Rock Star Caveman, take seventy-eight.

I was right. Ben was extremely thrilled to hear that Robert Redford is now off the market and it brings his competition down into the low twenties, as I have a whole list of people I will eventually imaginary-marry.

Except I say imagimarry, because I'm weird like that.

Ben told me all this as he tucked into a hamburger that he made on the barbecue in the backyard, because he's home for an extended long weekend. I'm sure he'll chase the burger with a lipgloss and some Bridget-porn and we'll pick up right where we left off. We seem to have the ultimate in-the-moment kind of marriage, where it doesn't matter where we've been or what we've done, the second we are back in the same atmosphere we're taking the same breath and deliriously thrilled to be in each others' company, with endless grins and boundless affection to bookmark separations that are too long and too painful to even mention, let alone explore with any effort. I know what I signed up for and so far I'm getting gold stars for being a good wife under duress. Imagine that.

Benjamin was tremendously grateful that Caleb didn't manage to extract too much of my soul, that August and I made up with the ease of true friendship and the boys were getting along otherwise and that, for once, he smells like burned meat instead of airplane fuel.

Chased me around the house for a whole damn hour yelling OM NOM NOM PRINCESS CARNIVORE! The kids were squealing. I tried to climb the dining room drapes and settled for throwing myself into the dumbwaiter three seconds too late and was pulled out by my ankles for a long delicious charbroiled kiss and two days of stubble that turned me rose-pink.

And I'm the weird one?

Right on.

Come-from-aways.

Every morning I wake up to boy-filtered news, thanks to the boys who send me links of interest and things I might want or need to know, or even just funny little things. They call it the Bridget News, and it's a roundup of links that I read each morning to get my take on the day.

Everyone sent only one link today. An ironic one, to boot.

Bob, what can I say? You were supposed to wait for me but apparently you grew tired of me chasing after painters, ministers and musicians. Didn't you see the trend? You were on the list and you've blown it now, mister. Congratulations and I hope she can keep up with you. I could have. Though Utah and I didn't get along so well, honestly, so you would have had to move here. It's okay, everyone comes here eventually. I collect people.

People like August, who came here and stayed because he and Jacob always liked the same things, and he has taken over the frustrated, appropriate outrage at all things Caleb, since Lochlan has apparently passed the torch and Ben is off working and pretending real life isn't real and fake life is. So my day yesterday, coupled with the fact that I had abruptly canceled dinner with August Monday night, was difficult. He made me wait over an hour for him for lunch yesterday and then sat there and ate and in between bites he ticked off a list of everything he doesn't like about me and everything I did Monday that was detrimental to my emotional well-being and everything Jacob had ever told him about the efforts made, once upon a time, to keep Caleb and I apart, be it on Cole's watch, or Jacob's or Lochlan's, or Ben's, of course, but we're still going under the assumption here that Ben is going to stick his head in the sand and wait me out because he needs to work and so he needs to focus.

The more August talked yesterday the more he simply turned into Jacob again. Only Jacob without wings and muscles on his muscles. Jacob without the curls mixed with straight. Jacob with a darker blonde crown and not-blue eyes. Jacob more laid-back and Jacob more objective.

I've gone down that road with August before. Letting him be Jacob in my head. I've done it with everyone, looking for one more moment with Jacob or with Cole, just a little more time. We know it's not a good idea. They are desperate to find comfort for me and I am desperate to have it.

Yesterday it caught up with me just enough and I finally stood up, picked up my bag and said a curt goodbye to him before the tears could completely ruin whatever thimbleful of composure I still possessed. I walked out and headed down the sidewalk and ran straight into Skateboard Jesus who asked if time was finally healing all wounds.

No, it doesn't change a damned thing, I said, and I kept walking. I walked all the way down past the University and I didn't stop until I was outside of a bridal shop with the most beautiful princess dresses in the window. White full tulle skirts and tiny embroidered roses, the kind of dress that would have been perfect for me only I've never had one like that, because like I told you before, my moniker has absolutely nothing to do with the high-maintenance type of princess label that gets cast about these days. I stood looking at the dress, oblivious to my surroundings until I felt hands on my arms and I thought Oh, no, I zoned out and someone's going to steal my bag and I was turned around to face August-Jake who told me he was glad he knew how bad things were and glad for my transparency of admission and glad that I don't keep my feelings inside ever.

