How do you organize an outer space party? You planet.

This was a request in-house. I don't know why. 

My complaints, I present to you:

1. When a very-long dead person is wished a happy 459th birthday on social media. Firstly, they don't have social media so they'll never see it and also, they never would have made it to that number anyway so what is that even all about?

2. Artists talking about their upbringing/qualifications. It's always "Daddy encouraged me to paint in the gardens and then I spent my post secondary travelling around the world taking random art programs that no one can actually afford before he gave a large donation to the gallery that now bears my name where I freelance paint. Anyone can do it! Thanks Daddy." These revelations are almost always given in pleasant, quiet voices in a room that costs more than my life.

3. Makeup tutorials that have a catfish headline like I'll teach you how to apply a winged eyeliner that won't budge! and then the video is ninety minutes of spackling their face with eight different liquid skin uh thingies followed by at least forty-five minutes of painting in a wing in stages, with tape and baking (?) and primers and architects and mentors, with a steady hand and uncreased lids, followed by a smug It's easy! Like and subscribe! OH MY GOSH. I'm going to die without this skill. Apparently the mudding and taping is part of why it works so I guess I'll sit this life out. I really am a boy.  Though Ben can do eyeliner perfectly.

4. Packaging. My pocky sticks are in a box that's sealed in plastic and then inside the box every ten sticks are wrapped in yet another round of plastic packaging. I don't know what the answer is but I think it begins with a plan for feeding the pocky sticks individually through a big straw from the pocky factory straight into my face. For the environment.

5. The one tik-tok with the "husband hack" (BARF>) that shows a man drive up to Starbucks and hold his phone out where his wife? Presumably? on speakerphone yells "I want a *insert eighteen-step complicated not-a-coffee-anymore order* and then he smiles smugly at the camera. Okay. FIRST. If your coffee order is that complicated that your spouse can't remember it that's...food for thought. And B) If you start a request with "I want a-" like a toddler with no fucking manners and you don't say please, thank you or sorry (at the very least, for an order like that) then FUCK YOU and BE NICER to servers/baristas/everyone. DON'T BE SUCH A DICK. Arghhh. Pet peave. I never met so many rude people as I did at the coffee shop where I worked.

That's it. PJ wanted me to write a complaint thread. Here you go, buddy. He thought I would be mad about the bad joke theme-week he started but I love it. The title is my contribution, today.

*~*Bonus edit: Sam's joke: Atheism is a non-prophet organisation. He'll get a re-do since that's a pun and not a joke,e xactly.

From no time to breathing space just. like. that.

Today is slightly better in the way of very good news and we're back on track. Sometimes I am surprised by how helpful and hands-on people are. By how being nice and thanking people and asking for help they will deliver and it touches me. Maybe people think I am fragile or difficult or need to be coddled. I don't know but I appreciate it as I advocate on someone else's behalf. Either way, SHIT GETS FIXED ON FRIDAY. Thanks to life, which is full of surprises. Like surprise surgery! But not for me. Anyway. Fairly minor. Easily repairable but things that also couldn't wait, even a week and so thank you for the crossed-fingers and the prayers. It helped. A lot, I think. 

***

Wearing my Jesus Loves You yellow ringer tee and a big long cardigan with pockets that I made years ago. Flared jeans from the early two-thousands. All my rings. Socks and my around-the-house clogs that I can wear outside but that also don't leave marks on the wood floor. I run into the devil and he does a double-take.

Cute shirt. 

You've seen it. 

I know. I like you in yellow. 

I don't know if I do but I like the shirt because it's soft. 

You haven't changed, you know. 

Oh, I have. I am old and jaded and hard. 

That's what you think.

Jesus knows. 

He does. And I think he would agree with me. 

Jesus Bro? 

Jesus Bro.

Shakey mother (fucker).

Long day. Bad day. Don't really want to talk about it but you know when something is tough for someone you love and you try to support them and you think it will go smoothly and then it doesn't at all?

That was today. I kind of understand how they feel now. They will never understand how I feel, though.

Bruce Springsteen peaked in high school (I am leaving but the fighter still remains).

(Also I figured out the random extra spaces that show up when I'm reading for clarity are from the part of the cast around my thumb hitting the space bar so that's why they're there, sorry. I know it's distracting and I try to grab the ones I notice.)

I am just a poor girl
Though my story's seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles
Such are promises
All lies and jest
Still, a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest

Lochlan was playing the guitar and it sounded a little bit familiar. I thought it was The Boxer and I was really looking forward to the Lie-la-lie part and the diction of the final verse but he stopped when I got to the end of the first verse with its changed pronouns, eyes wide. 

