He's down on the back patio practicing with his torches. Eating fire. Slow burn tricks and human lighter stunts that make me smile. Showy stuff. His arm still hurts. They refused to cast it anymore. He refused to let them anymore. He said it will heal on its own, eventually.
I am inside, washing pots and pans, watching closely since he is out there alone. I turn and quickly scan the room for my phone in case he goes up in flames and I have to call emergency. My face hits Ben's chest squarely and I bounce back against the sink.
Ow. You really have to stop sneaking up behind me.
You really should wear those tiny things that help you hear me, bee.
When I wear those I can hear Mars sneaking up behind me, Benny. Possibly Jupiter too.
He laughs and spins me back around so I can keep washing dishes while he puts his chin on my head and leans forward to look out the window.
Fuck, I gotta learn to do that.
Why? I'm guessing you have enough talents.
Oh really. He leans down and plants a kiss directly behind my ear while squeezing me so tightly I hear popping noises in all sorts of different places.
Crushing me should not be one of them.
Depends on the circumstances. He wraps his hand around my throat and pulls my face to the right to kiss me. I struggle, pointing out that I would love to cuddle as soon as I'm finished the dishes and Lochlan comes back inside.
Why? Do you have plans?
I always watch him to make sure he's safe.
Too bad he couldn't do the same. It's out before he can censor himself.
Low blow, Benjamin.
True story, Wee-Bee.
We engage in a thousand-yard staring contest. I'm not going to continue to defend Lochlan, my position on that is well-documented. I'm allowed to point out Lochlan's epic failures and he's allowed to point out mine, as they pertain to each other. No one else will get that privilege. Ben changes tactics, because he doesn't think it's worth continuing either.
How about we rendezvous at eleven then? A hot bath with some rose petals, just for my beautiful bride.
I nod but my eyes flick toward the window again, checking the patio. Ben misses nothing.
Eleven then, he frowns and shoves me toward the back door. He points at me. Why the hell is everyone doing that lately? Don't get too close to the fire, okay? You'll get burned. He does the Kurgan impression again, winks and turns away, walking out of the room.
I stop long enough to pull on my shoes and then I run out the back door and across the deck toward the steps. If there's a show starting I don't want to be late.
Sunday 8 January 2012
Saturday 7 January 2012
I didn't mind the wait. I was watching the sunlight kiss the waves. All the way out past the sandbars where the whitecaps threatened even the best of swimmers. I swam out there once and only once. It was exhilarating, terrifying and life-changing. I'd like to do it again only that sort of courage is hard to muster and harder to maintain.
I can feel my skin starting to burn. I frown and pull out my sunscreen. SPF 15. I don't think it's working so I slip my sundress back on over my bathing suit. I don't own any sunglasses. I pull off the ribbon from my braid and let the wind comb my hair. That will protect my shoulders, ears and neck at least.
And then I see him, hurrying down the boardwalk, arms tight with the weight of the canvas bags he is carrying. He jumps off the high end of the step and slogs through the deep sand between the dunes to where I sit waiting, my bag full of sketchbooks abandoned beside me.
He drops down and scrutinizes me.
Sorry for the delay. The lineups are incredible with the tourists here. He frowns slightly. You're burning. Let's go back.
Can we eat first and then go right home? Always hungry. My stomach growls for effect and Lochlan laughs.
Look what I found for you. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a small bottle of Orange Crush, and then a second. It's like a scavenger hunt in every little town for us now. And this, he pulls out two bags of chips and then two sandwiches. I am busy spreading out the quilt that was in the other bag and then I check to see if there is anything else to be unpacked. At the bottom of the bag I find a folded up piece of notebook paper. Not so much folded, but crumpled.
I take it out and begin to open it up when Lochlan reaches out and takes it from me. He is abrupt and rough.
That's a list I made for my birthday plans, I should keep that. No worries.
But he's lying and we both know it.
He stands up and shoves it deep into the pocket of his cargo shorts. When he sits back down everything has changed. The sun runs to hide behind the clouds. The seagulls cease their cries along the cliffs. The waves smooth themselves and lurk under the surface.
He opens my pop and hands me the bottle. Eat, Bridget. We have a busy evening ahead. I think we can manage a quick swim though. He smiles gently now.
I nod and tilt the bottle up to take a sip. He is unwrapping the sandwiches. Egg for me, Montreal smoked meat for himself. They are from the deli beside the corner store. In exchange for the free lunch Lochlan will allow the owner's children to ride the Ferris wheel all damn weekend long, whenever they please. It's a small risk with a big reward: food. Something that is always too scarce on the road. No matter what we do we're always vaguely hungry. When I see deer at the edge of clearing behind the campers I don't want to feed them, I want someone to shoot them so we can barbecue them and then sleep deeply instead of fitfully, woken by pangs of hunger.
I have become a tiny carny, savage and with bloodlust in my eyes. At least that's what Lochlan describes me as in the stories he tells me late at night while we watch the stars through the little window above our bed.
I should have asked about that piece of paper again. I know what's on it now but it would have made all the difference back then.
I can feel my skin starting to burn. I frown and pull out my sunscreen. SPF 15. I don't think it's working so I slip my sundress back on over my bathing suit. I don't own any sunglasses. I pull off the ribbon from my braid and let the wind comb my hair. That will protect my shoulders, ears and neck at least.
And then I see him, hurrying down the boardwalk, arms tight with the weight of the canvas bags he is carrying. He jumps off the high end of the step and slogs through the deep sand between the dunes to where I sit waiting, my bag full of sketchbooks abandoned beside me.
He drops down and scrutinizes me.
Sorry for the delay. The lineups are incredible with the tourists here. He frowns slightly. You're burning. Let's go back.
Can we eat first and then go right home? Always hungry. My stomach growls for effect and Lochlan laughs.
Look what I found for you. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a small bottle of Orange Crush, and then a second. It's like a scavenger hunt in every little town for us now. And this, he pulls out two bags of chips and then two sandwiches. I am busy spreading out the quilt that was in the other bag and then I check to see if there is anything else to be unpacked. At the bottom of the bag I find a folded up piece of notebook paper. Not so much folded, but crumpled.
I take it out and begin to open it up when Lochlan reaches out and takes it from me. He is abrupt and rough.
That's a list I made for my birthday plans, I should keep that. No worries.
But he's lying and we both know it.
He stands up and shoves it deep into the pocket of his cargo shorts. When he sits back down everything has changed. The sun runs to hide behind the clouds. The seagulls cease their cries along the cliffs. The waves smooth themselves and lurk under the surface.
He opens my pop and hands me the bottle. Eat, Bridget. We have a busy evening ahead. I think we can manage a quick swim though. He smiles gently now.
I nod and tilt the bottle up to take a sip. He is unwrapping the sandwiches. Egg for me, Montreal smoked meat for himself. They are from the deli beside the corner store. In exchange for the free lunch Lochlan will allow the owner's children to ride the Ferris wheel all damn weekend long, whenever they please. It's a small risk with a big reward: food. Something that is always too scarce on the road. No matter what we do we're always vaguely hungry. When I see deer at the edge of clearing behind the campers I don't want to feed them, I want someone to shoot them so we can barbecue them and then sleep deeply instead of fitfully, woken by pangs of hunger.
I have become a tiny carny, savage and with bloodlust in my eyes. At least that's what Lochlan describes me as in the stories he tells me late at night while we watch the stars through the little window above our bed.
I should have asked about that piece of paper again. I know what's on it now but it would have made all the difference back then.
Friday 6 January 2012
A year of living dangerously.
(Oh, hello, she says as she turns around to acknowledge your presence. I don't know why you jumped. After all you were the one who went looking for her. And you always find what you're looking for.)
I was going to come in here and distract you with flighty, nonsense words. I was going to show you my resolutions for the new year. I was going to share my hopes with you, and my plans to become a better, new and improved princess, starting the year off right but then two things happened.
Thing one was that Lochlan and PJ got into it. I mean, really got into it. They took us all by surprise and since the dust is still settling I can't say too much yet. This is one of the hazards of an intentional family, in reality. In fantasy, this was a terrible, horrible no-good fight.
Thing two was that I looked at the list of resolutions I have typed up and I noticed that there are only two things still on the list that I haven't already broken.
So fuck that, I guess.
And no, one of them wasn't to swear less. Jesus, people. The rest of the world can mind their mouths, I like mine the way it is, thanks. Filthy as a Sailor, twenty-four seven.
And now since we've done nothing but watch four entire seasons of The Wizards of Waverly Place in the past two days while sick with the second round of the holiday flu, I need to go. The final movie starts in an hour, and I need to see who the family wizard will be.
I know who it is in this house.
Me.
Snort.
I was going to come in here and distract you with flighty, nonsense words. I was going to show you my resolutions for the new year. I was going to share my hopes with you, and my plans to become a better, new and improved princess, starting the year off right but then two things happened.
Thing one was that Lochlan and PJ got into it. I mean, really got into it. They took us all by surprise and since the dust is still settling I can't say too much yet. This is one of the hazards of an intentional family, in reality. In fantasy, this was a terrible, horrible no-good fight.
Thing two was that I looked at the list of resolutions I have typed up and I noticed that there are only two things still on the list that I haven't already broken.
So fuck that, I guess.
And no, one of them wasn't to swear less. Jesus, people. The rest of the world can mind their mouths, I like mine the way it is, thanks. Filthy as a Sailor, twenty-four seven.
And now since we've done nothing but watch four entire seasons of The Wizards of Waverly Place in the past two days while sick with the second round of the holiday flu, I need to go. The final movie starts in an hour, and I need to see who the family wizard will be.
I know who it is in this house.
Me.
Snort.
Thursday 5 January 2012
Residuals.
It's seven in the morning and Ben and I are sitting on the cliff, legs swinging.
What do we do now?
Live in the moment, baby.
I don't think I like this particular set of moments.
Okay then, let's drink some coffee and watch the sun come up.
And then what after that?
You plan too much. What about just taking things as they come?
What about actively seeking your dreams?
Tell me your dreams.
I don't know what they are anymore. Things have changed so much. I used to know. I used to have a plan.
And what happened?
Life happened and my plans fell apart.
Right, so maybe plan less and watch more sunrises and maybe a new plan will come about.
How much time did you spend with Jacob again? You sound just like him.
More than you might realize. I kind of liked the guy.
Shut the fuck up.
I cross my heart, pig-a-let.
Hey Ben?
Yeah, Bridget?
You're totally ruining this moment, imitating him.
But you're in it now, at least. And that's what I was aiming for.
Well you got it. Straight through the heart.
Yeah....
Yeah what?
Oh nothing, I was waiting for you to break into that Bryan Adams song.
I said straight through.
Close enough.
Not even.
If we keep bickering we're going to miss the part where the colors fade.
You need to stop reading my blog.
I can't help it. It's fascinating. It's like the junk drawer of your brain.
Really? How so?
A scrap of REM lyrics, some love letters, a paperclip bent into the shape of a heart, some dead birds, a thousand seashells, some faulty, unlit stars and a Slipknot CD you didn't tell anyone you still had. It's a shadowy drawer though, hard to see everything in it. I bet it keeps going forever, you can just keep pulling it out and you never reach the end.
Sounds perfect.
Kinda like you.
My eyes filled up and I shook my head. Not even close. But I know what's in your junk drawer, Benny.
He wagged his tongue at me, Kurgan-style. Yeah baby.
No, not that junk drawer.
Okay, what's in it? Serious now.
It's empty save for a guitar pick and a pair of rose-colored glasses.
Exactly. Now tell me, Bridget. What the fuck is cerulean?
What do we do now?
Live in the moment, baby.
I don't think I like this particular set of moments.
Okay then, let's drink some coffee and watch the sun come up.
And then what after that?
You plan too much. What about just taking things as they come?
What about actively seeking your dreams?
Tell me your dreams.
I don't know what they are anymore. Things have changed so much. I used to know. I used to have a plan.
And what happened?
Life happened and my plans fell apart.
Right, so maybe plan less and watch more sunrises and maybe a new plan will come about.
How much time did you spend with Jacob again? You sound just like him.
More than you might realize. I kind of liked the guy.
Shut the fuck up.
I cross my heart, pig-a-let.
Hey Ben?
Yeah, Bridget?
You're totally ruining this moment, imitating him.
But you're in it now, at least. And that's what I was aiming for.
Well you got it. Straight through the heart.
Yeah....
Yeah what?
Oh nothing, I was waiting for you to break into that Bryan Adams song.
I said straight through.
Close enough.
Not even.
If we keep bickering we're going to miss the part where the colors fade.
You need to stop reading my blog.
I can't help it. It's fascinating. It's like the junk drawer of your brain.
Really? How so?
A scrap of REM lyrics, some love letters, a paperclip bent into the shape of a heart, some dead birds, a thousand seashells, some faulty, unlit stars and a Slipknot CD you didn't tell anyone you still had. It's a shadowy drawer though, hard to see everything in it. I bet it keeps going forever, you can just keep pulling it out and you never reach the end.
Sounds perfect.
Kinda like you.
My eyes filled up and I shook my head. Not even close. But I know what's in your junk drawer, Benny.
He wagged his tongue at me, Kurgan-style. Yeah baby.
No, not that junk drawer.
Okay, what's in it? Serious now.
It's empty save for a guitar pick and a pair of rose-colored glasses.
