Sitting in an ice cold waiting room right now. Caleb and Ben had a shoving match by the pool, Ben was off-balance and when Caleb suckerpunched him Ben fell and cracked his head on the concrete and didn't respond didn't get up for so long I went completely numb and didn't even scream. I froze. I probably wasted so much time but Caleb did not and called 911 the second he could get to his phone.
Ben has not woken up yet.
Update: he's awake.
Watching my life on a detuned TV,The pictures I see are just shapes on a screen,Come shake me out of my slow motion dream
Ha. I broke my heart learning the opening notes for Wish I Was Here. Falling for a song so hard I break bones and my own heart on the way down is truly the way I want to die.
Fuck off, Bridge. Sam isn't playing this morning and I am stubborn, a pile of dust and ragged pieces of myself on the floor. The curtains are thrown wide to highlight the dust motes floating in the morning sun. We're supposed to have thunderstorms later today, first for God to smite me with and second for my bones to fuse back together in the light. Then and only then will I be able to move again.
Sam reaches down into the dust, picks up a pinch between his fingers and draws the sign of the cross on my forehead.
He doesn't have room for me, Sam. That's why I live here in the dark.
It isn't dark right now, is it?
Sure it is. You just need to look behind my eyes.
What will it take, Bridget?
If I knew I would buy it.
Faith doesn't come for sale.
None of the virtues do, Sam. Or we would have some.
You're too hard on yourself. He whispers it. He makes me sad. He came over to see if I wanted to tag along to exceedingly-hot church (NO) and then he said I didn't actually have a choice. He's concerned because yesterday I had Saturday kayak with Matt and maybe made some casual statements that scared the fuck out of Matt because he knows me very well but apparently not enough.
I'm fine. As always. Some days are harder than others. Most of them follow tough nights.
You can't just hand me a new album and a good pair of headphones and leave me to drift, floating on a bed suspended by heavy ropes for fifty four minutes (which stretched into a hundred and eight so I could listen to it again) and blow me away with an easy breath for the profundity some men can reach with a piano and a pen.
I am so readily in love with those men. Sort of like men who speak Gaelic fluently. This is my kryptonite, it's my biggest flaw because those are the men who navigate their own charms, wielding a power immeasurable, a stunning display of emotional peacock feathers by which we are levelled flat.
Hello, Mick Moss. Welcome to the inside of my brain.
He's what I wished Pearl Jam would have been but isn't. Like a hotter, deeper version. Tighter instruments, but he's just...let the fuck go with his words, something I wish more people would do. That's something I require, it's a dealbreaker, in fact. If you want to talk to me you have to drop your walls. You have to tell me of your deepest darkest thoughts, fears and wants. You have to go one step further, opening yourself, being vulnerable, being unabashed, shameless and pure. I don't care if it makes you look bad. I don't care if you're embarrassed, just give me what I crave.
Like this. This is fucking awesome. Antimatter's Black Market Enlightenment is now safely ensconced in my top ten Most Perfect Albums of all time.
(If you want to check him out listen to Wish I was Here. GodDAMN.)
(Happy Saturday. Our virus cases here in the southern half of the province have tripled every day over the past week and I'm never leaving the house again but as long as I have some amazing music and my deepest boys around I'm good for the rest of my life, thanks. Deliver Vietnamese food and I'll not complain with a single word. August laughs when I tell him this. I was so drunk when I explained exactly how I work, to his amused face as he nodded. I know all this, he reminded me, but I told him again anyway.)
Henry and Lochlan were outside until around midnight last night, as Henry continues to learn to handle fire. It looks cool, he says. He's enjoying the process of learning and trying and getting it, finally after dozens of attempts. Then it's on to the next level, as practice is everything. Henry's not a perfectionist and doesn't worry if he can't do something, but he is also exceedingly quiet and contemplative. He feels things twice as deep as your average human, which is a hindrance and a help. Henry is exactly like Jake but with my stubbornness and pragmatism, and so Lochlan has no trouble at all crafting a plan to teach him in a way that will work both for Lochlan's capacity for risk and patience and for Henry's confidence in himself and desire to expand his decidedly too-safe horizons.
As this week wraps up we've really settled into a new sort of dynamic here on the point. It's all good, all positive, all healthy which is the most you can ask for, right Joel? Joel came by last evening but we were busy hanging out with the kids and didn't want to break away to go and talk. I don't want to talk to him right now anyway. He is not for the good times. He is for the hard times (or as I call them, the heart times). He is for emergencies. He is just a textbook we can flip open if we need a reference but otherwise he can wait.
