#2.

I feel dumb.

She's a technical he, hitching a ride now to Alaska. They got him her halfway, anyhow.

(Update: I didn't have to worry about Charlotte after all. Not only was she a he, he left a big cheque to pay for having the RV cleaned and detailed as a thank you for the ride and as it turned out, Caleb knows his father. Charlotte is neither pre- nor post-op. He's a cross-dresser who hits up Burning Man annually and has known August for a couple of years already. He loved all of us and our arrangement here and promised to come by the next time he/she is in town. He has a furlough from his law firm and will be traveling for close to the next year. I wished him luck and got a huge hug in return so it worked out well and I was relieved it wasn't what I thought it was and yes, I am well-aware someday I will have to deal with that*.)

(* not cross-dressing, I mean some of the boys meeting girls and leaving the nest. )

#1.

THEY'RE HOME.

Plot twist. They brought an extra person with them. Person's name is Charlotte. Charlotte is kind of pretty and really freaking funny. No one will tell me who she is with exactly and I can't figure this out. Everything needs to be burned. Not sure about Charlotte. Possibly. I'm not sure if I'm fine with this or not.  Will update when I am less green, of course or maybe I'll just dig myself a hole and fill it with my shame for being so selfish.

Outwardly I'm all like Hey! Nice to meet you! Want some lemonade?

Fifty and sixteen.

Ruth has a job. She also has a learner's permit now and is sixteen years old. She steals all my boots and scarves and wears thigh-high socks to school and we all cringe and wonder if she can handle the attention she gets.

Yes, of course I can, she says and rolls her eyes. Because mom and dad are squares.

Or so she thinks because we've sanded down the sharp edges of life and history for her and while it's essential that she builds as much character as she can as early as is humanly possible, there's just no need to burst this perfectly round bubble that she lives in and needn't leave any time soon. Mom and dad were never squares, we just tone it down to a flat line on purpose around her in order to preserve this fairytale of childhood, the bubble, as long as possible. I don't want her learning the same lessons I learned in my early teen years but at the same time I refuse to spoil her or her brother much at all.

She loved her party. All her friends were there along with most of their parents and a few grandparents for good measure. The teenagers (Henry had a few friends over too) congregated around the pool with tables full of pizzas and music that was loud enough for them to dance to but not so loud that the 'squares' couldn't carry on a conversation up on the patio at our house, where we had other music playing anyway and tiny white lights that were static instead of the pulsing, color-changing LEDs. It was too cool to swim but I believe several of the boys pushed each other in.

(None of the boys seemed to notice how steely the stares were coming from the wall of uncles up on the patio. They maybe should have but eventually they will clue in, I suppose.)

Lochlan loved his party. His whole family came and I flew in a few familiar faces that he was so surprised and touched to see. The food was good and the cake (that I made) was better. He smiled and pretended he had energy when it waned and room when he was stuffed. He was operating at maybe eighty percent by then, I think. The antibiotics are working and he is feeling better. So is Benny, thank heavens.

The whole thing went off without a hitch. Every dish in the house was used. Lochlan is a man of few wants so he got at least fourteen bottles of scotch. He's a man of even fewer needs so he got to dance with his daughter for the first dance of the evening when we merged the parties briefly for some speeches and a joint present in the form of a large photograph of the two of them standing at the water's edge, their long red hair the same exact shade, their hip tilt when standing still a mirror image and their love of faded jeans sealing the deal in almost matching outfits, topped with green and black flannel shirts. His hand is on her back. She is looking up at him. I took it and never showed anyone until now.

They loved it. It's going in the front hall.

The speeches once the guests dwindled down to Collective-only were unbelievable. I can't even. It was amazing. He's fifty. I keep telling myself how weird this is. He's always always a teenager to me and I can't quite sort this out.

But I'm going to bed because cleanup took all of us most of the day and I don't feel so good. At least August and crew are definitely on their way home. They burned the man last night and so the boys packed up and headed out and they're in Oregon now for the night. Too square to drive all night, I guess. The family meeting is delayed until they are rested not only to defuse the whole mess but because August is the house conscience and Duncan? The bouncer.

The last party of the summer, now in full swing.

He's fifty years old today.

Lochlan.