Wow, that changes everything, when you do that. 

I can make anything sinister. I can make it all wrong and no one can fix it. That's my superpower, I guess. Just fucking things up. 

This morning is Monday and we're due a thunderstorm after lunch so we are organizing outside chores really quickly and sorting out the space between now and Thanksgiving, which apparently is a couple of weeks before Halloween and I always forget due to the sheer number of former Americans in this house. 

(And the sheer fact that Halloween is a literal and figurative nightmare now.)

I am paying bills and we're delegating the months chores on the big chart and Ben's place was divided up by all of them but now that he's back (he's back he's back he's back) it's only mine that have to be covered and I still persist in doing a ton of things so very few things need to be switched up. We have the menu set and we're starting to pull together anniversary plans for Daniel and Schuyler. Lochlan and I didn't actually celebrate this year. You know, five whole years married. It still seems disingenuous somehow. Like we're cheapening decades of being together so we've decided to just mark the day quietly and not make a huge fuss. But with Daniel and Schuyler we're coming up on ten years for them and this is a very big deal. And so we have three big dinners and two holidays and Christmas is only a dozen weeks from now and...

JESUS CHRIST.

 I need this cast off so I can get things done, so I can hold on to the edge of that hole with both hands as long as I can before letting go, so I can fight off ghosts, memory fires and strange bedfellows with both hands. So I can hold my laptop up in front of my face and fend off the shame of new readers who just show up and think they're going to read the whore show and then get angry when I go in deep.

Sorry, not sorry? There is no genre here, just Bridget. Maybe Bridget IS a genre. A type. A thing. Whatever. Superpowers. Music. Hurt. Fuck off.

***

What song were you actually playing this morning? 

Streets of Philadelphia. 

Oh. Crazy. 

The crazy part is that you gave a very sophisticated guess.

Wonder who gets credit for that?

Put your hands up and run.

Sam yanks the pillow out from underneath my face. I was so enjoying drifting in and out of dreamland underneath the rain pouring all over the skylight, enjoying the crisp warmth of a Matt/Samwich. They both smell like jasmine and sandalwood. They smell like freshly laundered velvet and rain. I don't even know but I forgot to ask what the soap was they use because it's so addicting. 

Coffee's ready, sleepyhead. 

Just leave me here. 

Church in two hours. 

I don't care. 

God cares. 

We've had this argument. He does not. 

Okay, well you're not staying here so if you're not coming with me then you have to go home. 

Ah, the sting of being dismissed. How I hate it. 

Matt sits up and pulls me up with him, kissing my cheek. Bye, sunshine. 

Wow, you guys really know how to shut off a party.

I only came over to see if they were watching scary movies, as Sam had mentioned they might be on Friday. Caleb and Lochlan were holed up in the library 'talking' with the door closed, because apparently the jarring nature of seeing Lochlan's breakup speech in print hammered home some residual guilt. Lochlan, I think, was pretty sure that as an unreliable fourteen year old girl, I would also quickly forget what he said to be mean and move on. 

(Me? Do I move on? Ha. Never.)

It's Sunday. 

Right. Do you actually mind if I just stay and sleep though? 

You don't get to be alone. We'll take you back over in a few. We're heading out for breakfast before worship so if you don't want to join us then you have to turn back into a pumpkin now, I'm afraid.

Gotcha. I get up and let the sheets fall just so they know that I am way more of a fun Sunday than church.

God help us. 

I told you, good luck with that. 

Sam walks over and slides my dress over my head. Get. Ready. I have to go. 

Boo, I say as my head pops through the hole. 

Scary Bridge! He says and laughs. I get a kiss on the other cheek from him and I am turned and marched out the door. 

Finally larger than life.

Far across the emptiness I walk the night
And search the silence in the dark you left behind
I seek the stars above the world to be the guides
But they all pale against the light in your eyes

In your eyes

 

And I won't suppose to know why you walked away
But I can feel you pushing through beyond the space
To send your energy to me and I'll push through
Send your signal home and bring me back to you

 

Ben got up early to go to a meeting with Duncan and Aug so I was wide awake from the second the door closed, first as the coolness became warmth, then through his quiet movements in the dark after I heard the shower shut off. I am in and out of sleep, in dreams trying to use a washing machine that looks like a spaceship and I don't understand why it must be so complicated before I am awake again, swimming up through the bubbles, through the shirts and socks that seemingly float in space and gasp for air at the surface. My eyes burn, my lips are dry and he has left a kiss behind on the top of my head that I never acknowledged, too buys with the dream-task at hand.

