Sing for me again.

So if you see me losing sight

Of all the death in life
You'll find the peace in every time
I failed to see the death in mine

 

Lochlan wasn't sleeping when I came upstairs. He took his whiskey up to read and to give Everett and I a little time to talk after dinner. We eat so late now. Seven or eight and so it's nine by the time it's all cleaned up, if we're lucky and so by ten everyone is punchy and we've shifted to an ungodly early hour in the mornings too, much to my delight. I don't mind that but it is exceedingly difficult to carry on a conversation about my state of being when all I can do is yawn rudely in Everett's face. 

 

Meet me here at five am and we can have a surprisingly alert conversation, I tell him as he finally says we should give up, that it might be too late after all. 

 

Maybe not five. That seems extreme. 

I don't sleep remember?

And I didn't, because when Lochlan pulls me down into his arms I am suddenly wide awake in the familiar warmth. Lochlan smells like woodsmoke and candy. Like good whiskey and bottomless patience. Like home. And he gives me a kiss that reminded me I was home before tucking my head against his neck while he drives against me, his hands around my head, all of his weight crushing against me. I think we might burst into a shower of sparks or a slow burn but every time he pulls back enough for me to catch my breath cool air from the open windows rushes in to replace the heat from the fire that was burning when I came up, almost matching the heat we seem to create. 

 

He pulls me up into his lap and lifts me up over and over slowly and then finally lays me back on the quilt, crawling back onto me once more. My head is upside down. The flames dance downward and I am hypnotized as he drives. Finally he pulls me back up hard, head in his hand once more, fierce and finished and then he brings me with him as his final act and we lie back against the cool sheets while the curtains blow into the room gently from the wind, the only light coming from the fire now, which has died down significantly since I came to bed. I fall asleep easily. 

And wake up at five. 

 

The fire is long out. The Lochlan also out, still mired in dreams, flat on his back, sheets around his waist, his right hand flung out clutching my ribcage, protecting me from the dark in his sleep. 

I slide out from underneath his arm and he hardly shifts and go and take a long bubblebath. I hate Everett, I have decided, unless he wants to find a way to let me keep my memories but maybe lose the ghosts. Anything more and I will twist away until I can break into a flat run and after a few moments only then will I slow down, venturing a glance over my shoulder at what I may have left behind.

Guileless. It means childlike and innocent. Yes, just like Neamhchiontach, but in English. It was the first note he wrote, because I asked to see.

I have not been able to stump Everett yet on a song. If I start, he will finish. 

He is pleased that I am so delighted. We can go on Rock and Roll Jeopardy together except it's not on television anymore. I don't think, anyway. 

You really love your music, Bridget. 

More than these boys, I admit. (It's okay, they're aware.)

What would you like to get out of my visit?

Are these realistic, constructive answers you're hoping for or should I just list my wildest dreams?

Give me both, I'm game. 

But I'm not. I don't feel like being scrutinized. Every smile is gauged for value. Every word I say weighed for intent and truth. Every action I take catalogued and filed and I'm about to send Sam in with the gas cans to be Everett's memory thief because I've already had enough and we haven't formally started yet. 

You are reluctant. 

I've done this many times over. It doesn't work. Besides, you're-

Go ahead? I'm..?

An addictions counsellor. 

Fair enough. Except I'm not just an addictions counsellor. It's where I felt I could make the most difference in people's lives. I've been fortunate to work for some great organizations dedicated to helping people like Ben but I can do other things too. 

Fair enough, I repeat. Four days and he's already parroting my favourite phrase. It means I give up and I'm not dying on this hill to me. To him it is a diplomatic response to something he probably doesn't agree with. Oh wait, we're using it the same way. DAMN. 

Okay, now you have to call me something. 

I'm sorry? 

I called you a mere addictions counsellor and gatekept your credentials. Your turn to underestimate me. 

Oh, I have a feeling I'll be doing that the entire stay. Your past is very colourful. I don't often meet people who ran away to join the circus in real life, and I meet a number of people in unconventional lifestyles. 

Who's the worst?

Hmmm?

Who couldn't you help? 

I would much rather use my time here to focus on you. 

That sounds like you have a poor track record, Everett. 

