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.

“Is she five?”

Veronica nods.

“So, you’re pregnant—”

“With our second,” she finishes.

Another empty expanse of silence.

“Where am I?” she asks.

“You’re in our–mine and hers–house.”

“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—this other me—there’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 doppelgängers? 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.