Exactly. Now tell me, Bridget. What the fuck is cerulean?
Wednesday 4 January 2012
Hush, now.
Bury all your secrets in my skin
Come away with innocence, and leave me with my sins
The air around me still feels like a cage
And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again
So if you love me, let me go.
And run away before I know.
My heart is just too dark to care.
I can't destroy what isn't there.
Deliver me into my fate
If I'm alone I cannot hate
I don't deserve to have you
My smile was taken long ago
If I can change I hope I never know
I still press your letters to my lips
And cherish them in parts of me that savor every kiss
I couldn't face a life without your light
But all of that was ripped apart
when you refused to fight
So save your breath, I will not hear.
I think I made it very clear.
You couldn't hate enough to love.
Is that supposed to be enough?
I only wish you weren't my friend.
Then I could hurt you in the end.
I never claimed to be a saint
My own was banished long ago
It took the death of hope to let you go
So break yourself against my stones
And spit your pity in my soul
You never needed any help
You sold me out to save yourself
And I won't listen to your shame
You ran away - you're all the same
Angels lie to keep control
My love was punished long ago
If you still care, don't ever let me know
Tuesday 3 January 2012
A wild night and a new road.
Every whisperBen confronts me late last evening in the upstairs hall.
Of every waking hour
I'm choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool
Oh no, I've said too much
I set it up
Consider this
Consider this the hint of the century
Consider this
The slip that brought me to my knees failed
What if all these fantasies
Come flailing around
I've said too much
What's the point, bee? Why are you still trying to reconcile Cole and Jacob's war anymore? It doesn't matter now.
Good, they're all still reading. That makes it easier.
I'm not doing it for me, I wrote that for Caleb. Just because I give someone a cookie doesn't mean they are forgiven.
Who? Who isn't forgiven?
But I didn't answer, I just walked around him out to the balcony to say goodnight to the sea.
Monday 2 January 2012
As if no one is watching/Disinformation.
(The pearls and cameo pinks competed with the cerulean and cyan streaks of blue for attention this morning and they had it from darkness onward. Rapt. Hypnotized by a moment and she went back for more, standing on the back steps watching the pinks dissolve and the brightest blues fade into pale representations of themselves. The culmination of warm light with such vibrant colors is a gift, albeit a fleeting one, like life itself. She spins and spins and hums to herself even though she can't hear it. She can feel the vibrations. That's enough.
Dreams are popped like balloons, words thrown around carelessly, regret and frustration remain bookmarked right where we left them, ready to pick up and carry along. These days are hard, she said, and he knew exactly what she meant in spite of the fact that she's on a different page. He has already read that one and can advise her of excitement or sorrow to come. No, don't tell me! She implores him not to give away the surprises, if only that she can discover them on her own. Otherwise there is no point.
The rain threatens to melt away her transparent facade so that all can see, voyeurs clawing at her emotions. Blatant, curious stares returned to her instead of comfort. She shakes her head in denial and she goes and does what she was going to do anyway.)
***
Dance, Bridget.
I was! Sorry you missed it.
More, then. I can wait. I want to watch you.
Suddenly I'm embarrassed but I push my chin up and tell him the moment has passed. Sort of like the sunrise.
I saw it. It was beautiful, no?
It was.
Thanks for the cookies in the kitchen.
Oh! You're welcome. How many did you have?
The plate.
You ate them all?
Yeah, they were so good...I'm sorry, was I not supposed to?
I was hoping Cole would get a chance to have at least one.
I didn't know. Look, I can say they were taken to the station and enjoyed. I've been talking to Cole anyway. Letting him know that if he has any concerns or if he needs to talk to someone I'm here. If I can help him-
It's okay. Everything's alright.
My mind is racing. He's talking to Cole? Oh, maybe this is not okay and I just try and do things the way I think they should work and then if they don't work I wait for help. But I don't know who will help with this. Andrew is always away. Lochlan? Are you kidding? Don't even ask. Christian might feel as if he is forced to pick sides. Daniel is a big monkey, he throws food and makes me laugh but he's not strong enough by half. Duncan is too busy with his rhyme-less poems and his minimalist image and Caleb could buy a fix but then his shadowy private backers would come looking for payment with interest and I can't even go there. Ben? I try not to complicate his life, he does that enough for both of us and he's never home either so here I am, knees dirty, tape in hand, trying to refasten the corners of what used to be a pretty picture to the heavens, keeping it level with the horizon.
But I didn't know that Jacob was trying to reach out to Cole. That's unexpected. Unscripted. Mindbreakingly touching to me. It leaves me almost as warm as it makes me angry. A surge of courage brings me to my feet and I am back in charge of my emotions for a precious few minutes. His words will be useless anyway. Thrown against Cole, who will swat them away unread. Unwelcome. Unnecessary and suspicious. It would be believing war strategies told to you by the enemy you are trying to defeat. Cole isn't stupid. This is only going to make it worse.
I'll make more cookies. Cole will like that.
Jacob nods but he's not buying it. The expression on his face has been upgraded from mild chagrin at not saving any dessert to overwhelming concern at my excuses. I reach up with both hands and try to form his cheeks into a smile. I pull his beard gently, tugging on his face but he only winds up looking darker and more dismayed. I turn away.
If cookies can serve as a catalyst, it's time you leave him, Bridget.
I turned around again and smile with what I hope is a light scowl. Bright and fake as anything. It's not that. I'm just still embarrassed that you almost caught me dancing in the sun.
Such a bad liar, princess. I hope you never fix that. His eyes soften now. The color matches the sky I witnessed this morning and I am humbled. I see God in his eyes. How fitting for a preacher to show this to me.
I shake my head. Would you believe me if I told you things are better?
He watches me struggle to maintain my position, perched on a slab of subterfuge so sharp it's leaving deep grooves in my skin. They begin to bleed.
No, Bridget. I wouldn't. It's far too late for that.
Dreams are popped like balloons, words thrown around carelessly, regret and frustration remain bookmarked right where we left them, ready to pick up and carry along. These days are hard, she said, and he knew exactly what she meant in spite of the fact that she's on a different page. He has already read that one and can advise her of excitement or sorrow to come. No, don't tell me! She implores him not to give away the surprises, if only that she can discover them on her own. Otherwise there is no point.
The rain threatens to melt away her transparent facade so that all can see, voyeurs clawing at her emotions. Blatant, curious stares returned to her instead of comfort. She shakes her head in denial and she goes and does what she was going to do anyway.)
***
Dance, Bridget.
I was! Sorry you missed it.
More, then. I can wait. I want to watch you.
Suddenly I'm embarrassed but I push my chin up and tell him the moment has passed. Sort of like the sunrise.
I saw it. It was beautiful, no?
It was.
Thanks for the cookies in the kitchen.
Oh! You're welcome. How many did you have?
The plate.
You ate them all?
Yeah, they were so good...I'm sorry, was I not supposed to?
I was hoping Cole would get a chance to have at least one.
I didn't know. Look, I can say they were taken to the station and enjoyed. I've been talking to Cole anyway. Letting him know that if he has any concerns or if he needs to talk to someone I'm here. If I can help him-
It's okay. Everything's alright.
My mind is racing. He's talking to Cole? Oh, maybe this is not okay and I just try and do things the way I think they should work and then if they don't work I wait for help. But I don't know who will help with this. Andrew is always away. Lochlan? Are you kidding? Don't even ask. Christian might feel as if he is forced to pick sides. Daniel is a big monkey, he throws food and makes me laugh but he's not strong enough by half. Duncan is too busy with his rhyme-less poems and his minimalist image and Caleb could buy a fix but then his shadowy private backers would come looking for payment with interest and I can't even go there. Ben? I try not to complicate his life, he does that enough for both of us and he's never home either so here I am, knees dirty, tape in hand, trying to refasten the corners of what used to be a pretty picture to the heavens, keeping it level with the horizon.
But I didn't know that Jacob was trying to reach out to Cole. That's unexpected. Unscripted. Mindbreakingly touching to me. It leaves me almost as warm as it makes me angry. A surge of courage brings me to my feet and I am back in charge of my emotions for a precious few minutes. His words will be useless anyway. Thrown against Cole, who will swat them away unread. Unwelcome. Unnecessary and suspicious. It would be believing war strategies told to you by the enemy you are trying to defeat. Cole isn't stupid. This is only going to make it worse.
I'll make more cookies. Cole will like that.
Jacob nods but he's not buying it. The expression on his face has been upgraded from mild chagrin at not saving any dessert to overwhelming concern at my excuses. I reach up with both hands and try to form his cheeks into a smile. I pull his beard gently, tugging on his face but he only winds up looking darker and more dismayed. I turn away.
If cookies can serve as a catalyst, it's time you leave him, Bridget.
I turned around again and smile with what I hope is a light scowl. Bright and fake as anything. It's not that. I'm just still embarrassed that you almost caught me dancing in the sun.
Such a bad liar, princess. I hope you never fix that. His eyes soften now. The color matches the sky I witnessed this morning and I am humbled. I see God in his eyes. How fitting for a preacher to show this to me.
I shake my head. Would you believe me if I told you things are better?
He watches me struggle to maintain my position, perched on a slab of subterfuge so sharp it's leaving deep grooves in my skin. They begin to bleed.
No, Bridget. I wouldn't. It's far too late for that.
Sunday 1 January 2012
On a Tuesday it's an accident, on a holiday it's on purpose.
(The crush has loomed long on the beat poet too, but we mostly ignore it. I still worry about him though.)
Duncan is standing outside in the pale sun. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, sunglasses in place, he strikes a casual pose on the edge of the lower cliff on the opposite side of the backyard, where I rarely go because the view is better on the right side, away from the city, toward the open ocean. He's in his vintage swim trunks. They fail to make him look any more modern for his retro-ness, he's still as close to a real live lizard king as I will ever be again because he's one of three who eschew haircuts until the others start referring to him as a girl. It puts his appearance squarely in 1972.
He is staring at the water and shaking his head.
This is going to hurt. He doesn't seem concerned though. Maybe he isn't right for his role here. You see, Duncan is normally second in command around the house, after PJ. (Yes, it takes two full-sized men to look after one tiny princess on a regular basis. One because she's fast and two, because she's hypnotic.)
He flicks his cigarette to the ground and tells Ben Time is money, friend. Then he takes a swan dive off the edge. I yell his name with alarm, they had yet to clarify whether or not it's safe to jump off this side. It's all been theory and conjecture up until now! I jump up and go racing toward the edge and Ben puts his arm out and when I hit it full on and bounce back he catches me nicely, and then Dalton and Christian are over the edge too and I say something about waiting to see if Duncan has survived when I hear him calling to me from the water.
And then oddly, Lochlan says Ben, don't you dare.
Cue the screaming.
Too late I figure out what Lochlan means, as Ben throws me off the ledge.
I scream all the way down and when I hit the water Duncan yanks me to the surface instantly. Good thing too, since the cold water takes my breath away so I open my mouth to breath. A reflex or an instinct, I still don't know.
I look for an angel to come and envelope me in warmth to carry me to the top again so I can go inside and stand inside the fireplace until my flesh dissolves into lava but none appears. I ask Duncan if there's a fast way back and he says no, we have to swim around to the other side, to the beach.
Oh what? Really? I won't make it.
Sure you will, come on.
He tucks me under one arm and sidestrokes easily along the rock wall and I sort of feel warm suddenly. Not because he's cute but because I have hypothermia and I stop talking and sort of become distracted watching the clouds. We're at the beach now and I hear Ben hollering the whole way down and then a giant splash somewhere behind me and PJ is standing there with an armload of blankets and boots and coats. I swear at Duncan while I am wrapped up like a mummy, shivering.
He declines the offered warm clothes and shakes his head like a dog.
There. You wanted new traditions.
Not those kind. Not death-defying, dangerous, crazy ones.
What other kinds are there, Bridget?
He's grinning at me, dripping wet, shaking like a leaf, eyes wild and it suddenly dawns on me that Jacob must have been a mirage. A representation of all the pieces and quirks of the rest of the boys, all wrapped up in a pretty package. I can almost see exactly which facets of his personality and his demeanor match each of the others in turn and sometimes I am floored by the similarities, the familiarities involved.
I meant m-maybe I would m-m-make some different foods or we would s-s-switch to opening presents on Christmas Eve or s-something.
Oh. Then you'd better talk to Benny. He said you seemed sad that there wasn't more excitement lately.
That wasn't w-what I was t-t-t-t-talking about, Duncan. Besides, I already had a s-s-s-swim this w-w-winter, remember?
Ben is out of the water. He's as white as a sheet. He shakes his head too and said that was invigorating but he won't be doing it again because it will take him more than a year to pry his balls out of his throat with a dull fork.
I start laughing and shivering while the boys cringe at Ben's description. He's never been one to censor himself. We make a great pair.
We chalk the whole thing up to a bad idea with flawless execution and resolve never to try to make it a tradition again. Some things just don't fly, like Bridgets off cliffs. Something tells me I'm not the only one relieved to find this out.
(Tonight the only one who isn't still cold is the only one who didn't jump in. Go figure.)
Duncan is standing outside in the pale sun. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, sunglasses in place, he strikes a casual pose on the edge of the lower cliff on the opposite side of the backyard, where I rarely go because the view is better on the right side, away from the city, toward the open ocean. He's in his vintage swim trunks. They fail to make him look any more modern for his retro-ness, he's still as close to a real live lizard king as I will ever be again because he's one of three who eschew haircuts until the others start referring to him as a girl. It puts his appearance squarely in 1972.
