More fun with small places.

This afternoon I got the kids to rake the leaves over me into a huge pile in the front yard. Jacob came out and asked them where I was, and they told him I was taking a bag of leaves down to the garage and I'd be right back. So he snapped out a new leaf bag and bent over to pick up an armful and...

yup...there was that funny high-pitched scream again.

This is so much fun.

Today is a beautiful day. It's sunny and warm and I'm headed out now to pick up some groceries and maybe if we feel inspired we'll head over to the costume shop to start scouting out ideas for the kids for Halloween and start perfecting our deplorable technique for making candy apples. They never turn out quite right.

Family therapy has been shunted to this afternoon. Then possibly we'll barbecue some chicken for dinner and make a pasta salad and watch a movie together.

Jacob preaches tomorrow. I'm really looking forward to it. Christian is going to go with us as muscle since Jacob has to be there early and leaves very late and doesn't want us to be alone. It's okay, he's bringing Halo 3 with him so that Henry can kick his ass in it.

Stunted writing today, I know. Blame last night's whiskey and please disregard any drunken ramblings or partial posts that may still be on your feeds. I did say there were other incidents and I should just keep my mouth shut about all of that stuff. My apologies. It's all been deleted anyway.

Loud and clear.

There is something about the palette and startling clarity of fall days that leaves me wanting to hit pause on life and just breathe it in. I stopped in my tracks on the sidewalk three times this morning on the way home from taking the kids to school only because I wanted to remember the rich burgundy of the leaves, the smell of wood burning and the brightness of the blue of the sky.

Jacob did not want to stop, in a hurry to get home to finish his coffee and so he pulled me along by the hand while I daydreamed my way back, pointing out that I could look at the leaves all I wanted on our way into the city to attend therapy.

He was right, and he held my hand again the whole way there and back, never letting go except to get out of the truck and then to go around and get back in after opening my door.

He runs his thumb across the back of my hand as if I am a book and he's reading me in Braille. Which is funny today for some reason because my sight has ratcheted up a notch or twelve to compensate for the remainder of my hearing being gone for over a week now.

If I could turn the tables on him and evaluate his emotions by touch I would say concern is paramount by the tightness of his grip on my hand, by his extra time walking slower so I can keep up, speaking slowly and loudly so I can hear him or at least understand what he wants. We have a system of communicating that seems to be one part telepathy and one part familiarity.

Which is how I got us out of therapy early with one flutter of one hand. Jacob cut it short a moment later and we were off and on our way home again to steal some quiet time before lunch.

Home to discover the carnage inside the garage as he pulled open the door and saw that my gardening area had been smashed to bits. Completely destroyed with his own sledgehammer, which was left in the garage after renovations and was sticking out of the wall halfway up. All of it was intact when we left. The garage door was locked, the side door locked and everything was fine when we left. His tools are untouched. Nothing was stolen.

He's out there talking quietly with the police who showed up to take a report and keeps throwing the word vandalism out as if I don't know who did this. Christ, everyone knows who did it. Or who had it done. Wouldn't want to point fingers or anything.

I asked Jacob if he would just take it all away when they're done. Not to rebuild my shelves or replace the pots or try and figure out what seeds went with what packet. Not to unbend the rakes or watch my panic build as I try to pretend it didn't happen at all. That I never had a potting shed in the garage or that the person who did it took the time to re-lock the lock on the garage so that we wouldn't be forewarned. Or watching Jacob and the police searching the whole house while I returned to school to pull the kids out simply because the amount of damage screams rage to me and I wanted to have my eyes on them at all times.

What a way to end the week, changing locks again. Police cars again. Evil, again.

Hiding scars.

    Can you pull me in where you are?

Last night Jacob missed dinner for a meeting so I sat with the kids while they ate a good supper and then when he came home we took turns supervising baths and bedtimes and somehow forgot about eating entirely. He was so tense, holding his wings rigid, I could feel it even when he insists he's not.

I think he has no idea I know him as well as I do. But I do, and he should know that by now.

