Cards for humanity.

It's a cold foggy morning and the first thing I did when I woke up was to pull on pajama pants and Cole's big grey sweater. It's a habit. Comfort objects. You know, routine.

Don't wear that. Loch's voice comes out of nowhere. I didn't even think he was awake and yet honestly? We both wake up when the other even so much as changes from REM sleep to stage one. 

Why not? I ask. It's emotionless. I don't know. I'm tired but curious, always. 

You don't need to be wrapped in him today. Come see me. 

I debate. I'm warm. It's already on. He's breaking promises, asking me to do things he said he'd never ask me to do again.

(Bridget, we're going to skip dinner tonight. Okay? Just tonight. We'll have a big breakfast tomorrow.)

(Cole will keep you safe.)

(It's always going to be just you and me, against the world.)

But he's trying hard, and this isn't the hill I want to die on, arguing over a big worn-out scratchy hand knit sweater with a hole in one elbow and singed cuffs and paint streaks on the back of the hem.

I pull it back off slowly, up over my head and when I put my arms back down, letting the sweater drop to the floor, he tells me I can wear his hoodie from yesterday. 

It smells like rain and sugar and pine needles and dryer sheets and adventure and hope. Like Lochlan. 

I zip it all the way up to my neck and stick my hands in the pockets. I pull out a playing card (three of hearts, always the magician) and his reading glasses. Both go on the nightstand. He throws his arms around my legs and drags me back into bed with him, whipping the covers down over us, smiling in the dark as he shoves my pyjama pants all the way down to my knees and then off. 

Sleep, Peanut. 

How long?

Just until the fog lifts. Then we work. (He's half asleep now, words come out via muscle memory.)

What if we didn't work today? 

Then we can sleep till the sun hits the bed. Deal?

Deal. 

When I woke up next (when Lochlan stopped dreaming), sunshine had flooded the room and the three of hearts was in my hand.

Assholes and angels.

"A cold-water surf trip to a remote and frozen Canadian frontier."

That's the description of Nova Scotia in this month's feature article in SURFER magazine (the large photo is a slide show). I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry. I guess when you grow up on a tiny peninsula surround by the harsh Atlantic you forget that the rest of the world has hardly any idea what that's like and will probably never see it with their own eyes.

And for that you have my deepest sympathies.

Actually, I'm kidding. If you never see it, that's fine. There is a lot of this world I'm never going to see either and I've made my peace with that but if you are as proud of where you come from as I am, then please write and tell me about it. I love to hear other people's depictions of their own home bases too.

***
Standing on the floor of the ocean. That's where it all makes sense. It all seems easier. It all turns out to be smaller, somehow. Less catastrophic. There is this big beautiful tumbling entity in shades of blue, green, black and white and it shapes solid rock, tosses huge vessels, drowns secrets and steals souls. Her highs and lows are noted, recorded and observed. She demands respect and commands attention. She steals and she gives back the most amazing treasures and she will continue to do all this relentlessly until the end of time. Long before me, long after me.

And I love her so.

I'm fine. Thank you for your concern. The pressure of how long is appropriate to grieve sometimes gets to me, when usually I can deflect it with a few well-placed invitations to fuck off. Sometimes I can't find the strength to do that and then I feel awful twice over. Once for missing them. Him, both. And once for putting everyone else through that. Especially Ben, who has dealt with far worse grief but had professional handling over months and months of his voluntary stay to get sober and actually learned something.

Unlike me. Tie me down and tell me you're going to teach me how to feel properly and I will buck and strain against it right to the bitter end, arching my back and flopping back down in frustration. I will hold out and pretend everything is fine right up until the moment that I fall apart.

Dismay is expressed all around. They wish I wouldn't cry. They tell me to get mad. I told them I don't want to be an asshole when I'm hurting but they figure it's probably safer than falling apart. I'm not so sure. There are of few of them who express sorrow through rage and it isn't any prettier from where I'm standing.

Trigger pulling.

Backwards
Into a wall of fire

It still works. I can crawl into bed and pull up a blanket made of memories and sadness and it's safe. It's warm. I pull it all the way up over my head and underneath it the music is loud and a familiar face is right there, stealing my fort. Taking my comfort. Leaving hardly enough room for me to stay warm, suffocating my sanity or what might be left of it now.

Matthew Good is singing so loudly I can't hear what Jake says to me until he reaches out and turns down the song.

Are you going to stay in here forever?

Until the weather is better, yes. It's called Hunkering Down. Don't they do this in Newfoundland?

They do indeed. But the weather is fine here.

Not inside my head it isn't.

We can fix this.

I don't think I'm fixable, Pooh.

What if you are? What would you do then, Piglet?

Oh, I would be so happy. I would never ever stop smiling.

