Netflix + milk.

One of the best husbands I have ever had is definitely Ben. Ben who got up this morning (early-early) and got cereal for us on a tray and put Netflix on the laptop and propped it up so we could snuggle in late. We spent a couple of hours slowly finishing two huge bowls of Honeycombs with chocolate milk because he's insane and we watched cooking shows, because so am I.

Chocolate milk in cereal is terrible. Also Honeycombs are huge. I gave up trying to fit them in my face and ate them like cookies, picking them up one at a time to take bites of while we marvelled over the cinematography of the new season of Chef's Table, which I am struggling to finish (yeah..still). I think it's because this season they're really focusing on the personal trials of each chef to the point that the food is not even a second thought but a distant memory instead. Only there's no character development so I don't exactly care and my mind wanders and I have to re-watch.

Ben is barely watching it at all. He is watching me while he easily fits multiple Honeycombs in his mouth at once. He has a large mouth to go with his entire oversized being. Someone once joked that I was a third of a Ben, proper but I think it's more like precisely half. Either way he makes up a lot of ground on my behalf these days and took Lochlan's cheap opportunity to make up his own ground and threw it out the window.

Either make your huge sweeping gestures all the damn time or fuck off, Lochlan was told. This just makes things worse.

And true to form, Lochlan fucked off. Because he is flighty and fancy and full of fire as much as he is pragmatic and he also has a pride problem and so he went off to lick his wounds and Ben took the opportunity the moment it presented itself.

I need to get dressed, I tell Ben, licking my spoon. He will drink the leftover milk. I'm lactose intolerant anyway and not a big fan of chocolate milk, or even cereal but I am a huge fan of Ben. The biggest smallest fan of his that ever was.

For what? He asks, letting his forehead knit. He sounds cross at the thought of anything breaking this momentary, wonderful spell.

It's my turn to clean bathrooms. 

Let each of them clean their own. He orders.

And ours. 

The kids can do theirs. 

And ours, I repeat.

We'll make Lochlan do it. 

Seriously. Besides, it's cold right now, without clothes on. 

Ben reaches down and grabs his t-shirt off the floor. He turns it rightside out and puts it over my head, pulling it down over me. Whitechapel. Right on.

There. Now you're dressed. 

This will be a good look while I do my chores. 

I told you, we're leaving them for Lochlan. We're going to stay in bed all day and watch television and be regular people. 

We're so NOT regular peop-

WE CAN TRY.

Terrible, beautiful life.

Pretty sure This Beautiful Life by Colony House is the most incredibly gorgeous song in the world right now. If everyone isn't using as their wedding song already then they should be.

Pretty sure slow-dancing to it with Lochlan under the lights on the patio last night helped bring me back from the hole I dug using the sharp edges of my nightmares over the past little while.

Pretty sure his solid hold on me kept me from slipping any further, instead helping to give me purchase to climb back up.

He isn't a spiritual man. He is reality-based. Logical. Pragmatic. Cogent. Sensible. And also certifiably magical.

And even as I started the night knocking on the door to hell I ended it in a much, much better place. Even as the Devil answered the door in surprise, the surprise grew as I was pulled away again, led back down the hall with a refusal to even entertain my motivations or my actions altogether.

Sunset is starting, Lochlan says. Let's watch it. Let's just watch it and not do anything else.

It's a response to a complaint I gave when I was eleven and I just wanted to stop packing up for five minutes and watch the sunset but we didn't have time because you can't pack up after dark with no lights.

She (the eleven year old that mercurially rules my world) is very happy with the complaint resolution. It seemed like something so simple but the difference in experience led to endless disappointment as she tried to live in the moment and learned...not to.

One of my biggest regrets, he says as he spins me around under his arm.

And now, fixed. I reassure him and he smiles in the near-dark, curls backlit, mood backlit. Everything backlit. Magic hour indeed. Who needs the devil when you have a magician? Who needs a ghost when I've got a live one? Who needs the maturity of an eleven-year-old when...

I mean, I don't know if I can fix that part but I'm trying.

High there (Fourth Sunday in Lent).

I sat in the orchard this morning in the cold sun and laughed at the sound of the fat fuzzy bumblebees making their way from one bloom to the next because I could hear them, loudly and clearly. It isn't often I get that pleasure but it was so quiet. No music, no planes, no sound carrying around the point from others, no arguments in the driveway, no fistfights up the back steps to the loft or to the boathouse, no lectures that go on for days to the point of boredom, to the point of sheer willfulness to do anything, everything, just out of spite by that time.

