Wash it away.

August did that thing again where he's waiting for me after I come down the driveway from work. Only this time everyone else is gone and he's in charge of food + brood or so they call it when I get home from work, ravenous and needing to unload for a few minutes before I make my way back to a reasonable state of-

As if I do.

Come on. You know me better than this.

August's idea of a snack is fresh kombucha and a cold curry couscous salad. He might be trying to kill me. Over huge spoonfuls of the salad I ask him if he's ever had a pop-tart. He narrows his eyes and changes the subject. How long were you at Batman's? 

Long enough to start a war. 

Is that why you took a shift today? 

Maybe. Is that why no one is home? 

I doubt it. Caleb and Lochlan got into it pretty bad but Schuyler broke it up and then had a few terse moments with Batman. I think they sorted it all out. The only issue left is your movements. We take our eyes off you for one second, Bridget-

I was there for four hours, August. No one even missed me.

Right, well, you should have been at home. 

I know. 

And? 

What would you like me to say? Sorry? Won't happen again? Sometimes I get sucked in. 

So he's like a tidal wave?

More like an unpredictable current. Is that so bad? 

Who takes the fall for it?

We both do. Him for taking advantage of historically documented vulnerabilities and me for exploiting that history thoroughly. 

August is temporarily speechless at my self-awareness. I never said it wasn't there. I said I live around it. The twelve-year-old me is much stronger than all the rest. And it never changes.

So what happens now? 

A shoving match between Lochlan or Caleb or whoever, I get grounded, my circle gets really fucking small and Lochlan needs reassurance. 

What do you need? 

Do you have any pop-tarts? Couscous is like really old caviar. 

That's the best reason for a pop-tart that I've ever heard. Go find PJ. He's got some from grocery shopping this morning. 

It wasn't until I went across the driveway that I realized he dismissed me just like Lochlan does. Like a little kid.
 

Never the boss but somehow always in charge.

The saying goes something like 'you never know what battle someone is fighting' or something like that. It came to me as I poured endless coffee refills into the thick white china mugs diners love so much because they're cheap and virtually unbreakable. It came as I whiteknuckled my favorite coffee pot, pouring black sludge through the cracks in my facade into grateful expressions and wizened fingers wrapped around handles as if they were simply afraid I would take their cups away.

My boss finally let me go home, telling me the lunch rush was over as was the afternoon break one, and he held his hand out for the apron as I untied it from my waist and gave it back. I had been washing it at home. Apparently I wasn't told he washes everything at night and I don't have to.

When I got home PJ had blackberries and hot chocolate waiting for my snack. I ate it at the kitchen sink looking out over the ocean because I'm no longer allowed to go to the swing alone.

(I can move Jake, you know. He stays wherever I put him. I threatened Lochlan with the endless misery of the preacher he hardly tolerated forever being my own shadow, as I am Lochlan's.

I know that. But you don't need to be out there this week. Clear? 

Yes sir.  I salute him and he frowns.)

Batman summons me. There's eight or ten really intriguing messages on my phone when I finally get home, fishing it out from the bottom of my handbag. I'll start the furthest away and work my way back. That's the most logical way.

(What? No it isn't, Lochlan will say.)

You need me? 

I do. He smiles, staring at me without saying anything further.

He holds out his arms and I sink against him almost gratefully. Done for the week. My legs ache. My brain hurts. I just want to shut it off.

Have you eaten? He says into the top of my head.

I nod against his chest, my ear muffling his words. Blackberries. 

I'll fix us a drink. His grand charming trick is to fix one drink, for us to share. It's always been a cheeky gesture. A touching one, weirdly. That's how I know my list will be short today and I probably won't get time to deal with all of the messages on my phone as I'll be here for a while.

He takes a sip and holds the glass down to me. I think I know what you need. That smile. God. I hate it so much.

Hope is not in what I know.

He isn't real, Peanut! Jesus, I can see talking to yourself but if you've conjured up this two-way conversation in which the things he says surprise you then it's gone too far. He isn't real! You don't have to justify anything to him. You don't have to put him anywhere. He can stay in your memories. He put himself there. He doesn't deserve anything further. Jesus. Listen to me. I sound like you. He doesn't even have this much presence. I don't know what to do here. If no one here can help then we're going to have to go elsewhere. 

This is your doing. 

Oh, no, it isn't. 

You said make a story, Locket! And it was the only thing that MADE ME FEEL BETTER. 

You were ten fucking years old! 

