I live to disappoint you (Part I).

Last night was a doozy, holy. 

I made my way over to Batman's. August's eyes boring a hole in my back as I went. He offered. I'm sure Batman could see right through me to watch this too, as it was the walk of bears and pre-shame, or so they thought, but I refused to have company on the walk as I was busy gathering courage as I went, like fallen leaves. In reality I regretted this decision from the very first step as the path was exceedingly slippery but I wasn't going to give August nor Batman the amusing schadenfreude of seeing me slip because that's going to be metaphorical only today, thank you very much. 

Only none of them know it and that's the part that I'm irritated about. Like, pay attention here. This isn't hard and while I'm sober I'll shine bright enough to scare off the bears and the wolves alike. 

Bridget, Batman says when I arrive, an affectionate kiss ready to plant against my temple (I wrote temper there first. Lord. The MOOD.) I wasn't sure you'd come. 

Here, I resist my sophomoric urge to laugh. (Because I'm never sure. It's likely but you just never know.) He takes the gifts from me. There is wine with a big bow and fresh flowers. He loves flowers. 

I'm not staying. I'm sorry. I don't think it's a good idea. 

With that my phone goes off. I look at it. It's Caleb. I need you for one quick moment.

JUST A MINUTE. I reply, smashing buttons. Shouldn't have looked it. But if I don't, it's either Ruth with a question or someone will keep texting til I reply. No one has chill. We are feverish instead. 

I see you've received a better offer. 

No. I brought you a nice wine to drink and some pretty flowers for your table and we both know that right now is not a good time and so we're adults and we're reasonably intelligent and so we can be mature about this. 

If I were the one bringing you flowers when you hoped for more?

I would have more respect for you. Not less. I say it quietly and he softens, relaxing his whole body, slumping against the doorframe. 

Well, there's something that can keep me warm, he says. He sticks his face in the flowers and takes a deep breath. Go find your Devil, Bridget. I'll watch from here. 

I hurry away before he says anything else. Down the treacherous path, into the trees. Home.

OMG this fucking RAIN.

Before the storm.

 Up early again. I like to have a couple of hours to just move slowly and have coffee and toast and frozen summer grapes today for my fruit, and read or watch something or write or draw. My ipad is charging. All of my supplies are out in the stables studio. I'm seriously considering turning the whole thing into a potting shed but it's a huge output and I am not as ambitious as I would like to be, perhaps. I'm going to make some mugs and see if I like where it goes and then decide. Or maybe I won't. I don't know. 

I just know unless I am heavily drugged I don't sleep anymore. At all. I hate it. I went to sleep at eleven thirty after Lochlan yelling at me to put my book down (I have a tiny clip-on book light. He hates it. Not much has changed in forty years. I would sleep with the lights on if I could. I would probably just read all night, if I could. To wait out the night.

At two-thirty I got up to pee. That's normal. 

At five I got up to take aspirins, pee again and take off my earrings. 

At seven I gave up, showered, dressed and came downstairs to make coffee. Ben is deeply asleep and doesn't stir. Lochlan is comatose, helpless and exhausted and mutters something about not going outside. 

PJ lurks the halls. Pretty sure Loch texted him in a haze of sleep and effort. I'm not going outside. It's raining again.

Yay but also booo but also yay.

Every final weekend of November starts the same way now. I defied Black Friday (online and in person, mostly) and went to mail the packages heading East and South, and overseas. I like to go before the packages hit the mailstream from people shopping online. My stuff always arrives in lots of time for Christmas this way. 

I was the first in line at the post office (which is at the back of the drugstore) and on the way out I picked up snacks for the upcoming rainy weekend. We gassed up the Jeep (well, thirty litres since we're rationing gas here due to the floods) and that got me a little less than half a tank which is pretty nice. I feel rich.

Home again, listening to music (random Youtube) and drinking hot chocolate so heavily spiked it's almost illegal and I'm singing at the top of my lungs and chugging along in my Christmas machine like a little maniac. I have all of Ruth's gifts wrapped and ready for her home. Everything else (at least forty percent of the wrapping is done) stays here on the point. I have to pull out the ornaments next as we do our trees and figure out which ones belong to her. It's pretty easy-we (...I?) gave the children matching ornaments every year for a long time so if there's two of something, one goes to her. 

