Trying my hardest here.

"She thought she could have what she wanted; She thought she could see the world from above, as if it were a distant blue ball whose sorrows had nothing to do with her. She had wanted to be a bird, but now she knew, as she looked out the window to see Lewis following, that even birds are chained to earth by their needs and desires."      ~Alice Hoffman, The Rules of Magic

Woke up from a drugged sleep (seven. full. hours. Almost there.) in the arms of Lochlan, who was still in jeans and a flannel shirt and boots. He slept sitting up, almost, uncomfortably so, clutching my head against his chest. Like he was ready to fight off every angel I could find in my nightmares and every devil that exists in my waking life.

We need to stay put, Peanut. This is a good place to ride out the hard parts. 

You think it is?

I think it is. 

Okay. (Eight-year-old Bridget always, always trusted him anyway so why not?)

Let's make some breakfast. Do you want to do toast and I'll do some coffee and eggs?

No, bagels instead. Raisin ones. God. Still slurring words this morning. Still fucked up from the pills that stop everything that wants to destroy me in their tracks.

Okay. (He smiles here, because he always trusted eight-year-old Bridget. She always knew exactly what she wanted and she always stayed put when he told her to.)

We'll take today slow. (We have a big group outing tonight and I'm in no condition to go and yet we refuse to miss this.)

Yes. I'm actually feeling better. 

I'll let fuckface know. He's been bothering me nonstop. 

He's just worried. He watched me slide right into the void. 

Yeah, well, the fact that he watched and did nothing to pull you back doesn't leave me wanting to include him if he can't even recognize it happening right in front of his fucking face, Bridge. 

I know. 

You know what? Fuck Caleb. Let's have breakfast up here. I'll call him later.

Two alone.

Gasping at glimpses
Of gentle true spirit
He runs, wishing he could fly
Only to trip at the sound of good-bye

The holy quad is this: grief, fear, wanderlust and love. They all treat the symptoms of the wrong diseases here. No wonder I'm like this. No wonder I walk in quicksand in the dark all the time. No wonder I can't find the light, can't outrun this shit, can't gain any speed.

I have today off. I have a doctor's note as I'm sort of having some sort of major depressive episode exhaustion issue going on here. Everyone's been so helpful and so kind to me and yet I can't seem to gain any traction.

Put on a song, burst into tears. Told Ben it was my favourite and he said it's too sad to be and until I can survive it without the intense reaction it doesn't count.

But I insisted. That's what makes it this way.

Don't do it, Bumblebee. 

Can't help it, it's done. 

They hid all the vehicle keys, except to the ones I can't physically drive (the big bikes and Ben's truck. He got a bigger one. The seat can be zoomed all the way up to the dash and it's still nowhere near the pedals for me so oh, well. Pretty sure this is on purpose. Where's the car key that was in my purse? Ruth doesn't have it. She looked so apologetic. It's sad when you're light years more mature than your mother. I wouldn't want to be in her shoes.

Actually I would.

I would rather have been protected by them, as she is.

Than exploited.

As I was am.

(I said I wouldn't take no for an answer but I technically already have, here, I guess as I'm not in a position to argue. I'm not in a position to operate heavy machinery so on that note, I'm going to bed.)

I am deglazing the pan for a nice light gravy for the roast and Caleb is buttering bread for garlic bread. Dinner for two. He wanted some sort of reassurance after a few long days took me to the other end of my wits and I wasn't forthcoming enough so here I am, being wined and dined and encouraged to help cook in order to prove that everything is fine.

It's fine. I'm fine. I'm okay. Whatever. I finish up and he nods his approval.

Have you decided? 

Bridget, we've talked about this-

I need a change of scenery. 

I've offered and you refuse.

Because you pick weird trips. 

And the Gathering of the whatever they were isn't weird?

No? 

We're not on the same page. 

We're not even in the same library, Cale. 

What would make my trips less...weird to you. 