Jacob returned to full-on in-crisis mode (as if he is ever not in it) based on my magnificent freakout yesterday morning and so as is customary when he needs an extra hand he waits until he thinks I am asleep and then he'll walk down the street to the church and get an hour to himself to sort things out and pray and think and reflect and find positives.

To feel less alone.

Which breaks my heart.

He was off early last night because I was so wiped I fell asleep at nine and woke up fifteen minutes later when I heard him leave. When he returned to the house around 10:30, bearing a satchel full of paperwork to catch up on this weekend at home he found me wide awake in front of the fire, with a tray full of dinner for us, waiting for him. The beef pot pies I had made for him earlier, from his mother's recipe, before I went to pieces. And his silly 1892 traditional beer from back home in Newfoundland that he enjoys so much.

And an apology from me, for not holding my shit together any better.

He sat down and laughed for a good ten minutes before his eyes filled right up and he leaned over and kissed my sick pretty face and told me I'm impossible. I shook my head and stuck my lip out and he got very serious.

Oh, now, that won't work anymore here, princess.

Seriously?

Yes, seriously. But the way to my heart is on this plate. Wow.

Well, eat.

After you.

Fine. I took a bite.

Fuck! It's hot. I just burned my mouth.

Okay, so we'll wait for it to cool a bit. Since there's one other way to my heart for you.

He took the tray and moved it away and then he pulled me down and got a blanket and covered us both and I fought him out of his jeans and he pulled his sweater off and then my pajamas too and it was the first time ever he kept his shirt on while he made love to me. It was also the first time ever that he conducted the entire event without taking his eyes off mine. It was very hot and very intense and his voice was very deep and emotional when he told me he loved me over and over again. While his wings unfolded to surround us and the rest of our clothes were struggled out of.

We didn't bother putting anything back on afterward, instead snuggling up in the blanket together and taking our plates right off the trays to hold them while we ate. He loved the beer as a treat but what he loved more was how I found something positive and fun to salvage such a terrible and difficult day and this morning he asked if I would keep it up. That I am so sweet and fun and beautiful always but so very much more when I put my heart into it and he is restored by that.

Restored.

By me.

Because I did that. I salvaged the low, the day. I turned it and I tried to make it into something else. I succeeded and under this kind of pressure that makes everything better. By far.

    We made these promises
    You made these promises

Enough with the fakeness. The false cheer, the air of 'things are getting better'.

You've missed the point. Hell, I missed the point. Jake got the point before anyone else and he has this way of...I don't know, of making the most of a temporary anything. He lives life. He wants for so much and so much is fleeting.

Things are getting better in the sense that the plan is working. The therapy works. It helps. The pills help except for a few aspects. Things are getting worse in other respects as we settle into this life with all it's thorns. Caleb is engaging in a quiet harassment. I worry for Ben. Jacob fends off as many ghosts and people as he can. The shit hit the fan the other day when his annual conference invite came in the mail and he considered it thoughtfully. And then I realized what I have done to him. I never should have met the guy. He wouldn't have this complicated life walking on eggshells and being able to do damage control in his sleep.

Who does that?

Jake does. My poor overtaxed, overtired, overextended angel boy who should have a better life than this, for all his efforts. And watching him valiantly deny and justify all of this hurts. It hurts me, and I take full responsibility for ruining what could have been the most beautiful years of his life. He shouldn't be living on pins and needles, hanging out at the edge of Bridget's dark and crazy world.

No, he should be..well, he should be..free.

Televangelist for a day.

Jacob survived being on the five pm local news show. It was a segment in two parts about young urban families and the resurgence of regular church attendance, the trend of spirituality.

He thought that was very cool and so they came out to interview him in the church and instead started right in on an edgy pigeonholing of ministers under forty and how they bring a cool factor to an otherwise stodgy institution.

I've done it, thought it, said it myself. What irked Jacob was their intro, it blindsided him when they introduced him as Local Unitarian minister Jacob Reilly, the founder of (our church) in (our neighborhood) who is a lot more rock and roll than Reverend.

He didn't want to focus on Jacob. He doesn't want people showing up because it's the new cool thing to do, he wants them to show up to worship.

