Buckethead.

Benjamin's home. He brought Nyquil from the airport. It had already expired. I didn't say anything. YOLO and all that. I took it anyway. I gather I have fifteen or twenty minutes tops before I'm down for the count or I am fatally poisoned.

Your random email questions today, answered:

1) Yes, I realize 102 degrees isn't death's door. But it's higher than usual and I'm enjoying the hallucinations immensely.

2) PJ's jokes involved indignities to dead bodies. Okay? Happy now? GROSS. I can never ever die. Ever. Ergo, I hope the Nyquil was still good.

3) Loch sang this song on a loop for me and I don't think I realized it for the first three or four renditions:

And if I told you that I loved you
You'd maybe think there's something wrong
I'm not a man of too many faces
The mask I wear is one
Those who speak know nothing
And find out to their cost
Like those who curse their luck in too many places
And those who fear are lost

He did a good job. He is very tired now and asleep on the floor in the library.

4) Where is Duncan? Oh, dear Internet, you have a crush too. It's okay. We all think he's just the cat's meow. He is also sleeping (not on the floor but on the couch in the theatre room) because he took an additional late evening torture shift and spent five hours listening to me complain. This after spending most of yesterday afternoon listening to me complain.

5) Where is the Devil? Entertaining the children, thankfully. Finally he's doing something HELPFUL.

6) Ben is not in trouble. There's just no point in him sitting around in NYC until Tuesday so he came home for the weekend.  He seems to be convinced that sex, movies and Ketucky Fried Chicken are totally going to fix everything.

I hope he's right.

Oh. Lights out. Holy. 

Worse.

102 degrees (and still far below what everyone's favorite fire eater runs at).

Saw rainbow hedgehogs on the lawn.

Coughed up so much snot I made a very bad joke about snotnauts. Oxygen seems so scarce and I got scared. It took a long time to soothe the panic from coughing so hard you think you'll find a lung in your lap eventually but Lochlan sang and sang and sat up and rocked me like a child and PJ sat on the floor and made bad jokes about things I can't repeat here. Because no one gets how sick we can be and I don't mean snotty-sick.

Dalton brought in juice but I couldn't drink it and basically everyone over twenty has been awake since four this morning.

And Ben too, who got on a plane and will be home any minute now.

Yay!

Iron Maidens and hipster nursemaids.

(Lochlan had a full day of errands to run today out in the valley and so he left me to the Creative Facial Hair Club members. I will exact payback when I feel better.)

Death approaches slowly, walking in sock feet, not making a sound as it advances across the room and crawls into my throat and sinuses. My temperature rockets to a hundred but it's not enough to fry this clear and present danger, intent being to leave no survivors, and no trace that it was ever here.

Today I wandered around the vintage stores in a feverish daze while Daniel tried to get me to approve or dismiss everything he held up. I find four more Louis Vuittons (one real) and a whole herd of Coach bags and a Fendi too. He found a jacket Ruth would love. I just couldn't get my act together to feel good enough to care or buy anything in the end but he managed to drag me to four more stores and then suggest I stop at the insurance company (our broker sold out, ergo new paperwork ten times over) to drop off new cheques so I did that and then I cried Uncle. I wanted soup so we...came home.

Because in Daniel's sheltered universe, BRIDGET makes the soup.

Huh? We could have stopped at five different delis on the way home but instead he just assumed I would feel well enough to make a big lunch.

He went home in a huff, hungry and I threw the bag of clothes he bought right out the door after him. We both miss Ben. Daniel is a closet brat though. He won't admit that something's wrong, he just acts all twitchy and belligerent until I boot him out and then in three or four hours (the time it takes to watch two rom-coms and drink half a bottle of wine alone) he'll slink back over with a big case of the sorries and the Iloveyous. He's nothing like Ben when it comes to fighting. He turtles without any effort at all. It's almost disappointing to argue with him but if it's all the same to you I'd rather not.

Duncan took over control of Princess Ickynose Duty and made soup for me, putting it in my big Chococat mug with a spoon and a bubble-tea straw, on a tray with juice and crackers and then snuggled in with me on the couch with a whole box of tissues to watch The Man Who Laughs. I drank the soup, almost fell asleep and promised myself to campaign for a remake of the film that follows the book a little more closely.

Duncan swore he'll have nightmares for the rest of his life.

I apologized for sneezing on him, but he said that wasn't what he meant.