He is staring at the water and shaking his head.
This is going to hurt. He doesn't seem concerned though. Maybe he isn't right for his role here. You see, Duncan is normally second in command around the house, after PJ. (Yes, it takes two full-sized men to look after one tiny princess on a regular basis. One because she's fast and two, because she's hypnotic.)
He flicks his cigarette to the ground and tells Ben Time is money, friend. Then he takes a swan dive off the edge. I yell his name with alarm, they had yet to clarify whether or not it's safe to jump off this side. It's all been theory and conjecture up until now! I jump up and go racing toward the edge and Ben puts his arm out and when I hit it full on and bounce back he catches me nicely, and then Dalton and Christian are over the edge too and I say something about waiting to see if Duncan has survived when I hear him calling to me from the water.
And then oddly, Lochlan says Ben, don't you dare.
Cue the screaming.
Too late I figure out what Lochlan means, as Ben throws me off the ledge.
I scream all the way down and when I hit the water Duncan yanks me to the surface instantly. Good thing too, since the cold water takes my breath away so I open my mouth to breath. A reflex or an instinct, I still don't know.
I look for an angel to come and envelope me in warmth to carry me to the top again so I can go inside and stand inside the fireplace until my flesh dissolves into lava but none appears. I ask Duncan if there's a fast way back and he says no, we have to swim around to the other side, to the beach.
Oh what? Really? I won't make it.
Sure you will, come on.
He tucks me under one arm and sidestrokes easily along the rock wall and I sort of feel warm suddenly. Not because he's cute but because I have hypothermia and I stop talking and sort of become distracted watching the clouds. We're at the beach now and I hear Ben hollering the whole way down and then a giant splash somewhere behind me and PJ is standing there with an armload of blankets and boots and coats. I swear at Duncan while I am wrapped up like a mummy, shivering.
He declines the offered warm clothes and shakes his head like a dog.
There. You wanted new traditions.
Not those kind. Not death-defying, dangerous, crazy ones.
What other kinds are there, Bridget?
He's grinning at me, dripping wet, shaking like a leaf, eyes wild and it suddenly dawns on me that Jacob must have been a mirage. A representation of all the pieces and quirks of the rest of the boys, all wrapped up in a pretty package. I can almost see exactly which facets of his personality and his demeanor match each of the others in turn and sometimes I am floored by the similarities, the familiarities involved.
I meant m-maybe I would m-m-make some different foods or we would s-s-switch to opening presents on Christmas Eve or s-something.
Oh. Then you'd better talk to Benny. He said you seemed sad that there wasn't more excitement lately.
That wasn't w-what I was t-t-t-t-talking about, Duncan. Besides, I already had a s-s-s-swim this w-w-winter, remember?
Ben is out of the water. He's as white as a sheet. He shakes his head too and said that was invigorating but he won't be doing it again because it will take him more than a year to pry his balls out of his throat with a dull fork.
I start laughing and shivering while the boys cringe at Ben's description. He's never been one to censor himself. We make a great pair.
We chalk the whole thing up to a bad idea with flawless execution and resolve never to try to make it a tradition again. Some things just don't fly, like Bridgets off cliffs. Something tells me I'm not the only one relieved to find this out.
(Tonight the only one who isn't still cold is the only one who didn't jump in. Go figure.)
Saturday 31 December 2011
One more trip around the sun.
2011.
What can I say about you?
I'm grateful for our health, for our continued independence and for our safety, relative to those times in earlier years (and mere weeks ago) when it could not be guaranteed. I'm grateful for the music, the warm house and the beautiful views, a stack of books to draw in and games to play, a reading pile as tall as myself and arms that are always open for me, not matter what. I'm grateful for the food on the table and the memories from which we have learned lessons and found resolutions from. I'm grateful for my life, let's not split hairs on that one, either.
But I'm looking ahead now, not behind. 2011 was another year of change and adjustment and learning to find comfort in new settings with new rules and fresh routines. It was a very very good year with two weddings. No one close to me died either. Hooray for the most basic grace of all.
It was a fine, fitting year and it is over. Any last attempts to pin significance on it will be met with helpless laughter, because we are simply out of time. Try again next year, about eight hours from now, Pacific time.
Happy New Year. May 2012 live up to your dreams.
Here's to beginning again.
Sláinte mhaith.
What can I say about you?
I'm grateful for our health, for our continued independence and for our safety, relative to those times in earlier years (and mere weeks ago) when it could not be guaranteed. I'm grateful for the music, the warm house and the beautiful views, a stack of books to draw in and games to play, a reading pile as tall as myself and arms that are always open for me, not matter what. I'm grateful for the food on the table and the memories from which we have learned lessons and found resolutions from. I'm grateful for my life, let's not split hairs on that one, either.
But I'm looking ahead now, not behind. 2011 was another year of change and adjustment and learning to find comfort in new settings with new rules and fresh routines. It was a very very good year with two weddings. No one close to me died either. Hooray for the most basic grace of all.
It was a fine, fitting year and it is over. Any last attempts to pin significance on it will be met with helpless laughter, because we are simply out of time. Try again next year, about eight hours from now, Pacific time.
Happy New Year. May 2012 live up to your dreams.
Here's to beginning again.
Sláinte mhaith.
Friday 30 December 2011
Thursday 29 December 2011
The ballad of Highway 99 (gold, guns and girl, singular).
The money from the sale of Caleb's waterfront condo was earmarked and I didn't realize it.
Caleb is still eating crow, crow that costs a fortune, crow that must taste like caviar and dreams or he would have stopped by now and reverted back. All diurnal business has ground to a halt, anyway. The nocturnal kind is not up for discussion.
When people ask he simply says he decided to retire early and get out on top. That he has most definitely done, having always made sure he had everything precisely in order, not leaving anything to chance. Well, except that one thing in Tahoe but I think or I hope or maybe I'm almost sure that's been looked after now too.
It was easy for him to close this chapter on his life, he did well enough and saved enough and invested successfully enough that he wound up with more than I thought he would.
When his heart gives out like Cole's did Henry will be taken care of. Caleb will not tell me what his will holds for me anymore. This after I told him over the summer to take me out of everything, that his legacy rests in Henry and not in me. He refused to discuss the matter. I threatened to give it all away. He laughed and asked me what made me think he hadn't already done that? I was put in my place rather quickly. I will never bring it up again.
Yesterday we all spent the day playing in the snow up at Whistler. Caleb disappeared quite early on. At one point he sent a text saying he was taking in a few open houses and would meet us at the restaurant for dinner but I didn't get my messages. It was raining so I zipped my phone into my pocket and left it there.
At seven Ben finally reached him and told him we were heading home. He declined to travel in the caravan of trucks and said he would be along in time to say goodnight to the children.
When he arrived home he had a very good bottle of wine and some news. He's put in a bid on a house up there. Maybe to use it as a base and save the ninety minute drive back and forth when we want to go enjoy some snow. I snorted when he said that, for I am still the last holdout, thanks to that isolated final winter in the Prairies. The boys have embraced the mountains in a sort of primal mutual adoration and I still stand behind Ben's arm and scowl toward anything cold, while I pull my wrap tighter around my shoulders. I can be forced to enjoy it but then I am happy to drive away from it. So making me stay there overnight would just be all sorts of punishment now.
Oh, wait. Nevermind.
He asks for a cookie and I tell him Ben and Cole ate them all. I think I leave him unsettled and uncomfortable and on edge. I smile at the thought. Payback will take place over the next twenty-eight years, and then perhaps when I am ancient, tinier still and completely frail I will call it even. He better make it to that moment or I will be vastly disappointed. This is the work Batman and the others have been doing behind the scenes. If I can't manage to leave Caleb in my past then at the very least I am being positioned to always have the upper hand.
Except that all of this hinges on Caleb's reluctance to start up again with his evil and I never know if I can count on his compliance or if it's just another game. Maybe all of this is a game and I'm playing right into their hands. Maybe Ben is still being puppeted and maybe Lochlan isn't learning his lessons the hard way. Maybe both children still belong to Cole and maybe Jacob went running back to Northeast Asia because that's where he first found God. Maybe pigs are up there blocking the sun instead of clouds but I didn't notice and maybe the joke is on me.
I've gotten into the very bad habit of putting on five or six of the same clothing items at once to be warm and standing out on the very westernmost edge of my cliff for hours. Thinking. Thinking hard, something that requires all the concentration I can gather up. Thinking alone while PJ frets and whines into the phone with Ben or follows Duncan around to do something, after being told that he can go and amuse himself and I will return to myself in an hour or two, three at the most. Ben will tell him not to worry because Ben's faith clearly comes from a place of certain and utter earlier brain damage and Duncan is usually preoccupied and not paying attention so he fails to put weight into PJ's concerns. PJ does not rat me out to Loch because Loch would shut the whole mess down, or at least try. The ghosts, well, they do nothing. Maybe they wait for me to cross over to their team. Maybe they wait to see me go back inside. Maybe they can do something but maybe they have hopes that surpass selfishness, even after life.
Maybe I'll learn to appreciate snow again and maybe I'll still wish ski hills were four minutes long and twenty bucks a day, like when Loch used to take me to Martock, instead of Caleb throwing his fortune around on the pipe dream of retaining whatever spark still lights up between the two of us when we are in close proximity. I don't intend to stop using him any time soon to get my fill of Cole-time and he wouldn't deny me that even if his life depended on it.
Sometimes I think it does and so I spend a lot of time glued to the edge of the cliff, trying to think in the wind. What in the hell is he doing? And what does it have to do with me really?
***
Update: He didn't get the house. The loss doesn't bother him at all, he's one of those people who shrugs it off. Another one will come along, he says when pressed to explain his chipper demeanor. When the agent asked him if he would like to go ahead now and put in an offer on another house, he declined and said he was going to wait for the spring to see if something else caught his eye the way that one had. He listened for a few more moments on the phone and then laughed and said, Yes, I do know what I want in life. Briefly his eyes flickered to me and then as quickly he turned away, pretending to stretch. He hung up the phone and said the ninety minute caravans, for now, will continue.
I pointed out I'd rather be surrounded by sand than snow and maybe he should be looking for an island to buy instead. He just pointed at me, jabbing the air and nodding, and walked out of the room backwards.
And then PJ whispered that I am so evil he can hardly believe it sometimes.
Caleb is still eating crow, crow that costs a fortune, crow that must taste like caviar and dreams or he would have stopped by now and reverted back. All diurnal business has ground to a halt, anyway. The nocturnal kind is not up for discussion.
When people ask he simply says he decided to retire early and get out on top. That he has most definitely done, having always made sure he had everything precisely in order, not leaving anything to chance. Well, except that one thing in Tahoe but I think or I hope or maybe I'm almost sure that's been looked after now too.
It was easy for him to close this chapter on his life, he did well enough and saved enough and invested successfully enough that he wound up with more than I thought he would.
When his heart gives out like Cole's did Henry will be taken care of. Caleb will not tell me what his will holds for me anymore. This after I told him over the summer to take me out of everything, that his legacy rests in Henry and not in me. He refused to discuss the matter. I threatened to give it all away. He laughed and asked me what made me think he hadn't already done that? I was put in my place rather quickly. I will never bring it up again.
Yesterday we all spent the day playing in the snow up at Whistler. Caleb disappeared quite early on. At one point he sent a text saying he was taking in a few open houses and would meet us at the restaurant for dinner but I didn't get my messages. It was raining so I zipped my phone into my pocket and left it there.
At seven Ben finally reached him and told him we were heading home. He declined to travel in the caravan of trucks and said he would be along in time to say goodnight to the children.
When he arrived home he had a very good bottle of wine and some news. He's put in a bid on a house up there. Maybe to use it as a base and save the ninety minute drive back and forth when we want to go enjoy some snow. I snorted when he said that, for I am still the last holdout, thanks to that isolated final winter in the Prairies. The boys have embraced the mountains in a sort of primal mutual adoration and I still stand behind Ben's arm and scowl toward anything cold, while I pull my wrap tighter around my shoulders. I can be forced to enjoy it but then I am happy to drive away from it. So making me stay there overnight would just be all sorts of punishment now.
Oh, wait. Nevermind.
He asks for a cookie and I tell him Ben and Cole ate them all. I think I leave him unsettled and uncomfortable and on edge. I smile at the thought. Payback will take place over the next twenty-eight years, and then perhaps when I am ancient, tinier still and completely frail I will call it even. He better make it to that moment or I will be vastly disappointed. This is the work Batman and the others have been doing behind the scenes. If I can't manage to leave Caleb in my past then at the very least I am being positioned to always have the upper hand.
Except that all of this hinges on Caleb's reluctance to start up again with his evil and I never know if I can count on his compliance or if it's just another game. Maybe all of this is a game and I'm playing right into their hands. Maybe Ben is still being puppeted and maybe Lochlan isn't learning his lessons the hard way. Maybe both children still belong to Cole and maybe Jacob went running back to Northeast Asia because that's where he first found God. Maybe pigs are up there blocking the sun instead of clouds but I didn't notice and maybe the joke is on me.
