Baptize my mind.

Both my hands are filled with guilt
Give me absolution
Both my eyes are blind with filth
Give me absolution

I'm here.

I keep starting to write and then deleting everything, which isn't what a journal is supposed to be. It doesn't have to be wrapped up in a neat little package every day and sometimes I don't get around to writing it early enough because I can't seem to express myself the way I'd like to be heard. To top it off I'm having an incredibly self-conscious late morning, in which I feel like a virtual pariah, and that I have to lie to my friends when they ask me how I'm doing, how I'm feeling. I say fine through gritted teeth and a small fake smile and they accept it as the truth because they've probably grown tired of my emotions flooding them out of their contented zones. We ran out of comfort words and platitudes a hell of a long time ago and so I worry that if I say the day sucks and I feel like I'm raw and I'd like to go and cry somewhere so I don't break things, that they might roll their eyes, or find a reason to wait longer between visits or phone calls.

Because eventually, yes, that is exactly what will happen. Not because they're jerks or they're not truly my friends (because they aren't jerks and they are my friends) but because human nature is such that when confronted with negativity and grief over and over again we shut down and begin to go through the motions to preserve our own selves.

And so that's what I do, fake it, and I'm hoping it will preempt the need for them to pull away.

I graduated this morning, you know.

From Sam's grief program at the church, one he conducted just for me because I wouldn't do a group thing and one we thought was going to continue until the middle of next month, until he looked at his notes last week and realized we had mere hours left to complete. I think poor Sam knows the inside of my head better than anyone at this point (Joel included) and I feel a little sorry for him, but at the same time, I admire him and am ashamed of myself for the behavior I demonstrated most days as he tried to help me and I refused to help myself. I'm so honored to know him, and Jacob would be proud of his charge, I think. Jacob was Sam's mentor.

I came home and didn't like the fact that I've been denied the relief I thought I would feel when I was finished. That I would somehow be able to weather Jake's upcoming birthday a little better, that I would cry less spontaneously and act less fake to protect the comfort of others. That I wouldn't be in such a drive to feel something different that I resorted to trying to quash an overwhelming need to slam my head in the truck door repeatedly until I felt something other than this. But then I realized I finished something, something just for me.

Sam said not to be in despair, that there isn't supposed to be a great big instant improvement, I only have a better understanding of my feelings, and some tools to use to help myself work through them on a continued basis. That mostly it's a way to help give voice to feelings that I wasn't recognizing so easily, and also to pass the time, and have a dedicated time to talk as much as I want about Jacob, and about Bridget, and that Sam will never roll his eyes or fail to call or visit because one of his duties as a minister is to tend to those who are suffering, and sure, maybe some others are suffering worse and Bridget is a spoiled child who can't get her head on straight but she still deserves this time and she will get his time.

And you know who's proud of me, even though I came home proclaiming that I didn't feel any different and that Sam isn't any good at what he does or maybe I'm just unworthy, unfixable and pointless?

Ben is proud, that's who.

Like Sam, he ignores the fake parts of my facade, he never runs out of patience anymore with me and he's been really incredibly generous about indulging me in my whims, whether they are good for me or not, including too much affection from friends looking to get their share, and deals with the devil, never a good idea. He's weathered everything I have ever thrown at him, and the one request he made when we got married, was that I do this program with Sam, because Ben did it after his father died, and while he said he didn't outwardly feel less sad, he felt like he had accomplished something personal, something important, something good. Something just for him. And now something for you, because Ben is a really really private guy and didn't tell a lot of people about that.

And I don't know what comes next or where life is going to take me, I just know that I think I can handle it. Possibly kicking and screaming, so it will be noisy, whatever it is but I'll do it anyway. And maybe someday soon this smile won't be a fake one.

Conclusion: The Memory Thief.

He ran flat out down the dark alleyway, splashing through puddles and careening around obstacles in his path.

Before his brain had a chance to compare the relative safety of the building with where he was now, a fist came out of the blackness and connected with his jaw.

Down he went, the bundle flying out of his arms. The thief stared up at his would-be mugger, and the mugger stared back. The precious bundle rested on the wet pavement between them, still wrapped in the thief's coat. Still safe, for the moment.

What do you want?

Is this all of them?

Yes. Why?

I'm taking them.

That isn't a good idea.

The mugger didn't say anything. He walked forward and gently picked up the bundle. He removed the coat, tossing it toward the thief, who didn't make a move to catch it. The mugger leafed through the stack of memories, nodding here and there, frowning and then smiling softly. He glanced up once, his dark eyes shining in the night and then he turned and began to walk away.

Those aren't safe for you to keep, you know!

The thief's sure pronouncement echoed off the brick around them.

I'm not keeping them

The thief jumped to his feet and ran after the mugger. He grabbed the mugger's shoulder and spun him so they were face to face.

What are you going to do with them?

I'm going to put them back.

You can't.

You had no right to take them.

Someone had to save them, that building is condemned. If we don't keep them safe they'll be lost forever.

They're in the building for a reason. It's where they belong. And there's a chance we can save everything but not like this.

This is the only way.

