Full. Not full. Fall.

This mourning is cold. Windy. The air feels so heavy, the rain must be close. I untangle my arms and my hair from Ben's uneasy sleep and slip away, crossing silently to the door on the other side of the room. I dress in the dark, fastening buttons by memory. Fourteen. Then eight. Then two. I slip into my boots and cross the room once again. I am followed this time by a little white friend who is happy to be the focus of my time for the next little while and thrilled that the heat wave is finished.

He recognizes me in black. As do they all. It's a customary sight, a cold kind of comfort to see sometimes. A warmth that you wouldn't expect from Miss Spindley-Bones with the soft scowl. I am elated to see familiar weather in a place that still reeks of mystery and newness. I reach back for my hooded sweater. Pale blue elicits a further frown but I wear it anyway since everything goes with black, except for pale orange. Never wear that, for some reason it's awful. Now we are warm and we take off at a clickety-clip down the concrete.

We pause mid-step, in the air, to listen to the windchimes. Oh! So beautiful!

My stomach is empty and I still am waking up with headaches from Friday night's excitement. I need toast and aspirin and coffee too and maybe a little more sleep would be nice. My guests have two more days to spend with us but it won't be at the break-neck pace we set over the weekend as we tried to impart such magnificent beauty on such a brief period. The effect is delightful, I believe we were successful.

Now we are at the top of a hill and I have let off the gas to coast, considering the brakes but only for a moment, there is lots of room at the bottom and we will slow so gradually. I am working hard to keep the transitions smooth and painless, though I like the pain so very much indeed.

What's amazing to me right now is when I am hungry you can hear it and even feel it and when the boys are hungry you can see it in their eyes.

Patience, please. Patience.

Otherwise I can't go on.

Well, now.

I finally got to see Tool!

Toooooool.

Remember, this is my bucket list. I won't be able to hear forever.

It was the perfect show. Tickets were cheap, the parking was easy, the crowd and venue were super-sketch and we didn't have to sit through an unknown opener because of the line-ups just to get in (which! I don't advocate. I've fallen in love with all kinds of opening acts, please support them, they work so hard.) We walked in, got comfortable and the lights went out and they came on. Perfect timing.

I hoped for Sober. I hoped so hard but it didn't happen. I heard Forty-six and 2 live, Jake. I closed my eyes and felt the music. I had the biggest contact high of my life. Dear God, the drugs at that show. These kids are all about endurance and I was fucking toast halfway in. So high. Looked at Twitter this morning and laughed. Going to burn the shoes I wore last night. Might burn the skirt as well and definitely the shirt. I might even cut my hair, that's how incredibly filthy we were by the time it was done, soaked to the bone with sweat, bathed in smoke and happy we finally snagged a show by a band we have listened to forever, it seems.

Am I getting too old for this? (Yes, Bridget, you are but it probably won't stop you.)

I hope not. The sound last night was perfect. Perfect. I could manage all of it and missed nothing.

Next up. Deftones. Mastodon. Alice.

Squee!

That Lochlan. Such a charmer.

Blows my mind sometimes.

Youngest child syndrome.

We've designated this week Parent Week at Camp Bridget. My parents are flying into the city this afternoon. My mom has never seen the Pacific. I don't think she has, anyway. She's been to Spain and Morocco and a lot of the Caribbean and Paris too but the Pacific Northwest? This will be new, and terrific for her to see.

My father has been here on business before but not for a long time. They have a long day traveling across the country, I don't envy that. It will take an awful lot to get me back to Nova Scotia when the time comes. Much as I love my seabound coast I actually despise flying. Maybe we'll drive. Lots of time to plan anyway.

The rules for the boys are pretty simple for the week. No one is allowed to do a shot, throw a punch or cut the head off a goat.

What? I thought they would be easy rules to follow, except that the boys are impulsive and eventually they'll break one or all three.

Since I already get up before five every morning and my folks will be running a four-hour time deficit I can imagine I will be able to post all week but on the off chance I am sporadic with it, this is why.

