Grief is a one-way street, she said and I didn't forget that.

I missed all of the movies last night, including The Outsiders AND Footloose. I'm so disappointed at myself but I settled in tight between Ben and Lochlan on the couch and I was out. Asleep hard. Fuck. I didn't get any pizza (Henry helpfully ate my slice after Lochlan pointed out I was zonked) and was sent to bed when the credits rolled. This is nothing new but I'm hoping to stay awake tonight for 2020 movie night. I don't know what's out though, except for The Hunt. I'd like to see that. Hell, sometimes I'd like to participate in it. With circa-2006 Bridget, not the shell of her that exists now. I don't think she could wield a weapon, let alone find her way out of a wet paper bag. Things have changed.

And welcome, listeners to a sunny Friday morning here on the point. Your girl Little Bee has had no sleep, save for what took place when I could have been watching Kevin Bacon dance (God, Lochlan was SO JEALOUS of my Kevin Bacon infatuation when I was 12 and Loch was 17 and now it seems funny) and I'm feeling a little down this morning, opening a browser with a wail that every inch of every thing I read each morning is covered in a virus. 

Caleb promptly banned me from the Internet. Lochlan quickly amended it to the news and social media parts of the Internet. Fine by me, my blog is also a one-way street though after listening to so many podcasts as of late (I am struggling with Limetown because the player wants to jump to season 2 episodes all the damn time and if I get distracted and let it load automatically I can't follow it because it's at the end suddenly.)  I'm so tempted to try my hand at it, and just talk to you.

There are problems with this plan.

Firstly, if you've ever heard deaf people talk you'll get this. My hearing was there at birth and not as bad as it is in adulthood so I can pronounce my words more easily than you might expect. But I'm loud and highly inflective because I can't hear my own voice, which means not only will you think I'm yelling at you and way too enthusiastic about whatever it is, but it's ridiculously expressive and almost comically sing-song if singing was always a sharp or flat and never on key or on time.

Right. Off-key sing-song with weird timing and loud. I've been assured it's compelling and sweet (RIGHT). I can quash it half to bits when necessary, like when meeting someone new and I feel like I make myself sound like a robot.

Secondly,  if I started a podcast what would I talk about? Myself? Nothing? Grief? Sure, it's the only thing I'm an expert on, unless you count my award-winning multi-time consecutive Sugar-Babying gigs that are ongoing. I could talk about that but Caleb wouldn't appreciate it and would probably draft me a C&D before supper.

If I did a podcast, what would I talk about, Locket? I ask him mid-word.

He doesn't even hesitate. The show. Talk about your time on the circuit. Talk about the highwires and the crowd and the costumes and the mental preparation. 

Only with all of Cirque newly laid off I bet I wouldn't be the only one.

Talk about Jacob. My brain screams and I smack it back, hard. No. That's for me. 

Talk about boys, PJ offers helpfully.

Right. So I can just read my blog out loud then?

If you want, he shrugs. I don't think PJ understands me at all anymore.

Sam comes in and a surprise kiss lands on the top of my head. Talk about secular faith in trying times, he says and Caleb says his name, drawing his attention.

We're not talking about news today, he warns.

Ah, Sam says. Neither was I.

Get tough and nothing can hurt you. Not even the bread shelf.

A distortion pedal and a pair of wings
An anthem played on broken strings

The distancing is for me. Want to hear the shopping-cart-handle-licker story?

Well, I cut my finger just as I started shopping two weeks ago for groceries. The shelves are sharp and I reached back to one side for English muffins. When I pulled my hand out with my prize I had sliced right down the side of the nail on my index finger on my left hand. It started bleeding straight away so I did what I always do, I stuck my finger in my mouth. With my other hand I frantically checked all of my pockets and my bag for a stray tissue or a bandaid, finding neither. And the store was so hectic I didn't want to commandeer an employee to deal with the sharp shelf or find me a bandaid. I don't need to buy bandaids (I have thousands. At home!) and so I did my entire shop with my finger in my mouth. By the time I had to pay it had mostly stopped bleeding and yeah. If anyone caught a virus from a shopping cart handle at this point if it isn't me I'd be surprised. But that was two weeks ago and I have since recovered down to just a mildly-stuffy nose and there are five bandaids and two folded up tissues in my purse all the time now. But yes, I've probably single-handedly murdered every senior or compromised person with my germs within a forty-mile radius because I made an automatic motion. So it's manslaughter, not murder, in my defense. I'm sorry.

Never said I wasn't a walking calamity now, did I?