Sometimes I just stand and watch and I can't believe the way things turned out. Jacob, you baptized your own son and you didn't know he was yours. And now he's learning to throw fireballs into the night because of Lochlan's encouragement, and because mom was so disappointed in the lack of meteor showers, so let's make one for her and she can enjoy a personalized experience and God bless them both it was the greatest round of shooting stars I think I've ever seen and not only does Lochlan not see Jake in Henry (he lies but he insists: Only you, Peanut. Only you) he doesn't even hesitate to be his father. Never has, never will and I love him for that, even when Jake was still alive and had no idea, Lochlan would talk about his kids which drove them all batshit. This is the life we wanted, only the camper's a tad bigger than we expected but the kids are too. Pinch me, I'm dreaming.
No, you know the rules. Get away from me and just leave me like this. Please.
PJ took the entire beer cooler to his wing, Duncan and Dalton helped bring the food back to the house and we left the blankets in the pool house to bring back out tonight, as last night the only thing I saw was muddied shooting clouds, I guess and after a fifteen-minute insistence on me adjusting my eyes properly to the dark after pulling the switch on all of the exterior lights, Lochlan very gently suggested we try tomorrow.
But wouldn't you know, I'm stubborn and I made him wait a further thirty minutes just in case, you know, it cleared up or something.
I double-checked this morning and yes, it's supposed to be clear tonight and yes, PJ is punch-drunk this morning, having worked his way through a bunch of beers (there weren't that many in there, I just call it a cooler full of beers because it's easier to describe than saying 'an assorted galvanized tub full of ice and assorted beverages' or something. Most of the point doesn't drink or is in recovery. We're technically happier dry but then I like to get shitfaced and...be cute and PJ likes to drown his loneliness and Caleb measures his worth by how much his whiskey costs but THAT isn't even in the bucket and Lochlan isn't even picky if you hand him whatever and then there is ginger-ale for Benjamin and canned pellegrino with orange for Dalton who is a lot snootier than one might suspect. I don't even aspire to the sparkling water and I'm the queen of your very best dry champagne) and you should probably too now, after reading that huge parentheses section, I bet.
What was I going to say? Oh yeah! The meteor shower that never was. I planned my whole week around being gobsmacked by it and I've yet to lay eyes on a single star.
Lochlan thinks I am funny and yet it's also his fault.
(The legendary story of how he made me fall in love with him (he didn't, I already had) by showing me a path straight from the sky to his heart, stopping at all of the constellations along the way. GOSH. Such a romantic to my little elementary-school heart, I never had a chance, I don't think and this is why today my glaring lack of maturity causes so many problems. He promised me a fairytale but he didn't know there would be such a price to pay to get it and we're just now debt-free and realizing this gift after years of hard work, years of adversity and miles between us, both literally and figuratively.)
He is the north star, and anyone who says different can fuck off.
How many beers have you had today, Bumblebutt?
Two. No, three. I don't know. Maybe three. I have to pee, did you need something?
Lochlan laughed at me when I struggled past him dragging a lawn chair. Where you going, Peanut?
I'm setting up for the Perseids, I remind him.
Duncan jogs past. Hey Bee, what's for dinner?
Pop-tarts, I call back and he stops in his tracks.
Seriously?
The meteor shower is tonight!
So why didn't you trade nights? (my turn to cook)
I tried and no one would trade. Can one of you help me with these?
Sure, why didn't you ask?
I've been asking for a week now.
They look suitably chagrined. Guilty. But it's true. And now I'm left with five hours to spare having to do it all myself.
Here, Bee. Give it over.
Got it.
Grab that end?
I watch them whip into action to set up a viewing station that will see us through a twelve-degree night with wind but clear as a bell and the telescope is ready, the pile of blankets is folded and sitting on the rock wall and my plan is to bring the firepit down but put it back behind us so those who want to can have have hot dogs and s'smores but those who want to watch for shooting stars won't be bothered by the light. There's a cooler full of beer and one of the heaters down there too. I'm kind of ready. Surprise.
It works and they get excited.
Got the good buns?
I'll go bring out the mustard and chips.
Is this enough blankets?
It's Monday. Always a fresh start. August went back across the drive early this morning, after waking up and pulling me in against him for the slowest, hottest fuck I've had so far this week. He kissed Lochlan's cheek and got up, getting dressed in the dark, telling us he'll see us later, and then he closed the door so quietly on the way out I fell asleep waiting for the sound.
When I woke again it was late, Lochlan had scooped me in against his chest and I woke up in a cage of his arms, his breath on my eyebrows, his curls in my mouth as I tried to hold him right back, only he's bigger than me and his arms were blocking mine.
The fresh start is reacquainting ourselves with each other as individuals. It's learning to live in the fire again. It's getting so wound up with each other that we forget to breathe at all, forget that others have feelings or needs, forget that we need things like vitamins, vegetables or virtue.