My eyes survey the room. The sun is up now but the curtains are closed. I can hear the birds through the open windows though. We have a tiny brown wren and a large colourful flicker making a nest in the eavestrough right outside the window closest to the bed. I got out on the roof yesterday afternoon, planning to move it, but I was still a foot too short so I had to play dumb and not tell them I went out and I pointed out the fact that I think there is a nest there. Lochlan won't touch it. He thinks maybe it's necessary and we'll worry about it in the spring if the birds are still there. 

He stirs briefly and then is awake all at once and I forget about the birds as he pulls me in underneath him, crushing my lips against his, a breathless kiss from just at the surface. His hands fight down to my legs, and he pulls my knee up around his hip and then he pulls away, up in order to give me a proper kiss, to let me breathe just for a split second, a nod against my head to make sure everything is good and then he is moving against me, slow and gentle just until we match our movements and then he turns harsh and desperate, passionate, fire eating us both alive. 

His hair is in my face, his arms clutch me up against his heart, his hand presses my head against his chest, holding me in the air, and then he pulls us both up so he is on his knees in the centre of the bed, quilts falling away from his sinewy arms and muscled legs, his back slick with a sheen of sweat from the sudden temperature spike. He readjusts his hands under my legs, going so hard I can't breathe anymore at all and then suddenly we are at a crawl again. He pushes forward and I am lying on my back again as he holds himself up with one arm and pulls me close with the other, driving against me, sounds coming from his throat as he tries not to moan out loud. Failing as I make the smallest sound when he hits the perfect mark and just stays there, holding out until I can come with him, wherever he goes as always and that sound he makes finishes me off.  

He smiles and kisses the end of my nose and then the space between my eyes but he doesn't let go. He stays locked against me and I stretch involuntarily, shuddering out my limbs before folding them back in like a cat.

And he laughs and lets go at last. You haven't done that for years. 

You let go sooner these days. 

The laugh leaves his eyes but I'm right. We use to remain in our embrace for the night, not moving for hours before finally, reluctantly releasing each other as if it would physically wound us and it did, ever so slightly. 

I won't tonight.Or ever again.

It's fine. It's not practical-

I don't care if it's practical, Circus Peanut. 

Sure you do. Everything is practical. Everything always has to make sense. 

You never made any sense to me. You never followed the rules of the universe. You still don't. That's why I always tried so hard to make it logical.

Does it make sense now? At last?

No. 

I'm so happy to hear that.

Don't cry, Bridget. Please don't cry. I'll make it right.

You already did. You came back. You're the only who came back. 

So let the others go. 

I want them to see what they missed. 

They don't deserve it. And they already know what they missed. But they never had this. You were mine from the first moment. The only mistake wasn't made by us, it was made by those who couldn't see the truth. 

I nod again. He's right. We're in a late-fall cloying heatwave, sitting in the camper in the near-dark of the earliest morning. We just let go of each other to breathe. I have had my big stretch. He has had his coffee. 

When I grow up I'm going to get your name tattooed on me so that they see. 

Do you think anyone will read it and understand how big this love is? 

No, of course not. 

He smiles again, wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs and shakes his head. I don't even understand how this happened. All I know is that it's more valuable than anything and everyone is going to try to take it from us and we won't let them. 

I nod. I'll believe anything he says. Never stopped, even when he said so many other horrible things a few years later in order to make it easier for us to be apart, for me to hate him and move on, in order to save my life. 

You're too small. Too tenuous. Too naive. You're only good for one thing and it's not enough to be worthwhile even. Everyone is afraid you're going to break. Or cry. Or disappear on the wind. Everyone falls in love with you and it's hard to fight them while you just let them do it. And you aren't even smart enough to understand what that means, Bridget. That's the worst part. Trying to protect you while you're constantly running away from me. 

I didn't-

You wanted him to touch you and now you're lying about it-

No, I DIDN'T! 

You're only saying that now because you're scared. Because I'm not going to fight your battles for you anymore. You can have him. See if he does a better job-

Locket, don't. 

I already did. Because Cole isn't any stronger. He can look after you. The brothers Grimm can have you and you can see how your fairy tale turns out without me. 

DON'T LEAVE. 

I told you, I'm already gone. I don't love you anymore. Get over it. You're not even big enough to be a memory.