***

Today's special activity is brought to you by Dalton and Duncan, as we are taking turns trying to lift each other's spirits and make being home even more magical and wonderful than it is on a daily basis by planning surprises or out of the ordinary things. This is Retro Weekend (but on a Thursday) and it includes all eighties fun all day followed by eighties movies and snack foods tonight in a giant new blanket-fort we have built in the theatre room.

We're all wearing eighties fashion (which is funny, except for Caleb who came down as a greaser, and pointed out the Outsiders film came out in the eighties, sparking a huge debate on films versus books (the book came out before Lochlan was born even). Anything goes, I guess. I had to steal one of Ruthie's ringer t-shirts and rollerskating shorts. The shirt says Let's All Summon Demons and Caleb questioned that too, saying no one did that in the eighties.

That's what you think, Lochlan says and I wonder right now if we'll even make it to the movie activity part of the day or if they're just going to murder each other first.

Perhaps I should threaten to lick them.

We pretty much always live like this.

I have news fatigue and therefore have put on a pretty linen spring dress, no shoes and left my hair to curl up lazily around my shoulders and it looks like Lochlan's hair when it gets so long the curls come out, weighed down by the length.

And freeze my toes off in the kitchen because it's minus two outside and PJ burned the eggs and so he's opened the windows.

Peej, Christ!

Gimme a sec, he rumbles. PJ isn't conversational until at least his third cup of coffee. I finished a second cup yesterday at three pm and took a sleeping pill and was still up all night. I don't know how he does it.

I wait five seconds, eyebrows raised. He goes around closing all the windows and points out a little fresh air if good if one is properly dressed and someone definitely isn't. 

If it's like yesterday it will be eighteen degrees by after lunch. I remind him, since yesterday I was wearing lined jeans and a black hoodie and was so hot I practically melted.

You have a cold. You should stay warm.

It's getting better. 

Right and rush too much and it'll come back. 

He's so bickery I turn my attention to Caleb who does a small double take at all the tattoos visible suddenly and the dress and asks me if I'm warm enough as he makes a coffee. His altruistic demeanor is amusing considering a week ago when I developed a runny nose and the world's driest cough he lost his mind, mostly because Lochlan wouldn't let him near me.

I am. I may go get socks and a sweater though.

If you put on some warm things we can take a walk.

Where? 

Beach, field. You decide. 

Both? And the pool. And maybe up the road towards town and-

Let's start slowly. Go.

I run upstairs, chuck the dress overhand into the closet and find black fleece leggings and a longsleeve black Lamb of God (perfect timing!) t-shirt, black socks and a black clip for my bangs, which are driving me batshit crazy.

Ah. You look like you now. 

I almost wipe out in surprise. He hates these outfits.

I meant defiant and dark. I'm not condoning the choice of attire, just pointing out it's predictable. 

I wait for more. What a backhanded compliment.

It's warm, he settles on finally and I nod.

It is.

Let's go then. 

We start out on the left side of the property if you're facing the sea, walking up the driveway and out onto the road, and past Schuyler and Dan's, past Batman's house, heading down around Batman's driveway to the yard, through the trees, and across to the pool, then down to the cliffs, across the fence and then finally to the beach. Smart, as Caleb knows I'll comb every inch of the beach and if I start there I never make it anywhere else, running out of time or patience or oxygen (the coughing). Or he runs out of time. Or Lochlan runs out of good graces or patience or common sense.

The waves are crispy, icy and fresh. The wind on the water takes bites from my soul, leaving tiny teeth marks in halfmoon patterns, tasting the despair and the hope too. Bittersweet. I dunk my hands in the water and sit back on my legs, hunched over to be as close as I can without soaking my shirt or my leggings. Caleb stands back further but close enough that if I pitch face first into the sea he'll be able to reach down and pluck me out of the surf.

I stand up finally, not looking out into the ocean or into his eyes (close enough with their medium blue today) but at the smallest rocks to sweep for glass or shells when my eye catches light.

Is it jewelry? No, it's a silver dollar. From the eighties. I used to have one actually-

Look for more, maybe. He looks amused.

I stare at him briefly and then do as instructed. All OVER the beach he has tucked silver dollars into the rocks, under logs and into holes in driftwood. At one point he asks me to count them and I fail to clue in. At another he offers me his hankerchief, and I tie them up in a neat weighty bundle.

How many do you have now, Neamchiontach?

Nineteen, I tell him and he nods.

So, a final sweep and then we'll go up and show off your treasure? 

You think there's more?

Possibly.

