Simple tasseography.

He's sipping on a coffee on the patio, just out of the sun, where the shade begins from the overhang. The backyard is a blown-out, nuclearly-bright point that crumbles to dust in dry weather and sharpens in the rain. The orchard has no shade either. The boathouse is in a lovely stand of hemlocks and cedars and there's virtual wooden darkness out front except for very early in the morning but that backyard, man, it's just overly warm now.

I suppose that's why he's not wearing a shirt. He's warm. Lochlan does not sweat, he just turns red-hot from the inside. He glows like an iron in a fire. I only wish for that strange talent as I scrap my bangs off my forehead from where they are plastered and vow to burn these flannel pajamas just as soon as it's cool enough for actual fire.

I only put them on when I got up because they were hung on the hook on the back of the bedroom door and I had to wear something presentable. I'm sure I wouldn't get objections if I didn't put them on but that's neither here nor there, now, is it?

In a similar train of thought, I guess that's why Loch is wearing his navy blue board shorts and nothing else. They were probably within reach. The color just highlights his hair as the curls on top have changed to honey and strawberries and the ones underneath remain the color of the darkest orange maple leaves for now.

He looks delicious and I'm hungry because I was busy and I eat breakfast at nine but there was no bread left and I didn't feel like having Shreddies or fruit for that matter. I could have dispatched someone to fetch an egg mcmuffin but just as likely they would have told me to get it myself. That's a useful, bitter order when one is pretty much bound within these property lines as it is.

I could have called Mike to take me to the McDonalds in the city but God, what a waste of gas for one person's breakfast.

I have just decided I'll maybe gnaw on Lochlan for a while when he tells me New-Jake has lent him the Sunbeam for the weekend.

Oh, that's a great idea.

Have one better? He asks, smiling. Not like you won't be invited. 

I grin. In that case, be careful? 

Always am. 

Liar liar pants on fire. 

I don't tell anything but the truth. 

Oh my God, you even lie about lying, Locket! I poke him and grin. This give and take used to be normal. It's a nice change from our usual strung out declarations and emotional undertakings. This is levity.

It feels so good he feels guilty and ruins it instantly, lest I take the wrong things seriously. So many years and he still doesn't trust me to know how to react properly since I have grown from a little kid with a little instant-gratification brain to an adult with...okay nevermind. The point is he stops smiling and tells me he's not leaving this earth without me.

Oh. This earth grinds to a halt and almost throws me off in the process. Gravity intervenes at the last second, channeled by his eyes, which have leaked all of their mirth down over his skin and all that remains is sadness and devotion.

You just...had to do that, didn't you?

I learned from the best and now I can't help it, he says and his eyes continue to project their heat shimmer as I try and breathe through my choked-up throat.

Rock- or Metal-tarts would have been so much cooler.

Old mister fun is back
Wonder where he's been hiding at
Hanging round the edge
Walls unfortified, inside
No different, patchwork hack
Toil away on an unlaid track
Falls closing in, got nowhere to hide
This time
Finding ceilings low
I'm too big or this room's too small
Why's my ceiling another's floor

Christian is writing, writing, editing, working and I've done nothing but distract him for a good ninety minutes, chattering about damned near everything, showing him different boats and what I think are whales but are probably waves because I'm not good at this, I find the binoculars big and heavy and even propping them on the table isn't a great solution but Christian is impatient and frustrated and finally he says,

Bridget. Get a chair. You look ridiculous.

Oh, well, why didn't you say so?! I don't think like the rest of you!

I see that. Need a Pop-tart?

I stare at him. I can't think of a comeback.

***

Christian used to babysit me when I was eight. Mostly because Lochlan was above that and Christian was happy to make some money for what he considered an easy gig. Except the first time he did he put a movie that his family had rented into their VCR. He figured he could keep me busy that way.

Ah, the brilliant ideas of teenage boys. The movie was Halloween.

By the end of the movie I was behind him on the couch, covered with pillows, shaking like a leaf. He turned the television off, turned and stared at me with wide eyes before putting on his adolescent bravery and he said,

Need a Pop-tart? (As if Pop-tarts could solve everything.)

I chose strawberry and then asked if he had the second movie, so we could find out what happens next, because it didn't actually end, just hanging like that. Look who's brave now!

That's called a cliffhanger, Bridget. You want the other Pop-tart? He holds out the wrapper.

Yes. I take it but I can't finish it and he takes my offered remaining piece and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth.


***

I shake my head. It's too early for pop tarts and besides, they make me feel sick now. Probably because they are cardboard with sugar frosting and I'm getting too old to be fooled by those kinds of things.

