Paris in forty words.

(I promise this post is not all porn. Or rather, I apologize that it isn't.)

It was long after midnight on Saturday night that we finally settled down into bed together. Ben smiled at me. Alone, after so much time spent watched by others, divided by space and time and partitioned off by emotions.

He held my hands up over my head and pushed against my chin with his head until I looked up at the wall behind the bed and he kissed my throat. Barely touching it. So slowly and softly my breath caught.

Beautiful, he whispered, and I laughed.

He shushed me. Thumb on my lips which still breaks my heart. He took my hands and guided them up around his neck and he wrapped his arms around my back as he remembered every last inch of my flesh as his.

It was all downhill after that.

Sunday we took the kids around to see as much of Paris as you could possibly see in a day and then we boarded the plane just as they would have been going to bed. I saw a Corot that blew my mind, and I saw it hungry. I saw all kinds of things. Hemingway would have been proud of his girl, I did everything right and still we just couldn't pull it off. Everyone who says we simply didn't have any time to do it proper and what the hell were we thinking, flying to Paris with less than forty hours to see it?

Well, they don't know Ben and they certainly don't know Bridget.

Touring galleries far from home while hungry is a delicate balance and I wavered once and was yelled at for not allowing Ben to take care of me. I had ammunition to fire back in his face with a trip that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with Ben's ego and his weird control issues with Caleb and with Lochlan, who put up such a fuss before we left he had almost convinced me we should forget the whole thing.

In retrospect, Lochlan was right. He's ALWAYS RIGHT and it pisses me off.

We were asked to leave the gallery, if you must know, because they have no use for loud Americans. I'm not even American but it didn't matter, Ben was belligerent enough for both of us and twice as loud. He only has two volume levels. Unintelligible and Obnoxious.

I don't want to be in the middle of their weird boundary issues. I don't want to be the object of everyone's emotion all the time, and I definitely didn't want to be stranded on the other side of the ocean with the children staring down a long flight home on a plane that is too small for both of us when we're not arguing, let alone when we need to just get away from each other.

Anything but that. Just anything.

Ben solved that problem by pretending to drink on the plane. I watched as he opened it and poured it out. And when he was handed back to Seth in New York, Seth pointed out they were having trouble with him when we left, which Lochlan knew of and was trying to spare me from, without admitting that he knew what was going on. He thought I would figure it out in time, and I did. But I chose to fall for the charisma and the intense sweetness of our reunions, the sheer brutality of Ben's love for me that outweighs the stupid things his brain does when his broken heart is otherwise occupied.

Seth is going to stick with him and send him home again eventually. I have been told not to worry. Ben told me just to stick close to Lochlan, stay away from Caleb and work towards mending my own heart as I have been doing. I wasn't supposed to get in the middle of this but I did and the kids did and he was sorry. He's seeing the light at the end of the pressurized tunnel and didn't want me to bear witness to the stress. Though, he did better with his anger this time, possibly it was muted because he was so tired. A few minutes later he told me to stay away from Lochlan, and stick close to Daniel. He's back to the point where he is so focused on what he's doing work-wise, reality has fallen away and I'm never sure if I'm supposed to pretend he is simply a mirage or if I should demand equal footing with his career.

My anger wasn't muted, is what I mean.

I don't want Lochlan. Or Caleb, for that matter. I want you and I want you to come home. I don't need trips. I don't need songs. I just want you. Not to leave all the time. Not to be always away. Not to count days on the calendar. Not to stop everything when I hear you on the radio because it's as close as I'll get to you on any given day. Not to be given the constant outs at the expense of your character because you think it would be best if you pretend to be a total alcoholic asshole to make it easier for me to leave you. I'm not leaving you, you big fucking dork.

I stopped there because he came back into focus and had taken on the weary look of anguish that he wears throughout our miserable airport goodbyes, with glassy eyes and clenched fists. That looks scares me far more than being yelled at in the Louvre. Far more because he becomes vulnerable and I don't like that. Be capable. I plead with him in my head and he just checks out again attention-wise.

He shook his head as if he heard me, looking far out over my head at nothing. A bitter smile played on his lips.

I can't..I can't even think about having to be away from you all over again.

So come home with us.

Soon.

Now, Benjamin. Please.

Bridget-

I know. I know what comes first. I'll always be less important than art, God and music. Like the holy triad of things Bridget will be thrown over for. I should be used to it by now.

Who said you were less important than God?

He misunderstood me and suddenly noticed I was comparing him to the angels again.

Is it easier with me or is it worse, Bridget?

You have to go, we don't have time for this.

Tell me.

It's worse because you die every time you leave.

Is that what it feels like?

Yes.

Then you need to leave me.

On the 'you' part his voice broke in half and I picked up the pieces, launching right into his arms. I'm not sure who pried me off him, probably Seth. I had a plane to catch. Neither one of us wanted to let go. Like if we did that would be it. I was sure I could hold on but he extricated like a man heading to his death chamber. I shook my head. Violently. I figured it out. They didn't think he would be man enough to put me first. The trip was indeed a dare, a challenge. And it failed so he resorted to pleading with me to wait, then he second-guessed himself and tried to trick me into leaving and then he resorted to reasoning with me again. He got confused. They always do that, they get into his head and convince him that he's not good enough for me, that he's hurting me, that I'm not making any progress because I'm perpetually miserable and always waiting for him.

There's been a global knee-jerk when it comes to Bridget's happiness and he's a huge obstacle. But he's MY huge obstacle and I'll figure it out. We'll figure it out.

You can make my trips to Europe suck all you like, Tucker. I don't love you any less and you're stuck with me. So the next trip will be a good one or I'm going to start wondering about you. Now go finish your work because I want to hear the rest.

You've got eight songs now.

I know there's more.

How?

There's always at least twelve. And you're not...present. You're here but your head isn't. Like you dropped everything and took the damned challenge and you should be telling them to go fuck themselves.

But then they turn to you and tell you they must be right, that you don't come first.

Those are just words, Tucker.

Words are all we have, princess. I don't want them telling you the ones that are lies.

Just go finish and come home to me, okay?

There was no more time. But I was smiling through tears when I got on the plane. He's right. He's totally right and I've been saying that my whole life and finally I found someone who agrees with me. Words are everything. We carry them in our heads and our hands and we use them as weapons and as comfort. Today we arranged them into a picture because we had space. At the airport you can spread them out all over the floor. We saw what they formed and we liked it and the last few words we had were blended into promises and reassurance.

A text message waiting when we got off the plane used words as hopeful instructions, a reminder that I should exist in the space between Daniel and Schuyler for the remainder of Ben's time away. I looked at Lochlan and he was asking the kids what they saw on the trip and suddenly it seemed so foolish that I could take my brokenness and pit it against these guys who could be so selfish as to try and force Ben and I apart. Lochlan bathed in an unattractive, unflattering light. Caleb firmly rooted back in place as enemy number one. All else suspect until further notice. Living among enemies only by virtue of their sins, holding them captive. They aren't monsters. But sometimes they're not very good for me either. How in the world am I supposed to keep my wits about me when I don't believe I have any left at all? My support network is made up of people who want to claim ownership of my heart and the tug of war is painful at best.

Lochlan wanted to continue the war once we came home so I engineered a pharmaceutical vacation from his voice under the guise that I was cracking. It wasn't working because I couldn't hold a hairbrush so I let it go. I forget that feeling until I have it. Always. Yesterday I asked for space and got it. Don't crowd me now, Lochlan. Not now. I'm tired and I don't want you here anymore.

This morning I called Daniel. Schuyler's headed out on a trip of his own and Daniel was happy to bring a bag and come crash for the week ahead here at the house. He loves the puppy, the children, the space and even the Bridget, mess that she is.

I'm watching him now. He's playing air guitar with the spatula while he waits for the omelets to cook. No running today because it's pouring but if it keeps up we'll go to the track. He's got pent-up energy. He looks just like his brother right now. A better substitute than most.

I'm trying to be gracious. I'm trying to give weight to their concerns. I'm also trying desperately to be happy.

Which is harder than it looks, sometimes.

The obstacle is not Ben. Not by a long shot.

We are home. Three-quarters of us anyway. The other quarter, or fully half if you go by size is still in New York...working. Because that's what he does. When he's not taking dares from bullies, that is. I'm not sure when things shifted to make that so, he always acted like he never cared to stoop to the level of anyone else off the ice. On the ice he's never been much of a pretty player but this time he took the bait on warm ground and we did not have a good trip. Not at all. Who the hell drops everything for forty hours overseas? That's an endurance race I couldn't afford to enter, let alone place in. Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea.

And contrary to popular belief they failed. And I'm still married. I've got this overwhelming urge to fling a neener neener neener out there but then I'd be stooping too.