He turned off the television and the DVD player, closed the curtains and instructed me to sleep until close to dinner time. I obliged willingly and also vowed to someday maybe marry him too, if time permits, since he's surprisingly nurturing for someone so blindingly cool.

In a perfect world:

• All boys give hugs without being asked and don't let go until someone else does first.
• Every romantic lovesong is sung by Corey Taylor (at least in my head. He has a perfect voice).
• No movies are directed by Judd Apatow or Tim Burton.
• Laughter is endless and unable to shut down without herculean effort.
• Money doesn't grow on trees but things are more evenly distributed.
• Lochlan has no temper.
• Neither does (did?) Cole.
• Jake would have had no despair, no hopelessness to offset his flawed faith.
• Jake's faith would have been whole and perfect.
• Sam would not be restless, but content.
• Ruth and Henry are always safe, forever and ever, amen.
• I can park a car without a ten-foot buffer zone in all directions.
• Cotton candy doesn't make my teeth hurt.
• PJ finds what he is seeking.
• I'm not allergic to sunscreen, fabric softener, food coloring or red wine.
• The beach is closer and there are no oil tankers in the harbor (wtf Vancouver?)
• The Atlantic and the Pacific don't have to fight for my loyalty.
• Chocolate cheesecake is easier to find.
• My favorite television show (Revolution) moves to 7:00 PM instead of 10:00. 
• My narcolepsy gets cured by something stupid, like chocolate cake. (Sadly I tried this already and it did not work.)
• Caleb would find a hobby (besides making money, collecting things and...chasing me.)
• The wind would disappear.
• The cherry blossoms would stay up in the trees where they belong.
• I wouldn't have to wait so long for the third book in the Divergent series.
• Ben would retire now instead of in thirty years time.
• August would come back. 
• I am never sad about things beyond my control.
• God pays attention to me.
• I can hear. I can hear you. I can hear everything.

We call it Heartbreak Point because we're dramatic like that.

Ben is still in New York, probably eating his weight in pizza with one hand while signing contracts with the other. Batman will keep him out of trouble but they won't be back until at least next Tuesday. Why? Because it's March break, people are away and so they have to wait until those people come back.

I see the irony in this and I decline to even fight about it. Ben will work himself to death and I'll stand there with my shovel, damp earth weighing down the blade, splinters in my fingers from the handle and I'll tell him I told him so, just not out loud.

Caleb took his life in his hands today (as if it is ever anywhere else) and brought over a new envelope today. A big manila one with Lochlan's name on it.

What is this?

 The proposal he would like. 

What do you mean?

Read it and see. 

But Lochlan didn't read it, he burned it because he doesn't care. Or maybe because he does. It was sort of a relief to see it go away again without the weight of Caleb's blood spilled on the pages or my soul dissected in print for all to see. We didn't grow up when everyone else did, you see. We're stuck. Wedged between seasons, trapped under age.

Argh. Now I'm curious, Loch says with regret. I can't fight him blind. 

Never stopped you before. 

True, he says ruefully. You know, I think maybe we should take a trip.

Memories of flying down the Oregon coast, an angry mob chasing us the whole way rises in my throat like bile. No, I'm fine right here, Locket. 

I mean a real trip, Bridget. I think I'd like to take you home now. Overseas, I mean. Maybe we could do Ireland, too.

I don't believe him for even a moment and so I smile and indulge his thoughts as he spends them out wistfully out loud against the wind. Dreams and magic are his only currency here. He knows it will never happen. He knows we'll die here on this point, sandwiched between spring and fall, between the angels and the devils, the living and the dead, the carnies and the gravemakers too.

I don't think I gave us any other choice.

Don't shoot me down
While I'm awake
They've set the traps
I'm gonna stay

So I need to know your name
I'm gonna stay
I need you to do the same

Same conversation, totally different subjects.

Stop staring. What is so fascinating anyway?

You are. 

No, I'm not. 

On the contrary. 

I finally resort to staring back. He is studying my eyes. Maybe waiting for them to change from faded glass-green to washed-out watered-down turquoise and back to green again. They do that, based on my moods. If you look on my bare back there's a switch you can flip to see them do it when you get tired of waiting for them to shift naturally.

 All I can think of is those years in between when I was very young and now that have caused my complete and utter disdain for my own appearance. At a glance I'm still pretty, depending on how fast you look or how drunk you are. Upon closer inspection age and time and circumstance and death have cast a slight pall, softening beauty into something else. I still have short legs, no ass and childish hands but now my eyes have lines from squinting, I have black circles under them that just won't quit, my hair is fading to ash and my translucent skin is striking, startling. The road map of veins across my chest, hands and legs precludes looking good naked. Naked, I think I look like a map of the human condition.