How many more could there be?

Maybe one more.

You think I missed one. I clue in, at last.

Yes, you've missed one. He laughs and indicates the last bonfire and I run to it. Sure enough, in the centre, under the ashes and cinder peeks out another flash of silver light.

Twenty.

That's it then.

That's like an Easter egg hunt but way better.

I thought you might enjoy that.

I did! Except I think I made a terrible mistake.

How?

If I had left the coins where you planted them, the tide would have come in later and watered them and they would have grown into money trees. 

God. Your brain.

The whole thing is like a parable for greed-

Neamhchiontach.

Yes?

Coins don't grow into money trees.

But WHAT IF THEY DO and we never knew?

Fake glass in case of emergency.

I am stocked up on bird feeder suet and furnace filters and LED lightbulbs for the foreseeable future. I forget to change the furnace filter for almost a year and wow. It was almost black. Oops. I can't remember everything.

The eye doctors and dentists and piercers  and stores have all closed that I enjoy. So no upcoming medical appointments or shopping and I refuse to go for my mammogram, because the first time I went, two years ago, it came back all wrong and the followup appointment was for after Christmas and it was very stressful. Somehow it feels less stressful to do my own self-checks. Something I never forget. Your health is not a furnace filter, and health seems to be all anybody talks about these days.

We went grocery shopping this morning and faced a large amount of vitriol from the gathered crowd, even as we left a lot off our list, as items were limited and are limited, with or without signs so we carefully took one of each thing instead of many. But we buy a heaping two or three carts every week so suddenly people think we're hoarding. Which is horrible and I never want to go back but honestly we go through a lot of food here on the point. There are twenty adults living here fulltime. If I need three packs of toilet paper rest assured it will only last a week.

But you can only buy one, so the other households have been splintered off to get their own.

And no. 

Don't suggest Costco.

I won't go in there. I hate it so much. I've had memberships twice in my life. The hassle isn't worth the savings, even for a household my size. Superstore is good for bulk and the other little stores scattered up and down the hill good for everything else.

What else? This is the first day everyone is home and I didn't have a plan for the extra meals so I may have to go back to the store tomorrow. Help me.

(For those saying Let them get their own: Have you seen how the average guy grocery shops? Some frozen chicken wings and a loaf of bread. A case of chocolate ice cream. Naw, I still have a centimetre of toothpaste left. Oh, chocolate milk too. And Froot Loops. 

But no plain milk for the Froot Loops. Dude, you'll run out of toothpaste on Wednesday and hey, did you forget you're lactose intolerant? Oh, and those twelve chicken wings will feed one person one meal. But you were saying?)

At least the new Lamb of God single is out and it's fucking delicious. I can eat that. Perfect. It's called Memento Mori, which means Remember you will die.

What timing.
 

This is what I mean.

I  would say the majority of people hate the things I love. Anything that makes you hurt. Makes you feel. Makes you scared or angry or sad. Makes you feel something for someone or something else in time, and that to me, as referenced by my title yesterday, which made perfect sense to me and no one else, is the hallmark of an incredible creation.

This week I finished the third book that made me place it on the table, smooth the cover and then promptly burst into tears.

(The others? Sole Survivor by Dean Koontz (don't knock it til you read it) and The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King, a book I recently reacquired and can't wait to reread.)

This third book? The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Heather Morris. I saw it in passing over Christmas and put it on my Must-Read list and Lochlan bought it for me, as he has always tried to foster a love of reading as big as his own in me and not only am I slow on a page but I'm narcoleptic so I sleep more than I read when I pick up a book and stop moving.

I read this sitting up in bed late at night with all the lights on in order to stay focused. He had to sleep somewhere else because I couldn't put it down and then when I finally did I cried so hard. So hard.

I didn't know it was a true story, refusing to read a thing about it until I had read it, proper. I didn't even register the dedication at the outset, on the page right before the story begins and I am crushed. It unfolded more in the acknowledgements, the interview at the end and the aftermath and if not for a curiosity about the author's need to write this I never would have found out.

What a good book. Holy. Give me more of those.

My favorite everything is moving, profound.

Though the winds of change may blow around you
But that will always be so
When love is pain it can devour you
If you are never alone
I would share your load

Church is cancelled for the next three Sundays and Sam is hoping for a Palm Sunday miracle to resume services, as his congregation is evenly split between rich young money and very old people who still disapprove mightily of Unitarian hippie Jesus vibes while demanding tradition hymns in with the Christian rock music, at least. Sam's been walking an easy tightrope for years, able to manage both groups and conduct a fun church environment overall but at the same time there's fifty percent of your flock that don't even know what a podcast is, let alone how to google something on a computer.

