I heard raised voices from the kitchen and stood, as if that made my hearing more acute. It was Sarah. “Keep her away from me!” she shouted. I walked to the kitchen.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Meg said. She was standing by the open back door.

Kendall was standing near the counter between Meg and Sarah, who was at the table, supporting herself with her hand on the edge of it. I was surprised to discover that she was screaming at her mother.

“Who is she? What do you want?” Sarah said.

“That’s your mother,” Kendall said. Her voice was such a strange monotone that even I wouldn’t have believed her.

Sarah looked at me. “Help me, Daniel!”

I looked at Meg’s terrified face.

Sarah ran to me, hugged me around my waist. As she did, I realized who Daniel was. When she was a child, I had made up a string of stories that included my made-up friend Daniel. Daniel was constantly saving me from peril.

Meg was crying now. She turned and walked out of the house, leaving the back door open.

That night I sat alone with Sarah at the kitchen window. Even now that construction haunts me, that I sat alone while being with my daughter. The moon was full and bright and within easy view. I at least imagined a fleeting flash of joy on her face as she stared at it. I attended to my own breathing, trying to calm myself. The thought that my daughter was so very far away from herself rattled me profoundly. If I hadn’t focused on breathing, I might simply have stopped.

simula me cognoscere

The campus had that quiet summer personality that faculty seemed to love. Perhaps it was time to focus on research, starting or completing. More likely it was mere reprieve, the welcome lull following exhaustion and preceding exertion. Regardless, whether it made sense or not, the campus minus the students offered a certain kind of peace. I went there, ostensibly to work on a couple of articles that had hopelessly stalled. I managed somehow to convince myself that I was actually interested in my own research, but I was in no way oblivious to the fact that work was just another escape from my woes at home.

I wandered across campus to my favorite coffee shop for a blueberry muffin at lunchtime. On my way back, I walked past Hilary Gill’s office. Her … the door was open. The room had been cleared of all of her belongings, her books, her tchotchkes, and had been expertly cleaned. The surfaces were spotless and wet looking under the lights that had been left on. It looked as if the place had been cleansed of her blood and breath. I supposed that it had been just that. It occurred to me that I didn’t know how young Gill had killed herself. I never asked anyone, never read about it, and, frankly, didn’t care to know. It was tragic that her life had become so difficult, but no life is required to continue; no life will continue forever. I hoped that she had found what she wanted, what she needed. I lost my desire to work and packed up my notes.