I'm trying to do all this while still embracing summer's offerings, while learning boundaries with Caleb, while learning how to navigate my crippling grief and crushing immaturity, my wild fear, while learning how to let my children go and at the same time being there for them, while going through early menopause and trying to lose myself in the dirt of the garden or the sand of the beach every chance I get. My two favorite non-human places are in the sun, which is ironic, as I can't be.
I'm trying to heal my skin from Caleb's teeth marks after covering almost every square inch with tattoos to protect myself from the outside world after he taught me singlehandedly how dangerous it was. How I keep the devil close to my heart, how I opened my door to him, learning that my own needs were far more dangerous than living on the road with the shows, than strangers all around me, than my own thoughts in the dark, discounted for how they were formed. I get credibility for nothing in life because of this man and yet I love him so and some nights it feels as if all of Lochlan's work is for nothing. All of his efforts to shape me into a good person destroyed in that first night and for the rest of my life.
But it's Monday and like I said, it's a fresh start.
My favorite part of summer is this week. The Perseids paint the sky in streaks of white, the nights are slightly colder and autumn begins peeking around the corner flashing us glimpses of russet and pumpkin, ochre and smoky blue. Fall is always my favorite season by far, you wouldn't think it, but I always loved it when the tourists and vacationers went home and I had the beach all to myself again.
At night I can turn off all of the exterior lights on the property and lay down blankets on the grass or on the sand, though the grass on the lawn is closer to the sky and so that's what I usually choose. I put on a sweater and grab another blanket to cover my legs and inveriably someone (usually Lochlan or sometimes John) will bring me out a cup of blueberry tea. Boys come and go, kids come and go, not interested in the long wait for such a brief, stunning reward, but I'll spend hours shivering out on the lawn wishing on stars, worried that if I miss even one my luck could get worse.
Lochlan calls it quaint and thinks it's sweet, a throwback to our early years, soaked in more nostalgia than I can actually handle. Ben says it's too long and will only stay out for ten minutes, tops, once a year. Caleb calls it an unhealthy compulsion and won't come out at all.
But I'll be there. Tuesday night at ten pm. And I'll stay there far into Wednesday, too because it's not just a one and done. The stars give me more perspective than any words could ever and I need them like you need air.
I'm pretending to be confident, steady on my feet, courageous. Self-assured to a tee. I found all of these qualities in a spanking shiny fresh bottle of armagnac and I'm not about to pass them up so I marinated in them and now I'm ten feet tall and words bounce off like rubber bullets.
Except for the ones August speaks. Those ones are sharpened barbs and I'm porcupine-confident now, covered in quills and backed into a corner. My defense is to pull out the barbs, snap off their sharp, cutting points and throw them at his feet, looking up at him in tears, tears that are at least 53% proof, maybe more.
Bridge, did you ever think maybe if you were sober more often you would have a better handle on your emotions?
I don't carry those, Augie. They're too heavy for me so I think...um...Ben probably is holding the handle so who better than that? I wouldn't have a better hold on the handle-
I think I'll take you over.
Sounds good. I don't think they can manage-
I mean across the driveway, home.
Oh, I thought you meant you'll take over looking after me.
Is that what you want?
I don't want you to avoid me.
Bridget, you're breaking my heart.
You're the one who tells me to get out every time I'm here.
Because after I let go of you I'm reminded that I'm trying to stand in to make the widow of my best friend happy and I'm a poor substitute. You feel bad, I feel bad. Everyone feels bad and yet I can't stop. You come over here and stand in front of me and blink back those huge tears and I can't deny you or myself.
I think that's the most words you've said in years, Augie.
Maybe. I don't tell you to leave because I want you to leave.
So then come over and stay with us. Have a sleepover.
I thought Caleb had taken up residence in your bed.
That was days ago.
He laughs. Things going good with your devil, then? I don't want to fuck that up.
Fed the beast. Beast went home. You aren't responsible for his jealousy or my arrangements.
Let me speak to Loch.
I'll wait. I lean back against the counter while he picks up his phone and hits a button. His arm snakes around my neck, pulling me in to his chest, planting a kiss on the top of my head.
Hey, I hear him say. Bridge is here. We're coming back over. Okay with you?...Good. See you in a minute, Brother. He puts the phone down.
He knew I was here, Augie-
I don't think he likes it when you come over alone.
Then I'll bring him every time.
If that's what you want. He bends his head down and gives me a long kiss. That isn't something that happens often. He uses his thumb to wipe my tears, ending with running it along my bottom lip. I don't know if he knows what that does, but it was his best friend's signature move, and it makes me fall in love in the space of a single heartbeat. Some of the boys do it for effect, or perhaps feigning ignorance but August isn't one for dirty tricks.
Let's go. Got everything?
Yes, I whisper. It's going to be a long night, and I can't wait.