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—usually 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.

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—the 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—” I sighed in relief “—but 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–maybe not now but at some point in the future–would 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.