No, there have been three or four clients who couldn't put in the sweat equity and never completed the program. They all continued to struggle until the end-

The end?

They all died. Either due to overdose or suicide.

Do you have ghosts too then? 

Five-eighths.

What if I warned you, you can't outrun your fate?

Would you believe with time comes grace?
In perfect light, in perfect place
Every dream was mine to lose
And that's what it took to lead me to you

 

So here's to the heartache
Here's to the mistakes
We'll drink to all the years, the tears
That led to this place

 
So here's to the heartache

What if I told you that everything fades away?
What if I hold you, but tell you there's just no escape?

 

He's a whopping fifty-eight today, which seems old considering the first birthday I was privileged enough to witness was a cold snowy day when he turned seventeen. That's how I know him. That's how he stays, in my mind. He's hardly changed, from the medium-blue flashing eyes to the destructive temper to the incredible jealousy to this devastatingly crushing charisma.

My monster, I love him so. He is decidedly non-negotiable, a new evolutionary kink in the perfect gears of my history. It can't be fixed. Instead you will hear a clunk-sound with every single revolution and eventually you won't hear it at all anymore. 

 

He prefers pie over cake for birthdays now but only a single slice and then never comes back for more. Strawberry, if it's available, with coffee ice cream on the side. He's more interested in the good French brandy of late nights, heavy rain muting the burn, reading my skin like a good book. That's what he really wants for his birthday, in spite of my efforts to cover myself with things I knew he would hate. Lyrics from bands he won't listen to, pictures of things he doesn't have any interest in, making sure I changed into a different person, wearing a different skin, since in my brain he ruined the first one but I know he couldn't help it and I'm not sure I blame him for that anymore because it wasn't a fleeting moment, it wasn't a spontaneous decision and I am to him what Lochlan is to me and I don't know if you can burden a soul with that sort of responsibility when they would give it away if they could. 

He wants to go for breakfast but doesn't want to eat in the car. We'll bring it home. Maybe have a picnic in the stables? 

(It's supposed to rain.)

He nods. First we need to finish this. 

You have to drive. 

We'll have it delivered. I can fill the time while we wait. He tilts his head toward me and smiles one of those rare big warm grins that always reminds me how much alike Caleb and Cole look but also reminds me that before me, Caleb was just a boy. 

And before him, I was a happy, innocent child. 

I take another drink to drown that memory because while it's not a good one, look at this. The price I paid was everything, and in return for that here I am standing on a warm private beach down at the bottom of the cliff from my huge house that is filled with a whole sleeping army watching over my beautiful sleeping children and I'm wearing diamonds and drinking Dom Pérignon from the bottle. I questionably whole, still completely crazy and moderately feral and yet well-taken care of. I still get to count Lochlan first and she, well, she'll come around eventually. I hope she will, anyway.

 

I finish the bottle. Happy Birthday, Diabhal. 

 

Thank you my Neamhchiontach. I am sad today, though. 

 

Why? I wipe off my mouth on my sleeve. Forever ten years old. Just the way he wanted, frozen in these moments forever. 

 

Because tomorrow this time, I'll be alone in the crowd again, and I think I've had the best week of my life. 

 

I take the compliment and put it in my pocket, fastening the button at the top. I don't give it back. This is how she pays him back for everything in her own little ways. It hurts him more, she says and I believe her. I'll always believe her. They should have, too.

Outwardly Caleb would move heaven and earth to see that I have what I need, that I'm comfortable in my skin, that I want for absolutely nothing. That I get what I need to feel better lest I feel like this forever. He will pay anything, go anywhere, agree with almost any plan, if it's a good one. 

But he also hates every second of it because he knows it begins a countdown of sorts and that he will disappear when the timer reaches zero, when his luck runs out, when the tides turn and never go back to the constant back and forth of right now, eroding my resolves only to build them back up later in the day. Sunrise and sunset are a mark on the calendar toward a time he actively loathes. 

Even though it is by design and he never meant to be here right now. Never meant to stick around. Never planned to fight for such a share as this. Never planned to hate the thought of leaving. Never planned to show his face again after making sure I was set for life until Jacob gave him the perfect opportunity to wade back in, to change everything and make the perfect life for the perfect army. Caleb made an open offer to show his remorse and I picked the beneficiaries and now I have that perfect life and he's still here and I'm still struggling so hard and Jacob didn't do anything, truth be told, save for that one tragedy and if I wasn't the way I am I could have dealt with it and moved on. 

