Articulate, humanesque nightmares are the worst ones.
(Stop and take that breath and relax, loosening your grip on life for just a second. Taste that. Freedom from anxiety seasoned with a hint of rest. Now go away. This is not yours. This will be served to someone already character-free, someone who doesn't even realize they don't deserve this unencumbered existence. That fucker isn't aware of how good they have it, they only know life as a bubble of sunshine and ignorance, breezy winds and plans best made. Did I just catch you trying to take another deep breath? Give it back. You're flammable.
Look, here's a leak. Put out your flames here. Yes, I understand you hate them. Familiar is the tension, the low-level hysteria put aside only long enough to concentrate on something specific and then you pull your finger out of the hole and the stream begins anew. You're up to your waist and you can't swim. The water is thick with indecision and cloudy with hope and fear. It's undrinkable, unswimmable and unstoppable too. It covered your freedom easily and now it's working on your courage. With enough time, erosion will begin and there will be no turning back. Run, Bridget, run!
I can't. I'm still unable to take a very deep breath. My knees are positively shot and I don't know which way is safe. I can run straight to the sea but then I am trapped because I am not a strong swimmer. I am trapped because I am not a strong person. Take the fear. I DON'T WANT IT. Take my indecision too. Leave me the fuck alone already. I have been through enough.)
Sitting with his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, hair perfectly tousled, six o'clock shadows playing across his face, Caleb frowned at me and rested his head on one hand, balanced against his temple in a painful display of exhaustion. He is slouched way down in the low library chair with his eyes closed and his left hand balancing a brandy glass in mid-air. It has been empty for almost thirty minutes but he's still cupping it between his fingers, warming invisible liquid gold. Maybe he wants me to refill it but I make no move to do so.
You look beautiful.
It will grow. I put my hand up to my neck, self-conscious.
Don't do that. He frowns. Don't even be uncomfortable with the way you look. Jesus, Bridget. You're beautiful. Uncannily so. You always have been.
His words are sweet poison to me. I'm not willing to listen to him extol my virtues when he didn't leave me with any at all. I'm not willing to listen to him editorialize my life from his perspective of obsession.
What does Henry need?
We don't co-parent in any sort of organized fashion. Caleb provides for the children in any way that I request. It's that simple. He also provides a pure representation of Cole, because it's not as if I can take the children to the concrete room where I keep the Cole-angel. They would be frightened. Caleb offers a Cole that they remember well. Kind. Fun. Permissive but consistent. His only request is access to them. Time with them. Time with me. Play nice, Bridget and it will all be okay.
It's okay, that isn't sinister or anything. Cole said it to me every night. Now it just sounds funny. I stopped playing nice years ago, as you can see.
I take my brandy up and swallow the contents of my glass in one gulp. It burns and I grab the windowsill. I gasp and choke and Caleb is there rubbing my back as if you can dislodge certain death with massage and I want to tell him not to touch me anymore but I can't breathe. I cough hard and then I wave my hands at him and thrust the glass toward him and leave the room.
Water. I need water.
I get a glass at the sink and stand there, drinking it slowly. Staring at my reflection in the kitchen windows because no one closed the blinds and I can't reach them but it's okay because the only person who watches me from that one place on the road is the one sitting in my library now drinking all of Jacob's ancient, valuable brandy that I didn't know what to do with so I packed it and it came with me.
I hear voices.
August and Ben are sitting out on the patio with forbidden cigarettes and herbal tea. I can hear the tones but not the words proper. They had a splendid argument when I returned from the airport with August because no one else gets a vacation but somehow August is able to disappear for ten days even though presently is a high stress time for the company. How is this possible? The world doesn't stop for hippie festivals and desert-worshipping but somehow he did it anyway because August puts life ahead of living. Lucky for us. He keeps his head on straight and his universe relaxed and then he can be a good friend and confidant and in-house social miracle worker here because Ben won't let anyone else do it and here Ben is strung out on overtime and his eyes are bleary and he has just enough strength at night to come home, eat a big dinner, play an hour of warcraft and ravage me completely before falling asleep and waking up again too soon and it's heartbreaking and maybe, just maybe he doesn't need to know that August came back renewed and reborn, smiling from ear to ear.
They made up just as fast. August is made from a patience we have never encountered before. He had Ben placated quickly and they retreated for some stream of consciousness that will see Ben psychologically propped up for another little just to get him through the end of this workload and then we get to breathe for a minute or two, watched by the others for any hairline cracks in the facade. Never mind that we have repeatedly presented ourselves to be examined with staples holding big ragged segments together, duct-taped limbs and reinforced organs, fibreglass spray and plaster dust in our hair. We hold hands and stand there grinning like stupid fools.
Hairline cracks, Ben? Do you see any hairline cracks?
Nope, princess, can't say that I do.
Guess we're good for now.
Yup. Guess we are. Can we go now?