I've gotten into the very bad habit of putting on five or six of the same clothing items at once to be warm and standing out on the very westernmost edge of my cliff for hours. Thinking. Thinking hard, something that requires all the concentration I can gather up. Thinking alone while PJ frets and whines into the phone with Ben or follows Duncan around to do something, after being told that he can go and amuse himself and I will return to myself in an hour or two, three at the most. Ben will tell him not to worry because Ben's faith clearly comes from a place of certain and utter earlier brain damage and Duncan is usually preoccupied and not paying attention so he fails to put weight into PJ's concerns. PJ does not rat me out to Loch because Loch would shut the whole mess down, or at least try. The ghosts, well, they do nothing. Maybe they wait for me to cross over to their team. Maybe they wait to see me go back inside. Maybe they can do something but maybe they have hopes that surpass selfishness, even after life.
Maybe I'll learn to appreciate snow again and maybe I'll still wish ski hills were four minutes long and twenty bucks a day, like when Loch used to take me to Martock, instead of Caleb throwing his fortune around on the pipe dream of retaining whatever spark still lights up between the two of us when we are in close proximity. I don't intend to stop using him any time soon to get my fill of Cole-time and he wouldn't deny me that even if his life depended on it.
Sometimes I think it does and so I spend a lot of time glued to the edge of the cliff, trying to think in the wind. What in the hell is he doing? And what does it have to do with me really?
***
Update: He didn't get the house. The loss doesn't bother him at all, he's one of those people who shrugs it off. Another one will come along, he says when pressed to explain his chipper demeanor. When the agent asked him if he would like to go ahead now and put in an offer on another house, he declined and said he was going to wait for the spring to see if something else caught his eye the way that one had. He listened for a few more moments on the phone and then laughed and said, Yes, I do know what I want in life. Briefly his eyes flickered to me and then as quickly he turned away, pretending to stretch. He hung up the phone and said the ninety minute caravans, for now, will continue.
I pointed out I'd rather be surrounded by sand than snow and maybe he should be looking for an island to buy instead. He just pointed at me, jabbing the air and nodding, and walked out of the room backwards.
And then PJ whispered that I am so evil he can hardly believe it sometimes.
Wednesday 28 December 2011
Last night I took two of the snowman cookies and put them on a plate. When everyone was busy I slipped out of the house undetected (no worries, the alarms only go off if I leave the relative safety of the backyard, toward the cliffs, not if I step onto the driveway) and took the plate to the garage. I unlocked the side door of the garage and went inside. It was pitch dark at ground level in spite of a small amount of ambient light from the loft windows above. I didn't turn the lights on, I don't think I ever do when I go in there. I just walked across the floor in the dark to the back wall and set the plate down gently on the counter.
I turned to leave and smacked right into Ben. I think I broke my nose and all of my toes in doing so. He's a wall.
What are you doing, little one?
Nothing. Ow. I didn't know you were behind me.
Do ghosts eat cookies?
I am so busted. Mine would, I whisper and put my hands up over my face. I'm sorry Benny.
He pulls my hands back down. Don't be sorry. I would do the same.
Really?
No. Jake can get his own fucking cookies. And I doubt Cole ever ate them. He probably stacked them up and stood on them so he would look bigger. You know, like Loch does.
I laughed. Oh my God I laughed.
And this morning when we went back for the plate the cookies were gone.
I turned to leave and smacked right into Ben. I think I broke my nose and all of my toes in doing so. He's a wall.
What are you doing, little one?
Nothing. Ow. I didn't know you were behind me.
Do ghosts eat cookies?
I am so busted. Mine would, I whisper and put my hands up over my face. I'm sorry Benny.
He pulls my hands back down. Don't be sorry. I would do the same.
Really?
No. Jake can get his own fucking cookies. And I doubt Cole ever ate them. He probably stacked them up and stood on them so he would look bigger. You know, like Loch does.
I laughed. Oh my God I laughed.
And this morning when we went back for the plate the cookies were gone.
Tuesday 27 December 2011
A special performance for an audience of one.
Do you remember this?
That qualified as the World's Most Amazing Christmas Present. The ocean in my arms. The beach. Everything I love in a hand-built box, personalized with my name. I still open it every single day. I have worn the paint off the lid. Some of the roses are missing. There is still sand everywhere all the time because I can't leave well enough alone.
And Ben is still listening, because on Christmas morning he brought me the circus.
The music, the lights, the dizzying spotlights, the ear-splitting, repetitive music. The Fire-thrower, the Fortune Teller, the Magician and the Ringmaster too. The tricks and traps and gasps of an appreciative audience (me) kept me from pinching myself to see if I was dreaming.
And I had no idea what he was up to. None. Not a thing until I was manhandled out of bed that morning, dressed and blindfolded and led down the steps into..heaven on earth. I still had no idea until I heard the first note of the music and my blindfold was taken off.
They put on the greatest show on earth.
My presents were delivered by each performer in turn, each one more surprising than the next until the lights were turned up and Christmas day proper could begin. Everything was rehearsed and choreographed down to the minute. He made a full sized tent even. I begged him to leave it up but let's face it, it took over everything and it had to be dismantled. I would have lived in and around it forever, if you're asking.
I daresay I didn't pick my chin up off the floor until dinnertime. I was cooking, stirring gravy while the music of Fucik's Gladiators played on a loop through my skull. I still don't understand how he pulled it off.
I also still don't understand how Ben turned out to be such a formidable romantic. I just know that positively all of us were entranced, and a little bit in awe of how he managed to top something I thought I could never ever come close to again.
He said it was nothing, but he's wrong. It's everything.
That qualified as the World's Most Amazing Christmas Present. The ocean in my arms. The beach. Everything I love in a hand-built box, personalized with my name. I still open it every single day. I have worn the paint off the lid. Some of the roses are missing. There is still sand everywhere all the time because I can't leave well enough alone.
And Ben is still listening, because on Christmas morning he brought me the circus.
The music, the lights, the dizzying spotlights, the ear-splitting, repetitive music. The Fire-thrower, the Fortune Teller, the Magician and the Ringmaster too. The tricks and traps and gasps of an appreciative audience (me) kept me from pinching myself to see if I was dreaming.
And I had no idea what he was up to. None. Not a thing until I was manhandled out of bed that morning, dressed and blindfolded and led down the steps into..heaven on earth. I still had no idea until I heard the first note of the music and my blindfold was taken off.
They put on the greatest show on earth.
My presents were delivered by each performer in turn, each one more surprising than the next until the lights were turned up and Christmas day proper could begin. Everything was rehearsed and choreographed down to the minute. He made a full sized tent even. I begged him to leave it up but let's face it, it took over everything and it had to be dismantled. I would have lived in and around it forever, if you're asking.
I daresay I didn't pick my chin up off the floor until dinnertime. I was cooking, stirring gravy while the music of Fucik's Gladiators played on a loop through my skull. I still don't understand how he pulled it off.
I also still don't understand how Ben turned out to be such a formidable romantic. I just know that positively all of us were entranced, and a little bit in awe of how he managed to top something I thought I could never ever come close to again.
He said it was nothing, but he's wrong. It's everything.
Monday 26 December 2011
By request.
In lieu of not actually having time to sit down and compose a proper entry, I thought I would fly by and share Ben's annual (and always different but always goofy) Vampire Christmas jokes with you:
What do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire?
Frostbite!
What does a vampire always get his lover for Christmas?
Something en-grave-d!
And the last one, which brought dinner to a brief standstill:
What do you get if you cross a vampire and a circus entertainer?
I don't know but it goes straight for the juggler!
What do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire?
Frostbite!
What does a vampire always get his lover for Christmas?
Something en-grave-d!
And the last one, which brought dinner to a brief standstill:
What do you get if you cross a vampire and a circus entertainer?
I don't know but it goes straight for the juggler!
Saturday 24 December 2011
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!
My mother, on the phone this morning, reminds me I had the flu last Christmas too and sure enough, she's right. It's as if I can just flip the switch from keeping the household running smoothly to standing on the platform above it, throwing furniture into the gears until it pops and shudders and explodes into certain ruin. When I am this sick things get done in interesting ways or at interesting times. Case in point, baking and decorating snowman sugar cookies with the children after eight on a Saturday night is about as much fun as frostbite but here we are.
I've heard I need to relax, but that could just be a rumor.
In any event we have no firm plans for the next several days and I like that. I want to get better, watch the children and the boys open their gifts, do the usual cook-and-pray turkey dinner cooking method (I'm not very good at this and it's WAY MORE PRESSURE than spaghetti, especially since I was grilled at the breakfast table.
Do we have...cranberry sauce?
Yes.
Stuffing?
Yes.
Gravy?
Yes.
Real butter?
Yes, of course.
Potatoes?
Yup.
Creamed corn?
Fuck no, gross.
What time do we put the turkey in?
I don't know. It says the time per pound but the label is in kilograms. I have to find a calculator online.
Just multiply it, Bridget.
I can't. We never did kilograms. I think it's 1.5 or maybe 2 pounds is a kilo...
Christ. What did they teach you in school?
Ask me anything about Oliver Cromwell. Or ask me to recite 'Evangeline'.
What are those things?
See? I learned more than you did.
At least I can convert pounds to kilos.
Once a year. We need to do that ONCE a year, Benjamin. What a waste of American resources.
We make really good turkey dinners though.
Really? Okay, you cook tomorrow. I'm sleeping in.
You're on.
The only rule is you have to use common kitchen implements, Ben. So no chainsaws, blowtorches or lawnmowers.
Okay, how about this? We'll cook together. The Americans can do the math, and the Canadians can provide the nuance and....stuff.
Tonight everyone is home safe and sound with me. The doors are locked, the lights on the tree are lit, there's a fire in the fireplace and fucking sugar cookies everywhere. It's awesome.
Merry Christmas to you and yours, from all of us here at the home for wayward musicians and runaway freakshow performers. May your days be psychotic and blown out and may all your Christmases be dark and decadent and wonderful and loud.
And I hope Santa finds you.
xo
Friday 23 December 2011
Happiness (Oh fuck are they calling the cops? Naw, no cell service)
Today I'm watching the Leafs, Canucks and Jets standings in the NHL and I'm watching boy movies (Conan, Rise of the Planet of the Apes) and I'm nursing a midrange fever that just won't quit and I'm watching my husband swim across a creek up in the mountains on a day when I can't even feel my fingers, it's so cold up there and I had to put his clothes on a rock because they were too heavy and I was scared he was going to drown or be swept away and he said it was 'invigorating' and gave the people watching on the bridge a lovely show of his naked butt and possibly full frontal (sorry, please don't put it on Youtube) and talked nonstop until we were home again and he could go find some dry clothes and yeah, this one is unexplainable but very very Ben-like, so nothing new around these parts.
He makes me laugh. I also aged a thousand years.
He makes me laugh. I also aged a thousand years.
Thursday 22 December 2011
"Keep the circus going inside you, keep it going, don't take anything too seriously, it'll all work out in the end". ~David Niven
When he walked into the room I rushed over, wrist held up, bracelet out with a silent request for an extra hand to put it on. I can't fasten the catch with my left hand. It frustrates me every single day.
The Christmas whorenament needs help? No problem. He reaches for the bracelet but I snatch it back.
What the fuck.
Do you need to publicly detail your evenings?
Do you want a job as editor? Because I can't pay you and volunteers aren't given censorship authority.
Bridget, you're incorrigible.
How many times did you read it? Be honest, you filthy pervert.
Four. Now are you ready for dinner?
No. Ben is still dressing.
Did he read it?
I turn and just stare at him. He was there, he doesn't need to read it. And you know that. So drop it already.
You're going to kill him, Bridget.
It's the offhand comments using phrases involving death that derail me. I slam the closet door closed and drop my coat on the floor and I march right over until I am up in his face and I point out quietly, harshly that I'm not the conductor of this orchestra. Caleb laughs at my euphemism, coffee and whiskey breath coating me in surprise.
I know you aren't but at the same time he is still testing you and nights such as those are ultimately going to make you fail your practicum.
Oh my God. Don't run with allegories, please. They're sharp. You might hurt yourself.
Isn't that what life has become, princess? Running away with the shred of an idea and letting it get out of hand before we realize not every idea is a good idea and we're in pieces on the floor?
Such as? I'm picking fights now. May as well, no one else is ready to go yet. Our reservations are going to be missed, which becomes complicated when you book a table of seventeen. I have to call the restaurant and warn them we are running late.
Your commune.
Is a well-oiled machine.
It's an incendiary device waiting to explode.
Sour grapes, Cale.
Obvious signals, princess. I'm looking out for you because you can't juggle so many hearts.
Two. Only two. I'm trained for five, fully.
Four. Or maybe seven if you want to be specific.
What the? Oh my God. TWO. Jesus Christ. Two. You make me sound like a party favor.
I'm not blind, princess. I see things you don't think I see. I know what the others want.
Oh, do tell because now you're composing your own melodies. You're ludicrous. And you're wrong.
He opens his mouth to say something and then abruptly checks his expression as Ben comes crashing down the steps, in a black suit with a steel-grey shirt. No tie. He looks like a pro hockey player arriving for a game. A suit on him looks so amazing considering he lives in tour t-shirts and jeans 360 days of the year and the missing four days consist of nothing (if I'm lucky) but plaid flannel pajama bottoms (Damn!) that make me want to put a bucket under my tongue.
Ben refused to join the argument or listen to accusations, instead scowling at Caleb. He pointed one finger at him and said one word.
