The smell of sulphur and magnesium in the air.

 A warm kiss on the forehead and another firework explodes, lighting up the Midway for seconds in shades of red and green, the sound competing with the crowd for prevalence in the night. I take a sip through the straw of Lochlan's lemonade and notice it's spiked. I wrinkle my nose and swallow it anyway, tasting more vodka than lemonade but my eleven-year-old brain is accustomed to finding a surprise in his drink. He takes it back.

Take the edge off, Peanut. Besides, it's Sunday. I'll get you a regular drink. Don't touch this one, okay?

(We don't work on Mondays. That's our weekend.)

The edge off what, Locket? But he doesn't answer even though I don't understand. 

Years later I would understand. It softens the edge of the hole. So if you fall in you're not afraid. You don't get cut, you just relax your whole body and fall, landing on a black cloud. But you'll still fall in, because you took the edge away, and that was the only thing keeping you from falling head first. 

It took me a few extra years to understand that part, let me tell you. 

There are the boys. Let's go. He takes my hand, squeezing it and drags me through the crowd. Fireworks continue overhead. The music is so loud. Boston still playing through the huge speakers on the ride next to the field. It's the Scrambler and it always had the best music aside from whatever ride Lochlan was assigned to, usually the Ferris wheel. Every carny hates the stop and start and endless attention it needs to keep it loaded with the correct weight. Lochlan loves the methodical haul-and-go rhythm of it, loves the screams as people whip over the front. Especially mine.

We get to the group at the edge of the gate. They all nod. Christian says Hi Bridget, making sure to include me. Caleb asks me if I'm up past my bedtime, pissing me off right off. Cole tells me to ignore him. He's just bitchy because he's going back to school in a week and doesn't have time to babysit the rest of us. Lochlan asks who he's babysitting, that Lochlan's seventeen, thanks. 

And you're boozing up an eleven year old? Caleb asks him, watching my eyes separately focus on everything but the thing I'm trying to focus on, which was whatever Rob has. It's a harmonica. For later, by the lake, when Lochlan's off and we can go back to the camper. 

Maybe. Lochlan winks at him. This pisses Caleb off and briefly we are the Outsiders. Then cooler heads prevail and we go to our spot, best spot in town, to watch the remainder of the fireworks. All six minutes of them. 

Lochlan takes his drink away from me repeatedly and finally heads off to get me a regular can of Pepsi. Anything that doesn't have alcohol. While he's gone, Caleb tucks his arm around me, pulling me in against his chest. He is so much bigger than Lochlan I feel safe and protected. It was the last time I would ever feel like that with him, only I didn't know it then, snuggling in, resting my head against his chest, and his right arm. He's warm but not sweaty. He smells good. Like Old Spice. He lights a smoke over my head and it smells good too. I close my eyes because the finale is loud and bright and the lights are making squiggles in the sky and I suddenly feel carsick. 

My arm is pulled straight up and I am on my feet, awake suddenly. 

Jesus, Loch. It's Cole, complaining. Trying to back up his brother and stay on the crowd side. Trying to sound tough and in charge. 

Lochlan doesn't give a shit. He pulls me in against his chin, resting the cold can against my cheek. 

Let's go, he says to the dismayed catcalls of the others. We head back to the camper and he makes me drink a big glass of water from the drum on the counter. While I'm trying to get through that he's wrapping ice in a dishcloth, which he puts on my forehead, holding it there. With his other arm he reaches up and grabs a box of crackers off the shelf. You need to eat to dilute the alcohol. 

Why don't you feel like this? I feel great suddenly. Like I can fly. Or dance all night. 

I weigh a hundred and forty pounds. You don't even weigh a hundred. The smaller you are the harder you fall. 

That's not how the saying goes, Locket. 

With drinks it is. Eat, he barks. He looks so mad. He's so cute when he looks like this. I hate that I like that. 

