A little oversharing and a little esoterism, all at the same time.

(Sorry. Not sorry, actually.)

This morning sees rainclouds over the water, a Foy Vance slow-dance to Fifteen through the kitchen while making breakfast together, nose to nose. Coffee on the patio, braving the uncovered stone area, ready to run at a moment's notice but for now enjoying the cool salt air, the cloying early spring pollen and the heavy dimness that surrounds us on the cliff, in the trees. 

He is home, not this place, further to my thoughts from the other day. His crazy-long red hair, clipped words and devastating integrity always left me wishing I was cooler, older, more sure of myself and less inclined to fight him at every turn. This man who made me do math worksheets while sitting at a sticky picnic table under an awning, out of the sun in the bug-heat of August in the middle of a midway so that I would be smarter when I went into grade 6, because grade 6 was harder math than grade 5, from his recollection and that way if I did well in school I could continue to spend summers with him. Who taught me how to tie bows backwards on my shoes so they would lie flatter and not stick up, who braided my hair for me every single morning and then wrapped the braid around my head two or three times so that I looked like a Swiss milkmaid in just about every summer photo ever taken because he was terrified I would get my very long hair trapped in the machinery or caught in a door or pulled somehow but at the same time he loved it so and wouldn't hear of the suggestion to cut it even though I didn't care one way or another.

Get a room. Jesus. PJ mock-complains as he comes in and finds us trying to clean up from breakfast but mostly kissing instead. 

Did that, Lochlan mutters in return. 

Too bad you're not in it right now, PJ continues. 

And how, Lochlan agrees and then laughs out loud. It's a good day, oddly. A better day with more sleep, more perspective, and a corner turned, somewhat abruptly, to a whole new stage in life.

Burnout.

 Yesterday's rambles brought about another change, a lot of concern that flowed into concrete plans and help and company and I didn't have to run a scary errand alone, I didn't need to lose sleep without everyone else losing it too, we crossed some crazy sudden milestones around these parts and I feel like suddenly things have shifted, or maybe it's just a good day with good outcomes and happy endings.

Maybe it's the luck of my Irish. 

Second-generation Canadian, the only green I have on today is a cardigan I abandoned at nine this morning in the sunshine and my eyes, as always, like Lochlan's but much paler, more sage than olive. He has such distinct coloring and I am a cool-dramatic version of him. I had all my good luck charms with me today and things seem to be clipping alone and it's all good and I need to be thankful, here and take a moment to be peaceful too. 

I need to get some sleep. Last night there was none. ZIP. Holy. First we had a mini-emergency that woke us right up and continued until 4ish and then at 6ish we had hungers and then at seven we had places we needed to get to but now we are home and it's all good and done and I lived and now I can report to Everett but not to Jake and to snuggle in with Lochlan tonight but not with Caleb and it's definitely been the strangest Saint Patrick's Day but I can't even believe I used to wish I could go to a bar and drunk-dance all evening. That seems dumb now. Everything is bigger and holds more weight. There is more at stake and if I stop dancing and look around I see life happening all around me. I'm an adult and yet on the inside, forever seventeen. 

And I think this morning I made peace with that, oddly enough, instead of wondering if I would spend the rest of my life fighting it.

Escape artist.

Found a house in Rose Bay that I love, that I absolutely love, and I know Lochlan would love it too, and we'd love it in spite of the weather and in spite of the choppy wifi and the wind and the fact that it's a two bedroom mishmash with a questionable number of bathrooms and-a-half and a scary looking staircase and a completely untouched yard but it's also a stone's throw to some of my favourite beaches on earth and it's a stunning interior design and I could paint there and sleep there and count my minutes left on earth there, instead of here. 

Escapist fantasies, I know. The problems will travel with me. I repeat, and roll my eyes. Everett is curious and yet he really has heard it all and hasn't gotten sucked in. The theory goes that that exact reason is why I barely talk to him. Fun fact: All we've done is talk. We are sick of each other and so we break early for lunch with an open afternoon and I have a pre-St. Patrick's Day brunch with Satan planned that I am anxious to get ready for.

Only if you bring the entire Collective with you. 

Which I wouldn't anyway. 

The Collective was an experiment and when it's finished, it's finished.Whether it makes it to fifteen years or twenty on that absolute outside but I don't think it will. We're outgrowing ourselves now. This is the longest I have ever lived at a single address. Even growing up, as I moved to that house at age 8 and moved out at nineteen. I've already passed that milestone here on Point Perdition, effective this week. 

But we're all still here. Still collecting paints and pets and boys. Still figuring out cars and schedules and LED light switchovers that are actually bright enough but still nice. Still watching sentry over my tiny wraparound beach that technically isn't mine but the day I find a stranger on it for any length of time will be a strange day indeed. Still finding complete and utter privacy voids in the efforts to share our home and the property as a whole without making it seem as if it isn't everyone's home. Still keeping the rules of the roost intact because they work for everyone. We force consideration and thoughtfulness and respect for those around you and those spaces around you. Everyone is clean and tidy. No one procrastinates. Everyone pitches in. Eleven years on it seems like at one point it was never going to work but then it fell into place and I've been looking for a way out ever since. 

This is permanent, Neamhchiontach. 

Nothing's permanent, Diabhal.

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?