It was weird trying to address cards and gift tags and not putting her name as I sign things from the family, proper. Nuclear. Immediate. I don't even know so I didn't. I signed it all from Us. With a heart. Just Us. Everyone knows who is who and who buys the gifts and who wraps them and who makes things and who does the extra touches. 

 It was even weirder slowly stopping to watch the Ghost video from Justin Beiber. I know why they didn't let me see it but well done (even though it's pop superlight and it reminded me of the Charlie Puth song See You Again, oh, wait it's Wiz Khalifa, a LOT), save for the easy-pop top on the urn at the beach. They weld those things shut so you can't just WHOOPS open it up, sprinkle a little beautifully, Diane-Keaton style and then close it up and come home. 

Ask me how I know this. 

Maybe don't. *covers eyes*

Maybe it's different in America. But he's Canadian. I don't even know anymore, but Happy Thanksgiving. My work here is done.

Vampires and empires.

What if God's not real
And everything we are
Is just a moment here
Where we're only growing older
What if God is real
And everything I've done
Pushed me down this path
And it's only growing colder?

Batman is standing in the back hall when I come down this morning. A hulking shadow, an unfamiliar sillhouette in the early morning darkness, an uninvited guest with an open-door invitation clasped in hand, written in my own blood by my own design. 

I've heard enough over the past few days that I thought it was time I paid you a visit. As you haven't been to see me. I thought I would see you after Asher left. And with that his reluctant, almost sour wave of loneliness washes over me and I turn away to go make coffee, throwing an offer of a cup over my shoulder, not watching to see his response and so having no idea if he's going to follow me or not. 

He does follow, so I pull a second mug from the cupboard. He sits at the island, eyes boring holes through my head, like I need more. The opal marbles I collected and stuffed inside spill out, bouncing all over the floor as I turn to chose flavours among the drawer of k-cups, grateful for the mindless domestic distractions, aware that I am now flushed of face and trembling just a little bit as I fit a cup into the holder and pull the handle down. 

He's amused. He's not blind to match my deafness. He's actually hyper aware of my moods and well-versed in my endless, obvious efforts to appear cool even as I lose my shit. 

Bridget, you need to come see me and check in. Or did someone else get my dance card? 

I see not only Lochlan was pissed at the full weekend I spent with Caleb for no reason other than I wanted a yes-man for two fucking days, just for a break from the constant weight to do better, be better, be more, fix everything and somehow hold up the fucking sun and the moon at the same time. 

I was busy. I shrug and hold a mug out to him. Starbies Jesus blend. Perfect for his casual sanctimony, timely in that no one's tried this flavour yet. We stocked up on holiday coffee since it seems to keep us going and so we just bought whatever and it turns out the maple/herbal whateverness is pretty good, though it's not really helping me find the holy spirit of Christmas. And neither is this man. 

Maybe we can watch a Christmas movie together. 

Maybe, I remain doubtful, pressed against the dishwasher, I guess Frigidaire has my back this morning, since none of my army is anywhere to be found. Don't think they don't get bonuses in their accounts to to throw a race or even just steer off to the side for a few minutes, giving him a chance to overtake the leader and try to win. 

He's never won and he's kept my respect all these years with a decided lack of pressure and desperation and so I think when he's ready to go I will turn and add some whiskey to my coffee otherwise I might walk around for the rest of the day with my eyebrows on the roof, getting washed down in this unending deluge of destructive mountain rain and the surprise of these raw emotions. Batman's a washout, he's a natural disaster this morning holding a cup of grocery-store coffee and all of his hopes in the same hand. 

How about Sunday? I say abruptly as he returns the cup to me. He's not a sipper (or a slurper, like me), he drinks coffee like a construction worker with only a two-minute breather and freezing cold hands. 

This Sunday? Are you free? We can do a Hallmark dice roll and make some pizza. 

Yeah. That would be good. Did you decorate?

I had the house decorated, yes. 