(Says she who can barely stand. Oh, if I sober up maybe I'll have more to say but fuck it. This is fine just like it is. And so am I. Fine. Fucked up and totally FUCKING FINE, LOCHLAN.)

Just like that.

We're in New York.

Home later today. Flights are screwy. Doing my best.

Pick a painter.

Uh. Hassam.

American. Pick someone else.

What are you doing?

You'll see.

Van Gogh.

Figures.

What do I win?

He's French, right?

No, he's from the Netherlands.

Damn. Keep going, princess.

You want me to name a French painter?

Yes.

Gauguin!

Where was he born?

Paris.

Okay! Pack your shit and for the kids, we're doing a fly-by.

What the fuck, Benjamin?

You want to go to Paris, I'm taking you to Paris.

Are you okay?

Have I been drinking? No. Can I read? Yes. I'm taking my wife to Paris because she wants to go and if you think Creepface is going to laud that over any of us, you'd be wrong, bee.

You don't have to take me to Paris.

Maybe I want to. Besides, you travel better without warning. And I have four days so let's get a move on.

Seriously?

Seriously. It will be worse than one of those 14 countries in 14 days things, I'll tell you that now.

No it won't.

Why not?

I get to see you.

And?

And Paris!

Jesus, it's about time you showed some enthusiasm.

We don't have to do this.

We don't have to do anything. Instead, let's do what we want. Let's go see a fucking Gauguin painting.

Why, Ben? If it's only to get back at Caleb-

No, bee. Life is short. And everytime you empty your head, I remember that fact.

In disposition. In decisive.

Show me where forever dies.

Somehow preferring to letting the children do all the talking on our trip up to the lake with Caleb parlayed the day into an extended engagement and I wound up tucking them into his guest room just past eight, when they caved in and almost fell asleep over slices of pizza outside on the tiny balcony at my favorite table, watching the traffic and the lights across the river, still mired in their delicious sand and sunscreen smell.

Once they were asleep three servers appeared with our dinner, just after ten with a perfect view of the approaching thunderstorm. Wine. Salads. Tenderloin. Cake. Water, after I asked twice and then shot Caleb a look because unless he says it they don't hear it. On cue they vanished out the door and he cleared the table, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, humming songs I only learned yesterday, packing the dishes back into the box that would be collected tomorrow by yet another series of paid-for help. Oh, if life were only like that box, and we could pack up all the dirty memories and distasteful items and have them taken away.

Aside from asking for water, because I was dying of thirst and refusing to touch my wine, I didn't say much. I watched him because he spent the day watching me without seeming to and I let him ask questions I didn't answer and he called me a brat because I wasn't playing nice and I didn't care because sometimes he's not going to get everything he wants. And I don't plan to either.

I sat there in a chair that costs as much as my car, still in my stilettos while someone brought me dinner that I didn't have to cook. I don't have to lift a finger there. I could admire a French painting and be on a flight to Paris the next morning. I could wish for the beach and be given one. I could ask for escape from the hell inside my head and get it and never come back. Though I don't think he would take a mother away from her children, I'm not a hundred percent sure. I would hope he wouldn't. I'm sure he'll now tell me he won't.

Unless I fail to play the game, which rages painfully on. The only thing he gained from all this is the honor of fatherhood that all of them crave so privately. Oh, because according to Lochlan, fathering a child with Bridget is pretty much the brass ring in their lives and since there were only two rings, the game is over. But maybe it's not and they hold out for that ultimate connection. Caleb has been playing with them, teasing them with horror by hinting that perhaps he is Ruth's father as well. He isn't but why would they believe me at this point? There's no one left to back me up but I was never defended in my life until Jacob fell into it and then kept falling, right through my fingers because they fluttered so badly I couldn't hold on to him.

I pointed out we could have testing done and then what would change? I'm still forced to endure Caleb's dangerous presence and everyone else is forced to watch me founder around for purchase on life. I've got the moments down, I think. Overall I'm doing spectacularly poor. I can talk your talk. Optimism. Hope. Faith. Looking toward the future, living in the moment. Working hard. Making improvements. Making headway.

It's bullshit.

All of it.

I'm sorry.

Ben being perpetually absent leaves me falling hard into old habits and comfortable fears. I'm terrified of Caleb and attracted to him at the same time. It's an easy place for me to be within his reach, scared for my life and aware of the mind-breaking sexual tension there. His Coleisms that burn into me because I keep my hands in the fire.

It only got worse as I got older.

Just thinking about him makes me outwardly flinch. The goosebumps flare up and my brain goes into hiding and Cole's little survivor-girl kicks right in to high gear, because he taught me how to slay a man with a look or a touch and then he regretted it only in the moment where I found my voice and ripped his life away from him.

There is only so much one person can take and I'm at the uppermost limits of that. You sit there and throw money at it and it doesn't make it any damned different, okay? What has she got to worry about, anyway? They fight over her. Yeah, well, I worry that when I'm gone they'll still be fighting over my corpse and my children will get ignored. Because I'm a distraction, I can't remove myself from the picture. I won't try. I'm so fucked up. I worry that they'll kill each other without me around as living example of the hurt they can evoke in each other. When there is nothing left to fight over, these boys will still fight on principle.

Caleb wants that loyalty, he wants the lap dances and the fatherhood and he wants to make me his. Hell, they all do. I'm not dumb and all of it with different plans and different wants and different futures. It doesn't matter.

(I stepped outside the lines I drew. What good is a line you can't cross, anyway? And I stood on the wrong side of the lines and I put my hands up over my eyes without prompting and I began to count. I counted until the sounds fell away and the numbers became hypnosis and I knew for sure everyone would have a hiding place by now. Especially Ben. Ben needs a little extra time because he's so big, he can't fit in the places I can, like the pantry under the shelves or the cookie cupboard or the bench in the hall or the dumbwaiter or the little space under the attic stairs. In spite of his size, I found him first and we stopped playing the game altogether.)

They think it's a phase. They think I've lost my mind and I have. Cole took it and hid it somewhere and I looked for a while but then I stopped because it was more fun playing hide and seek with people than with the contents of my own skull.

I'm hurt by that.

It's not, he's not a phase. I know my actions maybe speak for me because I don't say enough but everyone's waiting for Ben and I to stop playing and be serious. To give up on being married because my God, she picked him out of everyone? The freak. The one who's never around. The one who lives in his own little world as much as she does? It won't last. Besides, look what happens when she's with Caleb?

Yeah, well, fuck you too, and thanks for your support (rhetorical, as always, Bridget, for you are self-soothing again).

The night I met Ben, we went skinny dipping and then Cole called me in from the water was the first night Ben ever went camping in his entire life and forgot to bring the tent part of the deal. He brought his guitar and a Gameboy and lots of food and beer and cigarettes and extra strings even, but he expected a cabin because he drifts along like that and doesn't actually ask. The girls he knows would expect a cabin so he figured there was a girl going, there must be a cabin. Cole offered him space in our tent and it became a tradition after that, he would forget his tent forever in order to spoon with me as soon as I fell asleep. His security blanket, he said.

We forged an easy friendship, to great surprise. The other guys were slow to warm to Ben. He marches to his own drummer, keeps time with the metronome in his head that never quits and serves as his heartbeat and he sticks out like a sore thumb. He looks scary. Handsomely frightening, instead of frighteningly handsome. Very good looking but hulking, scowling. His angel voice is hidden in layers of surging screams. Most stations skip playing all but his softest creations and he doesn't say much. Just like I don't so much, not anymore. We have stuck together like long-distance glue for a while now and eventually the guys saw that we did connect well. For all the nights we closed down bars and sang in taxis and collapsed on couches, meeting up the next morning to agree on greasy food, even when he would take some girl home, he would still appear at the table within 20 minutes of a phone call from me. He's looked after me when we've been out in sketchy situations and he had the really hard job of standing between two friends and being the deciding factor on a lot of issues between Cole and I. When I left Cole for Jacob, Ben took it personally and picked a side. Cole's side.

Then he lost his mom, his best friend and his father in the space of eighteen months and he checked out on me, becoming someone I didn't recognize anymore. Someone I was afraid of, suddenly. Someone just like Cole only scarier. He came to me once, when he got the call about his dad, and I held him while he cried, sitting on the floor of the apartment he had been kicked out of the day before for nonpayment of rent because he couldn't remember to leave post-dated cheques when he'd go on the road. I sat there surrounded by beer bottle caps and pizza boxes and I hung on so tight while he ranted and rolled at all the bad things I had ever done to him, in lieu of saying he would miss his father. That was the only time he's ever shown any emotion concerning his parents and then he asked me to look after Daniel because he said he couldn't.

Ben started spending more time away, and when he was here he was adversarial and spending too much time with Caleb. He started doing things that he shouldn't have been doing.

