It's the last day of winter. Next week we'll celebrate our first full year of living here on the west coast and I plan to celebrate, because it's been a year of adjustments and more courage and more growth overall, learning how to put myself out there and meet some people and get what I need and find a little familiarity in the face of all things new. More on that next week, not today.
Some winter it was, too. It snowed precisely four times, the last of which caught us downtown on Davie street with a bus sliding backward toward my little car. We turned off into an alley and made our way out of downtown easily with the snow tires no one here seems to own because...well, it only snows four times a year.
In January I wore a hoodie to walk the dog, mostly. I think I put on gloves twice. My ears froze once and the power went out three times, all for less than the time it took me to get annoyed and pull out the lanterns. I opened the windows every single day for a couple of hours, in every room to air out the entire house. When I do I can hear the birds singing. That's how close we are. That's how loud they are.
The ivy never turned brown in the garden. The snowdrops were blooming on Valentine's day. The grass remained green and Bridget learned that perhaps, just maybe, she might never have to put up with winter again.
But I will still welcome the first day of spring tomorrow, for spring brings Easter and maybe just shirts instead of sweaters buttoned up high and maybe the windows can stay open in my bedroom while I sleep and maybe I can start planning for a few more plants to try from the nursery because the ones we have aren't going to cut it.
I can look forward to late nights on the verandah with beer and guitars or maybe just guitars and swimming will start again for the kids and everyone will get excited about fishing up at Camp Crystal lake (my name for it) and boy, I want to go there at night just to see, but the gates are closed at dusk and I have no interest in walking in, thank you.
The big bears and the cougars will return for another run at our garbage cans and soon the blackberries will bloom and fill in the bare patches from the past four months, competing with the cherry blossoms and filling the whole mainland with a riot of pink confetti set against an endless blue ocean sky.
And then what happens?
Oh, yeah. Summer! I can't wait.
Saturday 19 March 2011
Friday 18 March 2011
A diaphanous cheer (under my breath).
Yesterday didn't turn out nearly as fun as I had hoped. I watched five proposals and only cried through the most recent one (Brad and...Emily? who have already broken up, as is tradition for the Bachelor series and this is why I hate television) and then a call came that said I had an appointment downtown and it was for three. Three. So...in three hours? Yes.
SHIT.
And DRUNK.
Eleven cups of coffee later and a giant danish and Andrew brushed my hair while I waved him away and I was off with a run in my stockings, a pinstripe suitdress (TIGHT. ARGH.) and my kitten heels because newly-soberish is no way to wear stilettos.
I met Ben in the lobby. He laughed and said sorry for ruining my grand plans. I felt dumb for having such ridiculous plans in the first place but he is working around the clock and we are wasting time as fast as we can.
Yes, so anyway. The meeting went very well and then all of it turned out to be for naught this morning when Caleb found another way around me, as usual. While I am busy charming the front lines and melting hearts with my vulnerability, Caleb is chewing the skin off my back, exposing raw nerve endings to string up and pull tightly into bows until I scream with rage and pain.
(Why, yes, we have a very cordial relationship. Why do you ask?)
In any event, we will do what we need to do and get where we're going and muddle through like we always do. Plans are still in place (aka can't talk), Ben is still spending every waking hour trying to find a way around some things that seem to be carved in stone but may have been spray-painted on after all, and I have a tiny ace up my sleeve in that one of the horses Caleb sold did not belong to him and so boy is he in trouble and he's going to have to answer to Nolan for that.
And Nolan thinks all of this is bullshit as it is, he has no time for Caleb's rich-man games of cat and mouse and he wishes Jake was still alive because Jake did pretty well at deflecting Caleb and I know Caleb was afraid of Jacob in a way he should be of Ben, but isn't. Why? He's already been inside Ben's head and he knows where the weak spots are. There aren't very many but the ones that exist are profound and frightening and wouldn't you know Caleb would exploit them to get to me. Only I won't have that and so I give Caleb whatever he wants and he'll leave Ben alone. He'll leave Lochlan alone.
Oh, he won't leave me alone, though. In case you thought I would write that next.
Nope. You see, when Cole died I didn't do the one thing Caleb thought I would. I didn't cancel my plans to get on with my life. Caleb expected me to stop moving forward and hunker down and take solace in the fact that I was still irrevocably tied to Cole, that the fact that we hadn't actually managed to start divorce proceedings yet would give me comfort and I would spend the rest of my life taking Caleb's guidance and deferring to him, as things should be.
And I didn't. Boy, didn't I EVER.
I didn't give him the time to move in and take over and somehow fix the past and engineer my future on my behalf and well, Jesus H. Gotta pay for that now too.
SHIT.
And DRUNK.
Eleven cups of coffee later and a giant danish and Andrew brushed my hair while I waved him away and I was off with a run in my stockings, a pinstripe suitdress (TIGHT. ARGH.) and my kitten heels because newly-soberish is no way to wear stilettos.
I met Ben in the lobby. He laughed and said sorry for ruining my grand plans. I felt dumb for having such ridiculous plans in the first place but he is working around the clock and we are wasting time as fast as we can.
Yes, so anyway. The meeting went very well and then all of it turned out to be for naught this morning when Caleb found another way around me, as usual. While I am busy charming the front lines and melting hearts with my vulnerability, Caleb is chewing the skin off my back, exposing raw nerve endings to string up and pull tightly into bows until I scream with rage and pain.
(Why, yes, we have a very cordial relationship. Why do you ask?)
In any event, we will do what we need to do and get where we're going and muddle through like we always do. Plans are still in place (aka can't talk), Ben is still spending every waking hour trying to find a way around some things that seem to be carved in stone but may have been spray-painted on after all, and I have a tiny ace up my sleeve in that one of the horses Caleb sold did not belong to him and so boy is he in trouble and he's going to have to answer to Nolan for that.
