Soft-tissue artifacts.

Hey, pretty. 

I was almost asleep. Book hitting my face with alarming regularity as I pressed on, waiting for Lochlan to come up as he was helping Sam with something and I couldn't wait up any longer.

I roll over, smiling at thin air. No one is there. The door is closed. I sit up in a rush, wide awake. The dog hasn't moved, stretched out asleep on the floor at the foot of the bed. He would have gotten up and flustered if it had been anyone other than Lochlan, Ben, Caleb or Sam.

No one. I'm alone. I wonder if I am alone. Hey, pretty was one of Cole's greetings, not Jacob's. Great. Uninvited ghosts. Not even giving me the courtesy to show me he's here save for whispering in my ear faintly, late into the night.

Go home, Cole. I say it out loud just as Lochlan comes in.

What? 

Cole said something. 

Bridget, what? 

Nothing. Nevermind. 

Tell me what happened. 

I was reading and trying to stay awake and Cole whispered 'Hey, Pretty' at me. I can't see him but he's here. I told him to leave. 

Yeah. Cole, go home! Lochlan says it loudly. He opens the window all the way. Here, you can go out this way. Then he gets undressed, turns out the lights and climbs into bed.

Did he leave? 

I was going to ask you. 

Let's assume so. He was never one to stick around where he didn't feel welcome. Lochlan pulls me into his arms. He always has the right words. He takes me seriously. He makes me feel safe. It's been a long road to get to this place and I don't want to start hearing voices so I'm hoping it was real even though I also hope it wasn't.

Sleep, Bridget. It's just you and me. 

Drained and fabulous.

The chocolate arrived, the elevator doors finally closed and one of the cats sneezed on me all night long so while I haven't slept this week yet, the outlook is still definitely better than before. Plus I think I got all my crying over my baby graduating out of my system because as luck would have it, he still has to go to school right through Monday thanks to British Columbia's provincial English exams requirement. Great fun. Ruthie is travelling downtown to hang out with her friends, have lunch and shop and I have had a square of salted caramel chocolate and a deep breath and I've decided to cancel grocery shopping today in favor of finishing my other chores early and then trying to be kind to myself for the remainder of today. No more school lunches ever to be made. Just work ones. Which is great. I'm excited.

Caleb is easy with the forehead kisses and long, searching hugs this morning.

Feeling better? 

Yes. It must be the chocolate, I tell him, because if I say Lochlan as my reason (because really Lochlan and I sat on the porch last night and talked forever) Caleb will stiffen and formalize and it's such a nice day.

Wonderful. Maybe we should make it a monthly delivery. 

Perfect. 

He wanders off, proud of himself and Duncan sweeps through. Drops his coffee mug into the sink from downstairs and gives me a kiss on the top of my head as he says goodbye. He's heading to an early meeting. Two a week at present. Doing well. I try not to fuck with his head and he is affectionate but removed. It's a pattern but whatever works.

And things today are okay. I really need to sort through this thought of being kinder to myself and work on keeping the peace in this house, instead of inciting emotional riots and when all that works, everything else works too. Right?

June's been rough, to be honest.

He did it, Jake. He graduated and you weren't even here to see it because of your goddamned doubts.

I had to say it. Even under the watchful eyes of PJ who won't stay at the top of the steps during high tide, insisting on being within grabbing distance if I just decide to walk into the wind-licked sea.

Except I'm not a quitter. I'm sticking it through. I was here every single day of Henry's life, to wake him up for school. See him off with an I Love You and a Good Luck and a healthy lunch and a bug hug. So was PJ, if you want to be fair, and so we were rewarded with watching Henry walk across the stage to get his diploma, loping easily, a satisfied small smile on his face. A cheer rising up from the crowd of his uncles and friends, now. Almost a full beard, as he loves looking older, here on the cusp of eighteen.

I'm so proud of my kids I could burst.

You missed the whole fucking thing.

That's enough, Bridge. 

There's the best part. I'm not even allowed to disparage Jacob out loud, because he is Henry's father. Because I have to respect that. Because I try to respect that.

But it's so hard.

Gift basket is on the way. Lord help my saccharine soul.

