Over time (the end of the grand experiment).

Told me you loved me, that I'd never die alone
Hand over your heart let's go home.
Everyone noticed, everyone had seen the signs,
I've always been known to cross lines.

I never ever cried when I was feeling down,
I've always been scared of the sound.
Jesus don't love me, no one ever carried my load,
I'm too young to feel this old.

Here's to you, here's to me, oh to us,
Nobody knows
Nobody sees
Nobody but me

He bent his head down low, pushing against my hair, his arms sliding around my back, easily across the satin slip. He pushed me down onto the bed, kissing my throat, tracing his fingers down my face.

I love you.

I braced myself for him and then I was tearing at the sheets, turned over and hammered into, kissed all over, crushed beneath him. Returned to my back so he could smile down at me, slower now, harder now, until I'm clawing at air, his hand over my mouth so I can't scream, his head pressed against my mine. Then his hands are down, full weight and he pulls my hips into his so hard I can't breathe. Razorburn brings sweet stinging agony to my skin, sweat challenges our strength as efforts are wasted when our limbs slide freely over one another.

I am lifted, pulled away and then brought back to my delight and everything else goes away until the only focus is Ben. I am suddenly touched by how happy that makes me. How incredibly sure I am that after all of these efforts to test my loyalties they still remain with this man, and I am sitting above him now, knees up and wrapped around his back and his arms are around me and this is how we always end up and he kisses me because I am on his level at last. Cementing that loyalty. He looks at the clock, sighs and gets up, passing me my dress, apologizing for tearing my slip. It was vintage. Pale rose. He adores it on me and I am made to sleep in it often. I believe I can mend it still. He steps over to me and grabs my head in both hands, pulling me up to him for a kiss. One of these days I fear my head's going to come right off when he does that but I love it anyway. I am returned to earth gently. Beauty and the beast. So much heart in one room we're going to blow the walls out.

I love you, Bridget.

I love you, Ben.

We should have kept going. It took another two hours for everyone to show up for the family meeting Ben called, after hardly speaking to anyone for the past two weeks.

I should really learn that when a man stands in front of me with his back to me, blocking access that something very serious is about to take place and I am being shielded from harm.

Ben took this stance. Last night when he first came home and took me upstairs he looked at me with his eyes red and wired and exhausted, and he said simply,

Enough.

He turned around, facing his friends, taking a drink from a bottle of water. Almost to the letter I could have sworn it was something else because the action is the same but it was water. He put the bottle down on the table and he scooped his arm behind his back, me within his reach and gently pushed me further so I couldn't see their faces, so they couldn't see me.

I just pressed my forehead against his back and his arm came back again, pressing me against him, squeezing me in his own shorthand. It will be okay. And then he started to talk and I was shoved to the floor abruptly as Lochlan picked that moment to go for broke. All of the sudden everyone is shouting and PJ went for Lochlan and nailed him to the floor, keeping him there and Ben turned around and pulled me up off the floor and I tried to ask them what in the hell is wrong with all of you and I couldn't and I don't want to see them fight and Ben is trying to talk to me but Lochlan is still yelling, screaming for me and PJ is sitting on him so he's going nowhere.

Ben took my hand and he kissed it and he tucked it into his and led me upstairs to sleep. He was finished. Something I wished for. I don't know how it's going to work with this house or the new company or with the devil for that matter but all he had to do was say those words that burn Lochlan's ears and heart so badly and I can't help it.

She's mine.

This is what I have said all along as I've been passed from one to the next. No timeshares. Don't do this. Please. I can't do this. And then, fine. I'll embrace it. This is life now if this is the choice you have made. This is what grownups do. They take their bad ideas and they run with them and then later on they learn the cost. And then they have to figure out how to pay. I am bankrupt. I have no more emotional currency for this. It is over.

We're leaving now to drive downtown for breakfast with the devil, to do this all over again, so forgive me if I'm a little stressed this morning. I need to keep making sure it's water Ben is drinking because if he changes then he doesn't get to make any rules and Jesus Christ, no one wants me making them.

He holds my hand. So tightly I want to cry with relief but I'm waiting. Maybe later when we are safe again.

For Caleb.

And the tail-lights dissolve, in the coming of night
And the questions in thousands take flight
My love is the miles and the waiting
The eyes that just stare, and a glance at the clock
And the secret that burns, and the pain that won't stop
And it's fuel is the years
Leading me on
Leading me down the road

I'm sitting on the raft, waiting for Lochlan to swim back out and bring me in to shore. It's too far and I'm not a good swimmer. I'm still not a good swimmer. He would always stay beside me and take long slow strokes to keep pace or he would let me piggyback on him, arms around his neck the whole way out if he felt so inclined.

Caleb appears from the other side of the raft. The 'deep' side where the older kids hang out at the rope swing. He is twenty. I am twelve years old. I have secret dreams about him but it's rare that he pays me any attention. His wet hair is in his eyes, his trunks are dripping, low on his hips. He is thin but strong. Twenty-year old muscles look good in comparison to the ones of a seventeen-year-old Lochlan and a sixteen-year-old Cole.

Do you need help getting back, Bridget?

No, Lochlan is coming for me.

He stands, looking toward shore and he smiles into the sun, hand up over his brow to cut the glare.

I don't think he's coming out, Bridge.

He will. He's mad at me.

Why?

I want to go with him when he goes out with the show.

For the rest of the summer? What about swimming? What about your friends?

He's my best friend. I don't want to be away from him so long.

Everyone else is here, Bridge. You're too young anyway.

I'm not.

Wait a few more years. I'm heading in now. I can drive you home if you want to come with me.

I stared at Lochlan. He was talking intently to Bailey, his hand up pulling on his ear like he does when he's self-conscious but trying to look fascinating. Bailey only has eyes for Caleb right now, and she's staring back toward me, I make a motion for her to wait and I indicate that Caleb will drive us. She nods and I know she's about to ask Lochlan if he's going to come and get me for her so we can get home.

It's too late. Caleb sinks into the water and then waits for me to descend from the raft. I try and nonchalantly slide off the edge but it's scraping my legs so I push away and my head goes under instantly. Caleb reaches down and grabs my arms and pulls me back up and he pulls me in until his arms are around me and I didn't see but PJ always tells it like Lochlan stopped mid-sentence and ran down to the water, wading in and then diving under and that he's never seen a look like that on Lochlan's face before. I just remember wow, what a weird feeling to be in Caleb's arms and it's not bad but it feels really strange and good and then all of the sudden, Lochlan is there pulling me off Caleb and Caleb is laughing and Lochlan says something about thanks for taking care of her. Caleb says that someone should be and swims away.

Lochlan just stares at me for a moment and I'm not sure what I did to upset him so much. What I know is that he didn't like it. I got his attention by paying attention to someone else. Someone he considers competition maybe or someone he aspires to be like. I would file that away for future reference. Lochlan turns away now, pulling my arms around him and I lock my hands around his neck and huddle against his back as he slowly makes his way back to shore.

That night at the bonfire I am sitting between Lochlan and Christian. I have had three burned marshmallows and half a bottle of Schooner and I'm buzzing into the flames and zoning out, falling asleep because it's late and my head dips onto Christian's shoulder so he gives me a gentle shove until I lean the other way, against Lochlan. Lochlan kisses the top of my head but keeps talking. They are talking about cars. I am so tired from the fresh air. I can hear the music down the beach. Caleb and his friends have backed a truck down to the sand and the doors are open and Robert Plant is on, Big Log. Caleb is sitting quietly by a bigger bonfire watching the others make fools of themselves but he is a little bit blurry because my eyes keep closing and because there is fire blocking my view of him.

