s night-night time. No more questions. Time for sleep.¡± I¡¯m anxious about something. Tired of the constant questions. Needing my own time; time where no one is making demands of me. Veronica is asleep¡ªthe pain medication finally kicking in¡ªand after this final task I could get to whatever mindless activity I wanted to get to.


    Pushing.


    Avoiding.


    Constantly pushing people away, so I can be alone.


    And then wondering why I feel so alone.


    It¡¯s ironic how as soon as we¡¯re born we¡¯re moving or being moved away from our parents. That¡¯s what we¡¯re told to do. They don¡¯t trust us to do what¡¯s best for ourselves. We don¡¯t trust them, because we¡¯re our own person and we¡¯re constantly trying to inject our sense of independence. Until we are our own person and we realize how lonely it truly is.


    I¡¯m sitting up in bed and my childhood room is dark. I¡¯m scared, but I know the rules and the expectations around the rules. I¡¯m too old to go into my parents¡¯ room for comfort. If I crawled into their bed, I¡¯d wake them up and get yelled at.


    ¡°What are you doing out of bed?¡±


    ¡°How old are you? You¡¯re too old for this! You¡¯re not a baby anymore. Are you a baby?¡±


    So I sit there, looking at the shadows in the hallway thinking that within the shadows there¡¯s something there; something from the nightmare I just had.


    But God is all around us. He will help me feel safe. So I ask for him in the silence and there¡¯s no answer. Is he angry at me? Did I do something wrong the day before and that is why he isn¡¯t answering me?


    Maybe Mary will answer, so I start to pray. ¡°Hail Mary¡­¡± I watch the shadows and listen in the silence for some form of comfort to emerge, but there isn¡¯t an answer. I think about the Bible story about how a man listened for God and it wasn¡¯t in a fire or an earthquake but in a cool, almost silent breeze. So I listen harder; straining my ears beyond the creaks of the house or the buzzing of the air conditioner.


    And when the silence breaks with something of a sigh, I don''t feel like I''m being listened to by God, and a certain loneliness is born within me.


    No. No. No, Mary doesn''t know. She shouldn''t listen to me. Why would she? I¡¯m just a fuck up; another bad kid. I don¡¯t deserve to hear her voice.


    No one answers, so I fall back asleep.


    Eleanor lays in her bed, finally asleep.


    I lay in the vacuum of space and time. Suspended without a gravitational pull; feeling completely free.


    Around me, I can see a shimmering in the darkness. A string plucked; vibrating, creating a quiet resonance.


    I keep getting lost in my own head.


    And I have work to do.


    I can see the stars.


    I can see my dreams all around me.


    I can see my dreams.


    I can see my dreams.


    I can see my dreams.

 Part 3, Chapter 7

    I awoke to the feeling of someone¡¯s hand on my shoulder gently shaking me. As my eyes opened, I saw that I was laying on a wooden bench, its glossy varnish cool against my cheek.


    ¡°Mister? Mister, are you awake?¡±


    Pushing myself upright, a young boy, perhaps five-years old, came into focus.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Me?¡± the boy asks in return. ¡°I¡¯m Peter.¡±


    ¡°Where am I?¡±


    Peter stands taller, pushing his shoulders back and puffing out his chest with pride. ¡°You¡¯re in Her Majesty¡¯s royal waiting room.¡± He gestures around him and I take in the narrow hallway. Aside from the bench I was sitting on, it was fairly empty, save for several pink curtains that hung in front of three glass windows opposite me. I didn¡¯t feel like pushing them aside to look out the window to get my bearings. I was too busy staring at the floor, processing what Peter had just said.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say, ¡°did you say ¡®Her Majesty?¡¯¡±


    Peter nods in reply and points behind me to a space above my head. Turning, I laid my eyes upon a portrait, mounted to the wall, of Eleanor. She was dressed in a lavish gown of pink and gold. In her hand she held a shiny sword, raised victoriously to the sky. Eleanor was sitting atop a unicorn that was made of all the colors of the rainbow. The rainbow unicorn, who I should point out was smiling¡ªwhich I didn¡¯t know equines could do¡ªwas standing on the crushed, gory head of a dead dragon.


    ¡°That¡¯s ¡®Her Majesty?¡¯¡± I ask.


    The boy nods, his grin even wider. ¡°That is our princess,¡± he says. ¡°The savior of our world!¡±


    ¡°Can I see Her Majesty?¡±


    The boy nods, but then pauses thinking and shakes his head. ¡°Not right now,¡± he says. ¡°Her Majesty is having her morning tea party. She only takes guests after all the tea and cookies are gone.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± I say, rubbing my eyes to get the sleep out. ¡°That sounds very reasonable.¡± Peter smiles, pleased with himself. ¡°But, how do you know if she is done with her tea?¡±


    Peter pauses, thinking. ¡°Because she¡¯ll usually yell that she needs something.¡±


    This all sounded very familiar. When you¡¯re five¡ªalmost six¡ªyears old, playing with other kids is a foreign ritual. The political machinations of developing minds were always on display. Every child in these playgroups I would take Eleanor to had a mind of their own and they were beginning to form opinions and along with those opinions came very strong wills. There were many afternoons where playtime would end and Eleanor would be in tears because someone wouldn¡¯t want to play her game. One day, so-and-so would be Eleanor¡¯s bestest friend in the whole wide world and the next day, the same little girl or boy would be the worstest person in the whole wide world.


    ¡°While you wait,¡± Peter began to say, ¡°would you like to hear about how Her Majesty saved the world?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I would like that very much,¡± I reply.


    Peter sits down next to me on the bench and begins with what many stories begin with:


    ¡°Once upon a time, out of the darkness came a little girl. Her name was Ella of Nor and she hadn¡¯t come from this world.


    ¡°When the elders asked where she came from, she spoke of a mother who had died and of a sad man who sent her here.¡± I feel a little tug on my heart with the mention of my role in her story.


    Peter continues, ¡°When the elders asked what she was, she told them that she was a princess. The elders had never heard of this word and when they asked Ella of Nor what a princess was, she told them of lands far, far away with a princess that ruled alongside beasts and of a princess that lived in the water with flippers instead of feet and a princess that fired lasers from their fingers.¡± Peter gestures with his fingers, making pew-pew sounds.


    ¡°Ella of Nor told us what a princess was and having never met a princess before, we decided that she should still be a princess here. She told us that a princess helps to save kingdoms and when we asked what a kingdom was she told us of high towering walls and big beds and lots of food and so we built her a kingdom.¡± Peter pauses his story and looks up at me. ¡°Do you like the kingdom we built?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes,¡± I reply. ¡°This hallway is great.¡±


    Peter smiles and continues his story. ¡°And so, once the kingdom was built with all the high towering walls and big beds and lots of food, the elders asked Her Majesty, ¡®Now that you have a kingdom, what was it that the kingdom needed to save it from?¡¯ Ella of Nor was quiet for a while and when she spoke, she told them of terrible beasts that she called dragons; monsters that could destroy a kingdom with a single fiery breath. We had never seen such beasts, but Ella of Nor was sure that they existed, so she went on a quest with her trusty companion, Rainbow Cuddle Glitter.¡±


    I point at the unicorn in the painting behind me. ¡°Is that Rainbow Cuddle Glitter?¡±


    Peter nods. ¡°Yes. Rainbow Cuddle Glitter has the magical ability to change from a unicorn into a great big, beautiful rainbow. And just for good measure, he can fly too. He¡¯s such a useful friend.¡±


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    ¡°Is it really the color of the rainbow?¡±


    Peter smiles. ¡°Uh-huh. Every week, the elders paint her all the colors of the rainbow.¡±


    ¡°Is it really a unicorn?¡± Peter smiles and nods. ¡°With a real horn?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he says, shaking his head. ¡°The elders borrowed it from a goat.¡±


    ¡°So, Ella of Nor, left to defeat the dragon?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Peter said as he continued the story. ¡°After traveling far and wide, Ella of Nor finally did find dragons. And they were just as she had described them; frightening, terrible, evil beasts. The dragons were very ugly, with scaly leathery wings, long sharp claws, huge bulging eyes, pointy teeth, tails like huge serpents, and their hair was gross. One of the biggest of these dreadful beasts landed on Ella of Nor¡¯s head, knocking her off Rainbow Cuddle Glitter with its big fluffy dragon wings and evil black claws and scaly leathery skin. Ella of Nor¡¯s trusty companion, Rainbow Cuddle Glitter, was brave enough to try and save her, but he couldn¡¯t defeat the dragons, not on his own.


    ¡°And that¡¯s when Dandelion and his fairy warriors appeared to help. They woke Ella of Nor up and together they formed a plan to trap all the dragons in a magical net and then kill them one by one. The very last dragon escaped the magical net and Ella of Nor and Rainbow Cuddle Glitter chased it down, stabbing it through the eye and killing it dead.


    ¡°Victorious, Ella of Nor came back, riding Rainbow Cuddle Glitter. Ella of Nor was hanging on to his back; clinging for dear life. When the elders asked what happened she told them this tale of her heroic deeds.¡±


    I laughed, shaking my head, imagining what had actually happened given that Eleanor had never ridden a horse. Peter is quiet, so I ask, ¡°Is that the end?¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Peter exclaimed, smacking himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand, ¡°I forgot!¡± He pauses, straightening himself up, gesturing resolutely with his hands. ¡°The end.¡±


    Before I can ask another question, I can hear a familiar voice shouting in a familiar yell, ¡°BRING ME MY VISITORS!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s time!¡± Peter hops down off the bench and begins to head towards a door at one end of the hallway. He gestures for me to follow. ¡°C¡¯mon, c¡¯mon!¡±


    When we get to the door, Peter leans into it, pushing it open slowly with his slight frame. When I step inside, I can see Eleanor sitting regally on a dais. A crown of flowers sits atop her head. Like most times in her original world she is dressed in many different shades of pink. On her right rests a staff¡ªor a wand¡ªit¡¯s top ornamented with a glittery star symbol. In her left hand she holds a yellow rose.


    Her face is set sternly, playing the part of a serious princess. As her eyes focus on me they widen. ¡°Daddy!¡± she throws down the rose and runs to me, the crown of flowers bouncing on her head. She crushes me around the waist in a fierce embrace.


    ¡°Eleanor,¡± I whisper in relief, bending down to kiss the top of her head.


    ¡°It¡¯s Ella of Nor,¡± Peter whispers next to me, attempting to correct, but Eleanor is talking a million miles an hour.


    ¡°Daddy, daddy, daddy. Oh, how I missed you. I didn¡¯t know where I went. I didn¡¯t know where you went. But I¡¯m here and you¡¯re here and how wonderful it is! How did you get here? Do you know how I got here? I woke up and I was here and no one knew where you were. But then they made me a princess and do you like my kingdom? This¡ª¡± she throws her arms wide ¡°¡ªis my throne room! The old people are still making the throne, but do you like it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s wonderful, Eleanor,¡± I say, squatting down so I¡¯m at her eye level. ¡°But what is going on?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a princess,¡± Eleanor responds. ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I reply, ¡°I heard the story, but that¡¯s just it: it¡¯s a story.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡± Eleanor¡¯s eyes grow large as she leans closer to whisper, ¡°They¡¯ve never heard of stories before.¡±


    Peter furrows his brow in confusion. ¡°What¡¯s a story?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s make believe,¡± I reply.


    ¡°What is make believe?¡± Peter asks.


    ¡°See?¡± Eleanor laughs. ¡°Isn¡¯t it wonderful? I can be anything I want! I can say anything I want and they believe me. This never happened at home or at school. I would tell Hazel¡ªshe¡¯s the one that stole my snack¡ªabout something and she would call me a liar! But not here!¡±


    ¡°What is make believe?¡± Peter asks again.


    ¡°It¡¯s pretend,¡± I tell him.


    ¡°But what¡¯s pretend?¡± Peter¡¯s voice is rising in pitch. His eyebrows are pinched together and I can hear his brain whirling as he tries to understand these foreign concepts.