All chocolate emergencies have been dealt with now because not only is there a few packages on the way (which will get eaten, as chocolate is a Big Deal in this house) but Lochlan and Ben brought home a cake from their travels yesterday (which included driving all over town picking off a list of things some of the boys needed and they like to take off sometimes and spend the day together and have lunch out and bond separately from me, which I love because it keeps them close).

Also I learned how Caleb shops online (which I suspected but have now confirmed). He goes online, finds what he wants, sorts from highest to lowest price, selects and buys the top thing. I'm trying to teach him that isn't really the best way to shop. Sometimes it's a brand preference or a value for the money thing. I don't think he believes me but we ordered Ghirardelli on my advice because it's probably the best that I've found, albeit not even close to the most expensive. He has his doubts but he will see.

It's raining today and everyone is quietly hovering. I like it. It makes the cake I'm having for breakfast that much sweeter.

Don't read this unless you're used to it, too.

Once again it's a beautiful day. I'm feeling better, however, having moved on from a fever and extreme exhaustion to a headache and extreme exhaustion. I'm trying to drink more water and get more sleep to counteract this and maybe it will work.

Over breakfast someone made the mistake of asking me how I'm doing (serious this time) since I will never complain to them, and so they got a highly detailed account of my attempts to insert my menstrual cup this morning in spite of giving up on it last year upon finding out my uterus is also narcoleptic and is leaning up against my bladder, having a snooze, so tilted it should be sent to AA meetings, if only I could take it out.

(And I would, if anyone would let me. Because apparently no one wants to remove parts from a perfectly functioning somewhat healthy woman just because every period she has is the Shining elevator doors scene repeated for four days straight every month now, sometimes every second month because normal? Who the fuck needs to be normal?

I think Dalton was sorry he asked.

Caleb found it fascinating. I might know someone who can help you, he says. Of course he does. Why wouldn't he have a uterus expert on file. Or a heavy period specialist. What's he going to do, threaten it?

(I've tried that. It did nothing.)

I have three doc-, no four. I have four doctors already. But thank you. 

Let's change the subject then. Dalton pleads with me.

Okay. Find those isograph drawing pens in this city. 

Just get them on Amazon. 

What the fuck? No. That's far too easy. I must drive around for two weeks searching for them before forgetting about them for another year. 

Dalton rolls his eyes and looks at his phone. Conversation over, I guess.

Ordered. Caleb says.

I was JUST about to do that, Dalton laughs.

So I'm stuck home waiting for Amazon now. 

May as well since you're bleeding out.

Did you order chocolate too? 

Jesus Christ, Dalton says and they both whip out their phones again.

So far so ____________.

What a beautiful day. It's breezy and sunny and perfect, a summer day like no other. I called my father to wish him a Happy Father's Day but he was busy so he asked me to call him later before I could get a word in. Lochlan is still asleep after a rough night and no one else has appeared as of yet, save for Sam, who pushed his hand against my forehead, rattled off a prayer for the contagious, for the sweaty-feverish, and then all but ran out the door, late for church.

But as I said: What a beautiful day.

If I resell my soul can I be well again?

Until this fever breaks I'm trying to move slowly. In this house when we get sick we really get sick. We need to just not get sick right now. As long as Henry's getting better (and he is, though he coughs so) the rest of us can muddle through.

Tomorrow is Father's Day, the day (like every other day) when the boys step in to big shoes and continue (as they always have) to be dads, positive male role models and big brothers, hunkles and good friends to my kids. Our kids. Their kids, in some cases, and better late than never. Kids that have been stolen for their own (right Caleb?) and kids who never for a moment felt fatherless and I am ever grateful, ever floored by that. I'm throwing a big communal lunch, which is the perfect thing to do when one is very ill and has pledged to move more slowly, right? I thought so. To make life simpler and more breathtaking we'll eat outside on the patio and we will have mountains of pancakes and tea, fresh maple syrup and blueberries to toast to the dads, the boys, the brothers, the saviours. The rescuers. The holder-uppers. The ones who are here and have stuck by us, thick and thin.

