So much hidden baggage in one post I might need a rolling cart.

A visit from the young Russian doc yesterday evening revealed the cause of my fever to be a simple ear infection and both Caleb and Lochlan practically hit the floor in relief.

I wasn't worried. I'm a goddamned tank. I'll be looking after everyone until the bitter end. It's what I do. I've graduated to delivering hot lunches to everyone's desks each day just after noonish and tea after two. I've taken over several chores and I've done great, ear infection and fever or not.

The doc declined to want to treat this, telling me to take paracetamol and to take it easy. He stares at Caleb the entire time he says this, as if it's Caleb's fault we don't have a team of militarized housekeepers to do things so that I'm not doing them, as I should be treasured.

This is the same man who told me I should invest in a lot of plastic surgery to be perfect and offers it every. single. visit.

God, I hate them all.

Lochlan's done with the doctor and walks out. We can deal with an ear infection. I will slow down. I need to stop mothering perfectly-capable boys and I need to take care of myself a little better.

(Okay a lot but I have a hard time with that.)

I'm glad it's not anything worse. And I know I have to take care now not to get rundown but we're not testing for anything because I'm okay, and because others need it more. And I'm not listening to any of the told-you-sos that asked me to pack up my world and move to Rhode Island, Montauk or Portugal, respectively because well, let's not talk about US healthcare or what I know about Portugese health care but I want to be home and we should be home and so we are home, and home we'll stay.

Besides, Duncan is falling off the wagon and they're not seeing it. And travelling while that's happening sucks worse than anything. I did it with Ben once and it made things ten times worse.

No surrender, no surprise.

Where did you go?
You're still in my mind
Still light of May
Shone from your eyes
Can you see this out?
Can you see this out?

The best thing about Caleb is that in the early hours, and in the mornings, he is a different cut, affectionate and loving, gentle and kind. There's something about the remains of the day poisoning his blood, making him crazy, making him seek out someone to punish, usually himself if you stay out of his way. You, if you get in it. His soul will come pouring out to suffocate you. He is the very definition of tormented.

Or maybe he's just afraid of the dark. I don't dare ask as his arms slide around my back, pulling me in close against him. I feel him exhale against me, clutching me tight, kissing my hair, my face, my neck, forcing my face up so he can kiss underneath my jawline before landing on the prize of my lips.

You're here.

You're awake.

I heard you in the hall.

Good ears, holy.

I can sense you, that's all. 

He smiles against my mouth, here in the predawn, and I close my eyes. It's like being locked in a vise. It's a different kind of affection from the physically strongest person I know.

Stay until morning. Please, Neamhchiontach.

I nod and his arms tighten, rolling me onto my back, my face forced up once again as he kisses down my throat, pulling his arms out to work at taking off my clothes. Once he has enough things off he pulls me back up against him, biting my lower lip gently on his way past, jutting his chin against the top of my head, hurting beautifully.

He does not stop until I shudder against him and then he relaxes just enough, not letting go. I am asleep in seconds, breathing evenly against his shoulder and the last thing I hear is his usual whisper before I go under. Is tú mo ghrá-

Níl, Diabhal.

When I wake up the spell is broken, the bitterness of the new day beginning to seep back in around the edges with the petrichor.  

Go back to your love.  Get out. English, so there's no mistake.

I remember eternity.

Woke up the house this morning playing the piano for I Remember, though I may have been singing just a little (okay it was loud) because if one good thing has come out of this quarantine, it's that Les Friction came out of retirement and I might have screamed out loud when I got the Youtube notification. Four years of absolute silence and I was sure they had ghosted me, but I didn't give up on them, and now here I am back in my Sunday-hole, listening to music that slices my skin open and runs it's icy fingers over my skull so lovingly I would succumb if not for the hope for more of the same.

Everyone had to be up anyway. Lochlan wants to play Alyx (I played it last night with the Oculus and WOOOOOOW, I landed on my face trying to get an upclose view of the bug under glass and then took off running around the city like a maniac), Ruth had an online rollerskating sale to peruse and Henry has to work.

