I will be free.

 Prisoned am I to this shell of the dust

It speaks of only fiction that I could never trust
Captured alive in this sinful estate
Vexed am I to see I do the things that I hate
Rip out the framework leave no stone unturned
Until my heart forgets all that my flesh ever learned
Tear down the structure till nothing is left
God deliver me from this body of death

I can play most instruments enough to be passable. Except guitar, honestly. That one is tough. Bass is more my thing. I can drum but if I think about it too much I lose my rhythm. French horn, trumpet, saxophone? Check. Bagpipes? Yes. Accordion? Easy. Uilleann pipes, of course. Violin, Piano, very well thank you. 

And yet all I want to do is sing. 

This morning I took the good monitors out into the rain and the cliff so I could belt it out over the sea. Lowly is this morning's efforts. Wolves at the Gate. We're coming back around here. First is the main vocal track and then I layer in minor harmony. Three of those in different keys and then the background screaming harmony. 

Well, I can't do it in the house. The studio is ninety-eight percent soundproof but if I'm going to practice my growls I can't have an audience and half the time I zone out on the guitar scale and forget I am supposed to be providing the words. Besides, Ben woke up with another headache and so I'm not going to bother him. Instead he is sleeping late to try and shake the pain this morning while I wear mine as a badge of foolishness and bravery in the face of nothing more than my own tiny shadow.

Oh Blessed man that I am Lowly man who can save such a wretch that I am?

I feel like it all just makes it rain harder. 

Love it.

I can't tell you about the ghosts if I don't write about them.

I am not in charge of the pool project any longer and Caleb uncharacteristically told me to watch myself which was interesting but later I found out that he wants me to keep the upper hand and be professional. I'm not worried. The work has to be inspected to pass usage and Ransom will be well-paid so why wouldn't he do the best job he can? This will be an absolute showpiece for his portfolio. Again. Like the last few projects he did for us. 

(I remain fully unapologetic about the punch though.)

In better news, the entire point (Batman's house included because our motto is Leave no one behind or something like that) is registered to be vaccinated. Those of us who are young enough to not have had any shots yet, I mean. 

I feel excited, finally. This is just registration. We'll get emails when they are ready for our age groups to make appointments to get the actual needle but this feels like progress to me and even though I bought completely unnecessary toilet paper today expecting a more stringent health order, I feel like the end is in sight at last. 

Played the spoons to Civilian after dinner. Sang harmony. Sewed a pair of shorts and half a dozen new masks. Helped Ruth with a project and kept her company while she ran errands. Sat outside on the swing and listened to French radio. Made dinner. Watched a Youtube video with PJ in which someone broke their windshield with a loud subwoofer. Did the laundry. Walked the dog. Threw a punch. 

The usual. 

It's going to be a long week.

Happy Easter.

What a beautiful day. The last load of laundry is finally in the dryer, REO Speedwagon is in my headphones, and the coffee flows like a hot river of blood straight into my soul, melting anyone it comes across with an unforgiving roast that is so good. 

I've been told my version of a 'lazy Sunday' isn't like everyone else's. I get up exceedingly late (seven or eight to be exact), do a bunch of chores (all of them) and then sit with my coffee and PJ's knucklebone fidget thing.

(I AM LEARNING IT, LEAVE ME ALONE. One of my dreams is to pay enough attention to flip a coin across my knuckles and back. Both hands. PJ can do a coin now but he said it's easier to start with the bone. 

I did not snort laugh to myself when he said this but I did look him dead in the eye and told him that it's a good thing I can handle a bone already. 

He did not laugh. He may have whimpered slightly but we both ignored it. 

Then he said if I wake him up to listen to Sam tell his goofy bunny stories he would also commit murder this Easter and there would be no resurrections. 

Wow. Crabby boy. But now I have this torch-fired blue-coppery steel knobby thing that looks more like a sex toy than a fidget spinner and I've dropped it on the hardwood floor so many times Lochlan sent me a text and asked why I was FUCKING BOWLING AT 8 IN THE MORNING JEEEEEEEEEEEEESUSS.

So I put it in my pocket, which means tomorrow it will probably go through the wash.)

We're having hot turkey sandwiches tonight, at Henry's request, with gravy and stuffing. He hates plain turkey sliced breast and adores gravy-soaked bread and that's honestly somehow easier and then we get right to the good part of rare leftovers without having to wait a day. The boys are going to set up the long table in the orchard later this morning and we'll have dinner and watch the sunset as a family.

Otherwise I think I will listen to Sam's goofy bunny stories once he puts up his Easter podcast.

(You want to see someone go from thirty to zero in one blink you should have seen Sam's face when the government slammed the door closed on everything last week after just letting him fire up again. It was a Looney-Tunes comical shift but it broke all of our hearts because Sam loves to preach and he loves to touch people and hug people and look them in the eyes as he listens so well it's just beyond and we assured him we all needed him so much he do concentrated reverending and we would soak him up gratefully and he has not disappointed. At all.)

But I've already had my sermon for the day. Got it at four this morning. I didn't realize how much I missed Sam in our dark little universe upstairs until he brought the light into it and blew up my crushed spirit again like a mylar balloon.

