Misgrace.

I can't find the secret to survive
To grow old safe and sound
Life is sifting through like the sands in the hourglass
There's not a moment to relive my time and space
There's not a moment to undo anything

Feverish, exhausted and still I get up at dawn and shrug into one of his favorite dresses, a plum-colored raw silk halter dress that makes my skin look like marble and my hair like hard rain. I frown at my face in the mirror, and sit down to put on the shoes with the ankle bows. Jesus. What a stupid getup for a Saturday morning.

A Saturday morning should be flannel pajamas and cartoons and coffee and Lucky Charms but it's not. It's my own personal Devil, looking to collect dividends on hos ownership of my soul. I square my emotions and decide against jewelry. Not like he ever leaves it on anyway and Ben, over the years, has eaten all of my favorite earrings. I don't care to replace them.

I walk quietly downstairs, through the kitchen and out the side door. There are a few lights on in the boathouse and when I reach the door I put my hand up to knock. Caleb is already at the door. He looks tired too. Maybe he's getting sick. He doesn't say anything, he just holds out his arms. I've never refused a hug in my entire life and I'm not about to start now. I run a deficit and I'm never discriminating. A hug is a hug is a hug.

It's a good one. He holds tightly but not too tightly. He puts his head down on mine. I rest my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow to a relaxed cadence and then eventually I pull back, coughing, taking a step back to wait for instructions.

He frowns as he fetches a large white envelope from the counter, passing it to me with a look on his face I can't even describe. I open it. Inside is a small bottle of antibiotics with a handwritten label.

Бриджит

Caleb tells me to start with two and then take one each day until they're gone. That he went and picked them up after describing what everyone was suffering from in the main house, treated with the same pills I see in this bottle. 

He takes the envelope back and withdraws something else. A piece of paper from his desk with his heading on it, addressing me, confirming that he is in receipt of full monies up to and including December. 

So instead of worrying about the next few months we can breathe a little or maybe he'll find some other way to torture me to pay for this. I don't know. I kind of panic either way because I don't want this hanging over my head like it does. I'd rather just sell all my things and pay him cash because cash is easy. 

He puts his hands on my face and forces me to look up, shut up and pay attention. I didn't write it off, it was paid for you. So go home and get better. That's your job right now. 

Then he lets go and opens the door. I'm just about to leave when I remember to bring my medicine and my proof with me. 

Who paid it? 

Lochlan.

Where did he-

I don't know, Bridget. We don't have normal conversations anymore. He brought me the money, I wrote you a receipt. I gave him a receipt as well but he's probably already set it on fire like he does with everything I touch. He's got a long way to go in learning people skills, you might want to help him with that. Or better yet, cut him loose. He weighs you down, if a few payments left you both willing to settle into old habits to pay your way. 

Don't even start, you don't know-

I know you're a very sick little girl and you need to go lie down and get better. Call me if you need anything. Take the pills. Do you remember what I told you? Start with two. 

Yes. 

Good girl. 

Please stop saying that. 

He only loves me when I'm perfect.

I'm only happy when it's complicated.

I'm feeling a little better today. A little less nauseous, a little more tired and my sore throat seems to have been swallowed by a raw chest instead. Maybe that's the evolution of this illness and if so I'll probably be presenting to the Russian not-a-Doctor sooner rather than later because you-know-who is anxious for my precious time but he refuses to be needlessly saddled with unnecessary germs and unwell princesses.

The rest don't seem to mind, telling me I'm a lot more fun to be around when I don't talk so much or resist their charms since I'm now too weak to fight back.

They lie. If I don't talk they get nervous and hell, I don't fight back. Never have.

Oh my God, I'm kidding. Relax.

The only thing I did today was finish Matt's juice when he stood up to prepare to leave for work, apologize when he turned and looked very surprised and then I faceplanted into the couch, where Lochlan sat with a guitar because work? What is this work-thing you speak of? I think he's holding out on Batman because we're not all that sure Batman is all that sane right now but I'd like to keep the peace until Ben's bill is settled.

Ever the stoic and observant Sugar Baby I am, until the bitter end.

But I'm not the baby in this case and I'm not sure how Ben intends to settle up when he's promised me and everyone else within a hundred mile radius that he's not going back to work when he comes home. So basically, at this rate everyone's going to be unemployed and yet the bills keep coming. Rent is due on Sunday and uh...um...

I text the Devil that I'll see the stupid doctor tomorrow and then we can maybe have a movie or lunch or something as long as I'm not still contagious, if I feel well and good enough.

He texts me back immediately. Good girl.

Right here at home.

WHOA.

It just dawned on me. Sam sounds just like Steve Miller when he sings.

I can't wait to tell the others. But the singalong is getting loud and late at this point and I've already been sent to bed. :(

Filthy Thursday Circus.