Or something small and freakish that belongs in a jar.

And scars. Not sure which ones horrify more, the surgical ones (from being too ridiculously tired and small to give birth to ten-pound babies without help), the permanent marks Cole left on me that he thought no one would ever find (everyone found them) or the little white checkmark directly under my nose from where I tried to impress Lochlan by trying out his skateboard. I hit a rock and french-kissed the pavement. I also broke three teeth during that little stunt, ironically.

(Because, you know, I somehow wasn't smart enough to remember that I had already impressed him walking a wire sixty feet up in the air in front of hundreds of people. Or waking a burning wire eight feet off the ground while hungry, while there was a price on my head.

I can do that. But a skateboard? I can't ride a skateboard, those things are deathtraps.)

Enough, I tell him. Stop looking at me.

Why? I could never get tired of looking at you.

You're so...weird.

You're the one with the checkmark on your face.

Wow, Loch. Pretty good coming from someone who burned all his arm-hair and most of his fingernails off trying to learn to juggle fire.

I succeeded though. You still can't ride a skateboard. Oh and everything I lost grew back. I didn't think your scar would be there forever.

It could still heal. Forever's not finished yet.

EXACTLY MY POINT! THANK YOU!

Wafer tumbler lock.

I have an incredibly detailed theory about how certain faces, places and melodies are keys that open certain parts of who we are. Souls are locked. Some keys fit, some don't. I'm not sharing it in detail here today but it's been on my mind a lot lately.

In the middle under a cold black sky
The sun will only burn for you and I
In the moment before I lose my mind
These hours don't mean anything this time

Lochlan is following me around, guitar strapped on, singing radio lullabies at my back as I try and ignore his understated selfish glee. He hasn't stopped smiling as he puts on a show to lift my mood. It's working. Sometimes he opens up enough, putting away the practical side of himself and bringing out the fun side. Switching easily from parent to lover. I just wish he would do it more often. I need it right now. Ben and Batman have gone to New York for a meeting and I'm not all that thrilled about it. Neither were they.

Caleb invited us over late last night (no envelope but no surprise either) and asked Lochlan what he wanted. What would make him happy. What should he change about his proposal to me that would satisfy Lochlan in particular. That was when Lochlan tried to speak but instead he started laughing.

Caleb remained on the other side of the kitchen island. I think he probably had weapons stockpiled to just below counter height. But Lochlan didn't stop laughing and so Caleb ran out of patience and said he wasn't going to discuss this until we could be serious. He walked to the door and held it open so we could leave.

I attempted to apologize for Lochlan's verbal paralysis but the giggles are incredibly contagious. The Devil merely rolled his eyes as we staggered out the door and back across the driveway.

I was asleep within twenty minutes, I think. I don't do late evenings so well sometimes now. I'm always tired and back to drinking coffee after lunch to try and beat back the early evening yawns and the massive crash that hits whenever I stop moving long enough to entertain it.

When I wake up with a start, it's pitch dark and silent, very early in the morning. Loch is awake too. He rolls up onto his side and kisses me, his hand sliding into my hair as he lifts my head up off our shared pillow. His arms tremble slightly.  His other hand slides down to my hipbone, grating against it with his thumb as he pulls me under him.We sleep sandwiched together so he doesn't have to bring me far. His heat keeps me simmering just under one hundred and three degrees. He is impatient, unintentionally rough and deliberately gentle all at the same time.

He lifts himself up on his arm, forces my legs around his waist and brings his weight back down. My breath comes out in a rush against his neck and his arms come up around me as he finds a rhythm that works with our song. Another key, this one involving perfect timing and a melody that plays in my head as he moves us. It fits. We move so much more slowly than most and I don't know if that's because it's just something we do or if we've figured out how to bring ourselves up to molten lava temperatures while barely moving at all.

In the dark I feel his face smiling against my cheek, his head ducked down, pressed against my hair, his weight keeping me right on the verge of hyperventilating, the song filling my ears and leaving everything else out.

Another kiss as he brings us through that motionless crawl, and I think I've died. If this is my final breath I'll go, willing and swift. Loved. But he is not finished yet. He winds me right out to the edge where I dangle over the earth far below us and then he pulls me in and I hold on to him as he peers down to check the surface of the earth too.

