On paying the piper without first hearing a sound.

I'm busy trying to plan a birthday party for the upcoming cool rainy weekend, but the Devil won't let go of me. He has the air conditioner turned up high and the smoky sky makes everything dim under the skylights so his room is a cozy getaway, all dark grey sheets and dark wood panelled walls. It's not a big room, the only things in it are his king-sized bed, a single square nightstand with two large drawers with a huge glass lamp set on top and an entire wall that unfolds to reveal a closet. No walk-in closet, just a row of suits and technical gym gear and flannel and jeans. No ensuite, since the bathroom is directly across the hall. It's a simple, minimal but luxuriously-appointed executive guesthouse for an exceedingly complicated man. I don't know how he lives here so happily sometimes but he loves it.

Payback is going to be exquisite for Lochlan's private birthday party Saturday night. I just had to have a lot of technical help behind the scenes. I'm not exactly technical, and also asking for a lot of help while telling people they're not invited was tremendously tough and so I threw in a Jesus birthday brunch for this upcoming Sunday after church with every bell and whistle I could ring and blow to soften the slight and it worked a treat. It's going to a busier weekend than last weekend, in a completely different way and I'm excited but also in a completely different way. I've been plotting this for a while and I can't wait. 

I really have to go, I tell the skylight with its yellowy mustard-pines framed in the ceiling above. 

Caleb's arms tighten around me and his deep-sleepy and at least still somewhat-kindly voice says Not until I'm good and ready.

The day asked for payment in blood and instead I offered six quarts of fresh dill pickles and first semester's tuition. I offered the imaginary lunch I forgot to eat (shhhhh), smoky skies that make me almost happy to forget to breathe and when the day isn't looking I inch a little closer to night, and to the next day which brings a promise of clearer skies and cooler temperatures.

Summer has taken on all the characteristics of a stubbed-out cigarette butt at this point and I'm done. Bring on the endless rivers, the raindrops, the dim, the petrichor shoved so far up my nose there's moss mixed in with my hair. Bring on the Vancouver jokes, bring on the ark, bring on the rainforest proper, bring on the mountains eroding in tiny rivulets down into the glacier beds and beneath those the icy clear lakes. Bring back the blue and green beauty. Bring it back to life. For Gods sake, I can't wait to put on a sweater. I can't wait to be cold. I can't wait to wear my raincoat everywhere. I can't wait to need a blanket. I can't wait for my deoderant to work again. That alone would be nice because wow.

Being a grownup means you can save your birthday for the weekend.

Everything's happening at once today and I'm pretty sure a bunch of breathless Happy Birthdays tossed out at Lochlan after the bazillion degree heat of yet another sleepless night into another smoky morning on the surface of Mars means we'll reschedule when things are less hectic.

And we will.

But it's still his birthday.

It's also the first day of school.

And it's really really freaking hot.

Raincheck to be issued this evening, blank date inside.

(Also OH OH OH American Horror Story: Cult starts tonight. Don't disappoint me, fuckers.)

Stones for miles.

It is the calm between birthday storms and I need...a Red Bull? Another espresso? Maybe a bump or five snorted off the back of my han-

KIDDING.

For fucks sakes, I'm kidding. I wasn't a smart eighteen-year-old, teetering my way through many a Vegas trip high on more than just my stilettos and it was the only time I had the energy to stay up late or not feel tired.

Ruth has a chance to do so much better. To be so much better, as Caleb to her is a second-generation Sugar Daddy and absolutely nothing more than that ever.

She starts university tomorrow. Someone please roll things back. I don't think I was ever actually ready when she walked out the door for her first day of Grade two after we ended the grand homeschooling experiment. And I'm definitely not ready now.

Make your own happiness, they said, so I did.

Fragile things that float.

Caleb isn't as calm as I am. I figure out of all of us, I must be the healthiest one. Physically, I mean. Well, except for the parasitic twin that's eating me from my brain outwards. Mentally, I'm the sickest by far.

What did they say it was?

Atrial fibrillation. But I just have to watch it.

Bridget, this is nothing to mess around with.

Yes, I'm totally playing with my heartbeat.