The problem is, I can't move on. And with very specific reasons I am still here, still like this, still ruined beyond belief. 

I am always hopeful, though but now I know for a fact that I'm not going to let Caleb go. 

And of course that's one of the first things Everett wants to address.

And it's funny because everyone always goes into these grand plans to help me stop seeing my ghosts and the people who oversee those grand plans always want me to stop seeing my monsters.

In any case, I wrapped my arms around Caleb's neck last night and slept like a goddamned child. I'm keeping this monster. I don't care what anyone else wants.

A shimmering light.

Everett made two very large pots of Texas chili last night and a platter of garlic bread we probably could have used for a defacto kayak for its size. He asked if we usually cook our own food individually and I told him no, that most nights I cook for everyone, usually four nights a week or more, and then someone else will cook or especially on Fridays we let everyone fend. Sometimes Ruth and Henry will go and pick up fast food, sometimes we make pizzas and I only have to prepare the dough. Some nights we just don't eat but at least throughout the majority of the week we have sit-down family dinners and on special occasions the whole point shows up. 

He remains surprised that we have such a traditional family organization while not being traditional at all, and since he comes from a big family (one of eight children) he fit right in. 

Everett is kind-looking, handsome in a country-boy sort of way. Slim with reddish brown hair and tortoiseshell almost-round glasses. He arrived in jeans and a yellow and green plaid flannel shirt. He wears brown leather desert boots and wears a watch with a dial but no other jewelry. He does not check his phone. Ever. I watched him steadily all evening and not once did he pull anything out to look at. I don't know if he has an iphone or an android nor did he ask for the wifi guest password but maybe Ben already gave it to him. He listens to 3 Doors Down, The Fray and Joe Jackson. Paul McCartney and the Stones. He does not listen to metal though he said he can appreciate Ben's music, played for him while Ben spent time at the lodge, due to it's highly cathartic nature. Yes, he loves America (the band). Oh my God, good. He can stay.

At this point Ben asked me to stop grilling him. I was about to embark on his own flaws, upbringing, addictions. Qualifications. The important stuff that I need to know before I'll tell you the time, if you ask. I trust in reverse. You don't have it until you break it. You get nothing and you earn it all.

Everett is staying in the guest room on the main floor. The super-separated one we save for family members who don't visit often. It has a tiny kitchen, den and a walk-out garden patio. It's almost a duplicate to the suite that Duncan and Dalton have downstairs but way smaller. This goes off the same hallway as the library and the garden is right at the foot of the woods. So he has privacy and a little den where we can talk, or we can just use the library, big patio or the beach. He runs. He does not have an accent nor would he tell me where he was from but I didn't ask directly. He does match his fingertips up when he's explaining something which fascinates me. 

And Ben is right. He is easy to talk to, but so far not in a way that I forgot why he was here, because I still sat down to dinner on the edge of my chair in order to continue to balance that giant chip on my shoulder, as it tends to alter my centre of gravity quite a bit.

He has a wonderful laugh. My guard slips just a little.

Just a little bit, though. 

After dinner we spend two hours out on the patio talking. Or rather, I talk and he adds and questions and confirms everything Ben told him just to be sure he heard it all correctly and understands. 

I give him everything. All of it. I don't lie. I don't leave anything out and I wrap it up with my own theories. 

He agrees with them. 

I didn't expect that. 

None of it's fixable, I point out. I'm more qualified than anyone at this point to say that. I am closest to her. 

Fixable isn't the word I would use. I can teach you how to reframe and rework all of this in order to work to a place where you don't step out your door and immediately fall off a proverbial cliff. 

Reframing just sounds like looking on the bright side, Everett. 

Well, it isn't because that's just a platitude and I don't deal in those, Bridget.We're also going to look at the division of labour here in the house and your sleep patterns and between all of it I think you're going to feel better when it's time for me to move on. 

Do you think you will? 

Do I think I will what? I don't follow. 

Move on? 

Ah. Yes, Ben also mentioned you live at the Hotel California. I got the reference. I don't believe it's literal though. 