Once we stopped wincing (since what's done is done) the actual story itself was positive, upbeat and succinct, and both Sam and Jake are proud of the numbers they can quote attendance-wise, and even more proud of the stake the church has and the positive role it plays in the community.

Nowhere at any time did anyone mention how popular the back lot is at night for casual albeit safe-sex encounters. I went over to help rake leaves this morning and found four more condoms. Maybe they should put that on the news. Jacob is still over there now, installing motion-sensor lighting to try and make it less appealing. I came home. I'm out of steam already and it's only 10 a.m.

Echoes, silence, patience and grace.

What a perfect title for a record. So far I love it but it's only been on the stereo for seven minutes.

And one of the joys of never seeing music videos anymore (yes, fuck you too Muchmusic, Muchmoremusic and MTV for being so busy showing 'reality' TV programs that my children are going to grow up to believe that radio killed the video star) is that you don't get to see the difference when a major band like the Foo Fighters changes drummers.

Not until your husband is on television and they make a crack in the intro about the "minister of this church is more Taylor Hawkins than Billy Graham" (wow, how crass, really) and he tells you he asked them to change it and they basically refused so you looked up Taylor Hawkins and kind of squeal a little (well I did, Jake is still really mad) because they totally look alike. Taylor looks more like a younger Jake. In any case, I've been a fan forever and I had no idea. I wonder if Taylor knows he's going to get a little older and cut his hair and be compared to Robert Redford a lot, too.

Distractions, folks, distractions are good for Bridget. It keeps those nightmares from driving me..well, to distraction.

Life imitating art.

Hello Caleb.

I used his charisma to mask some of my trepidation.

You think you're brilliant but you've played a bad hand. Jacob is going to be along shortly.

I'll be gone before he gets here, princess. I simply wanted to remind you that writing about 'snowmen' and my private affairs is going to bring you nothing but heartache.

You're a neverending gift in that regard then, aren't you?

He walked across the path and stooped, picking up the black ribbon that I had pulled from my hair and brought it back to me, presenting it on his outstretched palm.

You always looked beautiful in black, Bridget.

Mourning clothes.

You can mourn only for things you can no longer have, princess.

You don't know me, Caleb.

Oh but I do. More than you realize. I know you put on lavender lingerie this morning and that you threw away the breakfast danish Jacob left for you. I know you're taking penicillin for a sore throat and that you have been driving a lot alone lately, and I know that Jacob is off doing a tour right now of his precious hippie church with a TV crew and that you didn't want to be filmed so you decided to take his distraction and use it to your advantage. An interesting move considering that usually, princess, you are the distraction at hand.

You have no business being here, Caleb. This bench is for Cole's children.

Ah, yes, my beautiful niece and nephew. Please reconsider my offer and take them out of that wretched neighborhood public school and give them half a shot at an education in a private school.

They love their school, this isn't any of your business.

I simply want what's best for you and the children, Bridget.

What would be best for us would be you leaving us alone.

I wish I could, but I'm so drawn to you.

Get un-drawn.

It didn't work for your large and largely unruly husband, why would it work for anyone else?

Because you want me to be happy, maybe? Because you want to make up for your brother's abuse?

No, princess. Wrong on all counts. Because I want to keep you. Keep what I once had. Clear and simple. My little brother had impeccable taste and I'm hungry. Families keep their riches within the ranks, and you are our brightest treasure.

Go away, Caleb.

Oh I will go away, but I'll be back. Until then, keep that beautiful wardrobe of pastel-colored panties in full rotation. They look magnificent on you.

I opened my eyes, fighting the sleep that wanted to pull me back down. I was warm, the fever raged within, I was awash in fearful sweat, bathed in a cold terror from what amounted to a simple nightmare.

Caleb wasn't here.

Or was he?

I sought Jacob's arms and burrowed into them and he rolled away in a slumbering protest. I was burning up. His hand came to rest on my forehead.

Baby girl, stay in today.

No, I have to go visit Cole for a bit and then I have one phone conference this afternoon.

Cancel both, you can do it tomorrow.

No, I'll be okay, once I'm up and have had some Tylenol.