And if I see a sign in the sky tonight (See it coming)
No one's gonna tell me it's a trick of the light (Feel it coming)
May never come but I'm willing to wait
What can I say? I'm a man of the faith
And there's an ocean in my body
And there's a river in my soul
And I'm crying

 

Early coffee alone in the kitchen today. Airpods are cemented directly to my skull now. My homemade playlist (I don't use Sp*tify) flows from The Villagers Trick of the Light right into Veruca Salt's Loneliness is Worse and it's the absolute best combination because today iTunes has chosen alphabetical order for my songs. Sometimes it goes by most played or least played, sometimes by length or year. I never know but I love it. 

 

I already took lilac and rosemary cuttings. The laundry is almost done. I fixed the toilet and I put the dog out. I woke up Ruth for work and Lochlan for errands, shortly here, and Ben snoozes on and on. We measured a whole big part of the yard last night and replanted a host of perennials for a potential new fence and then I decided I would just do a raised bed and plant a bunch of forgiving things in it and that would be nicer than anything else and since my tiny rosemary sprig that I bought for ninety-nine cents on a whim six years ago is now a huge shrub the size of me and I cut and harvest and dry and give away huge bunches and one year I made WREATHS from it and it just keeps coming, well, it smells so good I may as well just plant it everywhere.

That one trick.

He's standing over me while I load in another sheet of thick, fibrous paper. The ribbon is cued up perfectly. Red on the bottom, black on top. The carrier tension feeds the ribbon across the centre and the letter keys strike the paper causing meaning, getting it out. One after another. Staccato literary gunshots and I am dead, my red blood colouring the ink for the next story, if not the next life. 

I begin to make a list. If I ignore him and begin to count he fades, dissolving in the crush of the things my brain chooses to surround him with, burying him alive. Drowning him out. 

I can't hit the keys with my left index finger though. I've bled through all the bandages. I need a stitch or two, maybe a break. Maybe a transcriptionist, like Violet Evergarden, someone to wish for the ghosts of the past instead of the breathing, living men of the present. An auto memory doll able to craft a better letter than I could if only for the right training. Since that won't happen I will persevere, forgetting about my injury and letting my finger push and bloom against the keys until the entire ribbon is blood red instead of just the lower edge and as I pick up speed the paper begins to spread scarlet from white. Day to night. A pool, no, a lake of me.

Princess-

Be quiet and let me think, I order him.

You know damn well every second day I'll look up and be like OMG GUYS LOOK AN OWL!

Ransom is finally good for something besides managing projects. 

This morning I made him a coffee and then heard the familiar noise. The water heater, no matter what I do, and the fact that it's newish makes noises randomly and you can hear it all over the house. It's a perfect storm of someone showering while someone else is flushing or something but it will start up and sporadically go for a few minutes and running the hot tap in the master bathtub seems to clear it. 

I made a comment that I needed to go fix that and he offered to put a decoy owl up on the roof for me. 

It is April Fools Day after all. I'm sorry? What will an owl do? 

It will make the Flicker think this territory is already occupied so he'll find somewhere else to drum. 

And then it dawned on me. The Northern Flicker birds I feed, and watch drum on other people's vent stacks every time we go for a walk or run are doing the same things here and my mysterious water heater issues that ONLY happen in spring and only for a few minutes and half a dozen plumbers have checked the heater and can't find any problems with it are just birds looking for mates. 

(And when I filmed the noise aiming the camera directly at the water tank, of course it was loud. That's where the vent stack terminates. Oh my God.)

Huh. 

Decade-old mystery solved right there.

Rare form.

Neamchiontach-

DON'T.

I am drunk* because I tried some of the new mead and I already took a Benadryl because everything is spring-blooming and my allergies are so awful. My eyes are itchy, throat dry and my nose so blocked it's like the Suez Canal was earlier this week. I am half-expecting him to threaten me for spending time with TJ (Dalt) but Caleb is weary still from his whirlwind trip (and boy am I glad he got back before this new lockdown) and weary from life and from me and just finds it almost comical today.

Lochlan must have a hell of a time keeping you organized. 

He does. 

I almost feel sorry for him. 

You don't have to. He gets all the love.

Not Monday he didn't. 

Says who now? 

Bridget. 

You're mad now aren't you. 

I mean, I was here. 

You're tired. You're really old, after all. 

Wow. Thank you?

Don't mention it. 

*(Drunk because I got to day-drink after mopping the entire house and the porches too and then I cut my finger really badly and now I'm off the hook for most of the remainder of the week but also it is very hard to type with only nine fingers wtf.)

Revolving shore.

He was here for over a month, feeling his way through the fog and rain, tripping over my moods, veering around the boys with their lack of privacy but keen spatial awareness, who come in right close when you need them and hover on the edges when you don't. Here for a month trying different things and having good talks and feeling productive only to be faced with my uncontrollable, reluctant stonewalling in the next blink of his brown eyes. But now with renewed lockdowns here and a fresh wave of the pandemic, he is headed home.

Bye, Everett. 