So excited I could burst.

Go here.

Listen.

Now watch as I die happy.

PS. We go see Tool this weekend!! If you see us, come say hello. As I always say, Bridget doesn't bite but Ben might. How will you know it's us? I never worry about that part. Ever.

Killing two thirds with one throne.

Keith is here for breakfast, along with um...let's see now. Stephen. Maybe it's Steven. Sam is back. Dylan. Andrew. Daniel, Schuyler, Ben. Lochlan. Also, quiet man in the back. The one who hasn't really said a word yet. His name is Jake and I'm sure that the way I visibly paled when I was introduced made him want to run for the hills.

Keith and Jake are longtime friends of Sam from school. They brought Stev/phen. They want all the dirt on how Sam and I know each other too so, hey, here's some bacon. Everyone likes bacon. Have some. No, have more. No one goes away hungry in Bridget's house.

They are curious about how this works. Who does what? What about the money? How are chores divided? Do we share the trucks? Exactly what's the deal with Lochlan again? He seems like the odd man out. What do the kids think of having all of their hunkles within reach all the time?

Inevitable curiosities when we open ourselves to discussions about the commune (only we don't call it that). Too many questions and I've managed to leave that to the boys to explain while I hide in the kitchen, looking up recipes for something baked for lunch. Like a pie with crow. Maybe some humble-dish. Maybe some pride, too, just for flavor. I feel all over the place.

I am listening to the descriptions and explanations and it sounds perfect.

But in a perfect world the boys would never argue, no one would ever have to leave the property to work, and we would have a huge garden too. Also since it's my fantasy we would have all of Coney Island on site. Amusement is a necessity, vegetables are a luxury, Lochlan always says.

And cake would fall from the sky like rain but only when Bridget is hungry.

Speaking of hungry, I'm wondering if I have room for three more boys around my table on a regular basis. Add in the missing ones and the house will burst, testosterone raining down on us like confetti. I'm also wondering if I can really give this poor guy a chance at friendship, when the biggest strike against him lies in a choice made by his parents who named him. People I don't even know. I'm sure I can, save for the fact that anytime someone addresses him, everyone gives me the side-eye, and I'm convinced they can see my battered heart lurch around in my chest. It hits a little too close to home and I'm surprised by how unfair I feel towards him. He's adorable. For a mute.

Ah, I have found what to make for lunch. Blackbird pie. See, the princess can do this one of two ways. I can draw him in or I can shove him away. Since it's Tuesday and Tuesdays are hardly ever bad days, I may possibly do both. Just to see if he is worthy of his name.

I have the hiccups. Like, very very badly. So no post. I'm just trying to hang on to the darned chair.

Sunday review.

Ben pointed out this morning that the only competition he considers real is the ghost in the copper box.

And then he laughed in Lochlan's face.

He tells me I will give up secrets when I'm good and ready and not because the boys demand to know. He tells me everything is okay and if the rest of them don't understand how my head works than it is their problem and nothing more. He tells me I should just delete the emails that scold me and that I don't actually have to answer to anyone other than the girl in the mirror.

As usual, I'm not sharing anything with her. She looks like she carries her own burden. Besides, she's never even told me her name.

Ben puts out his arms and pulls me in close to his heart, squeezing me against his shirt. Kissing the top of my head. My ear. He'll drop one hand down to my face and he'll pull my chin up until it's resting on his chest and I'm staring up at him while he stares down. He smiles at me. Only at me. Then he bends down, gives me a kiss and he's gone again, off to the studio to work his fingers to the bone. I cry out in protest and he tells me not to worry about a thing. Soon. Soon he'll have more time off and we can catch a little bit of a break and spend some more time together.

Until that happens the inappropriate protocol is to molest Daniel beyond belief, to the point where I piss off Schuyler for my impositions, cry when no one is looking because I miss Ben so much and to yell at the girl in the mirror to grow the fuck up because she has it good. I can play with the little bird on the copper box and consider opening the lid with a screwdriver or a blowtorch or something but I don't because Sam had it welded shut and I don't mess with Sam's temper or Sam's rules.