There isn't much to see down there. The clouds with their sterling linings have obscured everything and so we stay where we are, long out of breath, steam rising from our skin, pale curls raked across both of our foreheads, eyes locked in the dark.

Keys.

When we finally release each other the cold air rushes in to cause shivers and I hastily crawl down to the bottom of the bed to pull up the sheets, the duvet, everything that wound up on the floor.

I drag everything back up and bundle down into the covers and he bends his head down, kissing the top of mine and he says to me,

This summer marks the beginning of my thirty-fifth year of being in love with you. I want to celebrate.

And then he falls asleep so fast I can't respond, and so I just lie there wide awake, my heart hammering against my hands, clasped against my chest. We should throw a party, I think to myself. We really should mark this somehow.

Wait, we just did.

Before I can stop myself the giggles take over again, quietly at first but soon enough my shoulders are shaking with the effort and the noise is enough to stir Lochlan awake. His lifts his head from the pillow and slurs,

Maybe someday we'll grow up and be mature enough to know when enough is enough. Go to sleep, Peanut.

That does me in. I don't sleep for the rest of the night. I just lie there in the dark and grin.

They should have put DIFF ICULT somewhere.

When I came downstairs yesterday evening Duncan and Ruth were shaking off their coats in the back hallway. Ruth looked relieved and told me she went to apologize to Caleb for the email. She got Duncan to go with her for moral support or backup or protection or something, I don't stop to let my brain parse the possibilities.

What did he say? I ask.

Not to worry about it. That he tested the limits when he was my age too and he understands my position. What does he mean?

That he's smart enough to know you will always side with your dad.

Oh. Can I go to my room now?

Yes. Thank you for going to see him.

Tomorrow night he's going to do a sundae bar.

You're lucky, kiddo.

Ruth disappears up the stairs and Duncan waits until she is long out of earshot before opening his mouth.

Bridget, you're struggling with not projecting your feelings about being a teenager onto Ruth.

What do you know about being a teenage girl?

Sadly, not enough to have this conversation.

It's okay. It's...a long story.

You really okay Bridget? Maybe if you talked to me or someone, anyone, you wouldn't be strung as tight as drum all the time.

You want me to be loose?

That's a whole different conversation, ma'am.

***

I see you hiding in the palms of my hands
And I'd be afraid to let you go
But I don't see what my eyes are supposed to see
And I lost myself
Do you need to question everything?

 I woke up this morning covered in sharpie again. My knuckles say NOGH OSTS.  Loch's printing. Up and down my arms he scrawled validation in between my tattoos. Over my stomach he wrote promises he made to me that he's kept. He wrote backwards so I could read the parts I can't readily see in the mirror. He's thoughtful like that.

Written across my knees is a love letter, facing me so when I sit in a chair I can read the whole thing. It's in Ben's writing, since he makes things easier. It's beautiful and smudged and indelible and sweet. Lyrical. On my toes he wrote COUR AGEO.

I ask him where the US went and he said we're right here.

I am careful not to scrub too hard in the shower, only to rinse away the night with the washcloth and leave the words intact. On and under my skin. At one point I seriously considering having all of these words removed. Burned away leaving clean new flesh. Faded and barely remembered, words that once meant everything are now relics of a whole other life, stabs of pain, epic spells of insecurity. Regretful words. Do they make me who I am or was I trying to become someone else?

And then Lochlan said any time what's under my skin gets to be too much they would write new words on the surface but I could wash them off when I wanted. This gives me a little control when I feel like I don't belong in my own skin, when my self-esteem takes a dive and never resurfaces.

Because let's face it, I have none. No self and no outward. Which is why they patiently watch me set myself on fire from the inside out. The only thing I remember from last night is asking Lochlan if we could eat fire because I was drunk and it would be dangerous and impressive and then look, look how amazing I would be.

He shook his head and told me I already was but that it was sad I didn't believe him. I never believe him. I don't believe in much of anything these days except love and whatever other imaginary futures I can make up in my head.

Yeah fuck it.

She's got bigger balls than everyone.

The day just gets better and better. Caleb just forwarded this email he got from Ruth while she is at school:

I just heard the best joke!

Love is like a fart. If you have to force it, it's probably crap.

LOL

The subject line said "Team Dad". Excuse me while I go high-five my kid. Ahem, I mean give her a lecture on respect. Oh, who am I kidding?