I stood there and wondered who he saw, who he was describing because it wasn't me. It's easy to admit that you see dead love in every face and memories around every bend. Hell, that's child's play. It's the rest of what's in here that they should worry about.

I let him finish his thoughts because I won't lose another, I have my collection of wonderful hearts that form a fence around my broken one, sentries against further damage and I can't bear the thought of losing any more and so I suffocate all of them and I project and I rail against their good judgement and bad, too. I let him talk and then he asked what I had to say and I turned and pointed at the dress and asked once again where my fucking fairytale was.

Where is it, August? What's the holdup?

I don't know. I can only help but you won't let me.

I'm not your client, August.

No, you're my friend and I love you.

Then you need to not be yelling at me on the sidewalk.

It's okay, people think we're fighting over that dress.

I should just buy the dress.

What in the hell for?

For when Robert Redford comes to take me away from all this.

I think you've already been spoken for.

Ben will understand.

I doubt that.

Do you really?

Jesus, Bridget. Have you seen the way he looks at you?

Not recently.

You need a hobby.

I have one. It's men.

Stop joking around, Bridget.

I would but then I'll cry and you don't want to be the guy standing next to girl crying in front of the wedding dress of her dreams, do you?

I've been in worse places.

Are you running, too? Is that why you're here?

This isn't about me.

True. It's about an imaginary princess, isn't it?

No, it's about a girl and her friends.

Are you my friend?

One of the very best, I hope.

I thought you were in charge of keeping preacher's memories intact from my attempts to discredit him?

I'm in charge of keeping Ben and Lochlan apart so your life goes smoothly.

How is that going for you?

Pretty easy when Ben's away, actually.

Not for me.

I know, princess. But it will get better. The more he goes and comes back, the better you will do.

Now I know what you're in charge of, then.

What's that?

Encouragement and good vegan food.

Then next time you should eat something.

I will, I was too busy listening to your list of everything that was wrong with me.

Then you didn't hear a thing I said.

Your falafels were noisy.

He laughed. So loudly people turned and stared at this goofy couple standing in front of a bridal salon, the women with tears drying on her face and this man laughing, and they probably wondered what in the hell was going on.

It's okay, we wonder the same time sometimes. Actually most of the time. My circle has become a lazy oval and Robert Redford has finally killed my princess dreams for good.

Ben will be so happy.

Interest only.

I should be used to this by now. Caleb and his thousand-dollar suits and seven-hundred dollar shirts, his weekly haircuts and close straight-razor shaves that evolve into an incendiary threat to my fair skin with each point of contact. He activated the fluttering early in my hands by pretending to miss a cheek kiss and landing it just under my earlobe, a calculated, successful attempt to throw me off guard while he murmured appreciatively that my dress and killer heels were very pleasing to him. Ironically I chose that outfit specifically to throw him off, and as usual, I was lagging early on in the power struggle that we've come to define our adult relationship with.

I was an observer yesterday. Holding hands, ready with hugs and tissues as Ruth acted out quietly in the way she does when she doesn't know quite how to act, Henry checking and then mimicking her lead, hoping for cues to tell him what to do because he doesn't know. Perfect Uncle Satan deflecting everything smoothly with the promise of having phoned ahead to his favorite restaurant, securing a private dining room and arranging for an ice cream sundae bar, dropped just at the right moment as an incentive to find some happy in a sad day and they would toast with their silver spoons to giant pieces of their lives that are gone forever. I tried not to roll my eyes. He forgets the fallout from these kinds of extravagance. The sugar highs that only serve to magnify the hurt later on, that ice cream is a band aid, just like anything else.

But it wouldn't be important because he said he would stay until they were asleep and he kept that promise, even when Ruth came wandering downstairs close to eleven to make sure he was still there and he was, suit jacket flung over the back of the big easy chair, sleeves rolled up on now-wrinkled shirt, nightcap in one hand, Blackberry in the other. We've boiled life down to the occasional good dessert and keeping promises. Relationship dynamics and trust. The point people, a chart with retro-astro stars made of circles connected by straight lines to see how our own galaxy appears on paper and in our hearts.