Don't.
He then took my hand, pulling me out to the front hallway to get our coats on. It's late. We've got to go. The others will have to catch up.
I call the restaurant and let them know we're going to be trickling in gradually over the next half hour to an hour and they're very gracious, appreciative of the warning. Unlike me, who takes warnings as direct challenges. Every time someone levels one I leap into my fighting stance and become ridiculously indignant. Or maybe that's defensive. Oh, wait. It's guilt. Guilt and shame and yet I hold my head high, because the show must go on. Because this is what he wants and who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth when it's presented on such a grand scale?
***
(He sat in the chair in near darkness, eyes focused sharply on the scene that played out in front of him. He missed nothing. Not a centimeter of bare skin, not a kiss, not a whisper. Not a lock of hair or a long breath exhaled over a shoulder taunt with effort. He uses the darkness to torture himself, to bathe in his proclivities and marvel at the power he holds now, the ability to give and take away, like the Jesus Christ of Bridget's universe, gifting favors that breathe and laugh in exchange for total compliance. His own private little world, engineered as a means to an end. He found a red and white tent, deceptively small, complete with a fully working circus inside. He shook out the participants and onto the dry grass fell a blonde and a redhead and he found them intriguing. It's a carnival of madness and he is the ringmaster now. Can't take your eyes off him, I know.)
The Christmas whorenament needs help? No problem. He reaches for the bracelet but I snatch it back.
What the fuck.
Do you need to publicly detail your evenings?
Do you want a job as editor? Because I can't pay you and volunteers aren't given censorship authority.
Bridget, you're incorrigible.
How many times did you read it? Be honest, you filthy pervert.
Four. Now are you ready for dinner?
No. Ben is still dressing.
Did he read it?
I turn and just stare at him. He was there, he doesn't need to read it. And you know that. So drop it already.
You're going to kill him, Bridget.
It's the offhand comments using phrases involving death that derail me. I slam the closet door closed and drop my coat on the floor and I march right over until I am up in his face and I point out quietly, harshly that I'm not the conductor of this orchestra. Caleb laughs at my euphemism, coffee and whiskey breath coating me in surprise.
I know you aren't but at the same time he is still testing you and nights such as those are ultimately going to make you fail your practicum.
Oh my God. Don't run with allegories, please. They're sharp. You might hurt yourself.
Isn't that what life has become, princess? Running away with the shred of an idea and letting it get out of hand before we realize not every idea is a good idea and we're in pieces on the floor?
Such as? I'm picking fights now. May as well, no one else is ready to go yet. Our reservations are going to be missed, which becomes complicated when you book a table of seventeen. I have to call the restaurant and warn them we are running late.
Your commune.
Is a well-oiled machine.
It's an incendiary device waiting to explode.
Sour grapes, Cale.
Obvious signals, princess. I'm looking out for you because you can't juggle so many hearts.
Two. Only two. I'm trained for five, fully.
Four. Or maybe seven if you want to be specific.
What the? Oh my God. TWO. Jesus Christ. Two. You make me sound like a party favor.
I'm not blind, princess. I see things you don't think I see. I know what the others want.
Oh, do tell because now you're composing your own melodies. You're ludicrous. And you're wrong.
He opens his mouth to say something and then abruptly checks his expression as Ben comes crashing down the steps, in a black suit with a steel-grey shirt. No tie. He looks like a pro hockey player arriving for a game. A suit on him looks so amazing considering he lives in tour t-shirts and jeans 360 days of the year and the missing four days consist of nothing (if I'm lucky) but plaid flannel pajama bottoms (Damn!) that make me want to put a bucket under my tongue.
Ben refused to join the argument or listen to accusations, instead scowling at Caleb. He pointed one finger at him and said one word.
Don't.
He then took my hand, pulling me out to the front hallway to get our coats on. It's late. We've got to go. The others will have to catch up.
I call the restaurant and let them know we're going to be trickling in gradually over the next half hour to an hour and they're very gracious, appreciative of the warning. Unlike me, who takes warnings as direct challenges. Every time someone levels one I leap into my fighting stance and become ridiculously indignant. Or maybe that's defensive. Oh, wait. It's guilt. Guilt and shame and yet I hold my head high, because the show must go on. Because this is what he wants and who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth when it's presented on such a grand scale?
***
(He sat in the chair in near darkness, eyes focused sharply on the scene that played out in front of him. He missed nothing. Not a centimeter of bare skin, not a kiss, not a whisper. Not a lock of hair or a long breath exhaled over a shoulder taunt with effort. He uses the darkness to torture himself, to bathe in his proclivities and marvel at the power he holds now, the ability to give and take away, like the Jesus Christ of Bridget's universe, gifting favors that breathe and laugh in exchange for total compliance. His own private little world, engineered as a means to an end. He found a red and white tent, deceptively small, complete with a fully working circus inside. He shook out the participants and onto the dry grass fell a blonde and a redhead and he found them intriguing. It's a carnival of madness and he is the ringmaster now. Can't take your eyes off him, I know.)
Wednesday 21 December 2011
Solstice (Wait for it).
(This will just be all conundrums and confusion to you. Tough.)
His good hand comes up under my chin, pushing my head up.
Look at me, he whispers.
If I do that it's all over. Obediently I meet his eyes. We are squared and there's a far-away sound of everything falling into place.
His arms pull me in, pull me down into the cool cotton sheets and I break his gaze by closing my eyes. I don't want to love too much or fall too hard but there are some things far beyond my control and this isn't one of them. Oh no, this is engineered by fate and fuelled by history. His skin smells like gasoline, his hair is soft fire in the dark.
The cast is gone again only I don't ask what happened to it, I just watch for him to favor that arm but he does not. He is too busy sharping the points he wants to prove and building up his strength for next summer, the summer he always said he would return to busking full time and go back to his physical showmanship instead of designing and creating things other people will ultimately take the credit for. Twenty-twelve was always a far-away goal for someone who doesn't set goals any more than he makes resolutions. This was an exception to his rule.
Kind of like me.
All he wants is the adoration of a faceless crowd, no commitments and no rainy days on the horizon. No deadlines, no locked windows and no indoor yellow lighting when he could be outside under the fire of the sun.
His lips dance along my earlobe, across my eyelids and come to rest on the tip of my nose. I turn away, it tickles and at the same time it's the most familiar feeling in the world to me now. I hold my breath as he pulls down the zipper on my dress and then he pulls the blanket up over us before I begin to shiver. His skin is warm, so as long as I stay right here I won't get cold.
He kisses across my shoulder, my clavicle, and back up to my jaw. I put my arms around his neck and pull him closer still. I'm going to give up on breathing now, I think I can live on love instead of air. He puts his head down against my ear and begins to rock against me. He's so fierce all I can do is hold him close and hold on tight.
He has my head locked in his hands, pressed against his chest. I am tense and silent. He pulls me up and whispers a command that I breathe for him, breathe with him, breathe him in and I nod furiously. I can do that. I can manage that, even though I can't manage a grip on reality or good graciousness or loyalty. I can manage a breath. He presses his mouth against mine and I can breathe fire now too. His kisses are hard and slow, intensity burning our lips raw but I don't turn away this time.
I can ride the darkness on through to the sun on this longest night of the year and then when the flames lick across the water bringing the blinding light to warm up the morning I will slide off the bed and hit the floor, returning to spend my day with aching limbs and a fractured heart in a reality no more real than the words in some old standard about making believe.
(What did they make it out of and how did they make it hold?)
What do you see? He asks me.
My eyes fill with tears and I shake my head. Some revelations are not meant to be shared. I can't tell you, I'm sorry, I whisper. He understands, oddly enough. He knows precisely what I see in his eyes. Clear as daylight, quiet as candledark, lit by a single torch and so plainly visible to all.
Some things are never meant to be admitted out loud.
(Leave us in the dark.)
(Stay where the light is brightest.)
(In between is safest, peanut. You can still be warm but you can step into the shadows to hide, if there is a time that calls for that.)
(What? I couldn't hear you, Lochlan.)
His good hand comes up under my chin, pushing my head up.
Look at me, he whispers.
If I do that it's all over. Obediently I meet his eyes. We are squared and there's a far-away sound of everything falling into place.
His arms pull me in, pull me down into the cool cotton sheets and I break his gaze by closing my eyes. I don't want to love too much or fall too hard but there are some things far beyond my control and this isn't one of them. Oh no, this is engineered by fate and fuelled by history. His skin smells like gasoline, his hair is soft fire in the dark.
The cast is gone again only I don't ask what happened to it, I just watch for him to favor that arm but he does not. He is too busy sharping the points he wants to prove and building up his strength for next summer, the summer he always said he would return to busking full time and go back to his physical showmanship instead of designing and creating things other people will ultimately take the credit for. Twenty-twelve was always a far-away goal for someone who doesn't set goals any more than he makes resolutions. This was an exception to his rule.
Kind of like me.
All he wants is the adoration of a faceless crowd, no commitments and no rainy days on the horizon. No deadlines, no locked windows and no indoor yellow lighting when he could be outside under the fire of the sun.
His lips dance along my earlobe, across my eyelids and come to rest on the tip of my nose. I turn away, it tickles and at the same time it's the most familiar feeling in the world to me now. I hold my breath as he pulls down the zipper on my dress and then he pulls the blanket up over us before I begin to shiver. His skin is warm, so as long as I stay right here I won't get cold.
He kisses across my shoulder, my clavicle, and back up to my jaw. I put my arms around his neck and pull him closer still. I'm going to give up on breathing now, I think I can live on love instead of air. He puts his head down against my ear and begins to rock against me. He's so fierce all I can do is hold him close and hold on tight.
He has my head locked in his hands, pressed against his chest. I am tense and silent. He pulls me up and whispers a command that I breathe for him, breathe with him, breathe him in and I nod furiously. I can do that. I can manage that, even though I can't manage a grip on reality or good graciousness or loyalty. I can manage a breath. He presses his mouth against mine and I can breathe fire now too. His kisses are hard and slow, intensity burning our lips raw but I don't turn away this time.
I can ride the darkness on through to the sun on this longest night of the year and then when the flames lick across the water bringing the blinding light to warm up the morning I will slide off the bed and hit the floor, returning to spend my day with aching limbs and a fractured heart in a reality no more real than the words in some old standard about making believe.
(What did they make it out of and how did they make it hold?)
What do you see? He asks me.
My eyes fill with tears and I shake my head. Some revelations are not meant to be shared. I can't tell you, I'm sorry, I whisper. He understands, oddly enough. He knows precisely what I see in his eyes. Clear as daylight, quiet as candledark, lit by a single torch and so plainly visible to all.
Some things are never meant to be admitted out loud.
(Leave us in the dark.)
(Stay where the light is brightest.)
(In between is safest, peanut. You can still be warm but you can step into the shadows to hide, if there is a time that calls for that.)
(What? I couldn't hear you, Lochlan.)
Tuesday 20 December 2011
Zen and the art of shopping.
It's 11:15 and Lochlan has poured me a honey Jack Daniels and eggnog to drink so that I sleep tonight. It's so strong I can feel my brain crackling as I take small gulps even after being warned multiple times to sip it slowly. They say the same thing about coffee. You should SEE how fast I can drink a boiling hot cup of coffee. It's just DUMB.
What a glorious day. I walked around sipping my coffee and admiring things in stores. I took my time. The only people who spoke were clerks offering to help me find things, but no thank you, I'm not buying today. I'm done. Wrapped and loaded for bear and Santa too. I leaned way over the glass on the second floor and he looked up at me and waved this morning and I waved back and took his picture before moving on. I admired the most beautiful dark green satin strapless dress and then I picked the hanger up and held the dress out and realized I don't need it, I have one almost just like it. My Christmas dress. A Valentino that Caleb had altered and sent to me, tied in a box with silver ribbons. He did this many years ago without being asked. It fit perfectly and I wear it every chance I get. I don't know how he knew my measurements. He's never asked. The story goes that he held it up when the alterations were finished and studied it and said it would work. He's spooky like that. I'm still never sure if I should be flattered or run screaming.
I looked at platform shoes and decided I really need some new things. A lot of new things. Or do I? I do but maybe not platforms. Maybe just standard heels. Maybe flats. Maybe a new pair of Angel boots. At least.
I sat and read the paper on my phone when I got tired, watching the young mother beside me feed her baby daughter lunch. I marveled at how small babies are and how glad I am that my children are tweenagers and sort of silly but how there is only one gift under the tree that is a toy, since Henry is ten years old still even though sometimes it feels as if he is much older than that.
I considered buying a new set of bobby pins since we've reached the end of the year and I don't know how many of my gold and silver pins will make it back to me. The boys have an unspoken tradition of collecting them right through the end of the year and then presenting them back to me in neat little containers and boxes, treasures found and collected the same way I collect sea glass. They learned it from Jake. I think I'll wait and see how many reappear. Besides, the stores didn't have gold or silver. I only saw brown, black or white on my travels.
I ruminated on how deliciously wrecked my goddamned knees are from so many years of running. If I sit too long or walk too much on hard floors now my knees and hips ache. And I wore sensible flats to walk in today. I thought I was being smart. I guess it doesn't make a difference, everything aches tonight. But not for long.