I kind of want to cry but also I want to ask him if he has finally grown up yet, if he's settled, if he's happy at all. I know sometimes he truly is. I know he loves waking up with me and being close by most of the time now. I know he's not as tough as he once was when we were forced to be, and I know that inside of him lurks a total, off-the-rails bonafide freak because I've seen it with my own eyes. I've seen him waver on the brink of insanity. I've seen him give up only to come roaring back. I've seen him stand by his word time and time again and I've seen him struggle to keep his integrity pure. I've seen him grow up. I've seen him go from an indignant little boy to a pragmatic man to a cornerstone of my life and my memories with nothing more than his attention and love. So focused. So good.

He's a good human. He's the best human. He's a wonderful father and an understanding, patient co-husband. He's a good friend and an honorary brother to all. He's a prince. He's a flame. He is mine and I am his and I really find this birthday stuff getting heavy, getting strange.

I love him and I can't even describe what that's like for us but it's amazing to have known him then and see him now.

Fifty.

Wow.

Rodolfo will be played by Loch, duh.

Today was so busy, I'm sorry. I have a blistering headache now, but I'm up waiting for Ruth who is out with her friends being girly and having fun and tomorrow is the big party.

Everyone's on their best behavior, don't worry. We struck some sort of deferment. A moratorium, if you will, and everyone will just hold tight until at least Sunday and we'll revisit it at a family meeting when the kids are both otherwise engaged and see if we can't figure out which way to go now. Lochlan's done with everything and everyone and I'd follow him off the cliff if he told me to, and he would love it if he could lay down the same kind of law Jacob did in banning me from going near Caleb but...then there's Ben.

Ben's legendary, unwavering plan of attack is to let Bridget do what she wants, an attitude that saved my life once. But is it okay to be so selfish and centered at the expense of someone I love even more than death?

Don't ask me. That question is for Baby-Preacher. Sam didn't have any answers though and lobbed it gently back into my court. Who is most important? He asked. Lochlan? Caleb? Or you, Bridget? 

Is this a trick question? I asked him and I threw the freshly folded stack of bulletins into the air and walked out.

He didn't chase me. He never does. He's more like Ben than like Jake sometimes and that's probably a good thing.

Caleb had crashed the call anyway, suggesting the family meeting before shutting it down and then to add a little salt to an already infected wound he drove over to the church and was sitting out front in the purring R8 in the pouring rain when I walked outside, as if he knew I was going to leave without Sam.

He puts the window down on my side and leans over. Neamhchiontach. Get in. It's raining. 

I can walk. 

Twenty kilometers? Get in. Now.

I do what I'm told.

He didn't even come around and open the door for me. How the mighty, tiny princess has fallen, I guess but then once he belts me in he apologizes for not getting out and opening my door but that he is in a hurry to get home.

He's reading my mind, I think.

Sometimes that's the only help I get from you, he says out loud in response.

I don't say or even think much of anything on the way home. I play music in my head. Classical, sad. Puccini was famous for being sad and difficult so it fits. I annoy the fuck out of myself and probably Caleb too. He HATES La Boheme. It shows all over his face.


Good.

When we stop to wait for the gate to clear at the top of the driveway at home he turns to me and says if I think we're going to get away with cutting him off or pushing him away at this late stage of the game, to be prepared for the fight of my life.

I remind him I've been fighting all along.

Trauma bonds.

This sugarcane
This lemonade
This hurricane, I'm not afraid
C'mon, c'mon no one can see me cry

This lightning storm
This tidal wave
This avalanche, I'm not afraid
C'mon, c'mon no one can see me cry

Sam put on R.E.M. this morning (GOD WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU BRING ME) and left me to fold bulletins while he went to his office and closed the door. He's right this moment on a conference call with Claus, Loch and PJ, Ben and Joel because I keep pinging back to the devil like one of those cup and ball games. They cut the elastic and Caleb ties it neatly back together by being nice.

I don't wanna be with you anymore
I just don't want you anymore
I don't wanna be with you anymore
I just don't want you anymore

I know that's who he's talking to because I had my ear pressed to the door for the better part of twenty minutes before he got smart and turned on the bluetooth speaker in his office and brought it over and set it on the floor facing the door.

That's me in the corner
That's me in the spotlight

It's not like he can do anything. No one can. Caleb holds the whole world hostage through me. With Henry. Cole. With everyone else too and they don't even know it, it seems. All of them who refuse to abandon me to him but can't afford to stay without his generosity. Everyone gets so mad when I go to him but I'm just trying to keep them here. To keep the peace. Both inside and outside my head.

