Sensory overland.

I woke up with the sun, sleeping late, surprised when one side of the bed was cold. The other side is a horizontal wall named Ben and I leave him sleeping with a kiss, hurrying through my shower, drying my hair, struggling into warm jeans and Lochlan's flannel shirt from yesterday, unbuttoned scandalously low, sleeves folded up a million times, tails out. I slide every ring I own on my finger and grab my boots. 

The house is too quiet. He won't be inside. I feel like panicking and I look outside on my way downstairs. His truck is home. His wallet was on the dresser upstairs. His phone was also upstairs on his bedside table. His jacket is in the closet. 

The kitchen is dark. I look outside but I don't see him. I check downstairs. I come back up and check the library. Then the grotto. I put the dog out and feed him. I scan the yard once more. About ready to scream. My mouth is dry. My hands are shaking. My blood runs so cold in my veins my limbs are stiff and slow. I bite back a sob and pull my boots on, grabbing PJ's raincoat off the hook by the back door. I check the garage, the camper and the orchard. And even though I know I'm not allowed, I open the big wooden gate at the end of the cliff that leads to the stairs to go down to the beach. My eyes are scanning the rocks below while my brain tries so hard to turn them off. Tears are flowing freely now. My heart is racing. And then I see a thin plume of smoke rising up and there he is. Sitting by the fire setting up the little cooking rack that we stand the pans on for early breakfast. 

He stands up and waves his arms and then leaves them in an X for a beat and he's off across the beach to meet me. 

I'm just trying to catch my breath and compose myself before he gets to the top. 

And I fail. 

He's yelling halfway up and I have to focus but I can barely hear him with the wind. 

-And Ben reminded me almost as a joke that I didn't even have to wake you up, just to go set it all up and then think about you and you would sense that I wanted you and come find me. Geez, holy, he wasn't wrong but that's a whole step over weird how fast you were and- Jesus Christ, Bridgie, what's wrong? He's trying to wipe the tears from my chin, hold the rail and block me from the top of the steps all at once. He finally just grips the rail with one hand, scooping me right into his jacket with the other arm, head against my forehead, kisses raining on my temples. Tell me. 

I thought you were gone. I couldn't find you. 

He shakes his head. I'm sorry. I was trying to check our connection. It was just an experiment. I didn't realize what it looks like. I'm sorry, Peanut. He takes a step down and then turns back, so we are eye to eye. If I go anywhere, I'll take you with me. Remember when I first said that? What were you, all of nine years old? That's a promise I'll never break, Bridgie. I swear. 

The nine-year-old is so much stronger. She wipes her eyes with the sleeves of PJ's jacket and smiles through bleary eyes. You better, she challenges. No one would dare try and test that little girl. Not now, that is. 

You know the best part of all this? 

What? Oh she's annoyed now. Is there a good part? 

You felt me and you came running.

(Always crazy like that.)

Hi. Playing the piano shakily this morning, pounding out Foolish Games and singing. Jewel's one singer I never had any problems duplicating and she's not failing me now. 

Duncan's been in the doorway with his coffee cup for the better part of thirty minutes. I don't know if he's keeping watch or can't see Lochlan in the big chair by the south window. The living room wraps around. It's impossible to decorate so I settled on different conversation groupings.  There's a large fireplace in the way. 

Everett is in the kitchen just sitting there, waiting.

Can I ignore him for another complete day? Ben says I shouldn't. By rights this is Ben's problem, not mine. By rights I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. By rights I should be dressed in white, arms wrapped around myself, running into padded walls, bouncing off only to land on the freshly mopped floor, struggling to get up before doing it all over again. They will watch me from the small window in the door, glass sandwiching a panel of wire, so that I can't get out. As if there were anything to climb so that I could reach the window, for unless I take ten steps back, I can't even see out of it. 

This is my heart, bleeding before you-

They never turn the lights off and here, I thank them for that, because the dark is full of monsters and ghosts. And taxes. And bad news and chores and bullshit therapists, a long line of which waits to be the genius. Waits to be the saviour. Waits to be the one who puts the puzzle back together but I've eaten all the pieces just to make sure that never happens. 

I was so smart.

I bet if I got my lobotomy I wouldn't have to do this anymore but like he said, "You keep me honest."

I think when I grow up I want to write copy for the Bank of Canada releases. 

From this morning: "The Bank is maintaining its extraordinary forward guidance, reinforced and supplemented by its quantitative easing (QE) program, which continues at its current pace of at least $4 billion per week."

Not sure if I should offer to hold Mr. Macklem's coffee while he pats himself on the back or go spend like a maniac before they raise the rates and everything slides sideways again. 