Soon Lochlan picks me up, carrying me to the truck in his arms. I'll never be a grownup at this rate and I am dismayed but I think I'm too drunk to walk and not awake anyway. He puts me in the passenger side and pushes me until I am lying down and then he gets in the driver's side and rearranges me, shoving his hoodie under my head. He drives and I fall asleep again. It's warm and safe and comfortable. He turns off the radio and I am in dreams.

I'm out of dreams suddenly. We have stopped. Lochlan is sitting with the engine off, his hand stroking my hair. I sit up abruptly, sleep leaving me. I look around but it's pitch black.

Where are we?

Just up from the dunes. Look that way. See the light from the buoy?

Oh, okay. What are you doing?

Just sitting. Letting you sleep. Thinking.

About?

I think maybe if you want to come with me for some of the work this summer, than you should.

I want to but how?

We'll just tell your parents that you're staying at the cottage with us. (I had been going to his parents cottage for years already.)

What about Bailey?

Same thing. She's busy with her friends.

Really?

I jumped on him, squeezing him hard. I was so excited. Old enough to go out with the midway. Lochlan's approval was my oxygen. He wanted me to go along. Best day of my life.

His arms closed around me and he didn't let go right away. We just stayed as we were. I was sitting on his lap and he was still belted in. He reached down with one hand under my thigh and unfastened his seatbelt. And he kissed me, not letting go an inch. I couldn't breath. I wasn't sure what to do. I just kind of stayed where I was and let him try and teach me without words how to kiss him back and then I figured it out quite quickly and his hands went to my head. He pulled me back and stared at me.

He swore softly, in my face.

I burst into tears.

We didn't move.

He pulled me in against his chest and I could look over the back seat and see the mess of beach towels, stacks of Chilton car repair guides, Pepsi cans and empty cigarette packs. I stayed clutching Lochlan's neck forever, it seemed. I closed my eyes. I started to go back into my dreams and he let go and I felt cold and he shoved me back into my place beside him and kissed my cheek and started the truck. We drove out of the dunes silently.

We never saw Caleb was sitting at the top of the boardwalk stairs above.

Two days later I was packed, wearing my baby blue backpack, waiting on the porch for Lochlan when Caleb drove up to pick up Bailey and her friends for yet another day at the lake.

You coming too, little Fidget?

No, I'm...heading to Lochlan's cottage for a week.

But Lochlan won't be there, he's starting Midway tomorrow.

I know. I'm just going to hang out there.

Bridget. I was seventeen once.

So?

I saw you guys the other night, after the bonfire.

So? (I'm caving in now. I don't understand.)

Don't cry. Just don't go to the fair, okay?

I won't.

You promise me? Please? When you get back from the cottage I'll take you out for dinner at the A&W drive-in in the car.

Just us?

Sure.

Okay.

He continued to look at me.

What?

It's just..weird. You're still a little kid but you're not a little kid anymore.

His eyes dropped to my legs. Brown and bare. I stood up, self-conscious, hugging myself. Caleb corrected his gaze.

I just want you to be careful of the wolves, Bridget. It's only going to get worse now.

That's what they call you, you know.

He laughed.

When will I see you?

Probably around the end of the third week of August.

You're staying at his cottage with his folks until he comes back from the Midway?

Yes.

You've already lied once to me, then.

I'm in tears as Lochlan pulls up. I hide my face behind my hands. Instantly there's a shoving match. Lochlan is the smaller of the two but he's brave. Caleb, for all of his burgeoning power, is not a fighter.

What did you say to her, Caleb?

That she needs to watch out for predators.

So you're showing her what one looks like?

Yeah, you. Caleb points at Lochlan, who counters with a fist. Miss.

This is none of your business, Caleb.

She's too young for you.

I'm not interested.

That isn't what I saw the other night. At the beach.

Oh, hell. It was a mistake.

One that's going to get a lot worse if you take her on this run.

Mind your own business.

I am. Leave her here.

Are you ready, Bridge?

Lochlan gives up and turns back to me. He takes my backpack off me and looks at his watch. He's breathing hard from the physical confrontation. He tries to smile at me and drops it quickly.

Yeah, let's go, Lochlan.

This isn't over, Loch.

Yeah it is.

Caleb just shook his head. Probably too cool to fight over a twelve year old. He was fighting from a different place. I understand that now. And he and Lochlan are still fighting and I'm sure it stems from that incident. But I also think that incident sparked a change in all of them. I was no longer the little girl following them around. I realized that the morning after the night Lochlan and I finally did seal our fate. I stood in the cornfield covered with dirt, crying with shame as he dug the hole, wishing we were burying Caleb instead of secrets. We had to go back and he would know. He would just know.

Funny how NOTHING EVER CHANGES.

Your move, asshole.

Can't hold on to me.

I linger in the doorway
Alarm clock screaming
Monsters calling my name
Let me stay
Where the wind will whisper to me
Where the raindrops as they’re falling tell a story

In my field of paper flowers
And candy clouds of lullaby
I lie inside myself for hours
And watch my purple sky fly over me

Don’t say I’m out of touch
With this rampant chaos/your reality
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge
In the nightmare I built my own world to escape

Swallowed up in the sound of my screaming
Cannot cease for the fear of silent nights
Oh, how I long for the deep-sleep dreaming
The goddess of imaginary light

This morning we have Amy Lee's voice competing with the theme music for Wayside on the television and everyone is patiently waiting for the baby-muffins to be ready. Daniel is baking them. Alone. Which means they will be perfect because he's a perfectionist. It also means they will take forever because he butters the pan perfectly and cracks the eggs perfectly and makes perfect conversation to cover up the fact that his eyes are puffy this morning and he is rather drawn and tired-looking and I know he fights with Schuyler and I know Schuyler can be cutting and cruel. Caleb-caliber cruel except that Caleb is afraid of nothing and Schuyler is afraid of me. And so he should be. Daniel is my charge, just like I am Lochlan's for the time being while Ben works overtime on top of overtime to finish this project.

Lochlan is reading through his notes and working from home. His reflexes are to lock me down and bar the door whenever Caleb's horns and forked tongue are showing at the same time and frankly I believe he feels left out. I spent hours hanging out in the crook of his arm yesterday, working on some stories I have been commissioned to write and then trying to stay awake while I listened to music on my BlackBerry, headphones jammed in tight to block out his parental tirade. Gentle, but still parental so I rebel and invite Daniel to come up and spend the morning because Daniel needs to be shaken, not stirred some days and really I wish that everyone would just act the same all the time, which is on their best behavior but oh, then things aren't any fun and it's much better when there is some fun.

I have chosen to retreat back into black this morning and the black stockings, platform shoes and buttoned-black dress are almost too much for Lochlan to bear. He prefers beach-Bridget, as did Jacob. Bikini top under eyelet camisole. Jeans. Flip-flops or dirty feet altogether. Evil eye bracelet leaving a tan line on my arm and tattoos covered with SPF30, always because faded tattoos make sadness in the world. Same big black bag slung over my shoulder, full of lip gloss, pennies, bobby pins, CDs and photographs. Always.

Imaginary would sound better on eleven but Henry takes priority and so it is on three. And these muffins would taste a lot better if Ben was sitting here eating one with me but really we all know he would shove the whole thing into his mouth and then get up and knock the chair over and proceed to eat the rest of them and then drink the coffee straight from the coffee pot before taking a bite out of the glass to wash it down so really in a way this is maybe better because this way everyone gets some and I'll still be able to make some coffee later when the afternoon narcolepsy begins to soak through my limbs and brain.