Just me and the bees. I am a bee, maybe. Though I have no black in my golden hair, and I'm not very big or very loud like these bees. I am in the trees, though these blooms are sparse and early.

I am sparse. I am early.

I'm a flower, not a bee then.

Okay.

(God, these pills are amazing.)

Sam comes out to see me, tromping through the wet grass in his mismatched suit, a smile on his face.

You're alone. The smile vanishes. It was a Friendlies Approaching smile and now he's just disapproving-minister, kind of half-in charge, half hands-off approach most of them have, as in I am here for comfort or physical affection but if this gets really freakishly complicated or violent, I'm out.

That's what Jake did, anyway.

I am not. I wave my hand up toward the hill by the water to where Lochlan sits on the tree swing, not swinging, just swaying, feet planted firmly on the ground.

Like some kind of metaphor too, I just don't know what.

He is currently fulfilling the role of super-patient, highly-annoyed and ultimately deeply-concerned husband. Because his wife is a fucked up tiny grief-monster with a massive appetite for whatever she can get her hands on to make this stop and yet it's never enough, it never stops. Nothing ever changes. Even the bees came back. Even the grief comes back. I want this to change but it's as if the moment I step out and say, hey I think I'm doing bett-

It hears me, turns and comes charging back.

It's a monster. And that makes me the monster. The little blonde monster on the point that they pass around, a hot potato who is hard to hold, difficult to handle and burning for something, she just doesn't know what until she feels that heat.

Abruptly I remember to tell myself that I got my dream. Deep, romantic love on the edge of the seaside, a life beside the ocean, in arms at all times with few daily worries past what's for dinner.

But I got so many other things too. And maybe this is the price you pay for that dream. I wanted a neat little house by the sea, true love and peace.

It's definitely quiet here, the house is far too big and love is everywhere you look. Everywhere I look, anyway. Even in the dark corners where I become someone who doesn't appreciate any of it, instead favouring the losses because they overwhelm the wins. I do appreciate it. All of it. All of them. Even though I paid and continue to pay a magnificent personal price for it. But I appreciate even Sam, who saw from afar that I wasn't in the house anymore and came out to make sure I was safe.

Just making sure, Sam says.

Thanks, brother. Lochlan says it from the swing, his voice full of emotion.

Do you need- Sam sees an opening to minister.

We're fine. Lochlan cuts him off gently.

Sam comes right over to me, kisses the top of my head, then goes to Lochlan, does the same and turns and heads back over the hill toward the house.

They care so much for you. 

And for you. 

We're very lucky, aren't we? We went from being the only two people in the world to this. He smiles at me.

And it breaks my heart. I'm sorry, Lochlan. I spit it out in hot, frustrated tears.

We'll be okay. 

Yeah. 

I promise. 

And I smile, because that's a word that holds a lot of weight with this man now. And I can picture it because I'm fully high right now, but at least today, nothing hurts and that's a milestone with every single breath sometimes.

Bandaids.

I watched him by the pool. It's warm enough, though only if you spend enough time in the hot tub or the sauna before heading to the pool. It's warm indeed and as I watch him talk, as I let my brain register the fact that he is losing his accent slowly but consistently, that he is losing the blonde in his hair in favor of the same silvery-gold that I have now, that he has such little patience for impersonating ghosts even as he still needs things that people need, just like I do.

I use that to my advantage but he doesn't take it.

Instead he dropped me flat on my back on his bed in the sun, a bed that sways slightly from the heavy ropes suspending it from the ceiling. He dropped me there and he smiled his August-summer smile and he pulled off my bikini bottoms and got on his knees.

Heaven, like August, is a place you can go to. I went but the door was locked and so I hung off the knob, shuddering, sweating, crying out as August got back up and put all of his weight on me. Same moves as Jake. Same everything, same joke that maybe they were brothers instead of just friends. Same thoughts in my head that if he helps me pull on the door handle we'll get it open, eventually. It works and we spill to the floor just inside that threshold of heaven and then before I have time to look for Jake, or Cole, or Butterfield for that matter, August reaches up and slams the door shut, pulling me upright, pulling me away from it even as I reach back out for it, telling me I needed to go back, to let him be, to stop implicating him in this effort to stay stuck in 2007. That Jake is gone. That he isn't Jake. That he doesn't want to be Jake anymore.