Those words make up some of the biggest scars to this day. Words spoken in desperation so that I would hate him and move on. So I would be safe. And all of it was lies but it still hurts. He really went above and beyond, showman that he is. Making it count. Making it worthwhile and making sure it had the desired effect. The ensuing years when I believed I was worthless and worked my way through all of them, letting them do what they wanted, letting me believe all the wrong things. Wreaking permanent damage and it's never going to be fixed and this is the legacy of one redheaded teenage ringmaster in over his head against the lions but putting on a show nonetheless.

What if we take some of this magic and turn back time?

I stare at him in the dark waiting. 

Close your eyes. 

I close them, trying to relax every muscle in my body. He kisses me. Softly. Slowly. Just once. 

Good morning, Peanut. Open your eyes. I open them and all I see is him. Did it work?

No. 

GODDAMMIT, he yells but he laughs afterward. It's a jaded laugh, bitter and worn down by the years, it's frustration and history and it's ours so we'll own it all, the good and the no good at all.

Last one and I'm shutting that door again.

No, Henry isn't angry at Caleb. And Caleb isn't upset about Henry's mood yesterday. Henry sometimes feels possessive when he is spending time one on one with anyone, including mom, because as I have talked about before there are a lot of people here in the Collective and there can be very little privacy. So if you're hanging out in the kitchen at least eight people will be by at various times to see what's up, try and join in out of boredom or (most grievous of all) not realize you are actually occupied and invite you to do something else. Henry is always a popular person. He's adventurous, enthusiastic and welcoming. Affectionate. He holds his own, as I talked about yesterday. 

So he and Caleb went out for breakfast, spend a long time talking and hashing out feelings, expectations and boundaries. Caleb was frank and honest with him, and Henry appreciated that, and Caleb appreciates where Henry was coming from, with regard to spending time with me without interruption and how sometimes it appears that Caleb thinks his original Collective blueprint gives him some sort of veto power over me. 

It does not. 

Henry didn't believe me, but he believes Caleb when Caleb says all he can do is ask, and that he does get lonely and he probably does pressure me and he's going to do a little soul-search to find his patience and his memory again, that it's easy for him to get off track. He loves me so much. 

Apparently Henry told him it's not a competition and that he can see that I love each one for different reasons or sometimes Venn-diagramesque, overlapping reasons. Why can't Caleb see this?

Caleb admits his weaknesses, his failings, his mistakes. That's why we're all here. To do better, together. 

I think Henry would have liked that but then the story goes that Henry laughed, finished his tea and pointed out this breakfast wasn't a job interview and the buzz-phrases and false assurances were exactly what he is talking about. 

I would say the same thing to your mother, Caleb reminds him. We're all here to make it right and to stay together as friends.

My mother's lost her mind, he said and Caleb's heart apparently fell out and rolled across the table. We always think we can blindfold our kids in order to gloss over the hard parts only to find out they could see all along. 

Henry Jacob. Caleb says it softly. She's doing the best she can and that's why there is a Collective at all. 

That was the beginning and I can't share the middle or the end, but lets just say no one was seated near out of discretion by the host, and by the time they returned to the house it was almost noon and I was fretting but they apparently kept talking until it didn't hurt anymore and then went for a long walk before returning home. They brought flowers for me. They brought reassurances. Henry isn't planning to start lashing out but he does want to see a lot more help and a lot less of me being left to my own devices even as I am known for going off alone and it isn't anyone's fault. And he doesn't want Caleb to ever argue with me again or Caleb will have to answer to Henry for it.

It's almost as if I knew I would never be equal to them all in strength so I just went off and made someone who is.

Second Gen/proud ghost.

(A rare glimpse into a rare soul. Don't get used to it, he's off-limits.)

Spent the morning with Henry. He's the model for making masks as he has the largest head, and we also spent a little bit getting him set up with his very own credit card, something he is very excited about. Mostly because I go around warning people not to use their debit cards (if your debit gets compromised it's a tedious process to fix. Credit cards have much more simplified fraud protection, that's all) and debit was all he had. He's in such an intensive program in school he can't work until he graduates in the upcoming spring but he has enough money banked and only asked for a small limit so the bank said yes and the card is on the way. 

All the masks fit too. I have a template I use. I sew all of them, collect them, wash them and redistribute. There's a big basket of them right beside the front door. He wore a pink flowered one to vote on Monday so I figured it was time to add some new ones to the basket. These new ones are all very gender-neutral. 

I pointed that out and he said Mom, no one cares what mask I wear. Colours aren't divided by gender. 