If it can find the way through all of this black, Lochlan says, reading my mind.

It comes from the inside out. I scowl at him and return to my words, I can arrange them with the blinding white light of a seaside morning where the sand is still warm and the waves break clear on broken shells, or I can go dark and shine a dim light on the letters as I pull them off the floor, puncturing my hands on the nails scattered around them, peeling back my fingernails, blood pouring down my knuckles as they become slippery but having to endure the pain to feel which letter I picked up in the first place because I cannot see. For the death of me, I cannot see.

Both are equally compelling, and equally likely on a day like today.

Reprobate.

Hello, are you still chasing
The memories in shadows
Some stay young, some grow old
Come alive, there are thoughts unclear
You can never hide

Even in madness, I know you still believe
Paint me on canvas so I become
What you could never be

I dare you to tell me to walk through fire
Wear my soul and call me a liar
I dare you to tell me to walk through fire
I dare you to tell me
I dare you to

Early this morning in the pool, I stayed in Ben's arms, face to face, the cool embrace leaving me with teeth chattering that he tries to stop by holding me tighter. Enveloped in his cold flesh I simply shake more and I put my head down on his shoulder and try to sleep in the water but that's dangerous and it doesn't take him long to ruin it and lead me out into warmed towels. I still smell like chlorine all over but it's similar to bleach and maybe that's a good thing.

Last night I stood between them, my back pressed against Ben, my head low against Caleb's chest. Eyes closed. Silence in the form of a wall of apathy and hate. Regrets scattered everywhere, the aftermath of the argument about who forgot and who didn't. You want to know why I had house guests? You want to know why I threw myself into New-Jake's problems on purpose? You want to know why I've been Bridget, twice-removed?

Caleb took my hands and turned them over, exposing scars that he traced with his thumbs. He put my hands up over my head against the wall and held them there with one hand as the other wrapped around my back and pulled me in closer, burning my skin, away from the cold that is Benjamin. I could feel his hands shaking. He is so angry and I am afraid. He whispers something against my hair and I miss it and he stops and looks at Ben and Ben says no in such a soft voice I almost missed that too and then I'm aware that Ben has left because I can't see him and I can't go to him right now and I don't know why everyone finds this so hard. I can't feel anything. I don't want to feel anything.

It's wrong. All of it. I know this.

I failed to acknowledge Cole's death out loud for Caleb's benefit (or as he says, for Ruth's) and so I need to be here for my amercement.

I didn't forget, I promise.

Ruth and I had talked quietly, long into the morning. Ben and I talked about it too. I talked to God about but God wasn't home (he never is when I need him) and so I talked to Sam instead. I talked to New-Jake a little bit and I didn't talk to Lochlan at all.

I didn't talk to Caleb either and the rage is spilling into his eyes now, blue-black, crowding out the envy and the lust, killing gluttony altogether. He is so angry he's failing to notice the marks he is leaving on me, marks that Ben will tally later tonight when he removes my slip and marks that will be added to the death note and then Caleb can go and be with his precious brother who liked nothing more than to hurt the one he loved.

I finally turned my head back and spoke very clearly between synapses of pain firing all over the room, making holes for the moonlight, making an escape route for my brain.

I wish I could forget him, and I wish I could forget you too.

May as well give him exactly what he wants. An unfair fight. I want Ben so badly to help and he senses that and returns to watch but he can't right this wrong and I hate him too, but so briefly. Save me, you're the strongest. Please, Ben and Ben shakes his head because he is paralyzed with grief, with perversion, with some heroic need to be the one who doesn't try to lock me down and maybe for that he will be with me forever.

Caleb pours vodka all over me and then in my mouth until I am drowning and Ben can't touch that. It's forbidden and he wants it, me, so badly I know he can already taste it and I don't want him to touch me in case it gets on his fingers, and then on his lips but I can't hear myself, the music is so loud. So loud. I'm choking into the black now. I hope I wake up again to escape from this because no one's going to save me except Bridget but I don't know where she went.

It's morning. I open my eyes and I'm staring at Ben's tattooed skin, his arms tight around me and maybe he rescued me after all and he's wide awake and I stir and he loosens his embrace but not very much and I hit him with my aching arms and I tell him we're not coming back here because I want to forget now, I do, I promise. I am sobbing quietly and he asks if I want to swim and doesn't say anything else and I shake my head but I am led there anyway and then I'm grateful because it feels better than anything else so far.

At some point Caleb comes into the room and stands by the window that looks down on a city of glass and he listens as we don't speak. He has become the caustics on the walls and I forget he is there for the moment as I kiss Ben. He watches when we get out and I am led past him by the hand, Ben's fingers tight against those scars they promised to protect but haven't. I look back at Caleb as we leave and all my eyes tell him is that I didn't forget. I can't forget.

No matter how much I want to. Sometimes.

Only sometimes.

The disclaimer keeps me alive. The acrimony keeps me warm. And Ben keeps me safe, believe it or not. From the devil, but more importantly, from Bridget.

She's an alarmingly dangerous girl.

Black hole Sunday.

Break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, oh sea.
And I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me.
~Tennyson

Last night Ben said that when I had one day left to live I would go and sit at the edge of the sea and not move. For the entire day. I was struggling to do a task in which you list what you would do if you had a year, a month, a week, and then a day left to live. He knew my answer before I did.

It should be so easy but I have seen death that was not scheduled and death that was and the logistics of compressing your dreams into a list and a suitcase is completely overwhelming to me. I range wildly between living off the oxygen of those dreams and pushing them away for their sweet futility. I'm not sure if it's better to know or to just be bumbling along and be wiped off the face of the earth.

The music was missing. Company coming means I don't put on my music and it becomes an uphill battle to reinstate a necessary addiction. And then everything is okay and the confusion stops and I know exactly where I am once again. And I'm sorry for that. The very first thing I do every morning before I press the button for the coffee pot to brew my awake is to flick the switch on the stereo and blow the sleep out of the house via the dial welded on eleven.

I hope there is a song I like playing when I die.

Oh, well, hello, morbid Sunday morning, how have you been?

Things I can say under my breath but never out loud.

Caleb brings raisin scones and good coffee over for breakfast and wants an update on Lochlan and on New-Jake because on both fronts he is curious.

Well, Lochlan's being difficult and aloof as usual but is still forthcoming with his affection and New-Jake I saw briefly yesterday as he wolfed down a sandwich that he made himself and then he took off with PJ. So....not sure why everyone I am interested in seems to speak of sexual competition for Caleb but heh, may as well milk it and watch him slowly self-destruct.

Oh, stop. Who can blame me for that? He has it coming and I take my hits where I can.

I think everyone has the wrong idea, including some of the people in this house. New-Jake is an enigma to me because I can say that name to a face I don't recognize and it's a skill I will have to learn. I'm aware that Jacob Thomas Finnian Reilly is a unique name (maybe not on the rock) but Jacob is not.

I have no trouble with Henry Jacob, just not with Jacob on a strange set of facial features. It's getting easier. Clearly he is not my Jacob and perhaps that's where the fascination ends. Not to say he isn't a terrific guy, I just have my hands full already with the three different sets of arrogance that rule my world as it is.

There won't be any more. Hell, if I had my way I would dispense with two altogether but the part of me that needs to be arrogant as well won't allow for it and that's the part of me that Caleb adores. The reckless Bridget, the completely ruined Bridget who takes risks and loves so hard she leaves a mark, not unlike the reckless ruined Benjamin that I keep on love support because he needs me so badly most of the time he will tell you he doesn't need me at all.