But now Gage won't get his chin off the ground. He points at Christian and then at me.

He used to...babysit you?

Sometimes, yes. 

Isn't that weird?

Would have been weirder if it had been Lochlan, Christian laughs and takes a bite of his Pop-tart. They don't make him sick. Lucky guy.

Out Shine.

Ben met me halfway up the basement stairs after a cryptic SMS sent me flying down the steps. It was eleven at night and he had come home, shown his face at the table, wolfed down a plate of food and disappeared to the basement to finish something up. He said he'd be an hour, ninety minutes tops. This was at six-thirty.

Right. 

When he meets me, he says, Oh, what's that, bumblebee? Your phone's dead? What a shame! And he throws it over his shoulder. I hear it hit something and bounce to the floor and he tilts his head in that weird intense gotcha way that makes my knees kind of buckle and he scoops me up and carries me down to the studio.

Which isn't a studio anymore, it's a campsite.

With a tent. Our six-person tent set up in the middle. No lights but three battery-powered lanterns are on. The portable electric fireplace plugged in and flickering nicely (lights, no heat). He's projected stars onto the ceiling and set a soundtrack of loons, crickets and lapping water.

And an ice bucket with champagne because as I have said many times before, Benjamin has no idea what to bring on a camping trip. He had called for pizza too, it was sitting on a blanket in front of the open tent. He shivers and laughs and tells me (pretending) that the lake was really cold (yes, it was) and that we need to start over (yes, we do) and boy is he hungry (so am I!) and just like that he resorts back to the quavery-earnest hilariously non-serious Ben that I fell in love with.

This..is....

Something Jake would do. I know. I was witness to some of his outstanding romantic gestures. It's okay, I can take it. But he squeezes his eyes shut and ducks his head down as if he's about to be lambasted. But he's not.

...incredible. I love this. Ben. I freaking love it.

He opens one eye doubtfully and grins. Then he passes me the whole pizza box and I take a slice and fold it New-York style, like he's taught me.

Ghosts don't go camping, Benny. 

Sure they do. Especially when you wear them on your shoulders like a backpack. 

Ben-

I dropped the ball, Bee. 

Yes. Kind of. 

I'll make it right. Is it too late? Do I have a shot? Can I...crawl back into your heart with some bubbly? He pops the top and pours two flutes and passes me one, clinking his glass against mine before drinking all of it. He puts it down and I look at it. Then I look at him and wait for him to detail his promises in full.

It's non-alcoholic, Bee. 

I know. 

How did you know?

I trust you. 

It's also Christmas. Thank you, Santa, he breathes. You gave me exactly what I wanted. She's beautiful. And a perfect fit. 

What it's like to still be twelve years old.

(It's not your eyes.)

Lochlan buried all of his own bravery and determination in the cornfield when I was a child and can't stick to his own beliefs anymore. Push him just a little and he wavers and gives up. He hates that about himself but he's learning to find the will to push through, to put his foot down, to risk anything at all. I think sometimes I got off rather easy, and Caleb scared him more than he scared me. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's what happened, because I've been mowing him down ever since. He won't put up a fight with me very often. He's mostly paralyzed. Injured. Wounded. Scarred. He used to make all the decisions, he controlled the sun and the moon and now I'm learning celestial mechanics on the fly to try and keep the universe going while he lives in his own world in which he knows things are wrong but not what to do about it. He struggles to put aside his doubt  in order to be a good father. Every moment he fights to not show Ruth his flaws. She accepts them anyway, same as I do.

 Cole used to have three brushes on the go at once. One behind his ear, leaving paint on his chestnut curls, one in his right hand, creating magic on the canvas and one wedged tightly between his teeth to bite down on when it hurt too much. Painting was catharsis for him, therapy, release. He would come to bed at four in the morning, turning on all the lights so that he could find me and I would open my eyes long enough to make note of the placement of catastrophic smears of paint that he didn't bother to clean off before sleep. I woke up in the most violent hues. My skin was always raw from showering in turpentine. We threw away a lot of sheets.

Jake had a thing about hot food. Everything had to be broiling. I don't think he ever ate a salad or an ice cream cone in his entire life. He sort of spoiled me rotten in that respect, as he would disappear each morning and come home with fresh warm bagels for breakfast, or McDonalds (!), then we always had soup for lunch and at night I spoiled him right back with hearty stews and casseroles and barbecued goodness. Later still in the nights he would heat up cake in the microwave. I still do that to this day. Not sure what it was but seeing as how I visited the tiny hamlet where he grew up in Newfoundland I'm guessing he was always cold and this was a comfort mechanism. It worked wonders, in that regard.