I vowed to pare down my belongings to what I dearly love because there's just so much STUFF out there. Stuff won't make me happy, people do. Feelings do. This freaking eggnog and Jack Daniels does. Like, in a hurry. Time for bed. Very long day after all, even though it's probably one of the more relaxing days I have spent lately.
I really like that. I could get in to this relaxing thing. Lets hope it continues.
What a glorious day. I walked around sipping my coffee and admiring things in stores. I took my time. The only people who spoke were clerks offering to help me find things, but no thank you, I'm not buying today. I'm done. Wrapped and loaded for bear and Santa too. I leaned way over the glass on the second floor and he looked up at me and waved this morning and I waved back and took his picture before moving on. I admired the most beautiful dark green satin strapless dress and then I picked the hanger up and held the dress out and realized I don't need it, I have one almost just like it. My Christmas dress. A Valentino that Caleb had altered and sent to me, tied in a box with silver ribbons. He did this many years ago without being asked. It fit perfectly and I wear it every chance I get. I don't know how he knew my measurements. He's never asked. The story goes that he held it up when the alterations were finished and studied it and said it would work. He's spooky like that. I'm still never sure if I should be flattered or run screaming.
I looked at platform shoes and decided I really need some new things. A lot of new things. Or do I? I do but maybe not platforms. Maybe just standard heels. Maybe flats. Maybe a new pair of Angel boots. At least.
I sat and read the paper on my phone when I got tired, watching the young mother beside me feed her baby daughter lunch. I marveled at how small babies are and how glad I am that my children are tweenagers and sort of silly but how there is only one gift under the tree that is a toy, since Henry is ten years old still even though sometimes it feels as if he is much older than that.
I considered buying a new set of bobby pins since we've reached the end of the year and I don't know how many of my gold and silver pins will make it back to me. The boys have an unspoken tradition of collecting them right through the end of the year and then presenting them back to me in neat little containers and boxes, treasures found and collected the same way I collect sea glass. They learned it from Jake. I think I'll wait and see how many reappear. Besides, the stores didn't have gold or silver. I only saw brown, black or white on my travels.
I ruminated on how deliciously wrecked my goddamned knees are from so many years of running. If I sit too long or walk too much on hard floors now my knees and hips ache. And I wore sensible flats to walk in today. I thought I was being smart. I guess it doesn't make a difference, everything aches tonight. But not for long.
I vowed to pare down my belongings to what I dearly love because there's just so much STUFF out there. Stuff won't make me happy, people do. Feelings do. This freaking eggnog and Jack Daniels does. Like, in a hurry. Time for bed. Very long day after all, even though it's probably one of the more relaxing days I have spent lately.
I really like that. I could get in to this relaxing thing. Lets hope it continues.
Monday 19 December 2011
Shooting stars.
(I don't have to remind you at this point that I don't actually call him 'Batman' to his face, do I?)
Batman has outfitted his floor to ceiling windows with those incredible lights that drop color down the line in stages, like the lights on the big tree at Kitsilano. All of the windows. I'm so hypnotized by Christmas lights, it almost isn't fair that they're going to conduct their Mine is bigger argument in this way but I have become used to the unbearable tension between Caleb and Batman.
What I have not become used to, however, is the sudden realization that Batman is wearing Tuscan Soul. I know that scent very well, and I'm proud of myself for my ability to pick out a man's signature fragrance from three yards away and have yet to be corrected when I hazard a guess to the wearer. Bergamot is a giveaway in this case, and it's worth noting that Caleb sometimes wears it too.
What do you think, Princess? He's pleased with himself, I can tell. He's smiling out of one side of his mouth, trying to suppress the grin. I make note of the use of my nickname and shake my head vaguely.
It's nice. Looks very pretty.
It really shines when the sun is rising. Maybe you should stay and see that.
I turn around. What is that? What are you doing?
Capitalizing on Satan's tricks of the trade, Bridget. Isn't this how it works? How does he have unlimited access to you no matter what and I can count on one hand the number of times-
Don't do this. Why can't I just enjoy the lights? My whole face is sad. What bullshit. I can't believe he's going to pull this six days before Christmas.
You didn't come here for the lights, Bridget.
No, I didn't. He starts to smile again but I keep talking. I came over to bring your present. I wasn't sure if you were going home for Christmas.
Too far for a few days. I have meetings.
Your family will be disappointed.
I haven't gone home for Christmas for years, Bridget. Home is where your heart is and I'm never there on the holiday.
Where is your heart?
I don't know exactly. His eyes turn darker and he walks to the kitchen to pour himself a scotch. I lost it decades ago. I guess I don't want to admit that I thought I was immune to something and it turns out I'm not.
So what do you do now?
Spend Christmas in a new place, I guess. I'm going to check out Woodward's windows and order a list of movies to watch and get some takeaway. You know. Just try and not work for a few days. Get some rest. I think I'm coming down with a bit of a cold.
He's watching me to see what I do next. I'm known for letting all the words come out before my brain is engaged. And I'm known the world over for not wanting people to be alone at Christmas, above all else. That's how we got Duncan and even Jacob, for fucks sakes.
Yeah, rest will be good for that. There's a bad cold going around. Take care of yourself. I am putting on my coat. My brain is in gear, I need to leave before I am drowning in Salvatore's dreams.
Bridget- Batman grabs my shoulders and pulls me in for a hug. Merry Christmas.
I throw my arms around his shoulders and put my head down against his shirt. I inhale deeply while I have the chance. Merry Christmas, Batman. Take care of yourself and call if you need anything.
What would I need, Bridget? I step back and he holds the door. We're just staring at each other. The lines we don't cross hold nicely most of the time. Like tonight. Actually, you know what I need? The name of something I can take that will let me sleep. I can't breathe when I lie down. What should I take?
Nyquil. Get some Nyquil. The green liquid. It's the best.
You've tried it?
Yes, It's the only thing I buy for us.
They're really lucky to have you. We're, all of us, you know? Really lucky. You're a gift. You're like the best Christmas present of all.
I walk to the elevator and turn and when the doors begin to close I say goodbye. I blow a kiss. I feel thankless and flighty after everything he has done for me. For all of us. I resolve to call tomorrow and see if he feels better. Or maybe I'll just bring him some breakfast and coffee before the sun rises, so I can see the way the silver lights look bathed in the orangy-pinks and purples of the early dawn. And check on him. People shouldn't be alone. Not this time of year. Hard to believe Christmas is less than a week away.
Batman has outfitted his floor to ceiling windows with those incredible lights that drop color down the line in stages, like the lights on the big tree at Kitsilano. All of the windows. I'm so hypnotized by Christmas lights, it almost isn't fair that they're going to conduct their Mine is bigger argument in this way but I have become used to the unbearable tension between Caleb and Batman.
What I have not become used to, however, is the sudden realization that Batman is wearing Tuscan Soul. I know that scent very well, and I'm proud of myself for my ability to pick out a man's signature fragrance from three yards away and have yet to be corrected when I hazard a guess to the wearer. Bergamot is a giveaway in this case, and it's worth noting that Caleb sometimes wears it too.
What do you think, Princess? He's pleased with himself, I can tell. He's smiling out of one side of his mouth, trying to suppress the grin. I make note of the use of my nickname and shake my head vaguely.
It's nice. Looks very pretty.
It really shines when the sun is rising. Maybe you should stay and see that.
I turn around. What is that? What are you doing?
Capitalizing on Satan's tricks of the trade, Bridget. Isn't this how it works? How does he have unlimited access to you no matter what and I can count on one hand the number of times-
Don't do this. Why can't I just enjoy the lights? My whole face is sad. What bullshit. I can't believe he's going to pull this six days before Christmas.
You didn't come here for the lights, Bridget.
No, I didn't. He starts to smile again but I keep talking. I came over to bring your present. I wasn't sure if you were going home for Christmas.
Too far for a few days. I have meetings.
Your family will be disappointed.
I haven't gone home for Christmas for years, Bridget. Home is where your heart is and I'm never there on the holiday.
Where is your heart?
I don't know exactly. His eyes turn darker and he walks to the kitchen to pour himself a scotch. I lost it decades ago. I guess I don't want to admit that I thought I was immune to something and it turns out I'm not.
So what do you do now?
Spend Christmas in a new place, I guess. I'm going to check out Woodward's windows and order a list of movies to watch and get some takeaway. You know. Just try and not work for a few days. Get some rest. I think I'm coming down with a bit of a cold.
He's watching me to see what I do next. I'm known for letting all the words come out before my brain is engaged. And I'm known the world over for not wanting people to be alone at Christmas, above all else. That's how we got Duncan and even Jacob, for fucks sakes.
Yeah, rest will be good for that. There's a bad cold going around. Take care of yourself. I am putting on my coat. My brain is in gear, I need to leave before I am drowning in Salvatore's dreams.
Bridget- Batman grabs my shoulders and pulls me in for a hug. Merry Christmas.
I throw my arms around his shoulders and put my head down against his shirt. I inhale deeply while I have the chance. Merry Christmas, Batman. Take care of yourself and call if you need anything.
What would I need, Bridget? I step back and he holds the door. We're just staring at each other. The lines we don't cross hold nicely most of the time. Like tonight. Actually, you know what I need? The name of something I can take that will let me sleep. I can't breathe when I lie down. What should I take?
Nyquil. Get some Nyquil. The green liquid. It's the best.
You've tried it?
Yes, It's the only thing I buy for us.
They're really lucky to have you. We're, all of us, you know? Really lucky. You're a gift. You're like the best Christmas present of all.
I walk to the elevator and turn and when the doors begin to close I say goodbye. I blow a kiss. I feel thankless and flighty after everything he has done for me. For all of us. I resolve to call tomorrow and see if he feels better. Or maybe I'll just bring him some breakfast and coffee before the sun rises, so I can see the way the silver lights look bathed in the orangy-pinks and purples of the early dawn. And check on him. People shouldn't be alone. Not this time of year. Hard to believe Christmas is less than a week away.
Sunday 18 December 2011
Waiting for the angels of Avalon.
Oh war is the common cry,We have a tree! It's up even. It's in the corner of the living room and it's a Grand fir, which was far nicer a tree than I expected we would get, but when I saw the sad soft Douglases and remembered trying to keep my heavy heirloom porcelain and glass ornaments from bending to touch the floor I set about picking something much sturdier and since it's so fucking close to Christmas, the tree man gave it to me for a song.
Pick up you swords and fly.
The sky is filled with good and bad
that mortals never know.
Oh, well, the night is long
the beads of time pass slow,
Tired eyes on the sunrise,
waiting for the eastern glow.
The pain of war cannot exceed
the woe of aftermath,
The drums will shake the castle wall,
the ring wraiths ride in black, Ride on.
Sing as you raise your bow,
shoot straighter than before.
No comfort has the fire at night
that lights the face so cold.
He remembered us from last year too. Huh.
But I have no energy anymore. I supervised some wrapping tonight, watching Henry struggle with neat folds and the terrible little tape dispenser, and I offered to cook a big dinner but Ben took one look at me and dialed the Chinese restaurant. I am asleep on my feet, approaching that weird stasis where I have let go of worrying about whether or not Christmas will be a success and instead reassured myself that working doggedly at it for the past six weeks straight means I really did try my best and it's okay to relax and begin to enjoy the holiday now. Hard to believe it's still a week away, maybe we're doing better than I thought we were.
I want to sleep more than I am but it still feels as if I'm breaking the surface when I wake up, gasping for air. I'm sure I hold my breath in my sleep and that frightens me but I don't know what to do about it and once my eyes open they remain open for the day. I'll take the dog up the street, walking slowly in the quiet early morning and marvelling at how warm it is and then we come back and I start the coffee and draw a picture or read the newspaper. Then the exhaustion creeps back in around the edges of me and it gains more purchase over the course of the day until it is resting on my head and shoulders, a weight pushing my heels into the ground, compressing my spine, dulling my eyes against the light.
Maybe that will change this week. I have to be careful not to let the night owls keep me up so late, I have to remember it's just fine to sit down and read a book or watch a movie without it being only after it's too late to do anything fun and everything not-fun is done, like chores.
I have to remember to have some coffee in the middle of the day again. That really works, only the boys don't want me to have any bad habits at all. Good luck with that one, I say.
Oh and in other news, Caleb put lights on the boat. Well, he had them put on. Seventeen sets in all. It's a floating carnival. He pronounced it tacky. I said it was perfect.
Saturday 17 December 2011
Through glass.
Standing on the grass sipping a hot coffee, I am smiling at the lights. Many of the boats have Christmas lights up. I am gleeful about it. Everything looks so beautiful. The lights are stunning, doubled in the reflection of the water, punctuating the night with LED sparkles. Mentally I will my whole body to turn to stone so I can stay here, and be a slight, regal version of an Easter Island statue, gazing out over the beloved blue-green sea toward the future or the past or some semblance of life in between.
Caleb's boat has no lights on it. I'm not sure if I should request it or not.
***
The clerk at Tiffany & Co. informs us that, due to a busy afternoon, there is a waiting list to see a salesperson. If we'd like to add our name, she can see that we are taken care of. Ben defers, and invites me to look around first. I head off to do the diamond loop, beginning with the signature pieces and the bridal counters and ending with the leather goods and the Elsa Peretti collections.
He says all I have to do is point to something and he'll have it wrapped.
I walk straight out the door and turn right. In the window with the yellow diamonds they have a tiny snowy pink and blue carousel that spins around and around and around. I want that. I would never stop watching it.