(When I was little I used to think if I held my breath, my heart would sto- Wait. Does it? Does it stop if I hold my breath? I just realized I don't actually know if it does. Great.)

I can call my specialist.

Who is busy and doesn't need you culling favours. My doctor is qualified-

She said to come back if it got worse. Does she know your definition of 'worse' is dead?

I will go back if it gets worse! Jesus! Can we talk about something else? Like how the headaches have been mostly absent? Like how I've got six weeks in on these pills and I'm doing great for once, thanks? Like how this is the busiest weekend of my life coming up and I'm not ready and it's too hot? Or we can talk about how everyone isn't asking the right questions, like 'What can I do, Bridget?' That would be nice to talk about. Yes, indeedy.

Or we could fuck off and go spend the afternoon in bed.

That would mean I would get absolute nothing done.

Not true.

Oh really? What would I get done?

Me. He grins.

I laugh. He's never crass. I love it. Maybe later. (Give the dog a bone) Right now write down eggs and balloons on the list for me, would you?

Together?

Unrelated, but I need both, yes.

Pink bunny suits (this is not patronizing, Matt, I promise.) (Not our Matt.)

You're technically second only to Jesus, and Ben is jealous.

Lochlan just snorts, because he's used to this. Used to being passed over for what he calls infatuations and ideals that will pass in time but this time is going on decades now, if you want to be technical, and we are, because I said we are, second word of the day. Look. See?

After all the big scary Pacific Northwest bugs and the fine highwire act of late and staring down fall and the long slow slide into little sleep and crowding ghosts and not nearly enough coffee and searching for radio stations on an overheated horizon I stayed in bed this morning. No rush to get up. No plans until later.

I rolled over and pulled my headphones on. Hit play on a mislabeled CD called 'Deluxe CD 2' because the boys are lazy and when we pooled into what is now the developed world's largest private iTunes library it became a bit of a mess. But there halfway down the page was the biggest midyear Christmas present I've ever seen.

9. Prime Time Deliverance (Acoustic)

OH. WHAT? Bridget's an ACOUSTIC VERSION MONSTER. BRING THEM ALL TO ME.

The CD is now labelled properly. In A Coma (Disc 2). And Matthew Good is my spirit animal. Though Sam said spirit guide might be kinder, and he would be correct, as Matthew's voice has been like a warm hand on my back where Jesus was nowhere to be found more than once. He's like a familiar face always there in a sea of strangers, a comforting melody in a room full of uncomfortable sounds, a hopeful feeling in a hopeless minute.

So when people say music saved their life, take them seriously. It did. Maybe you don't have to bear the weight, Matthew, if it's a burden. I know you have your own burdens to carry but know that at some point those words you put out there into the ether set to music found their way into someone else's soul and got stuck hard enough to cause permanent healing. It can be symbolic.

(Not infatuation, just profound gratitude, for if I had never spun that radio dial I never would have heard your voice way back when. Kind of like this morning spinning through random lists on my phone. It's fate.)

MORE FUCKING BUGS.

Tasted the first grapes. Ben broke a tiny bunch off and held them up over my face, and an earwig promptly fell off from somewhere in the middle, unseen, right into my open mouth.

I didn't know I could scream so loud.

After I was done spitting and pawing at my face and trying to throw up, I mean.

You got it, he said, pointing at a lovely splash on a concrete block. I look closely and see a crushed HALF.

WHERE'S THE OTHER HALF? 

You probably ate it. 

WHAT.

They're supposed to be full of protein. 

Cue more screaming.

Ben ate a few to show me it was no big deal. Jesus Christ. That just made the screams compound on top of one another. I don't know what he was thinking. It took almost an hour and the contents of four houses of people running out to the yard to get me from the screaming to the mildly-hyperventilating but-still-can't-speak stage.

We're going to spend the rest of the day sharpening our pitchforks and making as many torches as we can before dark. The war is ON.

Making plans.

School starts in a week. Ruthie has her University freshman orientation, and Henry has a two-hour find-your-homeroom/meet-the-new-admin-faces for Grade Eleven. I'm ready. They're ready. We had a fantastic summer. It was too warm. We did a lot without going all that far. We still have a lot to do. Ruth and Lochlan's birthdays span the upcoming week. I might perish from this heatwave and in between, yes I found pretty much every single thing on Ruth's ridiculous scavenger-hunt of a birthday list that I've been chipping away at since June.