I don't need to remind Caleb of any of this. He is painfully aware of how pathetic I am. Only I'm not, outwardly. I'm trying to make this new place a success instead of a failure, like the last one. I'm trying to be better and be fun and smart and I feel like I can turn a corner only to find there's a set of hands there that shoves me back to the starting place. It isn't me. I want so much and I can't seem to ever catch a break to actually HAVE any of it.

So instead I sit in tears while Satan evaluates whether or not I'm embarassing him on this day. If I make him look bad I am taught not to and if I make him look good I am rewarded with a taste of what it is I want only I'm not sure and I can't commit because all of these things come with a price and I don't have anything to pay with.

Or rather, I do and I'm not willing to part with those things.

So once Satan is satisfied that he doesn't have to extend any lucrative offers to get rid of new boys he returns to the task at hand. Lochlan. The ever-present logical golden boy who says a third of what's on his mind and we're still all wishing he would just stop being right all the time, his arrogance fed by massive self-doubt because perhaps he raised me wrong after all and a few different decisions along the way would have meant we might have had some sort of Utopian happily ever-after and we might have gone to Cole's funeral and been sad for a friend that died and then a few weeks later had a picnic at the beach and life would have returned to normal with our children and our lives.

So blame him for the mess that I am. This isn't fascinating, this is ridiculous. So I don't have an update on Lochlan, Caleb, so why don't you just go fuck yourself for a change, and leave me alone?

(When I wasn't looking this morning, Lochlan hitchhiked back to the cornfield and got down on his knees and dug with both hands until he unearthed everything we buried there when we were young. He's brought it back here and spread it out on the table, clods of dirt spilling off and exploding in soft pufts on the floor. Dirt, sweat and tears streak his face and all I could do was freeze. I need to take it all up in my arms and run back out and bury it again but I can't move. I just can't move.)

One constant.

The minute I hit the sand at the ocean all of it goes away.

Everything.

Time.

Fear.

Life.

Just give me that, okay? Stop telling me that's my song. Stop telling me what to do, who to spend time with, who to love. Stop haunting me. Stop tormenting me. Stop judging, just fucking stop everything.

It's Henry's birthday today and you couldn't even let this go just for one single day and some days I wish the ocean would just take you away.

Dinner shift #1 is just about over. Now I get to clean up and await the late shift boys (my favorite ones. Shhhhh!).

Inevitably Satan comes back and ruins everything Lochlan missed.

Sometime late last night Caleb returned to the city from a trip to the hot potato and read my journal and decided he doesn't like New-Jake.

At all.

Fear of the unknown or maybe it was the three entries in a row that sent him over. The others don't care. They find it fascinating the way I zero in on people and draw them out. It goes against everything you would normally expect from me.

Caleb's instructions were to remove myself from the presence of Sam's friends and wait for him to drive up this afternoon. Also he needed last names and as much information as I had on them in order to run them through his ledgers in hell to see if they were on the list.

No, I said. (Now I'll get down on the floor in a ball and cover my head with both hands, but that's beside the point.)

Caleb is simply jealous because when we boil down the mix here and skim off the top, he isn't a part of the collective.

And doesn't he hate that.

I'm surprised I haven't been abducted in the middle of the night only to have my internet removed and then dropped off on the side of the road and left to walk home with a fresh incision where my brain used to be, honestly.

No, there may be some sort of complicated love..ahem..square going on here that you will never understand but aside from that, he isn't a member of Bridget's very special commune.

God, how I hate that word.

Anyway, I gave him last names and birthplaces and he'll simply have to dig for the rest. And he won't find anything I haven't already checked because Sam isn't dumb and frankly neither is Bridget. And there are reasons people are guilty until proven worthy, I just don't need to rehash that stuff. Too bad no one ever checked the brothers-grim, isn't it?

Yeah, too bad. I wonder where I would be right now if I had never fallen for Cole?

Or Caleb for that matter.

You know what? Let's change the subject. I have a busy day ahead of wrapping and baking a big chocolate cake and some folks are dropping by to wish Henry a great day in advance and I need to tidy up a bit and we have to run out and buy the special dinner ingredients because all of the extra people here mean I ran out of things I thought I had handy. Also I should really set up the sprinkler this afternoon because yesterday the children grew bored quickly in the afternoon and so this way they'll have something to look forward to and really I will need to go lie down at some point and close my eyes because I have the sweetest mother of a headache beginning.

I didn't even get into that whole other elephant standing there, now, did I? Find me a way to add some hours to my day or wait a few more, okay? Really they can stuff their fucking man-drama for a bit here. If Lochlan can't control his impulses I will start replacing people, I think. But stuff it nevertheless, because we are standing on the edge of greatness here.

My boy is turning nine tomorrow, and nine is a really big deal.

(Resistance is futile) A snapshot of dinner clean-up.

You're not seriously going to call me New-Jake, are you?

Yes.

From the big door-table in the kitchen, I can hear Ben's laughter. Or rather, Ben's attempt not to laugh out loud at the obvious awkwardness of the question.

You know other Bens, what do you call them?

Not-my-Ben.

Really.

Yes.

That's fascinating, but I don't want to be New-Jake, I'm forty years old. It feels a little like the first day of school and I've been singled out.

Try and be flattered. It's a very special name.

Aren't they all?

Nope.

I see. Well, maybe in time it will stop and you'll just call me Jake.

(THUD)

Or Jacob, if that's easier for you.

(THUD) (THUD) (Right now, please shut the fuck up.)

What should I call you?

What do you mean, Jake?

Everyone calls you princess. I don't think we're ready for nicknames.

Oh, I don't mind, it's a thing, besides, I think we're ready for nicknames.

Why is that?

I just called you Jake.

I didn't even realize.

Me neither.

That's good then, right?

Yes, it's good...Jake. (trying it on now.) (THUD)

Cool....uh...princess. (he smiles.)

Ben finally rescued us, and clapped a hand on Jake's shoulder.

No worries, Jake, soon you'll understand perfectly why she has the nickname.

Why is that, Benjamin? Do tell. (I flicked soap at him from where I was washing pots.)

You're very high maintenance, Bridge.

Fuck you, rock boy.

And a filthy mouth to boot.

You haven't seen anything yet.

Ooo, I'm scared.

Good. I like fear.

I heard that about you.

What else did you hear?

That you like the bad boys. (He grins and THUD becomes mush.)

Damn, my secret is out.

You're a billboard, princess.

Hey, Bridge!

Yes, PJ? (the volume level in the kitchen only needs a calliope now to complete the cacophony.)

I'm bad. I mean, I can be bad. I was bad once. I...uh...

Be quiet, PJ.

Yes, Ben.

It's nice to have some laughs. We need to laugh more, don't we? Yes, I think so too.

The project boy.

I'm severing the heart then I'm leaving your corpse behind
Not dead but soon to be, though.
I won't be the one who killed you
I'll just leave that up to you

I'm walking on the beach this morning with New-Jake, who told me I should call him Jacob and maybe that would help, and since he didn't know any better I nodded like a child and promptly changed my mind.

In my head he is New-Jake and I resented the hell out of every inch of him and I couldn't understand why. I resented the half-wave, half-straight hair on his head, the pale caramel that fades into dark golden blonde. I resented his eyes, green like mine. Endless, like Jacob's. I resented the way he'd quietly consider your response before he makes his own.