Then that's what we should do.

I woke up because I couldn't breathe anymore and I threw off the covers to find total dark, complete quiet staring me back in the face, a waiting adversary and yet no match for my dreams. I get up, naked, gasping for air, borderline/hysterical, and I go and get a glass of cold water and bring it back to bed with me. When I get back into bed I smell sandalwood and it smells like Jake and I start sobbing because I miss him so bad and at the same time I feel so horribly ashamed for still feeling this way.

Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, we're going to kill you.

They want you to be Jesus
They'll go down on one knee
But they'll want their money back
If you're alive at thirty-three
And you're turning tricks
With your crucifix
You're a star

I woke up this way. Lochlan picked a song and twisted the knob on the stereo until it couldn't go any further. Then he went out back to the patio, leaving the music blasting through the house. It seems like a bit of a mean way to wake everyone up but in his defence it was after eight when he did it and today is one of those rare and wonderful days that every. single. one. of. us. have. off. Even the ones with actual jobs. Even the children, who are on March break. Even Sam who has weddings tomorrow and church Sunday managed to get everything done ahead of time so that he didn't break our stride here.

Even the Devil and the Batman too. Best behaviour all around.

I'm going to get my day (see yesterday's post), is what this means. It begins at lunch. Just have to pick a movie and nix the whiskey because I don't really want any today, and have a baseball bat handy so that someone can knock me out when I decide it's a perfect nap time but not be able to fall asleep (but then drop like a stone in the dark the minute the movie spools up).

But first! Ben is going to throw Loch off the cliff into the sea because it's sunny and twenty degrees and we've decided it really was a mean way for him to wake us all up after all. You can't make love to U2 music. It just isn't something that can be done.

Not by me, anyway. I start singing along. It's a mood-killer.

Babe, it must be art
You're a headache
In a suitcase
You're a star

Easy to please, difficult to comprehend.

A perfect day right this second would involve some ramen. Maybe a couple hours of shopping and a stroll through the gallery. Then a nap. Then maybe a sleepy movie before some potato skins and whiskey. Maybe a blisteringly hot bubble bath and then sex and sleep and more sex and some eggs benedict the next morning. 

I said to only pick one day, Bridget.

Right and there's twenty-four hours in a day. I started at lunch on the first day. Yeesh!

Throwing hope.

Step right up, boys and girls, olds and bolds, mids and kids! No matter what age you are, we got something you're gonna like! Prepare to be astounded, amazed and impressed. Prepare to scrape your wits up off the ground after you see what we have to show you! There's room down front, though please don't put any part of your body past the chalk line here and you'll go home intact! And now, if everyone is ready-

Peanut! 

I memorized it exactly like it was written! 

No, you need to be louder. Too soft. Too sweet. I didn't fall in love with a mouse. I swore you were a girl last I looked. 

I need a microphone. 

We have no power. Just project. Like I do when I'm relaying the poems. You can hear me down the street. 

That's because you have a big booming Scotch voice. 

No, it's because I'm loud. Act like I walked too far ahead of you on the path and you're mad because you can't keep up. 

I roar his name and he grins. Yes. Just like that. Start over, okay? 

STEP RIGHT UP, BOYS AND GIRLS! 

I look back at him and he looks like he owns the world. Maybe today, right now, here on this filthy street corner in the middle of nowhere, he does. There are no boys or girls here. No olds or bolds. No mids or kids. There's just us and the fire and the unrelenting sun and the nub of almost-gone chalk and a dream so big it'll probably crush us before lunchtime.

August found me late this evening and said,

Don't do that, Bridge. Don't build me up like that. Don't ever think I didn't come back because I'm running from things you know nothing about. It's easier to find a soft landing then to try to make it from scratch. You know that better than anyone. 

Well, ow. 

Got it. 

Burning man.

We will save your precious skin
Let the healing light come in
I'll cover you when the sky comes crashing in

Seventeen minutes after August hung up the last flannel shirt in his closet, he had a job. Sometimes his perfection astounds me. He's easy to hang out with, he wants for nothing. He owns six outfits (one is fancy, one is festival, four are for every day and I think it's time to buy him some clothes), one worn-smooth watch, a big backpack, an iPhone and a smile.

He owns one pair of shoes at any given time. He would be a hipster and you would be aghast at his stereotypical persona until you talked to him for eight whole seconds and then you'd be aware that you were just in the presence of greatness absolute. You would salivate with the coolness he emanates that you only wish you had and you'd be left wanting more time with him in the hopes that you could absorb some of his fucking awesome for your very own via simple proximity.

He's a God among men. You just don't realize it until he's left your vicinity and then you just want him back.