And Nolan thinks all of this is bullshit as it is, he has no time for Caleb's rich-man games of cat and mouse and he wishes Jake was still alive because Jake did pretty well at deflecting Caleb and I know Caleb was afraid of Jacob in a way he should be of Ben, but isn't. Why? He's already been inside Ben's head and he knows where the weak spots are. There aren't very many but the ones that exist are profound and frightening and wouldn't you know Caleb would exploit them to get to me. Only I won't have that and so I give Caleb whatever he wants and he'll leave Ben alone. He'll leave Lochlan alone.
Oh, he won't leave me alone, though. In case you thought I would write that next.
Nope. You see, when Cole died I didn't do the one thing Caleb thought I would. I didn't cancel my plans to get on with my life. Caleb expected me to stop moving forward and hunker down and take solace in the fact that I was still irrevocably tied to Cole, that the fact that we hadn't actually managed to start divorce proceedings yet would give me comfort and I would spend the rest of my life taking Caleb's guidance and deferring to him, as things should be.
And I didn't. Boy, didn't I EVER.
I didn't give him the time to move in and take over and somehow fix the past and engineer my future on my behalf and well, Jesus H. Gotta pay for that now too.
Thursday 17 March 2011
Herrings in a crimson hue.
Happy Saint Patrick's Day!
My own personal saint Padraig (PJ!) is sick today and has not ventured out of his boathouse cave (though I've had several SOS texts), and so Daniel and I have retired to Daniel and Schuyler's bed to pour the rest of the Baileys into our coffee, eat all the cupcakes iced in green and alternately play U2 and snark at the canned proposals from all fifteen seasons of The Bachelor.
Hopefully by lunchtime we will be positively shitfaced but in my experience life just never gets that good, now does it?
P.S. Duncan, we saved you a spot. Bring more cupcakes though. Daniel can shove them into his face whole. Amazing what being Ben's little brother can do for one's appetite. Could be worse, at least he's never tried to take a bite of my Macbook.
See ya. Have fun. Avoid the green beer, it's lethal. Okay, by lunch? I meant breakfast. Clearly. Here, maybe he should eat the laptop after all.
My own personal saint Padraig (PJ!) is sick today and has not ventured out of his boathouse cave (though I've had several SOS texts), and so Daniel and I have retired to Daniel and Schuyler's bed to pour the rest of the Baileys into our coffee, eat all the cupcakes iced in green and alternately play U2 and snark at the canned proposals from all fifteen seasons of The Bachelor.
Hopefully by lunchtime we will be positively shitfaced but in my experience life just never gets that good, now does it?
P.S. Duncan, we saved you a spot. Bring more cupcakes though. Daniel can shove them into his face whole. Amazing what being Ben's little brother can do for one's appetite. Could be worse, at least he's never tried to take a bite of my Macbook.
See ya. Have fun. Avoid the green beer, it's lethal. Okay, by lunch? I meant breakfast. Clearly. Here, maybe he should eat the laptop after all.
Wednesday 16 March 2011
Opto-mechanical.
(In my rush to ignore the front lawn that faces the woods and focus on the orchard, the grapevines and the Pacific ocean in my backyard, I failed to notice the two beautiful cherry trees that flank my front walk. All I saw were some sort of previously-bloomed trees when we moved in, I figured early Dogwood, maybe Magnolia if I was very lucky indeed but lo and behold they are baby-pink cherry blossoms and they are EVERYWHERE.)
But I don't have any pajamas.
And so I will do it in full graveyard dress. Sped up and full of film grain, you'll get bored easily and turn off the projector and walk out of the room, leaving the curtains drawn and the air heavy with cigar smoke.
(I'm already dead.)
I did not say that out loud either but he responds as if I have.
Not true.
I nod, slowly. Tears are dripping off my chin, mascara mixed with salt forming cloudy pools on the floor all around me. Soon I will be Alice in the drowning pool. I cast my gaze around for some cookies to eat in order to grow big but let's face it, magic isn't going to save me now. When confronted with a stressful choice I pick the inappropriate choice every single time, as if I am bound and determined to make things more difficult than they have to be.
Yes. You could have been a trophy. You could have been paraded around the world collecting admiration. You could have been fed. You could have been given the best of everything. You could have let your secrets go, and let the chips fall where they may instead of trying to arrange them in the shape of a heart and you could have been mine.
But instead you gave everything to my brother.
This time I nod. I know all this. This is nothing new. I rise up onto my toes in an effort to make my imprint even smaller. At this point I could disappear into his open hand and no one would ever find me but today is not going to play out that way. The strip is flapping off the feeder and no one recognizes the family in these home movies.
(Stop reading my mind.)
But it's so...entertaining, Bridget. As is how when pushed you run straight to me. That touches me. He pulls me up with one hand and I am wedged in between him and the wall. Flames lick up my limbs. It burns. The blue in his eyes is cool and I dive inside before I can be scarred from heat. Sweet relief.
A knock on the door startles him to the point where he loosens his grip and then turns back to give me a look. A look that says put on your public face, we have company and I wipe the backs of my hands across my cheeks and sniff and turn to head for the bathroom to wash my face before anyone can see me.
I am too late and now must present myself in this decorum, which is none at all. Caleb walks back into the room and gestures toward me. Then he steps aside and Cole is standing in the doorway. Relieved that I have been found. An odd emotion for him, considering when he is painting he has a tendency to hand me a twenty-dollar bill and tell me to go find PJ or Christian to take me out for a coffee, that I shouldn't bother him anymore, that he knows I'll turn up sooner or later.
Cole crosses the room to me quickly.
What's wrong? He takes my hand and turns to block me from Caleb. He's standing in front of me and facing Caleb down and I don't really understand why the conversation Caleb and I have at least once every single month is suddenly front page news.
Nothing. I'm fine. Just a momentary lapse.
Overwhelmed?
Yes.