Caleb had some sort of grand plan for himself from the day he was born and he has steamrolled his way through life to get there. He's isolated himself from everything and everyone, depending on Cole and on me when he wanted company, now paying for those choices dearly when his brother died and I refused to give him the same loyalty I afford to Lochlan. It's the one thing he can't buy and it's driven him mad enough that he's now getting sloppy, making business decisions with his heart instead of his mind. He's slipping at last and I like him better fallible. I like him when he tries to be human. It's refreshing and strange. And I must refrain from vilifying him so much now, since I gave him a son. He can't be that bad, if he gave me a child like Henry. Henry is love and for it, Caleb has changed. He's finally human.

Ben is trying. His hands shake, his mind isn't clear but he sometimes wakes up sober, at the bottom of the well, ready to climb out for another day and work towards staying above ground. He's too big to be so unsure, too heavy to be as graceful as he is, too nimble to be so physically strong and so emotionally wrecked. My sun rises and sets by his rare smiles, and when I take his hands in mine and squeeze them he is grateful for the lull in trembling. I'll be strong for him. We take turns. Right now I've got everything going sort of okay so I can be the one to take the bullets and he can be the one to take cover. At some point we'll trade. He's the strongest and the most fragile person I know. They say that about me too, so it stands to reason we would work best together. I can't lift him but I can hold him up, I say. And he says that he can't fix things but he can hold me while I try.

 I look at this table and I don't get why no one walks away. I pushed and I threatened and I did every single thing I knew of to test them and no one budged. I have fought, tempted, struggled and failed. I have loved. I have tried so hard to sort this out.

Five massive personalities with strength beyond belief. Giants. Tyrants. Legends. Heroes. Villains. Magicians. Gods.

Now three are left.

I'm amazed they all share the same single weakness. Amazed, but not surprised.

And I'll be waiting for you there.

This is for long-forgotten light at the end of the world
Horizon's crying the tears he left behind long ago

The albatross is flying, making him daydream
The time before he became - one of the world's unseen
Princess in the tower, children in the fields
Life gave him it all: an island of the universe

Lochlan fixed the dryer, Ben fixed my hearing aid (at least temporarily but as he pointed out, I'll yank them off after twenty minutes anyways), we threw the moka pot in the recycle bin and decided to bounce between the big coffee maker and the fussy french press from here on out, and I didn't drink any wine or draw any pictures at all.

Instead we went out for a fancy dinner (which does not include carrying our own food to the table and sometimes that's nice too even though it's hard to beat french fries in one's cupholder, which is not at all a euphemism for anything, Padraig) and came home to watch Cloud Atlas, which is a masterpiece, and you should see it if you haven't yet.

It's not as complicated as Inception nor is it as esoteric as The Fall (my all-time favorite movie besides Across the Universe). It's beautiful and fractured and fucked up and perfectly fitting together and difficult and easy all at once. I had a hard time with parts of it for obvious reasons, which I never expect and then there they are, and incredibly graphic besides. But I'm not sorry I watched the movie because I know the difference between real and not real and I'm working hard to not personalize every death, every leap, every decision just because it's happening on a screen/in a book/throughout a song.

I could bury my head in the sand but I won't. I can't.

Today we've shifted our plans to painting, bourbon and cake on the beach, because it should be less girly and more rustic, Loch said. I pointed out cheese is far more rustic and manly and what in the hell is he talking about but he said cake is manly enough and it will do fine.

Yes it will. It always does. Pretty sure he changed the menu to cater to me, and not the other way around. They do that. They'll choose something I want and then act like I'm doing them a favor and I figure it out later. It all works out in the end, just like movies by the Wachowskis.

Twelve hundred dollars worth of bits and pieces.

So far today, I have broken the moka pot, the dryer and one of my hearing aids.

PJ and Ruth had a mini-standoff,  Lochlan had a one-sided shouting match with Caleb and Matt and Sam abruptly stopped planning their practically non-existent wedding because Sam is having a busy week with other weddings, ironically.

Matt closed the folder that Sam left on the table (without the selections marked that Matt asked him to do in choosing certain aspects of their day) and put it in the recycling bin. He gave me a tired, half-bitter smile and said not to say anything, that he takes it in stride as one of things he loves about Sam, that they'll work it out next week when Sam's schedule levels out.

What do you love? His devastating vulnerability and indecisiveness? 

Something like that. Matt laughed.

Lochlan is standing at the counter watching us and sort of stewing in his own bitten-back anger from his morning's completely unresolved altercation.

Sam is the male equivalent of Bridget, Lochlan says abruptly and Matt nods before catching my expression. I turn my jaw slightly to the left and gaze at Lochlan steadily.