I had a whole list. I could have gone on for days. The way he holds his phone. The posture. All of it. Don't walk into my life and force me to hear your name over and over again. Don't be a Jake who hates shoes. Don't be a Jake who asks hard questions, the kind I'm still turning over at four in the morning as I stare at the ceiling. Don't be here, okay? Just go away, New-Jake. I don't think I'm going to adapt. I guess now I die.

That's what my Jake always said. Adapt or die, princess. As if it wasn't a choice and I had to actually adapt or something.

Oh, right. I do.

Ben and New-Jake get along like brothers. Keith and Lochlan get along like brothers. Sam still introduces ideas or cautions me to stay on the road and not go off picking flowers up a hill because then I get lost and mixed up and turned around and then we're all late and then Sam retreats back to the background. I haven't heard much from Stephan, I think he'll be continuing on in another week, maybe stopping in different sorts of places to see where he fits. One of the joys of having the boys in my life is that they all know so many people and through them I have met some amazing souls. Stephen is one but he just doesn't belong here. And for the summer I'm happy to host Keith and Jake because they seem to.

Time will tell. If I miss them when they go, then I'll have my answer.

Besides, usually when someone seems to fit it means someone else is leaving and I just don't know yet. More often than not it's Ben or Lochlan so I don't want to know yet.

I won't replace people, if that's what they are doing. If that's what you are thinking. Not fair.

New-Jake insists that he was aware that Sam had a friend he held an incredible loyalty to, and was moving for, but he said he didn't really understand how one person could have that sort of influence until he met me. He said the image of me standing with my back to the house, blonde hair and black ribbons flying out behind me in the wind at the edge of the sea will forever be burned into his mind.

(Oh no, please. Don't be a poet.)

And then he stops and says he didn't mean to objectify me. Which I don't understand at all actually. People are objects, aren't they? They are safe havens and life rafts, sure things and contraband. They are emotional grenades and food for thought and sights for sore eyes. Are those not things?

I wonder what I am, aside from striking image, which I think is what he was going for before he went for something else.

New-Jake changes the subject, I'm thinking to take the weird feelings away and instead his history explodes in the sand at my feet and then the tide comes in and washes it away and for some reason I know he is home. Here, with me. A fresh start. A better life for someone else who has felt things people shouldn't have to feel. He is worthy. It's as if word has finally reached the cosmos, Bridget's magnet is emotional in nature. Overwhelmed? Find her and everything will be better or at least you will have Schadenfreude you can swallow with milk. I wonder if I should have invitations engraved? I wonder how this happens?

I'm going to take today to finish thinking about things he said. I'm going to take today to reflect on the amazingly fun visit I just had with my folks, for the first time feeling like a true equal rather than an honorary one, and I'm going to finish up my chores, because it's almost lunch time and I've already dawdled enough today. I need a little extra time to cook, I only have two hands. Thank heavens they seem to be able to hold a lot.

Full. Not full. Fall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patience, please. Patience.

Otherwise I can't go on.

Well, now.

I finally got to see Tool!

Toooooool.

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

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

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

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

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

Next up. Deftones. Mastodon. Alice.

Squee!

That Lochlan. Such a charmer.

Blows my mind sometimes.

Youngest child syndrome.

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

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

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

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

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

So excited I could burst.

Go here.

Listen.

Now watch as I die happy.

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

Killing two thirds with one throne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday review.

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

And then he laughed in Lochlan's face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Christ. You look awful, Bridget.

The heat merchant.

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

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

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

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

He thought wrong.

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

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

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

You're falling asleep, Bridget.

I'm awake.

Right. Who won the Stanley Cup?

Blue. Seventeen. Chocolate-chip.

Goodnight, beautiful.

Goodnight pooh.

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

Things like:

Find out what Lochlan is hiding.

Yeah. Ones like that.

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

I need to ask God why he lied.

Oh, Lochlan. What did you do?

Everything but this girl.

When the doorbell rang I went and opened it because no one else had jumped, and there was John. In black dress pants, black leather shoes and a rumpled white dress shirt. A far cry from the lumberjack I used to live down the street from.

He looked pained, hands behind his back and so I spoke first.

Formal visit, then, is it?

He passed me a pewter-colored envelope. Caleb color codes everything. Financial is manila, travel is blue, invitations requesting my company come in a rich dark silver, the color of the envelope John is trying to give to me and I don't take it.

When?

As soon as you can get away.

I nod and my brain starts spooling up. What do I wear? What does he want? I know but I ask nevertheless.

Is it work, John?

No, Bridge, it's not.

He turns, defeated, and walks back down the path to the driveway.

I close the door and turn to go see what everyone is up to, see if it's safe to slip out and go into the city for a while. I run straight into Ben, who takes the envelope from me and walks away. He stops halfway across the room and I can see the muscles in his shoulders freeze up.

No, Bridget.

What? What is that? Taking a page from Jake?

He was smart.

Not as smart as Cole.

Oh that's rich, princess.

It's true though. Jacob ran on heart.

And what would you have me do?

Not change anything.

Not change anything? What the fuck, princess, I can't deal with this. I can't deal with you being gone, I can't deal with percentages and jealousy and the pressure I see you caving under.

I'm fine, Ben.

Where is normal, Bridget? We promised each other normal. I could stay healthy and you would be happy.

As soon as I find the sign for it, we'll turn off.

We've passed SEVEN FUCKING EXITS, Bridget, and you pretend you don't see them.

I can't take any more change.

I can't take him touching you.

You don't seem to mind when you're getting something out of it.

Yeah, well, maybe those days are done.

Come with me. We can talk about this later.

The invitation came as a bit of a surprise. We had just arrived home after spending most of the day downtown with Caleb. We took the children to the sad parade and then walked around watching people decked out in red and white while we painted the picture of a perfect family. I guess it wasn't enough, only this time Caleb wasn't interested in the 'family' picture of his dreams, just the Bridget part. He never really cares if Ben joins me. He doesn't get the choice.

By eight we were having dinner at a restaurant. I picked at the lobster and gulped my champagne. Oh, look, they put courage in my glass. Need that. Please give it to me and then get some more.

By nine we were strolling along the boardwalk. I had my wrap around my shoulders over my dress and Ben's suit jacket on and I didn't want to say I was cold but oh hell, I was so freezing I couldn't speak, I figured it would all come out in chattery, fogged breaths.

By ten we switched to wine and music and light conversation in the warm penthouse which is how Caleb unwinds from his workday. He sits back and tries on various expressions and extends his finer curiosities.

By eleven the wine was being poured slightly higher in my glass and the familiar hungers had begun to appear in their eyes. Ben had relaxed slightly, no wine for him, just water. He had a guitar out and was quietly playing along, watching me. Waiting.

By twelve I was slammed up against the door to Caleb's bedroom, my dress yanked up over my hips and Caleb's face in the crook of my neck, leaving a burn as he drove into me while my husband watched. Cole, don't hurt me, please. I can't take it anymore.

By one I was just falling asleep when Ben came for what he needed at last and it was such a relief to be safe again. I was sure Caleb stood just back from the doorway in the shadows and watched. I didn't care. I just said I love you, over and over again to Ben in an effort to make the distinction so that Caleb could hear it and know that he has won exactly nothing.

By three we were in the back of the car, being driven home, not talking to each other or to John. Staring out the window, at the lights. My skin is still red and raw, my life in someone else's hands, my history being spent in a genre I won't even look at without wine and darkness and want.