After a few false starts my body chose to give out spectacularly last night as I sparked through what was left of the evening, setting the sheets on fire. I woke up in flames and smoldered through breakfast and now I've decided it's time to pack my (non-flammable) things and head back to the sideshow, where circus people go when they have enough talent left to fake something interesting as long as it doesn't involve the real world.

I'll be the Incredible Self-Immolating Girl. Watch her burn! Step back now, don't stand too close, folks.

The rest of them are on antibiotics. I'm pretty sure a liberal helping of bourbon and then the one of brandy last week somehow insulated me from the bacteria on the point or maybe my physiology instinctively doesn't get sick because I am the primary caregiver. I just know that I fight to exist normally even though clearly today I'm out of my league.

Everyone else is back to work today. We finished the Walking Dead. We considered some other shows as well and haven't settled on the next one yet. We ordered pizza and we lazed about but it was as if it never happened this morning in the rush to get going and now I sit alone in the kitchen wishing I could go back to sleep.

But I won't. Too busy planning my act. I've decided I'm going to be famous.

Cruciferous maximus.

Caleb invited me down for dinner the other night. Mostly because he said he wanted to go over the receipts for Henry's school clothes and supplies, haircut, shoes, sports fees, student fees, etc, etc. (Actually Henry said no haircut this year because haircuts are dumb. Hahahahahaha. Also kid with no interest in clothing suddenly wants Adidas! DONE.).

But mostly he wanted me to just be there, with him, instead of anywhere else so he handed me a cheque for the right amount before he finished cooking and there, business is out of the way, now how about a nice romantic dinner?

Sure, I offered. You didn't tell me you invited Loch too. Or is Ben home already? Is he a surprise?

But the look on Caleb's face said with those comments I clearly stepped over a line and was being difficult.

I'll have dinner and then I need to go home. I promised the kids a movie.

He demurs. Fine. Let's get to the food.

Lobsterrrrrrrr. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.  Wine. Melted butter. Bread so good I missed it when we ate it all. Scallops and collard greens. Fresh lemons. Fried potatoes.

I think I died and went to a restaurant in heaven because wow.

Then over dessert (brandy and warm chocolate cake) he starts right in. I'm getting sick because I hang out with a filthy carny. Dirt doesn't come off those kinds. It becomes part of their genetic makeup. They just aren't right, or worthy or sanitary or clean.

What the..

FUCK.

Then he asks me to think really hard. Had nothing ever happened, would I have married Lochlan and lived in a trailer forever on appropriated land, churning out babies and tricks, singing old gypsy folksongs to a screaming ginger brood forever? How long would we have stuck it out once we were saddled with children and debts and hardship and routine, not the good circus kinds that take place four times a day, six on the weekends, either?

I sat there, thinking. In silence. For a good long time before I realized I had no answer for this. Or did I?

I laughed. I laughed until I cried and I dabbed at my eyes with the corner of what had to be a Porthault napkin and then I got up and left without a word.

Because I'm learning ever so slowly and over many decades indeed that his judgements and litanies, his lectures and namecalling don't necessarily deserve an audience or a reply for that matter, and if he continues to slam what would have been an exceptionally amazing, dirty carny life with every facet of every dream I've ever had about it firmly fixed in place then he'll get no more time with me.

I don't need that. There's little out there that's worse than someone torching your unrealized dreams of a filthy brood and a happy home and a whole lot of tricks and singing and abject poverty and love. Maybe it's romantic but it's a hell of a lot more warming to me than the thought of Caleb's perfect, sterile life in which everything is cold and grey and quiet and dignified and carried out only because people love people with money and latch on to that lifestyle like lemmings, bloodsuckers who see nothing but dollarsigns in the blood they draw.

I don't fit in to that. I think it's finally dawned on me precisely how obvious that is.

Black Rock City.

August just arrived at Burning Man and sent me a selfie. I should be congratulating myself that I don't have to be planning the huge decontamination ritual for when he comes home but instead I miss him so.

No one from the house is going to Burning Man, either. I think I've gotten a little too princessy for these sorts of things, frankly. If I deviate from my standard routines all hell breaks loose.

For example, yesterday. I grabbed the nearest body wash in my rush to get a quick shower, using a tiny bottle Lochlan brought back from our trip. Had a huge allergic reaction it and went to bed last night softly whimpering and jacked out on allergy pills and calamine because hives, inside and out.

So somehow I don't see myself living in a dusty tent for a week, in spite of the fun it must be.

August loves it. I think he does a lot of drugs while he's there and only while he's there. I think he uses it as a place to have some sort of spirital out of body experience/awakening and I've learned not to ask too many questions about it because it sounds amazing and horrifying all at once.

This from us, the crew who can't even seem to get to the Chinese night market. Because meh. Too far. Too late. In my pajamas. Concerts are pretty much the only reason I leave the house anymore.