And it still works!

It SHOULDN'T. Jesus. We did do this, didn't we. 

Did what?

Left you to grow up with only the coping mechanisms of a child. 

What are you, Rip Van Winkle? Did you just wake up? Jesus, Lochlan. I've been asking for help with this for a thousand years and now that I don't even want any anymore you're all swooping in to somehow try and save the day. 

Not the day, the girl. 

Same difference. 

No, it isn't. 

Well, it's too late. 

He smiles suddenly. It's never too late. Look at everything else that's happened. You and me. Back together. It's absolutely never too late, Bridget.

Broken hearts, broken bowls (I survived the tenth shift. It took a lot of biting my tongue but I did.)

PJ made me a snack today when I got home. A small bowl of spicy pistachios, his pocket knife with which to open them and a fresh glass of lemonade, made with less sugar than most people like, or so I'm told.

I like you more lately. 

See? I told you I'm becoming a better person by working. 

No, but by working you're usually too tired now to argue with me about the dinner menu. He winks and then frowns. You sure you won't cut yourself, because Lochlan will murder me if he finds out I gave you that knife to-

Oh my God, PJ. Seriously. I spend all day long around huge butcher knives now.
 (They are the only thing that can cut through the moderate-burned pies the cook churns out morning and noon. Seriously.)

Tell him you stole it them. Have my back. 

I always have your back. I wink, worried for a microsecond that my eye might be joined by the other one, and that they might both just opt to remain closed for the duration. To my relief they act normally. Thank you for the snack. 

See you in a bit, Jellyfish. I am dismissed to carry my dishes out to the orchard to the swing, where I sit in the shadow of the tree to eat and then fly for a little while. Just until I feel like I can answer with a quick-witted reply when they ask how my day was. Otherwise the tears will continue and then everyone is angry and frustrated at me and at themselves.

Where have you been going? 

The swing is occupied when I arrive. Jake slows to a lazy circle on the swing, not holding on, squinting at me in the sun. My knees buckle and I almost upset the bowl but he reaches out to steady me. I can see the ocean right through his face, a lone sailboat fighting the current from within his right dimple. His face is a whirlpool and I get sucked right in. I'm drowning and the only thing that will be left of me is this untouched lemonade.

I have a job now. 

Yes. Sam told me. 

There goes the bowl. And the glass too, for good measure.

He...can see you too?

No, but he prays to me sometimes. To my spirit for guidance. 

I think that will be a good explanation to calm the fluttering of my heart and hands but somehow it just makes it worse. Oh. I see. I say it slowly.

You understand this isn't how you have relationships in the real world you're so eager to be a part of. 

It's a long story, Jake. 

I have time, Princess. Tell it to me.

I drop PJ's open knife on my foot. May as well spill all the bad blood while I'm at it, right?

Jesus, Mary and Joel.

A break?

A day off. 

From me? The only person who actually doesn't try to keep you sick, to bring you out of your comfort zone but keep you well within a safe environment so you can make some improvement? You always fight it, Bridget but deep down you know better. You're always going to struggle against that regression. They set you up to depend on them for everything-

There's nothing wrong with that- (also? He lies.)


When it turns out like this, yes, there is something deeply wrong with it. 

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, Sam-

I'm not. I'm trying to help you, Bridge. I'm in the most precarious place of all trying to balance my job with our relationship-

Have a good day at work. I can't do it. I don't want to talk now. He is older, more experienced and has more miles on him than Jacob ever will and yet when he says the same words it destroys my resolve and I don't want to work on anything. Don't want to be anything. And I certainly don't want to remember anything about life before the Collective all assembled in one place for good.

Though I keep saying it's not for good and every single time I am corrected.

(It is, Bridge.)

(Don't worry, Neamhchiontach.)

(We're not going anywhere.)

Would you go back and change it if you could? Joel asks over coffee, hashbrowns, bacon and eggs that got cold because this restaurant doesn't warm the plates in the oven before putting the food on them so that everything stays hot longer. I try to make butternauts and they don't form properly, butter blobs laying every which way on my plate. What a mess. What a fucking mess.

Change what? 

Being raised by wolves. 

No. 

You sure you don't want to think about that?

I have. And the answer is still no. 

Then why won't you listen to them when they ask you to stay home? 

I shrug. I'm stubborn...and...

And?

Maybe I'm helping them get over their fears too. So we can all be better people. 

That's pathetic. 

