Little things.

 

Caleb handed me a large heavy bag last evening and inside was this beautiful ink haul. The Lady Rose in Gold limited edition ink along with a Cotton Candy in Blue and a Frivolous Lime and even some fun Glow in the dark ink that he thought I might enjoy (I do! Summer of secret notes begins now!) and then for good measure a dip pen for drawing or writing that I have been eyeing for a while and the coup de grace was a Ferris Wheel fountain pen, which you can't not have if you're buying FW Press ink in that sort of volume. 

Did I miss anything? Did you need paper? 

No. I have lots. 

(Do I have paper. I should show you my sketchbook cupboard. It is full and stacked to the top with unused, new sketchbooks. It's my favourite thing in the world. It's mostly Canson and Legion papers. I have a small problem with collecting sketchbooks and then saving them but I'm getting better. I am technically cut off from buying any more.)

Thank you, Diabhal. I didn't think anyone had any locally, and I didn't want to pay thirty dollars to have a single bottle shipped-

You ask for nothing, Neamhchiontach. 

I ask for the moon and the stars-

No, you don't, actually. I enjoy treating you. 

I smile at him and he smiles back, kisses my forehead and leaves me to play with my new beautiful things. I even let Asher try the dip pen, as I couldn't use it right anyway with my cast.

You'd call it a microscope, I'd call it showtime.

Sam had to put out an email to stop people from stopping by with food/fruit/flowers/wishes for us as per news of my hand being twice as broken as a week ago and while I was truly enjoying the irony of having distanced conversations with people who have never talked to me (and wouldn't) before but are so starved for socialization and contact that they're reaching out all around, he's right. There's a quarter-century+ of adults here on the point at any given time. One going down is not going to mean they all starve. 

But we know you do the lion's share, they wink at me, nameless.

No, actually he does his own share and then some, because I think they mean Lochlan and then I wonder how they learned that nickname. Lion. No one calls him that very often though..

They draw back, confused and dawned that I am probably medicated, and possibly dangerous. They've heard tell of the pretty woman in the floral sundresses, surrounded by an army as if she is the queen. 

Close, I nod. Not a queen though, just a princess. 

They've heard she was raised by wolves. 

Yes, but I've almost domesticated them, I point out. We're close now. They can wear clothes and sit in a room with humans and you might not even notice the difference. I bare my teeth in a smile and they run for their lives, flinging well-wishes and hollow offers over their shoulders, words drowning in their wake. 

Sam smiles in amusement.

Cover your teeth, you're scaring the locals. 

The gall of not understanding that a commune can cook meals en masse-

They aren't here to help. The cost of a closer look was a pasta casserole. 

I'm aware. 

But you let them in anyway. 

It's an appearance, Sam. Like your suit. So they would think we are fine and they would leave us alone. Life is just an act. I get to play the tortured princess. 

The smile leaves his face. Shut up and eat your flowers.

Cake weekend.

 Fifteen years ago Jacob refused to conduct the funeral service for Cole because it was Henry's fifth birthday and Jake decided that was more important to him, that he be with the children who were old enough to know what was happening and he wanted to one hundred percent dedicate his time to them and he called a friend in the church and the funeral went on. I don't know if anyone realized. I don't know if it mattered. But Jacob's decision meant the world to me because I couldn't get out of the emotional quicksand and the guilt of feeling like I was the one who killed Cole. I couldn't be a good mother in that moment, to tell everyone it wasn't the right day, that it was Henry's birthday and we weren't going to do it that day. 

I never did, and I never got rid of the guilt either and Cole would still be here if I hadn't broken his heart but if I hadn't done it the way I did I would have done it when he found out that Henry wasn't his after all. And he wasn't Caleb's son either. He was Jake's. 

And boy is it obvious now. Over six feet, lanky, blonde and bearded. He has my eyes and temperament and Jacob's easy moral compass. He has a crazy work ethic and time for everyone and everything at once. He lives in button-downs with the sleeves rolled up and he loves cake and hamburgers and animals. We have a big dinner planned for tonight. All hands are on deck. We managed to decorate before he woke up this morning and he was impressed at the LED balloons and efforts and the fact that it's a somewhat rainy Friday and we're finally cooling off. Usually his birthday is conducted during a hot spell with a melting-icing cake and all the doors wide open. Tonight we'll probably have to wear snowpants at the table but that's the way he likes it. If ever there was a rainy-day child born in the full sun it's Henry and I am so proud of him I have already burst ten times today and put myself back together. 

