I am the crisis
I am the bitter end
I'm gonna gun this down
I am divided
I am the razor edge
there is no easy now
Sam walked in through the front door and got busy shaking the rain off of his things and carefully hanging his coat on a free hook. I waited patiently in the archway for him to get organized. He straightened his hair and then his tie, ending with his collar and then he bent down and picked up his messenger bag and his travel mug and started to walk toward me. Maybe he wasn't expecting me to be right there but he stopped about three feet away and just smiled that sort of smile reserved for greeting the very truly insane when you don't know what to expect.
Hi, Bridget. His eyes are looking for something. Heartbreak? Backslides? Seasonal Affective Disorder? Deception?
Hi, Sam. Do you want me to switch your mug to tea?
That would be good, thank you. But he didn't give me the cup, he just kept staring. I assisted by waiting with my expressions mostly blank until he was satisfied that I wasn't rejecting the living in favor of hanging out with the dead and the mug was pressed into my hand. I turned and made my way back to the kitchen while Sam started to tell me his afternoon was a little quiet so he thought he would drop in and he kept prattling on in this weird formal manner and when I finally reached the counter by the window I whirled around and asked him to just get on with it.
On with?
Whatever's wrong, Samuel.
I'm just- well, they wanted me to talk to you again.
I'm not backsliding.
I got the distinct impression you might be, and the picture of the road-
Lochlan sprayed me with perfix and I had brain damage, that's all that was.
Bridget, I-
You should talk to new Jake. He's the weirdo around here.
Jake is not my concern! You are! And why in God's name is Loch spraying you with toxic substances?
I had charcoal on my nose and he thought it was so cute he threatened to make it stay forever. And you have a whole flock of sheep to deal with, I'll be fine. I don't know if you guys noticed but certain calendar dates are kind of rough and I imploded a little late, that's all.
Bridget, you know you can come and talk to me any time.
I do come and talk to you. But for emergency's sake, how about right in the middle of your next sermon?
Okay, not during a service, but-
See?
Does Lochlan need to come and talk to me?
Oh, probably, but he doesn't believe in God.
He believes in the werewolf boy and the bearded lady but not in....Jesus Christ.
Exactly. I smile and turn to wash the mug. Sam crosses around behind the island and looks out over the water.
Caleb and Daniel trading places in your daily routine isn't all that healthy, is it, Bridget?
I don't want to talk about it, Sam.
You haven't tripped back into such tangible writing about Jacob in a while.
Sure I have. Maybe you don't have time to read enough blogs.
I put the kettle on the stove to boil and then I turn back with my Everything's Eventual smile just for him and he looks right through me to see the thin spots where I am pinned and sewn back together.
Okay, how about I just leave the door open? If you want to come and talk, just find me. Or call and I'll come get you.
My smile changes from fixed to real. Warm. Genuine. I will, Samwise. I promise.
His face morphs into reluctant joy. Okay good. How is the tea coming? I still can't feel my legs.
Stupidly cold, isn't it?
For where I'm from, you wouldn't think it would be so bad but it is. Sam's face is so young and elastic. It changes once more into a pained sort of frustration and I start to laugh. I laugh so hard I start to cry and then I can't stop. I can remember years ago hanging around the door of the study while Jacob mentored him, he was so young. He always had a pencil behind his ear and a bad haircut that left curls and waves sticking out over his ears and he was so eager and green.
Sam is weary now and older too, having buried our dead, officiated our weddings, and taken over the faith of the entire collective while his own life fell apart with equal destruction. Still he clings to his faith blindly with his eyes open wide, toothpicks shoved in them to stay wakeful, stay alert, stay above and he fights a losing battle every damn day until we admit that life is too big and we need help.
And then he gives it with a quietly outrageous, enthusiastic joy that becomes contagious and all-encompassing.
He sips his tea slowly. He watches my expressions, reading them like bestsellers, hot off the presses while I struggle to prove that the poker-face theory holds, as does the theory of time and faith.