Oh, this child. He teaches me so much. I put the pink mask in with the rest. It's only technically mine because I have a very tiny head and it's a very small (childsize) mask that I picked up at the beginning of the pandemic. If I talk though it slips so I wear the ones I make now too. 

Twice he told Caleb that he could see me later, when Caleb popped his head in to see if I was free. On the third attempt Henry actually roasted him. Man, you can't see she and I are spending time? 

And stood up to wait for Caleb's answer, eye to eye. Henry is no longer a blissfully ignorant eight-year-old and instead a jaded twenty-year-old who has decided Mom is off limits to everyone's bullshit. Even though most if not all of it is kept from him and I try so hard around him. He doesn't miss anything, however and I maybe should give him more credit. 

So I do and this happens. I backed him and I always will, because Caleb looked around the side of Henry and asked if maybe later...?

The day's full, Henry reiterated and I looked away again.

He's right, Cale. Maybe text me tomorrow. 

Or maybe leave it til Sunday or Monday, Henry says. Parting shot fired. Kill shot. 

Caleb's face drains of all colour and he nods. Will do, he says to Henry. Sorry for barging in. 

It's fine. Now you know. Henry smiles mildly, just like Jacob used to when he was pissed but being professional and closes the door again to the room. 

Henny-

Mom, it's bullshit. He makes you unhappy. 

He's provided this life for us. For you. For all of your uncles. 

They can cover it. He's almost...parasitic.

Henry Jacob! 

Around you. He's good to everyone but he makes you sad and I hate it. He fucked up Ben and-

He doesn't-

Mom, you don't need to protect me anymore, I'm an adult. 

I turn and look at him. He's in red/green. Three-dimensional. Jacob steps to the side four inches and then back in and it's Henry again. Same earnest intentions, same ironclad values, same low tolerance for anything but someone's best. 

I know you are but just understand things are really complicated after so many years. 

Oh, I see that. Don't you worry. 

Made me smile so big and I haven't stopped smiling since. 

What's the face for? Ben asks hours later. Can't stop won't stop. 

It was a good day. 

Really? 

Yeah. I'll tell you about it later. 

And for the rest of the evening every time I tried to go and see Caleb to apologize, to point out how adult Henry actually is and how little gets past him, Henry would stop me and say you're not going to go discount my actions earlier, leave it. 

Ah. Might be Jacob's but you can definitely tell this boy was raised by Lochlan.

Mabon.

Best sleep of my life, with my arms wrapped around Ben's neck, Lochlan's arms around me as he is pressed against my back, his arms out around me, past me to hold Ben close. A B, B & L sandwich, the way it's supposed to be, and no one is ever hungry. No one is left behind, we're the three musketeers and he's solid enough, confident enough and stable and now I can resume my trajectory forward, into the hole in front of me. 

It's the first day of fall. One of the twelve-foot skeletons is floating in the pool on a lounge chair. One is climbing up to Christian and Andrew's balcony. The pumpkins are artfully arranged on our front steps and the patio steps too, the tiny orange lights are strung up around the porch and my ghosts wait for their turn to scare everyone once it gets dark enough. 

It's not going to, Lochlan says, as he lights his torches, one by one. Not now. We're back together again. Nothing's going to get in our way. Not anymore. 

I hold my cast against my chest. I can feel my heart hammering as Jacob stands, patiently. A spectre, a sentry, a memory that won't be fleeting as it's too visceral and I've lost my mind. No one can find it. We looked everywhere. It's gone.

Maybe it's for the best, I look at Jake when I say it. He just looks away.

Shhh, Cole says as he strokes my hair. You don't need to worry about that. 

I nod, like I did to whatever he said, or Caleb would always make me pay for talking back to his little brother.  

Lochlan hands me one of his torches, and helps me hold it up because I can't do it with both hands. He has his head pressed against mine, hard. Not this time, Peanut. This time we get to burn it all down. 

Gosh, I hope so.

The Displacements.

Since it's not that far to Provo I called for a plane yesterday and managed to get an empty leg flight for Benjamin, Daniel and Schuyler and gave Schuyler the money back for the commercial tickets, and he laughed at me and declined my e-transfer. 

We don't care about any of that stuff. Time, as always, means so much more than money and Ben is home. He is fat again, not sure how he manages to gain so much weight is so many short weeks but he does, and he brought his journal where he wrote out his hopes and dreams and he said we should read it. 

It was indeed what Everett calls a top-up visit, a way to renew Ben's commitment to his sobriety while understanding the tenuousness of it and how it relates to his relationship with me in where he sacrificed himself to give me something to worry about so that I wouldn't worry about everything else and then he realized how tenuous it actually is. 

