I've lost sight of who is safe and who isn't.

Neither Caleb nor Batman ever sleep. I truly think that while the rest of us are naked and drooling, facedown in the sheets, these two are on the phone setting up deals overseas, with those for whom the times zones vary wildly. I daresay I can count on two hands the times I have encountered one or the other actually released from a wakeful state and yes, it was as disconcerting as you would imagine. I would tell you a horrifying story about the first thought that entered my mind upon finding Caleb with his guard down. I believe it may have involved a weapon of some kind but no, I'm not going to put it on the Internet and besides, thought crimes are not crimes per se so just nevermind. You can't indict me for wishing.

But real events are real, sadly and this morning I am overseeing the replacement of an entire wall of glass in Caleb's office because in case you missed the earthquake this morning, there wasn't one, it was Satan THROWING a table at Batman, who ducked and the table went crashing into the windows which aren't actually windows but walls made of glass that aren't supposed to be breakable. The table was sticking out of the glass when I arrived, a web of cracks stretching twenty feet on either side. No worries, I am not alone and the momentary lack of control has been replaced with Satan's usual droning hum of malevolence in an undercurrent just below the surface.

He shot his cuffs and morphed back into James Bond. It's a practiced talent. Under the dress shirt is his other form. A psychopathic nightmare. As long as he's wearing a suit we're safe. This morning? Armani, I think. When Batman arrived I am guessing Caleb was still in a black t-shirt and his shorts from a cloudy early run. The operative reminder here today would be to note that you wait until he's in the suit to be confrontational. That much I have learned anew over the past five years.

Batman isn't going to wait for Caleb to be less dangerous, for Batman trumps everything, including the devil. This hierarchy, clearly it comes from comic books and my curses come in waves at high tide, the dangerous time of day when I can't read the letters under the sea and I don't take care or exercise caution, leaving caution to morph into risk on my behalf. No work for Bridget, no, Bridget's going to be difficult.

And so the allegiance shifts once more and the power moves with it and Batman becomes the one we answer to because I was sold out. SOLD OUT.

They stopped working for Caleb in order to work for Batman.

Why didn't you tell me?

I could ask you the same thing. Do you remember our conversation from December?

Sure. You told me to fish or cut bait.

Batman smiled tightly but didn't flinch. He isn't unsophisticated enough to be rattled by my bluntness. Or by my beauty, sadly. I have no aces up my sleeves. I don't even have sleeves in this dress, for crying out loud. I have nothing, not my flesh, not my soul, not my heart, I am a doll. My eyes are sewn on and my dress is stitched to my plastic frame. I will sit in the corner and stare until played with, you can call me any name you want and I will never look back at you with accusatory eyes, just my customary I-didn't-hear-you blank expressionless pretty face.

I said I would give you weeks and I gave you months and you haven't made a move to put him in his place.

Why didn't you tell me you talked the boys into working for you?

They're not working for me. What are you talking about?

You own everything they're starting in.

I catch him off guard but then his face breaks into a huge grin.

You're not easily fooled.

I must look so incredibly stupid to all of you, you don't give me credit for a damned thing.

We give you credit for your strength.

It isn't strength, you idiot, it's endurance. It's patience. It's a pain threshold beyond anything you have ever even imagined.

The grin is gone. Away to be burned off by the sun. I hit the mark. Batman's been a safe haven of a different sort. His offers of help were so final and frightening, his power a little too great. I've never really believed that he was a man, he seemed to be more of a superhero, someone who held great power, someone who would only help you when you had nowhere else left to turn and as bad as things were, I still lined the boys up in order and Batman was always last. I put space between us on purpose and so he was last.

Last. This race is a joke, I'd rather come up slow through the populated portions of this race to watch the people in the park play chess on those giant human-sized boards, schlepping their rooks about the squares on a bright sunny day, not caring for the outcome of the game, just for the sake of play.

Running without watching where I'm going never ends well, now, does it? When I don't look where I'm going I have a tendency to trip and fall and hurt myself and this time, it goes as well as expected.

You've changed the subject. The point is, I gave you a time limit, and your time is up, Bridget.

Like hell it is, I say, and I step back into the elevator, letting the doors close in his face. Caleb didn't throw the table because he was angry, he threw it because he was scared. That's when you lose control the most. When you are unequivocally afraid.

Brass tacks and rings too.

I can't hear you breathing
I can't hear you leading
More than just a feeling
More than just a feeling
I can't feel you reaching
Pushing through the ceiling
Till the final healing
I'm looking for you

Until the sea of glass we meet
At last completed and complete
Where tide and tear and pain subside
And laughter drinks them dry
I'll be waiting
Anticipating
All that I aim for
What I was made for
With every heartbeat
All of my blood bleeds
Running inside me
Looking for you

I am watching his hands as he sits forward, elbows on knees on the step, fingers loosely wrapped around the wine glass, curls low over his eyes, not watching the ocean but instead focused out on nothing in particular, unchecked expression staring bitterly into what remains in the bottom. In the grass. Into thin air. In the back of his own mind. Into nothing at all or maybe so deep he wouldn't be able to describe it adequately if asked, as a fault and fatal flaw in all of us, not having the words when they are needed most.

Not even remotely a flaw in one's ability to describe a moment or a feeling but a nod to how big that moment is and how inadequate the words become overall.

His hand is healing at last. Third cast is off as of yesterday and he is favoring it slightly today but you wouldn't notice if you watched him. I notice because I've known him forever, and I also was the one to drag him back each time to have a new cast put on when he would cut himself out of the previous one, sit through the lecture and promise to keep an eye on him and help him enough to not mind it so much, but if you knew Lochlan he is single-minded and low on patience as a rule. At least he looks like himself again. His lip healed, his eyebrow grew back, and he doesn't resemble a prizefighter so much as the busker that is hard to forget, quick with the charm, as always.

He has also shaved off the beard, and I am left cold against his cheek, hands up under the curls that spill across his shoulders. Summer hair. Lochlan can only be convinced once or twice a year to cut his hair and the rest of the time he lets it grow into unbelievable round bouncy curls and it's sort of funny and amazing and beautiful too. If I had hair like that I would never ever cut it. And I wouldn't listen to anyone either. I would sit on the step and drink my wine and watch the sun fall into the sea and I would swear if you came too close but wish for change and I would go to bed silent and sullen and warm.

He puts his hand out long enough to take mine and then he tucks it back up under his arm, against his chest, pulling me in tight beside him. I am shivering slightly. It's grown cold outdoors but he does not feel it yet.

Watch the skies, peanut, he instructs and dutifully I look up, following the angle of his chin so that I can see what I'm supposed to. The stars are beginning to light up, one at a time. The hues play from purple to gold to orange. He's no longer looking at the skies now, he is staring at me. I keep looking up and he presses his forehead against my hair, pushing against my head. I push back slightly. Reassurance. Stability. I am the one who makes them feel safe when it's supposed to be the other way around. My breath catches in my throat, a lump that chokes me up and I can't breathe so I sit, still as a mouse and just as quiet.

Finally I realize I am holding my breath long after I win back control of the sudden sadness and I let it all out in a shaky exhale. This is not lost on Lochlan, who releases my hand slowly and moves away with a final kiss on my hair. He stands up and pulls me up with him, into his good arm, the place one will always find a Bridget, for a final wordless squeeze and I am shoved toward the house gently, almost imperceptibly, back toward the warmth and the light inside. Back toward my own reality, tripping out of nostalgia reluctantly and with purpose. I am not his and yet he remains mine forever. Or maybe it's the other way around. I don't know. It's dark and my brain is tired and the tears still threaten and the nights are so long. In the darkness the years dissolve. In the darkness memories spread in a film over the water, diluted, dissipating easily to return perched atop the sunrise, so we won't miss them, as if we ever could.