I take a handful of crackers and shove them into my mouth one at a time while he lifts all of my hair up in one hand carefully, shoving the ice pack onto the back of my neck with his other hand. It feels so nice. 

I'm tired. Can we sleep? 

No. Not until this feeling is gone. I'm sorry. I should have paid closer attention. 

Sorry you didn't get to hang out with your friends. You can go back when I go to sleep? 

Not leaving you alone. It's fine. They're not my friends anyway. 

Why do you say that? 

I made my choice. Eat. 

What choice? I say through a mouthful of crumbs but he is busy getting our bed set up for the night. We turn it into a table during the day and at night we turn the table upsidedown and take the base off and cover the whole thing with thick cushions and it becomes a little bed. Lochlan hates it. He says he knows of a better camper for sale that has an actual separate bed and a little bistro flip down table and it has way more room. 

He never answered me but a few years later I understood that too. The choice was me over them, something the rest of them continue to resent to this day.

Brightest bulbs.

What's happening today? I slept until nine, got the sparks notes version of Sam's sermon, off the hook I am until much closer to Easter, and I can barely move thanks to the gardening. We got it all done and then some. Yard too, and then even the vineyard got some love, plus they put new ropes on the swing and gave it a light sand and a coat of wax. Last year we all but abandoned all of the gardening in August when Ben got hurt and the only thing I did was shovel some leaves in around the perennials in early November after seeing that the last tomatoes had rotted still on the vine. 

It felt weird clearing out the decay of a summer abrupted as we forgot about anything but saving Benjamin, getting him through the worst and into the clear but it was a relief to return to the routine I most look forward to. Green things are poking up all over. Renewal. Easter is coming. I wanted a head start and now I have it. Last year I think we waited until a week before Victoria Day to do anything at all. That seemed necessary then. Now it all feels different, sooner. There's a bigger push. 

But we are ready. I can't feel my hands. They all laughed at my twenty-year old rake. Supposedly all the tines broke off and I didn't notice. Now I have a shiny new one, brought home this morning. We moved the giant oregano plant (I harvest it until the end of July and then it is used for the bees to enjoy) and I hope it lives. It may be too soon. We did a ton of prep work. I can order soil now. We did a seed inventory and a rough plan for planting. 

I didn't think about anything except the garden. 

I'm not growing any ghosts, nor did they come to see how things were doing. I think actually that Jacob might be actively avoiding Everett but that's okay too. It's Everett's last week here or so I heard the hint of even though to my face they say his visit is open-ended and I guess he wasted his time but this is not on me. He and Ben had a good visit so all's not lost and I don't want to hear about it.

The plan for today. Watch it get derailed in 3...2...

Coffee on the patio with Sam and Matt this morning. They made their way over with matching mugs and matching loungewear in the form of soft brushed fleece pants in a dark green shade that I adore and black long sleeved waffle knit tops with a green band around the wrists. Their mugs say Mr. and Mr. and I'm sure they've got better coffee in them then I have in mine because they have one of August's fancy machines in the boathouse and I have the Keurig. I buy the Sumatra pods from the Starbucks line and I'm pretty happy these days. It's far cry from the work of the Chemex, anyway but honestly you could press a button on a generic gas station convenience store coffee machine, pay your dollar and hand me the cup to drink and I would be so happy so what do I know? 

I just like the whole vibe here today, here in the shade with half a cup still to go.

Already broke up two separate and distinct arguments about whether or not Lochlan has lost his mind and about whether or not he was secretly seeking validation (no on both counts) and I'm about to crack the whip and get them all gardening here shortly, as the sun is out and I usually roll up to this party far too late for my liking. We lost a major player in the landscaping out front and can easily replace it from one of the perennials out back that is taking up too much room there, and so that's on tap today and then I can schedule my soil delivery for next week and be ready earlier than ever. I'm excited but it's backbreaking work and I can't be out in the sun all that much. Fun! 

(Everett approves though. They all approve because she can't be crazy if she's too tired to move, right?)

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.)