Unsound methods (Outstanding, red team. Outstanding.)

(You want to know who the memory thief really is? Well, I'll give you an epic hint. It isn't me.)

Complement the atmosphere
Fill the ground with all our tears
Dry them up to make it clear
We do no wrong

He holds out a rose. He's covered with grease, and still in his dark blue coverall suit from the garage. He was late leaving the shop because the owner wanted him to finish a brake job and then wait around for the customer who didn't want to leave his car overnight. The rose is artificial. The only place still open is the convenience store and he didn't have time to go to the bank anyway. It's 9:47 pm and I blew my curfew forty-seven minutes ago. As long as I say I was with Lochlan and not sitting on the swings in the park in total darkness trying to act bored instead of scared for three hours straight I won't get in any trouble.

I take the rose and he looks at his feet and shakes his head like he has water in his ears. Lochlan's self-doubt is as visible as his flaming hair

Happy Valentines Day, peanut.

I thrust forward the card I made for him. The envelope is too big, borrowed from the desk in the front hall. Maybe next year I'll have some money to buy a card with an envelope that matches but then again I probably won't. I'm a very good drawer though. Lochlan's been teaching me life studies or whatever he calls it. I draw him in poses. He gives me one minute per pose, sometimes five if he doesn't have to go to work early.

He opens the card.

I made it just for you! I crow.

He nods. I can tell. I love your artwork. I'm going to keep it forever, okay? Test me on that twenty years from now.

I will then. I smile, I am so pleased with myself when I make him happy.

So I got a new job, peanut. A job with the show. It starts at the end of May. I applied for it a couple weeks ago but I didn't want to tell anyone and jinx it. I won't have to work at the garage anymore.

Where will you be?

All over the east coast, even down to the US. All summer long. Maybe more once I'm done school. Midway and the circus too. I can alternate depending on what's happening.

I am so excited for him my heart catches in my throat. Never have I seen him so happy. I give him a hug and say Congratulations because that's what people tell you when something great happens to you and then I'm suddenly aware that the feeling I have isn't happiness for his news but an abrupt realization that he's leaving. He just GOT here, into my life.

I start to cry and drop the rose on the ground and he pulls me into his arms. I am now covered with grease and sweat and he holds me really tightly and rocks back and forth as we stand there and says to me, Now see, Bridget, that's the best part. You can come with me. Did you really think I would leave you behind?

Close the door before it's late
We were born to love and hate
Turn it down for our own sake
We do no wrong

You fill your ears with every note
Direction seems the only hope
Its crowded, let's create now
We do no wrong

He puts me back down and tries to wipe my cheeks with the cleanest parts of his hands. It doesn't work. Now I look like an extra from Apocalypse Now. We watched it in his parent's basement last week. They have a VCR. I didn't like it because it was about wars so I re-braided my hair and tried to appear interested, like the older kids seemed to be. I was just happy it was over, eventually.

And it also means next Valentine's Day I can give you something nicer. He picks up the rose and puts it between his teeth and winks at me.

I snatch the rose back from him and clutch it tightly. I don't know what he's talking about. How am I supposed to come with him?

Just think about it, Bridget. You can live in the midway. Ride every ride all day long. Have cotton candy for breakfast. Instead of visiting for a few nights you will be part of the show. I'm going to take the old camper or maybe even buy one from this guy the owner knows. It's a dream come true. No more shop hours and pink soap and crappy customers and low pay. I'll be in the entertainment industry. He grins, eyes sparkling in the dark.

His grin is contagious. I have no doubt he was born to charm. There's just something about him that makes him seem older than his years. Something about him that draws people in and holds their attention long after the lights go down and the rides are locked. Something that allows him to get away with things most people wouldn't dream of in a million years.

Common sense protects us
Everything affects us
To the outside light it's paradise
To the outside light it's paradise

I made him a new card this morning, a lot like that first one which he pulled out to show me. He's been using it as a bookmark for close to three decades now. Then he turned around and walked to the desk, and pulled out a big red fabric rose with a plastic stem, tag still attached. He gave it to me to hold while he dug his lighter out of his pocket.

And he set it on fire.

Power to weight ratio.

He presented me with the key. I jumped up and he lifted it way up over my head.

Tank is full, CD player is empty. He winked and I grinned.

How far? I ask eagerly.

Turn at Callaghan lake. But don't go to the lake. Then to Mission if you still need to stay out.

That's like four hours total.

And four back. Stay under the speed limit.

Yes, Dad.

He laughed. I'll tell Ben you're going.

I already did. He's getting his jacket. He's coming with me.

Oh. Well, then as long as the car is back by tomorrow disregard everything else. Well, except for the speed. Wait, does Ben even fit in that car?

Heh. I'll grease him up and push him in if he doesn't. Actually I might just anyway. That would be hot.

Bridget?

Yes, Caleb?

Please don't have sex in my car.

I turned around and walked out the door backwards, pointing at him. Don't you ruin my fun! And I laughed.

Honour-bound.

Why don't you come with me little girl
On a magic carpet ride

Well, you don't know what we can see
Why don't you tell your dreams to me
Fantasy will set you free

And just like that he shapeshifts back into devil-form, loathe to have anyone else connect the dots the way I can, making pictures of death where they intended a rainbow or perhaps a duckling. Caleb appeared at the kitchen door this morning, coffee mug in hand, hair slicked back with Brylcreem in his more customary corporate Cary Grant style, cleanshaven, button-down shirt and dress pants. I am used to that. He's always looked like that once he was out of law school.

Cole was the one who looked like he fell out of a repurposed sixties musical with his Trey Anastasio hair and Jim Morrison beard, leather cord around his neck until it fell off and paint-spattered jeans that forced my knees apart and made me give up any idea of defense that I could come up with, if I tried, which I didn't/wouldn't/couldn't. He would tuck his hair behind his ears and my dress would fall off.

So forgive me if I still feel like that every now and then.

Cole would have been forty-four this year. His hair would have been starting to see a few strands of grey, like Caleb's. Maybe he would have laugh lines like Caleb. Maybe he would have calmed down a little but he still would have ruled our lives, a job Lochlan took over and still resents to this day.

No one minds if I let my brain off leash. It is proclaimed to be healthy. It's proclaimed to be a good coping mechanism. Someone might be wrong on that note but hey, give me oxygen and I will breathe. Call me a duck and I'll follow you into the filthy pond in the middle of a city park and go for a swim.

It's Caleb's week to take the kids to school. We trade off mornings and afternoons. I like pick-up because I can hear all about their days and see that everything is in their backpacks that they will need to do their homework. He likes to not have to watch the clock in the afternoons when he gets buried in the odd consulting job or catching up with his old boys network or decides to practice his evil. Lochlan doesn't take the kids to school, everyone was fine with the status quo remaining the way it always was, children included, as they have input now in all sorts of things that used to be relegated to an eventual throw-down in the backyard and because of my need for a calmer house for their benefit there won't be any more of those. Lochlan's going to learn to rule his own reactions with the same self-control he runs the house with. Which is very little in all honesty but something is better than nothing.

A dirty pond is better than no river for miles and evil is better than dead.

Yes.

Evil is better than dead.

This is why I can't have nice things.