Also, I just add that worry on. Everything else remains right where it is. When it comes to fretting and anxiousness I am the world's best mutlitasker, and I can't even walk and breathe at the same time. 

I had to wait though. The car pulled down beside the front walk and the driver got out, opening the doors first and then going around and pulling the bags out of the trunk. Everyone is hanging back by the fountain and once the car pulled away again, Ben made the rounds to greet everyone. He always leaves me for last so that he doesn't have to let go and this reunion was no exception, except for after several moments holding me off the ground, not moving, he grabbed Lochlan back in so he could hold us both. Lochlan already had a hug. What the fuck. But it was so stunning to have him back suddenly, the bull in our china shop, taking up so much space here in our world. I don't think I could have lasted another day, honestly. Not sure Lochlan could have either. I'm sure Caleb might have, as he knocked on our door late last night asking for eleventh-hour companionship, coming in briefly to plead his case, being gently denied and then leaving before we could request it. I knew that would happen and I know he's probably still smarting from it but I can't worry about that right now. 

I only let go of Ben at the end of my hug so that he could go take a long hot bath in the big tub but he just called for me so um..bye. :)

My own little life.

Pulled down roughly into Caleb's lap this morning and kept there, on the couch by the kitchen woodstove. Lochlan's gone up to do some work organizing files and we already walked up the hill to vote. Somehow we couldn't do it during the four days of advanced voting so we got out before the lineups got long. Henry is still sleeping. So is PJ. It's a quiet post-rain day. Caleb was reading with his coffee on the table when we got home. He's been nothing jovial lately so no one is in early warning mode at all, even though I can't go near him lately and I'm unable to articulate as to why. 

I looked into your house listing. 

I stiffen slightly. Here he is trying to fix everything that's broken between us with more money. Money can't bring people back to life so it's no good to me anymore. Will he listen? Never. 

It has water damage. You can actually see it in one of the pictures. The owners appear to be walking away. 

It was just a day dream. Do you have any imagination at all? 

Dreams don't make sound economical decisions, Neamhchiontach.

They're not supposed to. And I need to go upstairs so may I leave?

I'm not keeping you here, he says as he relaxes his grip on me. But maybe we can sit down later and you can go over your list, and we can find or plan something to build that will give you the peace of mind you're looking for. 

It won't and that is the whole point, just to scroll listings and see if you can imagine yourself living in a place. 

I could live anywhere with you. 

Not with that lack of imagination. 

Talk to me for real, here, Bridget. What's happening. 

I'm just processing the book, that's all. 

The book. 

Yes, the one I talked about for three weeks straight while I struggled through it. The one you said you read and you didn't. The one everyone said they read. 

So I should read it. 

Probably not. I just need time. 

I need you. 

Maybe later. 

You've been saying that for a while now. 

Why does every fall season see you getting pushy and possessive? Let me live. Please. 

He stares at me for so long I see his emotions run the gamut behind his expression. It's neutral but his eyes range from rejection, shock to panic, fear and then protective and finally acceptance. 

But for how long? I just want to make sure you navigate the hard parts with everything you need, that's all. 

You know what I need?

I can't bring him back, Dollface. How many years are we going to do this? 

Until I see him in Heaven. 

Do I need to call Lochlan?

Lochlan's here, Lochlan says, pulling me up gently out of Caleb's arms, being so careful with my cast when no one else remembers. 

I think she's starting to get panicky and tired, Loch. Anything I can do? 

Be less demanding. The rule is she comes to you. Don't make things more difficult than they are.

The book-

I know. Reading it now.

Listing perfections (new Sunday series because ignoring Jesus is getting old).

Instead of going to church in the rain we have set up a wild Real Estate group roast this morning. Lochlan said it was too cold and damp for me to be outside today. He gestured at the window while he peeled my orange for breakfast. Don't worry, I had a rosemary rocksalt bagel too. I also had a Long Island Iced Tea at about nine last night, which meant a solid, mildly-drunken sleep. Amazingly I did not have to get up in the night to pee, which is somewhat unbelievable seeing as how if I even look at a glass of water after seven or so I am toast or maybe I was just tired but this was much needed, and much appreciated. 

I feel like I'm ten again, and he is cutting fruit for me with a knife because he doesn't believe I am old enough to safely use tools. In this case these oranges are hard to peel and I can't really do it with one hand. PJ offered and was dismissed, later to be apologized to and he told Lochlan that to make it up to him, Lochlan could peel his (PJ's) orange too. 