    ¡°It¡¯s a fiction, a story, something imaginary,¡± I reply. ¡°Do you know what a lie is?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± said Peter. ¡°All that the elders teach is what is and what is known.¡±


    ¡°Eleanor,¡± I say, taking her by the shoulder, ¡°look at me.¡± She does, cocking her head to the side and meeting my gaze with one filled with defiance. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to send you here, but I¡¯m here to save you and bring you home.¡±


    ¡°But I¡¯m a princess here,¡± she says, crossing her arms and sticking out her lower lip in a pout. ¡°Princesses don¡¯t need saving.¡±


    ¡°Listen, Eleanor,¡± I tell her. ¡°I¡¯m not sure where or when we are, but I think you¡¯ve done enough damage to whatever their culture is. Come on. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going,¡± she says firmly.


    ¡°Eleanor, this isn¡¯t your home. Come home with me.¡±


    ¡°But here I can be a princess!¡±


    I take her by the arm and start to drag her to the door. Peter is frozen in place, not understanding what is happening.


    Eleanor screams and scratches at my arm with her free hand. ¡°Guards! Guards!¡± she yells.


    A side door in the throne room opens and two men step inside. Both are dressed identically in similar sized, but ultimately ill-fitting outfits because one was tall and skinny and the other short and overweight. They bowed at the waist, appearing perplexed at the scene before them. ¡°Your majesty?¡± the short one inquires.


    ¡°Guards,¡± Eleanor says, ¡°this is a bad man!¡± She points accusatively towards me.


    They don¡¯t move. Instead the tall guard asks, ¡°What is a bad man?¡±


    ¡°He was trying to hurt me!¡± she yells.


    ¡°Why would he try to hurt you?¡± the short guard asks as he tries unsuccessfully to roll up the too long shirt sleeves of his too tight uniform.


    ¡°He was trying to take me away!¡± Eleanor screams at them, throwing her crown of flowers to the floor and smashing it underfoot in her tantrum.


    ¡°Why was he going to take you away?¡± the tall guard asks.


    I throw my hands up and start to back away from Eleanor, the guards and Peter. ¡°I¡¯ll go,¡± I told them. ¡°But Eleanor, I want you to come back home. Please come back with me. I¡¯m sorry for what I did and I love you.¡±


    ¡°Bye-bye, Daddy, I love you,¡± she says in response, waving at me dismissively.


    Sighing, I give up, turning my back to her and walking away.


    ¡°But what is a story,¡± I can hear Peter ask. ¡°Do the elders know what a story is? Do they?¡±

 Part 3, Chapter 8

    ¡°Dad, it¡¯s time.¡±


    I¡¯m awake. I¡¯m not entirely sure I was ever asleep. The ground is hard and uncomfortable; frozen to a degree that even the fire in the middle of our camp couldn¡¯t affect. My bones ache and my muscles are stiff as I push myself upright.


    It has been months since I came into this multiverse. I was drawn from one multiverse to the next and was quick to find Eleanor amidst a group of refugees. She was older¡ªeight or nine, she wasn¡¯t sure¡ªa skinny kid with hardened features. They had taken Eleanor in when they had found her while scavenging for supplies.


    Since coming here, I had only seen her smile once when the leader in our group, Stephen, had brought back to the camp a dead elk for dinner; a rare treat of fresh meat.


    This world was different. Cities were burnt husks. A nuclear apocalypse had hit many decades before, laying waste to civilization. Those that could took to the sky and as the sun rose you could see the airships hovering above in the clouds that housed the elite. Those that were left after the exodus to the sky were thought to be dead, but as the ashes settled and from the ruins they began to emerge, they were called a different name: Draugrs, the spirits of the dead.


    When I first came across Eleanor, I tried to take her away, but she refused. I didn¡¯t leave like I did before. Instead I stayed. Each day that passed was a new opportunity to try to break through her anger and convince her to leave, but every time I asked, she told me no. And when pressed she would fire back that I would just abandon her again. So I stayed, trying to prove her wrong.


    The biggest challenge in surviving on the ground was resources. Since the apocalypse, scavengers had bled the cities dry. Canned goods and bottled water were a thing of the past and they had found through trial and error¡ªerror that resulted mostly in death¡ªthat much of the agriculture and water near the cities were poisoned by the nuclear fallout. So groups of Draugrs kept moving further and further away from the cities in search of food and water, adopting aspects of ancient hunter/gatherer cultures.


    But resources for the elites in the clouds were rare as well. The airships had tentacles¡ªlong, metal, tubed arms¡ªthat reached down, thousands upon thousands of feet, from the sky sucking up water and other natural resources, which sometimes included Draugrs. There was speculation and rumor that they, much like the Draugrs, were short on food and had resorted to cannibalism. No one had ever seen one of the elites come down to the ground, but after seeing so many Draugrs snached by one of the tentacles and hauled screaming into the sky, it seemed like a natural conclusion.


    Several of the airships were the size of small cities. When they passed overhead and blotted out the sun, it would take several hours before the sun became visible again. These ships were different. They would stop at different locations for longer periods of time. Arms would emerge to anchor the ship to the ground and then the center of the ship would open from which a column of fire would drill down into the Earth. Eleanor had taken me to the edge of one of those holes. It was enormous¡ªalmost a quarter mile wide¡ªand so deep that we could not see the bottom. There was speculation about this as well.  The assumption was that these ships were drilling into the Earth¡¯s natural resources for their source of fuel.


    And that¡¯s why we were awake before the sun had broken over the horizon.


    Eleanor was huddled next to the leader, Stephen. They were stuffing explosives and charges into several backpacks that they had discovered in an abandoned military barracks hidden in a mountain.


    I squatted down next to them, taking one of the loaded backpacks and inspecting the contents.


    ¡°Are you clear on what to do?¡± Stephen asked.


    I nodded. There wasn¡¯t much to it: climb the ship¡¯s legs, make it to the center of the ship, lay down explosives, set the timer, and escape. Even though that was the plan, what we didn¡¯t talk about was how suicidal it was.


    There was a fair amount of risk. A scout had reported back that a ship had stopped nearby and had begun drilling. The ship¡¯s anchor legs were at an angle we could walk up and fairly wide, but there wasn¡¯t anything that could keep us from falling off the sides. Additionally, while the backpack¡¯s contents were most definitely explosives (they were stamped with ¡°C4¡± and ¡°explosive¡± and ¡°warning¡± on the sides of the bricks), they weren¡¯t ever tested. As dumb as it sounds, there wasn¡¯t an expiration date printed on them, so the likelihood that they would work was still high.


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    ¡°Alright, let''s go,¡± Stephen said, standing and slinging one of the backpacks over his shoulders. Myself and four other men followed suit.


    Turning to Eleanor, I opened my arms for a hug, but she folded hers and remained where she was. ¡°Don¡¯t do anything stupid,¡± she said.


    ¡°Love you too,¡± I replied and we set off through the woods.


    It didn¡¯t take us long to find the anchoring leg of the ship. It was as the scout reported: we could easily walk up the leg in single file. There would be a few feet on either side of us to give us a little room for error, but not much.


    Silently, with Stephen at the lead, we began to make our way up. It was easy at first. Trudging up the arm was similar to walking up a long, never-ending staircase. One foot after the other and don¡¯t look down. The higher we went, the colder it got and the stronger the wind became. Soon we slowed down to a snail¡¯s pace. Each new step was less confident than the last; leaning in, making sure our footing was solid and our balance was maintained before continuing. One of the men¡ªRichard, I think¡ªlost his balance during a strong gust of wind and went quietly over the side. I watched him fall, his eyes wide, his arms flailing, until he disappeared from view.


    I wasn¡¯t sure we would ever reach the top, but finally we did.


    There was a small opening at the top of the leg where it would be retracted when the ship decided to move to its next location. We slipped through and found ourselves in an empty control room. It felt so foreign being surrounded by electrical things: buttons, lights, colored screens. Certainly we could have done some damage there by randomly pressing on things or pulling out wires, but we didn¡¯t take any chances. Instead leaving through a door and continuing to navigate the maze of the ship, following the distant hum of the drill.


    We didn¡¯t encounter any of the elites during our journey¡ªnot a single soul. But even so it had the machinations of a trap, so we proceeded with caution.


    As we went, the drill became louder and louder, vibrating through us. Finally, as we reached a point in the ship where we could feel our teeth rattling, Stephen stopped. He dropped his backpack to the ground and began to pull out the blocks of C4 and the timers. Myself and the other three men did the same. Into each block we stuck a timer and turned it on. The countdown showed only thirty minutes.


    Thirty minutes? It took hours to reach the top. I looked at Stephen for confirmation and he smiled grimly. Him and the other men set their timers and sat down on the floor of the ship closing their eyes in silent acceptance of their fate.


    ¡°Fuck this,¡± I said. I started the timers on the explosives I brought and ran. Tearing through the ship, I retraced my steps to the leg we climbed up and froze. Standing in the opening next to the leg was Eleanor.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± I yelled at her.


    ¡°I came to save you,¡± she said. ¡°Where is everyone else?¡±


    ¡°This was a suicide mission! They aren¡¯t coming back.¡±


    I peered through the opening at the leg we had hiked up. ¡°Come on,¡± I tell her.


    ¡°What are we going to do?¡± Eleanor asked.


    ¡°Do you remember where we went after Mom¡¯s funeral?¡± She shook her head. ¡°We went to a park to play. You loved the slide. You would run up the ladder and slide down the slide over and over again. This is going to be a really long slide.¡±


    Eleanor went through the opening in front of me, sitting on the cool metallic leg. I showed her how to use her arms to steady herself and, using the heels of her feet, she began to push herself forward picking up momentum. I followed her. Faster and faster we went, careening down the leg, using our arms to balance against the edge of the leg. Eleanor let out a whoop of laughter as the wind pulled her hair into a tornado behind her.


    We pushed through the clouds and could see the forest below growing closer and closer. We were almost there.


    A shudder wrenched through the leg and I looked up to see a fiery explosion ripping through the center of the ship. I could see the leg, high above us whip back and forth, the rippling traveling closer and closer until¡ª


    ¡°Eleanor!¡±


    I¡¯m thrown to the side, grabbing the lip of our slide at the last minute. Eleanor is thrown high into the air and lands on the leg, her momentum stopped. I pull myself up and crawl on my belly towards her.


    ¡°Eleanor, are you okay?¡± I roll her over. There¡¯s a shallow cut on her forehead. Her eyes flutter.


    ¡°Dad?¡± she whispers.


    The leg shudders again and I look up seeing another large ripple whipping down at us. I brace myself against the edge of the leg, holding onto Eleanor. But it¡¯s not enough. I¡¯m thrown off the side, once again grasping the lip of the edge with one hand and clutching Eleanor¡¯s tiny, bird-like hand in my other.


    Looking down at her, Eleanor smiles up at me.


    ¡°Dad,¡± she whispers.


    I can feel my grip on the leg¡¯s edge slipping.


    ¡°Dad, it¡¯s okay. You have to let me go.¡±


    I shake my head, refusing the inevitable, trying to haul her up, but my grip continues to slip.


    The leg shudders again and my grip is broken, both of us falling into oblivion.

 Part 3, Chapter 9

    Floating in the void between space and time, all sense of reality is gone from me. Even though I can raise my hand to touch my face and establish a sense of self, it feels that while stuck in this void, even myself is an illusion.


    I am anchorless; adrift and alone.


    There aren¡¯t as many stars now to serve as waypoints to the next step in my journey. With each multiverse I visit, when I return to the void alone, there is one less. Each has been a failure. While there were many in which I couldn¡¯t locate Eleanor, in the multiverses where I did find her, she was content with where she was. Either content and happy or content with her sadness or anger or bitterness towards me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn¡¯t fix what I had done and my failure was becoming bothersome.


    Choosing another star as my guide, I set my intention towards it, but instead of being pulled towards it like so many others before, I was pulled away from it.