Jeans and a fisherman knit sweater. Hiking boots. Umbrella. Beard. Hair about four times longer than usual, for he has abandoned his monthly close crop and clean shave in favor of this rugged sort of casual mayhem of an appearance. I guess I didn't notice, to tell you the truth.

And then I walked out onto the verandah to say goodbye to the children this morning and saw Cole and felt my heart drop through the bottom of my stomach, leaving a flutter of butterflies scattering through my very being. My weak knees held long enough for me to get the rest of myself back in order and he smiled and walked up the hill.

I know. Yes. I'm aware Caleb does this on purpose.

And it works.

Let me entertain you.

I've come here to sell you my body
I can show you some good merchandise
I'll pull you and I'll pill you
I'll Cruella De Vil you
And to thrill you I'll use any device

We'll give you crazy performance
We'll give you grounds for divorce
We'll give you piece de resistance
And a tour de force
Of course

After several hours of walking the halls, terrorizing gift-shop volunteers and staring into bottomless cups of coffee Ben sits back in his chair and stretches, clearly restless. I am reading and loathe to put the book down so I sling my bag toward him and he catches it in his hands, plunking it into his lap and pulling open the zipper. Finally, something to do, he says.

I'm never exactly sure why he doesn't play games on his phone or something but Ben travels very light and is weirdly terrified of becoming attached to his phone. This is the longest he's ever had the same one, all previous ones would be stolen/left or misplaced in hotels worldwide. He's not good at keeping things secure. Maybe it's better that he remain ambivalent about the phone after all.

He digs through until he finds the first bit of lip makeup. He unscrews the top and sticks the end in his mouth. He frowns and opens his mouth wide, blotting the end of it on his tongue. LALALALALA he says. Yuck. What the hell is this, Bridget?

Lip stain, I tell him, deadpan. I'm trying not to laugh. It's supposed to be a serious day. Lochlan's getting the first of the last casts. We have given the power tools to Sam until Lochlan is healed so that he won't get out of it at the first sign of discomfort. I am holding my breath that this works or he is facing surgery and a lifetime of never throwing fire or pulling me out of the ocean with one arm ever again.

Why is it different? He is painting his tongue with it. He reaches out and grabs my arm and uses the lip stain to draw a heart on my upper arm with an arrow through it. He writes MOM in the centre and then draws another arrow pointing toward my face. I am frowning too now.

Don't waste it, it costs twenty dollars.

I'll buy all of them for you, then. Only it's gross. Tastes like a marker. He tries a second one. Same face. LALALALALALALA he sings again as he taps it on his tongue.

Exactly.

Why did you buy that instead of all the fruity yummy greasy deliciousness?

I got tired of the wind sticking my hair to my lips.

Was it the wind or just a good hard-

It was the wind. I don't wear lipgloss at night.

Maybe you should start. He wagged his tongue at me. It's striped red and pink now. I finally allow myself some out-loud laughter and resolve to wear the sticky stuff, even if it sticks to everything.

I start to tell him that, but he has moved on and is now taste-testing an orange mini-sharpie.

I didn't even know that was there. Should have used it on my lips.

Or maybe on his.

Tiny halcyon glows.

Don't put that on. It doesn't fit you anymore.

He is standing in the doorway smiling at me. I scowl and turn back to my reflection. Says who? I ask myself in the mirror.

I say. The color keeps you in the shadows and the fabric weight is far too much for a day like today. Plus it's one of your history dresses and this is a new day.

He is right. The heavy black vintage brocade is against everything today stands for in sunshine and warm wind. This is a mourning dress and rare is the day I don't pull out one of these first, before I'll consider something lighter, or maybe even jeans and a stolen band t-shirt.

Who let you in anyway? I scowl. I am still thinking, still considering. It's comfortable. And I like being in the shadows. I like keeping my head on my sleeve so they can see inside. Anything else is not me and I have had enough of strangers for now.

You did.

Maybe that was a mistake.

He crosses his arms and grins. I doubt it. You don't even have to get dressed to talk to me here.

You like that, don't you, Jacob?

My favorite part of the day was watching you roll out of bed with nothing but long hair and a sleepy smile.

Life was simpler then.

No, life was terribly complicated. Just like it always is, princess. Now, then. It makes no difference. You find the good parts and bear the rest.

Easy for you to say. Also hypocritical.

I was speaking about you, not about myself.

Right. Black dress it is, then. I shrug it over my head and when I pull it down he is gone.

***

Ben comes in and goes straight for Lochlan. They have their own language these days and I'm a little bit on the outside. He kisses the top of my head as he passes and asks Lochlan for an update on his hand. I had to take Loch in today for yet another x-ray and complimentary lecture. They're talking about surgery and titanium and horse tranquilizers and straight jackets and whatever else it's going to take at this point to heal him and keep him from using that arm.

Yes, they did indeed point out if he were to stop sawing off casts and punching Caleb he'd probably be all better already. I'd just like all of them to stop fighting, since it obviously serves no purpose except to illustrate how bloody angry they are at one another half or all of the time. That and I thought the days of everyone wading in to tear two brawling men apart ended when Cole and Jacob (the original dinner party brawlers) both took their leave of the planet.

I asked both Caleb and Lochlan separately if they wanted out of the current living arrangements.

Both said no.

So I said if they do it again, the rest of us are going to leave and they can finish each other off. Because hey! I can write a mean obituary. I've had so much fucking practice it's criminal.

I wanted to talk with Caleb about his conversation with Lochlan last week but he is running late and asks me to drive him down to the park so he can meet his dive group. He proceeds to turn the radio up in the car and fiddle with his watch the whole trip and generally evade my questions, and then once we arrive in the lot everyone descends on him and I am forced to stand and wait, keys in hand.

Finally he comes back and says to me that it's going to take a few minutes for him to prep his gear and I can talk to him while he does that. He is half into his dive boots and not paying attention, over my head, drowning my frustration. I don't like the fact that he dives any more than I like the cigars and the constant travel and the stress because all of it seems as if it would be hard on his heart but the devil persists in a lot of things, doesn't he?

And he is still the devil. I believe he lasted almost ninety days and not a minute more.

I have four minutes, Bridget. What did you need?

Why did you make Lochlan that offer? 'Here's a bunch of money, go away.' What the hell are you doing?

Why does it matter? It's not like he took it. Unless...were you considering my offer after all this time? The price I quoted. My holdings become yours and you are mine exclusively. He winks and smiles at me and I lock my knees against his charm.

You don't get to torture him.

But he can torture me?

He avoids you.

Every time you leave the room he describes something he did to you the night before. You think I'm wicked. Christ.

I don't know if I should believe him or remain on the side I'm on already. I stand there considering both options, weighing the oxygen left on the dial to breathe when Caleb stands up and nods toward the group. We're going. I'll catch a ride home with someone. He pulls me in close against him and wraps his hand around my head. You fucking beautiful little whore. You really think I can just let you go? He pulls me up off my feet, kisses me hard and then drops me back to earth and walks away, grabbing his tanks off the tailgate on his way. I watch as he crosses the road and heads down the steps toward the water.