No, it's not.

Do you have a better idea?

Yes, I do.

What is it?

We leave it alone. Taking it apart before we need to isn't going to work.

I know that, that's why I'm trying to work with what I've been given, Ben.

Then try something else, Sam!

And he took off, back toward the building, back to return the memories to their places. To file them away in their locked cabinets in the locked room at the end of the hall where they would be safe. No one was in a rush to get the building torn down, structurally it was safe. He was fine with continuing to live on borrowed time as long as there was no more pain for her.

He got to the top of the fire escape only to find the window open. He entered and walked to the first door with the broken pane. It was open. He went in and sat down on the floor and opened the drawer closest to him and began to sort through the paper.

It would be a long night, but he would stay until everything was returned to its rightful place.

*****************

The sun had risen high in the sky when he stood and stretched, arms to the ceiling as his stomach rumbled with hunger. The mugger surveyed the room and smiled to himself. Job well done, he thought.

He called out loud, his voice jagged and hoarse,

It's finished. You're okay. You're safe now. I will watch over you.

He didn't hear a response.

The door opened and he turned, surprised. When he went out into the hall, he found that the building had changed. It was full, offices were bustling, elevator floors were being rung, printers buzzed, coffee was carried to desks in busy arms full of important business, and the building seemed new again. The floor was different, the scratched and faded covering replaced with muted grey carpet to keep the noise down. To his surprise, the window in the door was intact, frosted glass masking the contents but allowing the light into the hall.

His smile was a little unsure now, as he tried to blend in, casually walking toward the elevator noises. He got to the center of the floor and realized he knew a lot of the people working here. People nodded to him, a few squeezed his shoulder. One man, dressed in an expensive suit, came forward to shake his hand and thanked him for saving the building, because there was a lot of work to be done here and it was an important place and that the mugger was going to be very happy living and working here.

He nodded, saying nothing, as the realization began to sink in. He didn't have to save it alone, but neither did the thief have to tear it apart to save what he could. Everyone would work together.

That realization was fleeting, dashed to pieces as he got to the main floor lobby and saw cracks sealing themselves as he walked across the floor.

No, it wasn't everybody.

It was the building. It was healing itself. They only had to help. The doors to that room didn't have to stay locked now. The building was full of light and it had purpose.

He sucked in his breath and smiled.

Bridget wasn't a lost cause after all. He always knew that though, it was a risk he was glad he took. Even if he had to pretend to be the bad guy sometimes.

Part Two: The Memory Thief.

As abruptly as the screaming had begun, it stopped.

The lights began to go out, in the reverse order that they were turned on, he could hear the heavy clunk of the switches shutting down one after another, quicker now until the building was once again steeped in blackness. This quiet darkness was worse than before, after the calamity in the room, the only sound now his harsh breathing and the feather-light sweeping swish of the last few pieces of paper sliding off open drawers to the floor.

The door slamming shut broke the silence.

He reached down to the floor, scooped up a handful of the papers, and smoothed them into a neat stack. He worked methodically through the night, gathering hundreds of them in his arms and bringing them to the space in the middle of the floor where a pile grew. Once he was sure he had every last one, he wrapped the stack in his coat and tucked the bundle securely under his arm.

The door wouldn't open.

He waited for a few heartbeats in the room, standing motionless before finally taking a deep breath and talking softly.

Open the door, please.

He heard laughter all around him.

Open the door now, please.

More laughter, and the doorknob rattled violently.

Please?

Everything stopped.

The door opened slowly, as wide as it could go and the a single word reverberated through his skull as it echoed through the empty building.

NO!

The door slammed shut again.

He walked to the door and tried the knob gingerly. There was no resistance as he turned it and he opened it again and looked both ways down the long hallway. There was nothing to see in the darkness and so he took a step out. He walked purposefully back to the window at the end of the hall, the same way he had come in and stepped out, back onto the rusted fire escape to make his way back to street-level.

He thought he could hear the faint sound of someone crying, softly like they didn't want anyone to hear. He shook his head as the sound was carried away on the wind and descended the stairs slowly and carefully until he reached the bottom, stepping off onto the wet pavement into the deserted alley.

He broke into a run.

Part One: The Memory Thief.

He slipped in during closing, when no one was watching, sliding a leg down through the open window and finding easy purchase on the highly polished wooden floor. He walked carefully down the dim hallway, avoiding the boards that might creak under his weight and then froze at the first door, silent and still.

Was someone coming?

He held his breath and waited.

No, there was no one there. It must have been the wind. Or the building. Sometimes buildings settle and make noises that only seem to be important when it's getting dark outside. Filling his lungs with air again he pressed on, trying the first door and finding it locked.

He moved on.

After several frustrating minutes he came to the conclusion that all the doors seemed to be locked and so he circled back to the first door, the one closest to the window at the end of the now-dark hall. It appeared to have a rather flimsy doorknob lock in a door that was half-glass, a large window set into it, single-paned, rippled with age.

Doable, he thought.

He took one last look around, just to reassure himself that he was indeed alone.

He covered his eyes with one arm and put his fist through the glass.