I'll take you home. You need sleep.
I nod and defy Caleb to read my mind this time. Cole's false concern is a mask he wears for the benefit of his friends. Everything is just bullshit and I am knee-deep. He knows damn well his brother has caught on and he knows Caleb doesn't like what he's seeing. He knows his days are numbered and he knows it isn't Caleb who will reap the rewards when I finally find the courage.
The film is changed and suddenly the faces are familiar again. Happy, smiling, fake. Comfort in assumed roles, succor in experience. Nightmares in my future. As we leave I am careful not to place myself directly between them. There's a reason for that. I wave my hand in front of my face to dissipate the cloying cigar smoke and I try to pretend that Caleb can't bring me to tears with his stupid uncanny ability to read my mind as easily as his brother transcribes my heart.
Here we are with your obsessionHe bent down and smoothed my hair back. I think he wanted to see my face. As soon as I felt his eyes fall on my skin I mouthed a curse at him, sure he got the message without a sound. I failed to stand however. I'm going to remain here, crouched in the corner of a dark room with my back to the world until something changes. Only I can't do it in these heels forever. I'm going to have to change my shoes. And the bones of my corset are digging into my flesh and really people should only pull petulant stunts such as these in pajamas.
Should I, could I
Heave the silver hollow sliver
Piercing through another victim
Turn and tremble be judgmental
Ignorant to all the symbols
Blind the face with beauty paste
Eventually you'll one day know
Change my attempt good intentions
Limbs tied, skin tight
Self inflicted his perdition
But I don't have any pajamas.
And so I will do it in full graveyard dress. Sped up and full of film grain, you'll get bored easily and turn off the projector and walk out of the room, leaving the curtains drawn and the air heavy with cigar smoke.
(I'm already dead.)
I did not say that out loud either but he responds as if I have.
Not true.
I nod, slowly. Tears are dripping off my chin, mascara mixed with salt forming cloudy pools on the floor all around me. Soon I will be Alice in the drowning pool. I cast my gaze around for some cookies to eat in order to grow big but let's face it, magic isn't going to save me now. When confronted with a stressful choice I pick the inappropriate choice every single time, as if I am bound and determined to make things more difficult than they have to be.
Yes. You could have been a trophy. You could have been paraded around the world collecting admiration. You could have been fed. You could have been given the best of everything. You could have let your secrets go, and let the chips fall where they may instead of trying to arrange them in the shape of a heart and you could have been mine.
But instead you gave everything to my brother.
This time I nod. I know all this. This is nothing new. I rise up onto my toes in an effort to make my imprint even smaller. At this point I could disappear into his open hand and no one would ever find me but today is not going to play out that way. The strip is flapping off the feeder and no one recognizes the family in these home movies.
(Stop reading my mind.)
But it's so...entertaining, Bridget. As is how when pushed you run straight to me. That touches me. He pulls me up with one hand and I am wedged in between him and the wall. Flames lick up my limbs. It burns. The blue in his eyes is cool and I dive inside before I can be scarred from heat. Sweet relief.
A knock on the door startles him to the point where he loosens his grip and then turns back to give me a look. A look that says put on your public face, we have company and I wipe the backs of my hands across my cheeks and sniff and turn to head for the bathroom to wash my face before anyone can see me.
I am too late and now must present myself in this decorum, which is none at all. Caleb walks back into the room and gestures toward me. Then he steps aside and Cole is standing in the doorway. Relieved that I have been found. An odd emotion for him, considering when he is painting he has a tendency to hand me a twenty-dollar bill and tell me to go find PJ or Christian to take me out for a coffee, that I shouldn't bother him anymore, that he knows I'll turn up sooner or later.
Cole crosses the room to me quickly.
What's wrong? He takes my hand and turns to block me from Caleb. He's standing in front of me and facing Caleb down and I don't really understand why the conversation Caleb and I have at least once every single month is suddenly front page news.
Nothing. I'm fine. Just a momentary lapse.
Overwhelmed?
Yes.
I'll take you home. You need sleep.
I nod and defy Caleb to read my mind this time. Cole's false concern is a mask he wears for the benefit of his friends. Everything is just bullshit and I am knee-deep. He knows damn well his brother has caught on and he knows Caleb doesn't like what he's seeing. He knows his days are numbered and he knows it isn't Caleb who will reap the rewards when I finally find the courage.
The film is changed and suddenly the faces are familiar again. Happy, smiling, fake. Comfort in assumed roles, succor in experience. Nightmares in my future. As we leave I am careful not to place myself directly between them. There's a reason for that. I wave my hand in front of my face to dissipate the cloying cigar smoke and I try to pretend that Caleb can't bring me to tears with his stupid uncanny ability to read my mind as easily as his brother transcribes my heart.
Tuesday 15 March 2011
The angel of Highway One.
Jacob is watching me as he stabs the few potatoes left on the plate. He still has his boots on. They're leaving puddles under the table on the tiles. He did take his coat off, however. His collar is standing up, along with his hair, and his sleeves are rolled up. Dinner is serious business. Abandon all pursuits and appearances and dig in.
He points his fork at the radio on the counter.
Want to turn that on for the news, why don't you, Piglet?
No, I don't like the news, Jake.
He shoots me a look of affectionate disdain and impales another piece of potato. He is talking with his mouth full. I can hardly understand him between the food and the heavy Newfoundland accent.
Current events are necessary, Bridget. You need to keep up with what's going on in this world.
At least that's what I think he said.
Maybe the world should keep up with me.
I think it already does.
Good, then. We won't have any more problems.
He laughed loudly and pushed back from the table, finishing a beer in one gulp and standing up. He gathered his dishes and brought them to the counter, turning on the hot water.
I can do those, Jacob.