I waited all day for the fear to trickle in and it didn't because he knows better, oh does he know better. Medicated just enough to not be able to hold my breath and yet still able to walk in those shoes was a nicer choice than trembling through the harder parts of the day without the lifeline of my guys, who were clutched in my hand in the form of Ben's old phone and Caleb only asked twice if I was ever going to put it down and I never answered him nor did I ever once put it down.

Sometime around four in the afternoon as the kids expressed their interest in more movie time, watching their father larger than life on the big screen, Caleb smiled and said he would cook, that we should keep watching. His excuse to round out the day, spending more time watching me than even I am used to and I'm sure every eyelash on my face and every freckle on my skin was inspected, catalogued and filed away for his future use. That's what they don't like, you see, the way he looks at me.

It's the same way Cole used to.

I know what he wants and he's not getting it, and we're going to be old and white-haired someday down the road and still doing this dance and I will win because he'll get tired first. I can get what I need, and not from him, and he's not having that same kind of luck and frankly I don't care. I left the focus on the kids and on the good parts of our memories of Cole and the rest can go fuck itself.

Last night it didn't seem like it's been only three years. It felt more like fifteen years, maybe that's because everything moves slower with Caleb. He's walking nerve gas to me and I have to fight to stay conscious because he brings out this horrible, animalistic craving in me to just give in and get what I need straight from God and Bridget's biggest enemy, only because it will be that much sweeter and I can just pay for it later. But now the tab is too high and I find myself working it off but not making a dent in the balance and at some point there will be an emergency plan invoked to help get it consolidated into something else but for now, for now it's still manageable. He is manageable. It's either the calm before the storm or the rare mellow Caleb that I could adore, save for the fact that he is probably the only person left on this earth who can destroy me without lifting a finger.

I don't like that, but I like that I'm done with yesterday and the children with their heads and hearts are still intact and the boys haven't killed Uncle One and I didn't add to Caleb's bag of tricks and eventually even this fluttering will go away.

Like Cole did.

Except not forever.

Today I have breakfast to go to with August, who was suitably Jake-angry last night when I cancelled our dinner plans with seconds to spare, because the Big Master Plan included his classic deprogramming, which consists of his counselor-rhetoric that I never really hear and his Jake-accent and Jake-sensibilities that helps bend me back the other way from exposure to too much Cole. I didn't get that because at that moment I needed more Cole and I wanted to be swallowed by the dark but I didn't, I just stood near the hole and looked down but of course I couldn't see a damned thing anyway, just the absence of light. And so I made another date because the delicious thrill of ice down my spine is enough cause for alarm and enough reason to explore why I'll put myself on the ledge for someone who isn't good for me and I'll have some crow for breakfast, choking on bones and feathers and being looked upon with horror.

It's funny, really. The pain is going to kill me, and my honesty is going to kill them. I told them I didn't care that they were angry so that they would know. I sounded my own alarm so that they would know and I endured the eight extra hours with the devil because I know.

You don't know.

The choices are not mine to make.

I don't know why I wrote this out. Maybe just because people wondered if I went off the deep end again and wound up with Caleb as monster, like after Jacob flew. I didn't, okay? Well, not that monster that he can be. I got the garden-variety everyday Caleb-monster. So you can relax.

Instead of being up early to run this morning, I was up early to let the puppy out, and I spent a small fortune in time with the newly risen sun and my thoughts and the cool still air of a summer morning. That sweatshirt-required cool dampness that burns off as the sun warms us? Love that part of the day. It reminds me of simpler times.

Or maybe everything just reminds me of everything else.

Three years ago today Cole took his last breath before my very eyes and I still haven't dealt with it yet. They had to peel my fingers off him, one by one and then my eyes and lastly my heart, but they left a huge piece stuck to him because they were in a hurry, you see.

I am not.