I decide to stop at a few places on the way back and run some errands so it's a couple hours before I return. Caleb is home already, in the driveway organizing his gear. I pointedly ignore him as I cross to the camper and knock on the door. Lochlan comes out and smiles. His hands are covered with pastels and he's blasting Saving, the song that's been stuck in both of our heads now for a week or more. He asks what's up, reminding me I never have to knock. Tells me I look gorgeous. Suggests a movie later on tonight. I keep interrupting him and finally he stops and waits for me to talk. I tattle all my tales at once.

He said when I'm not around you describe some of our time spent to him. That the torture goes both ways.

My doubt becomes my regret as the look on his face changes to one of pure outrage. I should not question the logical one. Straight-ahead lies now, hey? he yells and takes off across the driveway where he pulls up into a superman punch the likes of which I don't think I've seen from him before. I hear his fist connect to Caleb's face. Caleb is still half into his suit and slow on the uptake and gets the full force of Lochlan's punch. I am right behind him and I throw myself between them when he staggers back. I feel small and helpless and afraid but I yell at them to stop and they do. They're not going to fight if I won't get out of the way.

Lochlan kisses his bruised knuckles and turns to go back to the camper. I let my guard down and turn to see if Caleb is okay when a blur of red, white and blue moves past me and they are on the ground now. The door slams and Andrew and Dylan come out and get them up and apart. Both of them look to me to validation or forgiveness or excuse. I don't know if I have any. I'm happy they waited until the children were already at school. I'm happy some of the others were at home to break it up before it got worse. I'm disappointed that their tempers still rule.

I'm even more disappointed that Caleb even presumed to think that he could buy Lochlan's exodus from my life. Last time I checked there were no price tags on my head anymore.

I guess I was wrong.

Dashed.

Call no man foe, but never love a stranger. ~Stella Benson

New Jake is kicking at the smaller rocks along the water while I stay within reach and scowl at him. I am allowed to come down to the beach but only if I bring someone with me who can swim. Lovely. New Jake volunteered and when pressed to explain his eagerness he produced a pack of cigarettes and explained sheepishly that he is down to two a day. Two is good, he points out and so I am given the all-clear and now he is hellbent on ruining my daily inspection for beach glass with all the kicking and rearranging of the shoreline. Low tide doesn't match any convenient hours for me lately so every piece I find is an absolute marvel.

(I warned you it takes very little to entertain me but you persist in your skepticism. Why?)

He laughs and take a drag. He doesn't like you, he says and lifts his head up to check the angle of the sun.

Who doesn't like me? I am coy. I know the answer but it will be interesting to hear an outsider's perspective.

Garland.

I turn and beat my head repeatedly against New Jake's shoulder. He doesn't budge. I know, I wail briefly and he laughs again and puts his arm up around me and rubs my back consolingly.

It's okay, Bridget. Maybe he will warm up.

He leaves tomorrow, if he hasn't warmed up by now he's not going to. Besides, I don't think I like him either. I pull my fingers up over my mouth in surprise. Not sure I've ever met a man I didn't like, much less a friend of Jacob's.

So the world can rest easy now knowing I'm not charming another man to the breakfast table nor am I adding another character to the cast here. Therefore no description is required and no words will be spent. August has given up trying to force things and Garland leaves tomorrow. They did go out and tour the city and have a great time catching up so all is not lost, it just has so very little to do with me.

Maybe someday he'll come back or when I go to Newfoundland we can find some sort of common ground but that's far off in the future because he hates to travel and I hate to be around someone I make uncomfortable. I might be a little monster but if you ask for space you're going to get it.

I reach into New Jake's pocket and pull out his cigarettes, taking one out and replacing the pack. He raises his eyebrows and holds out his zippo to light it for me. I take a drag and then hold the cigarette out in front of me as if it's something I've never seen before. The familiar throb behind my eyes begins in earnest.

I thought cigarettes give you headaches, he reminds me.

They do. The pain will be a nice distraction, I tell him and turn back to my search for treasure. The sun is warm on the top of my head, and this is the purest form of Lochlan's Win some, lose some lesson that he used to try to make me understand back in the day when I thought I could conquer the world instead of merely surviving it.

Goodbye, Garland, and thanks for at least being honest. I didn't kill your friend though, he killed me. And there is no place on a ghost one which you can lay blame, it just slides off and falls to the floor every last time. Trust me, I've tried.

1986 was a really rough year for some people.

I might not say I'm sorry
Yeah, I might talk rough sometimes
And I might forget the little things
Or keep you hanging on the line

In a world that don't know Romeo and Juliet
Boy meets girl and promises we can't forget
We are cast from Eden's gate with no regrets
Into the fire we cry

Bon Jovi came on the stereo this morning while I was painting and Lochlan scowled when I started to sing. His only beef with them (aside from their eighties hair) was that their most prolific album came out in 1986 and that was the year he tried and failed to get me back from Cole (you would think he also holds grudges against 1987 through 2012. Oh wait, he does so NEVERMIND.)

Had he succeeded I'm pretty sure we would have spent our lives stacked in an airstream with three mischievous and filthy-wild little kids and fifty bucks in the bank and fought every goddamned day for the rest of our lives but it would have been true love forever nonetheless.

Alas, things have not worked out that way.

Save for the airstream. It's in the driveway. Oh and he has less than fifty dollars in the bank and he's perfectly happy, thank you very much. Oh and yes, WE STILL FIGHT EVERY DAMNED DAY, LOCHLAN.

What an odd thing to hold a grudge over. Bon Jovi. Hahahahahahah.

(I realize you want to know about Garland. So do I. August has been showing him the city, I have barely seen the guy. Hopefully on the weekend that will change.)

The little harbinger of all things warm.

I was roused, kicking and screaming from slumber this morning and dragged outside onto the damp grass in the fog-shrouded morning sun, still dressed in my pajamas with my knotted, wild hair. I fought my handlers tooth and nail to go back to my dream until I was shoved gently to the center of the circle, wider by one this morning.

I did not see my shadow.

Spring will be early this year.

Then I got my morning hugs which take a long time to dispense. Some people have to be tracked down, you know.

So happy groundhug day from down here on the ground, as the newly minted shortest person in the house. Thanks Henry. Sold your own mother out by growing taller than I am at last. On that note, I have to go. It was a busy day and there is a fun night ahead. I have a date with the tallest person in the house (Benjamin, naturally) to curl up and watch the hockey game. I'm taking it. Goodnight!

(Go Canucks Go!)

January must be over/everything is okay.

It's not even ten a.m. and all this has happened so far:

1. I dressed for painting and even wound my hair up in a bun and went downstairs and..

....and...

......I forgot that I forgot to buy paint.

2. Some idiot (Thank you Dalton!!) sent me a link to R.E.M. covering Don't Fear the Reaper and I squealed and squeaked for twenty minutes to the point where PJ wandered in looking for the hamster that must be loose in the house. Also Wicked Game. They cover Wicked Game. *cries*

3. I read something something 'interpretive fusion of yoga and circus immersion' and snorted coffee out my nose. Don't do that. It hurts.

4. I rolled my eyes when someone pointed out how awesome it is that I walk the kids to school so much. They live halfway between my house and the school and also drive to the gym. To exercise.

5. Ben gave Lochlan a hug. Groundhug day definitely is spooling up over here. Granted Lochlan could use a few more hugs and a lot less yelling. He is having a rough time and Ben's plan is to comfort him until things get better. Excuse me while I melt all over the floor.