Lochlan opened the door when we got home and I walked past him and I felt his eyes burning into the top of my head all the while and Ben's tired eyes burning a hole into my back and I turned around to finally meet Lochlan's eyes and he shook his head, tears in his eyes. Aghast at my bravery, or maybe at my recklessness.

This isn't what you meant for it to be, is it, princess?

No.

Then why?

I just pointed at Ben. Ben will pretend up and down that this is all about me, but rarely will he admit that he needs this as much as I want it. He needs it to feel dangerous, he needs it to get high. Chasing this has become somewhat of an albatross to him, and he's loathe to admit it. But it's there, right between us, an obstacle I keep tripping on as I try to juggle in front of an audience. The harlequin. The whore.

It leaves me with a question this morning, since Ben and I are going to spend the day talking. Which is stronger? A man's appetites or his convictions? Jacob would have had an easy answer for this one.

Ben? Caleb? Lochlan, even?

Not so much.

Ben is working so we are downtown not doing anything Canada Day-related with Satan.

I forgot to bring my words with me. A quiet, rainy day anyway. Looked at android phones. Ate an almond. You know. Thrilling shit.

Special effects.

Sam is here this morning keeping the coffee and the Baudelaire in full swing. I have nothing if I didn't choose one hell of a group of educated men who can quote with confidence and creativity. He brought his guitar. Hopefully he also brought a pocketful of nails with which to finish sealing my fate because if I have to listen to singing preachers today I may as well just stop breathing now and prevent the inevitable stabs of remembrance. Not that I could tell Sam that it hurts. He knows it hurts but really I would no sooner wish them to stop with the music than I would ever want to stifle a good memory.

For the first time in the history of Henry, something else also happened today. I ran out of cookies. On purpose. Henry is very surprised because Mommy is usually better prepared than this and what the heck, mommy?

No worries, there's fruit, granola bars, fruit bars, bran bars, popcorn and crackers. He won't starve, I just want to see if he can get through a day without cookies. Yes, I realize I may be scarring him for life, I don't care. He needs to break the cookie cycle. He's soon to be as tall as me, if he outweighs me by the time he's ten what the heck am I going to do then?

In other news, Sam's quiet confidence inspired me to get the ball rolling and make an appointment to get my tires fixed. Fucking car. Drives me nuts but at the same time, I don't take it for granted. I even cleaned it last week, including the steering wheel and the shifter knob, which meant Ben almost lost control just starting it up and called for a soapy cloth and a towel to clean the shininess off both. I try. Did I mention I try?

You all think I'm some sort of spoiled playboy centerfold who sits in her turret eating grapes and reading Nietzsche while my knights fight over me...

Okay, well that's besides the point.

I have nails in my tires. Know why? I'm magnetic. We've been over this before. The same freakish power that enables me to kill car key fobs, Xbox 360s, and laptop computers just by virtue of my very presence also enables small, pointy metal objects to skitter across the road and fling themselves into the treads of my tires in their bid to be close to the source of all melancholy.

Whatever, go with it now, okay?

Melancholy is a superhero and she has long blonde-white hair and a black tutu dress, black garters and high-high black stiletto boots on. It's always windy and raining outside when she's around. Her hair whips around so fiercely you can hardly see her eyes, but you feel them on you. The room feels heavy when she's there but you can't take your eyes off her. She has dust from the cemetery caked under her nails and her lipstick is smeared from being kissed and left. She never smiles, she just stares, and her power isn't so much the magnetic anomalies but the power to absorb all of the sadness around her.

She's a giant grief sponge.

Yes.

Marvel will never hire me. That's okay. I'm not looking. I'm busy trying to morph, so I don't have to listen to Sam.

I don't think I'll write about the pictures so here.

(Pictures. Yesterday I did another photo shoot for a band that Caleb has interests in. That is all.)

I am here.

Just unimaginably tired as of late. Trying to keep the running around to the minimum. Trying to engage the children in helping and having fun when I'm dealing from a deck missing so many cards we're down to faces and twos of clubs. The children started summer vacation today, too soon on the heels of a six-week spring vacation for the move and I am sort of out of sorts for the time being while I figure out what to do. I'm in bureaucratic heck for a bit trying to organize our city membership for the pool. I was hoping to jump the children right into daily swimming lessons.

Honestly, I'm at a loss to know where to begin entertaining them in this fresh new environment, but thankfully they are a bit older as to not need constant entertainment and I was never the kind of mother to fill their dance cards. Instead I always allowed for a lot of imaginative, free time in which to just play. They're going to take turns again each night helping me make dinner. They're going to continue with their chores which are augmented when they are not in school. They're going to unwind and be kids, make God's eyes out of sticks, poke at slugs and pick berries.

They're going to do math, too. A textbook came home from school. Math is not our strong suit. We can draw you anything or write you into a corner but we can't divide fractions and Roman numerals are a fun pastime when confronted with graphics from the Super Bowl only. We'll get there. Every child has something to work on, every grownup too. I'm just eternally grateful they are happy and healthy and adaptable and they are grateful mommy buys them cookies and video games and can pump up a bike tire and start a food fight because some parents don't.

They're going to be kids. There's not enough of that these days.

I want to be a kid. I want to stay up too late, outside in the heat after dark and eat sour gummy bears until I feel sick and read with a flashlight in the tent and turn brown from the sun. I want to count the stars again. I want to grab a hot dog at the beach and call it dinner. I want to rejoice in the fact that I have enough change for the salt & vinegar chips AND the new Archie comic.

That kind of kid. The kind I was when I was Henry's age. He's going to be nine in two weeks and it wasn't until I saw his 'promotion' to senior elementary that I realized my youngest child isn't even in a primary grade anymore, and how strange it feels that they are racing past me on the way to their own lives and I am still stuck here so awkwardly between doing what Satan and Lochlan tell me to do because I will forever be a child to them, and thinking outside the box as a mother, because there are things I want my children to experience, and things I hope they never go through.

I can't live my life through them, and I can't live their lives for them. It's not an easy dance but I will learn the steps I'm sure.

Maybe I'll do some math too. You know, just in case I ever need it. It will come in handy when I gamble. I hear you get further by counting your cards anyway.

Bumblebee.

Remember how Bumblebee used songs because he no longer had a voice? Yes, that.

It's evening, you're tired
You sleep walk, a robot out to the street
Are you crazy to want this even for a while?
you're driving, it's rush hour
The cars on the freeway are moving backwards
Into a wall of fire
Backwards
Into a wall of fire

We're done lying for a living
The strange days have come and you're gone
You're gone
Either dead or dying
Either dead or trying to go

Good morning
Don't cop out

Spinning unrefined sugar.

(Filling in the holes for you, I tend to leave out a lot of things sometimes.)

Fumbling through your dresser drawer forgot what I was looking for
Try to guide me in the right direction
Making use of all this time
Keeping everything inside
Close my eyes and listen to you cry

I'm lifting you up
I'm letting you down
I'm dancing til dawn
I'm fooling around
I'm not giving up

The hottest nights were the ones I looked forward to the most.

The smell of burnt fireworks and sweet corn, fresh hay and cows filled my nostrils and was chased with Lochlan's sweat as he paced slowly in front of me, smoking, smiling.

Good show tonight, hey?

Late summer is always best, I think.

Yeah.