I had to let him go. I tried to help him and he took his rage out on me and I finally came to the conclusion that I was more of a problem to him than any help at all and so I cut him loose in spite of loving him, and kept his brother close because Daniel founders something awful. I know Ben was grateful after a fashion for that. He would call me maybe once a month to tell me that he loved me and I make the wrong decisions, always, and I told him I would be here but that I wasn't going to make any effort to be his friend anymore if this was how he had changed. We made a few stabs at repairing our friendship over the next two years but it was pointless. He had started drinking, started using, would be due back from tour one day and not show up for weeks, with no account of where he had been.

I waited for the call every minute telling me that he had died somewhere on the road from a drug overdose and apathy combined.

A call did eventually come but it wasn't for his death, now, was it?

Fuck. I don't know where I'm going with this.

Yes, I do.

we're so much alike, it's fucking stupid. He says I make him laugh. He gives me free reign to go fuck up and then come back to him and I do the same for him. Trusting in boomerangs. I don't trust that he'll ever come home from his trips and he doesn't trust that I won't change my mind and fall in love with someone else while he's away and yet outwardly we will tell you we trust each other because we don't have much choice. We won't allow for that choice.

He's always going to come home. He always has come back to me even when there was nothing of me here to come back to. When I hated him. When I was barred from even speaking to him. And I have no interesting in falling in love with anyone else because I've had the offers of money and trips and that easy life and someone who would always be here and I could be content in arms that would never vanish from my life.

Whatever.

Because even with Ben's disappearing act and his angry, beautiful face and his weird ability to live on pizza and guitar picks and wool scarves and my lip gloss, even with his history of not being able to ride on the wagon because he is too big and keeps falling into the road, even with his history of pain and misery and self-gratification and immaturity and uncontrollable emotions?

He is still MY Ben. My capital-B. My Tucker. And I am his.

For the record, I left my children at the loft with Caleb last night, kissing them good night and coming home to an empty house that featured John sitting on the front porch, since he lives at the end of the street, to make sure I did get home safely and he walked back down the sidewalk after I came inside and locked the front door.

The children were treated to a lovely car ride home this morning at eight. Same servers as last night, but with pancakes and fruit for breakfast with Uncle Cale. He let them eat in bed while watching cartoons. Which is lovely, I know he'll just box up the dirty linens and have them sent away. Just like everything else.

No accountability. None whatsoever.

Ever think that I'm the one using him for time with Cole? Atoning for the sins of the past so that I can clear a path to the future? Allowing Caleb access to the children, playing nice instead of playing hardball and putting up with him licking me with his eyes all damned day and night is a means to an end and nothing more.

Ben knows that. And I love him for it. Even when I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. He seems to know the method to my madness, even when I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. Just like he instinctively knows that he won't fit in the corners of my head when we're playing hide and seek. That, and he makes me laugh.

I don't care if you get it. I'm just emptying my head.

For a song (St. Cecelia, please move over).

Now the dark begins to rise
Save your breath, it's far from over
Leave the lost and dead behind
Now's your chance to run for cover

I don't wanna change the world
I just wanna leave it colder
Light the fuse and burn it up
Take the path that leads to nowhere

When I die, please make me Patron Saint of Music. Does it matter if I'm not Catholic? I suppose I could go charm the pope. Ben's been talking about taking me back to Venice, we could arrange for a short side venture and I could arrange all my favors like gondolas along the canals.

Don't laugh, I've done bigger things.

Here's the joy of new music. Any new music, doesn't have to be things I have mentioned recently, but it does have to be something I love. I have high standards for music (stop laughing, Lochlan). I have difficulty understanding how subjective it is, but I remember that fact, and the joy of new songs comes with the promise that the melodies and words will attach themselves to happy memories, or remain neutral.

A lofty expectation, I know.

Heading out now, the kids and I are going to the beach with Caleb (who reads my posts. Arrrrrrrgh.) and he decided to take a day off. I'm trying to be gracious. Are headphones ungracious? Do I care? I have a feeling the bikini with the ruffles will pretty distract him from whatever evil he plans to cast over us anyway. I'll just play song lyrics in my head and pretend he's not staring at me.

Three years was really long to wait.

O.
M.
Goodness.

There's just nothing better than new Breaking Benjamin music. Run, I heard it's only going to be up for a day.

Worth the wait. OM NOM.

Ah, sorry. Music makes me giddy. Especially the good stuff.

Pinching berries and dreams.

Angels on the sideline again.
Benched along with patience and reason.
Angels on the sideline again
Wondering when this tug of war will end.

My apologies, for I have been remiss in writing.

This house turned ninety-five years old exactly this month. I'm guessing it's this month because it would have taken a few months to build, they wouldn't have started until the ground thawed out twelve feet down and they would have had to be done before the cold weather came.

Therefore, August.

I say it's a hundred years old because I'm not a nit-picker on details like that.

Looking at the calendar I see that in exactly four weeks from today, Ruth and Henry will start school, grade 5-6 split for Ruth and a solid grade 3 class for Henry, and also the first time Henry will have the same teacher Ruth had for that grade. We have our supplies and gym bags and will head out hopefully on Friday to get new backpacks and shoes and a few sundry outfits. Both children seem to wait forever, wearing the same clothes for what seems like forever before they explode in sizes. Henry's into the 12-14 sizes and Ruth is in 10, mostly for height. Henry's a brute, Ruth a tiny ballerina. They've had a rather quiet summer, thanks to most of their friends being off at day camps. These two prefer to stay home and hang out, read, play outside, walk the dog and have a little computer time. We watch movies and bake when it's not too warm and explore the city and enjoy each other, mostly.

It's been kind of nice, though I have some bizarre reverse guilt that I didn't insist that they get up every day at seven to go off to camp all day. All the mothers working outside the home are wishing for this and I'm wondering if it's okay for their development if I just let them have fun. Unstructured, total fun, the kind you can only have when you're a child in elementary school, the kind you never forget.

On the other hand, I do have some actual guilt going on because in between Ben-visits, we're been doing hardcore renovating. Painting rooms that had been left the same for years because the colors weren't too bad, adding ventilation where before there was none. Putting up a new fence that I can't see over because the old one was falling apart. I opted not to go with the wrought iron in the back. Not private enough. I chose wood instead with copper accents and we did it ourselves.

The most recent spate of improvements leave me walking around the house with a smile on my face. I took the sheers down. I had washed them all and hung them up and then decided they ruined the airflow and were ugly besides. Down they came. All my work hemming them. Instead we'll enjoy the view and when winter comes I'll reconsider. I threw all the windows wide open and was thrilled to breathe in the elm-leaf filtered neighborhood vibe, those hot summer afternoon quiets when everyone disappears to cooler places and slower activities. I picked the strawberries off the hanging basket by the back door and I felt like it might be summer, finally, after a long six weeks of waiting, hoping, starting false.

Ben did go back yesterday, in time to start work today and I figured he would go back Sunday so I agreed to work for Sam most of yesterday, bringing the kids with me so they could play outdoors and run around the sanctuary squealing. I might not have agreed to do that had I know Ben wouldn't be leaving but no less than twenty minutes after we arrived at the church Ben showed up, and Christian and Duncan too, to help Sam with some painting and odd jobs.

It was kind of nice. Like a group effort. Something I haven't seen there since Jacob finished the addition and the roof. Ben and the boys even kept working right through lunch when Sam stopped to take the kids and I out for a bite, because that was my payment for helping in the office.

And yes, I cried when Ben left last night. Like a baby, to the point where I was turned into Lochlan's arms and I could blubber into his shirt and no one said a word about it being dramatic or silly or pointless, it's come to be expected and thankfully I'm allowed to keep it. The immediate reactions seem to soften the long term effects somehow. Today is better. Tomorrow and the next day will be busy and then Thursday quiet and Friday busyish as we go into another weekend where I won't know if he'll be home or not because he doesn't tell me, just in case I look forward to it and then he can't make it. He would really prefer me to stay away from the Keebler elves and I would too.

And so for now, things are good. We have cool breezes and fresh berries and this beautiful house to live in. That and unlimited long distance. Weird the things you wind up grateful for. Or maybe it's not so weird.

Ha! Normal! As if.

It's a beautiful day and I am stuck in the church office.

Do I get extra points for this?

Functional freaks.

I only wanted to try
To find my way back inside
My imitation of life

The longer I live, the more carnival stereotypes I see and the closer I feel to my own kind. Living within the boundaries of normal, but not normal by a long shot. Outside chance, they call from the red and white striped booth with the spinning wheel. Are you the betting type? A question dripping with dare and courage, an unmistakable challenge.

Would you pass that up?

Me neither. I smile as I dig with one grimy hand into my back pocket for one solitary final coin. Luck be a lady tonight, he calls and he gives the wheel a spin.