In any case, we had a good time, he gave me a fair amount of new perspective and he also made me somehow more keenly aware of things I had refused to acknowledge before. He and Ben had a good reunion, and Duncan too, who probably needed some time with him more than anyone, as our poet goes so easily off the rails and needs to be talked his way back. He went to the same place Ben went and loves Everett to pieces too. 

Ben has once again needlessly yet profusely apologized for throwing Everett into the Collective. He said he had a sudden inspiration and wanted to do something. 

Especially when there are ghosts in the water, ghosts on the beach, ghosts in the orchard and ghosts in the dark, Bee. His face belies his jovial tone. Hahahah it's so funny but I'm scared, is what that says. 

He is grateful his problems are black and white. He said as much, more than once. He understands so much about me but at the same time the part he doesn't truly understand frightens him. It frightens all of them, save for Caleb and Lochlan, for the most part, even though that's a lie and it frightens them too.

But they simply switch gears and operate as if I am a child and it works great, an endeavour that most of the others refuse to engage in and that's when they retreat to the sidelines. It's practiced motion to them, and it works and that's all that matters.

I told Everett not to feel sorry for me. 

Look around. What is there to feel sorry about? 

That you don't feel comfortable in your own skin. 

I never have, so it's not like I know what I'm missing. 

He grinned, tightly enough that I caught it but not enough that the expression didn't reach his eyes. I got a big long hug, then Ben got one too. Then Duncan for good measure. 

***

Ten minutes later the doorbell rings and I thought maybe Everett forgot something. I haven't had time to check his rooms yet to make sure because when I am free I will strip the bed and the bathroom of their linens and make the room up for the next guest, whenever that may be.

But I open the doors and it's Ransom. 

They're going to finally finish the pool. He has everything, sorry for the delays. It's a new architect, same company and once we sign the papers they can start/resume/DO SOMETHING. 

Where is Emmett? I consider telling him we just had an Everett leave and what is with the old fashioned names? I love it. 

He has covid. 

Really? 

He's fine. Asymptomatic but he'll be off until at least the twelfth or maybe it was the twentieth. I can't recall.

Anything we can do for him?

You can message him and ask. 

I'll do that. 

Are you doing this build now or is Caleb? 

I can. 

Alright. May I unpack this here or in the kitchen? 

Here is fine. I pull my mask out of my pocket so he can show me what he needs to. He puts his own on and comes into the foyer.

He gets out all of the plans and paperwork and his iPad that will have a finished render of what this all will look like. I sign everything and he says abruptly that he doesn't need a deposit. I confirm, as I already paid it to the company when they made the previous ugly pool enclosure. I told them to keep it as part of the new one. 

Ransom looks surprised that I know what I'm doing. He gives me credit for nothing. Yes, alright then. We'll resume this weekend since the pouring has had ample time to set.

It's Easter. Seriously? 

That way it will be finished by the ninth. I have a big project beginning after that. 

This isn't big? 

This is ridiculously huge. That's why I need it done before the next big one. 

Well, don't rush. 

The schedule is fine. It's not a rush job, Bridget. 

I'll get Caleb to weigh in for you. I may not be able to give it all of the attention it deserves this week.

Got him. He visibly relaxes. Appreciate it. We'll be here Thursday to start. I''ll let Caleb know the time. 

(Jesus fucking Christ, Ransom.) Sounds good. 

Take care, Bridget.

Bye, Ransom.

***

Duncan is incorrigible and lights up a blunt the moment the sun goes down. We are watching a movie together. Don't worry, he did great in rehab and is down to one or two smokes a week. He's never going to give them up completely but he polices himself a lot better than he used to and he is too cute to fight with about it, though Ben doesn't find that and fights with Duncan every time it comes up. 

Bye, Dunk.

He is asleep twenty-five minutes into the movie so I turn it off and go to see what Dalton is doing. Dalton is the night owl. He is reading and makes space for me to come into his bed and cuddle with him, which I do gratefully. It's cold downstairs and I'm still in my warm-day clothes. 

Or I was, anyway up until that moment. Dalton has other ideas.

Driven by love.

Nolan called me yesterday morning to check in. He had garnered some influence and found me the private plane I needed on short notice when money didn't cut it but friendship did. I could have waited six or eight hours and had one. I did not want to wait. Ten days was enough. 

Ten days is nothing, Nolan barks. That guy should have stayed away forever. 

Then why did you help me? 

Because, Bridget, I would do anything for you. This was for you. He can go fry in hell. 

It stings, though. Just enough that I pull up some armour and say my goodbyes from behind it, slightly muffled but all attempts to be polite just the same. Nolan doesn't let me off the hook but at the same time he's exceedingly gently. 

Bridget, just because you want something doesn't mean it's good for you. Don't forget that. If I didn't have faith in the boys to keep you safe I wouldn't have helped you out at all. 

Yes, you would have. 

No I wouldn't. Look what he did to Ben. What if next time it's you? You're a third of Ben's size. You wouldn't survive it. 

He would never hurt me.

He already did. That's the problem and Bridget, they're just trying to help you any way they can but you've put up a defence of a monster and that's a mental illn-

I have to go. I stare at Caleb while I talk. I love you. Thank you. I choke out the words and hang up.