So can I, piglet. He smiled at me as he poured a little soap into the sink and washed the dishes efficiently, putting everything in the rack. I always forget Jacob was a bachelor for so long and a very good housekeeper besides. Except for the glasses. When he puts the glasses away they are right-side up. I always put them away upside-down. I don't know why but I like my way better.
Want to keep me company in the garage?
Sure.
Get yer coat.
I went to the back porch to collect my coat and Jacob headed down the hall to the guest room to ask Lochlan to keep an ear out for the children, that we might go for a little drive. I didn't hear the response but Lochlan does not have any problems with that. After all, he is currently living here rent-free and so I'm going to take full advantage of him the same way I have perpetually since 1983. He owes me, but for what I can't articulate anymore. It's been too long.
I follow Jacob out through the snow into the dimly-lit garage. He fires up the work light and opens the hood on the Chevy. It's my truck. It's a rusted albatross and an impulsive hunk of waste. It will never run the way I imagine it does in my head as I rumble down the highway firing on hopes and sketchy mechanical skills and a CAA card clenched tightly in my fist knowing full well that every man I know will be positively incensed if I called for roadside assistance from a company instead of calling one of them.
Not like I'm allowed to drive it on the highway here anyway. Here the highway is an infinite ribbon that leads to nowhere after hours of white-knuckle white-out navigation. It is a drive through hell and back out the other side, as we have checked out of civilization and are living in an alternate reality. Lochlan says every time he drives from here to Toronto that he think he has somehow missed the city because it's just nothing but highway for so many hours it's stupid and we really should move already.
Jacob breaks the news to me. She's never going to run well, or run like I am used to with his Ram. Or even the Suburban. She is on life support and everyone has signed her away. We should pull the plug. I am stubborn and I say no.
Jacob is exasperated with my recalcitrance and begins to yell. I should just listen. Maybe he does know better. Maybe I should step back and let someone who is unbiased give me some guidance. Well, shit, he's put on his preacher digs and I'm getting a lecture only it's cold and I thought we were going for a drive.
Objective? Snort.
I pull up the garage door. It takes more strength than I actually have but I'm mad. It flies up easily with a loud clang and Jacob looks up. I walk around and get into the truck and I fire it up. On the third try it actually starts and Jacob begins to walk around to my side just as I throw it into reverse.
I ignore him and back out. On the way I hit the mirror on the door frame and the garbage at the end of the driveway.
He is still yelling but the window is up and I can't hear a word. Good. It's just another lecture anyway about how independence isn't necessary and I should just mind him because he knows better and I'm wondering how I manage to collect these men who think they can just run the show and what it is about me that makes them just take over and do everything?
I drive until I hit the edge of town and then I turn left toward Lochlan's highway of hypnotism, the ribbon that chokes off my escape and lulls me into an endless field of nightmares.
I've never been on this road before, but the first rule of decision making is to just pick something. And left is East. East is never a bad decision.
Except when I turn I pull off into a gas station (fill 'er up, just in case) and I turn off the truck. It doesn't start again because he was in the middle of fixing it and boy, look how foolish I am, just making sure I confirm it for all, with my impulsive actions and rash moments because I never learned how to deal with frustrations and it's some sort of wild instinct that sends me into a spiral and they know how I am better than I do so I won't even try to understand it.
A knock on the window makes me jump out of my skin. Lochlan is there. His truck is idling beside mine. Jake is using his old trick. If a dog runs away you don't chase it or it will just run further. I am the most unloyal pet ever, I guess.
Come on. We'll come back and tow your piece of shit home tomorrow.
I swear. Every bad word I know. I hit the steering wheel for emphasis once or twelve hundred times. Lochlan nods and waits.
You done? Because you make him fucking crazy. Just like you did to me.
You're still here.
Tell me about it. You know, Bridge, I fucked up a lot. More than anyone. But Jacob doesn't deserve to have to deal with the fallout from that.
Then maybe you should apologize to him, because you did this. You and Caleb and Cole. I could have been a normal human being but I'm fucking not, am I?
He doesn't speak to me for the trip home, except to tell me the headline that will be spoken on tomorrow's news report will be something like this:
BRIDGET FAILS TO LISTEN AGAIN. ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE.
The paper has the same headline every day. And as I'm falling asleep in the truck on the way home beside Lochlan, I remind myself to get another bag of potatoes. Jacob averages ten pounds a week, by himself.
That can't be normal either.
He points his fork at the radio on the counter.
Want to turn that on for the news, why don't you, Piglet?
No, I don't like the news, Jake.
He shoots me a look of affectionate disdain and impales another piece of potato. He is talking with his mouth full. I can hardly understand him between the food and the heavy Newfoundland accent.
Current events are necessary, Bridget. You need to keep up with what's going on in this world.
At least that's what I think he said.
Maybe the world should keep up with me.
I think it already does.
Good, then. We won't have any more problems.
He laughed loudly and pushed back from the table, finishing a beer in one gulp and standing up. He gathered his dishes and brought them to the counter, turning on the hot water.
I can do those, Jacob.
So can I, piglet. He smiled at me as he poured a little soap into the sink and washed the dishes efficiently, putting everything in the rack. I always forget Jacob was a bachelor for so long and a very good housekeeper besides. Except for the glasses. When he puts the glasses away they are right-side up. I always put them away upside-down. I don't know why but I like my way better.
Want to keep me company in the garage?
Sure.
Get yer coat.
I went to the back porch to collect my coat and Jacob headed down the hall to the guest room to ask Lochlan to keep an ear out for the children, that we might go for a little drive. I didn't hear the response but Lochlan does not have any problems with that. After all, he is currently living here rent-free and so I'm going to take full advantage of him the same way I have perpetually since 1983. He owes me, but for what I can't articulate anymore. It's been too long.
I follow Jacob out through the snow into the dimly-lit garage. He fires up the work light and opens the hood on the Chevy. It's my truck. It's a rusted albatross and an impulsive hunk of waste. It will never run the way I imagine it does in my head as I rumble down the highway firing on hopes and sketchy mechanical skills and a CAA card clenched tightly in my fist knowing full well that every man I know will be positively incensed if I called for roadside assistance from a company instead of calling one of them.