He won't let me call him Bunny anymore, or Henny, it's Henry or Henry Jacob, (please mom) but sometimes I catch myself and he never actually minds.

Notice I did all this without mentioning his father.

This morning I am coveting the Lady Rose in Gold Ferris Wheel Press ink and wishing that season two of Outer Banks wasn't still two weeks away. I am baking Henry's birthday cake for tomorrow (he's turning twenty!) and trying to be chill about it. He is heading out with friends for the day and while he's gone we'll decorate. We have his gifts, and his favourite colour for decorations and I made his favourite cake (hasn't changed since he was three) and am making his favourite dinner (which also has not wavered in at least six thousand years give or take) and it will be fun. I can't believe it. Still can't and never will believe my luck at how the children turned out in spite of everyone who told me they would be ruined. They THRIVED in this commune. They feel safe and protected and loved and nurtured here and that's all that mattered. 

They also have a great story to tell now. How many do? Raised in a commune? Jesus. It's a gift. 

(Might be better than being raised in a wolf den, but I turned out okay, right?)

For hand updates I have a pink cast now which exactly matches the colour of that ink. It is water resistant so I can swim, supposedly. I will be wearing it for the rest of the summer. Nice! They found two more hairline cracks way down in the metacarps (the long bones in the back of your hand, not your actual fingers) and don't know how they were missed (I do! Canadian health care is free but rushed and you have to advocate for yourself so fucking hard) and I got anaesthetic and a fresh reset and a lot of jokes with the doctor and Caleb glowering in the hall because space was limited but now I am restarting my healing and to make matters worse I tripped again this morning because I think my Birkenstocks are too big and that's hilarious and I guess I will wear my Nikes/docs/All-Stars instead because it will probably be safer. 

In any case, casts are great fun. It's fun to have a big hard pink gauntlet on. (No it isn't, I'm trying to be positive) They're calling it a cub paw and reminding me not to swat at them, that it hurts. I already asked Lochlan if he can take it off but he asked if I want pain or no pain and I said no pain and he said well, then we have to leave it. 

I am exceedingly happy that I don't need plates, that it isn't infected or open or mangled or anything awful and I am thrilled that I was right and something got missed and now it's healing and it wasn't in my head. So don't think I'm going to complain for the next six weeks, I'm not. I promise. At least it's supposed to be cool for the next two, at least. That helps. 

Jon Foreman you did it this time, kind of like every time but this is on a whole new level of incredible and I gave it extra time to make sure.

There's an ocean beyond the sea
That holds elixir for all who grieve
Only the shipwrecked could ever find it
By the ocean beyond the sea

In the forest beyond the trees
There sings a songbird who's been released
And the fowler could never find her
By the ocean beyond the sea

There's a valley above the sky
Above the reaches of human kind
And their towers could never find it
By the ocean beyond the sea

Beyond the scarecrows
Beyond the temples
Beyond the meadows
I heard a whisper
As soft as iron
As safe as lions
By the ocean beyond the sea

There's a highway beyond the road
Beyond where power is bought and sold
And the rich man could never find it
By the ocean beyond the sea

Beyond the tyrant
Beyond the sirens
Beyond the silence
I heard a whisper
As soft as thunder
As cold as fire
By the ocean beyond the sea 

This is the most beautiful song in the world. Haunting, dangerous, sweeping and still. Obscured, darkened and bright at the same time. It's a quiet moment and a rollicking adventure all at the same time. It's my all-time new favourite and odds are I'll never be able to play it again while I sing. I go see about my hand this morning, now. Wish me luck. I have a violin with glowing strings, a piano with aching keys, a gang of crazy boys I need to touch and a swing somewhere in a big tent full of people, under a spotlight depending on this working out in my favour or I don't know what I'm going to do.

Careful, Princess.