Coffee is always bitter and must be sweetened each morning. This is why. When we meet across the island at dawn he will take my hand and tuck it back into his and Ben will do the same and at some point I have to squirm away from both or I don't get any coffee at all.

Waxing and waning.

There's a tiny hole in the wall shop I like to stop into that happens to sell these little kits, pencil boxes stuffed with Japanese character stationery things. The last one I picked up was a pink box with fifteen different Sanrio pens/mechanical pencils, a Popsicle-shaped box filled with soap flakes for hand washing on the go, a teddy bear notebook, two Miffy key chains, a stapler, Snoopy tape, Pucca stickers, Hello Kitty stickers, a Rilakkuma case with rainbow pencil leads, sparkly little gift tags for attaching to things and a huge package of origami strips.

Which we have almost finished using up in an effort to make paper lucky/wishing stars.

They're neat too but I am ridiculously bad with instructions and very impatient. I am also short on words tonight so I'll say goodnight now. I have a late walk date with a guy, a big guy who shaved off the mutton chops this morning, in a huff because hair on his face drives him nuts. He grows the beard for me and then steels himself against the inevitable flood of brief silly disappointment when he appears clean-shaven more often than I would like. I don't really mind. I mean, I love beards but I imagine all that hair on your face must get stupidly hot and itchy after a while.

Sort of like my legs. Sometimes I forget and then the boys make cheep-chirpy noises and I make a mental note to wax them. My legs, not the boys. Silly Internets. I would wax all the boys but only from the necks down. It goes without saying and so I will say no more.

Except goodnight.

Curiosity killed the Bridget. Over and over and over again.

Resurrected only to be stabbed again, through the heart, off with her head, hold her under until she stops struggling at last only to have her resurface in a desperate gasp for air once more. Surprise. It's become a game, a comedy of errors. A black one where the humor makes you cringe and the jokes fall flat but hit home, a train wreck with front row seats, reserved for you.

You can hold her out by the neck, twisting in the wind, clawing at your hand, fighting for purchase and you laugh as she implodes out of sheer frustration. She'll keep fighting though. She will. And she's well aware it's going to kill her in the end and as scary as that seems, she sees no other way around this.

Special days like today.

This morning I was on my knees, head down, hands clasped. This is not difficult. Not this part, anyway.

Please let me be a good mother to him. Let me raise him to be a good person, let him be kind and helpful and open and true. Help him be strong. Help him be happy. Help me to make the right decisions and above all let him know he is loved, always. No matter what.

Amen.

Today is the day! The day Henry turns ten, and the day I've had in the back of my mind since he was born, a day where I would exhale and realize that the younger years are over with and I no longer have to worry about cups with lids or cutting food or choosing clothing or holding hands because if I don't he will disappear.

He knows to wash his hands without having to be reminded and that it's pretty damned cool to get up early on Saturday morning and head downstairs to make toast and watch cartoons before the rest of the house awakens. He cries easily and laughs so loud. He is a full two inches taller than Ruth was when she turned ten and he likes anything with robots, pirates, chocolate or magic. He clears the table, cuts the grass, walks the dog, takes the garbage out and if we would only let him, start the car.

Pretty amazing, if you ask me.

I hope the next ten years are as wonderful, and I know they will be tough, since he's now in double-digit birthdays those teenage years are not far off. I can't picture him driving, or working somewhere, or starting his band, or having a girlfriend, though I have been an unintended first-hand witness to his efforts to wish a classmate a good summer while she signed his yearbook. She lives two streets away and Henry turns an absolute wicked shade of pink when I mention her name, but only on the tips of his ears. I can't imagine how it's going to feel when she breaks his heart.

I have a house full of people and his favorite foods on the birthday menu, which has not changed since he was old enough to answer when asked what he would like, somewhere around his third birthday. Spaghetti, chocolate cake with chocolate icing and chocolate sprinkles, and milk, please. Easy enough.

Happy Birthday, Henry Jacob. You are the greatest little boy in the whole entire world.

1827 days is so long, I daresay he wouldn't recognize me now.

(I would be wrong.)

I have my nose pressed against the glass, watching the evening traffic far below me on the streets of Cole Harbor as people scurry about, crossing against the lights, turning on a yellow signal or ducking into doorways. Further down I see men working on boats, couples strolling the dock, tourists pausing to take pictures and seagulls circling for crumbs.

The smell hits my nose and it wrinkles involuntarily. I pull my face away from the people-ants at street level and ask what brand of cigar it is, even though I already might know the answer.

Cohiba?

Opus X.

Ah. I return to the tilt-shift scenery as he bows smoke rings toward me, pausing every now and then to take a sip of his scotch before resuming his favorite hobby,which is sitting in a chair watching me. For the night I choose to remain expressionless. I am tired, jaded and unable to feign surprise or even cordiality with Caleb some days now. Some days I just appear and wait him out and go home again, woodenly. The doll he always wanted to play with that he can now that he has the money to stand on that places him above reproach or maybe that's below eye-level so he isn't forced to find reasons or make excuses.

(You play with dolls?)

(Just one, and if you saw her you would understand.)

This doll doesn't play back and he has already offered a drink, a dinner, a trip, a night, a cruise, a flight, a drive and a memory. Really I just wanted a drag off of his cigar so I could blow it in a curse into his face as I walked out the door but instead I am still waiting for him to sign one more thing for Ben's release and confirm what time he will be coming to the house for cake, presents and a trip to the theatre to see Harry Potter with the entire collective tomorrow, at Henry's request. Only then can I go but of course he wants to watch me for a while first. What me nervously flutter my hands against the glass. A moth trapped in the porch light. Nothing you can do.

I watch a lady with a dog. She is watching the water and I wonder if she can feel me watching her. She walks slowly and I keep my eye on her until she disappears up the concourse. I look for someone new to focus my attention on and he begins to talk. Good. Let's get this over with so I can go home. I have a cake to ice, and I still need to organize the house. We moved some furniture to do the carpets in the main areas and it has to be put back. Maybe Ben already did that. Unless of course he is waiting for me in the lobby. More often than not that is where I find him when I leave the condo, for he can be more possessive than the rest combined, alive or dead.

Save for one.

Caleb, having completed his cigar and his drink, stands and crosses to where I have managed to land finger- and nose- prints all over the glass of his patio doors. Because he won't allow me outside unless he has a good grip on my hand and even then it's frowned upon. I think the boys think he might become so angry he throws me over the railing but I know him best and I don't believe he would. He's never surprised me in my entire life with his actions, perverse as they may be, he's not about to begin now. He is missing my full reactions already. The disappointment will flood in before the luxury of being alone with me ebbs for this day.

It's incredible to think our son is ten years old. Jesus, Bridget. Where has it gone? I feel like I'm standing still but time is racing past. You're an equal now, Henry's ten. Already. I have a chance to make up the time I have lost with him and with you. Thank you for giving me that.

He puts his arms out and I automatically walk into them. They close around me and I rest my head against his chest, listening for his heartbeat, reassuring myself I won't lose anyone else in this lifetime. Even the devil, because the devil makes promises and he keeps them. He keeps them clenched in his fist, white hot vows used as weapons of history. Dismantling memories, filling in the holes, making for damn sure that no one drops the ball (or the fire), knowing what we came from, knowing that our business is no one else's and time does indeed race past at a dizzying clip.

I count the number of his heartbeats that it takes for mine to slow back down and then I pull out of his embrace and he frowns. The devil is only truly alive when he touches an innocent, an angel, a dream. I'm not any of those things but I give him those precious minutes to pretend and I can take an equal measure of minutes to consider Cole, long gone exactly five years and two days now and the only way either one of us can make it go away is with each other.

