Helplessly hoping.

Wordlessly watching he waits by the window and wonders
At the empty place inside
Heartlessly helping himself to her bad dreams he worries
Did he hear a goodbye?
Or even hello?

They are one person
They are two alone
They are three together
They are for each other

Stand by the stairway you'll see something certain to tell you
Confusion has its cost
Love isn't lying it's loose in a lady who lingers
Saying she is lost
And choking on hello

Lochlan is transparent, direct. Hopeful and commanding all at once. Leave Batman alone and I'll bring back your memory thief. 

I don't want him to take anymore. I don't want him to give me mixed messages.

What do you want of him, then?

His friendship. His steadfast spirituality and righteousness on behalf of the rest of us who fumble around for it. His affection. Sometimes he's the best substitute when you're not here.

I'm here now. 

Was the best substitute, I mean. 

I'm sorry I wasn't here, Peanut. 

I'm sorry about Batman, Locket. 

Are you? 

I don't know. He left a lot of money for me for any hardship. 

Send it back. 

No point. 

Caleb has that covered though?

You always told me if I can to double down. So I did.

And he laughs out loud. Now I'm starting to worry that you did listen to everything I say. If I told you to jump off a cliff-

I do it every time. The water's cold but I go. 

Why?

Because you say so. 

I wanted it both ways, Bridge. 

What do you mean?

I wanted you to be independent, to be able to be free of me and able to hold your own and at the same time I wanted you to need me. 

I am but at the same time, I do. I say it softly.

Sam is safe, Bridget. 

I don't think he is. 

No. You know what? I see the way you look at him. 

I don't mean to-

And it's not the same way you look at me. He leans way in for a long kiss. We know each other's faces. Hearts. Minds. He can come back. Let's have some peace here for once. 

Sunday. Of all days. 

Seems right.

***

Hey, Little Stranger. 

Hey Preacher. 

Is it safe to swoop in for a hug?

It is.

Dizzying night.

I chose a midnight walk with all of my boys on our beach, merlot in hand for those who wanted it, coffee or tea for those who didn't. It was dark and freezing and full of stars and I wouldn't have changed a thing, except for my tiredness, which took over and threatened to upend the whole evening, or maybe it was the merlot, since I'm not good at wine, am hideously allergic to the tannins in red wines and also prone to becoming quickly drunk off a typical glass, as I am maybe ninety or ninety-five pounds soaking wet, and only if I've filled up on bread first (but not dangerously enough to explode, like a bird, into a beautiful silent fluff of feathers and glitter).

So I needed a little help coming back up. The steps are treacherous and steep in bright sober sunshine, and here it was dark and drunk instead. Lochlan tucked his arm around my waist and brought me up, laughing quietly against my head as he was vaguely drunk as well. Ben and Duncan came up behind us, I'm sure ready to catch us if we stumbled or stopped. We managed fine and went straight to the camper for a mildly drunken bonfire and a little more wine before rediscovering exactly what we like about each other when he's not parenting me, and I'm not rebelling against that. Level ground, inhibitions and emotions gone in the bliss of a lit fire and a lack of tension, an intoxication brought on by the perfect combination of stars, saltwater and moonlight, brought on by the complexity of long-time love and by the proximity of everyone I care about it.

He put out the fire when my eyes got heavy and the ghosts of Bridget Past tried to crowd back in to the smoke-tinged darkness.

No, I protested. I love it. Leave it.

Time for sleep, Lochlan says, taking my hands, pulling me to my feet. He brings me inside the camper, closing and locking the door, pulling his shirt off and mine too, pushing my jeans down over my hips, dropping his own pants, arms around me, my hands on his face, kisses raining everywhere, tasting smoky skin and merlot and exhaustion. We're cooling off, goosebumps rising, limbs tucking into warmth made from within and without and we remembered who we are in that beautiful night, and who we want to be, separate and together and everything else was erased by the sunless sky.

This morning we woke up in 1986, thick as thieves, fresh as new lovers, eager to start over together as one. He made coffee for us in the campfire and then we returned to civilization to try and reintegrate into normie life.

It's tough but so are we.

This is how I thought it would play out when I was ten.

(And here we are, at long last.)

Last customer, sitting at a booth in the corner for so long, menu held up to block out the world I wondered if he was going to last past the end of my shift. A few attempts to offer coffee or the special (roast turkey on an open-faced sourdough bun, cranberry dressing and mashed on the side) were met with silence. I kept cleaning, loading dishes and redrawing the menu board. I reorganized the spoons and filled vinegar and ketchup and salt and pepper too. I poured myself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter finally, with my back to the booths. Not my problem.

Obviously it's Lochlan.