(Boy that sucks, let me tell you and I'd rather he didn't go but he also is okay with it and likes the dangerous work pay add-on he gets so eh. I can't be a helicopter mom here. Not right now anyway.)

I've already Facetimed with Sam and Matt and am jealous of their flannel-covered early morning, hair tousled, beards coming in hot, gorgeous bookends with no middle. Their story is their own but we're all figuring if they can remain hunkered in a small cottage (okay, it's not small, exactly) together for weeks then we're good. They're good. Everything will be okay.

Sam said he absolutely hates not being able to touch me (I don't think he meant in that way) and Matt smiled at him, nodding. Not sure but I think that may have been an early Easter miracle anyway as Matt used to look off into the distance and fight to keep his expression neutral.

Sam says God will protect us, and my fever is only 102. Hallelujah.

Maybe to make sure you were okay.

Floodlight dreams go drifting past
All the lines we could've had
Distant loves floating above
Close these eyes, they've seen enough

Caught the butterfly, broke its wings then put it on display
Stripped of all its beauty once it could not fly high away
Oh, still alive like a passerby overdosed on gamma rays
Another god's creation destined to be thrown away

Oomph, I think Gigaton is winning the race for my heart, a full twenty-percent block I set aside for weekly new music or books or art or anything that just barges in through all the scar tissue and starts plucking at the strings holding everything together, threatening to tear it all apart with beauty.

Seven O'Clock, in particular. This is a song like Black. This song doesn't let up, though it's a slow starter. Retrograde is another. I am so content with this album that seems to bridge the gap between his solo efforts, like the soundtrack for Into The Wild, and Pearl Jam classic frenetic and angry works. Eddie Vedder should voice audiobooks, though if he isn't singing I daresay I don't want to hear it. But I can hear, with Ben's headphones, the true sound of his age now. All men's voices deepen and slow down at this age. It's actually a wonderful thing, all unpredictable sparks now tempered with experience. This is a perfect Lochlan-album. He will love it.

He is sleeping though. Begging me off with a mumbled comment, something about noon. I got up, let the dog out, put the laundry in, made coffee, got a long sleepy hug from the Devil, who isn't up either but managed to find words to ask me to stay (I didn't but he was asleep again in seconds) and am plotting a nice long day of painting and listening to this album while the rain pours outside. Though I will probably temper this with Moving Walls, Matthew Good's latest, though it's a tougher listen because instead of plucking strings it just stabs, relentlessly.

(Oh my God The Heights. It hurts so good.)

***

I watch them at dinner, and after. We grabbed a trayful of junkfood last night, intending to get Birds of Prey and enjoy a fun movie night but instead we slogged through 3/4 of Chernobyl, an event that took place easily yesterday. It's not a feel-good project, that's for sure. Caleb was twenty-four when it happened. Lochlan twenty. I was newly fifteen years old and headed like a freight train for Cole, not looking at the news, just bitter and broken-hearted over losing Lochlan still and determined to stick it to him so good he'd regret it for the rest of his life.

I did. I regretted it too though and so did absolutely everyone but in the end the events of that entire year and beyond became the history-glue that made this Collective what it is today.

Whatever that is. A bunch of sleepy boys not interested in engaging a rainy Pacific Saturday and a girl with a bottomless cup of coffee and broken ears to match her heart.

Colossal but with tiny arms.

Both albums that came out today, In This Moment's Mother and Pearl Jam's Gigaton (I called it Gigatron all last week in error whoops) are masterpieces.

I listened to them both a few times over with Ben's headphones while he worked and I drew in a chair beside him. That's what I do now. I draw or watch Netflix. I'm about to pick up the knitting I all but abandoned in 2017 and have hardly touched since and not once but twice I put on the inflatable T-Rex suit and went out for a run from the patio to the pool and back, much to the delight of everyone who was surprised by it.

Why not?

