Summer of '75 I didn't know any of these turkeys, Billy. And my name's not Brenda. It's Bridget.

The only prerequisite to coming to be a part of this Collective is, if you're male, is you have to be able to wear flannel easily, if not skillfully, you need to be able to grow a beard that looks good and doesn't make you look like you're part of the Witness Protection Program (Corey. um..) and you need to be able to sing the entirety of Billy Joel's best and most perfect album Stranger, including the dramatic bits in the middle of Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.

I feel like this is something Lochlan started and the rest of them were forced to catch on quick or be left behind, but then Jacob just showed up and knew all of it too and that sort of knocked us all on our asses but here's Caleb giving it a go this morning out of the blue and he's doing great.

We're polishing silver. I use my grandmother's silver every day and my mom's too. There's a lot of it since there's a lot of us. It's an all-day job. I get to pick the next album and I don't know how I'm going to follow this up.

I'm going to have to invoke Miss Saigon, I think. Yeah. May as well kill each other softly with showtunes and knives you can see your face in.

Do you know how long a drive it is?

You're a hard girl to find. 

Not really. I stand up and stagger backwards slightly, over a tangle of plants. Lochlan throws out a hand to steady me but I'm good, and now he's dirty too.

Snort.

I'm pulling the rest of the garden before it gives me any more bounty. As it stands now there are five huge bowls of green tomatoes in the house and every south-facing window on the main floor has a sill lined with more. It was four degrees overnight last night, I wasn't going to risk them, but between you and me, I'm sick to death of them. I'm eating nothing but sugar this winter, once these tomatoes have ripened and been dispensed with. I have roasted, fried, pureed, chopped, sliced, frozen and eaten them like candy for four months straight.

Next summer I have threatened to plant a sea of sunflowers. A whole ocean of yellow directly next to blue. Wouldn't it be lovely?

Yes. I think so too.

(Don't mind me, my grocery store doesn't sell pop-tarts, but there's a Wal-Mart in Port Coquitlam that seems to have about eighteen different flavours of them. Everytime someone is over there (because Long McQuade, a music store they like is nearby, nevermind that there are closer ones, they just like that particular one) I beg them to stop in and bring me all the pop-tarts and all the new-fangled flavour Oreos too. Apparently they get their stock from America, where all they seem to have are guns and sugar.)

So I have brown sugar cinnamon and chocolate frosting flavours but I promised myself I wouldn't touch them until all of the tomatoes are gone. I hid them well too so the boys won't find them and eat them first. I can't wait. Literally. They're practically calling my name.

I have bad news. 

What's wrong? 

PJ found your stash.

SERIOUSLY? FUCK.

Stage five, Sam.

Instead of cleaning up dinner or helping or wiping down the table even I was given a whiskey and sent out to the front porch last night. It's dark and still warm. An owl is trying to talk to me softly. There's no other sounds. So, so quiet. I hear the door close softly, so even the noise of the boys talking and washing pots and pans and loading the time machine inside doesn't reach me here. Not like it usually does, I hate to tell them but I appreciate the gesture all the same.

Oh. This is really nice.

I take a few minutes to myself.

Just a few, here in the dark. A toast to the ghosts. A glass to the past. A shot for the not. I don't shed any tears, though.

For once.

Why?

I have Cole's sweater, his memories, his friends and his stupid temper that lives on in his brother Caleb, who mellows as he gets old in an intense, passionate and sort of defeatist way, forced to conform to the rules of the Collective or be denied all that he wants. That familial passion is what keeps me from missing Cole.

I have Jacob's ring, his son and his best friends too. I have his memories. I have his faith and I have his future tucked in with my own. I feel like he'll be watching over me for the rest of my life and when the time comes I'll see him again. Maybe there's a heaven. Maybe. I hope there is. There's one right here in this house, that's for sure and if this is actually it then it's enough for me.

Perfect Sunday but with milk.

When I slid across the pew this morning Caleb was already there, greeting us with warm cheek kisses and coffees from a tray he had. Yes, even Lochlan got a kiss and a coffee. So did PJ which meant the murmuring and whispering behind us was louder than usual but I don't care because I could sit down for a solid hour and drink coffee and everyone is cohesive and in love and everything is beautiful.

Then I took a sip. It's a pumpkin spice latte. Which means it's fully half milk which I can't do so I asked him to hold it while I dug around in my purse for a lactose pill and he grinned and said he figured I would like a fall-themed flavoured coffee drink and I smiled and said I did and thank you even though I don't because dairy and I aren't friends and I think mashed-up grated leaves would be kinder to my stomach but I think he realized when I took the pill and washed it down and he said oh...ah okay. Lattes. Shit. 