Oops, I found myself a daylight-vampire, in the form of a big Schuyler in pajama shorts and a t-shirt that just reads DADDY but only upside down which to me is hot and hilarious at the same time. Daniel is drifting in and out of a late-morning shady-cool sleep but Schuyler is awake and on fire and ready to listen, ready to shut me up and ready to throw me back to the other wolves but only after he's done. My hand throbs and other things too but he is just gentle enough for me to trust that he isn't going to touch it or hit it accidentally and that's all I need to know.

He was singing Silent Lucidity under his breath. That was so Schuy and also so strange.

At one point I believe I may have fallen asleep but was jolted awake easily enough. He finally calls time on the day and I am sent back across the lawn with a bemused smile on my face and an exhausted, effortful gait. Razor burn stings in the sun and the Devil watches me from the window at the top of the stairs, framed like a photograph of projected shame and ire. I don't care. I am tired. Schuyler is one of the true shining alphas of this Collective and he's also confusing as hell but no one, including me would ever turn him down. It's just not something we do here and I don't think that will change, ire or not. 

Maybe Caleb turned him down and has regrets. I would have paid to watch. Maybe he wants to watch. I don't know. I don't care, as I said. I need sleep.

(Update: Caleb wants me to delete this. So does Lochlan, oddly.)

Summer vampires.

Fingers are a lot worse today or maybe it's just that part where you turn the corner and admit things aren't going well and when fixes are planned you can finally give in and fall the fuck apart. Or maybe they're worse than yesterday. I don't know. All I know is the mercury dipped so fast last night it was fifteen degrees before I could sleep and Lochlan lit some lanterns and wrapped me in a Benjamin and I have had no sleep at all. 

My dream is for someone, anyone to have an appetite in daylight.

Jesus Beach returns.

A full house today, as Sam sent out instructions on showing up for outdoor church and he wore a blue suit and a bolo tie and his favourite sneakers and a baseball hat. He looked like an adorable alien and he was nervous and a little rusty as his usual audience is twenty and at any given moment only half of us are paying attention. He did require masks and when one elderly, fully-vaccinated gentleman balked loudly, Sam went and got him a chair and put him and his bare face a good thirty-five feet away and gave him a disposable mask to hold in case he felt like putting it on and joining the group. A quick explanation that not everyone is fully vaccinated yet and we all need to protect them, and he pointed to me.

Gee, thanks. I'm anxiously awaiting my second needle and I wish they would hurry up. 

Also, my hand is throbbing and so I didn't make it to the end of service and I wasn't keen on all the people anyway, or the bright sun and so I looked at Lochlan at one point and he put out his elbow for me to take and we waved goodbye to Sam who waved without breaking his cadence and we came home. Lochlan made coffee, shook out a few painkillers for me and asked if it was worse. 

Yes. 

Huh. I figured I'd have to work harder to get you to admit it. 

No, it hurts worse. Like every time I breathe it aches but worse. 

Okay, I'm going to call the doctor. 

Okay. 

Really? Not going to be the tough girl?

It's been a long year. I don't want to deal with any more. 

Says the girl who planted tomatoes with a swollen face from wasp stings the day before. Share the load, Peanut. You have enough to worry about. You need rest. You've been going at a million miles an hour your whole life. 

Is this about yester-

Maybe it is. 

I'm sorry. 

You don't need to be sorry. His tone is changing and I want to change the subject. Just let me help you not be in pain. Let's get you back to the doctor and see what's up and go from there. Then we'll talk about delegating. 

Okay. 

That's my girl. 

Everyone says that. 

But for them it's only wishful thinking.

True. 

Love you, Peanut. 

Love you Locket.

Naked memory thieves for the lord, naked advocates for the devil. Naked princesses, naturally. Is there any other kind?

It isn't a good memory, your brain is just constantly searching for sugar with which to coat everything. It's a coping response. Makes you think he's not that bad, that there are good things too. It's completely natural but it's also a step back, something you shouldn't be entertaining. 

He holds our hands up to the light, fingers laced together. The sun went down an hour ago but twilight persists in the form of fairy lights around the skylights in their room. It's just enough to accentuate the lighter night sky of summer without obfuscating it completely. Too bad Caleb isn't into these lights. They absolutely work and it never would have crossed my mind to put them up there. Not even sure how they got them up there, truth be told. Matt probably just stood on a chair. He's tall. 