The last thing arrived yesterday in the mail and she works the next two nights straight so I can get all the wrapping done. I'll bake on Saturday. Sunday is family day. She picks the meal, we have cake and presents. She'll pick a day to have her friends over to eat burgers, swim in the pool and watch horror movies if they can find a day clear for all of them with their jobs, university schedules and obligations, and then we take a deep breath and celebrate Lochlan's birthday on Tuesday, but probably Monday instead, since Tuesday is the first day of routine again and will be crazy.

He is easy to shop for. We don't really do presents so much. Never really have. He loves a good meal, a good drink and the speeches we make. He loves fire. He loves the dark. He loves fire in the dark. He loves me, and the kids and his friends and this life and he'll probably be a sappy drunk but we'll celebrate 18 and 52 in style. The way we always do.

Chickens can't swim.

I'm swimming with the Devil this morning. It's forty degrees in the shade and the sea feels like a bathtub. Hardly refreshing though it's not as if we are here for R&R. Caleb swims for sport, for fitness, for endurance. Caleb is one of those super-pro athletes who does everything from long-distance running to triathalons to hockey to cross-country skiing to twenty-eight thousand rounds of golf before brunch. He always has the right gear, it all matches even, he knows all the right terminology and he knows everyone in all the sports and they know him. It's a little disconcerting. It's downright weird but at the same time I like it better than if he were Mr. White Collar twenty-four hours a day. Did I mention he rides as well? Horses and motorcycles. He's in to freaky sex. He likes chocolate and romantic movies. He buys scented candles for when I'm over. He holds the fucking door open every single time.

The guy's perfect on paper.

Off paper, well, I warned you.

I should have worn a spare bikini because it's so hot out but when ocean swimming I wear a Nike tank suit. It's purple and navy and it covers everything and it's highly appropriate and it yet OF COURSE I brought my loud mermaid towel because I'm like that. There are the remains of glitter temporary tattoos on my legs and arms and I'm streaky white after Duncan insisted on the 60 Sunblock and put it on me too thickly.

In other words, nothing matches.

I can't keep up with Caleb anyway. I'm still technically a novice swimmer, but much better than I was and I don't start to panic until we pass the end of the breakwater and I look down and I can't see anything and I start thinking of Cole's monsters and Caleb tells me to breathe, that along here it's mostly clean, dredged bottom, mostly small rocks, like the beach over at Whytecliff. That I know better than to think there are sea monsters for all the deep dives I have done from these cliffs.

But I can't do it.

I turn toward shore and forget all my moves, falling back on a mental paralysis that leaves me paddling like a dog, biting my lip not to cry and wishing I had never come out here this morning, that he's a bully and a savage and that I don't need his shit, that if I have issues after all this time and he can't understand or accept them, then someone else will. Anger slowly absorbs my fear and by the time my feet touch the rocks again I'm okay and he's right behind me anyway, full of apologies.

He follows me right to the rock with our towels.

You don't have to come up. 

I don't swim alone. 

I'll wait here and watch you then. 

It's fine, I think we've had enough for one day.

Sorry. 

Bridget, don't be. I understand. I think you did terrific. If you want this is something we can work on. 

You're going to help me learn to conquer my monsters? I laugh.

This one, I can. 

I think I'm good, thanks. Maybe bring John or someone who can keep up. 

Bridget, stop for a minute. 

Why? 

You did wonderfully. I know it's hard. I'm proud of you. I'm thrilled that you leave a trail of glitter in the water, and that you have a rainbow mermaid towel and that you lose your shit thinking of sea monsters the minute you can't touch bottom. I'm happy you offered to come with me anyway, and I'm touched that you worked so hard to try to keep your shit together when you were freaking out. I want to know if a drink would make it better. Maybe we can each go home, shower, change and meet back on my patio for a nerve-stabilizer and maybe talk about some dinner plans in an hour? 

I nod.

Oh, and for the record. Bridget? I would have preferred the bikini too. 

I don't think it fits you. 

He laughed out loud.