Oh, I'll peel your orange, alright, Padraig. 

Promises, Handsome.

And I giggle in spite of myself. 

Right now we are pontificating on people's inability to construct a floor plan that flows, their strange need to put entire laundry rooms inside bathrooms, why they all use the ugliest brightest highlighter colours they can find for feature walls, and the odd practice of spreading lawn furniture and planters out, away from the house in haphazard arrangements that make zero sense. My favourite ones are full of kitschy coastal decor, as if the person who bought it (because I tag waterfrontage and hardly look at anything else) was new to the sea and wanted to make sure we knew it, they always tag it 'The Beach House'. You can all but guarantee a compass rug, shells scattered on the tables and some crossed oars going up the stairs in these places. It's beautiful and funny to me.

Mysterious dents in fridge doors, whole missing doors and cheap furnishings or finishings are huge turnoffs. Hey, I have baskets in my house from Dollarama too, the secret is to make sure everything you buy is white because then it blows out in photographs and looks expensive. A primary-blue plastic basket is not going to have the same effect. Also for gods sake don't you dare show me a bathroom with no mirrors, or one huge mirror on a stand right beside the bathtub. Glass near the tub is one thing I can't do. No all-bright yellow interiors or I run screaming. Don't show me a house full of Walmart furniture that has a separate four-car garage on the property and many questionable things in the basement (some sort of kitchen) and freshly dug 'gardens' way out in the back twenty. Uh-huh.

Drugs, Dalton leans over my chair to look. That's where the bodies are buried.

Oh, oops, you're right, I say, and we move on. I won't link that one.

One delightful house up the highway toward Northwest cove had the most delightful rugs and art (INCLUDED) and you could tell they knew what would work for the space and I'm still considering just picking that house up for later. For the years when no one needs me anymore, when the kids are too busy and I am lonely and the only thing that ever fixes the hurt is the proper ocean that I belong to and not this dark imposter. I hate to even think of those days and so for some reason I feel as if I am prepared if I keep an eye on houses and places and plans. 

 But it's tiring because I hate your paint colours and I hate those little hexagon standalone showers that everyone renovates into place (including the house linked above), an afterthought when they started with the best of intentions and I don't want to see your woodstove in a questionable fire-scary location in your house. And I want to know who died there and if they haunt it and how many steps there are to the sea and if your shingles come off every hurricane and which way you drive down the highway to shop. I want to know if the neighbours are decent people who could help you in an emergency or if you have a place to leave the boat in the water year round (because boats are such a hassle) and it needs to have as many bathrooms as bedrooms, multiple easy places to park and a driveway that isn't frightening (like mine, drops straight down off the road, into the abyss) and if the house will be warm and full of light. 

Not asking for much. 

At all. 

Ha.

August and September, too.

I'm running out of time
'Cause I can see the sun light up the sky

 I've made the most elaborate changes to the song, flourishes on the piano and the song never ends. I just keep making up new choruses as I go. I never leave the bench anymore until I'm falling asleep on my feet. I feel like this song has made me a better player from what I was before, as I had a tendency to try and memorize the notes instead of reading the music. To me playing and singing is only marginally easier than writing while singing, and so some days I'm not writing at all. 

Besides, I only have two fingers to work with on my right hand so everything is a struggle now and it's a wonderful visual and emotional connection to the book I just finished. Not sure if I can spoil it quite yet. I only even heard of it on a podcast and then I noticed Andrew had a copy sitting on his desk in  a pile with other books and I made a mental note. And then it exploded on tiktok and so I bought it and read it too. 

But I'm not going to talk about it today. Not in the midst of all the other things. Like August on his goddamned knees, apologizing for shouting me down, for flaying me in front of my army, for telling me my coping methods were not coping methods at all, but methods by which I will facilitate my destruction and the destruction of those around me. 

I pointed out isn't that why he's here, because it takes one to know one? And what do you know, I found the button and he. went. off. 

And it was nice to finally watch him blow his stack. As much as the words (all true) hurt so bad I didn't think our relationship would recover (hint: it has) he needed to do that and needed to make his observations known in a meaningful way. And we made up and he and I have talked about the book and what I've seen and what I came away from it with and how maybe I really need to talk to everyone more and I'm generalizing here because I want to give you ample warning before I spoil that book. 