But it isn't for sale.
***
I'm trying to emulate the girl on the other side of the ramen shop. She's using her spoon and her chopsticks in conjunction to eat the noodles. I'm good with chopsticks but every time I pick up the spoon with my left hand my right hand fails to work properly. I put the spoon down and I'm fine. It's so messy but so delicious. Ben is finished so I need to worry less about soup winding up on my dress and more about eating my spicy akaoni miso so we can go home. I'm tempted to ask for some gyoza to take away, just to eat in the truck on the way home. They are so delicious. It's like I haven't eaten in days. I can't remember if I have or not but for tonight the soup will suffice.
***
It's beginning to rain and we have returned to the house empty-handed, having set out seven hours ago with firm plans to go to the Christmas tree lot and bring home a tree. We have driven past ten different tree lots but somehow we needed to just lose a day, give it away, not become slaves to the hours, minutes and schedules of others.
PJ and Ruth present matching facial expressions, rife with disappointment but they are not bound by the same constraints of desperate timekeeping. We vow to rise early tomorrow and head straight to the lot. Ben will again tell me to pick out whatever I like best. Easily done, since these are not designer trees, unless you walk to the center of the lot where the Noble firs are. I will stick to the edges, where the misfit spiny Fraser and Douglas firs rest against wooden saw horses.
I want one that is perfectly imperfect, a tree for a home that is also perfectly imperfect.
I will give the man a handful of twenties and he will make a fresh cut and offer to help Ben get it safely into the truck bed. We will make small talk about Halifax, and compare readiness for what has become a dizzying carousel of holiday madness. We will promise to come back next year.
Next year seems like a million miles away but I know I will wake up in a week and it will be here already and Christmas trees will be the last thing on my mind as I fight to honor the resolutions I've been working on so diligently.
Ultimately I will fail, but I always try my hardest. And that's what counts, isn't it?
Caleb's boat has no lights on it. I'm not sure if I should request it or not.
***
The clerk at Tiffany & Co. informs us that, due to a busy afternoon, there is a waiting list to see a salesperson. If we'd like to add our name, she can see that we are taken care of. Ben defers, and invites me to look around first. I head off to do the diamond loop, beginning with the signature pieces and the bridal counters and ending with the leather goods and the Elsa Peretti collections.
He says all I have to do is point to something and he'll have it wrapped.
I walk straight out the door and turn right. In the window with the yellow diamonds they have a tiny snowy pink and blue carousel that spins around and around and around. I want that. I would never stop watching it.
But it isn't for sale.
***
I'm trying to emulate the girl on the other side of the ramen shop. She's using her spoon and her chopsticks in conjunction to eat the noodles. I'm good with chopsticks but every time I pick up the spoon with my left hand my right hand fails to work properly. I put the spoon down and I'm fine. It's so messy but so delicious. Ben is finished so I need to worry less about soup winding up on my dress and more about eating my spicy akaoni miso so we can go home. I'm tempted to ask for some gyoza to take away, just to eat in the truck on the way home. They are so delicious. It's like I haven't eaten in days. I can't remember if I have or not but for tonight the soup will suffice.
***
It's beginning to rain and we have returned to the house empty-handed, having set out seven hours ago with firm plans to go to the Christmas tree lot and bring home a tree. We have driven past ten different tree lots but somehow we needed to just lose a day, give it away, not become slaves to the hours, minutes and schedules of others.
PJ and Ruth present matching facial expressions, rife with disappointment but they are not bound by the same constraints of desperate timekeeping. We vow to rise early tomorrow and head straight to the lot. Ben will again tell me to pick out whatever I like best. Easily done, since these are not designer trees, unless you walk to the center of the lot where the Noble firs are. I will stick to the edges, where the misfit spiny Fraser and Douglas firs rest against wooden saw horses.
I want one that is perfectly imperfect, a tree for a home that is also perfectly imperfect.
I will give the man a handful of twenties and he will make a fresh cut and offer to help Ben get it safely into the truck bed. We will make small talk about Halifax, and compare readiness for what has become a dizzying carousel of holiday madness. We will promise to come back next year.
Next year seems like a million miles away but I know I will wake up in a week and it will be here already and Christmas trees will be the last thing on my mind as I fight to honor the resolutions I've been working on so diligently.
Ultimately I will fail, but I always try my hardest. And that's what counts, isn't it?
Friday 16 December 2011
Apple. Tree. Far. Blah blah blah.
I knew for sure last night when I asked Ruth to return her scissors, markers and tape to the basket on her desk. This morning when I went into her room to put her folded laundry on her bed, the scissors, markers and tape were sitting on the desk right in front of the basket.
Who does that? Goes all the way to a different floor only to be too indifferent to put the supplies back where they belong, to the point of leaving them directly in front of where they belong?
Lochlan does, that's who.
Drives me nuts.
Now times two.
Who does that? Goes all the way to a different floor only to be too indifferent to put the supplies back where they belong, to the point of leaving them directly in front of where they belong?
Lochlan does, that's who.
Drives me nuts.
Now times two.
Wednesday 14 December 2011
Let's just cover shock, awe and Tahoe all in one go. I don't have much time.
Thank you for your concerned emails, I realize posting an entry Sunday and then nothing since would throw the Internet into a tizzy, I just didn't realize how large. So in order to put your minds at ease, I didn't do any of the following, in case you heard otherwise:
1. Die.
2. Eat so much rice from the new rice cooker that I explode like a wren at a spring church wedding.
3. Run off with Robert Redford to live out my dream of lap dancing on Sundance while he pulls his gloves off one finger at a time. With his teeth.
4. Join the circus.
5. Get killed in a sex game where Caleb cheats anyway and then pretends not to hear my safe word (which almost happened in what..85? 95? 05?, oh, just pick a year and we'll go with that.)
6. See the new Rock of Ages trailer and turn Amish, eschewing all media forever and ever amen because it looks that bad.
So all of those rumors are false, save for the ones I hope for. (Mostly #3 or #4).
Nope, in this case I was buried in presents, parties and pageants and lost track of the week, mostly because I've found lots of alcohol, wrapping paper and carols but very little hot food, sleep or cuddles.
That last one, well, that's a doozy. I am off to empty the contents of our traveling bags into the washing machine, cook something wonderful, and then turn and lock myself into Ben's arms for the night so I can dream of pine trees covered with snow and men in red coats with white beards. Or maybe that was men in white coats with red beards. Or maybe it's black coats and brown beards.
Yes, that sounds just about right. Goodnight, before my face hits the keyboard (again).
1. Die.
2. Eat so much rice from the new rice cooker that I explode like a wren at a spring church wedding.
3. Run off with Robert Redford to live out my dream of lap dancing on Sundance while he pulls his gloves off one finger at a time. With his teeth.
4. Join the circus.
5. Get killed in a sex game where Caleb cheats anyway and then pretends not to hear my safe word (which almost happened in what..85? 95? 05?, oh, just pick a year and we'll go with that.)
6. See the new Rock of Ages trailer and turn Amish, eschewing all media forever and ever amen because it looks that bad.
So all of those rumors are false, save for the ones I hope for. (Mostly #3 or #4).
Nope, in this case I was buried in presents, parties and pageants and lost track of the week, mostly because I've found lots of alcohol, wrapping paper and carols but very little hot food, sleep or cuddles.
That last one, well, that's a doozy. I am off to empty the contents of our traveling bags into the washing machine, cook something wonderful, and then turn and lock myself into Ben's arms for the night so I can dream of pine trees covered with snow and men in red coats with white beards. Or maybe that was men in white coats with red beards. Or maybe it's black coats and brown beards.
Yes, that sounds just about right. Goodnight, before my face hits the keyboard (again).
Sunday 11 December 2011
B-Lister.
I found Santa sitting in a plush throne at a virtually empty shopping mall. It was late, past the dinner hour and the crowds have all but vanished.
He was reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, an airport paperback concealed inside a larger, hollow book that purported to be the list of all of the children in the world who had been naughty or nice. The Book of Lists. I always wonder which one my name is on, even though I'm pretty sure it's at the top of the Naughty list, especially if the list is in alphabetical order. B is second to first. And I bet all the As are total Santa ass-kissers, leaving me to head up the line that stands slack-jawed and casual, weaving side to side, hair messed up, clothes and fingertips smoking black.
I stood and watched his irises scan the words. Back and forth, back and forth. I know it's an engrossing book, I've read it myself and so I was quiet. I didn't want to interrupt him but at the same time I had precious minutes to get this done under the guise of picking out a present without witnesses so as to save at least a few surprises for Christmas Day.
I took another step forward and he checked himself, smiling and tucking the book under his chair before pretending to be surprised, thrilled to see me.
Bridget! How are you?
I'm doing okay, Santa. Just finishing some shopping.
Come over and sit with me, then.
I smiled and walked behind the velvet rope. I put my coat and my bags on a hook and stepped up to the chair. Santa held his arms out and true to form I went into them. I sat on his knee and he laughed and asked me what I wanted this year.
Not like it matters, the naughty kids don't get presents. How do you think Santa knew my name? Yeah, the top of that stupid list.
I'd like my ghosts to come back from the dead. Sometimes I want to talk to them. Sometimes I wish they were still here.
Bridget. I'm the spirit of Christmas, not a maker of miracles. For that you're going to have to go straight to the Big Man.
Does he have a chair at the mall? I'll be first in line.
That elicited a huge belly laugh. No, my dear, I'm afraid you need to go to church to talk to him.
See, there's another fallacy right there, poking holes in Santa's red-and-white facade. You don't have to talk to God at church, he's supposed to be everywhere at once. Unless your name starts with a B and can be found at the top of that goddamned list.
So is there anything you can do? Anything at all?
Honey, most people want an iPhone, or a new car, or a raise. Do you have anything tangible that I could leave under your tree to retain enough credibility in your eyes to bring you back to see me next year? I daresay I've never seen anyone work so hard at wanting to have Christmas spirit, and I'd do anything to be able to help you out.
My eyes catch the glowing red sign of the liquor store across the promenade. I can't believe I'm going to let Santa Claus off the hook but I do because I tend to exit gracefully after I bring people to their knees with my pleas for clarity.
Sure, bring me a bottle of Crown Royal Black, and we'll call it even.
I can do that, Bridget. You've got fourteen days to get your name on that other list and you'll see your present under the tree on Christmas morning. Just do me a favour and don't drink it with that other legendary character we all seem to half-believe in, because God is a lot of things but tolerant with those who defy his good graces by cavorting with the Devil isn't one of them.
I won't, Santa. I promise. Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas, Bridget. Now take this candy cane and smile. The elf is going to take our picture. You can purchase it at the counter for fifteen bucks on your way out.
He was reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, an airport paperback concealed inside a larger, hollow book that purported to be the list of all of the children in the world who had been naughty or nice. The Book of Lists. I always wonder which one my name is on, even though I'm pretty sure it's at the top of the Naughty list, especially if the list is in alphabetical order. B is second to first. And I bet all the As are total Santa ass-kissers, leaving me to head up the line that stands slack-jawed and casual, weaving side to side, hair messed up, clothes and fingertips smoking black.
I stood and watched his irises scan the words. Back and forth, back and forth. I know it's an engrossing book, I've read it myself and so I was quiet. I didn't want to interrupt him but at the same time I had precious minutes to get this done under the guise of picking out a present without witnesses so as to save at least a few surprises for Christmas Day.
I took another step forward and he checked himself, smiling and tucking the book under his chair before pretending to be surprised, thrilled to see me.
Bridget! How are you?
I'm doing okay, Santa. Just finishing some shopping.
Come over and sit with me, then.
I smiled and walked behind the velvet rope. I put my coat and my bags on a hook and stepped up to the chair. Santa held his arms out and true to form I went into them. I sat on his knee and he laughed and asked me what I wanted this year.
Not like it matters, the naughty kids don't get presents. How do you think Santa knew my name? Yeah, the top of that stupid list.
I'd like my ghosts to come back from the dead. Sometimes I want to talk to them. Sometimes I wish they were still here.
Bridget. I'm the spirit of Christmas, not a maker of miracles. For that you're going to have to go straight to the Big Man.
Does he have a chair at the mall? I'll be first in line.
That elicited a huge belly laugh. No, my dear, I'm afraid you need to go to church to talk to him.
See, there's another fallacy right there, poking holes in Santa's red-and-white facade. You don't have to talk to God at church, he's supposed to be everywhere at once. Unless your name starts with a B and can be found at the top of that goddamned list.
So is there anything you can do? Anything at all?
Honey, most people want an iPhone, or a new car, or a raise. Do you have anything tangible that I could leave under your tree to retain enough credibility in your eyes to bring you back to see me next year? I daresay I've never seen anyone work so hard at wanting to have Christmas spirit, and I'd do anything to be able to help you out.
My eyes catch the glowing red sign of the liquor store across the promenade. I can't believe I'm going to let Santa Claus off the hook but I do because I tend to exit gracefully after I bring people to their knees with my pleas for clarity.
Sure, bring me a bottle of Crown Royal Black, and we'll call it even.
I can do that, Bridget. You've got fourteen days to get your name on that other list and you'll see your present under the tree on Christmas morning. Just do me a favour and don't drink it with that other legendary character we all seem to half-believe in, because God is a lot of things but tolerant with those who defy his good graces by cavorting with the Devil isn't one of them.