He stopped and leaned against the back of the wagon where I sat with my brown legs and bare feet dangling over the dry baked dirt road. Dirty feet. Tired girl. My braids were all apart, my hair was filthy. I was down to three t-shirts and two skirts for free time and I figured the tan would cover most of the dirt. Some towns allowed for open fires and on those nights Lochlan would heat some water and pour it over me. That was as clean as we got most summers. I would come home on the final day in rags, voice hoarse from calling to the crowd, the sweet that offset the harsh from Lochlan playing the man. He wasn't a man yet, he wasn't even twenty years old. It was a joke but we played off each other well. I could predict his dares. He played up my sweetness to the crowd. They ate it up and we made hundreds of dollars. Enough for a carton of cigarettes for Lochlan and a new bikini for me, maybe there would be a beach within walking distance at the next town. Maybe we could eat for a whole week straight. Maybe not. He had to buy parts for the truck. Tires. Gas.

Nights we slept curled together on the single cot in the camper we borrowed for free. We had a box of cookies on the floor and a six-pack of warm beer underneath the truck. Sometimes I would sleep in the cab of the truck at the drive-in, flushed against his shoulder, my head absorbing his heartbeat. Lochlan would act out the movies for me later on, with his own interpretations. To this day Ladyhawke remains a favorite just for the fact that I laughed so hard at his dialogue I wound up on my knees in a field of strawberries throwing up blue cotton candy from the effort to stop.

I never said Lochlan wasn't a romantic. He pulled it off before there was money, and group dynamics and children. Before there were portfolios and educations and careers and debt. Before we had fifty dollars to spend without having to worry about more than a week in advance. Back then the future involved counting towns and bottles of beer and sneaking into other people's trailers to borrow marmalade and bread that we wouldn't return and picking nickles off the sidewalk in town and charming the older people into buying me two ice creams which I would then take and walk back to give one to Lochlan who would be fixing trucks and trailers all day when he wasn't posting signs ahead of the shows.

Eat fast, baby. It's melting.

My favorite nights were the too-hot ones we spent sleeping in the truck bed so that I could look up and see the shooting stars. We could claim them if we said we saw it first. He let me win. He taught me the constellations and how the weather worked. He showed me how to fix a two-stroke engine and how to steer an ox. I learned how to make a barbecue out of a tin bucket and some charcoal and I can open a beer bottle with my teeth.

But mostly he worked with teaching me how to use my pretty looks to get things from people. How to charm them into doing what I asked and how to keep them from realizing they'd been had through until we were long gone.

And it worked, for a time. Time, it turns out, was our enemy.

Only the most hardcore, hardened people can make a life out of that circumstance and we were neither. We were two dumb kids along for the ride, killing our beach country summers, loving each other, letting history write itself while we held each other in the heat and promised each other the stars above.

Time was pushing us along, pulling us out of the present and into the future. Lochlan needed to go to university. I needed to start high school. He had to get a steady job and have a shower more than once every four days. I had to be domesticated and learn to stop stealing things for his approval.

We needed to take our secrets and bury them in the center of a cornfield and then we needed to forget that location forever and leave them there to become part of the land. We needed to get along better and stop fighting.

We couldn't manage it.

I walked away from him and he turned the tables on me, deciding that he would be the one to end it first because of my stubbornness. Telling Cole that we were no longer together was his ace. Cole was still in high school and suddenly I had a ride every day in his car. Suddenly I wasn't a child anymore to him either but an equal and we spent our time listening to more music and working on the boys' cars. It was stable. It was good. On purpose, the implicit opposite of life with Lochlan, who wound up being the most stable person I will ever know, ironically.

Lochlan engineered Cole's interest so that I would still be close by and still looked after.

Cole asked me questions sometimes about Lochlan and I would lie easily. That was part of the deal Lochlan and I made in the fading sun and the dirt, in the coming darkness. I could hardly see but I could follow as Lochlan explained why some things were wrong and why we shouldn't tell and I knew he was right and it was easy for me to agree because I took half the blame. Cole died not knowing. He died and Lochlan was not his best friend by a long shot and Jake didn't get all of the history and neither has anyone else. What they understand is that Lochlan wins, every time and he keeps a sure confidence in that knowledge because of history and really when Caleb gives me a hard time it's NOTHING compared to when Lochlan and I are at odds because there are so many years and so many memories to feel my way through before I can hit on some socially acceptable and presentable way to respond.

It's the only thing I can do.

I told you when I admitted that Henry belonged to Caleb that I still had secrets. I told you I would never share them and I keep that promise because it's important to me, it's important to Lochlan and no matter how far he goes and no matter how many people I marry he is my own personal albatross and I feed and pet him daily because I don't mind having a permanent anchor to earth in him. I need him because he makes up part of who I am. We joke that he raised me, because he was trustworthy enough to be entrusted with my supervision as a child and then suddenly I wasn't that child anymore but I see him in the mirror when I look at myself. We have the same visceral reactions to things and the same habits collecting shiny things and things of value and then needing nothing but air to actually exist on. We still pour water in almost-empty shampoo bottles to make them last and we both prefer food cooked outside to anything else ever. We both drink our beer warm and pick our colors for cotton candy (blue, always blue) when everyone else says they don't care what color they get, and we both dream of those nights asleep in a field at the end of the dirt road that leads to the ocean, the road littered with ticket stubs and pieces from the first time I ever had my heart broken. Don't you ever question my loyalty ever again. You don't have that right.

What are you looking forward to most this summer, Lochlan?

The fair. Late summer. The usual. You?

Same.

The gardener suggested black mourning bride flowers and I laughed, quite inappropriately.

My apologies for not posting sooner, apparently there was some concern.

I'm fine, mom.

The bite looks awful. It's like a puncture in a red hive surrounded with a bruise that fades into veins. I'm rather translucent anyway, one of those pure white alabaster-fleshed humans with the visible roadmap of veins all over. Add in a few bruises and really, I may as well be inside-out. We've decided this was a zombie spider and sometime tomorrow my arm will turn completely grey and then the whole transformation into the undead will occur sometime early Sunday morning.

So with what little time I have left I went down to goth up the local nursery because what is an undead without black flowers in her garden? My quest for shade perennials led me to these things called bowles black violas, which seem to be a type of tiny pansy-poppy and are very pretty! I got some bleeding hearts too (bleeding! hearts!), and really, so much for my modern ski-chalet mansion. I should just paint it black and be done with it.

I'm not dumb. This house cost a lot more than the last one. If anything, the next color scheme will be darkest blue with very very pale yellow or white trim and maybe some highlights in pale slate blue. Why? Beach colors, the natural choice after Everything Black.

Don't you think?

Okay, maybe that's just how I operate.

(I think I'm delirious. Damned zombie spiders.)

Gave up lunch for coffee. Staring down the last two days of school and then I'll be forced to switch gears a little and run the kids around town a lot more than I do now. I need to get them registered for swimming. Henry needs another haircut. So does the dog. Henry also has a birthday approaching. Ruth is going through a truckload of paper drawing lately and I'm at the office supply store almost once a week because, like her father, using the other side is a horrific suggestion obviously made by someone who doesn't understand her art. (Cole girlchild.)

Pfft. Hi. This is your mother. USE THE OTHER SIDE OR NO MORE PAPER.

And then I buy more anyway, because certain things I won't use as punishment. Namely, anything remotely creative. I will never care if she passes math, I will care how she harnessed her imagination today, thank you very much.

(I will be soon requiring her to do extra chores for paper money. No worries. I like limits. Limits make for happy-everybody.)

And I wish Ben was home right now. I miss him alot lately. Not sure how much time I have left before he can say that his bride is the undead princess over there, limping along the street dragging her swollen, punctured arm behind her, searching for delicious human rockstars on which to feeeeeeeeeeed.