Goodnight, Vancouver.

This morning at a toy store I found the battle of Mons Badonicus well underway. King Arthur paused long enough for me to take just one photograph.

When we finally made it home after a wonderful day out poking around at a whole bunch of different places, I was greeted by this:

Hi Mommy! What did you bring me?

Cool! Can we keep it?

I'm a lucky, lucky girl.

Ben is outside early this morning, finishing part of the new fence. He has decided that hand tools are the way to go, and also that his utilikilt is the best uniform for fence-building now. Just the kilt, for the shirt is usually torn off fifteen minutes in.

It's a thing of beauty to watch this brawny, fledgling renaissance man fortifying his kingdom against the beasts of the wild.

It's even better watching him do it in this endless pouring rain.

Sigh.

Back to the future, blue smock edition.

A productive day. We found all the gifts we wanted to get for Henry for his upcoming birthday, we found a new shopping center that is closer and nicer than the one we've been trekking to since we moved here, and I took apart the entire time machine (dishwasher) and managed to put it back together with only one hint. Tomorrow when I run it it could still leak all over the floor but for now I'll call it a job well done. I can always turn it back to the past, where I don't run it and my kitchen is saved, right?

And sadly, after a nineteen month hiatus, Bridget walked the fuck back into Wal-Mart today.

God, I hate Wal-Mart but this was the first one I ever visited that wasn't a nosedive straight into purgatory. It was well-lit, neat, clean, the staff were helpful and the other customers weren't straight out of a bad dream. I might go back. We'll see.

Trust me when I tell you Wal-Mart gives me the heebie-jeebies. Sadly it was the best place for housewares and kids clothing and maybe it will have to be again as we weather the challenge of both children being in half adult/half children sizing still.

(It's rough. I keep a list and I keep their wardrobes pretty spare for now. I never know when I'm going to wake up and hear that wail that means they outgrew all their outfits overnight. It happens. It happens often.)

So thank you Wal-mart for always going to bat for me, even though I am superungrateful and snobbish and shit. And do you sell dishwashers? Twenty dollars says my kitchen is going to become a lake in the morning when I fire up the time machine tomorrow and dial it back to 1999, the year before Wal-Mart even existed for this two-bit, small-town girl.

Don't forget to greet me at the door. I really love that part. It's like you already know me. Maybe you have time machines after all, and you've been using them all along, seeing into my future, knowing I would be called back to the fold.

You're really creepy, Wal-Mart. But that's okay. Bridget LOVES creepy.

Benjamin battened.

Fuck retro anything.
Fuck your tattoos.
Fuck all you junkies and
Fuck your short memory.

Learn to swim.
Fuck smiley glad-hands with hidden agendas.
Fuck these dysfunctional, insecure actresses.
Learn to swim.

Because I'm praying for rain
And I'm praying for tidal waves
I want to see the ground give way.
I want to watch it all go down.
Mom, please flush it all away.
I want to watch it go right in and down.
I want to watch it go right in.
Watch you flush it all away.

Time to bring it down again.
Don't just call me a pessimist.
Try and read between the lines.
I can't imagine why you wouldn't
Welcome any change, my friend.

Just listening to music and watching the skies tonight. A storm is coming, better close all the windows and curl up next to someone safe.

The swindle.

I don't have the discipline to breathe the open air
No one has to listen when all they do is stare

People can't be counterfeited. Not like cosmetics and Louis Vuitton handbags and questionable watches. People are real and unique and stamped with invisible serial numbers that lie behind their eyes and in their voices. The patterns of their fingerprints and the beat of their hearts. Their style, whether it be designer or thrift store, conservative or flamboyant. Stereotypical but still unique.

People I know are not fake or shallow or knocked off. People are not manufactured on the sly to be as close as possible to the real thing. They are the real thing from the first moment, without a doubt, without a question, without wondering if the deal will be too good to pass up or better left unsold just in case, obtained from a more reputable source as money well spent without the forced gamble.

At the bottom of the whiskey glass we talked about fake versus genuine. At the bottom of the bottle we talked about promises to always be real. At the bottom of my eyelids I was sure I was real but I haven't checked yet and maybe when I wasn't looking they made a cheap replica somewhere and shoved it out into the limelight when everyone turned their backs and she's not going to last as long as her paint is already scraped off and her voice won't hold and she seems sort of brittle when you pick her up and she can't hold her liquor or her heart at all.

Forty-five degree angels.

It was a small job, finishing a curiously uncapped half wall in the master bathroom but it's done. Ben and a miter box and a sharp new saw and me, passing the pencil to him and holding out nails and finally holding the new crisp white trim in place as he hammered it into place.

He said to move my hand a little and then he said Hold still.

I closed my eyes, feeling the hammer falling millimeters from my fingertips. One wrong move and I would be the one with the broken hand instead of Lochlan, one distraction and my fingers would be smashed by Benjamin, large and strong, wielding steel with determination, with effort.

And I was not afraid.

It was liberating.

This is how most of our conversations go.

If you want to go on an African safari just say the word, princess. You know the world is your oyster, after all.

No, it isn't. In fact, I think it's yours.

Give me your bucket list and I'll see to it that everything is checked off by Saturday.

Fuck off.

This is why you don't get anywhere, princess. You're so combative.

Ha. I thought you liked that.

I am trying to be nice. I'm trying to show you I can do these things.

So can any of the others.

But have they?

I'm not asking them to. I'm not asking you to either.

It's a fucking giraffe and you acted as though someone had given you a hearing transplant.

Okay, that, if you can make it happen, would be lovely.

I can see that you get devices that actually work so you don't get frustrated.

They don't exist.

Sure they do. Good technology costs money.

That why you bought the car?

Partly, yes. I have always loved the design of the 911s though.

My car could still take yours.

Not off the line.

No, overall. That's how you win a race.

By stopping to look at the giraffes and wishing you had the time/money/means to indulge yourself just a little more for once?

Yeah, that's how. And I won. Kiss my dirt.

Fine, Miss Doolittle. See you tomorrow.

Ta-ta, Mister Higgins. Better get a head start in that slow car of yours.

Jesus, Bridget, so nasty today. I hope tomorrow sees you a little more cheerful.

There's an easy way to ensure that, Caleb.

And how is that? Tell me. I'll do anything.

Don't come over.

Nice.

I warned you.

Yes. Yes, you did.

So much better than I expected.

I met a giraffe today.

This is probably not a big deal to those of you who are well-traveled or grew up in major centres with amazing zoos but I figured I would have to venture on an African safari to see a giraffe up close and in person.

I did not. One of the first things I read about Vancouver was that the zoo had a giraffe.

Yes, yes it did. It had a bunch of them, actually.


We just haven't had time to go until now. And I am so happy we went. We saw hippopotami and zebras and rhinoceroses (um, no idea on plural there) and the giraffes who were so lovely and accommodating as I hogged their attention for most of the afternoon.

Maybe your bucket list does not including meeting a giraffe. That makes me sad, and we can't be friends anymore, because mine does. And he was aloof and pompous as shit.

Chasing wonderment.

Going to check off a bucket list item today.

I will return with pictures.

(However, since I'm one of the few people on the planet not claiming to be a pro/am photographer, the pictures will probably be awful. It's okay. This isn't for you, it's for me.)

He is coming down. Unraveling slowly, counterclockwise still, the hypnotic vortex of nervous, excessive, giant energy dissolving into a maddening lack of routine. Pointing out I don't need to do laundry or chores or anything. It can wait. It can all wait while Ben pulls me into his arms, against his chest and keeps me there, tucked in amongst need and admiration, flush against satisfaction and comfort, fused to lust and raw desire.