Of course. Good. That will help with the spirit. 

Anything else I can do in advance? 

I shake my head, slurping my coffee. Prepare to wage war with my army, the one getting tired of my efforts to destroy myself by become stretched so thin I break and then the veil will be gone and the ghosts of Christmas past will crowd in even closer?

It's not going to happen. Just make sure you're home by midnight, Lochlan thinks inside my head. I turn but he's not there. Maybe it is the self-regulating. Maybe it's wishful-thinking. Maybe it's a hard rule that I'm faster than. We shall see.

You.

PJ brought me up a water bottle with an immunity booster tablet in it and I get to wear my pajamas all day today. I have a dent in the side of my head that is bruised but otherwise I'm fine. A little sore but nothing I can't manage. I have five kinds of coffee and one kind of hot chocolate and I'm making stuffed green peppers with ground beef, tomatoes and rice tonight for dinner because it's finally my turn again, though I bet now they won't even let me help much at all, if I even get to go in the kitchen at all.

In the meantime I'm spending the rest of today wrapping and addressing packages, as our mailings should go out early next week if not the end of this week. It's supposed to rain more. It's supposed to rain a metric ton but I don't think I care too much. 

I just want to sleep. Lochlan woke me up repeatedly last night just to make sure I didn't have any issues and we are hyper-aware of the kind of damage repeated head injuries or knocks can do, and I have had my fair share over the years. 

But I'm fine. I'm just tired now.The young doctor was by today just to be sure. He didn't do any tests Lochlan didn't already do and he thought observation and rest were the best prescription. He also checked George and George is fine too, I'm wearing my brace as long as I'm awake now. Trying to slow down and looking everywhere for the Christmas spirit. I haven't found it yet but I'm sure it's close. 

Thanks for the kind emails. I'm fine.

Glitter scavengers.

We had a bit of a fight last evening and Lochlan didn't come up last night. It might have been about my ear or about a second night with Caleb so he disappeared and Ben took over babysitting duties and I fell asleep curled around Lochlan's pillow, not sleeping at all after an hour or so because the bed was cold and Ben was out-cold and non responsive and I wish I could sleep like he does. I really do. 

I eventually fell asleep after leaving him twenty messages that he read and did not reply to. I don't remember falling asleep, I remember texting at four or maybe it was five in the morning and then when I woke up there was a little wooden box on the bedside table on top of my phone. 

(When I was little Lochlan used to make these all the time for me out of things he would find. Little treasures along the way. He said it was an offering to the magpie in me. The girl who loves soft things and things that shine.)

Inside was a dried tiny rosebud. Some shells. Sea glass. Chips of tiny gemstones. A tiny pinecone and a tiny acorn. A perfectly round white opal marble. A dried starfish baby. A garden quartz point wrapped in a bit of sterling wire. Some bleached bird bones. A pretty pink glass bead and an iron skeleton key. A small bit of green velvet ribbon and a carved wooden heart that he made (he's always making pocket hearts), stained with a turquoise-blue diluted milk paint. Glitter. 

(Always glitter.)

I was so enamored with my tiny fairy treasure haul that I carried it around all morning, marvelling at all of the little things he found and included. I even brought it outside with my coffee to have under the glass pergola in the rain this morning, staring intently at the way the change in light made different pieces glow.

And did not notice the patio heater base sitting directly in front of me and wiped out.

The coffee flew, splatting on the stamped cement floor of the patio, running dry into the design in rivers of wasted caffeine and shattered ceramic. The box flew and smashed against the hard cement too, stones flying everywhere. 

I fell and banged my head really hard. Stars and birds in a rainbow aura flew up immediately and I shook my head, feeling instant throbbing. 

Duncan (great) runs out. Hey! Shit. Sorry. I should have moved that. He is picking me up, pulling me to my feet. I am dizzy and uncentered and really upset about the little box. The coffee mug was bespoke too but I can probably commission a replacement. 

Lochlan comes out, worried and yelling (because that's how you know he's concerned, he becomes almost aggressive, unchecked panic and in charge all at the same time). I am in tears and I tell him the box broke and everything is everywhere. Duncan has the pieces of the cup, and Lochlan tells me just to sit on the floor while he finds the pieces. 