Ooooh. I had such hopes for you. The song is not about drugs, Everett. It's far spookier.

He laughed. Such a lovely sound. So pure but also jaded and somehow he's come out the other side of something. I want that so bad suddenly. To be on the other side of myself. I need to hold on to this feeling. 

I  sense that you've already decided you're going to work with me, he says before standing up and calling it a night. (It's a night, all right.) You coming in? 

No. Caleb will be out in a moment, I'm sure. Good night. Let us know if you need anything. 

This is luxury by my standards, and I truly appreciate your hospitality. I don't think there's anything here left to need.

Oh, just you wait, I say to no one, because he's already gone.

The water was six degrees, the mood an icy minus two.

I went for a swim this morning. Lochlan was going to say no and then at the last moment he didn't put up a fight at all. I wouldn't have listened anyway. Saltwater fixes everything, goes the saying, and they're not wrong, though once I stopped shivering I realized everything was still broken but now I am also struggling to stay warm.

I tried to put claustrophobic restrictions on Everett's access to me and got shot down at every turn. They want him to have a chance to see how I roll. Wow. That's a lot to ask. I don't think this is fair. I'm not a bug under a microscope. I'm not someone's science project. I am not a mannequin in a store window and I am NOT open to anyone's interpretation if you're in my home. There's no room here for error or misguided attempts to solve a problem that's hardly a problem, if you ask me. I know what's fucking wrong with me. I have a whole LIST here somewhere. Actually two. The fun part was comparing Jacob's list with Claus' and then with Joel's. Three, then.

I don't need a fourth list. I said this to Ben as he got dressed for the day and he laughed. He finally sat down and said he wanted to do for me what I just did for him, which was sit in a hospital room for so many days I forgot where I lived, and then I came home and worked my ass off helping him do anything he needed to do to get back to us. I would do it again too. I would do anything for Ben.

Then do this.

Since when do you owe me anything? You were the one who was here after Jake. You bought me a car. You walked the kids to school. You made sure I wasn't alone. You kept me away from Caleb-

And I would do that again too. 

God we're like two knights fighting over who is the noblest. 

Isn't it 'most noble'? 

Does it matter?

I guess it doesn't, Bee. 

I don't want him here. 

Give him two weeks. Remember, we don't have Joel anymore and August isn't nearly as objective as he used to be and Sam is in a weird place and needs a little room to breathe and-

Two weeks? Aughhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Two weeks. Give Everett until the Ides of March and if it's still a problem he will go. But also give him a shot. He's really good to talk to and is unconventional. You feel like you're talking to a friend. He became a good friend. That's why he's here. Few people get an opportunity like this. You don't have to go anywhere. You don't have to be away. 

But...but...four course meals and campfire projects! 

Ben laughs. I've never stopped (warmly) teasing him about the luxury-retreat aspect of his rehab. We literally paid thirty thousand dollars a month and he came home with wooden carved bookmarks for everyone and a sober outlook. He gained weight. He looked happy for the first time ever. It was profoundly terrifying. We can have those if you want! Any time, Bee.. 

I hold up my pinkie without a word. I want a promise. I want to be allowed to hold a knife capable of carving wood instead of only softened butter. I want to be left alone in my misery but more importantly I want them to be proud of me. Actually I don't. I'd be happy if Ben and Lochlan were proud of me. The rest of them can kiss my ass. But I also have my doubts here. I don't think I have Ben-type problems. Mine are different and obscure and well-hidden and I'm a super-overachiever high-functioning adult-child here and I don't know if Everett is ready for these sorts of horrors. 

He is, Ben assures me, wrapping his little finger around mine and then pulling my hand up to his lips to kiss it.

Then let's invite him to dinner. I am resigned. Fuck it. I want that pat on the head more than anything right now. 

He's making dinner for us, tonight. He's already downstairs looking at supplies and pots and pans in case we need to head out and pick anything up. 

Oh really? Wait, who is we? 

Everett, Lochlan and myself. 

Three musketeers, then. 

He's going to be your new best friend. Bridget, you'll see. 

I already have a best friend. 

Who's that? 

You.

I'm an ocean.

Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa
I said no, I said no
Listen close, it's a no
The wind is pounding on my back
And I found hope in a heart attack
Oh at last, it is past
Now I've got it, and you can't have it

Saturday morning sunshine and frost and there's a stranger in my kitchen when I finally deign to crawl out of the Devil's darkness which isn't so bad save for the fact that he's on his best, hoping for exactly this, only he's wrong and the hopes I've already smashed against the ice, shards on brick so you can break your neck when the sun blinds you and you fail to watch where the hell you're going.

There's no warning here, no advance notice, no guarded introductions. The stranger gets up and is in front of me before I can run, hand outstretched like we are normal people and I already feel that we are nothing of the kind.

I quarantined and have also tested negative before coming here, he assures me,

(Did I tell you about the time I was belting out REO Speedwagon's Can't Fight this Feeling and I sang On a corn-dog winter's night instead of a cold dark winter's night and I guess I was hungry and thinking about the corn dogs from the booth closest to our camper and Lochlan laughed all damn night and I had this feeling that I was young and dumb and would never be anything BUT young and dumb and damned if I don't feel like that now. Still. Except Line Without a Hook came out and I'm obsessed with that now instead.)

You must be Bridget. 

The one and only, Lochlan says quietly in his showman-voice from the table nearby and I automatically stick my hand out. 

Who are you?

Forgive me. The anticipation of this moment left me without my manners. My name is Everett. 

Dr. Everett what? Forgive my own manners. I'm guessing you're not actually here on an informal, first-name basis.

He is sizing me the fuck up. Surprised at my unabashed forthrightness. I'm not a shy person. I can be quiet and I hate interactions I don't expect but the very last thing I am is shy. I was the first person to volunteer to do my projects at the front of the room and the first to run out and take a bow for the audience at the end of the night. I don't care for fear of crowds or being in the spotlight. It will happen and there's no point getting worked up over it. I save my fears for the very stupidest things instead. Like flowering teas, peat fires and death. 

(Because you have to, at the very least, be reasonable about these things.)

I see in your difficulties you've definitely met your share of professionals. 

Yes but usually my husband doesn't install one in my kitchen without preamble. 

Lochlan finally talks to me. This one is on your boyfriend, Sweetheart.

Caleb didn't-

It was Ben. 

Everett's eyes get a little wider but then he checks himself. The stories are true but no one ever believes it until they meet me. 

I turn and stare at Lochlan with my own eyes wide. Where is Ben?

Out. Lochlan chuckles, in on the joke. Kind of cruel, if you ask me. 

Out? Where?

Breakfast with Dunk and a meeting, I believe. 

Oh. Nice. 

He doesn't need to be here. He wanted Everett to just show up and work. 

What, like Saturday morning mobile counselling service?

Lochlan laughs incredulously again and I realize I got it all wrong. Everett continues to watch me and it's bothering me but I can't deal with him right now. He clears his throat but I still watch Lochlan instead.

Bridget-

One second. Please. I tell him and turn back. Locket. Come on. Tell me what's going on. Wait. Am I going away? My voice disappears before I can finish the sentence.

Lochlan kicks his chair over getting up. He's in my face in seconds. No. You're not going anywhere. I told Ben this wasn't a fair way to do this but Everett's going to stay here for a bit and see if we can set you on the right road again. 

Again? Ever, you mean. 

Eh, some years are better than others. Everett's from Ben's last stay. He was really incredible with some of the grief work and Ben came back to us so much better. Do you remember? 

I nod but the tears are coming because I feel defeated and afraid and I really don't want to do this in front of someone. I remember the name now with the context. Ben actually talked about him a few times. But to invite here to the point to live without even giving me fair warning is still awful and I hate it and now I'm going in with a huge chip on my shoulder. Lochlan holds his lips against my forehead, squeezing me tight in his arms for so long I almost forget Everett is there until he speaks again.

Come and sit down so I can introduce myself properly, please, Bridget. 

Lochlan squeezes once and I nod against his chest. He lets go so slowly, so gently and I pat his chest. Don't go anywhere, please. 

Wouldn't dream of it. Another kiss on the forehead and he heads to the counter to make coffee.

Everett pulls a chair out for each of us. Almost facing each other but not quite. I sit in one and pull my knees up under my chin, resting my head on them, looking away. Good start. I'm twelve. I'm still deciding whether or not I want to do this or punish Ben for doing it to me. Whatever it is that he's done.