    When I opened my eyes, I wasn¡¯t sure what I was seeing. As far as I could see there stretched a cityscape that I was surrounded by. In the center of it all was a tall, spiraling building reached into the clouds. It was as large as a mountain, dwarfing the rest of the cityscape. The air was filled with streams of speeders zooming back and forth. They were hovering or flying; defying gravity without any sense of propulsion keeping them off the ground. This was, by far, the most technologically advanced multiverse I had been to.


    And yet, there was something that wasn¡¯t quite right. There was a peculiarity with how the speeders were moving in the sky. It wasn¡¯t so much that they were moving back and forth, but rather forth and back. I¡¯m quite aware that that in itself doesn¡¯t make much sense¡ªa simple reordering of two words¡ªbut I¡¯m not sure how else to describe it. The riders, instead of facing the direction they were going, had their backs towards it. They were riding backwards or going backwards.


    High above, in the buildings that surrounded me there was another clue. A team of workers, dressed in dark blues and grays, were working on a building. Their movements were jilted as I observed them; moving unnaturally. They were working on constructing the roof of the building. But instead of laying tile, they were picking it up and piling the tile next to them¡ªone after the other.


    In another building, workers were removing a window high above. They loaded it on the back of a speeder that was hovering next to them and as I watched, the speeder, once the window was secured, sped away, driving backwards¡ªthe driver still looking the opposite direction they were going.


    With each of these projects I was observing, they weren¡¯t constructing a building, but deconstructing it.


    A doorway near me opened and a couple with a hovering baby pram walked out of it backwards, heading down the street¡ªalso backwards¡ªsmiling and waving as they saw me standing there looking flabbergasted. ¡°Olleh,¡± they said, before their eyes turned back to each other as they continued on their way.


    What was going on?


    I started walking down the street, pausing to look in windows to gain other clues as to my whereabouts.


    In one shop was a baker. I watched as he took a tray of fresh bread out of the window, walked backwards around the counter where there was a large open oven, and set the loaves inside. Before my eyes the loaves began to shrink, the dark brown of the crust fading lighter and lighter until it was soft moldable dough. Then, the baker took the fresh doughy loaves from the oven back over to his counter where he left them to rise¡ªor rather un-rise as I watched them slowly deflate.


    The arrow of time was no longer running forward, but backwards.


    I continued on, looking for any sign of Eleanor. I attracted looks from the people I passed; walking forward while they walked backwards¡ªat least from my perception. Certainly to them, I was the odd one.


    It reminded me of a tradition Veronica and I used to have with Eleanor: Opposite Day. For fun, on the weekend before Veronica¡¯s next chemotherapy treatment, when she was feeling at her best, we would start the day in reverse: dinner for breakfast, lunch for lunch, breakfast for dinner. Even though Eleanor was too young to understand, I would joke with her by furrowing my brow angrily and saying, ¡°I¡¯m happy!¡± Or by smiling as big as possible and saying, ¡°I¡¯m sad.¡± Eleanor would giggle at the ridiculous expressions and would try mimicking me.


    Soon a crowd began to follow me through the streets, their movements awkward as they veered from an already predetermined path. They murmured amongst themselves, but I couldn¡¯t understand their words.


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    Turning, I asked, ¡°Have you seen a little girl?¡± They stared at me blankly. Not understanding. I gestured, demonstrating her height. ¡°A girl. Short. Blonde hair.¡± More blank stares as they turned to each other, shrugging.


    I turned to continue on, but a man stepped forward out of the crowd. ¡°Reh htiw uoy era,¡± he said. His inflection was strange, rising at the beginning of his words and ending flat. He repeated again, ¡°Reh htiw uoy era.¡± I shook my head, not understanding, and he pointed to the enormous building rising from the center of the city. ¡°Reh htiw uoy era,¡± he said one more time. Then, ¡°Sseddog eht.¡±


    I paused, thinking through what I had seen previously and the words that the man had just uttered. ¡°Sseddog eht,¡± I sounded out slowly and the man lowered and raised his head in approval. ¡°Sseddog eht,¡± I said again, going over the syllables over and and over again in my head. ¡°The Goddess?¡± I asked.


    The man nodded. ¡°The Goddess,¡± he echoed slowly. He pointed again towards the towering building and gestured for me to follow. He began to walk towards the building instead of away, his legs moving in an awkward and uncomfortable hobble as he tried to reverse his gait and walk forward like myself. I accompanied him.


    The towering building was much further than anticipated. We walked for a long time in silence due to the language barrier. People still stopped to stare at us. A few trailed behind us, matching the man¡¯s hobble. We made a strange parade till at last we reached an entrance made of stone.


    On the doorway and post were intricate carvings: a man riding a chariot with winged dragons; a tree bearing fruit with a man and a woman standing on either side of it; a woman bearing a chalice and a serving vessel. Each told a story that I did not know, but spoke of ritual and tradition.


    The man knocked on the doorway and when it opened, he ushered me inside.


    We followed the corridor even further until we came to a large, circular room. The ceiling stretched towards the sky, spiraling higher and higher until there wasn¡¯t anything but darkness and a small pinprick of light. In the center of the room was a brazier that was casting a faint glow and next to it, sleeping, was a girl.


    Kneeling next to her, I moved a strand of hair from her face. Her eyes opened and widened as she recognized me. ¡°Daddy?¡± she said, throwing her arms around my neck.


    It was her. Older than other iterations I had found flung across the multiverse, but it was still her.


    Holding her at arms length I looked at her. She smiled and I smiled back, but her eyes were distant and glossy; she couldn¡¯t hold focus on my face, her eyes continuing to slide from it back down to the floor.


    ¡°Hey, are you okay?¡± I ask.


    Eleanor¡¯s eyes raise back to mine. ¡°I¡¯m tired,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m always tired. Everything they bring me makes me tired so I can dream.¡±


    Her legs buckle and I catch her, scooping her up into my arms. ¡°I¡¯m going to take you home,¡± I tell her.


    She closes her eyes, smiling. ¡°I¡¯d like that,¡± she says slowly, her speech slurring. ¡°Is Mommy there?¡±


    I think back to the other multiverse where Veronica is watching my original Eleanor. ¡°Yeah, honey. She¡¯s there.¡±


    Eleanor wraps her arms around my neck.


    As I walk towards the exit, the man who led me to the chamber doesn¡¯t move. He only whispers, ¡°Sseddog eht,¡± his eyes on Eleanor.


    Through the streets we walk, away from the towering building. No one tries to stop us. There¡¯s just whispers of ¡°Sseddog eht, sseddog eht,¡± over and over again.


    On and on we walk until we reach the end of the city and I see a small green hill in the distance. Eleanor feels so small in my arms. Even though she is older, she only feels a little heavier than my Eleanor did at five. I can feel her ribs pressing into me. She feels so frail.


    When we reach the top of the hill, I lay her down on the grass so I can focus my energy and will into leaving this multiverse.


    ¡°Dad? Daddy?¡± Eleanor whispers.


    Going to her, I lay down with my face next to hers. ¡°What is it, baby?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I¡¯m so tired,¡± she says. ¡°They would never let me sleep. Not truly sleep. Only dream and tell them about my dreams and if they didn¡¯t like my dreams they gave me more of the drink to drink. I dreamed of you. I told them of you. I told them that you would come for me. And you did. You came, Daddy. You finally came.¡± She¡¯s quiet for a while. ¡°I¡¯m tired, Daddy. Can I sleep?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, sweetie, you can sleep.¡±


    Eleanor smiled, tucking her hands underneath her head. I listened as her breathing become more steady, but then it started to slow until she breathed out and didn¡¯t inhale again.


    I felt her neck for a pulse but there was none.


    I sat there, crying for a long time. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn¡¯t fix what I had done. Maybe this was all for nothing.


    As I sat there, watching Eleanor through the blurriness of tears, I saw a tiny shoot begin to thread its way through her hair until it emerged and bloomed; a lovely, tiny flower of yellow and white. Then another emerged and another and another until my daughter was lying in repose beneath a carpet of flowers.


    And so it was time to go and try again.


    I imagined the void and it opened before me.


    With a final glance at Eleanor, I stepped into the unknown.

 Part 3, Chapter 10

    My foot found footing in the expansive darkness. Behind me, the silence gave way to a rushing sound; like wind whipping down an alleyway.


    It took me a moment to steady myself after floating for so long without gravity. How long was I in the void? How much time had passed?


    Whatever I was standing on was narrow. I could feel the sides of my foot wrapping around it for balance. I swayed, trying to keep my balance. I couldn¡¯t see anything around me. It was dark; darker than dark. It still felt like I was in the void, but there was something beneath me.


    Gingerly, I picked up my back foot and slowly swung it in front of my other foot, feeling with my toes that whatever I was standing on continued to stretch before me. Placing my foot down fully, toes to heel, I breathed out a sigh of relief.


    Step after step, I began to move forward for what seemed like an eternity, until I shifted my weight forward too quickly and felt my equilibrium shift. I windmilled my arms for balance, my foot searching for a foothold, but there was none there and I fell.


    But instead of falling into the chasm of darkness, my knee struck a solid surface and I fell forward, arms flung wide failing to catch myself until my chest made contact and then my face and all went dark.


    I awoke a moment later, gasping for air. The impact to my chest had forced all the air out and my lungs convulsed with the effort to draw in fresh air. My vision darkened and I could feel consciousness leaving me once again. I rolled over to my back, and pushed myself up with my elbows. This movement opened something within me and clean, fresh air fought its way into my lungs. I fell back onto my side and lay coughing, gulping and panting, every inch of me shaking and quivering, my eyes watering, and my finger straining claw-like, digging into what I assumed was dirt.


    I crawl forward, one hand held above my head to keep myself from further injury. Eventually, I saw a small sliver of light. As I crawled closer, it began to illuminate the inside of the tunnel I was in. I saw that I could stand, so I did and began to move faster until I burst forth into a blinding light.


    Closing my eyes to the brightness, I leaned forward, hands on knees sobbing in relief.


    When I open my eyes, I can see that the darkness has been replaced by a landscape that is fuller and greener. Trees, taller and fuller, reached towards a sky that was bluer and more vibrant and brighter.


    Where was I?


    My head throbbed. My throat burned.


    I was tired and alone.


    Collapsing to the ground, I sat there, realizing how quiet the wilderness had become. Not that it had become quiet (aside from my gasping, wheezing, and swearing) but that it had always been so. This wilderness was free of the constant buzz of electrical wires or the distant rumble of cars or planes, there was nothing except a stillness that only nature could provide.


    I had never known such peace and serenity. Not even when I was hiking in the mountains. There was always some type of sound, whether manmade or me-made with the constant companionship that my smartphone brought me. Until this moment, every single second of my existence had been bound by some form of artificial noise. But here, in this place, the always-on symphony of machines was gone. Replaced instead by a gentle breeze rippling leaves through the trees and the twittering of distant birds and the chittering of other forest animals.


    This was very different from what surrounded me in the void. There, I was surrounded by nothingness, so therefore I wasn¡¯t surrounded by anything at all. But even though there was nothing, I was surrounded by chaos, perhaps from my own making, and my nervous system was very aware of that fact. Here, I was surrounded by nature, the natural order of things, and all was calm and bright. It was miraculous and I couldn¡¯t believe how peaceful it was.


    I rose to my feet and slowly began making my way through the forest, weaving my way through the trees, letting my fingers graze their bark and nearby bushes and feel the tall grass slide through them.


    When the dense forest started to thin out, the sun broke through the ceiling of leafy branches, and I fell to my knees in awe. The light was sharp and brilliant. The colors of nature that surrounded me before now glistened and glowed; the colors more crisp and vibrant. The grass was a greener green than I had ever seen. The flowers tucked around the roots of trees were the purplest purples and the yellowest yellows. And the sky¡ª!


    The sky was the bluest blue. Bluer than the clearest day in my memory. Free from the haze of pollution and dust.


    Everything above and below¡ªeverything I saw in my field of vision was better than anything I had known in my world. It seemed new and fresh; more defined than the crispest image on the highest resolution television at the electronic store.