That and trips to go get more cake.

I bet they don't have cake at Burning Man. I mean, the kind that would be safe to feed your kids.

(If you need me I'll be in my ivory tower.)

Half-formed points.

Today, I:

• Found Humans of New York and read as many stories as I could. It's fascinating. I love people, really I do even though I also hate them. I always hope everyone has a story and that they are actually willing to step out of their comfort zone and tell them to me. That's how I make friends, you see. 
• Ordered the Christmas Wishbook because I'm a holiday masochist and because I can buy things from it, unlike the Neiman Marcus fantasy book, even though that's infinitely more fun.
• Crave Thai food and won't be getting any because we're all sick and there's a quaratine so no one's going out and delivery of Thai food is suspicious and unpossible. 
• Used the wrong body wash in the shower and now am one big little itch that needs to be scratched. 
• Did not sleep in even though I should have. A lot. A whole lot, if you want me to tell the truth (cranky face).
• Helped Ruth go through her closet, realizing she's outgrown exactly half of the contents inside. What remains is all Dauntless, all the way.
• Have three big garbage bags full of clothes to take to the donation bin by the Hardware Store. 
• Watered the lawn and changed the beds all by myself. I call it gym-time. Since I'm far weaker than I should be and I refuse to join a gym. Changing beds is sweaty and requires strength to lift mattresses to put on new sheets, so there. 
• Decided I need to go through my clothing too and weed out all the things I no longer wear.  Did I mention I hate shopping for clothes? I'll shop for anything BUT clothes. Mostly food. Okay, only cake. I'll shop for cake and then I'll just eat it naked. Then everyone's happy. Especially me. 
• ran into a timing block and have not see a single Walking Dead episode since last Tuesday. So close and yet so far. 
• Am patiently waiting for the first minute of Divergent footage during the MTV Video Awards tonight. Then I'll turn it off because they don't do good music (metal or seventies) and I don't ever know who anyone is anymore. I'm kidding. Get off my lawn. (Update: it's up right here. OMG *fangirls*)
• Have the worst sore throat + headache today but I'm hiding it because others are sicker and they need to be looked after. I'm such a mom sometimes, geez. 
• am having dinner with the Devil tonight because I like to visit my soul. Also, maybe he'll venture out for some Thai food for us. That I won't eat naked because boundaries, people, I obviously have none.
 

News I can use.

Today I'm listening to acoustic Motorhead songs on Youtube, and I've bitten off all my lipgloss as I fight a growling stomach, a really bad cough and the urge to laugh as Lochlan quotes William Blake and juggles and tries to keep his rhythm in spite of so much distraction.

So..who can juggle to Motorhead? I think it's probably a thing, like licking one's own elbow.

I talked to Ben this morning. He's going to be home next month. He says it all casual-like, as if we are talking about the weather (we did that too) and then he pauses and asks if I heard him because I'm sort of dropping the phone and running around in circles in super fast-forward mode because coffee + good news.

I come back and he's all self-conscious and silent.

Did you say next month? Is that like three weeks early?

Yeah. Look, can I talk to Loch?

No! Talk to me! Jesus, you're always so fast to get off the phone, Ben! 

There's a lineup of people I need to talk to, to verify that you are doing well. 

So ask me instead and save time.

You tell such sweet little lies, Bee. I never believe you. How are you?

Fine, I lie. My lip starts to quiver.

Sweet, tiny little liar, he accuses gently. Talk to me, Bee. 

I think you fucked up, Benny. This would have been easier if I had aligned with the Devil while you were away. 

He lets out a long breath. No, Bridget, it wouldn't have.

Status quo then. Why didn't we leave it alone?

It's a natural inclination. I'm secure in my beliefs that you needed this time with Lochlan as much as I needed it to myself. 

Great. 

It is, actually. You'll see. Want to put Sammy on for me, babe?

Sure. Fine. 

Hey. Don't do that. September something. I'll be there. I'll be home. Love you. So much, Bridget.

The thought makes my head all jello-y-weird like it always did when Ben would come home after a long absence. As if I couldn't place if it were dread, excitement or just sheer joy. I'll go with a mix of all three.

I'm going to spend the rest of the day trying to lick my own elbow. My luck is changing, so you never know.

Black Sabbath.

Benjamin, you missed a good show.

Burning the lot.

(You just watch them. Watch as they never change, seeing opportunity to take around every corner. That's what those career carnies do, you see. They take. They take it all when you blink and when you open your eyes again you just feel stupid for having been robbed because you thought, like everyone always thinks, that it wouldn't happen to you.)