Suddenly the sounds close in, and the lights blink faster and faster, harsh against the dark. The noise and the calliope, that fucking evil calliope overwhelms me and I stumble, scraping my knees in the gravel and the dust of the road upon which the fair was constructed.

The coin rolls out of my hand across the dirt. I reach for it blindly and then suddenly a hand closes around me, pulling me back to my feet, practically wrenching my arm out of the socket. I cry out and then I am in arms that are cool and tight. I open my eyes to see Ben smiling at me, dressed in his carnival best.

He hands me back the coin, and I play on.

He spins the wheel fastest, and I always win.

Holier than thou.

First order of business today? We're going to ready the office. Ben is moving his desk into the room, stealing one of the comfortable dining room chairs because the office chair bites and generally is thrilled with the room that I made him. We're both a little hesitant because this means when he works at home he'll be on a different floor and away from the family. He's already away from the family too much but at the same time, it's imperative that he have a place to zone out quietly at home. Privacy at home. A luxury in this house. I think it will take no time at all for it to become his favorite place in the universe.

Second order of business? Go see G.I. Joe. What a fun movie. Non-stop action and adventure. A little romance. A lot of muscle and tech. A few moments of breath-holding and a great creepy medieval tie-in that ran smoothly through the entire film. A surprise or two. Worth the price of admission and honestly? Better than Transformers 2 because Transformers had more cheesecakeryfake and G.I. Joe has a quiet confidence that makes it easier to digest. You couldn't always tell when something wasn't real and that is a huge plus, in my book.

Quality plus heart, for the win.

Not so impressive was the terrific trailer for Shutter Island. I want to see it, of course, but it's wise to note that G.I. Joe is rated 14A, so the trailers will be questionable for kids. Henry covered his eyes, bless his heart. I do that when Leonardo DiCaprio is onscreen as well.

I jest. He's perfectly wonderful as an actor.

Sometimes.

Sometimes he's holier than thou, like my title today.

I have issues with people who learn of a topic and then foist it upon everyone else like their way is THE way instead of learning to apply it to their own lives. I don't need to be preached at. I don't need to have my face rubbed in your knowledge or Life As You See It. And I don't mean just any topic, but big life events that change one forever.

Don't you think when it comes to big life events, everyone has their own way of managing? They, after all, are living their own lives, all around you.

I've encountered it everywhere. In dating. In getting married. In motherhood. In religion. In widowhood. In mental illness. In sobriety (not my own). And I never ask for advice, except rhetorically (and that's only because when I start talking I rarely shut up).

I never give advice, unless it's with a massive, obnoxious disclaimer to remember who the advice is coming from. I've quietly done the things I wanted to do as a mother with young babies (cloth diapering, sling versus strollers, homeschooling) without the need to bully others into my choices or wax loudly about how my way is better and I know more than you do so you must listen to me. I played the role of a minister's wife and still swore through a couple of church meetings like a sailor on shore leave instead of projecting my intended stereotype like a free movie in Market Square, never once expecting others to watch themselves like they would in a service.

I've become a widow twice over without accepting the paid engagements to speak or write on how to overcome adversity and pain and continue to move forward when the person you put all your love into and hung your heart on is dead and cold. Without accepting the wellmeaningsers who think I am their project and they can fix me if I'd just listen. Ditto mental illness. You've read extensively about a topic and think I fit? Great. Now keep it to yourself.

I do.

I write here, I hope, with my own personal story and you can read it and walk away knowing I wasn't trying to shove anything down your throat. I write about MY feelings and MY experience and I'm sure it's frustrating if you come looking for help and I offer none. That's not my place. Go build your own damn character. I seem wrong? Right. Because I'm not you, I'm me.

And don't ever, EVER tell me you know exactly how I feel.

In fact, just strike that sentence from your vocabulary forever, because it's possibly the worst thing you could ever say to another human being as long as you live.

There, advice. Take it. It's what's for breakfast.

Patience fails.

Today is a day for a fresh cup of rich dark black coffee and a tiny rickety corner table in a cafe downtown. I have an unlined notebook and my fountain pen and while I wait, I write. I don't carry my laptop very many places, I prefer to travel a little more lightly, though you'd never know it, I carry giant bags, a holdover from the days of sippy cups and extra books/jackets/wipes/toys. Everyone hands me their stuff to hold when we're out. Me, I'm always holding someone's hand and my phone, so there's no extra arms for more things.

The pen glides smoothly over the clean paper and I smile at the page, because it's tightly packed with my unique block-printing that runs slightly uphill, the sign of an optimist. A lie I no longer believe.

The rain hits the window with force and puddles between the bricks of the sidewalk outside. I see blurry people rushing to and fro. I become mesmerized by the sheets of water pouring down over the glass and fail to notice August has joined me at the table until it bumps when he pulls his chair in and I startle back to reality, back to the warmth and dimly lit room and he shakes his hair back from his face and pulls his sweater off the boy-way, which is to reach up behind his head with both hands and pull. I love watching that. It looks neat. If I do it, I'd have earrings and hearing aids flying everywhere so I just watch instead.

I catch Michael Buble playing across the sound system, just for a microsecond. It's a strange choice of music for a Friday morning in a coffee shop but I imagine they are tuned into one of the CBC light stations that cranks out steady music that guarantees not to offend. The thought makes me smile again because I gravitate to oversexed, chaotic alternative metal that offends everyone who doesn't love it and I've never cared that I look like I'm cold, like I don't even listen to music at all, let alone immerse myself in it constantly, banging back and forth painfully between classical and that metal and sometimes mixing them together. I love noise and heart. Both kinds of music hold both absolutes, for me, at least.

August orders a coffee and a muffin with fruit from the server and then smiles at me. He is a variation on Jesus himself. A beautiful man with long hair and a no bullshit attitude mixed thoroughly with mellow. It's now been almost four years since I first met him, standing behind Jacob while I stood outside and tried to channel up the ocean and turn it into the sky somehow. He was watchful and carried a confidence that was overshadowed mightily by Jake and his movie-handsomeness. Everything paled under Jacob's halo.

Oh crap. I hear Shawn Mullins playing. One of those songs that I focus right in on and then become sad, almost unconsciously and I ask August how his day looks, if he can make it for dinner tonight, if he thinks the rain will stop and if maybe he's talked to Ben, or Seth at the very least, to get the barometer on how the building excitement might be affecting Ben's resolve. August gives me a perplexed look before disguising it with his news. He knows.

I reach up in frustration and pull the other pen out of my hair and the knot untangles itself, curls resting against my back. I let the wall come down because I feel like I'm about to cry and I have warning again, whole minutes with which to prepare and to either hide my face or find somewhere private to go. Before the tears would just come, suddenly, like a water main break on a busy street and they would stream down my face and I wouldn't feel a thing because I don't feel anything anymore and yet I feel everything sometimes, at a higher level than most. It's the tightrope. I thought I had it mastered but then I wobbled and the crowd gasped, because..she does this stunt without a net, stupid girl. One false move and the show will close forever.

August grabs for my hand and misses as I pull up my bag, coat and notebook in one shaky move, I stand and tell him I'm sorry and then I head out into the rain and run across the sidewalk to my car, fumbling for my keys, which are in my bag, buried at the bottom under the GI Joe toys from a trip to Burger King last week and all of Ben's notes from writing he was doing when he was last home and with despair I see that the ink has run because they are sodden now and I find my keys and feel a river of water running over my toes because high heels in the rain are a guaranteed disaster and I finally get the door open and jump in and slam it against the weather and suddenly the city noise is gone and then the other door flies open and August gets in and closes his door and he just stares at me.

The music.

I know, Bridget.

I'll be happy when I can't hear it anymore.

No, you won't.

Then I'm never leaving my house.

We both know that's not reasonable.

Neither is this all the time, August.

It's getting better.

Oh, don't bullshit me.

I don't.

I look up at him and he's staring back. Convicted. Reassuring.

Better, huh?

Yes. Every month I see improvements in you.

I'm getting over them? What if I don't want to?

This isn't a bad thing-

Oh, stop right there. I've heard all that.

Then you tell me.

Tell you what?

Why getting over them would be wrong?

I don't want logic right now, August. I don't want a session with you. I wanted a cup of coffee but I don't think I'm up to it. I'm sorry.

I'll call Loch to come get you and take you home.

I DON'T WANT HIM HERE! (Fuck, I kinda went off there. I didn't mean to.)

August waited for me to self-correct and I did because he doesn't need that. Composurecomposurecomposure.

I'll drop you at work and go home. I'm fine. Really.

I know, Bridget.