I throw my arms around his neck and leave them there. I'm not budging as day becomes night and the sun dims in favor of stars, too many to count as the breeze ruffles my hair so slightly but fails to keep me awake. My eyelids are so heavy. Cement. My chin drops and I let go of consciousness, not caring as it slides down the cliff into the sea. At the last second Lochlan grabs it and pulls it back to the grass, running his hand across my hair, a familiar touch that rouses me briefly, gently.

I look up and a kiss glances off my forehead. Ben pulls my head back down and holds tighter, just for one breath and then I am released. I stand up and Lochlan takes my hand. It's dim. The outdoor lights are off. I follow him back to the door. Ben is behind me. The house is quiet, asleep. We reach our room and the door is closed, locked behind me. I am trapped within the four walls, within four arms, within two hearts. Or maybe that's five hearts, give or take two ghosts and the Devil too. Tonight there are four arms, tanned and familiar, too hard and too desperate, one historical reach and one future love paradise, a conflict lies within the muscles that keep me glued to that space in between their souls.

Ben's arms come back around me, pulling me down, forcing me out into the night. He is risk, adventure and innocent longing, a very basic want, here and now, no questions, no second-guesses, no hesitation, no regrets. His eyes hold nothing but love and want for me and an acceptance of the way things will be, ways he has engineered in absentia, in absoluteness. I am passed back, against gravity into Lochlan's arms, stability, logic and safety, history, complicated and ruined and nuanced, all regrets on deck, innocence lost, accusations hurled, scarring deep gouges into memories left unprotected to the elements, a regret that burns, manifesting itself in an almost comical inability to step away, so instead we move closer together.

Dawn breaks across the horizon line but I miss it.

Super (Charged)

Yes, I've had a few rides in the new Porsche. It's incredibly delicious. A 911. It sounds just like my car and has elicited a Pavlovian response in that every time he pulls up to the house I go and see who is taking my car, since they sound the same. Hence, he is greeted personally each time, which pleases the Devil to no end, let me tell you. I should be less proprietary over my car, but it isn't ownership, it's curiosity that moves me.

Too bad I can't say that for anyone else.

New car smell.

And baby you hurt oh I know
Things we did they just won't die
But life it goes on
Gotta live
We gotta live with how it feels
Down there inside
The feelings that you fight
The demons that you hide
Know you're not alone in how you feel

I am busy. I'm folding laundry and bouncing back and forth between the piles of clothing (stacked in piles according to wearers) and the kitchen, cleaning up and preparing for the next meal. I run the household much like the army does, if I knew anything about the army at all. I have no time for this and yet he's tearing moments apart looking for space anyway.

The ribbon is black with tiny embroidered daisies. It seemed summery so I tied it around my ponytail in a neat bow. By the end of the day it will be jammed into Ben's back pocket when he finds it unraveled on the patio or in the front hall. By then my ponytail will be low and loose, escaped waves everywhere. Disaster and nothing less than the usual.

The Devil puts his hand out to touch the ribbon but I am already on the other side of the kitchen, drying the big pots and pans to be put away.

Bridget.

Yes?

Nothing. I just wanted to be sure of you.

I stop moving and my blood begins a slow simmer, bubbling up into my veins until everything is covered in a red film.

You don't get to use those.

Use what?

Don't think I don't know those quotes better than you think I do. I only forget new things. Insignificant things like 'pick up milk', or 'show me that song'.

So not a decade of trading Pooh quotes with Preacher?

Never. My limbs have become mired in quicksand. Everything is heavy. I can forget about the weight too but once reminded I can't lift it anymore, let alone carry it through the days and nights, unwelcome.

If you want to continue them I'm game. He looks uncomfortable, as if he is deigning to stoop to some level he doesn't want to be on but finds himself on anyway in an effort to jockey for Alpha designation.

I'd rather die than give you any of the honor and familiarity of Jacob's love for me.

I don't need it, princess. I have my own memories with you. I was simply offering an outlet.

Yeah, you're good at that, aren't you?

I just want you to be happy. That's all any of us want, Bridget. We want to be the one to make you happy.

Then stop making me miserable!

Achievement unlocked. Hot tears have spilled over. My nose stings, my skin turns pink, my eyes turn turquoise-blue. He is fascinated, pulling me in against his chest, his fingers locked around my arms, lifting me up to my toes, staring down into my eyes with a wonder that never changes even though he has borne witness to this strange phenomenon for most of my life. I have tried to change how it happens but I guess I should give up after all these years. It's just the way I cry.

It's the last thing I want.

Could have fooled me.

Look, I understand the disappointment. I've been there. You have to remember this way you can continue to honor Cole's memory and Ruth does not have to switch allegiance which would be difficult at her age and unfair after all this time. She took Cole's death particularly hard, you know.

You're really going to be all self-righteous about this, aren't you?

No. Look, I feel for the guy. I know he was hoping for a positive outcome.

He would have made a good father.

He does make a good father, Bridget. We all do our part. This way he doesn't get to claim ownership and then drop it later when it suits him.

Just leave.

Like he did with you.

Just GO. Please. Get out. I don't need this.

You should come with me. I'm consistent. I haven't changed, I've never made you second-guess me. I've never changed my mind. I've never denied you anything, princess.

He wouldn't do that with Ruth.

No one thought he would do that with you, Bridget.

He made a mistake. He came back.

And look what it did to you. I wouldn't give my allegiance to someone who hurt me like that. How do you trust someone who does that? How do you continue to throw yourself at them only to be continually pushed back down? What in the hell does he have that the rest of us don't, Bridget? Why can't you just let him go? Everyone blames me for brainwashing you and it wasn't me. It was never me. I tried to save you from him.

His eyes are red now. I am dumbstruck by how vulnerable he looks and now I understand. Wide open, unchecked, miserable and desperate. Naked. It is a gift to be permitted to see someone this exposed. We all wear so many layers to protect from prying eyes. Little Bridget will forever be twelve years old and completely defenseless in the eyes of the Devil.

She doesn't need to be saved from me.

Lochlan is in the doorway and Caleb lets go of my arms gently, releasing me back to the floor, resuming control of his expression, this one weary hatred tempered with a superiority that masks the relief. The smug decorum, the shot-cuffs, pressed-collar, time-is-money glance at his watch.

And with that he is off, striding out the door, stopping on the verandah to say goodbye to the children, collecting the long hugs they give him with assurances of return in a days' time, crossing the driveway to duck into his new black Porsche, roaring out onto the street, away-away. Fly away home.

What was that all about? What did he say to you?

I turned back to face Lochlan, my bloodshot eyes and overwhelmed mind refusing to censor anything. Fuck it.

He says you make a good father to Ruth, even without the paperwork to prove it.

That means he's up to new tricks.

Maybe he just envies you. Did you ever consider that?

No, he sees me as the only obstacle standing in his way.

I think he's given up.

God, that dreamworld you live in, peanut? It's positively epic. I get why you sleep at night, you fill your own head with lies.

It's better than the alternative.

What alternative?

Remembering the truth.

Super. Ficial.

(Some nights there is no heavy talk at all.)

It was sort of a spur of the moment challenge tossed across a dinner table stacked tall with Chinese takeout, spare chopsticks and puddles of soy sauce, glassware and assorted cookies still wrapped, their fortunes kept secret in sealed packages.

Hey, Benny, if you grow a set of mutton chops between now and Christmas I'll let my bangs grow out.

I wanted to eat the dare as soon as it came out of my mouth. Not only does Ben look lupine and positively wild with facial hair of any kind, but I never liked my face without the long wispy bangs in my eyes, in my mouth, wherever they end up. I never keep them trimmed (or brushed) but I never actually let them grow out either.

You're on, little bee.