Ben has, not surprisingly, offered to suck the venom out of the spider bite, should it be of the poisonous variety.

Did I mention our new provincial health cards came this morning? Fitting, ain't it?

They don't have ears either.

Oh dear.

I was poking around in the garden shed late this afternoon and I've been bitten by a spider. We are waiting now to see if my arm falls off or if I grow some extra limbs or maybe later I could stand up high and see if I can spin a web and swing down to the beach.

For now it's very red and bruised and tender and a bit warm and not unlike a bee sting. I think I'll live. Well, I hope I will anyway. Not the blaze of glory I would hope to go out in, anyway. A bug bite? Come on.

In brief.

We don't grow complacent for one another. Ben and I understand that in the blink of an eye or the turn of a heart or at the root of a bad decision life can change, and just like that everything is suddenly unbearable. We don't take each other for granted and we don't lie. We don't let each other hang, toes touching the breeze, without a net below.

We just remember to breathe and we do our best and when I wake up in the dark, in the quiet hours he is there and he is half asleep but still he pulls me over him and I am warm and I sit up and he holds my hands palm to palm and keeps me centered and I take what I need and when I am barely finished he slides me off and down underneath him now and his hands slide against my skin and his lips land on the top of my head and the bruises are set in stone from his hold. When we return to sleep we know it's for minutes only and then suddenly I can hear the alarm. Ben turns it off and returns to me and I am gathered into his arms and he squeezes me tight against him. I am waking up one goosebump at a time, incoherent, sleepy, feverish. He kisses my cheek and he is gone for the day and once again I am left to my own devices which are those that you kick-start and then proceed to use for trouble only.

He smiles when he leaves, and we begin the countdown to his return. Rocketman. Workaholic. Lover.

Yesterday after he sampled all of the baking I did (pie excluded, I will make that today), he offered me a motorcycle ride. A thinly-veiled attempt for some much-needed time alone together, something that once again seems to be in such short supply and it pains me. He drove up into the mountains, far away from everything and I clung to his back as he drove fast, too fast, and so very Ben-like. He leans and I am afraid, he races down the highway when there is no traffic, chasing the thrill that brought him to me in the first place. The attitude he wears like a cheap t-shirt slogan that has brought him everything he has and taken away everything he thought he knew:

Fuck it. Going for it.

Ben's a survivalist, a quiet man, a psychopath. He doesn't say much to very many people, he's busy saving all of his words for me. I cherish them, you know. I roll them over in my hands, feel their smooth letters and sharp edges and I keep them all, filed away alphabetically in big manila envelopes right beside my work. We both need to work on saying more, more often.

I would have started with Slow down, motherfucker, but frankly I was too afraid to open my mouth and maybe change our wind resistance or something and kill us both.

I told him this and he laughed.

Four and twenty poison blackbirds.

Don't carry me under
You're the devil in disguise
God sing for the hopeless
I'm the one you left behind

So I'll find what lies beneath
Your sick twisted smile
As I lie underneath
Your cold jaded eyes
Now you turn the tide on me
'Cause you're so unkind
I will always be here
For the rest of my life

Ben is home today and so the baking will be as follows: apple pie, banana bread and blueberry muffins. If time permits I will do mini pies, otherwise one big one will suffice. He eats, holy, does this man eat. I am so happy to have him home today.

He has given up on the fool's errand of trying to keep me contained and has progressed to talking about putting a rope swing out in the orchard, far enough from the cliff but close enough that when I swing out I would have that thrill.

Thrill. Not the right word by a long shot. Welcome terror might be closer.

I was driven in town yesterday to get my lunch by the water, promised the breeze and white linens by Satan but it turned into a working lunch and didn't involve any food. Eventually I called for the car and came home of my own accord because Caleb wasn't getting the message that these are not papers I need to see and why does he continue to waste everyone's time with this? He always said time is precious and time is money and any other stupid quote millionaires throw around when they want to confirm that you're aware of how much money you have and I guess that's the crux of the issue, isn't it?

He wants to know how high I'll go.

How much it will cost him to get me to leave Ben and just give in. We already played this game and Batman even got involved (which he only does when things get really out of hand) and Caleb had gracefully bowed out but really he didn't, he just switched gears and came back with a larger, sweeter offer and I'm still forced to politely decline but there it sits and I don't want this pressure, frankly because in his family hearts are defective and unpredictable and...

I don't love him.

Caleb doesn't seem to care about that part but it's my bottom line, something he should understand. I just keep refusing and he keeps offering more and it's reached the point where I'm even tired of the sweetness because behind it stands that elephant and I try not to encourage the whole zoo-thing. I told Ben what it was and his response was to offer a trip next month. Back overseas, check out Wacken, perhaps go back to Venice for a few days. That's his knees jerking in response and I said no more suitcases, no more reactions. This is where Satan is, and here in Ben's arms is where Bridget is and where Bridget promised to stay.

We slept easily. Soundly. I'm not giving in to the living and I'm not giving in to the ghosts. I just want to bake some things for the boys and keep the children entertained and safe and maybe have that swing put up. I think that would be nice.

And on the upside, I was forgiven for throwing the bracelet in the water. Chastised but forgiven all the same. Which leads me to believe that I could get away with murder.

We won't go there.

The voice of irrationality.

I ran. Fast. I'm quick for such a little thing.

Lightning flash and she's gone. Out of your sight. It brings up the familiar bile, rising in your throat but you choke it down and take off after her, screaming her name.

He caught up with me halfway across the field and threw his arms out around me and we went down, crashing to the grass, his head smashing into mine and suddenly it was night and the whole meadow was stars and fireflies and then it was day again and I'm sitting up but he won't let go. I start to twist away and he squeezes me. Squeals escape and it hurts and I kick him repeatedly and in a blink I am pinned to the ground, the morning dew soaking into my dress and my hair and I spit curses at him and snarl.

He laughs.

Calm the fuck down, Bridget.

I manage to turn my entire body over but my arms are still facing him. Oh the pain. He turns it up another notch.

Jake! Let go!

Are you going to stop fighting?

No.

He rolls his eyes and puts his head down against my shoulder. Our breaths are hitching, caught. I'm crying and he doesn't care. I keep fighting but he's like stone and after a minute I just give up. I can't get away from him. He won't let me.

My breathing slows. My chest stops thumping like a jackhammer. I'm quiet. He turns me back over but I just stare at the sky, watching the clouds move quickly. My green eyes mix with the reflections and turn gold. Precious resources, the sense I will need most when I can't hear anything anymore.

What will they do, piglet?

Lock me in the library.

Sounds familiar. You pick the locks yet?

Yes. And I think they take their cues from you.

Why would they do that? I'm dead.

No, you're not.

Maybe it's time to let go.

You say that like it's my choice to make.

I shove hard and he backs off. And with that I am up and running again, across the wide open field toward the cliffs, toward the water. Maybe the roar will block out Jacob's bad ideas. That's why I put him down there. So that I couldn't hear him when he tells me what to do. Everyone does enough of that, I don't want to hear it from him too. I don't want to hear them screaming my name. Not anymore. I only listen to Bridget anyway. She knows exactly what she's doing.

Okay, so not exactly. Thankfully if I stand right at the edge, when it's very very windy I can't even hear the voices in my own head.

I'll be spending a lot of time out there. I have an endless supply of bobby pins with which to pick the simple locks on the doors they secure in front of me and I've already figured out how to disable the stupid alarm. I'm not afraid that I am giving away all my secrets by talking about that here, this is as fruitless as their efforts to break the silence, and as useless as my efforts at change.