When I think about him I choke, swallowing back huge gulps of regret washed down with tears because of the way I have managed to vilify him for leaving. Because he was the smart one and I got tired of living on my knees and I did something so horribly selfish and destructive to my family that I still can't live with it but I got burned by it and in the end I think he got off easy and I am here to spend the rest of my life in emotional shackles as a punishment. As a curse. I shouldn't have done what I did but now the only choice left is to begin again. There's a lot of that around here. I always say I'll tear it all down and start from scratch, only it's not turning out the same. I can't rebuild it. It doesn't work so I get a little ways in and then I rip it down again. I need lessons. Time. Experience. Whatever, I don't even know anymore.

There were good things about him. Great things about him and there were awful things too, things he was driven to do because he couldn't control the incredible gifts he had, things he would live to regret when they became the platform upon which I would build my reasons for leaving.

I spent the early part of the morning talking to him. I've been awake for longer than I've been up, you see, with places to go and things to do and I brought a Maglite this time so I could see his face, so I had a focus on his dark blue eyes shot with red and his fingers now permanently curled into claws. Because he is the villain and I am the ghost and not the other way around. It's the only way I can picture us. I told him about the kids playing with the new puppy and part of his face broke off when he smiled, cracking and shattering on the floor like new porcelain. From the corner Jacob sent a beam and when Cole looked up again his face was whole but his eyes had further darkened into bottomless pools of blue unspoken emotions and I clicked the button on the light because my regret came flooding back in a tidal wave and I ran out of words and he screamed for me not to go but I had to. I had to because the fear of myself is so much greater than the fear of him.

Today we'll be going to the bench with Caleb, who is taking us out for a long brunch afterward and then to his loft for some home movies on his stupidly extravagant projection screen. The kids are looking forward to marking this day, though I don't even think they really remember Cole. How many memories do you have from when you were four and six? I mean, they remember who he was, but I don't think they really remember him.

I gave him this because I don't deserve any better. Three years in and I still don't know what to do with any of it. Not a clue. But last year I wouldn't have said it was okay to miss him and this year I am giving myself permission to do just that.

He snorts in his sleep just like I do.

Meet Bonham, a three month old Lhasa Apso/Bichon/Shih Tzu cross who weighs less than my big platform boots and sleeps more than Benjamin does, when he's home.

After Butterfield, the saga of The House that Needed a Dog returned with a vengeance, only I didn't have the heart to look for a dog and ignored it, just on principle. But Bonham came looking for me, and so we brought him home this afternoon and he fits in just like icing on cake.

Or maybe like peanut butter on Milk Bones.

(Bonham, for those not in the know, is for John Bonham, the late drummer for Led Zeppelin. I think that part will soften the surprise when Ben comes home since he doesn't know yet.)

Surprise, honey. Isn't he cute?

They'll be chanting GSP! GSP! by ten o'clock for sure.

It's one of those positively gorgeous days. It's lush outside, green and warm, and the air smells fresh thanks to the storms last week that washed away the rest of the grime that coats the city. We've cleaned up the branches and swept away the debris and noticed how much everything grew from the long drinks of Thursday as the rain never seemed to end. It was worth it to wake up to this. Yesterday was nice but the promise of today looms huge, blocking out everything else.

I have all kinds of plans, around a quarter of which will be accomplished, and the rest left to the wind.

I also have a little free time in my schedule for the next month at least, as I won't be running.

I will most likely switch to lifting weights instead. I kinda sorta totally broke a toe yesterday, smashing it head-on into a door frame while going into the kitchen. I stub my toes a lot in this house, there is some beautiful woodwork and the baseboards are all twelve-inch high works of art that extend two inches onto the surface of the floor as well. You have to give them space and I always seem to miss. I thought it was stubbed and I would be fine but walking for the rest of yesterday was tough and I still can't put weight on it today. It's turned a lovely black and purple and I will take a picture of it for you and post it so you can enjoy how wonderfully I bruise.

Like a newborn star as seen through the Hubble telescope.

So that's three, if you add in the fall on the steps two weeks ago and February's head trauma in the garage when I wiped out on the ice and knocked myself out cold on the floor.

I think my house is trying to kill me. All it needs really is to time opening the dryer door while I'm facing the furnace and it will be all over for me. Seriously. It's like Kill House, only my house is way nicer and my life far less cheesy. At least I hope so.

Snort.

In other news, it's Fight Night. Where my house fills up with testosterone and beer and then it foams out under the doors and over the window sills and you can hardly breathe for all the flexing muscles and shameless intent. I'm an odd girl, I love the UFC. Go Lesnar and Dalloway! Wooo!