He has wanted me to grow them out forever. And me, well, I kind of like the seventies look on men. Aviators, bell-bottom jeans, plaid shirts and long hair with As Much Facial Hair As Possible and I'm gold. Ben does not subscribe fully to that look and that's okay too. I never asked him to change. He still asks me to grow my bangs out. We're just impossibly surfacey and shallow like that, what can I say? How dare feelings or promises get in the way?

I know. Ridiculous.

But between the new gold pirate tooth (Ben had to have a crown and they planned to make the cap white and I was all OMG pirate life for me when they mentioned gold and what do you know? He went gold) and the baseball hat that mashed his hair down all long and flat and made him look well, wow, now all of the sudden we're having a turtle race that will take months and be fun and someone is going to win eventually even though I will probably forget about it unless they remove every last pair of scissors from the house.

It's been done before.

I ate two entire plates full of Chinese food and PJ kept my glass refilled with vodka and something something strawberry and really at this point I would have pointed out I could grow back my fairy wings and pointy ears if only they would just stay still for a little while and everything would have been okay.

Instead I sat at the empty table after dinner with the takeout shrapnel strewn everywhere and I drew until I could move again.

I have everything figured out. No worries.

Bring on the Lizard King.

Staying out late (aka Moving Pictures).

(I'm going to start filing these posts under a FANGIRL or WACKY ESOTERIC CONCERT REVIEWS THAT AREN'T tag or something.)

Riding through the range of light to the wounded city
Filling my spirit with the wildest wish to fly
Taking the high road to the wounded city
Memory strumming at the heart of a moving picture

All this time I've been workin' them angels overtime
Riding and diving and flying
Just over the edge
Workin' them angels overtime

It's Canada Day, possibly the first one we've all been off for and can celebrate fully in the past decade. Every community across the country throws a party and we celebrate being uniquely different, a complete smorgasbord, undefinable as Canadians except in knowing that everyone loves us because we are helpful, fun and unfailingly polite. We're loyal. We talk funny, maple syrup is a food group, our rock music is incredibly distinctive and our country is so large some of us have missed whole provinces and territories and road trips take weeks instead of hours because each major center is isolated hours away from the next. Currently I live 6000 kilometers from where I was born and I feel right at home because I am still home.

We began our celebrations last night with a trip into town to see these guys. Everyone knows Rush is a Canadian band. Everyone.


They're our Pink Floyd, pretty much. Lochlan bought Moving Pictures with some of his money from working overtime, and I was not permitted to touch the vinyl record because my hands were always sticky from cotton candy. Or I was dirty. Or really pick something and he would turn it into a reason.

(For the record, I am still not allowed to touch the vinyl. Because I still have sticky, dirty fingers and am still a child in his eyes, but whatever. Someone hands me a record now and my mouth opens in a little awe-filled oo-sound, because they are still so forbidden to me.)

I saw Rush for the first time three years ago in Winnipeg, of all places (they have only played Halifax twice after all and both times I was too young to go) and was blown away. Blown away. So when they spooled up the Moving Pictures tour it was without question, we would be going.


(Obligatory awful concert snap. Loooooook! It's Aaaaaaaaaalex!)

And we did, last night in Vancouver and it was absolutely mind-numbingly awesome, again. Something like fourteen thousand people air-drumming in unison. Losing our shit to the opening strains of Tom Sawyer, the inevitable tears from me when Faithless was played, because that is my all-time favorite Rush song, and the ever-recognizable YYZ which we might know every single note to by heart, thanks to history, Canadian content laws for radio and television, good taste and Rock Band on the Xbox.

Three hours of music. Ben caught ONE missed note. One. We were exhausted, the band was not. Huh.

It was the perfect kick-off to Canada Day, I believe. I am sated until Clockwork Angels is released. When that happens I'm going to get a copy on vinyl just so I can smooth my fingers along the grooves, feeling the melodies underneath my skin and Lochlan won't be able to tell me I can't.

(Continuity, by request.)

I had a secret chair. I would put my writing binder in the top of the milk crate that held Lochlan's tools, and then I could sit on it and be comfortable while I waited for him. I couldn't lift the crate or pull it to put it in the shade but I sat there anyway. It wouldn't be long. The freckles were mostly melted together on my face at this point anyway.

It was the first day of July.

I could see the motorcycle. Lochlan was coming back from the big grocery store on the other side of town. Lashed behind him was a cardboard box full of provisions for our trip. He had already paid to take the camper and we were going to drive up to Cavendish and stay at one of the campgrounds on the beach for a week.

Lochlan was eighteen and he had been working every day for the past three months and he was really looking forward to a break without whistles and megaphones and hours of sunshine enough for work dictating his daily routine. We had eaten little and spent nothing since my birthday to allow for this one massive trip.

Massive. I couldn't even fathom going that far without the show. And this trip was going to fix everything that he broke, or so he told me. All I knew is that I loved adventure and I loved Lochlan and the camper too but I was afraid of the dark. I was afraid of being an island away from help. I didn't have any money. I didn't have any identification save for a library card. Lochlan carried my papers in his back pocket every single day, the ones that said he had temporary legal guardianship of me. Those were the only papers that were important.

He smiled when he saw me and pulled the bike right up to the door of the camper. He opened the door and then motioned me inside and started handing things to me. Bread. A bag of apples. A few six-packs of juice bottles. Pop. Chips. Peanut butter and jam. A box of spaghetti and a jar of sauce. Special K. When he passed me the cereal he said we would buy cartons of milk at the store when we got there and fresh vegetables and meat too.

I wrinkled my nose.

Okay, hot dogs, then, miss picky.

You can eat whatever you want.

He smiled and kept passing me things. Toilet paper. Bug spray.

I held up the bug spray.

The mosquito count is high up there, peanut.

Did you get honey?

Honey? Yes. Here.

Okay, I'm good. What about licorice?

Licorice? No, Bridget. We're not buying candy.

Yeah, I know. But boo.

I am holding out my hand for the next item but he shakes his head. That's it.

We don't eat this well usually. My stomach rumbles at the sight of all these groceries. I look at Lochlan and he tells me we're going to have a week where we don't worry about anything.

You promise?

I promise. He holds out his pinky and I lock mine around it. Swear.

You ready?

Yeah. I run and grab my binder and he puts the tools in under the table. Then he gives me a quick kiss on the forehead and starts the bike again. He'll take it to Chris and Chris will run him back. Meanwhile I start storing the food anywhere I can find space. A tight fit. There's one little cupboard. By the time I'm finished it's tucked everywhere. We'll never find anything because I'll forget and now every day will be a scavenger hunt of sorts.

I slide the last box of pasta in beside his drawing books when I hear the bike outside and he is home. My stomach flutters. I'm excited. I wish I had a new sundress or something to look pretty for him but we don't spend our money on things like that.

I hear him call out a See you later man, and the bike roars off again. Lochlan comes inside and hands another bag to me. A small white one this time. I peek in and I don't know what it is.

Ribbons. So you have some variety. He smiles sheepishly. I dump the contents of the bag into my lap and squeal. Hair ribbons. All velvet. Every color of the rainbow. Pastels and brights. Some are embroidered too. One had sequins sewn onto it. He fishes out a thin, plain pink one and says here, this one would be pretty right now. He pulled my braid out of my hoodie and tied the ribbon around the end of it.

These are beautiful.

Bring them up into the truck, then. A huge smile remained on his face.

Are we leaving?

Yes. Let's get this show on the road.

Tie it tightly or it will slip off.

That's as small as it goes, peanut.

I'll just push it up my arm then.