And I winked and said that's what I'm trying to avoid.

Lochlan laughed. Scots can eat or drink anything and never have a problem. They're like Bens. Delicate Bridgets, not so much. I have trouble with dairy, and scents and fabrics and people that are scratchy. Drives me nuts. But the flavoured coffee was a really nice touch on a stormy fall day in an ice-cold church (SAM FIX THE HEAT PLEASE) and so was the kiss. And I heard not a word of the sermon. Not a word.

After church we came home. I'm making pancakes and bacon and more coffee now because Sam should be home in a quick minute. Caleb will be back over (he gets cleanup duty since he couldn't be here in time to help cook) and then we're going to have a movie day at home. It's Ben's turn to pick and since it's October I hope it's all horror.

All this time I was haunting them.

(That's why Cole was screaming. Because I wouldn't leave him alone. That's why Jacob was so sad. Because I wouldn't let him go.)

This is my lobotomy.

I'm in jeans and Cole's grey sweater. Jacob's ring is heavy on my thumb. I found as much armour as I could carry on this cold fall morning with my fever raging hard. My docs are creaky and heavy. I wish I brought my red mittens. The hem of my long black dress hangs below the hem of the sweater and I stand back from the boys as they pack (emotional) explosives around the opening of the door. Everyone is talking at once. Including me as the panic builds with my fever pitch.

Should she go in and say a final goodby-

NO! 

Sorry, I just wond-

Hey, where did you get all these charges?

Schuyler knows a guy. 

And he just let you have all these explosives?

Don't ask questions, okay, honey? 

But I have so many!

How do you sleep at night?

She doesn't! 

That should do it. We ready? I'm going to check inside, and then we'll all go topside save for PJ and Jay. 

WAIT!!!

What's wrong. 

I want to see them. 

Bridge-

Just- the last time. Please!

No, Bridge. Lochlan's standing in front of the door. 

Please, Lochlan. 

He shakes his head. I'm sorry but the answer is no.

I stare at him, twisting my hands. I don't know if he understands what this means, if he wants to take the fall for this, if he wants to continue to be the bad guy. If he wants to be the one who kept me out. Inside my mind is screaming at him to hand it off. Give it away to someone else, anyone else but he's going to stand his ground, the way he's done with everything when it comes to me.

You said your goodbyes a long time ago. This isn't the Cole you loved. Jacob isn't good for you anymore. It's time.

This isn't for you to deci-

Yes, it is. So help me, Jesus, Bridget, I'll take the knocks and be the bad guy but I'm not going to put you near that thing again.

You don't want to be that guy. 

I have to. 

He's not the only guy taking responsibility for this. Caleb steps forward to stand beside Lochlan. I can almost see the relief wash over Lochlan as Caleb finally shoulders some of this relentless weight.

They aren't the only ones. Wait what? There's Sam, sleeves rolled up, righteous as ever, innocence ruined. He should have run from this years ago.

We're all taking it, Bridget. PJ looks so earnest, so serious. So grown up suddenly. Are we adults now? Finally?

Nods and low confirmations now and there's an army blocking me from haunting my ghosts.

What a vision this is. A small girl with a broken heart in the dark standing up to a wall of men with broken hearts guarding two ghosts with broken hearts who are about to be blown to their respective resting places forever. One to hell, because that's where he should have been all along, and one to heaven but I wasn't ready to let him go yet. Not just yet. So not ready for this.

My eyes center on Lochlan. Without his eyes leaving mine he gives the signal to PJ.

Padraig? Blow this fucking thing to kingdom come and we're never letting her build something like it ever again. 

And then he dove for me.

CLEAR.

Our ears will ring for days.

My heart will ring for the rest of my life.

Ghosts.

I'm home and I'm weak so they're going to seal the concrete room this weekend. May as well strike while she's down, or so they say. I don't know what they say, I only know that this decision was made while I was lollygagging around Brooklyn and Brighton Beach because they don't want to wait any longer. They want it done before we slide into Halloween, and I can't say I blame them. 

Should have stayed at the beach. This is going to be rough. At least it's dark and spooky and murky and rainy and miserable and we're all sick so that just adds to the ambience. Perfect.

104 in the 604.

Caleb isn't very good at this. He called a restaurant and had them send over some soup but I didn't want it because I'm ten thousand degrees of lava stretched over my bones and so uncomfortable I don't know what to do. Matt is here because Sam is sick. Even Schuyler came home from work. Lochlan didn't get out of bed, Ben is babying him to the point where he may have forgotten about me. Lochlan hasn't but somehow thinks the devil, who doesn't actually have a nurturing bone in his body for anyone over twenty so far, can manage it.