He agreed and I rose to head for the shower. Within an hour I did feel better, and I was just putting the finishing touches on my outfit when Jacob emerged from his own shower to get dressed.

Wear the black ribbon, Bridget. You always look so beautiful in black.

I turned to stare at him curiously and he was holding the black ribbon out in the palm of his hand, exactly the way Caleb had in my nightmare.

I fainted.

Jacob waded into my unconscious subconscious with an ice-cold cloth and shaking hands.

Jesus. What happened?

You quoted a line from my nightmare. Something Caleb said.

What was it?

How beautiful I look in black.

Everyone says that, Bridge. It's the contrast of light and dark. It's stunning. Don't read so much into a nightmare.

Maybe it was a warning.

That he's here? I don't think he'd return. I don't think legally he can return.

I wouldn't count on a ruling keeping him away.

Naw, but I would count on fear. He's only alive because I won't risk losing my life with you to permanently end his trips to be near you.

Then maybe that's why he continues to push. He knows you can't touch him.

Pretty much the same method of madness that Cole lived by, right?

I don't even want to talk about it anymore, Jake.

That's fine, but I'm going to drive you this morning.

That would be nice.

No, it fucking sucks but under the circumstances it's a better idea than most, princess.

So I found myself an hour later walking through a deja-vu haze as I wobbled down the path toward the bench I think I know every inch of. I got there and it was empty and I turned and sat down on it and the relief came flooding out in a long sigh of a breath.

And then I looked down at the ground beside the bench itself and there was a newspaper bearing today's date.

I flew back down the path as fast as my high heels would let me go on those slippery leaves and I ran right into Jacob, hitting my head on his chest and springing back like I was hit with force.

What happened?

I don't know.

Hold me while I sleep.

After indulging in several wonderful days at home again, Jacob returned to work today, joining Sam down at the church, who graciously had a second desk brought into his office and encouraged Jake to just roll with the status quo and continue to consider the church his own, the place where he will always be welcome and made to feel at home in an understanding place when it comes to having needs met, just as Jacob originally intended this church to be, before it swallowed him whole.

That sentiment couldn't have been truer today by the phone call I received an hour ago.

How are you doing, Bridget? You were sleeping so restlessly when I left.

I'm okay. Not a hundred percent but not as bad as before.

Nightmares? I read your entry this morning.

Yes. The pills make them worse, Jake.

It's okay. I'm coming home in a little while.

Really? How come?

So I can hold you while you sleep. You won't have any more nightmares that way.

445 nights without you.

The damp leaves were slippery beneath my feet. My black pumps were treacherous, my long coat was drenched and my ponytail, curled inside the collar of my coat sat against my neck, damp and uncomfortable, cold. My umbrella was long discarded in a trashcan at the edge of the parking lot, having been turned inside out by the wind and rendered useless and yet the wind died down quickly as I entered the park. The old-fashioned Victorian streetlamps were lit to ward off the daylight's gloom and the park itself contained few people.

I've never encountered anyone using Cole's bench as a resting spot until today. As I turned left on the path that wound down past the cherry blossom trees I could see Cole sitting there. He had a suit on and an overcoat and polished black shoes and he read a newspaper. As if he was waiting for me.

My Cole only wore a suit three times in his life. Two job interviews and a funeral. Not to our wedding and not to his own cremation did I expect to see him in a suit and so to see him now, so stiff and formal only spoke of the unreality our life together had become at last. A figment of our collective imaginations, a make-believe farce, easily dissected.

The wind was picking up again, swirling wisps of hair out of my ponytail and lashing it into my mouth. That was Cole for sure, he never liked my hair up, he liked it loose and soft.

I pulled out the black ribbon and let it fall to the ground and I began to walk quickly, I wanted a little time with him now, before I got caught up in school and life and Halloween and therapy and Jacob and no one seems to understand that sometimes I need time alone with Cole and then it makes me feel so much better and I can go a little longer and a little further away from him and things aren't so bad.

I reached the bench and stuck my hand out to pull away the paper from his face to kiss him and it wasn't Cole.

It was Caleb.

Sitting on Cole's bench, waiting for me.

Hello, Bridget.