    Nearby I could hear the bubbling of water and I knew I was thirsting for its drink. It was down a short hill and as I knelt, I dipped a hand in the cold stream and cupped a handful to my mouth. It was clean and alive and life-giving. I lowered myself further to the edge of the stream and drank from the waters; letting the current splash my cheek as it rushed by me, my lips guzzling greedily; my tongue lapping lustfully.


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    Standing, I let the water drip down my chin and onto my shirt as I looked around. I appeared to be near a meadow. I thought about going exploring. Perhaps there was someone nearby. Or perhaps by wandering I would discover new wonders.


    I followed the water. It was leading somewhere after all and if there were people around, it would eventually lead me there.


    All around me was evidence that I was in Paradise. There weren¡¯t any blemishes on the land; not even a common footpath of flattened grass. The trees rose, unbroken. A thick bramble of thorns offered up a sacrifice of berries, which I happily plucked and ate; breaking apart the berries to study their insides, separating the seeds, licking the juices as they ran down my fingers.


    Was this Eden? Was I Adam? Where was the Tree of Knowledge? Would I eat of the fruit and become like God?


    I walked until the waters widened and after looking for some form of evidence of humanity, I turned and began to walk up a long hillside, trying to gain some form of elevation to gauge my surroundings. As I reached the top I turned and saw a black cloud in the sky.


    No. Not a cloud. It was rising from the trees.


    Smoke.


    And where there was smoke, there were people.


    I began to run; tearing down the hill as fast as my legs would take me.


    Oh, this air! I laughed as I ran faster than I ever ran gulping down lungfuls of this miraculous air. My legs seemed to lengthen, my stride swift and sure. Was I even touching the ground? I was flying.


    I was back in the woods when I heard it. A thrum, deep and long, its reverberations shaking my insides. Again and again it thrummed. Louder and louder. Faster and faster.


    I slowed, trying to understand. I could see the smoke curling up from the trees. I stopped, listening to the thrum, thrum, thrumi, trying to discern the direction it was coming from.


    Behind the trees, warriors began to emerge. Covered in animal skins and bones. Painted in reds and blues. Beating their chests with the shafts of spears, swords, and clubs.


    Turning, I made an attempt to run for it, but more warriors, several hundreds yards away on the opposite side of the grove emerged, half naked, their chests glistening in the sun. They beat their weapons onto their shields, huffing with each impact.


    There must have been a hundred or more on either side of me. Some held shields. Others held torches. Most were on foot, while others, further back, sat on horseback.


    Had they come for me? Had they heard me traipsing through the woods? Had I violated some form of the sacred and they had come to kill me?


    The painted warriors began to chant, ¡°Yalla! Yalla!¡± as they beat their chests in time.


    I stood there in shock. Too stupid to know if I should run or which direction I should run.


    The other warriors raised enormous animal horns to their lips and blew a hideous sound that made my knees weak. I fell to the earth and felt through the hand that braced me the Earth moving and vibrating with the call of the horns and the clashing of weapons and the chant of ¡°Yalla! Yalla!¡±


    It grew in volume and tempo until, raising their swords, spears, and clubs aloft the two warrior clans threw themselves towards each other. I pushed myself up and ran towards the distant trees, hoping for cover and safety.


    The painted warriors almost reached me by the time I had thrown myself behind a towering tree. I could see their eyes: the bloodlust, the joy, the ecstasy. They were the fantasy of every boy who daydreamed what being a man was really like: chiseled from granite with firm jawlines and a muscular torso that made me forget how close to death I really was.


    I huddled as low as possible, trying to make myself invisible.


    The trumpeting and the drumming stopped to be replaced by the sound of metal ringing upon metal. Spear against spear. Sword against sword.


    ¡°Yalla! Yalla!¡± turned to screams.


    Metal slicing and stabbing into flesh.


    Flesh against flesh.


    I peaked around the tree and it was a nightmare. There was no strategy; no formation. Just bodies pressing against bodies; trying to kill one another.


    Except for one.


    A woman.


    In the midst of the melee she spun gracefully; a warrior amongst brutes. In one hand she held a spear which she twirled about, making short work of the men that rushed her. In her other hand she held a sword, which she used to parry her close attackers and stab the fallen to make sure they didn¡¯t rise again.


    Blood splashed about her, coating her legs and arms and the thick leather that wrapped and bound her breasts.


    One attacker closed in faster than she could block and knocked her across the head from behind. Her helmet fell to the Earth and red hair cascaded down her shoulders.


    ¡°Veronica?¡± I whispered.


    I couldn¡¯t help but watch as she fell warrior after warrior. A throat slit. A skull smashed. Feet swept from underneath and quickly gutted.


    The rest of the battle quickly made it to the trees. I had to pull my eyes away from the warrior woman as I dashed further and further into the forest, dodging this way and that, trying to stay out of sight and hidden, but it became harder. Men and women fought all around me, but they paid me no mind. Even with a lack of camouflage, or maybe because I wasn¡¯t half-naked or clothed in animal skin and bones, it was as if I didn¡¯t exist to them.


    When hiding places became scarce, I began to look elsewhere for cover. Nearby there was a discarded shield. Still attached to a discarded arm. I tore at the bindings trying to free it; twisting, pulling, my movements frantic. My focus was solely on the shield when I felt a hand land on my shoulder.


    I screamed and turned, tripping over my own feet and falling to the ground, blinding myself in the radiant sunshine glinting through the treetops. A spear hovered above me and I threw my hands up, trying to defend myself and look as defenseless as possible.


    The spear lowered and a face came into view, blocking the sun and allowing my eyes to focus on her red¡ªno, blood soaked blonde hair.


    Her lips parted and she spoke. ¡°Dad?¡±


    I looked and saw that she had a familiar face, albeit older. ¡°Eleanor?¡± I stammered. ¡°Eleanor, is that you?¡±

 Part 3, Chapter 11

    It was Eleanor.


    Even through the blood and mud splattered across her face I can see the same eyes that belonged to her mother.


    She was much older, but she still had that look of fierce determinism that she would give me when I wouldn¡¯t let her do whatever it was she had her five-year old mind set on.


    She grabs me by the arm and jerks me to my feet. ¡°Get up!¡±


    ¡°Eleanor, what are you doing here? What is going on?¡±


    Bending over, she pulls a sword from a corpse¡¯s hand and shoves it into mine. ¡°Here. Take this.¡±


    I laugh, trying to hand it back to her. ¡°I don¡¯t know what to do with this thing.¡±


    ¡°The point goes into the soft parts.¡± She points to my shirt. ¡°Take that off.¡±


    ¡°What? Why?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t want to be seen looking like that,¡± she tells me. The battle is further away, but her eyes keep darting. She¡¯s tense, ready if the fight comes back our way. ¡°Take it off,¡± she repeats impatiently as I start to pull my shirt over my head.


    When it¡¯s off she snatches it from my hands, throws it to the ground, and then kicks it behind some nearby foliage. Kneeling, she rolls over the corpse she stole the sword from. His stomach bears a gaping wound and it yawns open showing what I¡¯m assuming are his intestines. Even though my stomach is empty of food, I can feel the recently consumed water rising. I gag and Eleanor growls at me. Sticking both hands into the wound, she pulls them back out covered in a rich, thick blood. She rubs it over my face, chest, and back unapologetically. Standing back she takes quick stock of her work and nods in approval.


    ¡°Let''s go.¡± She starts to run back towards where a majority of the fighting is, lifting her spear and gesturing for me to follow, which I do reluctantly.


    ¡°This is fucked up,¡± I mutter as I dance around fallen bodies.


    As soon as we¡¯re out of the trees we are met by an enormous warrior wearing a chest plate made from what I hope are animal bones and a helmet made from a rack of antlers. He carries a massive sword that he wields with two hands. Its blade isn¡¯t as smooth as mine, but bears the jagged teeth of a bow saw. He pulls the blade back, over his shoulder, ready to strike. Eleanor, without missing a stride, dances forward, ducks underneath his swing, pirouettes on her knees till she¡¯s behind him, and cuts him with the tip of her spear across his achilles. He falls to his knees and she skewers him at the base of the skull, the spearhead jutting out of his mouth¡ªblood, bone, and a tiny piece of flesh balancing delicately on the tip.


    There¡¯s movement behind her as another warrior appears. ¡°Eleanor!¡± I shout and she whips the spear out, letting the corpse fall to the ground, before whirling to meet her foe. She throws the butt of the spear between the man¡¯s legs, ramming it as hard as she could. The warrior falls backward, chopping down with his sword, cutting Eleanor¡¯s spear in two.


    ¡°Run!¡± I yell, but Eleanor doesn¡¯t want to run. She lets the end of her spear fall to the grass, swinging the remaining end¡ªthe sharp end¡ªagainst the warrior¡¯s shield. Even with the cacophony of battle around me, I could still hear the sharp ringing of wood against metal. But it worked. The impact of Eleanor¡¯s blow caused the man¡¯s shield to drop and Eleanor reversed her movement, turning the blade flat and driving it deep into the man¡¯s sternum. A crimson torrent of blood ran from the wound and within seconds, the warrior was dead.


    Eleanor wrenched her spear out of the man and turned to go before pausing. Bending down, she brushed the hair from the man¡¯s eyes and smiled, barking out a laugh. Grabbing his discarded sword, she swung it single-handedly, and severed the man¡¯s head from his neck. Picking up the severed head, she handed it to me. ¡°This could be useful,¡± she says.


    Gingerly I grabbed a handful of hair and she let go, the weight of the head swinging into my leg with a meaty thump. The hair was wet with sweat and I could feel the heat of the head roiling up towards me. I felt lightheaded, my balance off, unsure of my footing. Bile slowly creeping up the back of my throat.


    ¡°Come on,¡± Eleanor said, grabbing me by the shoulder. She ran ahead of me, looking for signs of additional skirmishes she could join, but the battle was over.


    The defeated¡ªthe ones dressed in animal skins and bones¡ªwere fleeing back through the trees. The victors¡ªthe side Eleanor thankfully was on¡ªwere yelling what I could only assume were insults while hoisting their spears and swords into the air. All around us, on every side of the field were the remains of the dead; men and women who once were so proud and confident in their victory. Their bodies littered the ground in a mass of broken, twisted, and bloodied limbs. The grass that only moments earlier had been the most wonderful grass I had ever seen was now trampled and bloodied. This pristine Eden was Eden no more.


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    From the sky fell carrion birds, landing on the bodies of the dead. Jabbing and tearing with their beaks at the open wounds or other soft spots they could reach: tongues pulled from gaping mouths, eyes pecked to jelly or pulled from their sockets and gobbled down.


    Even with the rabble of victory, I could see at the edges of the forest scavenger animals slinking out cautiously to pull their spoils into the dense underbrush to devour in peace.


    There was still life amongst all this death and while our battle had ended, a battle in the sky and forest was beginning. The birds in flight¡ªvultures, ravens, hawks¡ªwere attacking each other, fighting over what was clutched in claws or beak. Feathers fell down. The smaller birds fell as their wings were wrenched loose, dipping, spiraling, and spinning as their tails were ripped off by the relentless hunters. In the woods there were snarls and yips, the tearing and ripping of flesh, the sound of crashing through the underbrush; hidden from the eye, but not the mind. Soon that battle ended and there was nothing left save some black and brown feathers. It looked as if a giant shadow had laid to rest over the field of corpses.


    But even the shadows were still alive.


    The cries of the wounded were joined by the mournful screams of the dead husbands¡¯ sons, the dead mothers¡¯ daughters, the mothers¡¯ broken sobs, the wives¡¯ gasps of realized loneliness. They came next from the trees, mothers, daughters and sons, both from the victor¡¯s tribe and the vanquished (obvious from the way they too wore a collection of animal furs and bones). They knelt next to the dead and offered remembrance and ended the suffering of the wounded as they guided blades into their chests or slid them swiftly across their throats.


    The keening for the lost were soon joined by the victorious warriors. Eleanor bent her head low, burying her head in her hands, mourning in communion with her people. As mothers keened and wailed, so did their people. They moved and cried as one until it reached a fevered pitch and stopped. It was a ceremony, a religious experience, and as all became quiet, the mourners picked themselves up from the ground. The ones dressed in furs and bones followed where their warriors had retreated to, while the ones Eleanor knew came from the field to stand next to the other warriors.