Caleb is doing his best not to laugh at my absolutely mainstream, emotional take on this mornings readings. He sips his coffee and basks in the company, in spite of the fact that I am still in pajamas. Historically Caleb likes it when I dress professionally for work. He likes office stilettos and smart Chanel suits and red lipstick and long eyelashes and diamond bracelets and so today, since I don't even have to leave the house to work anymore, I arrived in my baby-blue Sanrio Sentimental Circus pajamas (clean ones) and thick red socks. I'm wearing no makeup, no jewellery, but I did bring my bag with me (RIGHT. WE'RE NOT GOING TO TO TALK ABOUT WHO CARRIES HER HANDBAG AROUND HER OWN DAMN HOUSE BECAUSE IF THE QUEEN CAN DO IT SO CAN I), which contains my favourite calculator (from Henry's Grade 11 math class) and my pens, notebooks, phone and laptop. Oh, and the lipstick aforementioned. And there's most likely a ring or two and probably a bracelet in there. And chapstick. And pepper spray. 

(And a lock-picking set.)

(But ANYWAY.)

(I'll add a picture eventually, in case you don't believe me.)

(Not right now though, I have work to do.)

It's taxes day. Here I go. 

I hate taxes. Especially this year but I already sent out a group message for everyone to count exactly how many days they worked from home in 2020, if they worked at all. I know that answer so I will know if they try and make something up.

Salt makes things even more toxic.

Burning wood on the beach this morning for the salty smoke smell which I can then carry through the day, for it permeates my hair, skin and clothes so nicely, a cloying mystery that makes me feel like a scary pirate half the time and a sing-ey-mermaid the other half.

Don't worry. The wood was too damp to hold a flame and I do it right beside the water. I also have a fire manipulator on hand who can deal with any dangers that arise. But honestly I got enough of an ember to leave a message on the logs for the next person to walk the beach (Ben or New Jake, most likely) and they will leave us a message in return. 

Lochlan is non-committal when I ask how much time I have to devote to Everett today. He says I don't have to see him at all if I don't want, even though this is supposed to be the week we double down on time and efforts and I'll get a pat on the head from Ben and maybe on of his old One Day At A Time coin tokens to carry, flipping it across my knuckles, trying to keep it from hitting the ground and failing, mostly. 

I don't think Lochlan was on board with this plan. I think Ben blindsided most of the army in an effort to do something Nice for me and his heart is in the right place but when it comes to organizing or surprising anyone he remains a bull in a china shop and for someone who tells me to live in the moment, I should maybe spend more time telling him to consider the others, too and their feelings. 

He will tell me that's the problem. Stop worrying about the others. They are all grown men. But I feel like they need to be taken care of as much as I do. I'm not the only one here with history. 

We don't struggle with ours, though. PJ says that but I know Ben does. I know Loch and Caleb both do. Batman sure does. Schuyler does, Daniel does. Duncan and Dalton do. Everyone's broken and the light shines through our cracks, blinding the ones who are whole. 

They need us. Otherwise they would live in darkness. They could not see. They would not learn empathy and compassion, consideration and insight. 

They might be worse off than their biggest problem being a girl who plays music too loudly constantly and when you finally go turn it off you realize she left the room hours ago and she's out in the field talking to someone who isn't there anymore. 

If that's the worst thing that happens to you in a day, you're doing good. 

***

Is that how you see it though? 

Mostly, yes. I admit. I don't want to think about it again. I just did. I'm having a rather bratty day, truth be told. Lochlan sees it and quietly suggested I not engage. That was all. It didn't mean I don't want to try or that I won't do the work. I just...well, not today. Today I am still underslept and mostly struggling with figuring out exactly which parts I can fix without losing something else. I remember once describing what it feels like here. It's like having an armload of Christmas ornaments. Every time you find another one to pick up, you drop one. So you pick that one up and drop two more. You get them all balanced in your arms and realize you see another one. You can't hold them all, you can't let go of the ones you have. That's how I approach damn near everything. 

That gives me more insight than anything you've said so far, Bridget. Everett smiles so kindly. 

You keep saying that but I know why you're really here. 

Why am I really here?

To get rid of Caleb. 

No. I'm here to get rid of Jacob. 

They're tied together. And so Caleb will be collateral damage. Or maybe he'll go and just take Jacob with him and that would be even worse, Everett.

How can you love a monster? 

How can you not?

Violet is the rarest, from the manganese (which turns purple in the sun, much like a corpse).

 It's a chilly, frozen-over morning today, bright light streaming in to warm our reluctant faces. It's a mental-health kind of Monday and everyone is moving slow like molasses on ice. The steps were slick, I am banned from the beach but I head down anyway, gripping the slippery rails like in death if only to prevent my predicted death from doing so, and quickly found myself crunching through the cold sand toward my favourite spot, way at the end where I can't hear you calling my name from the stairs.

I am not alone and I get a chance to introduce Everett to the shore, which is where I think, decompress, heal and draw energy from all at the same time. He wants to know what it means to me, the good and the bad and I am honest, talkative and open-minded, probably a first since he arrived, I am ashamed to say. 