The sad part of all of this is how much he's been keeping to himself all these years and how we're all peeking around the corner at this point into the black that is October and so unwilling to keep moving forward we're taking turns pouring concrete around each other's legs trying to keep us in the summer, keep the fall from barging in, keep the memories from burning everything down around us. Trying to hold on, but for what? To do it all again, year after year, just crawling into the bright warm light only to be dragged backwards into the dark? 

Yes, Sam says, my memory thief, holding one of Lochlan's soot-covered torches, a flame still boldly emanating from the top. Lochlan stands beside him, holding the rest, all lit up like fireworks because he is the apprentice, he's the one who decided fire would be the way. Because that's what we do. To live is to coexist with joy and with pain, equally, or you really aren't living at all. Then he touches the flame to the edge of my day and I am baptized again, in fire, a phoenix with broken wings, stripped of it's feathers, a pathetic creature tripping over one memory after another because he gets a lot of them but he never gets them all. Sometimes I am surprised and end up flat on my face after one appears in front of me suddenly. A spectre. An apparition. A ghost in the form of a helium balloon, handed to a little girl at a fair. 

But it isn't fair. And that's okay too because without the pain how would we know when we're experiencing joy at all?

And that's the part they're trying to teach me now.

Probably empty promises but it's nice to have the reminder that we're better when we're all together.

Facetimed with Ben (and Daniel and Schuyler) and we both might have cried. Schuyler cried on our behalves and Daniel didn't even once wipe his eyes, tears streaming, everyone he loves in one spot, but not. And I did the unthinkable, the thing that's not healthy or good for anyone, the expensive, damaging, selfish, entitled thing and I asked Benjamin to come home, that he can do zooms with his people and we'll find a five-star chef and we'll go on hikes and make crafts in the back yard and hire a masseuse to come visit every day and work on ourselves here.

At home.

Where he belongs. 

I expected a deluge of disappointment, admonishings and lectures. I expected someone would just end the call and spare me the usual humiliation of being spoken to slowly and with purpose, explaining all the reasons why things are the way they are and why I'm a horrible, no-good little asshole for even suggesting he leave early. 

But to my surprise, Ben turned the phone away from the others, winked and said How does Tuesday sound? 

What do you mean? What's on Tuesday?

Our flight home, Bumblebee. 

And I start shaking and flapping and fluttering and drop the phone. Off the cliff, where I cry out in dismay as I watch it slide down the grass and then bounce down the rocks and Lochlan leans out over to watch too and starts laughing and pulls out his phone as he pulls me back away from the edge, where we had been sitting at the top of the steps, showing Ben the storm clouds rolling in for the big rainstorm tomorrow. 

We are walking back up to the house and he calls Schuyler. Fastest way to reconnect since we don't have to page Ben who is probably talking to a rock or maybe to the grasses halfway down the cliff right now. Wondering if I jumped. Or fell. Or threw the fucking phone. 

What happened? Schuyler looks alarmed and we both wave at the screen. He hands his phone to Ben again. 

I dropped my phone off the edge.

We'll go get a new one next week, okay, Bee? 

Are you sure? 

It was a top up. Four weeks. I'm already done. Just had to get my legs under me. Did they talk to you? 

I nod at him. Yeah. 

They said they did. 

I'm game. If Lochlan's game. 

We're going to go to Polytherapy (our word for it). Which is where they will teach us not to also fall in the hole while looking into it for the ones we love most. Ben and I will run ourselves over trying to be miserable together. It's horrible and beautiful. Lochlan hates it but he has his own problems and will be learning how to provide actual, in the moment support in a more meaningful way than he has been taught thus far, still finding it far more comforting to simply cut and run. It worked in the old days, it works when you need it too. It doesn't work at all for us. 

Good. And what about you? 

I'm here. 

Bee-

I just need you back here. 

When I was there you didn't want me there. 

That's never been true ever, Benjamin. 

Just checking. 

I just need to not do a ritual sacrifice if you have a down day. 

Me neither. We're like Romeo and Juliet do Groundhog day. 

Perfect. 

It's so far from perfect, Love. 

Get home safe. 

Be there when I get home. 

Always. 

Then I dropped Lochlan's phone when the fluttering started again (stupid cast. I drop EVERYTHING) but it bounced harmlessly off his leg, landing in the wet grass to the side of the concrete path. He laughed and collected it. Can't believe I have both of you and you're literally the same person, just in two different bodies. 

Sorry. 

Don't be. I'm not.

Based on my hand and my brain I was not cleared. to. fly. 

Which means no one went save for Daniel and Schuyler to visit Ben for the family weekend portion of his stay which is THIS WEEKEND and I'm almost as angry at that as I am at everything else right now.

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.