Blasted.

There are Halloween Goldfish this year! Tiny ghosts and pumpkins to go along with little vampire fish. I have had three little pouches of them so far this week. Did you know in this house we go through almost twenty bags of Goldfish a month? I used to buy the big boxes with two big foil pouches inside but the store I frequent no longer sells them in bulk so we buy three bags a week instead. 

I feel like they're the thread of our lives. Little cheesy fish-shaped crackers, swimming through our days. 

They missed a perfect opportunity to do dead goldfish crackers though. Little fishbones. 

God, you're morbid. They're for kids. 

Yes and I am and no, they're for everybody.

Still no spoilers but typing remains a massive challenge so this took a couple days and probably doesn't make sense anymore.

That post begat a standoff that ended rather spectacularly. 

I won.

I never win a standoff. I either get scared, bored or tired and give up, planning a coup later or maybe a whole other insurrection but this time I took my stand and pointed out the obvious. They dropped the ball. 

So if I pick it up it's not my fault. If I go on to help my team of me, myself and I to a twenty-one point lead it's THEIR PROBLEM and they'll have to regroup and form a new strategy. 

In this house we are not culture snobs, but sportingly...gatekeepy about it nonetheless. You need to know your Iliad and your Odyssey too. You need to know your Bach, your Orange Goblin and your more obscure Pachelbel and vintage Aerosmith. Your Tolkien quotes better not be from The Hobbit and you've read Little House on the Prairie because it's relevant to our times of excess and automation. I don't know. We're weird about it and if we can make each other feel bad about not having heard a particularly blistering guitar lead from Toska or a passage from a Keats poem that once made Sam sob during a wedding you can bet we will because how else are you supposed to have a hierarchy of superiority without knowing that one little thing? Or better yet, showing the rest of the family something cool, which means you're cool for the rest of the day at least, maybe even the week if you're truly blessed. Sometimes a neat musical means the whole house is pitching in and taking roles and singing along. 

But we ain't singing today, guys.

They lied. They fucking lied because they didn't want to be the one that didn't read and figured out of all of us someone had finished it and would catch the foul. Someone would step in and make sure there were no triggers and no spoilers and no ruinous Bridget-brain perched on the ledge of a hole made with a literary shovel, the worst kind of holes because you can't help them, they just happen. 

I'm so brave though. I believed them and I waded right in, up til the water was over my head, weighted down by the history of myself that I wear, that I never take off, that I can't swim with. 

August tried to shout me down, that was the worst part here. And I refused to give up the book because I have a little over two hundred pages left and I AM NOT SPENDING THE REST OF MY LIFE WONDERING WHAT HAPPENS TO JUDE! 

So fuck all of you. Someone should have kept this book from me and I'm so grateful no one actually did because it's already found a way to explains several things about me and the way I am that I've never been able to put into words in order for you to understand and now I can. 

So that's a gift they should be grateful for, because I know I am, as hard a read as it is.

Content warning.

One if by land and two if by sea
Maybe it's both and we'll all get lucky
Go to the end, man. Don't quit on me
Get what you wanted
Anarchy

 

So it turns out not a single one of them ACTUALLY READ THE BOOK.

Moose gifts.

 https://fourheartsranch.com/

What about it? 

We should buy it. 

Why do you want it, Bridget? 

Because it has lakes and horses and cows and birds. Bears. Moose. 

You can have all that here.

Show me a moose. 

Caleb takes out his phone and starts typing. 

No, I mean a present moose. I haven't seen one with my own eyes in years. 

 It's very remote. I don't think I want to be in prime forest fire territory. 

But I keep looking at it. The layout is decent. The main house is a little strange but we could change it all and the swimming is RIGHT THERE, tons of it. Not just a pool and the ocean with the rocks-

Then you would be the Lakewater Princess. 

That's fine. Not like I can get down the deathtrap stairs anymore. 

But you do anyway. 

Of course I do. That's my beach. 

I rest my case. 

We could buy it as a vacation property. 

We could do that but we're never going to go inland. You see how often we went to Tahoe. 

Once every couple of years? It's because it's in another COUNTRY-

Keep looking. Find something near a little healthcare, maybe.

I do. Because I want space. And privacy. And a moose. 

George Stark: Not a very nice girl.

She's back. Working to take five times longer to type some shit on the screen so that people stop assuming that I Thelma and Louised myself off the cliff in a Jeep or was strangled during rough sex upon request. 

Both perfect ways to go, but I'm not ready for either yet (I mean, everything but the death-part would be fine in both examples, let's be real here).

I had surgery on Wednesday morning (PJ just told me that was only yesterday WTF) and now the cast comes off in twelve to eighteen weeks (FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK) so this is not helping my cartwheel career, let me tell you. Thank God I can walk a tightrope better than most, for my hand is less than useless. The joke is I can finally practice using my left hand for handjobs and then be able to multitask six months from now but the boys are rather desperate to cheer me up. 