I got permission to loop around the neighbourhood but that thing is honestly super-hot and heavy and I'm not sure how far I would make it, but it's a sure-fire way to crawl out of a burgeoning panic attack and so that's what I did.

Sam was very proud of my ingenuity (via facetime. I hate facetime now.) and said I have a gift for entertaining people.

I was like DUDE. I'M A CIRCUS PERFORMER. That's who we are.

But honestly throwing on a costume is hardly entertainment. If Lochlan would hurry up and put up the lines and if it stops raining then I'll be a dinosaur-funambulist but until either of those things happen I'm just a bored T-Rex going for a run.

I wonder if I still fit in the box.

If there's ever an emergency, he said, holding my face in his hands, something he only ever did when it was very important for me to pay close attention and Listen Hard, I want you to meet me at the wheel. If I'm not there yet I will be as soon I can but you need to stay there and wait for me, okay?

I nod. I don't know what an emergency is, here in amusements. Is that like when I need to pee in the middle of the night and so we have to get dressed and he must walk me to the washroom facilities? He never complained about that, not even once.

Do you understand? 

What's an emergency here? 

What are emergencies at home? 

House fires. Blizzards. Maybe tornadoes. 

Right. Or civil unrest. 

Chesterfields?

No, civil means people and unrest means riots. 

People-riots. 

Right, people-riots. If that happens and you see people hurting each other, crawl under the gear box at the wheel and hide. 

But how will you know I'm there if there's a chesterfield going on?

Civil unrest, and I will look in the box. 

Okay. 

Okay. I burst into tears.

Don't be scared, Bridget. We'll be fine. 

How? 

We can steal what we need and as long as we're together everything is okay.

***

Where'd you go just now? Lochlan is staring at me from his spot across from me in the big chairs by the window. I check my expression, gone slack from a daydream.

The wheel. 

Which one, Peanut? 

The first one. It's in my head. 

Did you go for safety? He asks quietly. He knows me so well. Crazy and all.

Yes.

Theatreacle (sic): Acting sweet to get what you want.

I painted my nails green, put in all of my diamond earrings and then pulled on my technical gear to go for a run with Ben, grabbing my favourite running shoes (my old green Sauconys from like 2008 shhhhhh I love them, they're WRECKED) and then promptly got turned back around by Lochlan, who told me my nails were nice but I should probably change, because I wouldn't be leaving the grounds for a run anytime soon.

This is what a third class relic must feel like, I told him as he turned me around, steering me toward the stairs. Touching greatness, touching freedom and veneration only to be stamped with a hindering label preventing it from ever BEING greatne-

Bridget, stop. You can be as dramatic as you like, you're not going out into the neighbourhood. Neither is Benjamin.

We wouldn't go near anyone. 

I'd really rather you stay around the house. He bends down and gives me a tender, patient and understanding kiss. Sigh.

Under resin, attached to a Happy Catholic bookmark from a rack behind the door of that chintzy lace shop in the French Quarter or something-

Oh my God. You should have been an actress. 

Well, it helped once upon a time, didn't it. 

It did. It really did, he conceded. What about if we set up a slackline out back?

Fixed. And shoulder-height. Not this three-feet-off-the-ground shit. 

That's not for you. It's for them. 

Right. Okay, two then. One bounce, one fixed. 

Done. After my call. 

When is that?

Noon. And I can't believe you remember that shop. 

I still can't believe they put the saints behind the door! 

The croissants were good from the next place over though. 

I still have dreams about those. 

Maybe we can make some. 

We never do. 

But we can, and that's the best part. 

I know. I have gratitude. But I have wanderlust too and there's room for both in my heart today. 

I love you so much. 

I hope so, Locket, or all of these dramatics are positively wasted on you.

My flannel best.

PJ has spring-cleaned his closet, deep-conditioned his hair and beard and is playing Saudi Arabian grindcore right now and it's not half-bad. He says he's going to clean and condition his boots and wallet and coat today and I was going to join him to clean up my Doc Marten boots and switch the winter coats into storage now that they're all clean and mended but it's freezing and they're calling for a little snow tonight so instead I'll just marvel at how pulled together he is and now how glossy his hair and boots are. Damn. He would have made the best husband if only he didn't find me so fucking annoying all the time.