I trace the carving of the bird and smooth my fingers down the leather band. It's dark brown and it serves to highlight my golden arms, toasted by the rare sun. If the sun is out I am out too, turning lightly, soaking it up for the next round of endless heavy summer rains. The weather here is strange and shockingly, mildly unpredictable. The bracelet is more unpredictable. It's a talisman, a very personal one and I'm wearing it for protection from their hearts, maybe. It does not belong to me, it's his. Lochlan put it on me yesterday morning and it's been there ever since.

Late last evening we sat at the island while he patiently evaluated the latest round of figure drawings I was working on. Proportions. Measuring out limbs and height in faint straight lines, constructive criticisms that left me frustrated but eager to try harder and by midnight I had completed several decent forms. It's a slow road but by the end of the month I will have filled this sketchbook and be on the next.

And a meeting. There was a full-complement family meeting yesterday, Caleb included but instead of continuing this stream of consciousness, I need to go collect my children now. It's their final day of school. Next year Ruth enters Junior high as a freshly minted grade 7 student and Henry begins grade 5. I don't know how THAT all happened but here it is and it feels weird and I may talk about it more or we may just head straight for the movies. It's Transformers day and that's a big deal too. We have bets on whether Rosie Huntington-Whiteley can fill Megan Fox's shoes, er...shorts.

****
The verdict? She can.

Noon on third.

Low tide is when you catch all the treasures the sea can hold so close to shore. Clams. Mussels by the thousands. Beautifully tumbled colored glass. Pretty shells. Ripples so deep and perfect you trip over them as the beach grows exponentially, stretching out in front of you. Your blank canvas, your home. Your own personal exhalation, distilled down to tiny grains of glass, seaweed and salt air so thick you can cut it with a knife.


It's not like you'll be alone when you get there, but it's always worth a shot. For the record he said the water was warm. I stuck my hands in and he was right. He's always right.

This is your Ben on vacation.

She tells me things, I listen well
Drink the wine and save the water
Skin is smooth, I steal a glance
Dragon flies are gliding over
Oh, I'll beg for you. Oh, you know I'll beg for you.

Everything is winding down, spinning out slowly, counter-clockwise, hypnotically, crazily-lazily against the grain. An optical illusion of stability when we were holding on with our teeth by the bitter end.

Tomorrow we'll wake up different. Tomorrow morning I have a coffee date with someone special. He's very tall and has that one lick of hair that sticks out to one side and yet he doesn't give a shit about much of anything except for me. For me his appetite is huge and endless. He is always hungry. He is never satisfied and never ever full.

I can live with that.

Third eye blind.

We gotta live with how it feels
Down there inside
The feelings that you fight
The demons that you hide
Know you're not alone in how you feel down there inside
We’ve all got things we hide
You feel down there inside

Underneath the recently purchased, starched dress shirt to play the role is a juggernaut. He is so strong. I don't know how he became so strong. When I wasn't looking his resolve was sneaking in, adding strength so that no one would ever again make an attempt at a second-guess. You sell your soul to the devil to gain that kind of power overnight. He went one step further and took over the office of the incarnation of evil, just to be sure.

He gathers my hair in one hand, pulling it hard, wrenching my head back. When my mouth opens in protest I am drowned in good whiskey. I am gulping it down, trying to get past it, gasping for air. Ruin turns to rescue, he pulls me in close against his chest, smoothing my hair back, telling me he is sorry. Why is he lying? I push away and look at his eyes, barely veiled, crazed with excitement, need. I turn to leave and he takes my arms, pulling them behind my back, pulling me back into him, his head coming down beside my ear. He tells me everything is okay. I nod and my knees buckle. He steers me to the wall, pushing me against it, turning me around roughly after tying the ribbon over my eyes. I reach up to pull it away but he twists my hand back down. I can feel him breathing against my hair. Controlled. Anticipatory.

Predatory.

We are standing on the edge of the cliff, so high we can't see the bottom and he is taking mere seconds to decide whether or not to cross this line. Again.

I already know how this story ends and I throw us over the side, climbing up his limbs, clawing my way across his skin looking to find the strength he took from me to feed his own power. I find it and he catches me. I am forced back down, turned inside out as he takes me in his arms, kissing my breath away in the dark. I ask him not to do this but my words are falling at a different speed. It isn't until he is finished that he reaches to pull down the ribbon from my eyes that the monster retreats and the regret floods into his eyes in the most beautiful shade of medium blue.

A hard kiss lands against my lips. I push his head away. His hand comes up around my throat. We are eye to eye now as a softer kiss finds a place to land under my nose. There's no strength in me at all. I can't fight him. Surrender and the monster gears up once more, fed by the prolonged darkness. His hands replace the ribbon over my eyes. I try to peel his fingers up one by one. It's hopeless.

His words are landing in my ears, making ripples on the surface so I focus on those instead. I am calm. I know these words. I know these hands. I know this blood. No more fighting. I let myself go slack. I am rewarded with another kiss. One so tender this time it takes my breath with it. I am pulled into his arms and held. A hold that you know would last forever if only you had the chance to find out.

The words that could take a promise and turn it into a lifetime.

A love that brings convention to its knees.

And a hate that turns it all to cinders, blowing on burned fingers, hiding behind the flames as the wind stirs the embers into the air, coating my world. I kick the fire and walk away when the sun rises. I know he won't follow. He'll just wait for me to come back. I always do, even though I didn't sell my soul to the devil for anything, no sir. He just took it. There wasn't a thing anyone could do.

Daniel added potato chips to his hamburger, piling them up underneath the bun, then crushing the whole thing flat and taking a bite.

Why did you do that?

They're dill pickle chips. We're out of pickles so at least these taste like pickles, you know?

I wish they made chips that taste like honey mustard, Schuyler said.

I wish they made chips that taste like Skittles, I said.

Ben picked that moment to walk into the kitchen.

Hey Benny, what do you want your chips to taste like?

Ben grabbed a chip from Schuyler's plate and tossed it into his mouth. He didn't miss a beat.

Women.

Matthew 6:33 Seek ye first the kingdom of Jake.

(Here. A little story about the last time I picked up a drink at noon. The day after I left Cole. It was five years ago in April. I married Ben the day before the second anniversary of that event. Funny how Jacob managed to fill up so much space in so little time, isn't it? That's all we had was those sixteen months there in the middle. It's the blink of an eye now but back then the days were endless.)

How the hell did you find me
I've been hiding miles away
Maybe you don't know it
I still think about you every single day

I unlocked the bolt and cracked the screen door open, just enough for one eye. I rested my head against the doorjamb and tried to untangle my expression and get my eyes to look in the same direction.

What is it?

Why are you drunk?

I'm not..I was sleeping or crying or something so my eyes are red. What is it? I repeat. The expression is clear now. Annoyance.

Bridget, I can smell your breath from here. I can't imagine what it's like at the top of the steps so for my own safety I think I'll stay right here.

Good idea. I slammed the door shut and walked away, back down the hall to the kitchen and out through the back porch where I resumed my residency in the sunshine trying to feel anything but what I was feeling right now.

FUCK. His head appeared at the gate, his arm reaching over to flip the latch.

Your nap looks like it needs a refill.

Naps are a singular activity.

Not where I'm from.

Where you're from people kiss fish on the lips and wait for the bear to see his shadow on Groundhog day.

Right so growing up in that kind of twisted environment, trust a man when he tells you he knows you're drunk.

I laughed in spite of myself and I put my hands over my face. He pulled them away.

Bridget, anything you want to talk about, I'm here.

That's the problem. You're here. I depend on you to be able to talk to.

You have lots of people you can talk to.

Not like this. I wasn't looking away anymore. It takes him forever to be serious. Finally.

Everything will be fine.

How do you know?

Because it always is. Because it has to be. Because things work out and if they don't something else works. I don't have all the answers. This is faith. You either believe or you go crazy. Which is the better way, this (he held up my empty glass), or this (he put the glass down and put both hands over his heart).