But he doesn't compete for the adoration. It's all implied. He doesn't have the charm of the resident lizard king, Duncan. Duncan's all unfounded ego. August has no ego. He's humble, he works hard, he listens so incredible well if listening were an Olympic event he would have all the gold and his only issue with being here, back home on the point is Caleb.

August doesn't like Caleb. Doesn't like his double entendres, his double crosses or his double-talk. Doesn't trust him, doesn't understand why he does the things he does and generally would imagine his life as complete if only there wasn't a real-life devil standing just behind each of their shoulders, and towering over me.

On the other hand, Caleb is the one who single-handedly facilitated this entire commune so we are all mostly polite to a fault and loathe to start shit because shit could see the whole mess scattered to the four points of the compass and we've been there. We don't want that.

We're a family now and as long as everyone treats everyone else with respect, it's okay.

Besides, Caleb is the one who hired August.

And gave him a really stupidly fucking large salary.

To look after me.

With one caveat. If August does anything to make me fall in love with him again, Caleb will throw him off the wrong side of the cliff, because he is done with that foolishness.

Yes, that's in the contract. Caleb's going to force emotions via paperwork. This is why he is the Devil and I'm merely an apprentice, I guess. So much to learn and no means to wield my future talents, which means I have to resort to magic instead.

You can apprentice in two different things at once, you know, and someone else got here first.

So sleepy. I just spent a good five minutes trying to wipe sunshine off my chair.

(It looked like a white mark.)

PJ won't stop laughing at me.

All the way home.

Guide my life into destiny
Climb outside
Reach up and paint the sky with me
Finding you has changed everything

We both break free if we make it on top
If one should fall we both will drop
We move together from here on out
What you need is what I’m about

Breakfast yesterday outside in the sun on the patio. Cool enough in the mornings for a sweater and jeans but I have forgone putting anything on my feet. Jake was right. Barefoot is best at home. He hated shoes. HATED them. To the point where there was a line of marks on the back wall of the hall closet, about knee high, where you could see where he kicked off his shoes and they'd land against the wall.

My toes. My toes are so happy to be in the sun.

I've gone back to coffee too. Only two or three cups a week. Coffee and toes. So happy. The narcolepsy reached a breaking point when I sat down to do some banking at my laptop and fell asleep mid-bill paying.

It tastes like shit. But I can pay the gas bill without blacking out and hitting a bunch of extra buttons. Now I understand the value of all of the steps required to complete the payment. I used to find it a pain. Last week those steps kept me from paying a $400 bill as $40023853.

(Not that it would have gone through, mind you.)

Why is our gas bill so high? Some of the fireplaces come on with the push of a button.

AND IT IS GLORIOUS.

Fire then no fire.

Fire then no fire.

Fire then no fire.

I could do that all day.

It costs $10 to run a gas fireplace for 15 minutes however. Your romantic moments are gilded and shine like diamonds here on the modern, easy-living West Coast.

Where was I?

Oh yes. Out under the cherry blossoms. Some of the trees bloom now. Some in July. And my toes will witness the whole thing.

But then the Devil comes and ruins the whole thing. It's okay though. Loch is in a great mood. Loch is also five inches away from me and all words will get filtered through his emotions like rainwater though a screen.

Caleb says he isn't the bad guy. That I'm an adult and he should not have to clear it with ten separate handlers to take a few days to get some work done.

Loch picks it apart. She's not an adult. He does have to clear it. The work isn't work. She didn't have to go. Shut the fuck up.

I snort. I actually love watching them bicker. It's like 1980 all over again. As long as they're not throwing punches or pulling me apart for a share it's very teenage and amazing to see their very different personalities go to war.

Loch then points out Caleb's new plan of feigning innocence and being accommodating isn't going unnoticed.

Caleb points out that Bridget's plan on trips now of either fighting and crying the whole time or showing up drunk to every event isn't going to fly. That the past two trips were disasters and that isn't acceptable.

Then stop taking her. She's not an adult, she's a child. This is your fault. Loch sits up and stares at Caleb. Caleb actually takes a full step backward.

(I would have too.)

Ben comes out and rolls his eyes. Ben actually fought for and won sleeping-Bridget-real-estate last night and Loch didn't fight him. But right now Loch is fighting everybody and it's my fault.

I kick Loch in the leg and he stops talking and asks me what I need. I tell him I need to apologize but then he cuts me off and says it isn't my fault and I shouldn't be coming to the defence of the Devil because he doesn't need any help.

And so I tune them out and look at my toes in the sun. Ben comes to sit behind me and I lean back against him, putting my feet up. Now my toes are in the air. It feels amazing. He gives my arms a squeeze and when I tune in again Caleb is gone and Loch is quiet and leaning against Ben too.

They both have bare feet. I didn't notice before.