I wear my own crown and sadness and sorrow
and who'd have thought tomorrow could be so strange?
my loss, and here we go again

I don't think Sam should have picked this album (In Time/Best of) but I know he did because it's one of the few that I can listen to on a loop if forced without minding at all. It's sad and profound and also weird.

Broadcast me a joyful noise unto the times, Lord
Count your blessings
We're sick of being jerked around
We all fall down

Its been a bad day

Don't know anyone like that. Oh look, found a mirror. Wow. I look so tired.

So hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on

Base camp (sometimes a commune, sometimes army barracks).

Today you baked a birthday cake and had to put a note on it so no one will eat it. You can't find your toothbrush, which means someone borrowed it and everyone claims it wasn't their turn to put the clean laundry in the dryer so it was still sitting in the washer when you went down to see Matt.

There are seven bottles of Nyquil if you need it because everyone remembered to buy some, the kids have multiple ride offers for their plans today and if you need a hug there might be a line forming to your left.

When you go out you have to msg two different people, one of whom is always sleeping, to move their trucks and the dog has been walked four times by ten in the morning. That stuck screen door is fixed before you can bring it up and Dalton would like you to change to his religion, which is the religion of nothing where no one follows any books, they just live from day to day and not worry about being so good and just be happy.

You decline because you can count your ministers on one hand while you reach out and touch both of them with the other.

When you can't sleep there is company.

When you want cookies there are never any left.

When the shit hits the fan they close ranks around you like a shield, buffering you from life and they can keep you there until you feel like being hit by life-shrapnel again, or at least until your thick skin grows back over you like armor.

And everywhere you go you're tripping over love, because that's the way this life was designed for you.

***

Batman invited me to lunch today, mostly as a vulture to pick through my remains all the while pretending to be the benevolent anti-devil, save for the fact that he isn't all that much different, to tell you the truth, though his attempts to hire me to be his sugar baby fizzled out early on. He has a weird sort of chemistry with me.  Hot as fuck and yet I can never read him. I want to know what he feels as he feels it and yet he is always closed off to me, rarely forthcoming, occasionally open and engaging but mostly reserved and quiet.

And I'm only like that when I'm done with life and today I'm not that, I'm just me and I chatter and prattle and fidget and blink and he looks so weary by the time our food arrives that I ask if he'd rather have it boxed up to go.

Maybe. Oh hell, yes, let's do that. 

We brought our food back to his house and set up on his garden patio and it was really nice. Not sunny but very overcast and cool. He gave me his jacket to wear and turned on the heaters and we had a leisurely pre-rain picnic at the glass table.

Then he sat back and asked me point blank why I went back to Caleb.

Oh, it's a hollow-point sort of day, I see.

Because if I don't things are worse. 

Bridget, I can't tell if he's coercing you or if you go willingly anymore. Which is it? No poetry this time. Are you continuing this arrangement because you enjoy it or because he makes you?

Um. 

Does he hurt you? 

Define 'hurt'. 

Jesus Christ. What do you get out of this? 

I shrug. Things. 

Such as?

Honesty. Power. Cole.

What do you mean? 

I don't want to talk about this. 

What does Lochlan say?

I don't know, he just opens his mouth and all of this loud swearing comes out. 

But you persist. 

No, the Devil insists. 

I'm not sure whether to save you or kick you off the ledge into the pack of wolves you seem to tease so constantly. 

I don't recall asking you to pick one or the other. Thank you for lunch. I drop my napkin on the table and leave. Suddenly the heater isn't working that well anymore and it's cold.

The weather is finally perfect for this.

I am NOT going to be sick for this week and weekend upcoming. Je refuse.

Ben does not have pneumonia, so that's good. He has strep which is neat because I got to watch the doctor do the swab test while he gestured at Ben and said, well, which one is in charge of you? I thought it was Mr. C____ and I say no, he just likes to think so and we all have a false laugh because the Devil afforded us a little privacy even though he probably thinks I'm going to procure something to kill him with.

(I would but this doctor is loyal and transparent to Caleb and so I wouldn't get very far and the Devil might not be so forgiving if he thought I actually was going to murder him outright. Instead I'm going to kill him slowly. With my mind. That's how it works.

(I think.)

I'm not killing Ben though. His immune system is fucked. He has some health issues but he does okay and he'll be fine in time for the weekend, he just needs rest.

Snort.