Not sure how he didn't realize that I would see that his ring matches mine. Or recognize his clothes. Or that I would know his hands, his posture, his presence anywhere, immediately. I always feel him before I see him, but I think he thought he could blend in until the three-o'clock mark.

I think I'm ready now. He folds the menu onto the table and smiles at me.

What'll it be? 

One Bridget. To go, please. 

To go where? 

Anywhere you want to go, Little Lady.

Wash it away.

August did that thing again where he's waiting for me after I come down the driveway from work. Only this time everyone else is gone and he's in charge of food + brood or so they call it when I get home from work, ravenous and needing to unload for a few minutes before I make my way back to a reasonable state of-

As if I do.

Come on. You know me better than this.

August's idea of a snack is fresh kombucha and a cold curry couscous salad. He might be trying to kill me. Over huge spoonfuls of the salad I ask him if he's ever had a pop-tart. He narrows his eyes and changes the subject. How long were you at Batman's? 

Long enough to start a war. 

Is that why you took a shift today? 

Maybe. Is that why no one is home? 

I doubt it. Caleb and Lochlan got into it pretty bad but Schuyler broke it up and then had a few terse moments with Batman. I think they sorted it all out. The only issue left is your movements. We take our eyes off you for one second, Bridget-

I was there for four hours, August. No one even missed me.

Right, well, you should have been at home. 

I know. 

And? 

What would you like me to say? Sorry? Won't happen again? Sometimes I get sucked in. 

So he's like a tidal wave?

More like an unpredictable current. Is that so bad? 

Who takes the fall for it?

We both do. Him for taking advantage of historically documented vulnerabilities and me for exploiting that history thoroughly. 

August is temporarily speechless at my self-awareness. I never said it wasn't there. I said I live around it. The twelve-year-old me is much stronger than all the rest. And it never changes.

So what happens now? 

A shoving match between Lochlan or Caleb or whoever, I get grounded, my circle gets really fucking small and Lochlan needs reassurance. 

What do you need? 

Do you have any pop-tarts? Couscous is like really old caviar. 

That's the best reason for a pop-tart that I've ever heard. Go find PJ. He's got some from grocery shopping this morning. 

It wasn't until I went across the driveway that I realized he dismissed me just like Lochlan does. Like a little kid.
 

Never the boss but somehow always in charge.

The saying goes something like 'you never know what battle someone is fighting' or something like that. It came to me as I poured endless coffee refills into the thick white china mugs diners love so much because they're cheap and virtually unbreakable. It came as I whiteknuckled my favorite coffee pot, pouring black sludge through the cracks in my facade into grateful expressions and wizened fingers wrapped around handles as if they were simply afraid I would take their cups away.

My boss finally let me go home, telling me the lunch rush was over as was the afternoon break one, and he held his hand out for the apron as I untied it from my waist and gave it back. I had been washing it at home. Apparently I wasn't told he washes everything at night and I don't have to.

When I got home PJ had blackberries and hot chocolate waiting for my snack. I ate it at the kitchen sink looking out over the ocean because I'm no longer allowed to go to the swing alone.

(I can move Jake, you know. He stays wherever I put him. I threatened Lochlan with the endless misery of the preacher he hardly tolerated forever being my own shadow, as I am Lochlan's.

I know that. But you don't need to be out there this week. Clear? 

Yes sir.  I salute him and he frowns.)

Batman summons me. There's eight or ten really intriguing messages on my phone when I finally get home, fishing it out from the bottom of my handbag. I'll start the furthest away and work my way back. That's the most logical way.

(What? No it isn't, Lochlan will say.)

You need me? 

I do. He smiles, staring at me without saying anything further.

He holds out his arms and I sink against him almost gratefully. Done for the week. My legs ache. My brain hurts. I just want to shut it off.

Have you eaten? He says into the top of my head.

I nod against his chest, my ear muffling his words. Blackberries. 

I'll fix us a drink. His grand charming trick is to fix one drink, for us to share. It's always been a cheeky gesture. A touching one, weirdly. That's how I know my list will be short today and I probably won't get time to deal with all of the messages on my phone as I'll be here for a while.

He takes a sip and holds the glass down to me. I think I know what you need. That smile. God. I hate it so much.

Hope is not in what I know.

He isn't real, Peanut! Jesus, I can see talking to yourself but if you've conjured up this two-way conversation in which the things he says surprise you then it's gone too far. He isn't real! You don't have to justify anything to him. You don't have to put him anywhere. He can stay in your memories. He put himself there. He doesn't deserve anything further. Jesus. Listen to me. I sound like you. He doesn't even have this much presence. I don't know what to do here. If no one here can help then we're going to have to go elsewhere. 