    It was only in the silence that I was finally acknowledged. A skinny, shirtless man, sauntered over and looked me up and down. He grabbed at the fabric of my pants, trying, I¡¯m assuming, to see what they were made of or to possibly steal them from me to replace the leather flap that covered his nether regions. Squatting he looked at the head still clutched in my hand. He pushed the hair away to assess its features and laughed. Jumping up he claps me on the shoulder causing me to drop the head on the ground. Picking the head back up, he slams it to my chest and¡ªoh, the smell¡ªI catch it and cradle it like a newborn baby, trying to avoid the dead warrior¡¯s glazed over eyes. He says something unintelligible and more of the warriors turn their attention to me while I stand there, grinning like an idiot. I can¡¯t understand what they are saying, but they keep pointing at the head then back at me.


    Eleanor appears at my side and places her hand on my shoulder. She points to me and then at the head, talking all the while in their foreign tongue. There¡¯s pieces of words that I can understand. Its part English, part barbarian, and part gobblety-gook. The skinny, shirtless man responds to Eleanor and she replies back, patting my shoulder stiffly.


    ¡°What is going on?¡± I whisper out of the side of my mouth.


    ¡°Shut up,¡± Eleanor whispers back, squeezing my shoulder to quiet me.


    Eleanor and the man continue their back and forth until the man nods and waves for Eleanor to stand aside. Her hand leaves my shoulder as she steps away. He comes towards me till we¡¯re face to face. He is grinning devilishly at me and I¡¯m unsure whether he has decided to kiss me or take me as a lover. Reaching out he grabs a fistful of hair and lifts the head from my arms and holds it up for the rest of the warriors to see.


    Rubbing the dried blood at the base of the neck, the head begins bleeding again. He places his free hand beneath the steady drip, drip, drip and lets the blood pool in his palm. When he had collected enough, he stood before me again and poured the gore onto my head. It ran down my face, into my eyes, and into my opened mouth. It was awful, but I was trapped in the awe of the moment.


    Others came up, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters. Each cupped their hand to catch the drippings and each took a turn at baptizing me. Some let it fall onto my head. Others smeared it down my neck and chest while still others lay their hands flat upon my skin, leaving their mark upon me.


    Finally, the head dripped no more, and the warrior lifted it in the sky and howled. The others joined in too and after a look from Eleanor, I did the same.


    Leading the way, the man, still carrying the head, walked through the throng and back into the woods, the others following in his wake.


    Eleanor stepped besides me, smiling. ¡°Well done,¡± she said.


    ¡°Well done? That was awful. I thought I was going to vomit. Can you please explain what just happened?¡±


    ¡°That head,¡± she said, gesturing towards the departing warrior, ¡°was why we went to battle. The warrior that head belonged to, came into our village and killed one of our holy women. I told them that you had killed him and they were impressed.¡±


    ¡°Wait a minute,¡± I said. ¡°But you killed him.¡±


    ¡°Tomato, potato,¡± she shrugged in reply. ¡°Come on. We need to go.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡± I ask.


    ¡°To the Pago Dorf.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. The what?¡± I ask.


    ¡°The village,¡± she replies. ¡°It¡¯s where I grew up.¡± I stare at her in silence. My feet rooted to the ground. ¡°I¡¯ll explain as we walk,¡± she says.

 Part 3, Chapter 12

    ¡°When I was a child I woke up here,¡± Eleanor began.


    ¡°Where is here?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± she says. ¡°It¡¯s our world. Just a different version of it. At night, when you look up, it¡¯s the same moon, the same stars.¡±


    ¡°Do you know when we are?¡± I ask. Eleanor looks at me confused. ¡°I mean, is this the past? Is this the future? Have you come across any old buildings? Concrete ones? Metal bridges? Abandoned cars?¡± Eleanor stares at me vacantly. ¡°We used to go driving in these¡ª¡± She shakes her head unknowingly and I stop.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter, Dad,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m here. You¡¯re here. That¡¯s all that matters.¡±


    As we left the battlefield and entered the forest, the signs of bloodshed began to diminish. The trees and grass took back their perfection. Even with the murmur of others in the party talking, you could still hear the chirping of birds and the chattering of other forest animals. While there were still signs amongst us that a battle had occurred from the tone of the conversations around us, it was just another day in the neighborhood. There was laughter and jesting. Further up, one warrior said something to another that caused a jovial shouting match between the two that nobody won. Instead, each wrapped an arm around the other, and they exchanged a kiss.


    We continue to walk in silence for a while before Eleanor begins again. ¡°I was young when they found me, crying in the woods. I can¡¯t remember what happened, but often in my dreams I find myself alone in the woods, walking for hours. Tired, hungry, and thirsty. Looking for you.¡± She pauses for a moment, turning to look at me. ¡°I remember you. Even though it¡¯s been a long time, I see your face in my dreams. You are always crying.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I said, looking down at my feet.


    ¡°What happened?¡± Eleanor asks. ¡°How did I end up here, away from you?¡±


    ¡°I made a mistake,¡± I said. ¡°After your mother died¡ªdo you remember her?¡± She nods. ¡°I didn¡¯t think I could be a good father. I tried. But I didn¡¯t try hard enough and I wished you away.¡±


    She¡¯s quiet after that and I let her be.


    ¡°Why are you here?¡± Eleanor asked.


    ¡°I want to bring you home,¡± I say quietly.


    ¡°I am home. I¡¯ve been home for sixteen years. I have all I need here.¡±


    ¡°But this is all you know. There¡¯s so much more. Here you¡¯re fighting, warring. If you can come with me you could be at peace.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s not always war,¡± she retorts.


    ¡°What happens if you run out of food?¡± I ask.


    ¡°We care for the Earth and the Earth provides.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡±


    Eleanor cuts me off. ¡°This is the way I know. I know of no other way and this way is enough.¡± She looks at me, her eyes sad and full of disappointment.


    I turned away and saw that the trees had thinned and through them I could see the makings of a village. Huts made of fallen trees and mud with a path cutting between them. Scattered amongst them were fire pits for food and gatherings.


    Next to the village was a small open lake. The warriors whooped and they all splashed into the water at once, washing away the blood and gore. Eleanor joined them and motioned for me to join them as well. The water was cool and refreshing. I waded up to my knees and then sat, letting my head dip forward until it was submerged, scrubbing vigorously at my hair and face. When I came up for air, Eleanor was next to me and she handed me what I first thought was a rock, but when she mimed scrubbing, realized that it was a rough herbal soap. I sighed with relief, because whether it was imagined or not, I still felt like I smelled of war and death. Rubbing the bar across my chest and arms, it created a rich pink lather as it picked up trace amounts of blood. I submerged myself again and the nightmare of the day¡¯s battle disappeared as the water pulled away the evidence.


    The warriors were laughing and playing in the water. Two of the male warriors decided that it was the best place to let out some remaining aggression and began to wrestle. One of the men lunged for his opponent¡¯s legs, grabbing him around the knees and lifting him up. The other hammered his hands down between his attacker¡¯s shoulder blades with a mighty clap and with that the match was over as the attacker lost his grip and fell face first into the water.


    While others let their bloodlust out in similar matches, others¡ªmen pairing with women, men pairing with men, women pairing with women¡ªwaded up to the shore and stripped of their garments, laying them on the rocky, wet soil.


    They were unashamed of their nakedness. I looked on. How could I not? These acts were happening all around me and it was hard to ignore. I looked to Eleanor for guidance, but she just shrugged.


    I was a voyeur, a witness, a voyeuristic witness watching with a mixture of excitement and horror as these warriors who were covered in blood and grime only a few moments ago engaged in these natural couplings. It was far beyond the bounds of decency, yet what appeared to be so much a part of the natural order of things in this village.


    I saw a young woman, naked in the middle of the beach surrounded by multiple men. One was buried in her mouth, while another kissed the inside of her thighs, while still another was kissing her cheek and ear, and the fourth was sucking on her breasts.


    There were two men, one older and one younger, kissing each other. They were lying on their backs, side by side. They were kissing each other, their mouths roaming and exploring each other¡¯s bodies, while stroking each other¡¯s genitals.


    Another man was doing the same thing to a young woman: kissing her while his hand moved rhythmically between her legs. Soon his hand shifted, grabbing her buttocks forcefully and pressing her against him before reversing the movement and using the momentum to roll on top of her.


    Everyone seemed rapturously happy with the proceedings. There was no sense of showmanship or shame in their actions. They were just doing what their bodies and their hormones wanted to do to release the stress from the day¡¯s battle.


    The skinny warrior, the one who had taken the head from me, waded up, beckoning me. Given the events on the beach, I thought he was propositioning me, so I held my hands up shaking my head. He laughed, grabbing himself between the legs and made a rude gesture. Shaking his arms out, he held his hands out, moving them from side to side as he shuffled around in the water.


    ¡°He wants to see what you¡¯re made of,¡± Eleanor said.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± I asked.


    ¡°You¡¯re the man who took down the Priestess Killer.¡±


    I sigh. ¡°Can you just tell him it was you?¡± I ask.


    She shook her head.


    ¡°Fuck,¡± I say as I nod in agreement to the warrior. He grins and splashes towards me. I can¡¯t get out of the way fast enough and he tackles me. My balance is lost and I disappear under the water.


    A hand grabs me by the forearm and pulls me up. The skinny warrior is laughing and so is Eleanor. With a shrug he turns and leaves, heading back to shore as does Eleanor. I follow, shaking the water from my body as I go.


    Eleanor weaves her way through the couples lying on the beach. Each group, in some way, is in the thick of their shared passion. One couple grabs at Eleanor as she passes them, trying to pull her into the fray, but she shakes their hands off, saying something that I don¡¯t understand.


    I can see smoke rising from the village and as I near their encirclements, I can see why: the fire pits had been lit and there was meat being turned on spits by elderly men and women. My stomach growled and as if to answer, an elderly woman came up bearing a bowl of dried fish and fruit. Following Eleanor¡¯s lead, I reach in and grab a couple of pieces, immediately shoving them into my mouth. Oh, it was delicious; a pleasant, smokey flavor with a smooth and silky texture. I voiced a thank you and the woman nodded in return. My stomach wanted more, but Eleanor turned me away from the spits.


    ¡°Come,¡± she said, motioning me towards the largest building in the village: a single story circular building with a thatched roof. ¡°Before we feast, we must celebrate and remember the fallen.¡±


    Ducking underneath its low door, we enter. It¡¯s dark, save for a small fire burning in the center, it¡¯s smoke snaking its way up through a small opening in the roof. We sit cross-legged on the floor as more slightly familiar faces filter in: male and female warriors from the battle, as well as the mothers, wives, sons, and daughters of the fallen.


    Everyone is silent and reverent, save for the babble and chitter-chatter of the youngest congregants, but even they are quiet when three women enter the chamber.


    These three are naked, except for ceremonial headdresses of feathers and a fox¡¯s skinned face. The woman in the front, the youngest of the three, holds a large turtle shell in her hands. When she sets it down next to the fire, I can see a plum-colored liquid sloshing the sides. The second woman, older than the first, her belly swollen in pregnancy, is carrying an incense burner. It''s held by a braided vine, releasing a sweet, fragrant smell that burns my nostrils. As she passes, I inhale deeply, and feel a fog lifting from my brain. The third woman¡ªthe eldest¡ªcups the skull of some mammal. It¡¯s upside down and I can¡¯t tell whether it''s a large cat or a small bear. Its contents are dark and the way they are piled, make it impossible to distinguish what it contains. When she reaches the center, she holds the skull over the liquid in the turtle shell and let the contents fall in.


    They remind me of the three Fates from ancient Greek mythology as represented in the tragedies I had to read in school. And as if to draw the connection even further, they turned¡ªthe maiden, mother, and crone¡ªeach facing different directions, and began to speak as one.


    ¡°What are they saying,¡± I whisper to Eleanor.