6. I made the reference to Satan because Satan never really goes away, he just flits to the sideline and waits. Caleb's only promise was to stop making my life miserable. I didn't think we had to specify my life meaning 'everyone in the house'. We have now. And no worries, I have all kinds of recourse. I'm not dumb. Well, I'm dumb but I'm not stupid-dumb.

7. PJ smiled without being weird about it. Also rough time. Long story, don't ask.

8. They started work on the giant marina/deck/dock/waterside restaurant/personal yacht club or whatever the hell behemoth is being built at the bottom of the cliff so it's safer (Hello BC assessements? Yes, right this way. Eight pages you say? Give the bill to the guy with the horns). I can't wait to see how they will pull this off. The engineering so far is fascinating.

9. Garland is here. Well, he texted August from the airport so he's on his way to the house. You will meet him later. I am terrified and excited to finally meet August and Jacob's university roommate. And no, I don't have any friends with normal names. Just BEN, ROB, CHRIS and MARK. MIKE if you want to stretch the word 'friends'. DYLAN seems pretty common now. ANDREW who I've been blabbering about since the age of three. Yeesh, people, you get stuck on the weirdest things. Never once have I been called out for my wicked polyandry but every day someone goes wtf is with their names?

10. Did I mention that Ben gave Lochlan a hug and pretty much nothing else is important right now? Ever ever ever again. Nope, nothing else.

Have a good day. Happy February.

Changing the subject.

It's for Groundhug Day. Ben holds up a new flannel shirt. His old ones are all on nineties life-support.

I am trying so hard not to laugh. And what is this groundhug day, exactly?

A day where you get a lot of hugs and if you get enough, spring is just around the corner.

Around the corner, like six weeks away?

Yes. About that.

I wonder what a groundhug looks like.

I can give you an early preview, if you want.

Yeah, I could use one right now. The hug part anyway.

I'll try and get a picture of the elusive groundhug before Thursday though. So you know exactly what to expect.

Oh, thank you. I bet it's cute.

It is. Just like you.

Haha. Do I have to be dragged out into the light to confront my shadow every year?

Pretty much, little bee. It's quite a spectacle, actually.

Death by pop lovesong from the king of fire and easy listening. Christ.

I warned you. Criteria for living here is that you must be thoroughly and hopelessly afflicted with Romantic Tourettes.

I just want you to know who I am.

He's been singing all day, at top volume, from his place flat on his back on the floor. Every twelve minutes he raises himself up on his elbows and takes a big gulp of whiskey* and he makes that stupid noise, some sort of Scottish click-version of tsk, and then he flattens himself to the floor again.

So he can keep singing Iris.

I think I hate this song. I didn't used to but I do now.

*(For the record Lochlan isn't drunk anymore, the kids did not see him, I would have started drinking too had I been told what he was told (nothing to do with the children, in case you were jumping to conclusions) and Caleb is still evil.)

Das modell.

I'm a little bit insolent today.

I'm shooting another single cover this morning for a band, friends of Ben's (and sadly Caleb) from overseas (Industrial death metal. I can't spell or pronounce their name. I don't even have those characters on my keyboard.) Same group as last time though, they want to keep the theme.

I don't know why they don't just use any picture they already have from the last shoot and change it in post. They add so much I never recognize myself. I'm fascinated that the photographer can take a relatively pretty photograph of me standing on a cliff and then it goes off to Los Angeles or Berlin and a team makes it into the angel of death or the harbinger of pain or something totally freaky and I become unrecognizable.

I like that. I really do. So today I'm in concrete false eyelashes and hair blown out to the rafters and some white gauzy number that I have been sewn into because it was miles too big when I tried it on. The makeup artist is a poet. I'll give him that. I've been put into a raincoat and given a cup of coffee for a quick break while they see if the snow will come back or if we can resume working outside. Oh yes, being outside on the cliff edge in zero-degree wind, rain and snow is total fucking glamorous.

While fourteen total strangers take over my house and driveway no less.

While Lochlan stands in the kitchen drinking whiskey for breakfast and frowning at the spectacle.

Soon he will be the spectacle and I will be scrubbed of my look and returned to the house while the boys remark that people will think it's someone's child on the cover of the album. And what happened to using tall models? The tall models cost too much, let's just use Bridget again.

Thank you. So much. Really. Herzlichen Dank. Clearly discount death metal is the most hardcore of all. Didn't you know that?

Yeah, let's just use Bridget again. Forever the prize of consolation only I'm the one who needs consoling most of the time because I may look like the creepy little angel of death in the record store but out here in the rain I am soaking wet with a freakishly sweet scowl and a massive terror that I'm going to slip. That's what the wire is for. Just like the circus only I'm not permitted to walk on this one. Instead of holding me up, it holds me down.

That's probably the only thing that fits today. That sentence, right there.

Outsider (thirty two years and three months in).

I need something to fly over my grave again
I need something to breathe

I will try not to burden you
I can hold these inside. I will hold my breath
Until all these shivers subside,
Just look in my eyes

Yesterday morning he wordlessly queued up Automatic for the People on the stereo, since he gets easily tired and tense of the endless heavy metal, the endless noise I perpetrate against the relative solitude of the house. He wants to hear more beautiful words today. I don't hear anything and so I block it all out of spite. He sings it under his breath, accent unmasked. Not often that happens. I believe it's only detectable now in his frustration. People are surprised when they hear it, still.

Ninety days since the last big shift in the collective and not enough has changed except that he has kept most of his promises and others he broke deliberately, immediately. I am left in awe of his ability to rule the emotions of the whole household with such few words. Surely there's a name for a gift such as this. Surely it means something so very important it's starred in red and marked at the top. Confidential. Top Secret. Keep this, but we don't know why yet.

Yesterday morning in the cold wind I turned my face into the neck of his hoodie, and his arms came up around me out of habit, a kiss landing on the side of my head. I'm sure the scowl from across the driveway came and went unnoticed as Caleb waited for the children to buckle themselves into his car for the short trip to school. I was turned out again just as quickly and rushed back to the house behind Lochlan as he walked faster than I ever could. Once inside I asked what day it was. Not quite yet, he laughs, three months being a sort of hallmark, a date anticipated on the calendar in which we would be settled and organized and not frustrated anymore.

That has not happened as of yet. Maybe one hundred days. Maybe a thousand instead. Maybe never. I know the thought of that made him want to run. I know him through and through. Family keeps him here. Promises keep him here. Otherwise he would already be gone. He is a balloon tethered to the ground by his heart strings and nothing more.

I can't breathe with him here, Bridget. When did you start being able to exist with him so close all the time?

When I stopped fighting him.

Fire flooded his eyes with light and then as quickly as I saw it it was gone. Bridget-

But I have already turned and gone back outside to the wind. We don't finish conversations anymore. Caleb's car is back already. I told you it was a short trip to make the loop to drop the children off outside the school grounds. I walk around the truck parked closest to the garage. PJ's big red Ram. It's a darker richer red than Jacob's flaming cherry one was. PJ parks so that I have to hold my breath to get the key in the lock of the garage door, as I stand wedged between the filthy bumper and the cold morning.

I slip inside.

I can hear Lochlan calling my name and I step back out. He comes around the side of the truck with relief on his face.

Let's get out of here.

What do you mean? For lunch?