I don't like change, Jacob.

Oh, hell, I know that, princess. I am growing old while you make good on these promises.

I want to be sure.

Life holds no guarantees.

Well, it should. Haven't we earned that much? I'd like guarantees and fortune tellers with credentials and a place in the sun, smile plastered on my face.

He laughed. How many drinks, exactly?

One. Just one.

Hell, what a lightweight. You need a little Newfie in you.

I need a big fucking Newfie in me.

There's the blush, moving at a thousand miles an hour up from his collar to spread across his face, flip up over his ears and make it up underneath the blonde hair. Score. He is as red as a poppy and grinning ear to ear at last.

Maybe later. After you brush your teeth. Your breath is shaking my faith in being able to kiss you without my eyes watering.

Wait until you get treated to my morning breath tomorrow, Jake.

You're too damned little to be so rotten. The fish back home ain't looking so bad now, you know that?

Oh. You. Just you wait until dinner if you think lunch is bad.

Caleb walks out onto the patio and drops a thick file folder on the glass table.

Everything is signed. You're right. The spin works for me.

I nod and take a sip of my drink. Gage made me a liquid lunch. Daniel will pick up the kids from school. I don't plan to inflict this mess of myself on anyone.

His legs aren't moving. I am texting Lochlan who is a hundred feet away in the garage. I finally look up. Caleb asks if he can have a chair but I don't hear him the first time. I am looking at his face. Or rather, his head. I jump out of my chair and wobble and he grabs my arms.

Drinking in the middle of the day?

What in the hell did you do to your hair?

Your manners are terrible. How many have you had?

I sit back down. This lounge chair is my new best friend.

One but Gage made it. Now answer my question.

Gage clearly has as much of a problem as everyone else. And I didn't do anything. The sun. You're drinking.

You've lightened your hair. Your hair is now the exact color Cole's used to be.

It's always been the same, Bridget. Sometimes I think you invent the parts of your life that suit your odd little mind. Including making me darker and more sinister.

I laugh. Cole's eyes were darker.

And his hair was the same, Bridget. The same.

PJ comes out to see what's up. He probably got a text from Lochlan. I can feel Lochlan's gaze on me even though I can't see him.

Caleb. What's up.

Oh, hello. Nothing is up. I brought the demise of the company to her majesty's feet only to find she's shitfaced in the middle of the day.

Want my update, PJ?

Sure, doll. Lay it on me.

I am most definitely not drunk, and Caleb is now dying his hair so he can look even more like Cole. Only he's denying it for some stupid reason. Vanity, probably. He thinks he can make me seem drunk or delusional but he's outnumbered. And mistaken if he thinks being more like Cole is the way to go here.

So.....I should go see if Loch needs help?

Probably a good idea, yes.

PJ makes a hasty exit and Caleb pulls off his suit jacket. It's twenty-five degrees in the sun and he still needs to look as if he fell out of a GQ foldout. It works.

Cole never dressed up.

I know that.

He didn't even wear a suit to our wedding.

He led a different life, princess.

Yeah and you're not him. So STOP TRYING TO BE HIM, Okay?

Would you like another drink, princess?

Yeah. Maybe a double this time.

I'll go make one for you.

You do that.

He has not returned.

Yet, that is.

His suitjacket is still here. I should be drunk. That would be awesome.

Summer forty-one.

Hey you're my weakness
Still my lover in my mind
And you still control me
Summer I put you so high
Hey did you forget you could never get enough
Well I'll always love you
No matter how far you run

I forgot to appreciate the lead-in to the longest day of the year. I just noticed two days ago that the sun is now rising with me instead of sleeping in, and the children are restless and hard to quiet when it's time to turn lights off for nine because the daylight still reigns. And now after today the sun will begin dipping low in the sky before we hit the sheets and will be lazy and hard to rouse in the mornings.

Ah, summer. Like a six-week hedonistic birthday in favor of barbecuing hot dogs while still dressed in wet bathing suits. Choosing to do nothing but lie in the shade with a good book. Potato chips as a side dish every night of the week. Staring into the bokeh between the blinding grains of sand juxtaposed against the dark teal and white jagged line of the ocean. Whole days to be planned on the fly as they are spent. Whole days to explore instead of wait.

All year I wait for you and now here you are.

All year I make my mental lists of the things I will do, and I leave it in my head, pushing it away, shoving it into some dark drawer full of memories in that stupid building that people keep breaking into and stealing from and I choose to be superstitious in lieu of disappointment, just in case. I know where I learned to be this way and I can't help it but I know I will push this time. Push past doubt, juxtapose adventure against that stark unfamiliarity and the rarity of pine trees again and the sea. The sea laid out before me as a feast for my sore eyes. A saltwater, stinging salve for my ever-panicked mind.

This is what I live for.

This.

Yeah.

I drew these. Yes, I realize it's a terrible photograph and maybe you're going to point out the places where I drew wrong or whatever, but really, I don't care.

I drew these. And I think they are awesome.

Just like me.

Strangled with a pink velvet ribbon.

The civility is crushing and astounding all at once. Caleb is here to spend the majority of the day with us. Because it's Father's Day and the devil created a son who is as good and heavenly as they come and he can only stand in awe of the boy who someday will be King.

I escaped for much of the afternoon to the rainy dim verandah in a warm sweater and jeans but bare feet, hair tied in possibly the messiest braid ever with a treasured pink ribbon that is threatening to unravel (just like my evening) to draw with the new drafting pencils Ben bought for me yesterday and Lochlan's giant copy of Anatomy For The Artist.

I ventured inside only when it was time to begin cooking. New Jake will help because he tends to remain behind me on the fringe and Sam should be here soon and I'll let Duncan wake himself up from his nap whenever he wishes because I saw his light on long into the night when I ventured downstairs for orange juice.

Lochlan is somehow looking less purple-and-brown today and Ben is unwinding, beginning in a slow counter-clockwise spiral, now approaching out of control and I had to peel him off the sheets and wrap his hand around a cup of coffee and he is very jovial and noncommittal about the day overall so I believe that means he is as relaxed as one can be when forced to spend a day off with the devil in house. As usual when Ben has time off he bounces from one activity to the next. It's difficult to watch.

I'm sure I am blamed for the mass defection which will ultimately result in the company folding and I am used to the heat but at the same time it was not my decision. I had to be led into it, their hands held out, calling my name along with gentle words of encouragement as I walked forward to reach where they stood, again on the other side of a Big Decision. I still have my doubts. I still worry too much and I'm still going to hold my breath but I'm also going to start cooking dinner because when people are well fed they are a heck of a lot calmer and move slower, besides.

Happy Fathers Day to all the dads that are here, dads that are not here, stepdads, surrogate dads, and understudy dads too. You have no idea how much we appreciate and love you all. Now keep your fists to yourselves through dinner or else.

There was the brilliant world of hunting, tactics, fierce exhilaration, skill, and there was the world of longing and baffled common-sense.

It went better than I expected, actually.

This is a higher stakes version of the game you two played in high school, isn't it? You've developed such an obvious pattern. I wonder if your husband sees this. Oh, he wouldn't, would he? You chose yet another man who wasn't there to witness your history firsthand and so it's easier to escape detection.

Leave Ben out of this.

Ben is going to be a large amount of collateral damage. More than Jacob ever was. Are you ready for that, Bridget?

Just sign and date the letter so that you acknowledge Lochlan's resignation, please.

I'm not signing anything.

Then he will have to sue you.

You two don't want to play that game with me, dollface.

I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again Caleb is still there. Fuck. Fuck reality. Fuck business. Fuck the past. I can't take this.

Yes, we do. Sign mine too. I don't want the company.

Too late. It's already yours.