If you sent them a link to their hotmail they'll call you on the phone and yell Now what? It opened a purple window and I heard God talking, or maybe it was Reverend Sam and it startled me so I threw my computer out the window. You owe me a new one. 

(This might have been an actual conversation, I'm not telling.)

I'm glad he cancelled. I wanted to get day-drunk anyway, after wasting an hour this morning transitioning back to my winter coats and bag, as it's below zero and still windy. I'm not interested in being cold. I'm waiting for endless heat, sunshine and forest fires to complain about and I was trying to embrace the nippy bonfire season with newly lighter sparkly nights as we march toward Ostara and every night I triumphantly announce that the sun went down two whole minutes later than last night, thank you very much and I feel so much lighter. I was trying to embrace but it's hard, so I'll go back to bed for two weeks and then try again in April.

Except I can't, because Matt is making us Socotranian breakfast wraps featuring spices from the port of Comandante Ferraz (going to have to rechristen them The Geography Boys but I didn't recognize either place so I'll rechristen myself Sheltered and I'll do my research after I'm done here, I only asked him for the spellings) and I'm pretty sure both my juice and my coffee hold more Devil than God at this point as he is famous for helping his guests relax by mixing lethal incendiary cocktails, with permission, of course. But they're good and I'm possibly the only one on the point who still drinks (we won't even talk about Ruth who came home around one-thirty this morning, set the alarm with a flourish, threw her leftover beers in the fridge and came up stairs calling good night.) and the food smells delicious, and I'm suddenly starving.

This is Matt's belated housewarming/welcome. Maybe it's a celebration of another, albeit hopefully smaller and less beautifully devastating wedding to come. Maybe it's confirmation that Bridget getting day-drunk makes her so easy to love you back or maybe it's because we've discovered strange new worlds we can daydream about running off to, with more time to get there now that the days are longer.

Breakfast is ready.

Social distancing but only from strangers.

Happiness comes today in the form of a new podcast* to start, an evening brandy planned for late but not too late, wind that never stops (just like at home) and the news that as of Tuesday, all the boys will be working from home.

Every. last. one.

Which I don't mind one bit and we are fully-stocked and full up on everything else that we might need and then some, in order to happily self-isolate here at home until the risk of this pandemic has abated. No one has it here (that we know of, except if anyone is likely to, it is I, your favourite shopping-cart-handle licker, and that's a long story) and frankly it's getting so crazy out there that it's better to stay put and not take chances when the thought of getting really sick again with a side of permanent lung damage makes me a little fearful, and a lot more careful, though it almost feels as if now is the safest time to go out. Everything has been cleaned to bare metal and no one is anywhere. We went to one of the larger malls because Lochlan needed some computer parts and holy cowwwwww it was empty and the Apple store was closed with four workers standing in front of the doors talking to anyone who approached because their motto is IT ISN'T FUCKING INTUITIVE Touch All The Things, but not today, because Coronavirus.

No one wants to touch anything, least of all me the pneumonia queen, and so I washed my hands once while I was there and used two different hand sanitizer stations because I have to hold on to escalators for dear life and not through a sleeve or jacket cuff, sorry.

I have a sharpened axe, some bubble wrap, a tiny keychain-sized pepper spray (it's for the feral hogs, Officer) and a piercing scream so stay the fuck away from me until Jesus emerges from hibernation and we'll be right as rain, okay?

*(Podcasts while drawing are a wonderful thing! I finished Gaslight first, then Blackout (which was SO GOOD until I turned on talk radio AM 98.0 and the announcer said Tell me what's happening where you are and it was the same thing Rami Malek said in Blackout and I almost drove off the road) and now I'm starting Limetown and I love it. Bring me all the dramatic radio shows, and please suggest more via email if you like.)

Walking backwards towards you.

Oh, ominous place spellbound and unchildproofed
My least favorite shelter bear alone
Compatriots in face they'd cringe if I told you
Our best back pocket secret
Our bond full blown

I have barely taken a sip of my coffee, heading over to the desk to work at budget stuff and shopping lists when I hear the intro notes of (Oh god, cheese) a slow song I love (Wunderkind, okay shoot me already the Chronicles of Narnia has an amazing soundtrack) playing over the sound system. Caleb is dialing it louder and louder and then he takes me in his arms and we have a waltz through the great room, him beginning with room for Jesus and by the time the song ends I figure if I take one more step closer I will have walked right through him and out the other side.