This is your doing. 

Oh, no, it isn't. 

You said make a story, Locket! And it was the only thing that MADE ME FEEL BETTER. 

You were ten fucking years old! 

And it still works!

It SHOULDN'T. Jesus. We did do this, didn't we. 

Did what?

Left you to grow up with only the coping mechanisms of a child. 

What are you, Rip Van Winkle? Did you just wake up? Jesus, Lochlan. I've been asking for help with this for a thousand years and now that I don't even want any anymore you're all swooping in to somehow try and save the day. 

Not the day, the girl. 

Same difference. 

No, it isn't. 

Well, it's too late. 

He smiles suddenly. It's never too late. Look at everything else that's happened. You and me. Back together. It's absolutely never too late, Bridget.

Broken hearts, broken bowls (I survived the tenth shift. It took a lot of biting my tongue but I did.)

PJ made me a snack today when I got home. A small bowl of spicy pistachios, his pocket knife with which to open them and a fresh glass of lemonade, made with less sugar than most people like, or so I'm told.

I like you more lately. 

See? I told you I'm becoming a better person by working. 

No, but by working you're usually too tired now to argue with me about the dinner menu. He winks and then frowns. You sure you won't cut yourself, because Lochlan will murder me if he finds out I gave you that knife to-

Oh my God, PJ. Seriously. I spend all day long around huge butcher knives now.
 (They are the only thing that can cut through the moderate-burned pies the cook churns out morning and noon. Seriously.)

Tell him you stole it them. Have my back. 

I always have your back. I wink, worried for a microsecond that my eye might be joined by the other one, and that they might both just opt to remain closed for the duration. To my relief they act normally. Thank you for the snack. 

See you in a bit, Jellyfish. I am dismissed to carry my dishes out to the orchard to the swing, where I sit in the shadow of the tree to eat and then fly for a little while. Just until I feel like I can answer with a quick-witted reply when they ask how my day was. Otherwise the tears will continue and then everyone is angry and frustrated at me and at themselves.

Where have you been going? 

The swing is occupied when I arrive. Jake slows to a lazy circle on the swing, not holding on, squinting at me in the sun. My knees buckle and I almost upset the bowl but he reaches out to steady me. I can see the ocean right through his face, a lone sailboat fighting the current from within his right dimple. His face is a whirlpool and I get sucked right in. I'm drowning and the only thing that will be left of me is this untouched lemonade.

I have a job now. 

Yes. Sam told me. 

There goes the bowl. And the glass too, for good measure.

He...can see you too?

No, but he prays to me sometimes. To my spirit for guidance. 

I think that will be a good explanation to calm the fluttering of my heart and hands but somehow it just makes it worse. Oh. I see. I say it slowly.

You understand this isn't how you have relationships in the real world you're so eager to be a part of. 

It's a long story, Jake. 

I have time, Princess. Tell it to me.

I drop PJ's open knife on my foot. May as well spill all the bad blood while I'm at it, right?

Jesus, Mary and Joel.

A break?

A day off. 

From me? The only person who actually doesn't try to keep you sick, to bring you out of your comfort zone but keep you well within a safe environment so you can make some improvement? You always fight it, Bridget but deep down you know better. You're always going to struggle against that regression. They set you up to depend on them for everything-

There's nothing wrong with that- (also? He lies.)


When it turns out like this, yes, there is something deeply wrong with it. 

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, Sam-

I'm not. I'm trying to help you, Bridge. I'm in the most precarious place of all trying to balance my job with our relationship-

Have a good day at work. I can't do it. I don't want to talk now. He is older, more experienced and has more miles on him than Jacob ever will and yet when he says the same words it destroys my resolve and I don't want to work on anything. Don't want to be anything. And I certainly don't want to remember anything about life before the Collective all assembled in one place for good.

Though I keep saying it's not for good and every single time I am corrected.

(It is, Bridge.)

(Don't worry, Neamhchiontach.)

(We're not going anywhere.)

Would you go back and change it if you could? Joel asks over coffee, hashbrowns, bacon and eggs that got cold because this restaurant doesn't warm the plates in the oven before putting the food on them so that everything stays hot longer. I try to make butternauts and they don't form properly, butter blobs laying every which way on my plate. What a mess. What a fucking mess.

Change what? 

Being raised by wolves. 

No. 

You sure you don't want to think about that?

I have. And the answer is still no. 

Then why won't you listen to them when they ask you to stay home? 

I shrug. I'm stubborn...and...

And?

Maybe I'm helping them get over their fears too. So we can all be better people. 

That's pathetic. 