Not like I'm allowed to drive it on the highway here anyway. Here the highway is an infinite ribbon that leads to nowhere after hours of white-knuckle white-out navigation. It is a drive through hell and back out the other side, as we have checked out of civilization and are living in an alternate reality. Lochlan says every time he drives from here to Toronto that he think he has somehow missed the city because it's just nothing but highway for so many hours it's stupid and we really should move already.
Jacob breaks the news to me. She's never going to run well, or run like I am used to with his Ram. Or even the Suburban. She is on life support and everyone has signed her away. We should pull the plug. I am stubborn and I say no.
Jacob is exasperated with my recalcitrance and begins to yell. I should just listen. Maybe he does know better. Maybe I should step back and let someone who is unbiased give me some guidance. Well, shit, he's put on his preacher digs and I'm getting a lecture only it's cold and I thought we were going for a drive.
Objective? Snort.
I pull up the garage door. It takes more strength than I actually have but I'm mad. It flies up easily with a loud clang and Jacob looks up. I walk around and get into the truck and I fire it up. On the third try it actually starts and Jacob begins to walk around to my side just as I throw it into reverse.
I ignore him and back out. On the way I hit the mirror on the door frame and the garbage at the end of the driveway.
He is still yelling but the window is up and I can't hear a word. Good. It's just another lecture anyway about how independence isn't necessary and I should just mind him because he knows better and I'm wondering how I manage to collect these men who think they can just run the show and what it is about me that makes them just take over and do everything?
I drive until I hit the edge of town and then I turn left toward Lochlan's highway of hypnotism, the ribbon that chokes off my escape and lulls me into an endless field of nightmares.
I've never been on this road before, but the first rule of decision making is to just pick something. And left is East. East is never a bad decision.
Except when I turn I pull off into a gas station (fill 'er up, just in case) and I turn off the truck. It doesn't start again because he was in the middle of fixing it and boy, look how foolish I am, just making sure I confirm it for all, with my impulsive actions and rash moments because I never learned how to deal with frustrations and it's some sort of wild instinct that sends me into a spiral and they know how I am better than I do so I won't even try to understand it.
A knock on the window makes me jump out of my skin. Lochlan is there. His truck is idling beside mine. Jake is using his old trick. If a dog runs away you don't chase it or it will just run further. I am the most unloyal pet ever, I guess.
Come on. We'll come back and tow your piece of shit home tomorrow.
I swear. Every bad word I know. I hit the steering wheel for emphasis once or twelve hundred times. Lochlan nods and waits.
You done? Because you make him fucking crazy. Just like you did to me.
You're still here.
Tell me about it. You know, Bridge, I fucked up a lot. More than anyone. But Jacob doesn't deserve to have to deal with the fallout from that.
Then maybe you should apologize to him, because you did this. You and Caleb and Cole. I could have been a normal human being but I'm fucking not, am I?
He doesn't speak to me for the trip home, except to tell me the headline that will be spoken on tomorrow's news report will be something like this:
BRIDGET FAILS TO LISTEN AGAIN. ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE.
The paper has the same headline every day. And as I'm falling asleep in the truck on the way home beside Lochlan, I remind myself to get another bag of potatoes. Jacob averages ten pounds a week, by himself.
That can't be normal either.
Monday 14 March 2011
Words like violence break the silenceI'm really disappointed. I thought I could go to the man who bought my horses and buy them back for more. Apparently I can't.
Come crashing in into my little world
Painful to me, pierce right through me
Can't you understand, oh my little girl?
All I ever wanted, all I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm
Vows are spoken to be broken
Feelings are intense, words are trivial
Pleasures remain, so does their pain
Words are meaningless and forgettable
Sunday 13 March 2011
Blameless (I can see the moon and it seems so clear).
Lochlan has my hand in both of his. He won't let go, clutching it against his chest, thumping it for emphasis. He's been shouting at Ben for the better part of the afternoon, in between everything else. PJ has tried to calm him down without infringing on our issues but it's a moot point. Everyone has a say, it seems, and none of it is good.
Last night I left my regret in Caleb's hands, my hair tangled in one strong fist as he slid his other hand across my throat and over my shoulder, pulling me closer to him, breathing me in with palpable relief. It's been a long time. I did not resist. I only did what he expects and Ben watched quietly from the balcony, smoking cigarette after cigarette in the pitch black night tinged with a yellow glow from the ambient city lights in the rain.
I listened carefully as Caleb whispered urgently against my ear, I played along as he instructed and I knew that all I had to do if he went too far was scream and everything would be okay because there is no way in hell Ben is going to let Caleb have more than this night. He doesn't get my life. He doesn't get my heart. What he gets is something different. I call him Cole and he responds in kind and the homesick chill bleeds out of my veins in a rush. The relief of being in Caleb's arms is a sick covert thrill I will fail to acknowledge properly because it's reprehensible. But here it is now again, just like the endless rooftop lights of the glass walls he calls home now.
He rises and pours three glasses of red wine, taking one out to Ben. Ben sets it on the table and ignores it. It was still there when I woke up this morning, tangled in limbs, my hair tightly wound around Ben's fingers instead, holding my place in the night.
My head pounds. My skin is raw and flushed. I have forgotten where we are.
Contrition comes flooding back in along with the muted sepia morning light. Caleb is in the kitchen pouring coffee now instead of wine. He is casually dressed in what I call his driving clothes. Black chinos and a white t-shirt. He'll add a black fleece jacket and his sunglasses (rain or shine) and he'll begin to glower now gradually as the day progresses, lifted only by a visit with the children and then a return to the realization that he has begun to wait again for the next time Benjamin surrenders to my pressure when confronted with the perfect chance to turn back time. When reminded that it's not only me we are saving.