And then he says if I want to come and see him for his own sake, for his own soul, that I am welcome absolutely any time and it will be different. That it won't be something Jake would do, but something new.

You're lonely. 

Everyone's lonely, Bridget. It's the human condition. 

And that made me more sad then the part where he said I should go.

It helps.

I don't want to help you anymore. I want to help me.

Things you don't deserve to hear.

In the beginning there was a fire, from which came a light. It burned warm and steady, always on, always there to show you the way. There to help you grow, like a surrogate sun. It was a light you could trust because you knew it wouldn't burn out, with a strong foundation and high flames. In the light you saw yourself. In the light, you saw your future. 

In time the light became such a constant, such an ever-present glow that eventually you took it for granted. That's not to say that you didn't appreciate it, but to say that it was just another fixture, like the old rope swing at the lake, or the rusted out packard at the end of the field by the fence, buried over the years by blueberry bushes and goldenrod. 

And then lightning struck, just at a sharp point on the ground between you and that fire, and for a brief moment in time you were blinded, enraptured by this new, exciting source of light, and in your mind it shone brighter than the other light, which grew so dim in the face of this white glowing light. It was a bolt you couldn't turn off, and fascinated, you walked right into it, standing in that glow, warming yourself though you knew it might be brief, and that it might hurt. 

You went anyway. Because you always did. Drawn to the brightness in the world, drawn to warmth always. You walked right in without hesitation and the light from this beautiful freak storm welcomed you. 

And then abruptly, the storm ended. And the night was coming. And when it came you weren't afraid because the fire was still burning. The first light, the constant. The still-going. And it burned for you. 

And it still burns for you, Bridget. And that fire is me. 

Springsteen and nine.

When I wake up next I have far too much real estate in the bed, two-thirds, if not more. Ben sleeps heavily way over on the right side and I hear Lochlan. He's playing the guitar and sitting by the fire. No fire is lit. The windows are open wide instead so that I can hear the birds. I can see the worn hem of the neck of his t-shirt. I can see his curls, head bent down over the guitar.

The screen door slams, Bridget's dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays
Springsteen singing for the lonely
Hey, that's me and I want you only
Don't turn me home again, I just can't face myself alone again
Don't run back inside, darling, you know just what I'm here for
So you're scared and you're thinking that maybe we're too young for more
Show a little faith, there's magic in the night
You ain't a beauty but, hey, you're alright
Oh, and that's alright with me

I'm nine years old and I want him to explain, or rather I need him to explain every single line in that song, even though he said he changed some of the words. I do this while I'm walking in circles, trying to step on my rainbow shoelace that's come untied. Every time I succeed I trip myself and he lets go of the guitar he can't hardly play to steady me.

It's just a song. 

You play it every day and you sing it all the time. I can hear you. It's like under your breath.

Don't stand so close.

But you smell good. 

So?

Why is her dress ripped? Did they rip it off?

No. She left her life behind. They get out of the shitty small town. Like we'll do when I get my license. 

Are we going where they went?

What? No, Bridget. We'll go somewhere better.

Caleb said I was a beauty. 

What? 

In the song, he says she's not a beauty but she's alright. Caleb said I was beautiful. 

He's grooming you. That's why I'll take you away. 

Like a cat does to her kittens?

No, Bridget. Not like that. 

Why did you put my name in the song if you're not going to answer any of my questions?

Ask Caleb. 

FINE. 

When I woke up it was five in the morning and Lochlan is playing the piano and singing Faithfully. He doesn't sound like Steve Perry, he sounds like Will South when he sings and my sleeping brain was so curious on how he was going to pull off the drum breakdown and endless lead at the end but he did okay. He also banned the Devil and his shady doctors from the house and so I woke up and the skies were clear, no hint of fog, no chance of rain.

He didn't give me the pills. He caved in and let the others.

Don't fucking demonize him too.

Present, hazy victories.

The buds are opening on the cherry trees, the apple trees too, though I always think they're dead like Jake until the blossoms are full and pink in the orchard. The roses are full of buds and the rhododendrons already opened. I'm most excited for the lilacs, though the buds are teeny-tiny on those, barely visible to the drugged eye unless you're right up close. Once again, I bought dwarf lilacs, and once again they grew to be eight feet and then some in as many years.