I drove him the two blocks to his office and he sat looking out the window at the blurry people on the sidewalk and then he turned to me. I was studying the lights up ahead. He was studying me. Green yellow red. Green yellow red. Green yellow red. Stop, Bridget. Slow down, Bridget. Go, Bridget.

The guilt is normal, you know.

He leaned over and kissed my cheek and got out of the car, slamming the door and running through the rain until he was safely inside the front door of his building. He waved once and then went up the steps and down the hall until I couldn't see him anymore.

There's nothing normal about this, August.

I said it to thin air as I checked my mirrors, and then looked over my shoulder before pulling away from the curb.

Nothing normal at all.

I came home, opened the back door and all the lights were blazing. There's only one person who turns lights on and never turns them off as he leaves a room.

Ben is home. I didn't expect him this weekend. What a tremendous and much-needed surprise.

Funny how I have no guilt when it comes to him. He's like the antidote or something. Something wonderful.

Everything okay?

It is now.

PJ said he would rule at Women's wakeboarding.

Want to be a winner
Want to be the man
Want to drive yourself insane
Join up with the band
Want to fall in love
Want to make your mark
Want to get out in the storm
want to break a thousand hearts

It's the house of loud around here today, with old music vying with new for space in our ears, thumping in my chest, tapping in my fingers as I roll the big skull ring over and over around the first knuckle, fourth finger of my right hand.

It's not a bad day. I still have a mild leftover headache from the paint fumes/silicone caulking/lack of sleep/straight rum (oh, hush) but otherwise things have been better. This morning I did some outside chores and the children rode their bicycles up and down the sidewalk eighty-five times, then we went in to cool off for lunch and sacked out afterwards in front of the television with ice cream, watched a little of the X games and talked about which sports we would master when we grew up.

I think I would do anything save for skateboarding. My first trip, down a steep paved hill littered with gravel, on Lochlan's skateboard, no less, ended badly when I was twelve and I flew off it and landed on my face. Lost most of my front teeth and a whole lot of skin from my limbs and got to start Junior High School as the human road rash.

He is still laughing.

I am still glaring at him.

We don't tend to let things go. But better a skateboard accident then the three (almost four) marriages, three babies and the heaven in a drive-in movie theatre back field between us, he always says.

He thinks this house is his. Stole my newspaper twice this week, even after I pointed out I need it for the dog, so he goes in the right place instead of wherever he wants. Drank the last of the coffee I was saving for the four o'clock Narcoleptic Princess Experience, and erased the list of new albums by date from the white board in the kitchen that I was using as my guide so I would be able to make the weekly pilgrimage to HMV where they take my credit card and return it to me with scorch marks and I get new music to dive into like a fresh backyard pool, ice cold, coming up with wet curls, burning eyes and chlorine in my nostrils, bikini straps cutting against the slight sunburn of the previous day.

The X games got pretty old after about an hour, though. One spectacular moto x crash, and far too many qualifying drills to make an afternoon of it, and instead I'm trading messages with Ben and listening to Spy Adventures from upstairs somewhere when they take place right over my head here on the window seat in the kitchen and the dog is lying on the hardwood planks like he's just finished his own X games and really it feels like a Friday but it's not, not quite yet. I'm trying to do nothing for once and it feels rather weird.

I could clean the bathroom. I could finish raking along the side of the house where all the leaves tend to pile up and I could practice my spelling, since there are at least three words in existence that I use almost daily that I can't spell at all but I'm not sharing them right now, because I don't feel like looking them up and they never come up in spellcheck. I could file my ragged nails and paint them black to match Ben's. I could start dinner so that it's extra-awesome instead of just good, an effort I fight for mightily.

Or I could close my eyes for a bit, and imagine my arms going up around the back of Ben's neck, getting a coffee-and-cigarettes kiss which would be totally gross from anyone else and totally perfect from him. I could sleep for just very few minutes and then be awake enough to enjoy a movie or another evening spent out on the patio with boys and guitars and sleepy children, or I could just not move or do anything at all. And just wait for a moment. One perfect moment with quiet, with sunshine, with a light cool breeze and a little peace inside my head. A slow down and take it easy, Bridget moment that I never actually take, I'm stockpiling them in hopes that I can cash them all in at the same time, click my heels together and be transported to that resort in Tortola where they have a hammock and a view of nothing but ocean.

I'll lie in that hammock and spend my minutes with abandon, and I won't have to wash a dish, scrub up a puppy accident or break up a fight for an entire day. I won't get hungry or sunburned, and I really, really won't give a shit that I can't spell vaccume.

So there.

Terrible Eights.

There must be something in the water. Every time I turn around Henry is screaming about some perceived atrocity and Ruth, true to form, is cold and usually ignores him, rolls her eyes or uses stealth and devium to exact revenge by pinching or namecalling when no one is looking.

Sure he has crappy impulse control.

Yes, children fight.

It's the first time in his entire life I've been tempted to say "Wait until your father hears about this."

Only that would be pointless. He wouldn't know what to do either.

It's nothing serious, just the growing up, lack of sleep, boring week so far type of outbursts that make me want to squeeze my fingers into the palms of my hands until I see blood and I have to grit my teeth not to yell back at him, which is easy, really.

I remember the unfairness of being eight.

All I can do it try to help him keep it as painless as possible.

On an up note, things won't be so DULL around here anymore. Ben's office is finished! Which means furniture moving and picture hanging and probably couch shopping but that isn't important. what's important is that I did it. By myself. Every single square inch of perfect, painted surface is my handiwork and it's a labor of love for my guy who has been so sweet to me even when I'm a whirling shrew.

Especially when I'm a whirling shrew.

Must draw that, it sounds intriguing.

Now I need to go lie down. Paint fume headache with a side of narcolepsy. Such a prize.

Like a princess to a flame.

Fail to mention your intentions, fail to mention why.
The actions of your life contradict your words.
The path in which you walk, a line of no remorse.
Washing conscience from the skin, claiming innocence.
Ignore the signs.

Painting clothes are old army pants and a t-shirt that is too pink and too tight to wear outside the house. Ponytail. No jewelry. And I never bother to take a shower on days I plan to be a mess.

The good news? Ben's office is just about ready. Meaning the ceiling is beautifully finished and the walls have two coats of the most awesomemest shade of melted milk chocolate ever on them and there are no spots left to touch up. Tomorrow morning I will paint the trim and then when that's dry I'll clean the floor and put up new curtains so by supper time tomorrow night it will be ready.

And the paint for the other rooms that need to be painted is going to sit for a few days, because I don't want to see it. I'm tired. We did the fence two weeks ago, that was three straight days of labour, then last weekend was kitchen stuff and really in and around all of that I am still cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, breaking up fights, organizing our lives and generally winding up with maybe thirty minutes a day to myself.

So yes, as a matter of face, I am averaging a whole half-page a day of The Time Traveler's Wife and getting no writing done at all.

But on the upside, the house looks fantastic. I want it in market condition so that if we decide to sell abruptly we can (and enjoy it besides). If this coming winter matches the summer, so far with it's fifteen degrees below average temperatures, we'll be gone before we can realize we're cold.

I have a headache. A mile wide, from a combination of sleeping on Ben's feather pillows and from not sleeping at all. From being pre-menstrual. From stress thinking about life and from an inbox and an outbox I can't make a dent in.

From wishing the summer had involved a cabin on the beach and a threadbare quilt for the sand and little else. Candles, potato salad and some really good hair conditioner, perhaps. That's enough 'else' when on vacation. Time to read my book and enjoy the little bit of life that is mine. Ours. Yours.

And I think PJ is drugging my food but really that's a whole lot of speculation and no fact to go on whatsoever, I've just noticed the past two weeks that my brain isn't working at ALL, but it is probably the cold nights and absent rest and just about whatever else I can pin it on.

Even though when I've suspected similar situations I've been right, every time. Keep her calm and she won't miss Ben so much all the time, right?

In other news, because I don't know if I told you, did you know I ordered the parts to fix my phone? $50 all told, which is cheaper than paying $600 for a replacement phone when I'm exactly twelve months from a sanctioned upgrade. Ben is going to fix it when the parts come and he's been sending me links to some crazy protective cases.

Sigh.

I need to go, I want to have a hot shower and rest for a few minutes before I begin dinner preparations. And I'm noticing the wick is low on one end here, and if you want to burn a candle at both ends, it's always good to have extra on hand, right?

Eggshell finish.

I'm so warm and calm inside
I no longer have to hide
Lets talk about someone else
Steaming soup against her mouth
Nothing really bothers her
She just wants to love herself

Here today, gone tomorrow. It's unintentional immersion into my worst fears, for I only can reach my arms around him and he's gone again, the living spectre in this ghost story, the one you think you see in the shadowy darkness up ahead, but then when you return to the safety of the bright lights, you dismiss your sighting as a trick of the mind.