These ideals are not shared across the board, obviously and here comes Mr. Outrage to rile against Ben, layering blame upon him until he is buried. Ben who is still working to untangle the mess that Lochlan made so long ago but sometimes Ben is human, easily swayed by his pretty girl and when am I not human? There we were on the balcony, whispering quietly beforehand. Feverishly, in order to ascertain whether we should just cancel this and leave. No harm done. Bridget remains intact.
No, we're here. On with it. I make the decision with my last measure of courage in the face of evil. I talk Ben into things he isn't comfortable with because I know he will come around. At least I hope he will. Life holds no guarantees now, does it, Princess?
If Lochlan thinks we have any less doubt then he is dead wrong. If he thinks I can ever change he is also dead wrong. If he thinks Ben is going to change and become more like Jacob, or worse, more like Lochlan, then he's so wrong he's beyond dead and back to life in a zombie-shuffle-fight-to-the-bitter-end.
When I am moved in the dark, my head hanging upside-down off the edge into the lights while Caleb's hands slide around my neck once more, I see Ben look away briefly. I see him put his hands up to his face as if he is horrified by what he sees and then I see him drop his shame on the floor beside his dignity as he chooses from among his various degrees of excitement instead. And I smile inside my head. In a moment he will come inside. In a moment the guard will change. In a moment I will be liberated from my transgressions. In a moment I will be safe. The homesick will slide back in around my shoulders to complete his embrace but I will be safe.
As Caleb was leaving tonight from his brief stop to see the children, I walked him out to the front hall. We were still talking about Henry's report card as if nothing ever happened. As if there is no abject chronicle written of our lives thus far and he abruptly tells me he has sold the horses. That he had an opportunity to turn a profit and he took it and if the children miss them we can arrange for time at the nearby riding school.
I am so dumbfounded by this I can't speak as he kisses the top of my head and leaves. Eight minutes later I am still standing by the door, tears rolling down my cheeks when Ben comes into the foyer and asks what's wrong and I tell him, woodenly. I am still numb. I love my horses and they've been sold out from under me.
Just as I thought we had smoothed over the bumpy road we traveled when I failed to allow for a smooth spring quarter with the company and delayed his time with me as long as I could and I worked so hard last night to make it up to him and see that he is happy and leaves the boys alone, this is how I am rewarded.
Business as usual. Only it's so personal. You don't understand.
I don't know how many times I've tried to tell you, Bridget. This is what happens. You think you keep him under control and he just erodes a little more of you. He's not going to stop until there's nothing left. WHY CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT? Lochlan's voice has returned to a low simmer, seething desperation. I try to pull my hand away and I can't.
I'm not willing to see what happens if I don't engage Caleb. Clearly he's adept at removing things I love when I don't obey his word. I don't see why that's so hard for them to understand. If he requests me, I have to go. Eventually. Inevitably. It's not a difficult concept. I don't have a choice. I never have. Just a reprieve here and there, and look where that has gotten me.
Last night I left my regret in Caleb's hands, my hair tangled in one strong fist as he slid his other hand across my throat and over my shoulder, pulling me closer to him, breathing me in with palpable relief. It's been a long time. I did not resist. I only did what he expects and Ben watched quietly from the balcony, smoking cigarette after cigarette in the pitch black night tinged with a yellow glow from the ambient city lights in the rain.
I listened carefully as Caleb whispered urgently against my ear, I played along as he instructed and I knew that all I had to do if he went too far was scream and everything would be okay because there is no way in hell Ben is going to let Caleb have more than this night. He doesn't get my life. He doesn't get my heart. What he gets is something different. I call him Cole and he responds in kind and the homesick chill bleeds out of my veins in a rush. The relief of being in Caleb's arms is a sick covert thrill I will fail to acknowledge properly because it's reprehensible. But here it is now again, just like the endless rooftop lights of the glass walls he calls home now.
He rises and pours three glasses of red wine, taking one out to Ben. Ben sets it on the table and ignores it. It was still there when I woke up this morning, tangled in limbs, my hair tightly wound around Ben's fingers instead, holding my place in the night.
My head pounds. My skin is raw and flushed. I have forgotten where we are.
Contrition comes flooding back in along with the muted sepia morning light. Caleb is in the kitchen pouring coffee now instead of wine. He is casually dressed in what I call his driving clothes. Black chinos and a white t-shirt. He'll add a black fleece jacket and his sunglasses (rain or shine) and he'll begin to glower now gradually as the day progresses, lifted only by a visit with the children and then a return to the realization that he has begun to wait again for the next time Benjamin surrenders to my pressure when confronted with the perfect chance to turn back time. When reminded that it's not only me we are saving.
These ideals are not shared across the board, obviously and here comes Mr. Outrage to rile against Ben, layering blame upon him until he is buried. Ben who is still working to untangle the mess that Lochlan made so long ago but sometimes Ben is human, easily swayed by his pretty girl and when am I not human? There we were on the balcony, whispering quietly beforehand. Feverishly, in order to ascertain whether we should just cancel this and leave. No harm done. Bridget remains intact.
No, we're here. On with it. I make the decision with my last measure of courage in the face of evil. I talk Ben into things he isn't comfortable with because I know he will come around. At least I hope he will. Life holds no guarantees now, does it, Princess?
If Lochlan thinks we have any less doubt then he is dead wrong. If he thinks I can ever change he is also dead wrong. If he thinks Ben is going to change and become more like Jacob, or worse, more like Lochlan, then he's so wrong he's beyond dead and back to life in a zombie-shuffle-fight-to-the-bitter-end.