(Likewise, dipshit.)

What is this? Caleb walks in and indicates the music, bursting into a goofy smile when he sees PJ's head wrapped up in a huge towel. Did I interrupt a spa day?

Join me, Brother, PJ asks him earnestly. We're spring cleaning our very...existences, man.

Depends, what's in it for me? 

Clear skin, shiny locks, and an eerie calm feeling like you don't have to wonder if your deoderant's working or when you last washed your jeans. PJ looks so pleased.

These are things you worry about?

You don't? 

Not really. Caleb is back to business, dismissing PJ with a wink, addressing me. Ready?

For what?

It's Tuesday. We're going for a drive to see the cherry blossoms and I need to pick up some paperwork. 

It's 2020. They can email it. Or hell, take pictures and text you. 

Not everything can be done that way but I appreciate your efforts. They are, however, having someone run it out to the car. And I need company for the drive. 

Okay, let me get my things.

And change. 

Why? 

Because Hello Kitty pajama pants aren't all that cute outside the house. 

Pretty sure you're the only one who thinks that, Caleb. Aw PJ. I really do love him to pieces.

Paul Barton, I'm coming for your job.

That's all I'm looking at online these days. Piano for elephants. I can play piano, hell, I can play a mean Pachelbel or a Liszt , if you prefer and I'm going to take over for Paul when he retires. The piano is closer to my size anyway. It'll be great. Packing my shit now, see you soon.

***

August is moving in effective this morning. The only thing he'll miss about living alone is not sharing a kitchen (no one's going to eat his weird chai pudding, I don't know why he's so concerned) and his beautiful hanging bed, which will be abandoned however briefly for a sturdy pine four-poster that will hold him just fine.

(Gage has his own bed, don't worry. We always keep a furnished spare room for guests and such. This room is removed slightly from the living quarters so it's a true guest suite. It's tucked off the library with an ensuite and separate entrance into the front garden. It's nice. I hardly ever see it.)

He is relieved but a little surprised at the strange turn of events. I mean, they all are lately, aren't they? Every event seems like a mockery of real life these days, every new story a caricature of  something tangible, but not quite.

He is firmly in the 'Against' camp but was an easy approval to bring in only because he doesn't leave the grounds. At all.

I'm in the Against camp too. Don't bring me a Collective and then rip them away without closure. Don't deny me my boys. Even to bounce ideas off for writing or deciding on paint colors or just sharing music.

Others in the Against camp are Batman and New Jake, who don't go out either. Batman has groceries delivered and works nonstop from home. New Jake polishes his motorcycles and kitesurfs all day long (we're...not sure exactly what he does anymore but he's a mean chimney sweep and also has his gas ticket now and is helpful and fun and a good conversationalist and I guess he works for Batman and sometimes Sam but I no longer see how, truth be told. They tend to be happier when we're apart.)

Daniel is Against. He needs people. He's like me. Affection is oxygen, touch is blood running through our veins.

Andrew and Christian are For isolation. They're concerned and they're newlyweds.

Gage doesn't care. Hahahaha. I'm not surprised. Gage flows like a river.

Schuyler is in the For camp. He's travelled extensively this spring already. He picks up groceries and take-out. He's scared to death he's going to give it to Daniel. He's scared he might get it or have it or transmit it. He was the first one to bring up the idea, apparently, even though I'll go to my grave blaming Caleb for it, but at the same time if now is the time to do this, then it's far too late.

I am their biggest fear with my endless colds. My penchant for pulling pneumonia out of thin air every eighteen months like a parlour trick. My intense wanderlust, my need to get out of the house and at least get what we need at least twice a week and do stupid things like forgetting about germs or replying politely when people speak too close, because I lean in in order to hear them better.

So this is for me. 

Everyone in this house is in the For camp, in other words.