I'm getting better at the goodbyes now, able to save the great hitching sobs and endless tears for after he's gone, instead of during or worse, before the goodbyes. He holds me so tight, it's as if he could just absorb me into him and I could ride along for the duration and never be away from him.

He went on a spree of domestic bliss before he left, putting in the new range hood, mowing the lawns, giving the puppy a thorough bath and spending individual time with each child. He played his guitar for me and held me safely while I slept, going out of his way to make the days count for as much as they can while we continue to navigate life after death, hand in hand.

It still sucks that Ben is always leaving, though.

Now I must go, I'm making a surprise for him, I'm painting the den so he'll have his very own man-cave here at home that he can disappear into that isn't the basement music room with the work connotations. An oasis in plaster and paint and wood. It's okay though, he knows I'm doing it, he just doesn't know the color I've picked out or the actual decorating plans. It will be a nice surprise overall and it will be finished by the next time he comes home.

I hope. I'm not all that psyched to paint a whole room by myself but it's one of those things I think I should be proficient at doing. Along with other life skills like changing a flat tire and pole dancing.

Er..

Snort.

Wish me luck. I've got my drop sheets and I'm going in!

(If you don't see me by lunchtime, could you send a search party? Okay, thanks. Bye.)

That's it, I'm kissing all of your foreheads from here on out.

This time I won't go softly
(I never wanted to be)
Refuse to simply fade away
(I never wanted to be)
Still holding on 'cause this is
Far from over
I won't say goodnight
My heart's grown colder
Waiting for the sun to rise again
Crawling closer
So save your kiss goodbye
It's far from over

Last evening Andrew took us to the movies (I dozed off, no idea), then out to a new to us diner in a nearby borough and then we played pinball for a couple of hours before the kids finally wore out and I got them into baths and then to bed quite easily.

We popped Sunshine into the DVD player and measured out some positively lethal South American spirits and that was it for Bridget. Movies are my celluloid narcolepsy these days and it makes me mad because I love to escape into a movie, just not quite so thoroughly. I drifted off just as Cillian Murphy was staring into the sun.

I woke up in Ben's arms.

He came home sometime during the night and like a giant, clumsy ninja, managed to bypass all the alarms and Andrew in the spare room and the new restless and light-sleeping puppy at the foot of our bed and he sacked right out, falling asleep with his arms around me and his boots and jacket still on. Backpack on the floor. Airplane fuel fumes drifting lightly through the room.

I turned over into his face and kissed him on the forehead and his eyes opened instantly. Okay, so he didn't fall asleep. He asked if I was going to continue to mentally hand myself to the devil every time we have an argument. I nodded and he said to stop it. Then he said he was sorry but the whole not trusting him with really important facts out of misguided kindness or even fear was ridiculous at this point in time and it has to stop. Then he said So there and kissed my forehead.

We both smiled, not taking it for granted that we are together, in the same room again. A gift.

Then I sat up really quickly and surprised him and he sat up and we bumped a head on an elbow and both cringed and then laughed and he asked what happened. I pointed out I just realized he was home. Here. With us.

Where else would I go, little bee?

Anywhere. You could go anywhere.

My heart is here. My kids, my wife.

(I choked up right there and nodded, unable to say anything.)

I'm still mad at you.

You didn't have to come back.

And let the devil have you? I don't think so. Preacher raised us up right.

Oh he did, did he?

He tried, Bridge. And maybe he wasn't as misguided as you think.

Can we not do this right now?

Fine. We'll fit it in later on, after I ravage you in the shower.

Oh, see, now you're on to something.

Not yet, I'm not. Give me a few minutes and I most definitely will be, though.

But we were forced to take a raincheck on the ravaging, thanks to light-sleeping puppy that needed to be walked and children that wanted banana bread for breakfast (warmed, butternauts on the side, though in Henry's case they are butter aliens that resemble lumps of, well, butter) and juice and the phone started ringing and Ben made some comment about it being grand central as usual and then when he smiled I saw that he loves every second of this.

Every second. Even the bitter parts. Which balance out the sweet and make this domestic bliss almost palatable, an acquired taste that he's learning to crave almost as much as I crave the calm now. The peaceful no-drama, everyone lives their lives and makes a better effort to simply get along and we might have half a shot here at normal.

That blissful mediocrity we crave and then can't stand when we have it.

Yeah, I know. But Ben is home and this is good. Off to pick strawberries now. That always separates the real rock stars from the intended-awkward tattooed dads. Or so he tells me.

Diners are people too.

Bridget, what in the hell are you doing?

Giving the internet something to chew on, since they won't leave Ben alone.

He's got a thick skin about it, why don't you?

I'm not the star, Andrew. I don't have to read the crappy things people say about me. I can turn off my comments and delete my mail, I'm a nobody, after all.

That isn't true. You're our girl.

So then let me take some of the flack for him.

That isn't how it works.

I wish it worked like that.

So will you take down all the stuff about the commune? Your mother's going to be horrified.

No, in fact, I think it's time for another detailed lap dance post and I can finish myself off.

So the internet is your imaginary adversary now?

Sometimes.

Destroy all monsters?

If I could.

Do you know why we're here?

Lap dances?

I wish. That would be nice but your husband would crush me. We're here because we want to destroy the monsters for you.

What if you guys are my monsters?

That's what we're all afraid of, princess.

Maybe you just need thicker skins, then.

Oh, I see what you did there.

I'm good, aren't I?

The very best.

Further distractions will keep you off his trail, or About my house.

(I've thrown you so many bones this week you can practically re-enact Jason and the Argonauts, complete with your very own skeleton army.)

We call it a collective if we call it anything at all. The reluctant Utopia.

You call it a commune.

I hear that often. Daily even.

This house is large and rambling and built on a square. The hallways are large hexagons with all doors opening into the center. There are rooms within rooms and secret doors and windows and a dumbwaiter and a rooftop turret that I demolished with my bare hands and a weathervane. Copper filials outside and miles of wooden trim inside. Wooden floors. Big black grates on the walls for heat. Leaded glass windows in just about every room. It's like a church inside. A comfortable one where the light shoots right through the center and fills the house with joy because it needs to be filled with something and so we chose something good.

I don't care what you think, personally. It was meant to be.

Originally it was a good deal. A huge rambling Victorian house, laden with gingerbread and windows and bedrooms, tucked out of the way and somehow passed over by most, probably because it has one bathroom, and few people will consider a house without at least two. This actually has two, because the water closet at the top of the stairs has it's own door and window, and then you can exit stage right and enter into the huge bathroom proper with the big black cast iron and enamel bathtub, still with room for a large sink and as much other furniture as you would like inside, before continuing out through into the upstairs sunroom surrounded by windows on three sides. It leads to the west wing. This is not a small house.

No one else gave it a chance, and so it became mine, for around a third of what it should have been sold for. Not only was it a good deal, but it would serve as a base or a home away from home for the myriad of beloved friends we keep. Artists and musicians and actors and preachers and uniforms and family too.

And it did, in the beginning.

And then it evolved.

It runs pragmatically. There is a gentle hierarchy, only because there has to be. The children come first, followed by me, followed by the more vulnerable of the boys at any given time. Usually Ben because he struggles with everything so. He fights his recovery, he fights his work, he fights his emotions and so they coddle him. Then seniority plays a large role after that, leaving Lochlan pretty much in charge of most big decisions, but only if they don't involve me so much. PJ looks after my head and has much input from August and then Sam and then Joel if need be.

I cook and clean and do laundry, mending and I care for the children before all the rest. I listen. I keep the music playing and I serve as muse. I wash a heck of a lot of dishes. I borrow very large flannel shirts when I catch a chill and I will ask you for a hug before you can put your stuff down when you first walk through the door, if you've even left at all. The boys are responsible for male influence for the kids, co-parenting, if you will, lifting heavy things, all repair and carpentry, making Big Decisions, protection and affection. They are to create and to rest when they're here.

We buy groceries as a group, spend and save money as a group, and I keep their hearts intact. They keep my head screwed on straight and mostly keep us busy living life so that I don't fall behind and begin to miss. They have a water-tight schedule so that we are rarely, if ever, alone and the driveway is always full, to the point where I will come home and have to park on the street. It's fine though, someone will go out and move my car later. Someone will fix it later too, if need be.

People come and visit and never leave. Friends of the boys. Some keep their own space. Lochlan bought a house a stone's throw away. PJ lives a bit over but never goes home. John lives at the end of this street. Schuyler and Dan have their flat. Caleb has a loft downtown. Dalton, well, we all know of his beautiful apartment. August lives in his office, I believe (it's a joke but not really). Sam has the parsonage that Jacob sold out from under the church, who had to buy it back later and Christian doesn't live here at all anymore but he visits as much as he can. Technically the only people who live in this house are Bridget, Ben, Ruth and Henry but really we all know better.