But I'm not here to talk about scaphoid non-unions and the girls who suffer them. No, I've decided that we should talk about the bone now inside my hand that they used as a shim to fill in the space where my own bones, in an expected act of defiance typical of yours truly, declined to actually grow. It's called a non-union and the worst outcome save for infection. 

So they decided to do a bone graft and screws and another cast. 

And then began to explain where the bones come from. 

And Lochlan jumped up and covered my ears but it was too late, while Caleb tried to talk over everyone pointing out they could do a graft from me, or even from him if necessary. Both bad ideas as I obviously heal so poorly who needs another thing to deal with and he might not even be compatible (snort) and they don't take volunteers. They dismissed the whole thing as par for the course, don't worry about it, etc. etc. 

But my mind. 

Oh, we all know my mind.

It went straight to The Dark Half, (It's a book by Stephen King) and you can look it up. I was wondering if anyone had any information about my bone. Who was he? I'm assuming it's a he. Young or old? Sick or a sudden accident? Will he help me or take over? Can I name him? If so, George it is. Do I get a certificate of authenticity? What if he's angry and haunts me too? What if he doesn't get along with Jake?

Who's Jake? The doctor looked so alarmed.

And Cole, I helpfully point out. They are my dead husbands. 

The doctor put a call in for mental health services. Like he could order it. Like Door Dash.

It never came and then instead the boys had to explain and give the number for August and then for Seth, who vouched for my care under duress and without preamble and then I was never directly addressed again and I will be heading to a different orthopaedic dept. in the future, as they don't understand me and I can never show my face again in that hospital.

And I have been relentless since, equally repulsed and fascinated by the fact that I have a bone in my body that came from a dead person. Sometimes I want it out. Sometimes I feel like I have permanent company. Sometimes I wish they could have given me his brain too, and then I could think other thoughts. I think maybe he was an engineer or maybe an architect and he had coffee with a college friend and then died tragically crossing the busy street in front of the coffee shop, hit by a bus he never saw coming. It was raining. It was dark. What a shame.

But what if he's a bad guy and he was shot by a jealous husband? What if he was throttled during sex and now all I will see is his last vision of the realization in the eyes of his lover, too strong for his own good, spent and glistening in the dark candlelight, screaming his heartbreak into the void? 

Right. The drugs are fucking fantastic and I'm not even going to edit. So there. Enjoy the madness while the drugs are this good because next week I'm sure Lochlan will be hiding the chainsaws again. But will he be hiding them from me or from GEORGE? 

Who knows? Who even cares?

Don't tell me I'm fine.

I got my phone back, found my mind, covered with lint, kicked into a dusty, dark corner and I unclenched my fists long enough so that Lochlan could tuck my good hand in his for the evening, not letting go, comically so even as I pleaded to be allowed to go have a pee and I'll come right back. 

Promises are fine and all but I'll come with you. 

Why?

Because it broke my heart when Asher came to tell me where you ended up. 

He's the one who walked away. 

Because I'm sure if he had tried to comfort you somebody else would have had issue with it so he came to get me. He did the right thing. 

He left me alone. He even took my phone. 

Probably thought you were going to chuck it. 

Lochlan-

It worked out. I was outside in minutes. I can do this. Let me do this, Bridge. 

We end in a stare-off. No one says anything else. I finally look away first, because he wouldn't dare.

***

Hospital today. Going to go see a man about a hand. This pain is not what the boys describe after a cast. And I have a huge pain threshold so the fact that this hurts this badly after having the cast off still is making me nervous. Wish me luck.

One week til I can get on a plane and touch him for real.

Not sure who was more ashamed this morning. Lochlan for having the gall to invite Caleb up to function as the huge space usually taken up by Ben, knowing full well I don't need to complicate my autumn any further, or me, who drank a whole bottle of malbec, said fuck it, and took every opportunity they gave me to turn myself inside out while they touched me, headphones in place so I don't have to hear the things they say, body numb by the time the sunrise hit, mercifully so until the broiling steam from the shower hit my skin and woke everything up again. I fled the room for the relative safety of the gazebo as the sun climbed the long ladder into the clouds and I refused to even meet Lochlan's eyes once daylight rounded out my view. 

It's okay, pretty sure his hypocritic gaze was fixed on the floor too. Not like he doesn't know it makes things worse. It's a short-sighted solution to a longterm problem and it would be better for everyone involved if we didn't pull this shit every time we miss Ben. Not like Caleb doesn't lurk around us late into the night just hoping we'll let our guard down. Just pouring more wine, hoping Bridget will turn the corner from mean, spiteful insult-thrower to positively pathetic, helpless drunk and the minute that switch is flipped Lochlan just wants to fix it and he doesn't care who he has to sell his soul to to do it, whether it's August, Sam, Schuyler or the Devil himself.