I'll liquidate it and put it into a trust if you can't honor the release clause. I'm well within the time frame.

You'll put all of your boys out of work.

They are leaving as well. I have all the letters here to be signed.

Got him. Finally rocked. He just stared at me and I watched disbelief float across his blue eyes, and it morphed into some sort of quiet terror.

All of you.

Yes. Oh, and we'll be taking John with us, so you can call Mike back.

Quick recovery. He is smooth. He walks to the window in an attempt to not give away anything else via body language or the fact that I can read his face so easily these days even I am surprised. Back in control.

Your terms are up. Of course.

They've been up for months.

I was under the impression only Loch would be leaving.

Sometimes it's better that way.

And Ben?

Ben has already finished. This project was a bad idea and he won't be taking on any more for you.

You know what happens when he is idle.

Maybe we should move to the table so you can sign easily.

Just put them down, Bridget. I will go over them all today and you can pick them up later.

No, actually I have plans so I need to be out of here in thirty minutes.

And their packages? You can prepare those? Or should I call the bank?

I can look after them.

This is a betrayal.

Then you should have made the contracts longer. I appreciate what you did and I imagine it was hard to see me suffer but I know you did for my own good. I am happier here.

So let me get this straight. All of you are going to give up this massive amount of earning potential and security and recognition.

The recognition does not come from your efforts, Cale. It comes from their talent.

What about the money, Bridget?

I shook my head. He is so single-minded sometimes it makes me sick.

They have jobs to go to. We'll have money.

It's not enough, Bridget.

It will have to be enough. It was before.

And you always talked about starving. It kills me. That's why I helped.

It shouldn't. You won't be the one going hungry. And you didn't help. You bought me. Cole sold me out from under him.

I won't let you struggle, or the children. I promised him that much.

They will be fine. And you MAKE me struggle. You get off on it.

Bridget, I think that you're upset and-

You know what, Caleb? I think you're right. I'll leave everything here and you can sign and send it over later. Everything is in order.

Don't do this.

It's too late. It's done.

You're going to starve.

It's clearly the better choice because you're killing me anyway. At least this way I can do it on my own terms with my own methods.

Your maturity level really is stuck at twelve years old, isn't it, Princess?

I wonder why, Caleb? Do you really want me to explain that for everyone here today?

He turned back from the window and remembered the entire board of directors was sitting at the table watching as everything went up in flames. The company can't survive as a shell. I want to care because he looks so sad, but I don't understand a thing about business at such a tender age. The only thing I know is that I want to protect my boys and it is a reflex to do so, a Lord of the Flies instinct that they instilled in me from the very beginning.

Caleb was not used, he volunteered himself as the facilitator. The boys carried this on their backs. They don't have to do that anymore.

And as Lochlan said to me many years ago as we lay in the back of the pickup truck on a warm night at the end of the summer watching shooting stars,

The real world is scary but it's exciting too, peanut. You can't grow in a circus. It's a bubble. There's no air. Remember in the book? The part about needing to have rules to obey? That we're not savages? This is that part of life now. And we're going to be okay.

A short little fairy-fail for you.

Met a man
I was overwhelmed
Met a man
And yes
He helped
Met a man and he helped my cry the driest tears out from my eyes

Met a man and he looked so kind
Understanding I was blind
Met a man covered in red and he found a way inside my head

Met a man on top of the hill
Met a man and his cup was spilled
Met a man and he took me home and he made me feel alone
Alone

The jovial glad-to-be-alive mindset has been replaced with epic frustration. He's spending the evening trying to juggle fire with one hand. His bandages are blackened, his mouth is set in a line that I wouldn't cross if someone paid me and either he's going to burn down the house, the yard or most likely and deliberately the garage because the garage is now enemy number one, holding his remaining motorcycles. The plan is to sell all but one and keep one for tooling around the bay only because I had a giant panic attack when they began to talk about when Lochlan was going to have enough healing in his fingers to get back on a bike, because they are firm believers in getting right back into things. That's why when I was twenty-one and I crashed my mom's SUV, Cole came and got me and made me drive his car home. So I wouldn't be afraid and never drive again. I took that advice when I got married as well. Right back into things! Don't be afraid, stupid!

But sadly, I am still afraid of extending hearts too far, lest they break and stop working and make people die. Right, Cole? There's one chance I won't take, okay, sweetheart? Except maybe with your brother. I've been trying to kill him subtly for years now.

So Lochlan has grand plans to keep riding and I am constantly scanning the sales pages telling them precisely how much money they would get if they sold all of the bikes because from here on out Bridget is attempting to mandate air bags, roll cages, seatbelts, and certain life, instead of death. Teams of ninja assassins to scope out all danger would be nice too, if you know of any.

I'm pretty sure my hair will now grow in completely white after last week and I can't seem to leave Lochlan alone for even a minute, sitting on the edge of his knee while he eats his cereal and reads the paper, sitting on the floor of his closet while he chooses t-shirts with one good hand and shoves the rest of the pile back against the wall on the shelf, loitering in the bathroom doorway when he's clearly *ahem* otherwise engaged trying to take a pee, all manner of insanely clingy behaviors that attest to one fear I can't and won't overcome.

If he spends the rest of his life juggling fire by the sea, telling me to cut my bangs already and asking me to make the foods he likes the most as he paints pictures that come from the inside of his mad mind, I will be so happy.

Now I just have to work on the big one, who figures he is immortal and would dent a truck before a truck dents him and doesn't take any time to think about death because there are places Ben's mind does not need to go, who will happily invite company in when he's in the bathroom and tries to do awful things to me when I am trying to pee and he plays the guitar all damn day where I can't hear it and I wish he would just do it at home instead, sell his bikes too and never ever leave again.

I will bring the words, Ben will supply the melody and Lochlan will paint the surroundings in glorious color. Nothing will change, everyone will be safe and I won't have to worry ever again.

Yes, I know. Good luck to me.

Oh, but what you don't know is the tides are shifting as we speak. More tomorrow. I have another meeting to go to.

You're troubled and boy you are desperate
You're troubled at home and I know what's wrong
I see you fading so I'll help you up tonight
Come up here in the air
Come up here in the air
Come up here in the air tonight

Well, now.

For those taking offense to my care and coddling of Lochlan, my refusal to write about Ben under siege, my inside joke with the boys that I am one wife to a dozen men and hell, even the color of my toothbrush, well I just have two words.

Hahaha, no not those ones. I already said those ones and clearly you didn't listen.

Don't read.

I don't know what else I can say.

I don't do current events so well, I despise politics and I'm not going to mommy-blog unless I'm absolutely bursting over something and really I don't have enough talents to pull off a gardening/cooking/home decorating Marth Stewart blog but I have my boys and my words.

That's what I know.

Since I was eight years old these boys, as a collective, have been the center of my universe. They're men now but they are still MY boys because they were boys once, in the beginning anyway.

So that's what I write about.

Some come and go. Some die and some live. Some love and some fight. Some drink and some heal. Some create and some destroy. There are other journals you can read. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

While Vancouver burned.

Real men shake hands after a game. Real men turn off the television and go back to life after pointing out that maybe next year will be the year. Real men downplay the violence and point out that it's finished and now we get back to living decently. Real men KEEP THEIR BEARDS ALL YEAR ROUND, people. (I'm kidding. Go ahead and shave now. Just be prepared for my sad face when I see you.)

Congratulations to the Bruins. They played incredibly well, especially Tim Thomas. He was so fun to watch. Unlike the news footage from downtown after the game was over. There will be enough coverage available to you should you want to see for yourselves. I came in here ready to point out that life is not like the movies, and then I saw this photo (click to make it bigger).

And I changed my mind.

(Photo credit: Richard Lam)