This is home. To everyone. Ground zero. Space One. The House. Wide open with twelve keys flung to the ether and caught by those I trust, so good luck getting in.

But the house is not the important part.

The people are.

You may have a bias towards the way we do things here but what works for us may not work for you and vice versa. Traditional roles shared in a nontraditional setting are ultimately both romantic and horribly disdainful to the majority. Curiosity is usually the first reaction, followed by enthusiasm and then caution. Imaginations run wild. Old hypocrisies surface and are swiftly quelled because you see, dammit, you see how proper and uptight I am and how I don't stand for infighting that isn't valid or decisions that aren't fair or appearances that deceive.

I do care when I hear that there are rumors bouncing around so there, once again from the whore's mouth, the explanation. The best part is that it just seemed to happen. There were no plans to do this. Not all of us are hippies. Not all of us are extroverts who thrive on constant contact. All of us are well aware of the stigma of an intentional family to the outside world. But since when have I cared what the outside world thought of it all anyway?

You thought I was kidding when I talked of my kingdom.

I was not.

Devotion on all fronts.

Caleb is Henry's father.

(Now, read carefully.)

As recently as a year ago, Caleb gave me a choice. Sleep with him, regularly, or he would tell. He wanted everyone to know. He needed to stake his claim in my life because they were forcing him out. He is just like his brother was. Depraved and unholy.

It mirrored a decade ago when I was forced to sleep with Caleb on a regular basis, only I minded that less than you might think. Cole had ideas, you see. Ideas and plans and needs that make average, normal people cringe and cry. Scream. If they were a movie you would have turned it off and poured scalding water into your ears to cleanse your brain. Only he went too far.

He always did.

We suspected Henry was not Cole's biological son and for the sakes of everyone involved and everyone we knew and for his own absolution we decided to keep it a secret. Forever. Cole didn't want his friends to know how truly awful he could be.

But he's dead now and this doesn't have to be a secret anymore. I just became so good at keeping it. I kept it from the boys, fearing their judgment, kept it from the children and from Cole's parents. Besides, it was a suspicion, not a fact, right? That blew up in my face the spring Cole died (the week before his death, if you can believe that), when we had testing done to see, once and for all because there was an outside chance that Henry belonged to Jacob, too.

Because while Cole was torturing himself by letting Caleb have me, I was torturing all of us by going to Jacob.

I already told you about all that.

Jacob wasn't Henry's father by almost a hundred percent. Caleb, however, was. Cole was crushed, Jacob too, and I have spent a long time trying to pretend that this is not the truth. That maybe it was a dream and I'm not the monster. It doesn't matter if I was forced and then coerced. I'm still the only one standing in the glare of these headlights with my shame for all to see, a deer caught running all over the woods when she should have kept to her own tiny, perfect glade.

Outwardly, I continued to keep the secret. From my boys, of all people. They all wondered, and they speculated and hit on the truth a long time ago, discussing it out of my range and choosing to wait me out, knowing I would tell them when I was ready. I ask for an inch and they give me a mile. And Ben knew because Caleb had once enlisted him in the Big Plan to take me away from Jake (which blew up in Caleb's face, now didn't it?). So the news I had been so scared to give turned out to be a wash, and Caleb loses all his power over me in one giant breath.

The only thing he wants is time. Wow. If I could control time I'd be the center of the universe, now wouldn't I? He wants to spend time with both children. He wants to be a part of things, with assurances that down the road I won't take the kids from him and he won't try to take them from me. Henry knows and Henry is okay with it. He says it makes him even more a part of his dad, right? I smiled through my tears and said yes, it does. He doesn't understand. This will take time.

In retrospect, I married the wrong brother and everyone knew it. Only you're never going to pick the smooth, calculating and ice-cold one if you have a choice. You'll pick the passionate one, the romantic. The painter with the guitar who lives by his wits and loves until the day he dies. I loved Cole. All he wanted was his perfect little family with the pretty blonde wife to tuck into his arms, a girl, a boy and a house within which to grow the love we made. Only his predilections prevented that and I covered that cost and have since ruined three (four? five? six? twenty?) people and then some just by being me.

I'll take the blame because there's no one else left to do it.

I never said I was perfect. I am so far from perfect. I just hope you get it now. That you'll lay off a little and understand why when Caleb goes away, he never truly goes away. This is why. I could be awful. I could take all of Ben's lawyer power and I could make Caleb go away but he is also the victim here. He got caught up in something sick and twisted and he's been hurt by it too. It's left him wanting to love me and kill me at the same time. It's left him with rage and bitterness and guilt and it's left him with an obsession of possessing the one thing I won't let him have. His brother's family.

I can't help that. I'm not in love with Caleb. It doesn't work that way. Someday he'll get it. In the meantime, I just have to be careful. But finally there's a whole line of people with flashlights, leading me through the woods, pointing the way back to the meadow, back to familiarity. Back to safety.

Back to where I belong. Right here. Waiting for Ben to finish his work and come home to me. Because at the end of the day the distracted but painfully focused artist who plays guitar and keeps the romance bottled up until just the right moment, the unbridled temper tamed with stoic helplessness and true love is the one I want and I'm not giving that up to go be Satan's bride.

Ever.

I believe in you,
I can show you that
I can see right through
All your empty lies.
I won't stay long,
In this world so wrong.

Say goodbye,
As we dance with the devil tonight.
Don't you dare look at him in the eye,
As we dance with the devil tonight

Taking a day to breathe. Lip gloss reapplied after lunch. Ratty jeans and a rattier hoodie jacket over a low-cut t-shirt. Hair in my signature twist with a clip and the tendrils just perfect. Hoops and tunnels, diamond pendant, watch and the big skull rings in place. Socks. Man, it's cold.

Music on eleven. Breaking Benjamin today, because I need a little sweet with my loud. Clean house, laundry up to date and for the first time in almost three weeks I can put weight on my broken toes, which I smashed beautifully again on Tuesday night and I think that put them back into place nicely because once the agony wore off they seemed a whole lot better.

Going to go have an hours' worth of tattoo work done and then come home and cook a big dinner. See ya later alligators.

Maybe tomorrow you'll find what you're waiting for.

I only spent $120 at FAO Schwarz.

We're home and the away-guests left this morning to return to their own routines. Writing will resume as of now. My saltwater princes rule my world.

Where to begin again?

Firstly, the kids and I are well. Happy. Safe. LOVED. Oh my God, I had no idea how loved. Ben is healthy, relieved and redeemed, back to work for a new week of magic in his favorite format, back to inspiration and creativity we can't explain. Everyone is so much better than I ever expected. We're going to resume life missing Ben, watching Lochlan try to fill in as Male Influence, convincing PJ's mom to let us have the puppy back because she fell in love with him in our absence and breathing fully, all the way to the bottom because the other shoe dropped and I can stop waiting now.

Hmmm, what else, because I'm just not ready to write it out just yet. The courage seeped away this morning as I stared down the mountain of dishes and laundry I left behind in my hurry to be the one to take the blame. I beat Caleb by hours.

Four airports in as many days. Trips to places I didn't expect to see for awhile. My cracked iPhone that I dropped face-down on a rocky path still trucking along, ringing constantly with messages from the boys, all of whom dropped their routines and came to be with us and stayed with us until I felt brave enough to peek out from behind the wall they formed.

For the record? I found redemption too. Once again not finding blame for keeping secrets I thought would spell the end of friends, lovers and dignity too. Once again finding surprise that deep-dark princess secrets were actually open secrets, long speculated upon and discussed to be the truth and they were planning to wait me out. I cracked right on schedule. I begged forgiveness and was shunned because apparently there is nothing to forgive and I need to stop taking on blame and wearing faults like chains around my neck.

So everything is okay, everyone is well. The children are happy and had a wonderful time with so many uncles and family doting on us. The butler doted on us. Batman doted on us. It was surreal, you see, only you can't see and I can't show you things that would help you understand.

Sometimes you just have to be there.

At least that's what Ben said.

Home tomorrow. Everything's good. Have faith. Everyone's here.

Holy cryptic. No time.

Safe mode.

We've washed your brain and cleansed your soul
Until nothing's all you need to know
Hand over your will and then you'll see
Now get on your knees and worship me

I'm taking the kids to New York for the week to be with Ben. Teflon-Dalton will meet us and watch over us while we're there to some extent, otherwise they're making arrangements for a driver if we want to go places (we're staying in the marble-floored and heavily-butlered hotel that I love that better be kid-friendlier this time). FAO Shwarz opens at ten tomorrow, there's a good place to start. I'll spend all the money Caleb keeps giving me. Wish he would fuck off already.

PJ and Lochlan will be standing in for the roles of Dr. and Mrs. Doolittle. I'll let you decide who the girl is.