Forever. Let's just go. Cash in our chips. Find something better. He said this word for word when I was thirteen and look where it got us. Fractured. Lost and never found again.

Who?

You, me and the kids.

Henry-

I can raise another man's child. I love Henry. You know this stuff, Bridge. Let's just go. We can start again and do it right this time.

Have you been drinking?

No, nothing. Why?

You always ask me this when you're drunk.

I know. He says it steadily. Uncomfortable as the truth is he's owning it right now. I give him credit for that.

You only want the fun parts of life, Lochlan.

That's not true.

You told me yourself you can't take the way my brain works most of the time now.

I said that to hurt you. He winces but holds his ground.

We need to talk about this later. I take a page from his best habit and start to head back to the garage but he grabs my shoulders and stops me.

We need to talk about this NOW, Bridget! Color me surprised. This NEVER happens and I am rendered speechless. Again.

Caleb steps to the bottom of the stairs from the boathouse but lingers there. Everything okay, Bridget?

Lochlan turns and starts to head toward Caleb but I grab onto the front of his hoodie and try and pull him back. You need to go back inside. This doesn't concern you.

You just yanked someone far smaller than you off her feet, and you won't let her leave. That's my business, Loch. Caleb says it with measured control.

She's safe with me. Can't say the same for you.

Let her go. Now.

Or what? What are you gonna do? You're in over your head here, you know that? You're not welcome here. She'd be better off if you just went away.

Last time I went away Bridget spiraled into a tailspin because none of you are capable of looking after her. How many chances would you like, Lochlan? Do you want to risk her life like you used to? Does nothing ever change for you?

We would have been fine if it wasn't for you, Caleb.

Caleb laughed and I braced myself for Lochlan in ballistic missile form. Only he never launched. He left. He's predictable like that. He won't engage. He makes his point and walks the fuck out and that's why I won't go with him. I've done that. I've been there. All he does is leave a thousand frayed loose ends and a lot of unfinished business, a lot of unfinished conversations filled with unspoken beautiful words. I am still waiting for those, in spite of knowing they'll never come.

For thirty two years and three months now.

(You're not the only one, Locket. )

Late night + Redhead + REM = Certain Disaster.

I will try not to worry you
I have seen things that you will never see
Leave it to memory me. Don’t dare me to breathe
I want you to remember, oh (you will never see)
I need something to fly (something to fly)
Over my grave again (you will never see)
I need something to breathe (something to breathe)
Baby, don’t shiver now. Why do you shiver now?
(I will see things you will never see)
I need something to breathe
Something to breathe
(I have seen things you will never see)
I want you to remember

Come stand a little bit closer.

Oh, hey, a little bit of everything.


Ben is just fine, thanks for your concern. For the record he doesn't believe in that sort of thing and just says he felt so incredibly sick for a moment he thought it was the end and also for the record he didn't want to go to the ER. I did. He's so strong and brave and capable all of the time I didn't know what to do when he had a minute where he just needed to sit down and catch his breath. Point taken.

The fairy boys are here today. They've been around more now that they've had a few months to settle into their cozy home (or as we say, they're coming up for air at last. Snort.). It makes me laugh. Though I'm going to start referring to them as Savage Garden because...the haircuts. It's just...uncanny (photo is of the actual band. I'm still trying to talk Schuyler into letting me post a pic because oh my God, it's so awesome how much they look like those two.)

What can I say? The boys like their privacy. That's why I write a little about all of them, instead of everything about one or two of them. I learned my lesson with that, once upon a time.

Speaking of lessons, yes, my brain indeed chooses to make Jacob age in my head because I couldn't deal with keeping him at 36 forever because no one else gets to stay the same age forever.

But that's a tangent and clearly this is how the day is turning out. One big deviation called Wednesday by name, featuring sun, rain, some epic wind and the bitter end of the snow I didn't want in the first place. And I can't make my brain stop long enough to focus. Or my eyes, but I don't want to talk about that because they will worry.

And I don't like to make people worry.

Made sense of it myself, since no one else could.

(Over the weekend Ben had some sort of episode. An acute anxiety attack, they say. He had some tests and he's fine. Fine. Still 95% goofball, 5% big scary metal rocker. I thought he was having a heart attack and I'm afraid I did not deal with things very well at all.)

I've been watching you with my terminal view
As you struggle to rise to your end
I laughed hard at the insults we threw
As the weight of the world found revenge
Revenge
Revenge

I sit on the floor, my back up against the concrete wall, one bare light down at the end by the door swinging gently, failing to cast enough light for warmth or safety or vision. In my arms he sleeps. Sprawled across my legs uneasily. Maybe he doesn't know I am here. My chin hits my chest and I bounce awake abruptly. I will not sleep for as long as it takes.

I will remain here with my hands pressed over his heart and search for the pattern that allows me to breathe when otherwise I will hold my breath tightly until the room turns black without even realizing it. Right now my hips and my head ache but you can't take him. Oh no, not on my watch. He may be, we both may be beaten down and tested and scarred and ruined and afraid and maybe you won this round but you will not take him from me.

On the other side of a sunny afternoon the showman removes his hat and grins. He'll be fine, it wasn't anything, he reassures. I shake my head and turn away from the bright lights. I don't believe you, I say. He laughs and fades from the moment.

In his place sits Jacob. I am startled. He is sitting in a chair. New lines extrude from his eyes and mouth. Today his shirt is grey, bringing out the ashes in his hair, muting the twenty-four carat gold crown that fits perfectly. He is silent and serious. The chair is new, I didn't put that here.

I did, he says gently.

Oh, I think. You can do that?

You need to let go of him, Bridget.

Don't even fucking start with me, Jacob!

Put your arms down. You think that declaring vigilance over the spacing of Ben's heartbeats will give you comfort? In order to have that you need to accept what God gives and what he takes away.

God doesn't interest me tonight.

God gave him back to you, as he does each and every morning, and you fail to appreciate your gifts because you are too busy making up stories and worrying about the wrong things.

I was scared. My voice is defensive and annoyed. Jake laughs and rakes his fingers through his hair. It's so long. How did it get so long?

You react with the knees of a jerk, princess.

It's an old in-joke and it stings to hear such funny words from him after all this time. I clutch my arms tighter around the heart I am holding and Jacob shakes his head. Your energies are misdirected.

Did I ask for help?

Sure. I heard you pray to God for a break. You have it. So let go.

And then what?

Then take a breath.

Why would I listen to you? You bailed, preacherman.

I'm the only one rooting for the two of you, princess.

That actually makes three of us.

It won't be enough. You're outnumbered, and I don't think some days that he's as tough as he wishes people think he is.

You don't know him like I do, Jake.

I can't protect you from here.

Protection? I'm not asking for protection!

YOU SHOULD BE! He roars and I flinch a thousand miles away and back. Life doesn't hold any guarantees, Bridget. Shit happens. And you need to let go so you don't get hurt.

I put my head back against the cold cement and closed my eyes. He keeps going.

Are you listening, Bridge?

You need to stop talking now, Jacob. I got to my knees and then stood up shakily, leaving Ben sleeping on the floor. You need to stop telling me what I should be doing and just help me.

I am. I'm trying to help you. You don't listen.

Surprise. No, I don't. Is everybody happy now?