He's looming over my shoulder as I bring up my deposit on my bank app to show him. I got my first paycheque.

I was really proud. I made almost five hundred dollars. And that doesn't even include the tips I brought home each afternoon.

Just end this farce. I'll top up your account daily, if you like the thrill of it. It'll be far more, however. 

You've missed the point. 

Oh, I don't believe I have. It's been several weeks, Bridget. I think we should stop talking about ghosts and go back to talking about you putting in your resignation, or whatever a job like that requires. I have people who know the provincial labour code if you need advisemen-

I'm not quitting. 

You're digging yourself a hole for what? Pocket change? 

I'm trying to become a better person. 

You're already the best person, Neamhchiontach. You've brought life to this point, to the people on it and we miss you dearly while you're gone. I'm watching you throw yourself into one hole after another on a daily basis all the while ignoring the terms of our settlement. 

My pay doesn't even cover the cellphone bill so if you're worried about supporting me I'm pretty sure you still are. 

So why continue?

I told you a hundred times over already. 

He looks down for a moment and then back to me. His face is soft but his eyes are hard. I think it's time to quit now, Neamhchiontach. It's phrased as a gentle suggestion but it's very clear.

I told you it's none of your business. And the second restaurant is busier and less friendly, just to turn your screws. 

Good, Batman can buy that too. 

The owner isn't selling it. 

Anyone can be bought. 

See, I thought you were learning the opposite of that. For some people out there, money isn't their endgame. 

Money is the only end game. 

So by that logic you're complete? 

You're easier when you're mute. 

You're easier when you go away, Diabhal. 

This wasn't meant to be a conversation where you break my heart, Bridget. 

Hey, it's the club we run here. 

How do I make you understand this is so very temporary you won't have time to get your apron dirty? 

Unless you lock me in a room I'm working for the time being, and I'll decide when I stop. 

I didn't want to resort back to force but as you've reminded me, it's the only way to get you to do anything, isn't it?

Two steps forward, ten years back.

You found me drifted out to sea
It's automatic
It's telepathic
You always knew me
And you laugh as I search for a harbor
As you point where the halo had been
But the light in your eyes has been squandered
There's no angel in you in the end

Sam didn't let up at all, telling me that, just like in the song, Jacob clipped his wings so he could come down to earth because I needed him, and when his wings grew back and he was needed he left again, knowing I was in good hands. Maybe he was sent to get me through losing Cole.

That can't be right. Back to the hitching, tear-choked morning that gets all the light sucked out of it by default, plunging us all into the abject blackness that spreads from my brain in a slow circle as his words hit their mark, leaving my head full of holes.

What kind of angel lets you fall in love with them if they're not going to stick around to see it through?

It doesn't matter, Bridge. You fall in love with EVERYONE. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

STOP LYING. Bridget's suddenly eight, just to finish this vision for you, resorting to paper-thin responses as a child does. Whatever works. BE NICE. STOP SHOVING. LEAVE ME ALONE. MOM, BAILEY'S BUGGING ME.

That brings Lochlan out of the woodwork. (He knows that Bridget best. Sam hardly knows her at all.)

He's not wrong. But it's okay. I promise.

Okay? No. It isn't okay. It's not okay. Your promises are as shot through full of holes as my head right now. Blackness is pouring out of his mouth and I can't hear him anymore. Stop it. STOP IT. STOP IT. 

Neamhchiontach. 

The word that acts like a light in the dark. The absolution a spotlight on a life that saw me taking fault for everything that's ever happened when I shouldn't have.

I whirl around and Caleb is in the door.

Not a good time, Diabhal. Lochlan's got it. Under control. Yeesh.

Just in time, you mean. He doesn't look at Lochlan at all, instead holding his hand out to me. Come, Bridget. 

I take a few steps and put my hand out and he closes his around mine. There. We'll go escape for a bit and you'll feel better.

Jesus, Bridget-

ENOUGH. Caleb finally addresses Lochlan directly. I don't know what you're doing but you need to stop. This is the second time in a week I've had to step in and if things don't change I'll be in charge and you'll be banished from here. Am I clear? 

Bridget. Lochlan continues to ignore Caleb, staring at me, pleading with his eyes as if I'll magically get a grip on this flood of feelings that I would do anything to get away from today.

I stare at him without expression and then I get pulled along, out of the room.
I'm sure Caleb is right. I just need a break. I need to not have to defend every thought, every feeling, every moment. I need to think less, not more.

***

This morning things look slightly different. Lochlan isn't going anywhere. Caleb doesn't have the right to threaten him. But Sam is here and I think I need a break from Sam. Not friend-Sam, but Preacher Sam. Preacher Sam pushes too hard and I don't need that right now.