If they didn't involve all inclusive everything where you just lie around and people wait on you. I hate that. If I go somewhere I want to explore. 

That just gets you into trouble. 

Right. 

So...no. 

No?

Yes, that's what I said. 

Wait. Yes or no?

No, Neamhchiontach. 

Sure you want to be the bad guy here?

I will if I must but I have a feeling I won't be the only one. 

See, I think you will be. 

Try them, Bridget, and let me know how it goes.

Whoop whoop.

The only thing I can do in between sucking up to customers and their endless jokes about 'just one slice of pie but I shouldn't har har har' while they fish for a compliment is to daydream about running away.

Briefly. I could run briefly. I have obligations here. I have a life here.

Actually I'm a little burnt today, a little turnt, even. Maybe one begets the other but I go into each day with guns blazing, super morning-person not even checked, super super super. Holy energy. It starts at a thousand and then slowly ticks down like a full charge to black screen and once again by three this afternoon, I couldn't have lifted another coffee pot if I tried, and happily handed mine over to my successor for the day. She scowled at me and I know damn well she doesn't have the same work ethic. Not like I care though.

God. It's so liberating not to care.


But I do care. I want to do well. I want to matter. I want to have a regular life.

Caleb laughs when I tell him this. That isn't a regular request. 

It's the one I have for you. 

Bridget-

Choose. 

Fine. I'll get back to you once I've thought about it.

I'll be waiting. 

The choice? Either taking me to fucking Burning Man this year or we're going to the Gathering of the Juggalos instead. Not sure if this will light a fire under them but frankly either or sounds like a blast. I will get to something this summer. Not taking no for an answer.

The lamb of Wall Street.

Come, Bridget. 

His eyes glitter, hard navy diamonds in the post-sunset dimness. He's been patient, he's been absolutive, he's been muted in his usual protests. He's been waiting me out.

I don't make him wait longer. I go to him, as instructed and he slides his hands around my waist, trying to breathe me in, exhaling all of his tension out against my skin, as he rests his head against mine. His arms slide further, until I am tightly pressed against him and then he feels right.

This. Just this and nothing else. Relaxes me to the very core. 

Your standards seem low today. 

No, precisely the opposite. They have risen. 

It's a Monday Miracle. 

Was today difficult? 

Beyond. 

Anything I can do?

This. I echo his words and his eyes soften into a lapis laze.

Delighted. But tell me the hardest part anyway. 

Talking myself out of my usual nervous panic. 

Did you succeed?

Barely. 

Then that's a milestone. 

Yeah, you're right. It is. Go me. 

Go you. 

I should go, actually. 

I wish you wouldn't. 

I really need to. 

Another time then, Neamhchiontach. 

I nod, still surprised that I got away. Without being eaten alive and all that.

Burying hatchets (in the sand)/The Four-hour Jesus lunch.

Today was Baptism Day, which means early, early morning church on the beach. Which means men in suits with rolled up pant legs and bare feet being all god-like and Sam pulling out his scuba gear under his robe and neck stole since he has to go all-in.

I didn't know most of the people being baptized personally but I handed them each their goodie bag (containing a bookmark ribbon with one of several of Sam's favorite bible quotes, a small towel with an embroidered cross in one corner, a monogrammed leather bible cover with each candidate's initials and a bunch of treats inside to fully welcome them), after Sam gave them a brand new bible once on land, before walking the next person out to be dipped in the sea.

The final candidate (and the only one I do know) is Jay. New-Jake. Jacob. He came out of the water arm-in-arm with Sam, a look on his face I've never seen before and when I passed him the bag and towel he grabbed me in a big wet hug and then proceeded to hug absolutely everyone. It was beautiful.

We came home and threw a party for him, after everyone had cleaned up. Sam had written a note on the inside cover of each bible for the candidates. Jay passed it around with pride, with tears in his eyes and everyone read it and the weepies were contagious and touching as we brought lunch outside to the patio to enjoy.

What changed? I asked Jake.