When I am moved in the dark, my head hanging upside-down off the edge into the lights while Caleb's hands slide around my neck once more, I see Ben look away briefly. I see him put his hands up to his face as if he is horrified by what he sees and then I see him drop his shame on the floor beside his dignity as he chooses from among his various degrees of excitement instead. And I smile inside my head. In a moment he will come inside. In a moment the guard will change. In a moment I will be liberated from my transgressions. In a moment I will be safe. The homesick will slide back in around my shoulders to complete his embrace but I will be safe.
As Caleb was leaving tonight from his brief stop to see the children, I walked him out to the front hall. We were still talking about Henry's report card as if nothing ever happened. As if there is no abject chronicle written of our lives thus far and he abruptly tells me he has sold the horses. That he had an opportunity to turn a profit and he took it and if the children miss them we can arrange for time at the nearby riding school.
I am so dumbfounded by this I can't speak as he kisses the top of my head and leaves. Eight minutes later I am still standing by the door, tears rolling down my cheeks when Ben comes into the foyer and asks what's wrong and I tell him, woodenly. I am still numb. I love my horses and they've been sold out from under me.
Just as I thought we had smoothed over the bumpy road we traveled when I failed to allow for a smooth spring quarter with the company and delayed his time with me as long as I could and I worked so hard last night to make it up to him and see that he is happy and leaves the boys alone, this is how I am rewarded.
Business as usual. Only it's so personal. You don't understand.
I don't know how many times I've tried to tell you, Bridget. This is what happens. You think you keep him under control and he just erodes a little more of you. He's not going to stop until there's nothing left. WHY CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT? Lochlan's voice has returned to a low simmer, seething desperation. I try to pull my hand away and I can't.
I'm not willing to see what happens if I don't engage Caleb. Clearly he's adept at removing things I love when I don't obey his word. I don't see why that's so hard for them to understand. If he requests me, I have to go. Eventually. Inevitably. It's not a difficult concept. I don't have a choice. I never have. Just a reprieve here and there, and look where that has gotten me.
You can take the road that takes you to the stars now
I can take a road that’ll see me through.
Saturday 12 March 2011
Cold water pressure.
This morning the bright yellow grey sky heralds summer in a campground by the sea, the cool damp air seeping into the cracks of the trailer but hunger and the need to pee precludes burrowing deeper under the covers. I grab my hoodie and shrug into it quickly while I search for my jeans, finding shorts instead. I pull them on and zip up the hoodie and head outside.
I smell burned coffee and pine trees and salt. The ash of last night's campfire is fragile and has already blown over the grass. I ignore the beer bottles stacked against the steps and head toward the row of outhouses out on the bluff. What a dumb place for them. It's only when you're exiting that you really get a sense of the wonderful view of wide open Atlantic.
When I return to the camper Lochlan is awake. He has his threadbare white t-shirt on inside-out and his jeans on but the buttons aren't fastened. He is filling the kettle for his coffee. I am too young to drink coffee still. His curls threaten a revolt as he smiles at me. He drinks it in one gulp. He's always been a fast coffee drinker. Breaks are short. It becomes a habit.
Want to go out for breakfast?
It's an old joke. We never have breakfast here. We don't have any food. We get on the motorcycle and drive to the diner once or twice a day and sit in a booth with a scratch-polished table and ripped leather seats and the waitress always frowns because we sit on the same side, Bridget on the inside. And I don't speak even when she asks me a direct question, which if she is anything like me, leads her to believe that he is my captor and I am his unwilling victim, instructed to remain silent lest I give away his crimes.
For my compliance, hash browns. And when we leave he'll turn to me, pull up the hood on my green sweater and make sure the zipper is all the way up, because it's still cold, you see. Especially on the bike.
I smell burned coffee and pine trees and salt. The ash of last night's campfire is fragile and has already blown over the grass. I ignore the beer bottles stacked against the steps and head toward the row of outhouses out on the bluff. What a dumb place for them. It's only when you're exiting that you really get a sense of the wonderful view of wide open Atlantic.
When I return to the camper Lochlan is awake. He has his threadbare white t-shirt on inside-out and his jeans on but the buttons aren't fastened. He is filling the kettle for his coffee. I am too young to drink coffee still. His curls threaten a revolt as he smiles at me. He drinks it in one gulp. He's always been a fast coffee drinker. Breaks are short. It becomes a habit.
Want to go out for breakfast?
It's an old joke. We never have breakfast here. We don't have any food. We get on the motorcycle and drive to the diner once or twice a day and sit in a booth with a scratch-polished table and ripped leather seats and the waitress always frowns because we sit on the same side, Bridget on the inside. And I don't speak even when she asks me a direct question, which if she is anything like me, leads her to believe that he is my captor and I am his unwilling victim, instructed to remain silent lest I give away his crimes.
For my compliance, hash browns. And when we leave he'll turn to me, pull up the hood on my green sweater and make sure the zipper is all the way up, because it's still cold, you see. Especially on the bike.
Friday 11 March 2011
Friday gloss.
This week I'm well on my way to being organized. I have almost finished Full Dark, No Stars and a Revlon Creme Gloss in cherry tart. The kids and I decorated cupcakes and made some plans for spring break and I've been to a birthday party, parenting mediation and a tsunami warning.
I think this weekend we may go out for Chinese food and see Battle: Los Angeles, which I keep calling The Battle of Los Angeles as if it's a Rage Against the Machine album title (it isn't, just close).
I printed out reams of concert tickets too. Rush and Switchfoot, to name a couple. It's going to be as good a spring for shows as it is for films (Suckerpunch, Fast Five, Thor, Super 8, Circo and that's just for a start).
I have stifled memories, burst into laughter and held my tongue, hanging on for dear life, sitting on it, tucking the bits back inside that threaten to stay out, shoving, sweating, pushing and swearing and throwing latches as quickly as I can catch air. That's hard for me. I am stubborn, but sometimes waiting them out is the only way to travel light.
I have listened to the lawyers when they told me not to write about the devil, because the devil stands to burn everything I know and love down to cinders and the only thing left will be a faded poster still flapping against a power pole in town, held fast by a single rusted staple.