Caleb and Ben are the same size. Same colouring. Same intensity. And that's where it stops. Caleb has his own vulnerabilities but they're nothing like Ben's. Caleb holds his fork wrong. He shoots his cuffs too much. He wears an exceedingly expensive Breitling watch that hurts when it scrapes against me. His eyes are blue instead of brown. His hands are smooth and manicured, no callouses from the constant guitar playing, no hesitation, just smooth all the time. Calculating instead of earnest, manipulative instead of predictable, serious instead of goofy. 

But that blurs in the dark and we let him in. And we gave him a show for free and then he made us pay the price and the proximity burned us against the moon until we keened and hawed in the night for everything to stop, painfully aware as the night ground to a dull finish that the only things we're eroding here are our credibilities and our strength. Bridget's mental health. Lochlan's steadfast morality. 

But who needs either of those things when the Devil will give you everything you really want. 

I called for Ben and gave my family code and it wasn't even ten minutes when he called me back. Facetime. I am so hungover and so sensitive I can hardly meet his face. 

Caleb came over last night. 

Loch there? 

Yes. 

You both okay? 

Yes, I lie.

It's fine, Bridge. Sorry I missed it. He smiles his absolutely smarmiest grin and I start laughing and crying all at once. 

You think it is? I don't think it is. 

It's better than if you go see him alone. 

I know. 

Then don't worry about it. 

When can you come home?

I see Asher coming across the lawn and I roll onto my back so I don't have to look at him, holding the phone up in front of my face so I can look at Ben for one more minute. My time is up. My ghost-balloons bob around in the cap of the gazebo, Jacob coming into frame every few seconds to frown down upon me, Cole laughing at my pain and Ben begins blur until I can't see him anymore. Asher takes the phone from me as I choke out an I love you and Ben's gone again. 

Asher puts my phone in his pocket and turns and heads inside. I cover my hands with my face and sob because out here no one can hear me and there's nowhere else I can go.

Fixty-six (floating on a wine-dark open sea).

The ship has flung me off a thousand times in the night and still I crawl back onboard only to be tossed into the darkened sea on the next invisible wave. This time he plucks me out of the salt and ash and pulls me back, keeping me in his arms tightly even though we are both soaked to the bone, ice-cold but growing warmer by the minute. 

Lochlan holds up his hand and lights his fingers aflame one by one, a birthday cake we only celebrate in this one place where he is a pirate and I am a mermaid and he melts my ice with his fire but it never seems to be enough.

Oh, it's enough, Circus Peanut. 

I laugh shakily, my teeth chattering against the cold slicked down flannel covering his heart. Is it? What if it kills us?

Then we'll go out knowing this was the greatest love and the best birthday of all time. 

Now I know you're lying. 

I never ever lie, though. 

Yes, you do. You told me everything was going to be okay. 

And it is because you're here with me. It's the happiest birthday I have ever had, Bridget, and you're never ever going to top it. 

I'll top it next year. I'm going to buy us lifejackets so this stops happening all the damn time. 

If you don't want to go out on the boat we don't have to.

Maybe we'll just wear the lifejackets on land too. Then we'll be extra-safe. 

That's a very good plan. 

***

For Lochlan's birthday I got him a sailboat so my waking-dream was themed perfectly. It's not large, it's just a fifteen-footer, basic Marlowe with an open hull but he's always wanted to learn to sail and I get to be the one to teach him. It might hold three of us if one of us greases up but it's small and safe and gleaming and he absolutely loves it.

Let her eat cake (there is so much of it anyway).

Still here. Still having french fry wars and singing in the rain, getting used to new eyeglasses and drinking rosemary gin. Still in too much pain to type a lot which is being looked at on Tuesday, and in the meantime, the man burns tonight.

In an hour, actually. You can watch it on Burningman.org. 

Also I asked Lochlan to saw off my hand. Never heard a nervous laugh like that before. I'll be locked in the main house for the rest of the year now, probably. Happy birthday, honey. Your wife is fucking CRACKED.

Hand still hurts but the emails. Holy cow.

I'm alive, contrary to the breathlessly bitter and excited emails asking me if I'm dead (yet). Sorry to disappoint you. I'm a little bit coked out (it's a JOKE. It's codeine, not cocaine), pain-riddled and busy. Ruth and Lochlan's birthdays are this weekend, Friday and Sunday respectively. We have no shortage of ridiculously traditional festivities planned, and the boys have been so incredibly proactive in helping to cook/wrap/fetch/bake/decorate it's been unreal. 

All the while we are missing Ben with a fierceness I don't remember from before, as he's always been on tour or in rehab this time of year anyway. I never said fall was a good time for everyone, but in this house spring, summer and winter can cause problems too, you know. 

(All of this planning and preparing will keep her busy, they said.)

And maybe they were right, because the words and directions come slowly but I direct them in a dance that sees us ready to roll almost a day and a half early, and we are finding the joy in simple things like working together and putting new twists on old favourite traditions. If you don't you die, I guess. Maybe this is the point. You just ride the rollercoaster of feelings into oblivion and then on the sea of glass you look back and it will be profound and stunning how beautiful everything truly was, even the hard parts. The ones that made you sad or afraid. All of it by design.