Caleb has offered a shopping trip (no, what?), a cocktail (Jesus Christ) and a nap (okay, maybe) and now I'm sure he's gone off to look up the steps for buying health on the Internet. Price is no object, logic no obstacle.

I'm going to crawl home in a few minutes. At least being in my own bed will be better than trying to be upright, but people seem to get nervous when I don't write so here's my check-in. Maybe see you tomorrow.

This time the Big Banana won.

(I know New York City is called the Big Apple. It's been an inside joke forever.)

I came home a little under the weather, and may or may have not been on my knees in my seat when the plane landed, holding my whole head, looking for the locking mechanism, trying to find a way to take it off.

It would have hurt less than leaving it. My ears have been doing that thing where when I talk or open my jaw very wide it sounds like someone is crinkling plastic wrap inside my brain.

Congestion. 

Yes, I know what it's called. Like traffic. My head is rush hour. My nose is the freeway.

Where'd you get it from? 

Probably a door handle on 8th Avenue or at the Met. Maybe Otto brought it. Maybe the Flight attendant was sick. Maybe Ben is festeringly ill. Maybe, just maybe I'm a human girl and I carry germs everywhere I go and the minute I get run down they pop out and just take over. Maybe, just maybe, Lochlan, I got it from you. Maybe YOUR nose is the freeway. 

Listen, smartass. 

Well, it's a misquestion!

A misquestion? That's great.

I meant to say a dumb question but I want to be polite. 

You're beautiful. 

No I have Rednose the Rudolph rainy day. 

Yeah. You really do. I think your fever's making you a little delirious too. I think we got home just in time though. 

Why?

So I can make Caleb look after you. 

He doesn't know-

Oh, Bridget, I might not have a choice, I'm getting sick too. 

The grandest.

About an hour after Ben left this morning there was a knock at the door. I figured he got all the way to his meeting and forgot his phone. I didn't see it but then again with Ben it could be in the shower, under the bed, in the laundry that's already been picked up, on the floor of a cab he's already exited or in his pocket and he's still thinking he's forgotten it. I find his shirt from yesterday that didn't go out in the laundry (we're so organized when we travel), wrap it around me in what I hope is an avant-garde style and fling the door open, hoping eggs Benedict are on the other side.

No, it's a man in a suit. It's a man in a suit with a name tag. Just a first name. Otto. No hotel brand on the tag. Otto is holding a hotel key card and a set of car keys. He nods and says I must be Bridget, that he was sent by Mr. Benjamin (full name) as assistance for the remainder of our stay. As our personal butler. That if I wish I can call Mr. _____ first to confirm.

I squeal and slam the door in his face.

Then I yell to Lochlan, GUESS WHAT BEN GAVE US.

Lochlan looks quizzical. Breakfast?

NO. A BUTLER.

Lochlan has no idea how much I love butlers. I thought they came with the hotels here but apparently they are just personal assistants you hire and I'm spoiled fucking rotten and that explains all the times I spoke to the hotel trying to glowingly praise what I thought was their staff and they smiled tightly and let me ramble like a crazy woman.

Whatever. We have a butler.

WHO DRIVES.

Looks like my plans for two more days of naked eating in a hotel suite just came to a screeching halt. I open the door back up, hoping the shirt is doing my modesty justice.

Otto is smiling professionally. I'm sure he was warned about my...uh...enthusiasm.

Where would you like to go this morning, Miss?

SMS.

The best part of traveling is not only the fact that I can eat my way across the globe, or that it cures my wanderlust to a huge degree, or that I get a little privacy, or even all the one-on-one time with Ben and Lochlan but it's also the funny little text messages from back home.

PJ: Can I have a cookie? Just one. I ate my vegetables.

Dalton: Dunk's wearing your underwear. Just thought you should know. He dances around like Buffalo Bill when you're not home.

Batman: Everything okay? (I rolled my eyes)

Ruth: Do I get paid for babysitting them? 

Henry: Can I have two cookies? I ate my vegetables.

Sam: You okay? Oxo (I did not roll my eyes)

Joel: 8 am: Don't forget your meds
        8 pm: Don't forget your meds
        8 pm: Don't forget your meds
        8 pm: Don't forget your meds
        8 am: Don't forget your meds
           (Ad nauseam)

Daniel: 568 Amsterdam is the pizza place. I think. Google it. SO GOOD

Caleb: Miss you baby girl x

PJ: We made an executive decision and ate the cookies.

Gage: Did the leaves change there yet?

Duncan: Don't believe a word they say I didn't dance xo