(I get the joy of rediscovering you.)The freshly-dug grave in the woods that I found a few weeks ago? Clearly it is meant for me. May as well lie down in it and see if it fits. I'm sure it will. I can fit in small places quite nicely.
Lochlan has his coffee cup in one hand and his phone in the other. He's staring at the screen intently with a cross look on his face. Then he abruptly puts his hand down and smiles at me, taking a sip. I brought him out coffee this morning and my reward is his curly wild bedhead and pajama pants, a boy who is rumpled, tangled and sleepy. He thanks me for the coffee and stands in the doorway, watching Caleb hold the car door for Ruth. He is taking the children to school today. Caleb hasn't taken his eyes off Lochlan. Lochlan sees this and raises his cup, winking at Caleb. He calls out to him.
Bet you wish you had someone to make your coffee for you every morning.
Caleb shoots back that he could if he wanted.
Lochlan laughs. How much would that cost? You pay for them by the hour or the day now?
I wave and blow kisses to the children as I tell Lochlan to cool it. The last thing I need is Caleb to be in a bad mood as he takes them to school. We were doing well. He was pleased when he arrived and they were ready, brushed, dressed neatly with new backpacks and smiles. The first week is a rough one, this is the start of week two and we finally have our shit together. Henry has learned how to pull his shirt down without being told and Ruth is remembering her homework, finally, instead of freaking out halfway home. They've had haircuts. New shoes. Breakfast!
Yeah, we're there. Everything's good so why shouldn't Lochlan and Caleb go back to politely digging each other's graves, taking turns with the shovel while I hold a jug of water in both hands, pouring it over their heads? Cold water to put out Caleb's flames and hot water to light up Lochlan so he can throw his own fire, bouncing it off the sky. It's grown ridiculous. And I can push and pull against Ben, digging in with my heels, back up against him, feet sliding in the dirt and frustrated tears making tracks down the dust on my face and he won't notice.
He just keeps writing, keeps playing, keeps singing.
Caleb's car races up the driveway. I'm sure the kids are squealing. He'll tell them that everything is okay. He's been saying that for the past thirty years but I'm old enough not to believe him. The children might still be young enough to take his words at face value, something I hope never changes.
Lochlan calls him a name, tossing it up at the back of the retreating car haphazardly, making no effort to catch it on the way down, letting it light everything up, burning it black, hissing, cinders ground into the damp earth, scorched in the shape of my footprints, obvious against the larger ones nearby.
(It was then that I carried you.)
I laughed. Jacob's voice shoots through my head on a regular basis now, with little reminders, bits of scripture, the cheesiest platitudes I've ever seen that I would have rolled my eyes at if he had said them to my face and he would grab my whole head in his hands and tell me not to be such a brat and then he would kiss me so hard that when he let go I would fling my arms out to steady myself on anything or anyone within reach.
Maybe in my dreams he doesn't let go.
What's so funny? Lochlan asks, taking another hesitant sip. The coffee is still blisteringly hot, like my heart as it bounces around, the hot potato in this game.
Nothing, I tell him. No point in ruining a tenuous day as it is. He catches my heart and balances it on the bottom step of the camper and he sits down with his cup, putting his phone on the floor just inside the door. He asks me what I want to do today.
I frown.
You have to work.
I know. I'm just asking what you want to do today.
I want to get some french fries and eat them by the water.
Make PJ do that for you then.
Reality says I have four loads of laundry, baking and I need to do the floors.
Then go to the beach, get the fries.
There won't be enough time.
Ironic, isn't it? You survive life and the rewards are never quite what you wanted them to be, are they?
Sure they are.
I still love your delusions after all these years, you know that?
You should. You taught them to me.
He thinks for a moment, I was sure he was going to turn sullen and deny it, insisting that any pretense that I would live a charmed gypsy life on the road with him was a figment of my own vivid imagination but he doesn't. Instead he nods.
I'm sorry for that, Bridget.
I know. I still love you.
He nods and exhales hard, until his whole face drops, the bottom falling out of his smile, no hope in hell of catching it now.
Good.
I reach out and touch his face, trying to trace the smile back on but it's hopeless.
Laundry, I whisper. Things to do. He has to go to work, we're running late as it is.
Yeah. See you tonight, I hope.
I don't meet his eyes. I turn and head back to the house, so he continues to talk to my back as if it might answer on my behalf. Lochlan keeps talking when he should just shut up now.
Not like he'll be available.
He's talking about Ben. I put my hand out to the side and shake it. Stop talking, Lochlan, please God. I don't say it out loud. What's the point? He hears my brain anyway.
I'll stop. But don't you dare pretend you feel differently, Bridget.