I have tucked myself under Ben's arm as he sleeps unaware, putting my head down against his heart, wishing he had forty-two hours in the day instead of twenty-four, and I have memorized his heart beat so I can play it through my skull when I miss him, even though we have grown fresh skin over the raw open wounds of a year ago, skin that stretches uneasily and bends to accommodate his long days and my penchant for using proximity as a emotional weapon in taking one too many hugs from Lochlan. Too frequent and too long in duration, too close. Enough time to match breathing patterns and unlock muscle tension. Enough time to forget that aching wedge with its twenty-five years of moss, rain and circus flyers stacked up, making the weight unbearable.
I have dutifully sat in the desks of Ruth and Henry's classrooms and listened carefully as their teachers assure me they are doing well. I have exclaimed with delight as their marks have risen dramatically since last term and they both are labeled voracious readers and creative writers. I beam with pride. I can't ask for more from them and yet, this is nurture, not nature. Nature does not beget small humans of this caliber and I can lie awake at night wondering if my choices and my behavior stunt their emotions or perhaps set the stage for decades of therapy when they join adulthood and for now, I am content that so far things working out very well, which means I will earn a temporary reprieve from Caleb's ever-present threat of English boarding schools.
I have admitted to Sam that I really don't want the stress with Caleb's company and he arranged for the decisions to be revisited in the fall, on my behalf. I booked Nolan on a flight here for Easter and I spent a small fortune on new umbrellas. Good umbrellas, because when you pay $25 for a single umbrella it works better and doesn't fall apart within days and I can get on board with that, even though sometimes the boys tell me I am cheaper than a tin can in a one dollar grocery.
Hear it with a soft, slight Scottish accent and it sounds better, believe me.
I have made decisions about things I want. Bucket list stuff. Stuff I really wanted to do before I turned forty or maybe just before I die but no one's listening while they decide what I should do instead so sometimes I wait out my own life with the patience of the sphinx. Only I still have my nose. The rest of me is disintegrating in the elements and across the street is a Pizza Hut. It's a tourist wasteland. Come and visit, always remember.
And I'm melodramatic without even trying, as I'm actually rather content right now.
*rolls eyes*
I don't have a coffee craving or a imminent narcoleptic event brewing and the boys are beginning to trickle home in a slow river of beards and total utter decompression disguised in flannel and denim and tattoo ink, resplendent in the knowledge that I still have my shit together. Something I somehow manage to do better than most people, even when I can't string together the simplest of words.
I think this weekend we may go out for Chinese food and see Battle: Los Angeles, which I keep calling The Battle of Los Angeles as if it's a Rage Against the Machine album title (it isn't, just close).
I printed out reams of concert tickets too. Rush and Switchfoot, to name a couple. It's going to be as good a spring for shows as it is for films (Suckerpunch, Fast Five, Thor, Super 8, Circo and that's just for a start).
I have stifled memories, burst into laughter and held my tongue, hanging on for dear life, sitting on it, tucking the bits back inside that threaten to stay out, shoving, sweating, pushing and swearing and throwing latches as quickly as I can catch air. That's hard for me. I am stubborn, but sometimes waiting them out is the only way to travel light.
I have listened to the lawyers when they told me not to write about the devil, because the devil stands to burn everything I know and love down to cinders and the only thing left will be a faded poster still flapping against a power pole in town, held fast by a single rusted staple.
I have tucked myself under Ben's arm as he sleeps unaware, putting my head down against his heart, wishing he had forty-two hours in the day instead of twenty-four, and I have memorized his heart beat so I can play it through my skull when I miss him, even though we have grown fresh skin over the raw open wounds of a year ago, skin that stretches uneasily and bends to accommodate his long days and my penchant for using proximity as a emotional weapon in taking one too many hugs from Lochlan. Too frequent and too long in duration, too close. Enough time to match breathing patterns and unlock muscle tension. Enough time to forget that aching wedge with its twenty-five years of moss, rain and circus flyers stacked up, making the weight unbearable.
I have dutifully sat in the desks of Ruth and Henry's classrooms and listened carefully as their teachers assure me they are doing well. I have exclaimed with delight as their marks have risen dramatically since last term and they both are labeled voracious readers and creative writers. I beam with pride. I can't ask for more from them and yet, this is nurture, not nature. Nature does not beget small humans of this caliber and I can lie awake at night wondering if my choices and my behavior stunt their emotions or perhaps set the stage for decades of therapy when they join adulthood and for now, I am content that so far things working out very well, which means I will earn a temporary reprieve from Caleb's ever-present threat of English boarding schools.
I have admitted to Sam that I really don't want the stress with Caleb's company and he arranged for the decisions to be revisited in the fall, on my behalf. I booked Nolan on a flight here for Easter and I spent a small fortune on new umbrellas. Good umbrellas, because when you pay $25 for a single umbrella it works better and doesn't fall apart within days and I can get on board with that, even though sometimes the boys tell me I am cheaper than a tin can in a one dollar grocery.
Hear it with a soft, slight Scottish accent and it sounds better, believe me.
I have made decisions about things I want. Bucket list stuff. Stuff I really wanted to do before I turned forty or maybe just before I die but no one's listening while they decide what I should do instead so sometimes I wait out my own life with the patience of the sphinx. Only I still have my nose. The rest of me is disintegrating in the elements and across the street is a Pizza Hut. It's a tourist wasteland. Come and visit, always remember.
And I'm melodramatic without even trying, as I'm actually rather content right now.
*rolls eyes*
I don't have a coffee craving or a imminent narcoleptic event brewing and the boys are beginning to trickle home in a slow river of beards and total utter decompression disguised in flannel and denim and tattoo ink, resplendent in the knowledge that I still have my shit together. Something I somehow manage to do better than most people, even when I can't string together the simplest of words.
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