    ¡°Every year,¡± she whispers back, ¡°or after a battle like this one, we gather to remember the dead. They are calling upon the dead from today and the past. They are calling upon the Earth.¡± She scoots closer till our knees are touching and leans closer, resting her chin on my shoulder, and begins to recite:


    Blood and souls shall be our mantle, our offspring.


    Goddesses of the Earth shall be our provisions.


    We shall be fathers and mothers, sons and daughters.


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    The Earth shall reign and the sky shall reign


    and it will hold dominion over us.


    Let your ears be opened to hear


    the voice of the word and the law.


    Let your eyes be open to see


    the goddess of the word and the reason for the law.


    She shall look upon us and we shall know you.


    She shall bring us truth.


    Let our words be truth and peace, love and serenity.


    Let the earth know us and take us


    into her arms as beloved sons and daughters.


    May she take us in, for we belong to her and to the gods.


    Then shall all gods come down and bless us


    as the chosen of all gods,


    and speak to us with the tongues of the gods.


    We shall walk in beauty and peace.


    She will set your faces against the evil before you


    and take the law of sin from before you and give you her knowledge.


    She will cut off your head from amongst your brother and sisters,


    and your head shall be upon her scepter.


    She will put in your place the dust at your feet


    and wipe out your shame and hurt.


    She will scatter you across the land


    and like grass you will grow upon new land.


    If you are not hers, you are not mine and you are not ours.


    If you want what should not be wanted


    or seek what should not be sought,


    she will cast you out into the wilderness


    and she will make you into a desolate wasteland.


    There will be no safety and comfort.


    She will take that away and set a watch for you


    in the place that is desolate so you cannot emerge.


    She will set her foot upon your heel and upon your breast.


    She will shut your mouth. She will take your lips


    into the darkness and your lips into the fire.


    She will shake your fingers and shake your feet


    and your body shall fall away with her foot upon your neck.


    Behold, if you set your face against her,


    her eyes will be upon you and she will cast


    your head from amongst your brothers and sisters.


    If you make your mouth to utter against her,


    your tongue will be torn out like a worm


    and you will be found in wickedness.


    If you turn away from her,


    she will take you into the wilderness.


    Her hand will make a wound in you


    and she will cut your heart into pieces.


    If you turn away from her eyes


    and if your mouth does murmur against her,


    your mouth will become a wound in you.


    If you drink of the Earth and don¡¯t turn away


    from her face, you should be satisfied.


    But if you turn away, she will throw you into the fire


    and you will be eaten by wolves


    and she will make a fire from your bones.


    When you drink of the Earth, you have tasted her goodness,


    and she will turn to you as you consume her in your mouth.


    She will come to you with her hand


    and with her hand she will draw you away, turning you onto your path.


    When the day has been finished and our covenant has ended,


    she will leave you, but still be with you as you discover your way.


    The women are silent and so is Eleanor.


    The youngest picks up the turtle shell and bending forward, hefts it above her head before gently resting it on the back of her neck; bent forward in offering. One by one, everyone that was gathered walked up, knelt before her and drank from the shell before returning to their place.


    ¡°Come on,¡± Eleanor says and she moves forward.


    When it¡¯s my turn, I kneel and let my lips touch the outer rim of the shell. The drink is bitter and earthy. Whatever the substance was that was poured into it I can feel against my teeth. I swish and swallow, trying to take down as much grit as possible. There¡¯s still a bit left as I rub my tongue around the inside of my mouth.


    Eleanor is sitting cross-legged when I get back to my spot. Her hands rest on her thighs and her eyes are closed as her breath is slow and measured. I do the same, turning my thoughts inward.


    A hand rests on my knee and when I open my eyes I see Eleanor watching me.


    ¡°Why are you here?¡± she asks.


    ¡°To save you,¡± I respond.


    ¡°No,¡± she says. ¡°You aren¡¯t here for me. You are here for yourself. Why are you here?¡±


    ¡°Because I sent you away. I made a mistake.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because I didn¡¯t know if I could be a good father.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because I didn¡¯t give you my all.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because I didn¡¯t give your mother, Veronica, my all. I wasn¡¯t there. I was always away from her¡ªin my own head.¡±


    ¡°What is it that you want most?¡± Eleanor asks.


    I close my eyes thinking back through the past several days and months¡ªall the way back to the funeral. ¡°I want to know why, if there is a God, why he took your mother away.¡± I think about Veronica, lying sick on her bed, taking her final breaths. ¡°I want to tell your mother that I loved her.¡± I think about myself as a child, hiding in the closet wrapping one end of the belt around the clothing rod and the other end around my neck. ¡°I want to know why I exist.¡±


    Opening my eyes, Eleanor is lit in a myriad of colors¡ªteals and violets. They outline the edges of her, running her length in parallel lines and between those lines there are whirling geometric shapes: tunnels, funnels, triangles, spirals, hexagons, lattices, honeycombs, and cobwebs. Some of the shapes are formed in the space like nets.


    My eyes close, but I think I can see my body reflected back to me, a mirror image of Eleanor, flitting and dancing around me.


    I am floating.


    I am flying.


    Everything is pulsing.


    The universe is breathing. I feel connected to it. And yet, I am free.


    Opening my eyes again, I can see the colors around Eleanor swirl and shift, gyrating faster and faster.


    I take a deep breath and release it.


    The colors continue to change, as do the patterns with them.


    I take another deep breath, but this time hold it.


    The colors change yet again.


    Then they return to their original form.


    It¡¯s as though they are listening to my breath. As though I am influencing them.


    I keep my eyes closed and continue to breathe in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out.


    I breathe again, only this time I make it bigger. Like a scream, but slower. Then I open my mouth and blow out the most beautiful sound; a rainbow of soundwaves escaping from within me.


    The patterns around me begin to change. My eyes are closed, but the lights feel so bright. I can¡¯t tell anymore where the patterns begin and end. Patterns I had never seen before are now my favorites. They are so beautiful, colorful and wavy.


    I¡¯m breathing faster. I can hear a sound. It¡¯s a whooshing sound. Like air coming in and out of my body. It¡¯s a beautiful sound.


    My eyes are still closed.


    I hear a sound as my chest pushes out on an in-breath. This is now the most beautiful sound. The patterns change, but they are much slower this time. It is like the ocean, as it breathes. It sounds like the water from the tide is coming closer to me.


    I¡¯m afraid to move. I want to move, but I can¡¯t.


    The water is on the beach and I am at the shoreline.


    The sounds are all around me, getting louder.


    I feel a force push me into the water. I feel like I¡¯m being sucked down into it, but it is as though I am not part of it; as if I am somehow disconnected from the experience of being in water.


    Behind my eyelids, I can see the patterns all around me. Then I hear myself think, You are not in the water anymore.


    I feel like I have to look at myself, but I am so afraid of what I might see.


    I slowly become aware of singing. Cracking an eyelid open, I can see the maiden and mother kneeling on the dirt, their voices joined in unison; each pulling and pushing against the other as their music whirls up into the air.


    The crone comes over to me, pulling in smoke from what looked like a thick roll of lit tobacco leaves. She pushes the air into my face as she says in her language, ¡°There is life in death and all the phases in between.¡±


    As the smoke swirls around my head and I inhale its earthy scent, the colors begin to pulse faster and faster.


    I feel every part of me¡ªfingers, ears, hands, legs, feet, skin, eyes¡ªfeel the pulsing as though I am surrounded by fireflies.


    Where did the crone go? She is further down the circle, using a gathering of feathers to direct tobacco smoke over a prone woman.


    Through the colors, a single shape emerges, moving towards me: Eleanor.


    The colors, the shapes, the patterns, the speed, the air, the colors, the colors, the colors, the colors.


    I am breathing in and I am breathing out.


    I am breathing in and I am breathing out.


    I am breathing in and I am breathing out.


    I am breathing in and I am breathing out.


    It is a tunnel of light and in its light I see myself.


    I can hear my heart beating.


    Through the opening in the roof, I can see that the sky has turned to black.


    Moonlight illuminates our bodies, as do the stars.


    The tunnel of light envelops me.


    The color of light.


    My eyes are open, and I see a woman, Eleanor¡ªbeautiful, ethereal, young, and wise¡ªlooking down on me.


    ¡°The universe is breathing,¡± I tell her.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she whispers, and she smiles.


    Eleanor moves closer and presses her hand against my cheek. Leaning forward, she whispers into my ear, ¡°The world is but a dream.¡±


    Her voice is like water, cascading through me.


    Her words are like water.


    Her touch is like water.


    Her gaze is like water.


    Her smile is like water.


    Her heart is like water.


    ¡°You are like water,¡± I whisper.


    ¡°And you are the tide,¡± she responds.


    I feel the wind upon my skin. I feel the earth beneath my feet. I feel the stars upon my face.


    Eleanor leans over me. She pushes a finger into the center of my forehead and as the pressure intensifies she bursts into light.


    The goddess.


    ¡°You¡¯re beautiful,¡± I whisper and I don¡¯t take my eyes away from hers.

 Part 3, Chapter 13

    Eleanor lays me down on the hard packed earth and I close my eyes, seeing the same geometric patterns swirling behind them. When I focused hard enough I could stop their movement, but if I relinquished my control over them I could follow the cobwebs further and further down.


    ¡°What is this?¡± I ask, but before I can hear Eleanor¡¯s response, I can feel my consciousness ripped away from this reality and shot across the galaxy until I am, once again, standing in the void.


    ¡°Why?¡± I shout to no one. ¡°Why am I here? What am I doing?¡± My back arches as I howl these questions over and over again until it becomes a scream..


    This was pointless. All of this was pointless.


    There was no saving Eleanor. Everytime I tried, I failed. There was no redemption.


    Was this what my existence had succumbed to? Me, alone with myself, in the darkness, becoming one with the Darkness. Was my existence just a shitty, meaningless pile of chaos?


    Was I just part of the larger chaos that exists in everything that is alive?


    Or is the Darkness asking me to accept that I am nothing?


    Throughout my life, there were always those who accepted me for who I was, but there was always a voice, in the background of my consciousness, that would always remind me that I was nothing, that I was not worthy, that I couldn¡¯t be worthy, that I was an unworthy being. Was that the Darkness all along?


    When that voice would echo throughout my being, I wouldn¡¯t speak out and I wouldn¡¯t speak against it. Because I would always find truth in what it said.


    It was a voice rooted in fear and shame.


    Why did you do that?


    That was stupid.


    You¡¯re stupid.


    How could you do this to me?


    This last voice was my mother¡¯s. I could see her standing over me, yelling, after she had learned that I had cheated on a math test. The irony in this memory was that seeing it now I saw and heard in her words how my actions were a reflection on her, not me. While there was still shame and while I was still punished, her greatest concern in that moment was about herself and the teacher¡¯s perception of her as a mother.


    How could you do this to me?


    In part there was a deeper connection in this phrase to a lack of accountability within myself for my own actions. How could I be accountable for what I did if what I did was a reflection on others and not myself.


    How could you do this to me?


    It was also a reflection on her control over me.


    I could see in a distant memory a smaller version of myself throwing a tantrum in a crib. I am crying, thrashing back and forth, and she is there: my mother. She doesn¡¯t pick me up or comfort me. Instead she holds me down. My anger grows, my crying grows louder. I try to thrash harder, but she holds me down, the pressure of her hand growing, until I give in to her will and lay still, exhausted. And then she leaves me alone in the darkness of my childhood room.


    There¡¯s a memory echo that follows; one that involves Eleanor. We¡¯re driving home from the hospital. It¡¯s late. Veronica is nauseous from the treatment and Eleanor is beyond tired. I could feel it as I was putting her into her carseat. Her little four-year old body was tight and tense. She wanted mommy, but mommy couldn¡¯t handle Eleanor crawling on top of her at that moment and daddy wasn¡¯t enough.


    As soon as we pulled out of the hospital¡¯s parking garage, the crying started; the boo-hoo-hooing growing into wails. It was dark and there was a lot of traffic and my temper was short. Turning onto a side street, I put the car into park, and turned around to Eleanor, yelling, ¡°Do you want us to crash! Because that¡¯s what¡¯s going to happen if you keep crying like a little baby! Stop it. Stop it! Stop it!¡± But she didn¡¯t stop it, because she was only a little more than a baby. Veronica put a hand on my arm and I shoved the anger down and started to drive again.