I've been given this amazing family, and I want to honor that and be the best person I can, and part of that involves letting go a bit. 

And letting God?

Yeah. It's hard to be as earnest about it. 

You can resist if you want. Look at Lochlan. 

He carries so much anger. 

He's had a hard life, Jay. 

Is it easier now? 

Yes, but he's scarred nonetheless. 

We all are. 

True. 

I want to help make this a beautiful life. 

It is already because you're here. With us. 

Thank you, Bridget. 

I didn't do it. 

Going to give God the credit? 

No, Lochlan. He's the one who brought you back even when you didn't deserve it. 

He nods. I've got to thank him. How do I do that?

Keep being a good person. 

I'll try. 

No, Jay, you have to go all in. There is no 'try'. 

You sound like Yoda. 

He was a smart little green dude. 

Does this mean you're coming to the dark side with the other nerds?

No, I'm never going to be a big Star Trek fan. Sorry.

Living on the edge.

I feel like I reached a milestone today.

We had to drive into Vancouver for an errand and on the way out of it Lochlan stopped and got me a coffee. He was in a rush and forgot to get a lid, and so he handed me an open, full paper cup of coffee when he got back to where I waited. Then he drove the whole way home with me in the passenger seat, sipping my open, super-hot coffee. I'm not sure if it was my confidence that I could manage or his trust but I didn't spill it, didn't get burned and finished it just as we got home. In spite of the short stops, potholes and distracted highway usual Vancouver shit. In spite of the fact that I can't walk and breathe at the same time and have never gotten a coffee on the go.

Because to Lochlan I will always be eight years old and needing to be taken care of, protected from hot coffees, protected from myself maybe.

So I guess I'm an adult today? Finally?

Hurrah. Coffee for everyone. No lids though, fuck it, we're grownups here.

I feel like myself when it rains.

(My list, if you're wondering, in no particular order: Parlee/Rissers/Brackley/Chapin/Queensland and more recently Chesterman/Cannon/South Edison. Google each one with beach tacked on and you'll see where I grew my soul, and to this day I still love them more in the rain.)

Before the boys, before the midway, before the circus, before Jake, before even Lochlan and Caleb and Christian and Cole there was just me.

I was always small for my age. Always running to catch up, always teetering on my tiptoes to see everything that everyone else could squarely gaze at, always jumping up to catch the ball/get in the bed of the truck/hit the pinata/reach the box of cookies on the third shelf from the top in the pantry.

Always playing alone. I didn't like Bailey's friends. I had already moved away from Andrew and everyone else teased me because I was so small, because I couldn't read things in English, because I called things by funny names, I foundered for words constantly and because when I don't smile I look perpetually like I'm going to cry, people tended to approach me with concern and then melt away when they realized everything was fine.

Was it fine? I don't know. I was too young to decide.

When it rained I would put on my red rubber boots and my red raincoat with the plastic snaps and the giant hood and I would go out into the brook where the backyards met and I would watch the water so intently. It was never a beach day when it rained. My family only went when they could bake themselves golden and me, always red and then and only then would we come home. I craved the beach when it rained, empty and barren, the drops leaving strange patterns in the sand, seagulls muted, canteen boarded up, parking lot empty. Something I saw only on the weeks where we would move to the beach to live on vacations.

The big beaches are the best ones, with miles of sand to walk on, room for everyone, and full facilities. Outdoor showers. Fast food. Ice cream. Boardwalks and cutting sea grass, dunes to lose yourself in and sandbars for days. As a child I have walked out into the part of the world where it curves and then turned only to see tiny people on the beach and not know which ones were my sister or my dad. I didn't understand why no one came calling for me, if I was out too far, if anyone even noticed I was gone.

Where are you going? Bailey smirked when I had pointed to the empty horizon.

That's France so I'm going there. Tell them I won't be home for dinner.