Caffeine-free princess.

It's official.

I have no vices left.

Okay, maybe I have one. But even that has been removed at present.

I don't drink pop anymore. I don't smoke anymore. I never did drugs past the barest of experiences (Shhhh). I don't have a gambling habit. I don't eat too much. I don't have a shopping problem or a candy addiction (PJ, be quiet!). I drink a glass of wine or a cooler when so moved, like once a week or less and really, I'm about to enter middle age as the poster child for healthy living.

Which is funny, really. When Cole and I got our first apartment I happily lived on Kraft Dinner and Jack Daniels, and when we had a few dollars, I would have McDonald's for dinner. I extolled the virtues of being able to choose for myself and put my physical well-being on the back burner in favor of tipsily hitting the dance floor five nights a week and chasing the hangover with some deep fried food the next afternoon, or whenever it was that I would wake up. Heading in large groups to various cottages only meant we'd trade the dance floor for midnight swimming and the fried food would be replaced with delicious things grilled on the barbecue.

Life is different now. Jack Daniels is rarely welcome and Kraft Dinner causes gastric issues since I haven't really been able to handle dairy products in large quantities for years. Smoking gave me headaches and cost a staggering penny, and pop is fizzy and makes me have to pee all the time, and ask any of the guys, I pee enough. Christian says it's like having a perpetual potty-training child around, every place we go I scout for the nearest washroom, just in case. Whatever happened to my teenage aversion to icky public washrooms had to be hung up as I realized any place was better than holding it in.

I think I have veered off my point.

What the hell was it? Oh yes.

I quit coffee this morning.

Not really cold-turkey, over the past few weeks I've been tapering off slowly, down from more than 40 ounces a day. I cut out the afternoon cup first and staggered through days and days of narcoleptic moodiness. Then I began to drastically reduce the morning cup until I was down to 10 ounces and finding that I still had lots left in the late morning as I ignored the cup and went about my day.

This morning I didn't have any at all. It's 9:30 and I'm ticking along on my regularly scheduled Friday and I don't miss it. My father calls it liquid pesticide. It was never more than a crutch anyhow and the fact that my headaches and anxiousness have dissipated all together leads to me to believe I've done the right thing.

At least I hope it's the right thing.

(If you see me writhing on the sidewalk later clutching my head in agony, for heaven's sake run to the nearest Starbucks and save my life!!)

Now, about that last vice. I'm kidding. There is no Friday porn entry because as you can see, my husband is still AWOL. DAMMIT ALL TO HELL.

I will live, I guess. Caffeine-free, no less.

Drop names like rain.

I always listen to the Allman brothers (at the Fillmore East) when I get tattooed and I listen to Pink Floyd when it rains. My boys have raised me well. I listen to heavy masters jazz through the open window of my vintage neighbors when we walk and I listen to Norwegian speed metal (all kinds) when I clean the house. I fall asleep to Phish and make love to Tool. I'm very picky, I guess.

This house alone is a full-time job, I think. Though the work was outside as we had the mother of all storms this morning. The street became a lake and I put on my slicker and went outside with the big sharp shovel to clear my adopted storm drain, and then the one across the street, too, since I was completely soaked within seconds, and because my neighbors are lazy (and dry!). I wore my sauconys, I'm afraid they won't recover and I'll be in my vibrams this winter. Not sure if that's good or bad, maybe it's just brave. But I did it because it's MY storm drain and it's MY branches and leaves stuck in it from MY yard and MY street, even though I faithfully clear it every time I do any yard work at all.

Once everything dried, we took the kids on a short walk to see the muddy high creek and pick clean wildflowers and then returned to sweep the patio, check all the gutters and assess any further damage. There are roofing trucks parked up and down the street now, and people who thought they had some problems before with their roofs now have emergencies. I don't have an emergency. I got a new roof for my birthday and my house was bone-dry after the storm save for one tiny leak on the north side behind the washing machine. I can deal with that, this house is ninety-five years old and very gracious in her old age.