    How often we echo the generations before us even when we intend not to.


    A big part of my mother¡¯s control was religious in nature with fear as a natural catalyst for that sense of control. Growing up in a household where Hell was very real meant a great deal of shame and fear to curb any natural enthusiasm to be rebellious against the rule of church law.


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    So much of what was drilled into my head as a child was that I was born of sin and could only be redeemed by a power outside of myself: God. Every Sunday was the constant reminder of that, because we are sinful creatures and Jesus had to die for our sins and every Sunday he would offer a part of himself¡ªhis flesh and blood¡ªso that we could be cleansed and saved once again.


    At home, I was constantly reminded of how much of my actions were outside of my control. When I did something horrendously wrong, it was the devil¡¯s influence on me. When I did something good, it was because of God¡¯s good grace.


    When I would mess up, my parents would remind me, while they spanked me with whatever hard thing that was available¡ªa switch, kitchen utensils, a belt, a coal shovel¡ªthat when I sinned, I was giving in to Satan¡¯s influence over me and forgetting that Jesus had died for me and was causing him to die over and over again because of my sin.


    I was responsible for my actions, but also not in control due to external forces. But more than that, I was unworthy and constantly reminded of that.


    I remember a time when, shortly after learning about the Rapture and the Book of Revelations, I was at a department store with my family and I lost track of them. I wandered aisle by aisle looking for them and I couldn¡¯t find them. The longer I looked, the more I thought about the prophesied end times and that maybe, just maybe, my entire family was raptured except for me, because I was a bad kid. I was a sinner and had done something¡ªI wasn¡¯t sure what¡ªthat caused me to not get taken up with the rest of my family.


    There was a lot of shame and guilt associated with any mistakes I made. Even with small mistakes, I would chastise myself: slamming the heel of my hand into the side of my head, saying over and over again, ¡°You¡¯re stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could you do that? You¡¯re such a dummy.¡±


    Every time I would mess up, I would also turn inward, examining each micro-step that led to the mistake I made. Over and over again I would replay the situation until I had rewritten reality to fit with my sense of shame over the matter. But I would take those learnings and hold fast to it, building a tight sense of control over anything I could control.


    There was a client dinner that I was at, a few years ago, where, as an ice breaker, we were asked: what¡¯s your greatest fear? A woman to my left jumped in first and one by one everyone shared what their greatest fear was. By default, I was the last to go, and it gave me plenty of time to think about what I feared the most. At that point, Veronica wasn¡¯t sick. If she had been, my answer would have been easier. Instead, I thought through everything that made me uncomfortable¡ªroller coasters, flying, dying, losing my mental capacity¡ªand there was a common thread: control. What gave me the greatest sense of fear was a lack of control. As long as I had the tightest grip possible on my destiny I was happy.


    But I wasn¡¯t happy.


    I had tried to maintain control throughout Veronica¡¯s sickness and death and failed.


    I had tried to maintain control over Eleanor¡¯s future and I failed.


    I had tried to wrestle control through the fabric of space and time and I failed.


    Fear, shame, and control. That was all there was to me. If you stripped away every layer of skin, muscle, sinew and bone what would be left? A spirit of control. And by that nature, a spirit of chaos.


    To let go¡ªto surrender control¡ªto someone else or something else was something I could never really do. Even during those times where I¡¯d tell myself that I was letting go, there was always a piece of me that maintained a piece of control.


    What would happen if I let go?


    This fear is deeply rooted into the fabric of my being. I can see it, having grown like a tree within my center. To truly let go¡ªto truly give up control¡ªI would lose who I am. That¡¯s a big part of the fear. If I let go, would something darker emerge?


    But is that all there is to me? Fear, shame, and control? If that is who I am then why am I still existing? Is that truly all that defines me?


    Who am I?


    Am I what I fear? The shame I feel? The sense of control I hold on to?


    If I was defined by that, I would be made of illusion.


    Am I what I can hear, touch, taste, see or smell? If so, I¡¯d be defined by the sound, sensation, color, smells, and flavors I was experiencing.


    If I am none of these, who am I?


    Am I what I can hear? The expansive darkness in the void is quiet, but I can see myself hearing and through that observation I wonder whether I am the observer or the one observing.


    As I focus on each of these sensations, I can feel the pull of something deeper; an energy that is reverberating deep within me. Something beyond the self-conscious inquiry of my sense of self, but something that was conscious.


    When it emerges, it appears reptilian, serpent-like, and robotic. It slithers into my visual field, its head rotating to observe me and as its body moves, its eyes continue to fix on me.


    It saw me and knew me.


    ¡°What are you?¡± I ask.


    I am here, I hear it reply. I am within you, above you, and beneath you.


    It was there; revealing itself in the serpent and in the earth and dirt beneath me.


    It was there; amidst the green grass, the trees swaying in the wind, and in the babbling brook I drank from ages ago.


    It was here; amidst the warriors and the maiden, mother, and crone.


    It was here: within me, sliding in through my open mouth and nose and settling itself underneath my skin, vibrating and tingling throughout my entire being.


    A gentle hand laid upon my chest.


    Opening my eyes, I see Eleanor.


    I am still there, laying on the hard packed dirt of the domed building. Eleanor¡¯s face glows through an orb of light, the thatched roof behind her forming an earthen crown around her head. My baby was so beautiful.


    ¡°Dad,¡± Eleanor said. ¡°You have to let go.¡±


    Closing my eyes again, I saw what laid beyond, and folded myself within its embrace.

 Part 3, Chapter 14

    What I saw stretched beyond anything I could see or experience, but was also in everything I could see and experience.


    It saw me and knew me for exactly what I was.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± I whisper.


    I can hear it answer back. Its reply is soft and feminine. Motherlike.


    Who do you think I am?


    It¡¯s voiced inside me, something I feel within me¡ªat the center of me. It¡¯s nothing I can perceive with any of my senses, but a voice that I feel with all of my senses. I can hear it, but also smell its deep, earthy and woodsy scent. I can taste it on the tip of my tongue¡ªsmokey, sharp, and sweet. I can feel it gliding softly over my skin¡ªthe small hairs on my arm, standing on end, goosebumped.


    But then, I could feel it elsewhere, a gentle tug at my heart from the gravitational pull of whatever this was. I was aware of my thoughts, but I could feel, through this nudging, being pulled towards something greater. It was full of peace and contentment and compassion and wisdom and larger than all that was joy. It was here, with me, engaging in this playful dance with my heart that was intoxicating.


    Larger than all of that though was what connected all of these elements¡ªnot feelings; something greater than anything you¡¯d ascribe a sense of feeling to¡ªwas love. The radiance of love that it contained within this presence was brighter than the Sun and as it washed over me, I felt a stirring within my center and saw how small my own sense of love had become.


    The presence breathed in love and breathed out love.


    Was this God?


    Even as this thought became manifest, I knew the answer. This was beyond our primitive understanding of God. My anger and rebellion from all those years¡ªonly intensified when Veronica died¡ªwas directed only towards the idea of who, or rather what God was. An idea that was held captive by religion, government, culture, and a worldview that was founded on white and Eurocentric principles.


    Within this presence were all the answers that I had ever looked for or, in the absence of answers, was this sense that everything was going to be okay.


    This was a presence that had always been there. Either exploding into being at the beginning of time or as something that had existed before the constraints of time.


    If this was God, then why did he only start to say something after 13.7 billion years?


    In this space beyond, I could see the answer. It stretches before me across the millennia: control.


    Man (or woman) touches the divine and as their story gets told, someone sees an opportunity for power and organizes a religion around it. You can do this, but you can¡¯t do that. You should pray to this, but don¡¯t pray to that. You should offer this, but don¡¯t offer that.


    Then, many years later, a woman touches the divine and goes back to their encampment with a story. Their story gets inscribed on a rock¡ªa little picturesque cave painting of a human looking at the stars¡ªand someone, a man, sees an opportunity for power, and creates a set of rules and parameters for worship around that painting.


    A story emerges of a woman who reaches for knowledge and offends a monotheistic God. God punishes the woman along with the man whom she had tricked into reaching for knowledge and a religion is born. One built on sin and shame.


    Hundreds of years pass and another man emerges. He journeys into the desert and touches the divine. When he emerges, he challenges the patriarchy. He talks of love as if he is a being made up entirely of love. There is no shame. Everyone is welcomed.


    And he is killed for it.


    Even as he hangs from the cross, blood pouring from his many wounds, he loves.


    From that, a new religion arises. One that slowly replaces the idea of love with one built on control and exclusivity. You can do this, but you can¡¯t do that. That¡¯s a small sin, that¡¯s a big sin. Our religion is the best and the rest of you can go to Hell.


    I laugh at the absurdity of it, because laying in this presence¡¯s embrace, it seems so much simpler than all the anxiety my experience with organized religion had caused. This was what Eve had been seeking within the Tree of Knowledge. This was what the first conscious humans were chasing when they sought to touch the divine. They were seeking love and wanted to become one with it. And the stories that have emerged across cultures and religions were pushing people away from this pure sense of love. We would sooner kill a god than become him. If we can¡¯t control god and shape it to our will, we will kill it, hide it and destroy its true message.


    This presence was at the heart of the universe. Electromagnetic fields, matter, energy, organisms, ecosystems, force fields, nature and nurture, friendship and companionship, sexuality, the pushing and pulling of all of us against each other¡ªthe agitation of cultural and biological evolution and revolution¡ªtowards this greater sense of oneness and unification.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± I ask again.


    I can hear it gently laughing at me. Seeking its sense of being was me feeding my own desire for control.


    But then I hear it.


    I am.


    I am.


    I am.


    I am what you fear the most. I am you at your deepest. I am you at your hurt. I am you at your most bare. I am your deepest goodness. I am your deepest beauty. I am what you run away from. I am you. I am all of creation. I am every one and every thing. I am what can truly set you free.


    It¡¯s not much of an answer, so I try a different question. ¡°What are you?¡±


    I am.


    I am.


    I am.


    I am everything and nothing. I am the ground upon which you lay. I am the ground you walk on. I am the air you breathe in. I am the oxygen in your body. I am the sound of the blood pumping through your ears. I am the light of the sun pouring through your eyelids. I am the song of the birds calling from the trees. I am every drop of water on every ocean, every river, every stream, every puddle. I am the ocean. I am the sun. I am the trees and the grass and the flowers. I am the moon. I am the stars. I am the galaxy. I am everything and nothing. I am the whole of existence.


    The voice becomes quiet, repeating its mantra of I am, I am, I am. Over and over again.


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    I am you at your highest.


    I am your deepest love.


    I am Love.


    I am you.


    I am you at your strongest.


    I am you at your most vulnerable.


    I am you at your most precious.


    ¡°Why am I here?¡± I ask. ¡°What is my purpose?¡±


    I can hear it echo back, Why are you here? What is your purpose?


    And I can see within a flash of thought myself putting the muzzle of a gun to my head and pulling the trigger and the flame of my existence being snuffed out.


    What would happen if you didn¡¯t exist?


    Just like that, I snap back within myself.


    What would happen?


    ¡°Well, if I didn¡¯t exist, I wouldn¡¯t be in this mess,¡± I reply sarcastically. But I experience the reality of those words as I feel Eleanor¡¯s presence above me and know that if I hadn¡¯t existed she wouldn¡¯t have either.


    I can feel something beyond Eleanor and I know that it is Veronica.


    Whenever she asked why I loved her, I always felt like I was grasping for answers. Depending on my mood, I could be glib by providing answers like, ¡°Your butt¡± or ¡°Your boobs¡± or answer more seriously by gazing intently into her eyes and saying something that was synonymous to the notion of ¡°You complete me.¡± But the lack of conviction in those words or thoughts couldn¡¯t hide the fact that Veronica was my North Star. She was what connected my heart to my head. She grounded me and provided my existence with a sharp focus and direction.