Antlers.

Two in the morning is the danger hour. Two in the morning is when he is vulnerable and kind.  Two in the morning is when his lifelong remorse hits him like a freight train, flinging him off into a dark even he can't climb out of and I must bring him back with me. Pulling his arm along in both my hands, wiping the sweat from my eyes as I try and find the strength to drag myself and the extra two hundred pounds of a devilman with me. 

He is eternally grateful and humble and raw. 

I love you, he says, his eyes bright in the now near dark of closer to home. 

When he says it like that I never answer, lest I fall right off the edge, back into the endless black.

***

In the morning Caleb is surprised to find me still there. He's surprised I'm not crowing for the success of my magnificent efforts to pull us back into the land of appearances, my strength all but eclipsing his own. And yet it is a gift from him, like this small box he presents me with as I sit up in his bed, looking out the window, sheets wrapped around me for warmth. 

I'm supposed to give you birthday presents. 

It's a very late Christmas gift. My apologies. It arrived at the beginning of the month. Open it, please, Neamhchiontach. 

I tear off the paper and wiggle the lid off the box. Oh. It's a pen. It's a beautiful handmade fountain pen from antler with copper bits and bobs and it's likely the prettiest pen I've ever seen and I have all of the Benu glow-in-the-dark ones. 

Oh my God, it's beautiful. 

I knew you would like it. But since you need something as beautiful to write in, this is also for you. He hands me a small packet now and I open that too and inside is a whole selection of notebooks. You already have a cover you love so this is just some papers to try. 

Wow, someone's paying attention. I have a journal. It's a diary, art journal and smashbook all in one. It's four inches thick and I drag it everywhere with me. It has three different notebooks in it now but the size I use makes it hard to find notebooks and I could order online but I prefer to feel the papers and the covers and make sure it's going to work. These will work. I don't have to buy anything for the rest of the year. 

Sure you will, he laughs. 

No. I'm good, for sure. 

You are far too easy to please, Bridget. But he is happy because I am happy. And all the things I want for can't be bought.

Run, Rabbit (but you don't listen when you should).

Oh my God. Late last night Caleb decided he wanted a birthday week instead of a weekend or even just a day and so since his birthday is absolutely non-negotiable, iron-clad and much anticipated, I let him pull me in by my elbows until he could bend his head down, nose to nose with me and ask me formally to spend his special week with him. He's simply gauging my response and I give it to him warmly, a kiss. Soft at first, sucking on his lower lip before his kisses get harder and he begins his lifelong attempt to eat me whole, the hungriest, fiercest wolf in the wood. It's always dark in this wood and you shouldn't be there, ever.

I finally break away for a breath but he still has his fingers locked around my elbows. Keeping me close.

Rules?

We don't need rules, for fucks sakes-

Rules, Diabhal. 

He presses his forehead against mine, squeezing my elbows briefly before remembering and loosening up a lot. I have slid all the way down his legs and am straddling his hips. Funny how we never change. Funny how we can't.  

No biting. No locking the door if or when you want to leave. Word is...Wenceslas. Mine?

No sleeping on the job. No industrial sabotage. No cutting it short if things are going well. We repeat each others' hards and fasts and then he resumes kisses all over my face and hair. By industrial sabotage he means specific things he does not like me to do or calling him by the wrong name, etc. Anything that purposefully fucks up our intensity together either by necessity or design. Sometimes it's too much and I look for an easy out because he won't listen. Sometimes I need an easy out because he does, he listens too well. 

Happy birthday, Diabhal. 

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. This is the greatest gift you could ever give me, Doll. 

What's that?

Your time. 

Watching JT LeRoy and eating green apple fruit rollups with Lochlan and PJ. Come back tomorrow.

Edit: Wow! That was amazing! Infuriating and fascinating! So many adjectives. I'm a huge fan of Kristen Stewart and she hasn't disappointed me yet. Also Laura Dern who did a turn akin to her role in A Marriage Story and usually I can't stand her but she needs a meaty role to really shine. This was it. Damn. So good. My only complaint was that there wasn't nearly enough of Jim Sturgess. I love Jim Sturgess.