Lochlan has been the gatekeeper this week, and it's going well. My new routine is to get the kids into bed and then I crawl underneath his arm and fall asleep until Ben calls for a second time and then if I'm lucky I can pick up where I left off and Lochlan is beginning to complain that he is too old to sleep on a couch and he misses his big spendy bed so he gets a pass and I will torch PJ instead with the heat of my nightmares and the damp fear of my dreams. PJ figures sleeping anywhere but home is cause for excitement. The kids just love the fact that he eats all the Froot Loops Ben keeps buying but is never home to eat.

Oh, and when the sun comes out we listen to Switchfoot. Surfing noise from the surfing boys.

Works for me.

Five to three.

Fitful dreams in the heat of Lochlan's arms where I fell asleep in spite of myself last night drove me to the caves underneath my heart. It hasn't rained in a while so there were no puddles to splash through to heed my arrival. I walked slowly, feeling my way with my hands outstretched in case I tripped, the concrete is broken and wedged up along the way. It's a treacherous walk.

I make it to my room and throw the bolt again, an action I can do in my sleep now, twisting it slightly to break the rust. I pull the ring and then automatically wipe my hands on my skirt. The door opens and I call his name because I don't see him.

Jake.

God turns on the glow light. My dead husband is a Playskool toy. Squeeze him and he lights up. Only I can't squeeze him. I can't touch him. Cole screams from the rafters and my eyebrow goes up slightly in bemusement and fear, too.

He's angry.

Why?

It should be his time right now.

It is. That's why I'm here. I can't do this on my own, so you're being prewarned.

Where is everyone?

Away.

Now? Have they forgotten?

I don't know. I don't ask.

Cole bellows in agony and a fine cloud of dust descends, settling in my hair, giving a haze to the air that magnifies the glow and makes it hard to see. I call up to him.

They didn't forget, I think they're just waiting to see what happens!

He stops and considers this and Jacob begins again.

Will you be coming here?

Yes.

You shouldn't, Bridget.

I don't care.

I smooth my filthy skirt again with one hand, trading my contraband to the other fist and he watches me.

What is that?

Nothing. Just a worry stone.

May I see it?

No.

Perhaps next time.

Cole snarls and Jacob puts a hand up toward him and turns his gaze to what I can't see.

Black wings disturb the air, flapping indignantly and Cole is somehow quieted. They've been communicating again. I like it when they do that. Makes things feel safer to know that they are safe together. It's such a tiny room. I can't do any better right now.

When are you coming on Monday?

Five in the morning. Do you have other plans? Does it matter?

I need to prepare.

Ice-cold blood in my veins.

Will you be here, Jake?

Of course I'll be here for my princess.

Will you..will you switch places for a little while for me?

He turns his head and points again and I see that there's a wooden chair in the right hand corner of the room. I couldn't see it in the dark. He has Jesus beams that blow out of his broken fingers. It's like a superhero talent down here.

Thank you.

I didn't put that there.

Yes, you did, princess.

I look up and strain to see Cole's face in the dark. Jake sends some light his way, not enough to burn him, just enough for me to get his attention.

Will you talk to me on Sunday overnight?

He nods, sullen and rebellious.

I'll see you then. His voice suddenly overrides the screeching monster sounds that crawl out of his throat and he speaks to me clear as day. I always look forward to time with you.

It's been a year since he has said so many words to me down here and my breath catches and chokes me. I stand up slowly and turn to step carefully through the door, not willing to trip like last time. Once safely on the other side I turn back and as the door swings closed I notice they have already taken their positions, Jacob is sitting in the chair and Cole is standing in the center of the room, the backlighting from Jacob's glow giving him an impressive, daunting presence.

I spin the bolt, whisper that I love them both and take off down the hallway before the darkness closes in. When I emerge into the bright light again I look down at my hand. Clutched in my dirty fingers is the case from an old pocket watch. Inside are two locks of hair. One is a warm golden brown, tied with a thin black velvet ribbon. The other is white golden and tied with a ribbon of blue. No one knows I have this, and no one ever will.

My kids were glued to the screen, I was glued to the table (stop laughing).

Yay! I got the zap glue off my fingertips, long enough to touch the laptop and let you know that the last baby peregrine falcon chick has fledged. She took her sweet time. Thanks, CBC!