Passive archaeology (moment for the thief).

Today?

A place high in the mountains with the streets made of stone and the sunshine and the bunting flags strung across the laneways. There is a lot of laughter and songs but not in English.

What will we eat?

Pizza. With garlic and goat cheese.

Drink?

Lemonade. Homemade. With ice. In a tall clear yellow glass.

What else do you see?

I'm wearing a ring. It's a pale pink faceted stone and a gold band. And a sundress. White with pastel drawings. Braids. A lady did these elaborate braids in my hair.

And?

You. You're in all white and you're laughing and entertaining a group of children near the goat pen. You're juggling eggs for them. And their hats.

How many goats are there?

I don't see any.

Anything else?

There's a old blue bicycle with a basket on the back. Three fat baguettes stick out. No one seems to own the bike, it's been there the whole time, but no one has stolen it.

Why not?

They don't do that here.

Would you stay?

No, it's a little too perfect. It's better as a brief memory. Passing through, that's all.

Do you remember that we stole the bicycle and ate all the bread?

Yes. Did we ruin that place for them?

I don't think so. What's one bicycle?

And the food for a week?

Do you think that was food for a week for them?

No, maybe just bread to go with food they already had.

So does that make it okay?

No, but we didn't have a choice.

How does that make it okay, peanut?

Call it the price for an afternoon's entertainment?

Good girl.

We should have taken a goat instead.

An absence of sound.

Listen, hear, he is inside
One who lives while others lie
I close my eyes and walk a thousand years
A thousand years that aren't mine
It seems he's near me as I walk
One who loved what love denied
He lives these years that I walk blind
All these years cannot be mine

Softly, I hear him begin counting. Under his breath the whispers are dispensed in turn, in order. It's a simple system. He starts at six and works backwards, and I have until he gets to one to be in his arms, nowhere else. It's a game that makes my blood run so cold I shiver. It's a game that absolutely no one approves of but we do it anyway.

I extricate myself from the loose grasp of the sleeping circus and slip into his arms before he reaches four. Woken up out of a sound sleep by a scarcely spoken number I am mindful and quick, obedient to a rash degree.

My reward is a long hard kiss, squarely on the mouth, his breath held, senses alert, skin flushed, eyebrows tensed. Envy wakes him in the night, nightmares that masquerade as a potential new reality forcing him to seek confirmation in spite of the hour or the desperate dwindling supply of rest I fight for every night.

His hands slide up around my neck, fingers locking under my ears, thumbs under my chin. He forces my face up to his for another long and breathless kiss. I could die here, I think to myself, but he has other plans. I am turned away, turned over, rearranged in the position of the perfection he creates for himself. I am disarmed and fragile now.

The night shifts from his demand for my loyalty to his need to prove his worth. His breath catches in my hair now, held fast as his hands slide down over my legs. Searing pleasure takes me over. I can't breathe. His hands are everywhere at once. Pulling my hair back, sliding over my lips, digging into my ribs, locked around my neck and finally they settle, one between my shoulder blades and one around my hip. He holds such an incredible balance here between forcing me out of consciousness and holding me on the cusp of heaven, burning me against the rim. I hold my breath and let him make the decision on my behalf. I am rewarded with a gasp of rich oxygen and unimaginable bliss. A bliss that lasts for the time it takes the stars to work their way across obscurity. A bliss that wears us to pieces.

Slowly he labors to a standstill and I am pulled over onto my back to face him. His shaking fingers trail down my face and I smile in the dark and kiss him softly on the cheek. He pushes me away and then pulls me back in against him, chin on top of my head, goosebumps fading quickly from my skin, cool flesh replacing fire. Sleep substituting for reality, dreams taking over from their unwelcome counterparts, numbers returned to their lull until tonight.

Never make a companion equal to a brother. ~Hesiod

I found the first three Great Brain books by J.D. Fitzgerald in with Lochlan's boxes of artwork. Lochlan used to read them to me at the lake. Yes, I could read when I was ten but I always thought it sounded better coming from him. I have put them on the shelf in Henry's room and can't wait for him to 'find' them. I'm not sure if he'll be able to, Henry's room is all planets and magic tricks. A magician's tophat rests on a post near the door and everything inside is mysterious and eclectic. He is so not a typical boy, instead he is an old soul borrowed from a different, darker time, perhaps.

Maybe we're all that way and we're living out the same lives over and over, our interpersonal relationships predetermined and...

No, I'm not drunk, but thanks for wondering. I should be, after such a long week but I didn't even steal a glance at the wine and poured a glass of ginger ale instead, failed to taste my food even though it was right in front of me, abandoned the plate half-finished for a doorbell rung in the pouring rain and stood in the front hall staring at an envelope held by a face who only told me scary stories I didn't want to hear and pretended he would make everything better but I am still waiting.

The envelope was white and I didn't take it, I just stared at it as he held it out to me.

Your mail. It was in my mailbox, princess.

Oh, thank you, I am finally shaken out of my reverie. I look at the envelope. It's an interest statement. It isn't important so I roll it up in my hand and raise my gaze to him once more.

Bridget-

I shake my head again.

What's the matter?

I'm tired! I snap at Caleb. It's been a really long week.

Do you want to come down to spend a little time? Unwind a bit?

I put my hands up to my eyes and spin in a circle. He puts out his hands and stops me. Bastard.

No! I just want to be left alone.

He stares at me for a long minute. An endless minute. I alternately want to dig a hole and bury myself in it to get away from the uncomfortable misery of his gaze and hit him over the head with the shovel until he falls into the hole and stops staring at me.

I'm sorry.

Don't be. He's right.

Who is?

Batman. We spread you too thinly and put too much pressure on you. And I knew you didn't like toast. I've known since that time in Breckenridge when you threw it off the balcony and asked if you could have a croissant because toast was boring and you needed to go the extra mile because breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

Caleb?

Yes?

Stop showing off.

I turned around and walked back to the kitchen to my now-cold plate and an empty table. If Caleb and I knew each other in a past life, I wonder if we are fixing things as we go or making things worse? Do we follow the same steps to the same dance every time or do we make improvements in some areas and forget the moves in others and change everything? Maybe the music is different and maybe the love is all rearranged and backwards and unexpected.

Maybe I broke something major, this time around.

Oh, right, nevermind. I remember what was broken.

My heart.

Half-hearted vigilantes and other tales from the big frozen book of unintentional winter.

If you need me, Batman has all the pieces since he tore them off early this morning as I stood in his office while the sun came up grey and cold over the frosted harbour. The look on his face. I should have turned and left but he probably would have stopped me. There's nothing more horrible than being chastised like a child when one already feels like one in spite of the lies on the calendar page.

You need to take that down, Bridget, you don't even know what you're talking about.

I know what I saw.

You heard not one word of the conversation that took place and for Christ's sake, we would not have taken you to a place where there were people who wanted to hurt you.

I remain silent, swallowing any protest since he's clearly in the mood to teach and not to listen to my views.

Stop picking at your nails.

I'm not. I put my hands behind my back defiantly. I rock my shoulders. If he's going to infantilize me then I will exploit it to the fullest. It works. He softens.