How will you know that you've found everything? 

There were fifty things in the box. It's always fifty. And I can grab another box. I have a crate full of them in the closet in the downstairs hall. I'm just glad you're not hurt. 

I have another concussion. I made sure to fall whole-body and not try to catch myself. I'm so talented it worked and my back and shoulder hurt along with my head. I crashed into the wrong iron bench and table. And the four chairs stacked behind the bench. Ha. Go big or go home, I guess. I should have gone big because I am home.

Lochlan hands me back the two halves of the box, filled with my treasures. George grabs it eagerly. George is so happy I put him first and he laughs with delight that our fairy treasures are intact. I'm just happy he is intact.

Rift.

I didn't want to face the world, the weather, the week or the news and so I stayed where I was, maybe for the first time ever, and for that I was rewarded with a bite mark right through the top of my ear. I don't know if he could help himself, I just know that he did, but I am small and all gristle, no meat, according to Caleb and so eventually I was thrown back and Lochlan was so impressed. SO. Impressed. He decided it didn't need stitches or professional medical care but he cleaned it really well and dipped my whole ear in iodine and then put antibiotic ointment and wrapped it in a big bandaid, folded over and now my balance is off. 

Good, he said. Serves you right.

I didn't bite my own ear, I remind him. 

Oh, I know.

Jesus, George.

I didn't bother recanting my entry from yesterday as this is my diary, not theirs and I won't be doing this one either, because of reasons and instead of editing I ended up saving my night from within the arms of the Devil even as we rolled over into Sunday morning. I saw every hour marked. My anxiety was bad in the night but he kept me pressed hard against him, in his lap, my arms around his neck, knees raw by the bitter end as I need a little leverage as he's...umm..on the big side of life, and no, I'm not going to let loose and let him drive as much as I can hold him back or I'd get my lobotomy all right but they're not supposed to conducted from the neck to the top of the head, like a stick through an apple at the fair. 

Which is truthfully how I feel to him, most times. Like he's Bridget with her violently-executed sweet tooth and I'm that fresh glossy candy apple waiting to be bought for only a dollar (midway staff price) and that's why they were my fruit servings every damn day of the fair. 

Oddly, I don't hate them now. Bring me one and I will drop everything, devouring it on the spot. Sort of like Caleb did to me, but luckily I only have one barest imprint of his unique bite, and he had enough mind to not fuck up his own Christmas plans by sampling the princess, especially when the desperation and insanity makes her extra-sweet, no sir. 

I think he may have moved George though. George doesn't feel so hot right now.

He's still there breathing down your neck, except he has to do it through his nose, because I took his mouth away.

Jacob's standing on the patio, right at the edge by the waist-high wall that now keeps the bottom garden delineated from the patio itself. It used to just end and become grass but Emmett and Ransom helped transform it into some sort of palace gardens and now you have practically walk a labyrinth to get anywhere. 

Or parkour. 

(There's a vision.)

We unintentionally chose matching coffee cups AND black clouds this morning as I woke up with a rager of a headache, crawling down the centre of the bed in order to let Lochlan and Ben sleep in. I need coffee, an aspirin and a super-hot shower. I need a lobotomy. I need to have not woken up today considering how yeah, we're in the fifteenth year of this and I think I have it under control but then I see you and I don't. 

I don't. 

I thought I did but I don't and you don't deserve this. No you don't. You don't deserve to take any more of my life when you wouldn't let me keep yours in return. 

You're selfish, Jake. 

He turns to gaze at me, amused smile behind his cup as he takes a sip. Am I now?

Yes. You won't go and let me get on with my life. 

There's room for me. Just like there's room for Ben. And Caleb. And August. I'll keep going, Pigalet, if you want. 

 I didn't know ghosts could be jealous. 

Then you missed the last dozen-something years of Cole screeching in my ear. Sitting on my back. Making me carry him everywhere in spite. 

Where is he now? 

I have no idea where you hide him, Princess, but I hope I don't end up there too.