I sleep with a clear conscience, my memory thief spending the night sitting on the floor, files like vinyl records spread around him and he plays them and then categorizes them in the sparkling new cabinets that Lochlan built after Sam burned the whole thing down years ago. 

This is for new, good ones, he told Sam. And Sam nodded and said it was maybe a good idea but we'll keep the fires burning for the old ones that I keep finding everywhere, tucked back on shelves in old forbidden rooms in this giant old castle inside my brain. It's centuries old. It's a Winchester house. I keep adding rooms and walling old ones off. I don't have a map anymore and there's no electricity and the part that Lochlan built tacked itself on to the end and from the outside you can't even tell. 

What if I want to keep it out anyway? You're subjective on this-

Bridget, I'm not.

Oh, but you are. 

What do I have to lose?

This. 

This is a dream. A fugue state. A Christmas wish I can imagine until the ends of time but it never happens. 

I'm here right now.  

You don't belong to us. 

Pretend I do. 

But you don't. 

What if you did? Matt entertains me. Matt will do whatever I say sometimes. He is the best. What would that look like? He asks Sam in all curiosity. 

She would be spoiled and cuddled around the clock. She would never worry. She would never be cold or be without someone to hold, or someone to hold her. She would have her spirituality nourished, her spirit raised and her fears drowned in the sea. 

Matt nods toward Sam but I see the holes. These are like bullet holes in a black-walled room, letting in all of the light. 

You don't think I have that?

There's a history that functions almost like an unwelcome visitor in the room with what you have now. 

But I would still be me, with my history being my shadow if I were here, I remind him. 

That's why you're not here, he says so gently and gives me one last kiss. The spell is broken, the night is over and the boys will throw on clothes and walk me home where I step into the day with more questions than answers, as always. 

My favourite part of all of this is how instead of Matt being jealous, he just joins in, and plays Devil's advocate the whole damn time. He's smart, that one.

Trust games.

Did I take it too far? (Did I take it too far?)
Now I know what you are (Are)
You hit me so hard (So hard)
I saw stars (I saw stars)
Think I took it too far (Too far)
When I sold you my heart (My heart)
How'd it get so dark? (So dark)
I saw stars (I saw stars)
Stars (Stars) 

One of my most treasured childhood memories is of standing on Caleb's Chuck Taylor All-Stars (black, of course, every other boy in the neighbourhood had white or pale blue ones. My brand new ones are baby-pink, in case you're wondering and I wear them with dresses), my feet on his, at the very end of the dock by the lake, holding one of his hands, and twirling around off the end of the dock, an endless arabesque, though at the time I pointed out with great joy that I was practising my camel spin for figure skating in winter. He would pay attention without seeming to, switch hands, catching me, spinning me back out over the water, a distracted dance to entertain an eight-year-old out past her bedtime, while the older teenagers hung out and talked. I could extend my free arm out dramatically and I always felt as if I could fly, out over the water and back safely toward land. That tiny dancer unaware of a future coming down the tracks like a freight train and she couldn't hear it at all, she couldn't feel it and she never saw it, in the end, a ballerina popping up only when you open the box but when you close it again she starts screaming.

I still do that dance sometimes, but now the dock juts out over the ocean, and Caleb doesn't wear All-Stars anymore. If he's down there he's got his brown leather boat shoes and I am always in bare feet, leaving my shoes by the steps. I twirl out with one hand and realize that I can't switch on the way back but he is prepared for that, with his other arm out to bring me in as I habitually let go. I keep my broken hand close to me and still I persist in old morning habits dying hard. The water is cool and dark grey today, reflecting the sky full of clouds and ash. We're on the moon, we're over it all. We're not built for the sun.

I let go but Caleb himself has never let go, even as every other boy has taken the opportunity to see me fall in the water for laughs after a semi-awkward twirl or two because he was always the tallest. He never lets me go. He says that should mean something. I don't know if it does. Maybe it should? Or maybe it's just a memory and I can close the lid on it and throw it far out into the sea. Or maybe I can keep twirling on his feet, a connected but disconnected novelty, kept in a box far out of sight until it's all you can see for miles and miles.