But the chip remains and I ask him a few questions too. Like if he is really here to make another stab at getting rid of Caleb, or if Ben is up front about worrying that I talk to ghosts instead of the living when things get too difficult. 

Everett wonders if I trust Ben and how that works, as I seemingly trust the Devil far beyond what he ever earned and that doesn't make any sense. But I don't trust anyone when they say the Devil is here to stay and I don't trust anyone when they say the ghosts are fine. Those are two truths and a lie and it doesn't matter which is which anymore. 

We go over the lists, written by others, checked off and triple-checked ten times over. Does he think they are valid opinions? Do I? What would I change? What would he amend? 

The book of Everett is now open to a single page and we're all on it. Ben is right. He is oddly good at this and I feel like I'm getting to know a friend suddenly. Everett knows when to stop though, which is new. He does not push and instead asks if he can take me out for lunch in the Jeep and we will eat burgers on our laps and listen to the radio. He's going to creep into the locked room quietly through a window in order to pick through the charred remains of my scorch-earth memory. He's going to see everything and he said it's okay if I want to skip parts (for now) or come back to things (for later) and I pointed out that I know, that's how it works and he jokingly said that I should maybe enter the field as I might have more experience than he does and I don't doubt that but I also said that the chip remains. It's just eroded a bit. 

Do I want help? Yes. I want the ghosts to show up when I want them to and not when I don't. I want Lochlan to not know jealousy or fear but be perfectly fine with Caleb. I want Caleb not to be randomly, surprisingly scary. I want to be strong but still feel things. I will not be medicated. Crazy-light is just fine. I am high-functioning. I know how to manipulate but save it for important moments. They think I am helpless and little still. I would like that to stop. 

They think I am incapable of fixing this. And unwilling. And they are probably right. 

Everett disagrees and says I can have whatever I want, that the resources are there and the want is there and the work is manageable and let's just spend a few weeks talking. He manages to eek out another whole hour of conversation before I ever notice what he did, and I taught him to collect sea glass more efficiently than most, what is the most valuable colour, what to throw back and how to clean and display the best pieces in order to fulfill a metaphor for who I am. Broken but beautiful. Rare but also garbage. 

I'm just kidding on that last part. Well, maybe but the glass is technically garbage and yet it's so beautiful so what does that make me?

Sweet Jesus.

Sunday funday! I already listened to Sam's church via an early link to his podcast and Ben took Everett and Dalton into town to show Everett the sights and so Lochlan and I roasted breakfast marshmallows on the beach (you use a waffle to pull them off the sticks and then you drizzle chocolate syrup over the top so it's a sweet taco and yes, I will probably be diabetic any minute now but surprisingly my body burns sugar like a champion still) and watched the new Wrong Turn movie (good but oh, the credits LOLLLLLL) and then the new episode of Attack on Titan. 

Then he said I should do some shopping and I have a whole list but I'm not actually good at shopping. I ended up buying two outfits and some black socks with flowers all over them because my Doc Martens eat all of my socks. 

I made beef stroganoff for dinner with garlic naan. So good. 

I finished the bottle of Laphroaig. Lochlan helped me. PJ may have as well.

And that's Sunday. I'm going to bed now.

Gonna fly like a bird through the night.

He's trying to talk to me but Ben and I are trying to find ways to cover Chandelier as I discovered I love singing it but can't hammer my voice into that four-syllable build to the falsetto and I can't reach it any other way and so he's rearranging the whole song on his acoustic guitar because the drum machines were making me laugh. 

Plus with him I get the good monitors for my ears, the ones made for me, and Everett sits in the booth with Ben, a semi-politely exasperated expression on his face because I don't think he's used to loud pulsing music at six in the morning. My LochMessMonster is still sleeping. My bed is fucking wrecked and I'm glad I don't have to make it and my Devil is oh so quiet this weekend because I wear him out and I had a whole week to do it so he's been sleeping the better part of the past three days. 

That or he's avoiding Everett, since Caleb is suddenly in the crosshairs again. 

(Come for the ghosts, stay for the demons.)

(Do you think they would be offended if I had t-shirts made?)

(Maybe it should read Come for the demons, stay for the ghosts. But that could be taken two ways, and then only I can technically wear the shirt. I guess.)

I'm doing my part. Offering Everett a truthful view, no rose-coloured glasses here. No tinted windows. No pretty paint on rotting wood. This is me. I bounce between the men I love. I love some more than others. I make no apologies and no room for strangers either. I love to sing in spite of being deaf and I don't want to get rid of my ghosts or my devils. I've said it before and I'll say it again for the boys in the back. 

But if he's having a good visit, he can stay for as long as he likes. Though if he really wants to do Oms and bulletproof coffee on the patio he should enlist August instead of Ben. 

Because at the end of the day Ben will back me up. Every fucking time. Burning buildings go both ways. 

(You should hear Ben singing about being a party girl. Of course he can hit all the notes. Fucker.)

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.