I miss Sam. He's away on some sort of men's retreat for the weekend with his new church group. He figured it was safe to go, figured I was telling the truth when I lied and promised him I wouldn't go to Satan for anything, figured it was a good break from the endless questions I always pose to him. The heartbreaking, unanswerable ones I throw out like birdseed at a public park. Catch, Sam. Tell me why. Tell me how this happens. Tell me God's address so I can go give him a piece of my mind. Tell me what Jake was thinking when he set me up for this fall. Tell me that Ben will live forever so I never have to add to this pain.

Tell me why I'm still here when I begged to leave them behind and go in their places. Tell me what's so special about me.

Sam looks a little bit like that girl in the mirror. A little like Ben. A little like Lochlan. Tired. Haunted. Worn through to the point where the light shines through the cracks now and just about blinds you, as if you were driving into the sun. You can still put your hand up to shield your eyes but soon even that isn't going to work.

August patiently follows me around listening to me ramble when Ben is busy. Holding out his arms and trying to minimize his accent so it hurts less when I ask to be held and not so quietly diagnosing me repeatedly against my will. I defer. I protest. I rail at him to cull up the boys and make a row and I will duck behind it, the ribbons on my dress trailing out behind me as I run. I will duck down behind Ben's back and slip out the other end of the row and head straight for the mirror. One foot over the edge and then the other and for a split-second I will balance on the lip before jumping down into the reflection.

Oh, that's who you are. You're me.

Jesus Christ. You look awful, Bridget.

The heat merchant.

Let go it's harder holding on
One more trip and I'll be gone
So keep your head up
Keep it on, just a whisper I'll be gone
Take a breath and make it big
It's the last you'll ever get
Break your neck with a diamond noose
It's the last you'll ever choose

I am I am I said I'm not myself, but I'm not dead and I'm not for sale
Hold me closer, closer let me go let me be just let me be

I'm lying in bed fighting to stay awake while Jacob fusses with his post-it notes, the ones he uses to mark his bible because he's prone to going off on tangents in the middle of his sermons, which would always be written out longhand, agonized over and then discarded in favor of a village talk, an informal version of his pulpit-pounding shouting matches, where he would rivet everyone silent, still, fixed on every movement. He would instead stroll around the sanctuary talking to people as if they were the only one present. It was incredibly intimate.

It was staged, proof positive that Jacob could handle Bridget-duty, circus duty, carnival life. That he was a better man than Lochlan because he had God on his side and through God he could protect me from Caleb, and from the ghost of husbands past and from everything that could possibly go wrong. He thought he could steal kisses and then hearts and he thought he could make everything better with his super Jesus powers.

He thought wrong.

The boomerang effect was earth shattering and I have done nothing but fly in the face of everything he ever wanted and why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I defy him until he's on fire under God because he broke the promises. He lifted them up over his head and smashed them at his feet. He left and I stuck it out even though it's been frightening and at times impossible.

I keep finding post-it notes everywhere. In with my taxes from 2006. Tucked into my Good Housekeeping recipe book where I go for notes on times for pies. In Lochlan's sketchbooks.

When I have enough they will be word-feathers and I will glue them together to make huge 3M wings and then I fly down and visit Jacob again.

You're falling asleep, Bridget.

I'm awake.

Right. Who won the Stanley Cup?

Blue. Seventeen. Chocolate-chip.

Goodnight, beautiful.

Goodnight pooh.

A lot of the notes I have found lately have little quotes on them. Things I said that made him laugh or things that he wanted to never forget.

Things like:

Find out what Lochlan is hiding.

Yeah. Ones like that.

I need to ask God if it's okay sometimes to be relieved that someone is dead in order to keep secrets. I need to ask God what happens next.

I need to ask God why he lied.

Oh, Lochlan. What did you do?