I'm sorry, Bridget, I just don't think it's wise to write about things you don't know anything about when there are people outside of your..household involved. Caleb had a partnership with some folks and I bought his interest because he is retiring. That was all. Nothing more. It has nothing to do with you. Okay? I'm sorry. Perhaps I should have explained it better.

I'm sorry too. I said it quietly.

No harm done. It's not like you ever name names. You have quite a gift for sharing the various personalities around you so truthfully and openly without giving anything away. I wish more people would respect privacy in the same way.

I nod. It serves no purpose to share names on a journal that is personal. It's about relationships, not careers anyway. But at the end of the day I am incorrigible, and I will spin it however I see fit.

So would you say that you bought me fair and square or did Caleb work out a repayment schedule with you?

He was dumbstruck briefly and then he laughed. Okay it seemed a little forced but it usually is when he laughs. He hardly ever laughs. He's a very serious person most of the time. Instead of answering my question he thumbs through his phone rapidly, and points out the unfortunate scheduling of the day that prevents him from taking me to breakfast. I tell him it's fine, that I'm going to go home and ask Caleb how much he owes and who holds the title to me now because I lose track all the time and who can figure this out without a flowchart and a map but the map should be drawn on human flesh since that's what we are trading and Batman frowns and cuts me off. He tells me to go home and go straight to the house and make some toast.

I hate toast, I point out.

I didn't know that, Bridget.

There's a lot you don't know about me but you never ask.

Because of the rush I left sad on the floor, along with dull turmoil, criticism and curiosity too. They can replace mesmerism, safety and objectivity because he doesn't offer those anymore.

Parlay (but not coated in sugar this time).

(So much trouble.)

In fact you've got your hands tied behind your back when somebody chooses to take a low road in to you, there is nothing you can do about it, and so you just live with it and move on.
~Robert Redford

I'm sitting in the club watching all of the men watch the girls. Peelers thinly disguised as quasi-burlesque performers and I'm the only girl in the room who isn't onstage taking off her clothes, or waiting for a turn to do so.

This is great. Glad I flew all this way for this.

The club is a private gentleman's club. I don't even know what that means, except it probably involves under-the-table deals and escort services, or maybe that's being too generous at this point. Hookers and blow but there's a dress code. My drink is so strong my eyes are watering and my throat burns, or perhaps that's just a visceral reaction to Lochlan's facial expression right now. He hasn't taken his eyes off the girl closest to him. She looks the most like me. He looks hard, pained and disappointed. He looks so fucking angry and I know he worked his way through his first few drinks quickly to dull his reluctance to be here, or maybe to dull his rage.

I'm afraid to be drunk. I'm afraid to be out of control in this place, with these people. Our only saving grace is that Batman, Ben and Caleb all asked for coffee and then stood silently while attempts were made to talk them into something stronger, and finally another server was fetched and dispatched to brew a pot of good coffee. I'm wondering if even that is a good idea. What if they drug us? What if I wake up on the other side of the world with my passport held for safekeeping by an unnamed benefactor who tells me I will pay him back my travel expenses by selling my talents of the flesh and giving him every last penny?

What if I never see my kids again?

I deliberately spill my drink and make a huge fuss. I need to be sober. I am waved away while the mess is attended to, another drink placed on the table in front of me in seconds. Fuck it all. The men are talking, hardly paying attention to one another, watching the girls with the dead eyes while they attempt to renegotiate deals Caleb made while he was more evil, more vindictive and more depraved. I am told one of those deals involved me, and that's why I was requested as his plus-one at this party, which isn't a party at all. He was supposed to leave me here.

Merry fucking Christmas, or whatever they say in Russian. I was collateral and there was a margin call.

I had great faith in Batman being able to fix this, since the laws of planet earth say you can't give away what doesn't belong to you. Ben and Lochlan are here because neither one would stay behind (thank God). Batman only came because the deal involved me. Had it been Caleb's life on the line he would have let them kill him. Happily so.

Last I heard we were artists and we had a lovely collective in the mountains by the sea. How quickly things change. It's surreal standing in a dark smoky lounge with a locked and guarded door, fifteen hundred kilometers from home. Everywhere, men with guns. I check my watch which elicits a frown from the same man who did the tango with me last time I saw him. Or rather, he tried to teach me the tango. He is three hundred pounds and smells like roses, but he could crush any of us in seconds. He was uncharacteristically graceful.

And I called it. Almost two years ago, I said I wondered if Caleb had gotten backing from the Russians. Right here.

We were back on the plane at two a.m. No one wanted to sleep, no one wanted to stick around for breakfast either. Lochlan had one of my hands tightly in his, and Ben had the other. I could skip along three feet off the ground but it was neither the time nor the place, instead I just ran to keep up with how fast they walked across the tarmac.

Batman glowered at Caleb the whole way home. I didn't really understand the new vitriol until the plane was in the air and he pointed at Caleb and said now the Devil was going to understand precisely what it feels like to not be in control of one's own destiny. More than ever. I believe Batman bought back my life at a margin of 700 to 1, or some such inflated price over what was actually owed.

The Russians knew before we got there that the price on my head would be met, no matter what. Which either makes me a huge liability or very very very very special indeed.

Or maybe just quite a bit more happy to be home than you might realize. I drank everything I could find on the plane on the way home. When we landed I just remained in my seat, numb and worn out. Ben finally picked me up and carried me to the car. I don't think he understood how frightening this was for me. Maybe that's a good thing. I am still permitted to spend time with Caleb, but the rules are that it be here, within reach. This is one of the caveats that led him to move onto the property. Another one is no more deals.

You know, I wasn't going to write about what happened before Christmas when we flew to Tahoe, not to this extent anyhow, but I grow weary of people wondering why the tides shifted so abruptly with Caleb, and attempting to predict when they will shift back. If this is not proof that they won't be swinging back to the old ways, I don't know what is.

Fear, as it turns out, is one of the strongest motivators.

I should know.

Feeling better/Business as usual.

Hahahahaha. The boys who live here have flooded my inbox with videos of themselves singing. I am so lucky. Or cursed.

Let me wade through the submissions and see who gets to stay.

(I'm KIDDING! PJ can't even sing Happy Birthday properly. And he already left and then came back so no one's going to go through THAT again, thanks.)

They have requested something of me though. That I stop dancing around the kitchen punching the air and bleating along with the stereo to I Want it All while I bake for them. Apparently I am 'embarrassing'.

Well now.

Shit.

Busted.

The benchmark for showmen the world over.

Someone asked in an email what the criteria was for joining my 'hippie commune' as they so sweetly called it.

Easy. You have to sing this song. A cappella. Without your voice breaking at the 2:32 mark, after the bridge, naturally.

Send video submissions to my email. We're always looking for new victims entertainment.

(Snort.)

Open ticket.

I'm sorry, Bridget. I really think you're spreading yourself too thin. I worry about you. I fear for your heart and your continued improvement when you degenerate into trying to please all of them.

All of us, don't you mean?

No, the houseful you have. I am a separate entity.

It's the same thing, Cale.

I didn't invite you here to argue, I invited you down for a bite to eat and a drink. What would you like?

Scotch, bourbon. Whatever you're drinking is fine.

Bulliet.

Oh, how fitting. Pour me a big one, would you, please?

Done.