I scratch my shoulder, now tender and beginning to blister and turn and keep walking. I walk until the water is up to my neck and swirling strongly around my ankles far underneath, until I begin to see darker parts where seaweed grows in plants anchored into the ocean floor, not floating randomly in where the surf meets the shore and only then do I turn back and walk a straight line back to where I started. Sometimes the water is up to my knees. Sometimes it's almost dry. Seven sandbars. Eight. Nine. Eleven. Finally I'm back to the crowds and I scan the blankets and sandcastles and sunshades and then I see my grandmother's oldest quilt, my mom stretched out reading a book, my dad maybe gone off to find food, Bailey at eleven broiling herself in dark tanning oil, the older sister doing it right. I stand there and look at them and then I ask,

What happens to the ocean when it rains?

It gets more dangerous. That's why we only come here when it's sunny. 

I take off my red rubber boots and step into the brook. I've cleared the rocks and leaves and branches to make the bottom bare but it's still muddy. It squishes up between my toes and I close my ears. The wind rustles through the trees but I can barely hear it for the burbling noise of the water as it flows down through the neighborhood to come out of the big pipe by the highway, or so I imagine because I'm not old enough to follow it to the end.

No, it's not the same.

That night at dinner my dad tells us we're moving, that he's bough a house for us in a really nice neighborhood in a different town, closer to a big city, that the street we'll be living on has lots of kids, and has a path at the end that goes through the woods to a baseball field and a park, that it's really nice.

I never stepped into the brook again.

Is it closer to the beach?

Yes. But a different beach.

I never thought to ask if the kids in the neighborhood would be nicer. Or if my family would pay attention to me if I went to far just because we lived in a new house in a new neighborhood. I never asked if we could find all the plastic fish from the little fishing rod set I had for the brook that swallowed all the pieces the first day I tried it out before we leave, just in case.

I just thought to myself, when we live in the new town, I'm going to the beach when it rains. 

Instead I met the boys and everything was vastly different after that.

Light makers, light wasters.

This morning I waited out the wind, pale blue sky tinged with dark grey, chipped white paint on the fence, a cold blustery wake to begin the time of summer, now, oddly the coldest day this week.

But also the longest.

The days get shorter now-

Don't say it. 

It's a fact. 

Well, it's wrong. I remember endless summer as a child. The days grew longer and longer and only heading into back-to-school did the stars come out while kick the can and bonfires on the path in the woods were still in force. But they didn't get longer as school was ending in June. They just didn't. Summer was celebrated properly and not like this, already on a downhill slide.

You didn't have a good grasp of time when you were little. 

I don't now.

It's fine. 

No it isn't. Now I feel like I've squandered all of this...light. 

He bursts out laughing. You did have a good grasp of the dramatic. 

I wonder why. 

Summer's just beginning, Bridge. This is the first day. You haven't wasted it. It's just arriving now. It's waiting for you. It's yours to spend. 

What should I do?

Anything you want. 

Let's stay up all night. 

Seriously?

No. Remember when you would tell me we were going to and then you'd tell me it was three and then five and then six and I did it so I should go to sleep now or I'd miss everything later in the day and I believed you and it was only ten-thirty?

You knew?

Of course I knew. I could always tell when you said something to protect me. Your expression would be different. 

I was just trying to keep you safe-

Like right now. There it is. That face.

Too hot.

Thirty degrees in the shade this afternoon and Caleb is standing in my parking spot in a suit, minus the jacket but with the vest and a white shirt with french cuffs he keeps shooting which makes my knees buckle just a little still, checking his watch as if I am late or something. I leave the car in the middle of the driveway. Fuck it.

Am I? Did we have plans? 

Neamhchiontach. 

Did I forget something?

Your future plans, your manners, our agreement, I can go on but suffice it to say, yes, you forgot something. 

Can we do this tomorrow maybe? 

What's the matter?

I'm hot. 

Oh, please do another naked stroll past all three houses. Those stunts are mighty impressive. 

I was covered. 

Only by your tattoos. 

Counts. 

Doesn't. 

Does. 

Bridget. 

WHAT!?