He's looming over my shoulder as I bring up my deposit on my bank app to show him. I got my first paycheque.

I was really proud. I made almost five hundred dollars. And that doesn't even include the tips I brought home each afternoon.

Just end this farce. I'll top up your account daily, if you like the thrill of it. It'll be far more, however. 

You've missed the point. 

Oh, I don't believe I have. It's been several weeks, Bridget. I think we should stop talking about ghosts and go back to talking about you putting in your resignation, or whatever a job like that requires. I have people who know the provincial labour code if you need advisemen-

I'm not quitting. 

You're digging yourself a hole for what? Pocket change? 

I'm trying to become a better person. 

You're already the best person, Neamhchiontach. You've brought life to this point, to the people on it and we miss you dearly while you're gone. I'm watching you throw yourself into one hole after another on a daily basis all the while ignoring the terms of our settlement. 

My pay doesn't even cover the cellphone bill so if you're worried about supporting me I'm pretty sure you still are. 

So why continue?

I told you a hundred times over already. 

He looks down for a moment and then back to me. His face is soft but his eyes are hard. I think it's time to quit now, Neamhchiontach. It's phrased as a gentle suggestion but it's very clear.

I told you it's none of your business. And the second restaurant is busier and less friendly, just to turn your screws. 

Good, Batman can buy that too. 

The owner isn't selling it. 

Anyone can be bought. 

See, I thought you were learning the opposite of that. For some people out there, money isn't their endgame. 

Money is the only end game. 

So by that logic you're complete? 

You're easier when you're mute. 

You're easier when you go away, Diabhal. 

This wasn't meant to be a conversation where you break my heart, Bridget. 

Hey, it's the club we run here. 

How do I make you understand this is so very temporary you won't have time to get your apron dirty? 

Unless you lock me in a room I'm working for the time being, and I'll decide when I stop. 

I didn't want to resort back to force but as you've reminded me, it's the only way to get you to do anything, isn't it?

Two steps forward, ten years back.

You found me drifted out to sea
It's automatic
It's telepathic
You always knew me
And you laugh as I search for a harbor
As you point where the halo had been
But the light in your eyes has been squandered
There's no angel in you in the end

Sam didn't let up at all, telling me that, just like in the song, Jacob clipped his wings so he could come down to earth because I needed him, and when his wings grew back and he was needed he left again, knowing I was in good hands. Maybe he was sent to get me through losing Cole.

That can't be right. Back to the hitching, tear-choked morning that gets all the light sucked out of it by default, plunging us all into the abject blackness that spreads from my brain in a slow circle as his words hit their mark, leaving my head full of holes.

What kind of angel lets you fall in love with them if they're not going to stick around to see it through?

It doesn't matter, Bridge. You fall in love with EVERYONE. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

STOP LYING. Bridget's suddenly eight, just to finish this vision for you, resorting to paper-thin responses as a child does. Whatever works. BE NICE. STOP SHOVING. LEAVE ME ALONE. MOM, BAILEY'S BUGGING ME.

That brings Lochlan out of the woodwork. (He knows that Bridget best. Sam hardly knows her at all.)

He's not wrong. But it's okay. I promise.

Okay? No. It isn't okay. It's not okay. Your promises are as shot through full of holes as my head right now. Blackness is pouring out of his mouth and I can't hear him anymore. Stop it. STOP IT. STOP IT. 

Neamhchiontach. 

The word that acts like a light in the dark. The absolution a spotlight on a life that saw me taking fault for everything that's ever happened when I shouldn't have.

I whirl around and Caleb is in the door.

Not a good time, Diabhal. Lochlan's got it. Under control. Yeesh.

Just in time, you mean. He doesn't look at Lochlan at all, instead holding his hand out to me. Come, Bridget. 

I take a few steps and put my hand out and he closes his around mine. There. We'll go escape for a bit and you'll feel better.

Jesus, Bridget-

ENOUGH. Caleb finally addresses Lochlan directly. I don't know what you're doing but you need to stop. This is the second time in a week I've had to step in and if things don't change I'll be in charge and you'll be banished from here. Am I clear? 

Bridget. Lochlan continues to ignore Caleb, staring at me, pleading with his eyes as if I'll magically get a grip on this flood of feelings that I would do anything to get away from today.

I stare at him without expression and then I get pulled along, out of the room.
I'm sure Caleb is right. I just need a break. I need to not have to defend every thought, every feeling, every moment. I need to think less, not more.