It's not as if I'm going out and trying to live business as usual. The only time I leave the house is once a week for groceries, with help and once a week for drugstore/sundry errands, most of which have been cut back so far I may be able to roll that in with groceries. My wanderlust shouts at me in the background somewhat constantly and sometimes it's so loud I want to drown myself.

We need food and we're perfectly able-bodied so I won't be putting a strain on delivery services or any other human beings right now. This is my family, I will get our food.

Caleb's right. Schuy's right, Bridge. You can't go out anymore. 

What am I supposed to do, Locket. Risk someone else? 

No, PJ and I will go. We're healthy. We'll take precautions.

You won't buy broccoli though. 

That's right. It's disgusting. I'll get corn, though. He laughs but he looks concerned.

The irony. This is the same man that more than once brought me to tears, threatening to ground me from the nightly fireworks show at close of day if I didn't eat the broccoli trees that were still on my plate. The same one who told me the world wasn't safe and to stand behind him and we're still struggling with this decades later.

I'm now home for the duration of whatever this is, or until the elephant videos and the music runs out.

Then I'm running. Screaming.

Jake would have hated this turn of events in the world. But he would have hated everything that happened before it too-

Bridget. Ben says my name, a warning as he watches my brain derail into a field, blowing the townsfolk to kingdom come.

WHAT?

All the same.

Early Jesus Brunch this morning to replace early service, as it's cancelled indefinitely and we're making absolute epic feasts over here these days, but only once a day so if you miss it or want something later, you're on your own. The house is spotless. Now the gardens are spotless. The trucks have all been washed, waxed and detailed and now I'm looking at learning how to give better haircuts at home because I'm a novice by far and not everyone here wants long flowing locks.

In the meantime, Sam stood at the centre of the long table on the patio this morning as we all reached out to take the hands of the people on our left and right, clasped tightly, bowing our heads for his words of grace. He asked for patience, protection and peace for all of us and for everyone we love and know and everyone suffering or afraid right now, he said a prayer for contentment, fortitude and acceptance and he spoke about helping and then he asked that we all take a moment sometime in the coming days to seek out the person most generous in our lives, pointing out that for him and many others, that person is me, for allowing the Collective to be together in good times and in difficult ones, for providing a roof over their heads, food for their hunger and companionship and leadership for their days. Cultivating friendships such as this is a gift from God and so is Bridget, apparently.

Caleb stands up, drops Ben's and Duncan's hands and walks away, heading inside without a word. Sam says that people deal with stress differently and that we can also seek out Caleb and anyone else who is struggling right now but that we should thank God for what we are about to eat to replenish our souls and our bodies, for strength for the week ahead.

We ate, we talked, we passed the honey jar and the raspberry jam and we all cleaned it up together, taking dishes inside and talking in small groups. Once the dishwasher was started and everyone seemed ready to drift off to the four corners of the point, Ben to a virtual meeting, Lochlan to the camper, where he's cleaning it up for summer, I went to find Caleb, who was on the phone. I turned to go back out but he motioned for me to wait. When he's finished I pay attention. Today, it's free.

That was Schuyler. 

Is he alright-

He's fine. We've made the decision to isolate the houses here, from each other, just to be safe. That will include the Boathouse and the Loft-

I have to address the immediate glaring emergency and do the rest in order. August will move in, then. This morning.

Where are you going to put him? 

Gage's old room. Poor Gage, who went to Schuyler's, then the Boathouse then back here then back to Schuyler's. He's easygoing though, God bless him.

Caleb nods.

Nice way to try and keep Sam away. 

It's not. 

Okay. Whatever, I'll go say my goodbyes. 

It's effective immediately, Neamhchiontach. No goodbyes. Facetime only.

Oh my FUCK, Diabhal. 

Lochlan and I have been talking about this for a few days now. 

You're really going to drag him into this? 

We're all in this, Bridget. Except maybe your selfish preacher. 

He isn't selfish-

The hell he isn't. 

You are, though.

Maybe I'm just reflecting you, Bridget.