That's what you do. You mark the moments and you mark the people that bring meaning to them. Thank you boys for bringing meaning to ours. To theirs. They need you, I need you, and you never let us down. And for that I raise my glass (half champagne/half Nyquil/all bad ideas) and salue you.

*cough*. 

(Fuck this getting sick. Just fuck it. I have parties to throw.)

Fevers and yearbooks and groceries, oh my!

Can't even look at a screen. My face hurts. The yearbook made me smile though. Henry's grown up so quickly, so quietly. You wouldn't think a giant blonde seventeen-year-old could be quiet about anything but he can be. 

Turtle princess.

First full day off and I'm running in slow motion with heavy limbs and a sour disposition, not to mention a voice that sounds like a poor radio signal, cutting out constantly with every third or fourth word, only to come back and break. I'm getting Henry's final magnificent public-school cold, something he's managed to pull off and work on getting over with room to breathe here in the middle of exams, dry graduation and his graduation ceremony. Report cards, yearbooks, end of term projects, job searches and learning how to drive.

The slow-motion part bothers me the most, in that I've had to talk myself into everything today. Like everything little thing. From putting on my necklace to brushing my hair to fixing lunch. To wondering if I should have tea and then deciding it was too much work but not wanting to ask anyone else to make it for me.

I wanted to go sit out on the front porch but I need to start dinner. I wanted to draw a little but it's late and that's always one of the things I covet for the perfect moments. I trashed my last painting without finishing it and I feel so unmotivated and unsuccessful right this moment it's hard to blame it on the impending arrival of this cold or on the end of a huge part of my existence (youngest child finishing up public school after being in the system since 2005. That was the year Ruthie started grade two. That was the year I gave up homeschooling. Ironic but I don't count that as a failure or something I dropped out of, moreso it was a decision to give her things I couldn't, including independence and individuality. Henry quickly followed her, though he's had two extra years of school thanks to being enrolled from Kindergarten. Is this how I'm supposed to feel now that they're about finished? Tired? So tired I could sleep while I drive, cook or clean?

Maybe it is.

Naw, it's just the cold. Lochlan says it from the back step where he sits working on getting the old barbecue up and running again even though we've aready got a new one. He coughs before he finishes his sentence. I guess it's going to be a quiet weekend.

The losers.

This should have been easy. I have my hands behind my back. It's cool in the air conditioning. This sundress doesn't have pockets. I am disappointed, surprised and a hundred dollars poorer as I bring my hands forward to give Joel his payout. I came prepared. It's in American one dollar bills. Only seventy-five of them, thanks to the exchange rate. A nice thick half-inch stack. Because if you can't win a bet, at least be an asshole about it.

Joel laughs. It pays to support the underdogs.

Total fluke, I repeat. I learned my lesson. Six Stanley cups already, one won in my lifetime even (unlike my beloved Leafs), so the Bruins should have been a natural inevitability instead of a glaring jolt and so I was cocky.

Lochlan warned me not to bet actual money. I never listen to him of course, generally reaping hundreds from the boys since they make bets with their dicks instead of their brains.

I did that tonight, I guess. I made a bet using my dick as a compass and it pointed me in the wrong direction. Stupid thing. Clearly it's broken so good thing it's imaginary.

I hand him his money and he laughs out loud. At least it isn't pennies. 

I tried to get them. I also tried to get you a hundred dollars worth of marshmallows but I didn't have enough notice.

He laughs harder. This is fine. I think. 

One by one everyone pays him. The odds were so crooked here, and he was the only one willing to stake his cash on a team that's never won before. PJ hands over a gift card to the Keg for a hundred bucks and wipes away a tear.

Lochlan hands him a stack of fifty two-dollar scratch cards.

Ben gives Joel a crisp fake one hundred, waiting for him to notice the fact that Justin Trudeau is on it. Joel absently puts it into his wallet and thanks Ben for not giving him a hay bale, as once threatened.

Look at the bill, Ben says.

Joel gives him a withering look. It's fake isn't it? 

Ben claps him on the back. The hay bale is behind your car. I can help you load it in whenever you're ready. PJ can help. We can cut it in half if we need to, right PJ?

PJ  nods. He is full-on crying now. Aren't we something.