It shattered all around him in a deafening crash and he tore his arm away from his face to check again to see if anyone was watching him. The hallway remain deserted but now an alarm was ringing somewhere, deep within the building. He looked at his hand, watching as the blood ran down his knuckles and dripped off the edge of his palm. Any other time he would have been hypnotized by his injuries but he knew he didn't have a moment to waste now that the alarm had been triggered.

He reached through the window and unlocked the door from the inside, throwing it wide open. The door slammed against something on the inside, ricocheting back into his face. He kicked it open again before it struck him and threw himself through the doorway.

Inside he took a quick inventory of the room. There was a small window on the opposite wall that afforded better lighting than what was now in the hall and as he surveyed his surroundings he saw the room contained only a row of wooden file cabinets on each side, their drawers neatly labeled in her modern handwriting, a distinctive blend of capital letters and loopy lowercase, easy to read and impossible to duplicate.

He crossed the room with purpose now, and with rage roiling through his veins he began to rip the drawers out of the cabinets, two at a time, letting the contents fly around the room in a paper blizzard, a storm no one would ever want to be caught in. The beginnings of an evil smile began to tug the corners of his mouth upward and he started to laugh as all the lights began to come on, one by one down the hallway and then the room he was in was suddenly bathed in the harsh fluorescent light of day even though the day was long over.

And that was when the alarm stopped ringing and the screaming began.

Wooden ships and iron men

We'll have to stop at the river market today to get apples, I didn't get them yesterday. I got something else instead.

After not appearing at home more than thirty minutes after my appointment with Sam ended, Ben came looking for me, walking the three blocks to the church, a curious look on his face no doubt. He found Sam pacing his office pretending to be busy and found me locked in the tiny women's bathroom, shaking like a leaf and unwilling to leave that room until I felt like I could pull myself together and face the world. Sometimes our appointments end like that.

They're really hard.

Ben came into the washroom and shut the door behind him. He smiled at me softly, told me that lunch was ready and that he'd walk me home now. He ran some warm water and wet some rough paper towels and held them out to me to wash my face. Then he took my bag and my coat from me and asked if I was ready. I shook my head and he said we would do it together, on three. He counted to two and took my hand, pulling me out of the room and into the hall. Sam met us, with so much concern in his eyes he matched Ben perfectly and sometimes I wonder who exactly this is harder on.

But nevermind that, there's a group hug to be had, and four arms is always better than two.

Ben and I walked home slowly, holding hands, and made sandwiches and some milk for lunch. After we ate, Ben offered a drive. A long leisurely drive burning up overpriced gas and carbon credits in his oversized truck with the oversized speakers under the seats so I can feel the music and we drove for hours, listening to music I chose, holding hands and stopping now and then to let the kids explore things and blow off energy and to eat some Thai food because I had wanted it earlier. I ate an entire plate of pad thai and thought I might start sprouting beans through my ears but it tasted so wonderful. And then to my delight we kept driving, exploring new neighborhoods and hearing the wind on highways I've never been down before, still holding hands.

And then finally, home. Home to respond to messages from Sam seeking assurance that I was indeed okay and home to get the kids bathed and in pajamas and home to not pay attention to movies on the television and home to charge phones and change to warmer sweaters and home to put the day to bed so that the next would be better, happier and different.

Holding hands.

We'll get the apples after lunch today, and maybe some carrots. I won't be letting go of Ben's hand though. I think I'll keep it. It's warmer than it used to be and that is a gift I didn't expect from him. Something tells me it was there all along, I just didn't want to see it before.

Cold and sunny Saturdays

I've left Ben in bed this morning to sleep in, dead to the world in his own fragmented, psychotic dreams, blankets tangled around his arms and legs. He sleeps stretched out long on his own side, my side if it's very cold, never moving an inch unless I pester him to be held sometime in the early hours of the morning. He will sleep until almost lunchtime.

Henry and Ruth were up early as usual for toasted bagels and Power Rangers on the television.

I am up fiddling with my journal. I'm trying to make it friendlier. I put up a (partial) list of my favorite blogs, I added a picture and labels and I'm considering adding comment capabilities back again. I'm trying to write about life in addition to feelings and sometimes it will work and sometimes it probably won't. You've been so patient.

Thursday night we had one of the last dinner parties of the summer season, since Autumn officially starts on Monday. August stayed late, his arms wide open for me to let my head go off-leash and pretend he was Jacob. And Ben allowed it only as far as I did, which was so generous but he always takes the spoils in the end. I'm feeling like I might be tough enough to get through the winter that's coming. Only in the last little while have I really been able to approach certain memories of Jacob without keening in pain.

And for now I just want to get through today.

I have to see Sam this morning, he's conducting a private grief therapy class for me and I go every second or third day and I've kept it up for almost two months now. Later on I want to get a bag of apples at the farmer's market and eat some Thai food and watch a movie and bask in that rare and perfect sweater, jeans and suede clogs weather that we hardly ever seem to get around here. It will be a good day.

But first, I need coffee. Coffee and maybe some fried potatoes. Saturdays are very slow to begin around this house and I like that fact.