***

This morning things look slightly different. Lochlan isn't going anywhere. Caleb doesn't have the right to threaten him. But Sam is here and I think I need a break from Sam. Not friend-Sam, but Preacher Sam. Preacher Sam pushes too hard and I don't need that right now.

Bastard history.

August got positively..uh..cockblocked by Sam, who decided tea & porching was the theme of the evening and kind of peeled my skin off, leaving the organs of the former Bridget MacIntosh there to try and find some sort of container to maybe put her back together, or at least keep her together in. Eventually they found the skin, now shredded and transparent and all but useless, but good enough, as always, for that's how I roll.

I don't know if Lochlan is all that impressed with Sam today, if only for the condition he left me in, which isn't something you want to do in the name of helping someone, and there may have been a good shoving match in the kitchen while I sat outside eating toast in the clouds. I have the day off, don't fuck it up for me, guys, but then I heard the toaster oven hit the floor. Now we have a dent in the hardwood. Now we need a new toaster. I don't have time to buy one so someone else can do it, or we can go back to toasting things in the oven like we do when we rent a cottage that is supposedly furnished but they don't actually expect people to cook so there's no toaster.

Right.

That's dumb, isn't it? Who doesn't like toast?

Comfort food. Like comfort boys only I didn't get any August and I'm pretty sure Sam planned it that way. They have different methods of caring for the inside of my skull, which has a whole different set of instructions from the rest of me, but Sam decided I was doing GREAT and working was a wonderful way to distract and forget all about Jake. I told him I didn't plan on doing that and maybe Jake would have a word or two for Sam as well, because he's disloyal and damaging to even suggest that to me these days, and Sam implored that he knows better, that he's older and has weathered more of life than Jake ever will and I thought about it for a minute and then I went out to the orchard in the dark (don't worry, the electric fence is on, I'm free to roam) and asked Jake how old he was and he said thirty-six without hesitating and I turned and ran back to the house and I forgot a few things about the trip back and landed on my face a couple of times but I went right past Sam and inside to Lochlan with my usual snot-nosed holy-fuck face that I get when I can't believe everything has been a lie and boy, Lochlan's in a tough place trying to balance my needs with his own pragmatism and Sam's weird loyalty and August's surprise requests and Caleb's endless pressure so that started a fight and you know where that leaves us?

Yeah. A Thursday spent playing eighties ballads and indulging in the world's longest run-on sentences. The words just won't stop. If it gets any worse I'll have to stem the flow by throwing myself into the sea. That dilutes them back down to floating jumbles of letters and then I don't have to sort them out. It's a relief. I need all my energy to hold my skin together here anyway.

Newfie Surprise mens.

August was sitting on the steps of his loft when I pulled into my usual spot on the left side of the garage, in the hollow under the big tree that if you walk underneath and around to the right and up a hill behind the garage you come to the orchard, my garden, the tiny vineyard and the swing that sails out over the grass. That parking spot is the shadiest in the whole driveway so I claimed it a long time ago. Then my Porsche stays nice and cool instead of feeling like the sauna, which I don't want when I'm driving, frankly.

Hey Princess. 

I collect my bag from the passenger seat and stand up, smiling at him while I remove my name tag and throw it into the bottom of my bag.

Hey Augie!

He shakes his head but grins. Aw fuck. Don't look like that. Such a Newfie expression.

Long day?

The longest. I looked at the clock after about six hours and only six minutes had passed. 

Rough. 

It was. By Wednesdays I'm a mess, the laundry is backed up, the house is falling apart and it takes the whole rest of the week to pull everything back together. What's up? 

Just seeing if you and Loch are free later. 

Yes. I think carefully. Check with me around nine. Should be okay. 

Will do. He grins so openly and innocently it makes me feel guilty but also thrilled beyond measure to be missed so thoroughly during the days that I work. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that.

Longest. day. ever.

Worked all day, got off at three, filled the car with gas, ran some errands, dropped both kids off at work, had a shower, watered the garden, made some lunches for tomorrow (mine included), made dinner, played with my dog, did a load of laundry, mailed a letter, and sat down at eight at night to write and I'm empty. Too tired. Eye on the clock hoping the dryer is done before I'm too asleep on my feet to open it and fold everything that's inside. Still have to pick the kids up later. Oh my God. I'm not going to make it.

I have ten minutes, Locket. What should I write about?

Tell the world your husband is hot. 

Okay, then. Guess I'm done here. :)