    In the void that her lack of presence created, I was more aware of how it was her goodness, vulnerability and honesty, and her inner beauty that drew her to me. It went beyond the question of why I loved her. It was the same reason why this presence went beyond any description except for love. What I experienced with Veronica went beyond any sense of feeling or emotion. It wasn¡¯t about the why, because it was Veronica¡¯s gravitational pull that was pulling my love to her.


    And within that microcosm of insight, I saw the times where I held onto my love and didn¡¯t give it freely. Or those times where I thought I was giving it freely, but did what I could to maintain control over what I was giving with guilt and shame.


    I could see myself, reaching behind my back, grabbing a fistfull of flesh and tearing it off. ¡°Here, I guess you can have this,¡± I mumble begrudgingly as I extend my dripping offering of what I imperfectly defined as love to Veronica. Veronica would always look upon my offering with a questioning look upon her face. Not necessarily a ¡°What is this?¡± look, but a ¡°Why are you offering yourself this way? Why are you not willing to offer yourself fully and freely to me as I do to you?¡± Sometimes she would see beyond what I was trying to control and that questioning look would turn to sadness and her gravitational pull would disappear and we would drift apart for a while.


    I was a pretty shitty husband.


    I was a pretty shitty father too.


    But you did your best with what you were given, the presence said, reverberating inside of me.


    I laugh. ¡°I guess that¡¯s what they¡¯ll put on my tombstone: ¡®Here he lies. He did the best with what he had.¡¯¡±


    Even though it¡¯s without form, I can see this loving presence cock it¡¯s head to the side, asking for my questioning to go deeper. No, not to question, but to just be quiet and stop the cycle of control, shame and guilt and to just give in to who I am.


    You are all that I see. I am all that I am. I see your beauty and your needs, your fear, your hungers, your joys, and all of it is me. I am your guide and your way. I am your truth and your beauty and your light. I love you and will never leave you. I am here for you always. You are my child. I am your light and your truth and your power. I am your safety and your beauty and your love. I am your beauty and your wonder. I am your love and your goodness. I am your courage. I am your love. I see you. I am you. I love you. I am with you always, if you will have me.


    ¡°Fine,¡± I whisper. I throw my arms wide to the radiant presence and open myself up as fully as I can.


    I see you with my love.


    I see you with my compassion.


    I see you with my tenderness.


    I see you with my faithfulness.


    I see you with my mercy.


    I see you with my goodness.


    I see you with my light.


    I see you with my strength.


    I see you with my truth.


    I see you with my beauty.


    I see you.


    I am what you choose not to believe, but know for certain: I am the love I carry for you. I am the love you have not yet been able to fold, but feel. I am the love you cannot see in yourself, but you can see in me. I am the love of all you have missed, and all you could not be. I am that love.


    My heart cracks open as I let go, truly let go, of everything that I had retained control of.


    All the years and experiences. The good and the bad. The times that I was too proud and the infinite more times where I felt shame. All the moments I hurt the people I loved. All the mistakes I made. Everything that kept me from loving who I was.


    I am everything that is, that has been, and will be. I am that which has always been waiting for you. I am that which you have always been ready to love. I am that which is love. I am that which holds all love in my essence. I am what you desire. I am who you are. I am what you were born to be. I am the life that breathes with you. I am the life breathed with the ones you love. I am the life of your love, and the love of your life. I am you as you were, and as you are. I am the one who loves you. I am that which was always waiting for you. I am that which forever is. I am love. I am freedom. I am mercy.


    I am all of what you feel is good.


    I am everything you are.


    I am you.


    I am all of it.


    I love you.


    I am you.


    I saw that everything I hated and feared were the same things that would make me feel more whole. I saw all the times where I tried to be worthy and deserving instead of letting people love me for just being. And I saw how I demanded the same worthiness and deservedness from others.


    I need to stop this cycle of illusion.


    I am who I am.


    I am who I want to be.


    I am what I want to be. An imperfect perfect being trying to be perfect.


    I am everything I have.


    This moment is love. I am love.


    I am everything.


    I am my mind. I am my body. I am the energy in my hands and my heart. I am every cell that ever existed. And I am the cosmos. I am life itself. I am every man and woman that ever lived, is living, and ever will live. I am my mother. I am my father. I am the whole universe.


    I am. And I am eternal. I am infinite.


    I am everywhere, everything, and everything is me. I am.


    I am here now. I am who I am. I am life itself. I am alive. I am. I am all. I am love.


    I am a star in the universe. I am a galaxy in an infinite universe. I am a planet that has life on it. I am life. I am love. I am love. I am love.


    I am alive.


    I am more than I am.


    I am.


    And in every moment that I feel like I don¡¯t want to be here, I choose to be here. I am who I am and that is my path. I am what I want to be. I am the mind of God in the now.


    And in every moment that I feel like I¡¯m alone in this world, I choose to be here. I choose to do this work. I am who I am and that is my path. I am what I want to be. I am the mind of God in the now.


    And in every moment that I feel like I am living a nightmare, I choose to be here.


    And in every moment that I feel like I can¡¯t, I choose to be here.


    And in every moment that I feel like I am not good enough, I choose to be here.


    And in every moment I feel like I have wasted my life, I choose to be here.


    And in every movement I feel like I have to do this work¡ªthis work of being and existing and being a father to Eleanor¡ªI choose to be here. I choose to do this work. I am who I am and that is my path. I am what I want to be. I am what I choose to be. I am the mind of God in the now.


    I can see Veronica reaching out to me, her hand outstretched. She is smiling, welcoming me to her as our consciousness and unconsciousness are drawn closer together.


    I close my eyes.


    Palms meet.


    Fingers grasp.


    Electricity.


    And I am lost in the wake of her love.

 Part 3, Chapter 15

    As consciousness became more real, I became aware of her hand in mine. It lacked the substance it had just moments before. Instead it felt small and frail as if it was just there without really being there.


    I open my eyes and see Veronica lying in our bed facing me. It¡¯s still dark outside, but I can see how her skin is pallid and drawn tight across her face. A strand of what remained of her hair has drifted down over her eyes, which were dark and hollow. I can hear the steady stream of oxygen moving through the nasal tube that was fitted underneath her nose.


    There¡¯s movement behind her and I can see Eleanor¡¯s nose peeking out from underneath the covers. She¡¯s asleep, curled up against Veronica¡¯s back.


    Slowly I sit up, moving my feet over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Trying to make as little movement as possible so as not to disturb Veronica, I stand up and carefully walk across the floor to the door.


    ¡°Where are you going?¡± Veronica¡¯s voice is slow and breathless.


    Turning around I can see that her eyes are open, watching me.


    I lie back down on my side so that our foreheads are almost touching.


    ¡°How did you sleep?¡± I ask.


    Veronica doesn¡¯t respond, but instead closes her eyes and exhales a deep breath of air, which was all the answer I needed. Sleep was elusive these days and happened in fits and spurts throughout the day and night.


    ¡°Are you hungry?¡± I ask.


    Veronica manages a slight shake of her head.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Eleanor?¡± she asks.


    I point behind her and she smiles. Even her smile is frail and it shakes as the muscles in her mouth and cheek contract.


    She wants to be close to her baby, so I help Veronica roll over; maneuvering the oxygen tube so that she isn''t laying on top of it. I gently scoot Eleanor towards her mother and in her sleep, Eleanor nuzzles in. I move across the bed so that I can face Veronica, joining in on this family snuggle time.


    ¡°I love you. I love you. I love you.¡± Veronica whispers this over and over again into Eleanor¡¯s hair. She closes her eyes and I think for a moment that she¡¯s fallen asleep, but her eyes, once again, flutter open.


    ¡°Michael,¡± Veronica starts, ¡°I think I am going to die today.¡±


    I gaze into her eyes for a moment before responding, ¡°Yeah, I think so.¡± I could see it within her¡ªhow her body was an anchor to a soul that was asking to be freed.


    ¡°What do you think it¡¯ll be like?¡± she asks.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I reply, ¡°but I think it¡¯s going to be wonderful.¡±


    ¡°How do you know?¡± Veronica asks.


    I pause for a moment; gathering my thoughts as I think of what to say next. ¡°Because while I can see your body splinter apart, I can still see you shining through it. And the longer you¡¯ve carried this sickness, the brighter you¡¯ve become. And when it is your time, I think you¡¯re going to go supernova.¡± I reach across the space between us and take her hand in mine. ¡°You aren¡¯t this sickness or this shell, but I love all of you.¡±


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    Veronica closes her eyes, smiling. ¡°You¡¯re a good man,¡± she whispers, taking her time to form the words¡ªeach taking considerable effort. ¡°You¡¯re a good husband. And you¡¯re a really good dad.¡±


    There¡¯s so much space between her words and in my responses. It felt good, for once, to just lay there without thinking about what needed to happen next and not to give into the ego¡¯s pull to fill a silent void with my own voice. There¡¯s so much I want to say, but as I examine what it is I want to say, it was for my own service. It would start with, ¡°Before you go, I have a few things to get off my chest,¡± but at this moment, none of it mattered. While I could have laid out all the mistakes I had made as a husband and parent for hours without end, none of it mattered. It was me placing myself ahead of her in this moment and playing into the same tropes of shame and unworthiness that have dogged me for years. As much as I wanted to lay at her feet and beg for forgiveness, in this moment I saw that it was myself that I needed to forgive.


    As these thoughts tumbled through my head, Veronica¡¯s hand drifted from mine. I didn¡¯t realize it until her thin, boney fingers found mine again.


    ¡°Where did you go?¡± she asked.


    And I thought about all those moments before. All the guilt and shame. Everything that drove me to push Eleanor away. Everything that drove me into that constant loneliness even with Eleanor. The journey across space and time until I was back here, with the girls I loved, at the exact moment that I had tried so desperately to escape and ignore.


    ¡°I¡¯m still here,¡± I tell Veronica. ¡°I¡¯m not going anywhere.¡±


    The steady flow of oxygen isn¡¯t matching her own breaths as each inhale and outbreath is longer. It was this constant cycle of death and rebirth. With each exhale, I wondered if it would be her last, but slowly and steadily Veronica would draw in another slow breath of air and be reborn.


    ¡°Do you remember when we first met?¡± I ask her. Veronica¡¯s eyes flutter open in reply. ¡°I had run that trail I don¡¯t know how many times and when I run, I am always just running. No time for anything else. Just run, run, run till I¡¯m done. But then, there you were: this pretty redhead right in the middle of the trail¡ªon that bridge¡ªstopping me dead in my tracks with your smile.


    ¡°There was something inside me that cracked open at that moment and even though I couldn¡¯t form words around what it was, I knew that a part of me loved you at that moment. Maybe it was the sweat and pheromones, but it worked.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Veronica asked. ¡°Why did you love me?¡±


    ¡°Because,¡± I respond after some thought, ¡°everyone that I knew up until you had always asked or demanded love from me. You never asked for my love. You never took my love. But you were Love and you made me be in Love.


    ¡°I had never thought I could feel this way. I never thought that Love could be so, but it was. With you. I love you with all my might, with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my mind, with all my strength, with all the peace, joy, and beauty in this world and across the universe.


    ¡°I will love you until the end of time.


    ¡°I will love you until the day comes that I breathe my last. But even as I breathe my last, I will still remain in Love with you. It will live on through Eleanor and through her children and her children¡¯s children. You are my all and our love will never fail.¡±


    As I spoke, Veronica¡¯s eyes closed again and I could hear between my words that her breaths, between the inhales and exhales, were getting more spacious.


    Death and rebirth.


    Death and rebirth.


    ¡°You can let go, Veronica,¡± I whisper to her. ¡°You can let go.¡±


    And she does. Her final breath rattles out of her lungs and she is gone. I can feel something move through me and I know that it was her love reminding me that it was still there¡ªthat it would always be there.


    ¡°I love you,¡± I whisper to her body.


    ¡°I love you,¡± I say to her love.


    I wrap my arms around Eleanor and Veronica, cradling them gently, and close my eyes.


    We are not alone.