At the end he gets to his knees.

I'm so sorry, Bridget.

Which one of them threatened to kill you?

How many names did you want to hear? But that's not why I'm apologizing. Their words bounce off, I knew after I left you that I had crossed a line.

(He puts it so mildly. As if he conducted an impolite joke instead of a violent attack.)

A line, I repeat.

I broke all of my promises, Bridget. Again.

You did. She never trusted you anyway so it's okay. I let him off the hook. He can't actually do any further damage and this is the saddest part of our relationship, divided equally into two distinct time periods. Her and I. The child and the woman. And while I stand here I realize he can't even tell us apart.

And that's what scares them, and suddenly it scares me. 

Lochlan comes in then, startling when he sees Caleb on his knees, arms wrapped around my waist.

Go, he says abruptly, but I don't know if he means me or Cale. Caleb leaves and I watch Lochlan for a correction that never comes, mercifully.

He hurt you again? He's not allowed near you anymore. 

I'm fine. 

Right. Lochlan laughs with such a bitter edge I begin to bleed.

Love in the shadow of the pandemic.

His hair is wind-tousled from being outside, his belt buckle is skewed all the way to his belt loop on the right and his shirt is wrinkled. His grin is all teeth, however and I can't help but grin back at him. He is contagious.

I just want to say it's nice. Being wanted, not feel like the unwelcome Jesus-slinging reprobate all the damn time, instead everyone is fighting over who gets to cuddle me. It's like winning the lottery and I see now where some of them get their swagger.

Like who?

Lochlan.

I burst out laughing. Right.

Maybe Schuy.

Fair enough. I'm sorry about church.

If I had looked at that dress, Bridget, I would have turned to stone.

Oh I know. That's why I wore it.

I'll still be here. I'll even be available a little here and there. We're just getting reacquainted. And I didn't want to force Matt on the house before I knew if it would work this time.

And?

So far so good but as you can see we're trying to take it slowly.

I nod.

Do you want me to stay tonight?

What about Matt?

He understands if I leave for a crisis.

Is that what you're calling me these days?

Bridget-

Things were going really well and then you vanished and I didn't know how to handle it.

Why didn't you come to me?

You were busy with Matt. I make air-quotes around Matt's name and roll my eyes to be a brat. Sam ignores it.

Maybe I went about this the wrong way and I should have moved all the chairs and brought him right in and put him in your laps.

I mean, maybe? I don't know. I understand that you have to take it slowly. 

Logically you do but in your heart you're shouting. I can hear it from here. 

I'd rather be fixing you than me. 

About the Devil-

It's fine. He's fine. We're fine. It was just a moment. 

He keeps slipping up. If he can't control his emotions then what?

Then I dodge hellfire all damn day. At least he's hot. 

Is that an excuse to put up with things you shouldn't?

You tell me. I stick my tongue out and Sam laughs again, nodding, even though I'm pathetic as fuck.

Yeah. Well. I hear they cancelled hockey. 

They've cancelled everything. 

So what excuse will Joel have to come over now?

Oh, my own minister called me a crisis, so that's enough right there, for a bit.

I do love you, Bridge. And I miss you like crazy. But I do love him. And I think we got it figured out at last.

I'm happy for you, Sam. 

I'm happy for me too.

Swing from the endless trapeze.

Do I think Caleb will make good on his threat to lean on Lochlan to pressure me to stay away from Sam?

Of course.

Will Lochlan do it?

No. He follows Ben's School of Managing Bridgets and Home for Wayward Boys. Let her do what she wants, set her free, yadda yadda. Secure in the knowledge that I've never ever actually left Lochlan he rests. Will I leave him? Of course not. We're in this for life.

It'll probably kill me anyway so life could be days, could be weeks. And it's not so much that I've magically fallen in love with Sam but hell, the attention is nice and sure, I was infatuated pretty quick once he joined the Collective but he's not Jake and Caleb doesn't (er...didn't) have to worry about his own role or space within. (He might now, for no one takes kindly to violence. Or threats to deceive, for that matter so we're both fucked.)

They're pretty mad, and I'm still looking wistfully across the drive.

I want Sam to acknowledge that he isn't going to disappear forever. I want him to still be over-easy affectionate and scrambled love. I want him to be my breakfast snack. I want Matt to stop breaking his heart. I want Caleb to stop breaking mine. I want to be able to control other people all the while being completely unable to control myself and I want....

I want..

I want Caleb to stop giving me orders and remember that all of this is his fault.