I won't, Santa. I promise. Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas, Bridget. Now take this candy cane and smile. The elf is going to take our picture. You can purchase it at the counter for fifteen bucks on your way out.
Saturday 10 December 2011
Waiting for Morpheus.
In this life, you're the one place I call homeI am consuming song lyrics in overdrive, every arrangement better than the next. I'm scrambling to hit the repeat button so I can hear them again and memorize them by heart as I lay in the feather bed under the struggling sunrise. Soon enough the sun will disappear into the clouds and it will be time to rise and glint with a dull reflection, instead of shine. No one shines when it's cloudy, we just readjust our plans and take a moment to grab an umbrella, just in case.
In this life, you're the feeling I belong
In this life, you're the flower and the thorn
You're everything that's fair in love and war
But I am loathe to get up. The words, the melodies are pulling me back down into the soft folds of cool cotton, stitches neat and perfect in a row, a stark contrast to the those who sleep on into the morning, the one on my right with a smooth peaceful expression and tousled black hair, sticking up straight at the crown, sheets thrown off his shoulders. His skin is so cool sometimes I still count his heartbeats before I'll believe he's mine. He dreams of all the songs he's going to write when he's finished disengaging from the corporate business and returns to working for himself. He dreams of life without lawyers, royalties, art direction and sycophancy but there are no perfect days like that.
On my left the other one sleeps fitfully, tense. Red curls fighting order, his skin flushed and feverish, stacking his mastered skills in his dreams, watching for traps and ensuring a smile on every face. I'm one hundred percent sure every dream he has involves a perfect full performance and he'll replay the same dreams every night until he gets it right. Only you can't get it right, and there are no perfect days, just great days and not-so-great days, like those with rain or tough, heartless crowds or conflict or equipment failure at a popular attraction.
I don't sleep enough to dream anymore, I just drop off while listening to a song and wake up with words that seem to be arranged in a particularly extraordinary way, or when the music ends. Nothing startles me more than dead silence anymore.
And nothing soothes like a song.
Friday 9 December 2011
Imitation of Life.
This lightning stormWe're back on the stone patio in the freezing cold morning. I can see my breath. Today I wish I didn't have to see him. The further we get from Wednesday the more angry and guilty I feel. Shameful. Filthy and corrupted.
This tidal wave
This avalanche, I'm not afraid.
C'mon, c'mon no one can see me cry.
You're an adult. You make your own decisions.
Since when, Lochlan? I'm not even allowed to dress myself.
Case in point, another cold day, another hood pulled up and tied in a bow under my chin. Something you do when someone is four and hasn't learned their knots yet. I know my knots and I know some they don't even know. I can tie a bow but I choose to leave everything unraveled and pooled across my shoulders instead. If we're going to continue to repeat history in every different dynamic and incarnation we have at our disposal than I will revert and just stay young and leave it all in his lap. Only he keeps pushing it off and I can't get through to that hard head of his.
What do you want me to say?
What did Ben say?
He said to leave it be. We're not going to talk about it.
Well then why don't we just-
Because you are not Ben. I thought you were different now! I thought you were going to be there. When I went into the water-
Your life wasn't at stake this time, Bridget. Fuck. Do you know how crazy this makes me? I don't even want to think about it. When it comes to that I just shut down. I don't know what to say.
Say you're sorry.
You first.
We are facing each other, his face is set in stone. Expressionless except for that disapproving perfection. That expression that only I get and I hate it.
For what?
For doing what you do best, Bridget. Hellbent on ruining one more good thing to come into your life in a long time.
You say sorry, Lochlan!
I wasn't even there, Bridget!
Exactly! Maybe if you stuck around I wouldn't be like this.
So you're saying if I had asked you to leave, you would have come with me?
Yes.
He walks three paces the other way and then abruptly puts his arms up around his head and turns around, flinging them back down.
WHAT THE FUCK, BRIDGET. I can't fix what happened. And I don't think you care anymore, really. You run to the first person who puts their arms out for you. If you want to pin that on me you're going to have to look in a fucking mirror, baby, because I DIDN'T DO THIS TO YOU!
Stop it. Ben steps through the door and we both defuse instantly. You fucking ever yell like that at her again and I'll throw you off the fucking cliff, Loch.
Oh well. As long as we're doing death threats, happy Friday. It's like I'm not even there.
Oh, now that you've had your fun you're going to grow some balls, brother?
She's an adult.
No she isn't! He stopped suddenly, staring at me. Why can't you both stay away from him? Jesus Christ, just stay away from him. He backed away from me, shaking his head. He's in tears and he wants one thing in his life and he'll never have it. Ever.
I didn't answer him. I watch him go indoors. SLAM! I'm surprised all the glass hasn't shattered to the bottom of the door by now. After a fashion, Ben's voice from behind me. He is still staring up at the house while I have turned to watch the waves.
He needs help, Bridget.
He needs me. Admitting that makes me feel small and hopeless and guilty as sin. And I know Ben's about to measure out a little more length so I can roam just a little further away from him.
So go to him. I turned around. His face wasn't kind or generous. It was a test to see how close to the edges I would venture.
I passed with flying colors.
He'll come back to us when he's ready, Benny. He'll be fine.
I turned away again to provide Benjamin with the dignity of not having his relief recognized. I'm not a monster, it serves no purpose to capitalize on the doubts he won't admit to out loud.
Thursday 8 December 2011
Ricochet (Do anything, Bridget, but just don't you go looking for Cole.)
Little supernovas in my head(I'm trying to keep my cool but Jacob is standing behind me screaming and I can't concentrate. I can't think. I can't hear anything. I can't block his voice out no matter what I do so I do the things I'm not supposed to do, simply to cope. His efforts are backfiring all over the place. I duck every time one lights off. It's a reflex. I can't help myself.)
Little soft pulses in my dead
Little souvenirs and secrets shared
Little off guard and unprepared
I was never good enough to find
I was never bad enough to mind
In the middle I will do my best
Take me in your arms and leave the rest
I can't help myself when it comes to a lot of things.
The envelope was brought to the door, hand-delivered by Satan himself. Copper-colored. Whereas pewter grey is for me, the copper envelopes signify Benjamin. The invitation was for all of us, however. A little impromptu, belated celebration down at the boathouse. Some king crab, oysters and pate, a little good whiskey for those who know what they like most and a little time together.
When we arrived, Caleb had low jazz playing on the stereo and candles lit everywhere, even outside on the deck. There was a birthday cake on the counter. We were touched.
And old habits die hard, unlike people, who die much too easily for my comfort. Caleb has always favored Ben. Sometimes I don't understand that, and sometimes I understand it perfectly.
Once it grew late, some of the boys drifted up the hill to the house and I took the kids back up to oversee their bedtimes, tucking them in tightly, lights out because the next day is a school day and enough is enough. They had snacked on hot chocolate and gingerbread man cookies and run around long past their bedtimes. They were worn out. I returned to the boathouse once they were settled. Then another few left.
That left four of us. The three aspects of my fate, and me.
And a big bottle of whiskey with my name written all over it in blood, not easily wiped away like my prematurely-made resolutions to do the right thing instead of the wrong thing, every last time.
Lochlan made a heroically foolish attempt to drink as much as possible, so that I wouldn't. His disadvantage became obvious early on, when he could no longer detect his own cleverness, and he promised he wouldn't but then he left me there with two ghosts and two others, but only three people in the room. A riddle. I would play the solution, the consummate lightweight, three sheets into the wind, sailing freely into the dark. I know where I'm going. I just don't know where he went.
We've been through this before. Old habits. He disappears and I pay for that.
I can rock back and come to rest against Ben, who is leaning against the corner of the railing, looking out over the water. Or with the whole world spinning I can pitch forward gently and I will come to rest against Caleb, who is standing in front of me looking as much like Cole as my little marinated brain will allow. I lean forward slightly and his jawline rests against my forehead. A kiss glances off my hair and his face comes down in front of me. Blue eyes I haven't seen for almost six years startle me. I am falling, dropping out of the wind with a resounding thud as I hit bottom. I don't feel a thing.
Just stay for a little while, please, Cole?
Cole smiles at me as his eyes turn black.
I turn away, frightened now. I'm turned back firmly. This is not my choice to make tonight, it's been made for me and that's okay because I want it anyway. I want it really, really badly. I let go of Cole once, under extreme duress. I didn't want him to disappear forever. I don't know if I can make that choice again.
The fallout of my next move is weighed and measured carefully and deemed an acceptable risk. The collateral damage rests here. On me. And I can take it. I can take pretty much anything you throw at me. I say that out loud and that's when Jacob begins to scream.
He is yelling my name, over and over. It's so loud I try and pour more whiskey in to drown him out and it works for a little while. I pull Caleb's hands up over my ears just like how Jacob used to cover my ears with his hands. Hear no evil, completing the proverb.
Caleb uses that leverage to rocket me off the ground and into the center of the earth, holding me there until Ben takes a hold of my arms and pulls me back to the surface. I try to tell him I'm sorry but he holds his fingers up to my lips. The only competition in Ben's mind has red hair and a way with flames. If anything Ben has the upper hand again because this is a different fire. It doesn't burn, it warms. It doesn't scar, it smooths the past and the present together into one colossal tangle of melted memories, softened and mixed.
Cole never put his hands over my ears,
Ben returns to the comfortable chair in the corner, a glass of nothing more than ginger ale on the table beside him and he smokes a cigar while he watches Caleb light me on fire.
When all of the whiskey has burned off and the flames go out, the sun rises over the mountains, beaming rays of new warmth in through the skylights. I trace the lines in Ben's face until they teach him a path to consciousness. Caleb is nowhere to be found. Breakfast is set at the table and a note on the counter tells us to take our time.
We already did.
We took ours and then we stole the rest from the dead, who have no means to spend it anymore. I am ashamed and burning, loathe to return to the house and face anyone. Hell, I can't even turn around. It's one thing to look at Ben when his eyes are closed but if he's looking back at me I can't do it.
Little variations on my pageHe pulls my face up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
Little doors open on my cage
Little time has come and gone so far
Little by little who you are
I can see the patterns on your face
I can see the miracles I trace
Symmetry in shadows I can't hide
I just wanna be right by your side
When did he stop screaming, Bee?
When I was back in your arms.
He nods, slower than slow-motion and pulls me into his arms once more. It was a mistake, that's all. A habit we broke that sometimes drifts back and we'll fight it again, starting today. A moment of weakness, giving in, hearing the screams I threw away when he should have only heard me trying to catch my breath.
Speak no evil, Bridget, Ben warns me. Save face. Leave it alone.
It's too late for that. Fuck you too.
I will give you everything to
Say you want to stay you want me too
Say you'll never die, you'll always haunt me
I want to know I belong to you
Say you'll haunt me
Together, we'll be together, together forever
I belong to you
Wednesday 7 December 2011
Easy to see.
Today I got lost in the Bay store in Coquitlam. Then I got lost in the mall, proper. Then Zellers because I had to get a Hero Factory dude for Henry and do you think they could put toys at the front of the store to..lure people in? Nope. At the back. And the aisles are the tallest I've ever seen. It was horrible. It was dark. It sucked. I can't wait for Target to move in.
Notice both stores I was lost in are owned by Hudson's Bay Company? That should tell you all you need to know. Coquitlam Center is not Holt Renfrew. But you can't buy Hero Factory at Holt because Hero Factory is made by Lego, not Louis Vuitton. And you can't take the small town out of the girl, no matter how hard you try. When I walk through Holt someone will inevitably roll my tongue up on a stick from the floor and hand it back to me. Designer...stuff. Everywhere. But I don't buy anything. Sometimes the boys do. I do all my shopping at the regular shopping centers, thanks. Because you can find things you need. Like toys for my not-so-little-anymore boy.
But it was on the way home that I discovered something amazing.
My car seats have a height adjustment. (One that is not called The Yellow Pages).
Up until now the routine was simple. If the boys had to drive my car for any reason they will ratchet the seat back as far as it will go, and when I drive I ratchet it all the way to the front. I didn't know it also goes up or down. (I knew about the reclining-back part. No one needs that here.)
Huzzah. Thank you, Santa. That is the best present ever. I knew I could freaking parallel park. Oh yes I did. It's so much easier when you can see out of the goddamned car, though.
Notice both stores I was lost in are owned by Hudson's Bay Company? That should tell you all you need to know. Coquitlam Center is not Holt Renfrew. But you can't buy Hero Factory at Holt because Hero Factory is made by Lego, not Louis Vuitton. And you can't take the small town out of the girl, no matter how hard you try. When I walk through Holt someone will inevitably roll my tongue up on a stick from the floor and hand it back to me. Designer...stuff. Everywhere. But I don't buy anything. Sometimes the boys do. I do all my shopping at the regular shopping centers, thanks. Because you can find things you need. Like toys for my not-so-little-anymore boy.
But it was on the way home that I discovered something amazing.
My car seats have a height adjustment. (One that is not called The Yellow Pages).
Up until now the routine was simple. If the boys had to drive my car for any reason they will ratchet the seat back as far as it will go, and when I drive I ratchet it all the way to the front. I didn't know it also goes up or down. (I knew about the reclining-back part. No one needs that here.)
Huzzah. Thank you, Santa. That is the best present ever. I knew I could freaking parallel park. Oh yes I did. It's so much easier when you can see out of the goddamned car, though.
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