Fearlessly the idiot faced the crowd, smiling
Merciless, the magistrate turns 'round, frowning
and who's the fool who wears the crown
Go down in your own way
And everyday is the right day
And as you rise above the fearlines in his frown
You look down, hear the sound of the faces in the crowd

When I brought my hands up to touch his face he smiled. I leaned up on my tiptoes and pulled him down until my forehead was pressed against his, his earnest eyes looking right into me, past the harm we bring and the lies we tell to ourselves, never mind to each other.

I reached down, taking the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his chest, shrugging it over his arms. He helped. The smile is gone from his face now, replaced by something better. I bite his bottom lip and go to work on the button on his jeans. He reaches down and unfastens it with one hand. I slide my hands down his hips inside his waistband as his hands slide around my back. With a shove his pants hit the floor just as he pulls off my dress. We are undressed, exposed. Raw-form, with no preparation or alteration.

Me with the tiny white check-mark scar under my nose and the larger cesarean scar besides, he with the long straight lines on his hips where he rode the pavement like a wave not once but twice in his life falling off motorcycles and the little crescent moon divot on his right shoulder where he hit the net hard during practice and someone had left a bolt lying in it and we had to dig it out of his shoulder while he bit down on a facecloth backstage. He always maintains that it was lucky it didn't happen to me, for the bolt would have gone right through me and come out the other side and that wouldn't have been pretty. I trace the small pink line on the right side of his temple where his eyebrow is cleaved in half and won't grow anymore because Ben got him with a hockey stick and he had to have six stitches.

This is not a love story. There is no happy ending here. Just moments strung in between life events where we affirm that our souls are one in the same, if only the pieces could find one another. We come to each other beaten, broken and scarred and we see right through the marks and the damage to what used to be innocent and whole.

He steps out of his pants, tossing them on the chair along with his shirt as I step in close again. I pick up his hand and kiss his palm. He cups my face. His other hand comes up and smooths my hair back out of my eyes.

I don't lead very often. I mostly let him direct me. I always have because he was so much older and I had no idea what to do. I didn't learn about sex at home or in school. I learned everything on the road in the Midway in a tiny airless camper. The good and the bad.

I push him down and climb under the covers next to him. I pull myself in against him and kiss him so hard he fights to breathe. He flips me down onto my back, thrusting into me hard, no waiting, no foreplay. He rises up on his elbows, my head in his hands, driving so hard it hurts all over but it's so good. I dig my nails into his shoulders and he dips his head down to mine for another kiss. We can't keep it together, he's pushing too hard so he moves so his head is just over mine, chin bumping against my forehead, arms locked tight around me.

Then he sits up, pulling back on his legs, pulling me into his lap so I am lying in front of him, watching him as he hooks his arms under my legs, hands around my hips, finding more force to draw from. When I cry out it serves only to send him further into the dark. He collapses on top of me, smothering my cries. He begins to take his sweet time. Hours pass in the dark as we retrace familiar paths.

This is what I know.

His skin. His red curls in my mouth all the time, his chin against my nose, his kind eyes closed, his rough-healed hands capable of fixing the Ferris wheel or a broken heart, if given a chance.

His voice, the narrator inside my head as he teaches me everything from algebra to astronomy to army-caliber first aid, used later when I put those stitches in his eyebrow myself because he didn't want the police involved, or the hospital, or the others. He held on to my thighs while I stood in front of him and stitched him back together. He squeezed so hard I added the marks to my scar-inventory.

His voice in my head as he explained to me in excruciating detail how to rob a mark. His voice in my head as he reminded me never to do so but then seemed so touched when I did and brought him a little fistful of reckless, hard-won cash.

His ruined words in my head as I tried to disappear somewhere far on the inside when things went so very wrong.

Don't you go anywhere, Peanut. I love you. You stay right here with me and I'll stay right here with you and we'll stay together because I'm going to love you and look after you and no one's going to take you away from me ever again. Just talk to me, please? 

And I'm afraid. I'm afraid of an intensity that began when I was nine years old and had no idea what it meant. Or what it would mean later on when I was old enough to use it as a weapon as we choose consistently to leave deep gaping wounds in each other, wounds that can't be stitched up or covered. Wounds that fester and ache.

We flatten history between us, a wedge suddenly made of only air instead of feelings that vanish as all our promises fulfill themselves in one beautiful, giant bloom of fireworks and flames.  Flames that heal.

In that brief time we forget the wounds hurt so much and we forget whose were worse and we resolve to remain intact. I sit up and kiss him hard, I kiss him for forever, it seems and he doesn't let go. He reaches out with one hand, grabs his t-shirt and puts it on me, pulling my arms through the holes, gently pulling it over my head. I get cold afterward. He's so warm all the time the minute I let go the cold rushes in and fills up the new unwelcome, empty space.

He cradles me in his arms, kissing me hard again while reaching for my left hand. He takes off one band but leaves the other. He says he feels almost sorry for Ben and for the others because they will never know love like this.