Matt whispers Sorry in my face and kisses my cheek on exit. He's heading downtown to run some errands and meet some extended family for lunch. He finds the difference in his weekday schedule versus Sam's end of week+weekend one a little tough but he doesn't say anything because here it is Saturday morning and where is Ben? Sleeping, because he worked around the clock all week. If I'm lucky I'll see him tomorrow when he wakes up.

At least, I hope I will.

On a good note, Gage is loving living here. He loves watching the drama, the waves and the giant movie screen. He loves the wildlife (bears AND coyotes yesterday, two apiece) and he loves the food, though he's incredibly handy at cooking and on a weird schedule that sees him hungry before I can even think about cooking. He loves the people. He's also good at knowing when to leave a room. He salutes and follows Matt out of the room and Lochlan comes around to help empty the dishwasher.

Could you wait until Caleb is back to at least 75% capacity to rip him apart?

Could you not cave in with your heart on your sleeve the moment he drops below that? 

Fine. 

Fine. 

Great day. What do you want to do?

Go down to the beach, draw, drink wine and eat cheese. I smile, thinking he's never going to go for it.

How provincial. 

Tell me about it. 

I love it. You're taking the high road. 

What would I do if I took the low road, exactly?

I'll tell you while we head down to the water. Get your pencils. 

Today was completely and utterly preempted by the guy who did way too much yesterday, too soon after being released and was knocked flat on his ass by another doozy of a headache. He asked me not to leave him alone so I didn't.

You could say I know better, but maybe you don't know how fragile life is and how strange it is to see Caleb brought down by pain. It fucks with my head something fierce, okay?

Galoche.

I remember waking up at three, hearing the birds (I think there's a nest in one of the trees closest to the house) and Ben was pulling me over, stripping off my t-shirt. Just before his hand slid over my whole face I cried out Wenceslas (safe words should always be three syllables and holiday related, correct?) but he didn't hear me. His other hand was wrapped in my hair and then I was blind, deaf, mute and all energies were channeled into touch. At five-thirty he was gone again. He does not sleep sometimes at all. He has such bad habits and worse listening skills. I told him I loved him but he didn't hear that either unless I missed his reply. That happens a lot too.

***

THIS. I want this for Christmas. For my little deep-fried sticks of heaven, man.

***

Caleb and I helped out at Henry's school this morning. Fun times. Not often they get a Princess and a Demon in the classroom on the same day but it happened finally and we did okay. Except the children are even larger than before and the whole place is louder (this is Grade six). Afterward I opted to walk home alone where Gage was the only one around and he had already eaten. Caleb proceeded downtown to a meeting he couldn't get out of and then I guess he can eat alone too. I'm not really hungry anyway.

Unless there are fries involved.

Did you really think that you could fix me?

(Never try texting a girl who already said she doesn't want to talk to you right now.) 

Bridget? 

Yes?

I still want a list of what you want to do for the summer. 

Plastic surgery. An extensive amount. So I can be someone else.

Absolutely not. Try again. 

Circus school? I'm really rusty. 

Try again. 

Going to seduce Duncan and Dalton in the same night. Possibly together.

JESUS CHRIST. 

I'm KIDDING. 

I don't think you are. 

WELL JESUS CHRIST TO YOU TOO. 

Tho, Duncan would fall for your seduction in under five seconds. 

You think? We should place bets. 

Please call an ambulance. 

You're a laugh a minute, Caleb.

As are you. Make a list, Bridget.

I have a list. You're not invited. 

If I had another party I bet I'd be on your list. 

I'm going now. Turning off the phone. Did you want anything specific?

Yes. 

I'm busy.

I didn't even tell you what I want. 

Oh, I know what you want.

Then tell me what YOU want. 

I want a lobotomy. I want Jake to still be alive. I want things to even out for five minutes. I want to recognize a goddamned street name in the paper when I read about my own neighborhood. I want to sleep. I want everyone to back off. I want some help around here. I want to turn off MY FUCKING PHONE NOW GOODBYE.

Not as different as you think they are.

Writing the past calms me down, oddly. Fitting all the memories into place. So please excuse me if I stupidly hit publish halfway through a post because I get surprised by the fire boy. That post will hit the front page eventually but only when I'm finished it.

He turned down your request for Jake to come here? 

(Lochlan has a soft spot for Jake. Bought him real steel-toed boots when he was doing construction for Sam. Kept him out of trouble when Keith was determined to find some the first summer they came up.)

Yeah. 

Oddly, I agree with him. 

Please explain why?

He's young, good-looking and you guys get along a little too well. I don't need that on top of everything else.

(Or he had a soft spot, I guess.)