That's my fault. I may have had trouble sleeping so for once I dug right under his shoulder, wedging myself in against him, shaking him back and forth slightly until he came to life and asked what was wrong. I shook my head and burrowed in further and his arms came around me and then he did the pajama puzzle to get them off me and that was that. Oh, boy, were we ever awake now.

He was slow and sleepy and found it hard to breathe so for once it was perfunctory and satisfying instead of hours-long and Olympic. We both fell asleep again for a little longer. He's still there now, but so is Loch, who we found out yesterday is not having trouble breathing from the smoke in the air, but because he has strep too.

I tested negative.

The doctor said give it time, as if I was a seed planted and they were waiting for me to sprout.

(Yes, that euphemism goes for miles because they always promised me I would be taller and I haven't grown since I was ten.)

This one doesn't sprout. She must be a dud. 

Indeed.

So we're going to lay low for a couple of days and see if we can't get everyone better. I get to play nurse. But I'm going to be the twitchy Silent Hill nurse, featureless-faced, wrapped in bandages and sighing in my stilettos because I kept that costume and it's almost Halloween time again.

Oh, who am I kidding? I wear it all the time.

Spoiled/trigger.

A little too familiar. A little too late.

That's all I could think as he stepped forward and used the stopper to draw lines of perfume on me. One from shoulder to shoulder across my back. A short line below each earlobe and a stripe across each wrist, over the scars, the white lines that intersect my life like a highway to nowhere. He replaced the stopper in the bottle (shaped like a big glass candy bow, don't you know) and then bent his head down against my left ear, inhaling deeply.

This. This is you. 

(He hasn't really found a scent he likes since Cartier discontinued Delices. So I mostly wear Flowerbomb by Victor & Rolf. This is their new one. It's called Bonbon.)

(He is very picky about scents.)

Have you had time to think about things? We put our arrangement on hold after I tried to cancel it completely and he refused to let me. His argument? I don't have a choice. I agreed once upon a time to preserve this plan without input. Only he can cancel it. I can't quit. I can only be fired.

He wouldn't fire me.

I could burn his house down and stick a knife in his chest and he still wouldn't fire me.

And yet I'm not allowed to be smart in front of his business partners.

I'm not allowed to be anything except for quiet, delicate, submissive. Obedient. Fierce. Placid. Helpless. Wild. I'm not allowed to want certain things or ask for anything or refuse anything. I'm not allowed up. I can't leave. I can't have the ties loosened and he won't take the gag out. I can't plan for the future because there isn't one. Time is a loop and I smell like sugar.

No, I haven't really had time yet. But I have.

When the power is out all you can do is have sex and eat all the food in the freezer.

Oh and watch the rest of season one of True Detective, because as you know, we're preppers and we had power because we plan ahead.

Jesus. People are so unprepared. Even when I had three dollars to my name I kept a box on a shelf with water, canned foods, snack foods, candles, matches, flashlight and a big sharp butcher knife. Just because you should always be as prepared as you can be. No excuses.

Extrapolated for Bridget-inflation that box is now three generators for three houses, weapons I will not discuss, and enough food, drinks and lights to make twenty people happy for inside of two weeks, if need be. We have more than one storeroom. We are ready.

I'd run out of condoms before anything else.

Ha. No I wouldn't.

Anyway, we're fine. I didn't post yesterday because I was really busy, because we were out in the R8 shopping and had to dodge multiple snapping trees and horrible drivers to get home. It took three hours instead of the usual thirty minutes but that's okay.

Sugar Baby status fully reinstated. More on that later.

Right now I'm attempting to procure a fresh box of pocky sticks from next door because someone got in my stash in between emergencies and left me two boxes. Two. There were two CASES there when I put them away in the first place.

I made a note to fix that when I go for groceries.

In the meantime, Lochlan is feeling better (the rain and wind took away the smoky air) and Ben is now sick with possibly pneumonia. But! I stockpile medicines too. First Aid supplies and even suture kits. Because like I said, I'm prepared.

It's a shame you can't stockpile mental health resources for emergencies though. I don't even know where I would begin.

(PS. True Detective was terrible. It was a mashup of the movies Se7en and Silence of the Lambs with a grey filter and a forced-mood soundtrack that made me want to claw my ears off. Aside from a few shining snippets of dialogue from Matthew McConaughey's character (who then repeated himself ad nauseum, ruining the profundity of it all), it just pushed too hard for edgy bleakness and didn't do anything different OR groundbreaking. At least it was only eight episodes.)