Maybe it's a sign.

But I can't read it because I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open, to the point that I didn't talk enough and Lochlan got spooked again and questioned if it was too much.

Yes, it's too mush, I agreed when I could finally pry my concrete mouth open.

Jesus Christ. But he's not talking to me. He's already figured out that maybe he can't blur the bad parts of my life like this, that he has to figure out how to weather them, a redheaded boat on a stormy sea the likes of which he's hardly experienced before. Lochlan has his own ghosts and I don't fault him for this. No one does. And he's trying so so hard and this isn't easy for anyone.

Stop it. He says it through closed hands, hands over his face. Stop. Just stop. Please.

And the Devil smiles and wicked smile and says As you wish.

There's some beautiful threshold between dulling pain and seeing miracles and I'm balancing directly on it, a tightrope of hope over despair. At the end of the rope Lochlan is there with his hands out, always, words of encouragement, support and pride. Driven to dive for me if I fall. To die for me even.

Down below (Don't look, Peanut! Look at me!) is Jacob. An audience of Jacobs. All wearing the same thing, looking up with concern but hope. Expectation. Awe. All watching the spectacle of my life to see if I can safely cross or if I'll hit the nets.

Caleb stands at the first anchor shackle and threatens to pull the pin. I can hear him shouting over the roar of the crowd of Jacobs. I can feel him threatening to send me to my dreams.

:(

Today was still drugged. A haze-Monday in slow-motion.

I'm fine.

That wasn't fine, Peanut. That was a level of not-fine the likes of which I haven't seen in a while.

A glitch, that's all.

A sign, I'd say.

And what does it say?

We got comfortable, maybe?

Caleb has other ideas. This is what happens when she's taken away from me. I can calm her.

(Huh. It's like I'm not even here.)

Hush, Diabhal. Lochlan I don't want to be on this stuff.

It'll wear off. He is dismissive. Hopefully by then you'll be too tired to scream any more.

It was a bad dream-

It was so tangible I was scared on your behalf! Those aren't normal nightmares and your mind, your mind isn't-

If you say normal next I'm going to kiss you.

He laughs and draws his hands down his face. Jesus, Bridgie. I was hoping we were out from under this-

It's a balance, Dóiteán. Caleb is calm and sure of himself.

Something she's always done better than the rest of us, Diabhal.

Sometimes everyone needs a little help. Caleb kisses the top of my head, folding me into his arm briefly. A reassurance that my ghosts will never be far, which is sometimes oh so little to ask for.

This is my garden...on drugs.

Church for me today was Sam coming all the way out to the vegetable garden and standing on the edge of the freshly-tilled soil, hands in his pockets, watching me muck about getting rid of the remainders of weeds and sticks left behind, plotting out rows and wishing desperately that I could throw my seeds in the ground now, today, rushing spring along like an errant bus on a busy boulevard. The mud is halfway up my boots and when I finally notice him it takes me a splucky-slow minute to get to him. When I do he steadies my lurch, smiles and then reaches down to find a little bit of dirt, which he picks up, using it to make the sign of the cross on my forehead while he prays for my simple, errant soul.

We grow from it and return to it. I wink at him.

You don't bury your dead. The smile is gentle.

I can't. I am earnest and forthright. It's true. I can't. I can't leave them behind. I don't understand people who park their so-loved ones in the ground, effectively anchoring them to one place forever. Cold. Alone.

This is good for you, today.

I nod. Pleased that he is pleased.

Will you be in for lunch? I'll be back a little early. He does shorter services in the weeks leading to Easter.

Yes. I'll help. 

If you feel like it. He's not going to mention the screaming. Not going to mention the fight I put up. Not going to mention the memories I drag around, rebuilding the mind-office, the darkened rooms full of file cabinets and their perfectly-organized thoughts, not going to mention Lochlan's fearful shouts and the wide-eyes as they looked at a little monster they thought was fixed, for the moment, but those moments are so few and far between. Grief grows like a weed all around me and I cut it back but it just regrows.

The good times aren't over, Bridget. He reads my mind. It's scattered like leaves across the grass in the heavier than usual wind.

Hope you're right. And I turn and go back to my work, which could be done by anyone else but today I need to do it. I need to see life on the trees and on the plants that survived the winter right along with me. I need to believe that things go on. I need..I don't know what I need anymore but this feels better than yesterday.