Sacrifice, buttoned-down and in girl-form.

You take away
You take away
You take away
You take away
You take away
You take away

A monster, when so driven.

A sophisticate, when calmed.

Pick someone, anyone. It describes every last one of them. Every last one of us. I'm not immune.

A drop-D tuning of a life with distortion so loud I can't hear anything save for a tone-deaf roar in my ears. And then I see it. They aren't from his point of view, they're from mine, songs destined to attempt to prove once and for all that he knows how I feel.

I am the artist.

Words elsewhere, hands, affection designed to prove that he knows what I need, what I want and why I don't have to draw a distinction between the two any longer. I've reached a point in my life where I don't have to make excuses or abide the lines I have drawn. Freewheeling. That was always Jacob's definition of Bridget. Freewheeling. Somehow he and he alone could see potential past the high-strung, uptight, proper and destined for great things Bridget to Bridget without boundaries.

Only I think he was wrong.

I realized I could get away with so much more than anyone ever thought I was capable of and I tasted it and I liked it and so I ordered another round and now I'm drunk with a ridiculous sort of power that won't turn off.

No excuses and no punishment except the kinds that come from self and from the night-monsters who serve as the heroes by day and the villains by night and it is liberating and breath-taking and so horribly wrong.

I was gifted my final deadline this morning and now I have to figure out if it would just be easier to dive from a high peak or run like hell. Standing around to face this music will free me of the pressure of being the muse but the true monster among us will be revealed.

One will be redeemed and the other forfeited.

I just didn't get to choose which one I would be.

White Zombie and plaster.

Scratch off the broken skin
Tear into my heart
Make me do it again
Yeah

Seven weeks. That's a long time for Ben to be away. But do you remember when I told you the boys were planning to enlist me to help finish my own house, learn a few trades, hone my plumber's crack and generally be less pretty and more useful?

They weren't kidding. And I have plastered a whole wall all by myself.

Huzzah, bitches.

Sola-numb. Dustfingers. More goodbyes.

Yesterday was a hiccup rescued with a lifeline fed continuously and generously down the side of the mountain to where I dangled, not sure if the effort of holding on was worth the thought of letting go. The white knuckle grip was beginning to ache and the tension ran like an electric current through the branch I was holding, threatening to blow me off in volts instead.

I had one Vicodin and one vodka on the rocks and then when we sat down with the children draped all over Ben to watch Inkheart I was asleep in seconds. Woke up a few times to see that I was missing an amazing movie and then it was finished, and Ben took the dog out, I took the kids to bed and we rendezvoused on the couch once again to watch Push. Except this time I didn't see much of anything, out instantly and finally my eyes opened to find him watching me.

What are you doing?

Watching you sleep.

He led me to bed and boom, out again. I slept from before midnight until six, when Bonham started his morning bark, and then he stopped and I fell asleep again until eight. Restorative, deep sleep free of nightmares, ghosts, anxiety or fear, oddly enough. Selfishly because Bridget wouldn't choose and so it was chosen for me. Sleep. Then everything else will sort itself out.

Ben flies out late tonight and it will probably be the last time I see him until the second week of September. He thinks I can't hear him when he talks in the Bridget-proof low tones to the others but sometimes I catch just enough and it breaks my heart because I know he'll say he'll try to get back soon, to provide the loft that might keep my hopes up. I know it's going to be hard. I know the other boys are here doing everything they can to fill in as guards, dads, carpenters, jar-openers, affection-dispensers and moral support posts you couldn't knock down with a bulldozer.

It's just that they're not Ben.

And that matters. So very very much.

I'm going to miss him. But I'm going to be very busy with finishing more stories and training Bonham up to be a good puppy, keeping the children busy with their bicycles and sidewalk chalk and library books and playing confessor and surrogate wife for my boys as they form the calm around my storm, as much support for them, I hope, as they are for me. Just in different ways.

What's left of the summer will be spent quietly, in the shade of the porch on the painted floor, with a pencil and a cellphone and a blank sheet of paper, a glass tumbler full of fresh blueberries to one side for snacking and a glass pendant hung on the screen door handle when it became too warm to wear any longer, a memory on a string of our week in Venice and the endless glass shops we combed to find that tiny orb with the green flower inside.

When the sun goes down the tiny white lights will twinkle on, one string at a time, and the words will flow out into the darkness and hopefully reach his ears, and he will find a way to weave his musings into song, because we simply never ever waste a word anymore.

Goodbye sweetheart. Tucker. Benjamin. I love you. Come back to me soon.

Snapping back.

Ben took this picture on his knees. That puts him almost level with me. You should see the one I took of him.
I suppose I need to change my profile picture here now, since I defected from RIM, sneaking across the border, climbing the electrified fence so that I could join the Apple colony where things are easy, smudged with fingerprints and there is no memory to be managed. Wow, that pretty much compares me to everyone else, if smartphones were people.

I suppose I should concede defeat and acknowledge the return of the Vicodin and vodka fairies because I don't deal with stress well. I don't know how.

I look happy, though. I think I can pretty much fake just about any emotion at this point. Lucky for that, it makes things easier for everyone else.

Expert level difficulty (sing it for me).

You wouldn't like me.
Keep moving on until forever ends.
Don't try to fight me.
The beauty queen has lost her crown again.

So here we are, fighting and trying to hide the scars.
I'll be home tonight, take a breath and softly say goodbye.
The lonely road, the one that I should try to walk alone.
I'll be home tonight, take a breath and softly say goodbye.

Yesterday was a Family Holiday. The four of us plus Daniel, Schuyler, PJ, Christian, Sam, Caleb, Duncan, Dylan, August, Lochlan and Mark spent the day together, with extended visits besides from Nolan and his boys and from Joel.

I'm always amazed when I can pack sixteen men into one room. This house is Victorian, the rooms are small. The men are not small. Okay, Lochlan and Daniel are smaller and frankly sick of me pointing that out online so let's just say it's a treat to have the dynamics of everyone here at the same time. Those who could not come called, and those who could not call wrote, there was no shortage of proof of live and love and I was able to check off another entire anxiety-free day in my life, I almost have a handful now. I'm proud of myself.

They were all relaxed, though, somehow. It was cold out, I was surrounded by jeans and sweaters and hoodies and warm smiles. Not having to be in charge. Only one tense moment early on when Ben put himself in Caleb's personal space and they exchanged a look so dark I could see lightning flashes in the distance and then inexplicably the skies cleared and it was clear blue sailing and I didn't stop to question it, I let it rest because they've reached a level playing field and that's where things are best so don't mess with it and everyone was so excited that Ben was able to carve out some days, he's learning how to concentrate in fragments since that's one of the biggest challenges of being a parent and so he can now almost slip in and out of his head with minimal damage workwise.

Thursday evening when he got home he pulled me into the hot shower with him and scrubbed me all over, sending rivers of soap over my skin and washing off any fingerprints that weren't his. Lathering up my hair and stripping the scent of the days without him from my head. Holding me so tightly under the stream against his chest so none of my breaths were without him. Washing off his life without me, his travels and time spent investing in the future so that someday he'll be free of his contract and he can go back to work at will which is the way he works best, ironically.

I have swung back to days without suspicion, secure in that I am loved instead of wanted as the prize, safe without cost and I don't know if that comes from Satan's best behavior or Ben's presence in my days and nights suddenly again or if there's something in me that I figured out finally. I don't know so I'll just take it, but not for granted, and see what happens next. It's just nice to have things the way they are supposed to be. It's rare but wonderful, as was yesterday, and I want my boys to know that they are my world and my air and my heart.

And so I told them. Didn't see much surprise on their faces.

What I did see though, on one, was the absence of the ego chip that flies home securely fastened to one rather large shoulder in particular. A chip that generally was taking around six or twelve hours to dissolve when it arrived each time.

Except for this time.

That chip was gone the moment he laid his eyes on me this time, and was replaced with the softened watery-quavery sweet-Ben with the quiet eyes and hollow angelic voice that I think he prefers to keep hidden behind a bitter defense. He didn't hide it this time. Not with me, anyway. And I didn't hide anything from him either, choosing to acknowledge the hardest aspects of his absences with slightly twisted variations on his own quantifiable solutions that make everyone happy. Who to spend time with, how to deal with the overwhelming fear-urges that take over and make us destructive, unhealthy. And so when he finally had a clean and untouched Bridget for his very own and he forced my head back, his lips against my jaw, forcing his thumb between my lips and the breath from my lungs, he said he could live with this, that he liked this, that I could be his heart and still manage to breathe, on my own, without his air when I had to. When I have to, not when I want to.

There is a difference. And it is defined at last, on a very important day, no less, so we can mark it forever.

Cake included.

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.