I turn and look at the water as he heads inside. A cigar rests in the tray on the table. All it needs is a brief hint of oil paint and I will be in 1995 again. Memories are a time machine and we are just too chicken to get in so we watch them like a movie through the windows of our minds. Because you can't go back. Time machines aren't real. I go back inside.

Here, baby girl, a little ice for you too.

Thank you. I take a huge gulp and stare up at him up over the rim of the glass. He's smiling at me slightly, curiosity in his features. He's so handsome my knees start to tremble lightly. I didn't ever in a million years want to acknowledge that but I may as well. Time is short and he's got a defective ticker and a death wish. Sort of an odd conundrum for Satan, but I don't see Satan around anywhere right now. Oh well, the night is young, now, isn't it?

Where is Ben tonight?

Downstairs in the studio.

Anything new?

Maybe. Yes, I think so.

Lochlan?

Why don't you find him and ask?

I see. How long can you stay?

I'd like to stay for as long as it takes me to drink this without rushing and then I'm going up to the house to go to bed. I'm still not a hundred percent but worlds better through the weekend. We settled in at the kitchen island despite his protests and chat about the children for a while. I include discussions on Ruth because it's a habit and because I'm not dividing my life or their lives down the middle just because Caleb and Lochlan stand on opposite sides of the yard most days and scowl each other down.

Eventually he sees that I am three-quarters finished and brings the subject back around to shared interests. He remarks that he's almost glad the offer on the property up North fell through. Whistler casts a magical spell around those who visit, imploring us to stay. In reality we won't get up there any more than once every few weeks.

Instead he suggests some changes to expand the boathouse and I shut him down, pointing out the permit headaches with the dock already and the fact that I like the boathouse the way it is, and can't deal with any more change. I tread carefully, his name is on the mortgage contract and I don't own this house after all. I tread confidently because he is in my good graces and I am as generous, if not more, to try to keep us equal. It's easier.

He suggests a home in the country, then. A luxurious retreat with horses, near the lake where the children like to swim, a getaway but still within a couple hours drive. I veto that, we have plenty of room, he can go and buy whatever he likes but this house makes me happy and I don't want a second, thanks.

I am trying to figure out what Caleb is up to when he abruptly changes gear again.

A trip, then. Somewhere warm, a break from this weather.

Where? (I am humoring him and curious besides).

Maldives? Montserrat? Spain? Pick somewhere and we'll go.

Who will go?

You and I. Maybe the children if you wish.

My drink is finished. I get it. He wants to score points, hell, he just wants to score and has reached the desperation stage where he would give me the moon if only I would view it in his presence, exclusively. I call him out because I can't stand it anymore.

Why do you do this?

I'm making sure you have an escape this time. Something I didn't give you before and I should have.

An escape from what?

Men like Cole. Men like me.

I drink the last of my bourbon in one giant gulp and let it burn right down to the ends of my toes while I consider his confession.

You're right, Caleb. You should have done this years ago. Why the fuck didn't you do this years ago?

Would you have taken it? Would you have accepted rescue from someone like me?

I left the question hanging in the cold night air, letters smeared in the fresh snow, words chilled to just above freezing, almost imperceptible in the dark. It seemed like the right thing to do.

He's going to kill me for telling you this but sick people get bored eventually.

When I said he had no nickname you didn't actually believe me, did you?

aluminum, tastes like fear
adrenaline, it pulls us near
I'll take you over
it tastes like fear, there
I'll take you over

will you live to eighty-three?
will you ever welcome me?
will you show me something that nobody else has seen?
smoke it, drink
here comes the flood
anything to thin the blood
these corrosives do their magic slowly and sweet
phone, eat it, drink
just another chink
cuts and dents, they catch the light
aluminum, the weakest link

I don't want to disappoint you
I'm not here to anoint you
I would lick your feet
but is that the sickest move?
I wear my own crown and sadness and sorrow
and who'd have thought tomorrow could be so strange?
my loss, and here we go again

He's scrubbing his hands. Outside at the tap, kneeling on the grass in front of a bucket. His shirt is filthy and his skin and hair is streaked and blackened. It makes his teeth look unnaturally white. Lochlan is so focused I'm hoping the sound of my stomach growling as I sit ten feet behind him in the sun interrupts his efforts so that we can go and eat now. He's used half a bar of soap already, grinding the little brush against the surface and then pressing so hard I worry but this is part of his wind-down and it takes as long as it takes, while he replays his performance and makes mental changes or notes for the next one, on the next day.

Locket.

I say it so softly I don't know if he hears. Abruptly he reaches up and turns off the water and then rinses his hands one last time and wipes them on the hem of his shirt. I frown. He goes through five triple packages of plain white t-shirts per season. So wasteful.

What did you say, peanut?

I laugh. I said Locket. Because you need a nickname.

I don't need anything. I have a name. What does that mean anyway?

You're very important to me, and you keep everything hidden on the inside, locked up tight but once you open up you share your secrets and surprises with me.

Surprises, huh?

Yes.

Locked up tight? What do you mean?

You never tell me you're afraid or mad or worried until it's over.

Yeah. You know me too well.

So I can use it?

Only you. And not in front of anyone, okay?

They wouldn't catch it, I don't think. You don't have to worry.

You're loud. They'll catch it.

Sorry.

It's okay, peanut. I like it, I always know where you are because you're noisy. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles again. Hey, want to go in town for lunch? The diner has minestrone for the special today, and all the bread you can eat.

Maybe you should phone ahead so they can start baking more.

He laughs out loud. Run and fetch the helmets, then. And no thinking up any more nicknames along the way, okay?

No deal. You do it all the time.

He smiles and turns to inspect his fingernails to see if he is decent enough for lunch. I turn and run for the camper to collect our gear.

Masquerading as a man with a reason.

Still sick. Kind of really sick but being treated and soon to be good as new. Or better than ever. Okay, at least no worse off than before.

In other news, Lochlan's compiling the Time Life Collection of Quintessential Songs From The Past That Paralyze Bridget Like Nothing You've Ever Seen, Physically, Mentally and Emotionally.

I thought the Rock Band game had that covered, since both collections open with Carry on Wayward Son.

I'll be dead by Saturday at this rate. Or frozen in place. Meh, nevermind, it all feels the same right now anyway. Back to convalescing and looking amazing while doing it.

Oh scratch that, Ben just said I look so pale I'm green. So I match my eyes at least. Here's to color-coordination in fever dreams!

In a room with the unwell feral child at noon on a cold sunny Wednesday.

So...if you could...who would you bring back first?

Freddie Mercury.

I test Caleb's patience so. Bridget-

I was just teasing. John Bonham for sure. Or Peter Steele. You know what? I'm not sure now.

Are you going to make jokes all day?

Jokes? That's the holy triad of unrequited bucket lists right there. Three bands I will never see intact, Queen, Zeppelin and Type-O Negative. You need to get with it.

I meant Cole or Jacob.

I'm only answering that if you're prepared to invoke your evil powers right this second to pull it off. If we have a deal, I'll give you a name. If you're not playing Satan than fuck you for asking. AGAIN, I might add. I don't understand why it even matters so much when they're both gone.

They aren't gone. You conjure them up in the fucking garage on every day that ends in Y. If they weren't in our faces all day every day we wouldn't wonder so much.

No one told you you had to live here. I reached past him and pried the honey dipper out of his hand as he spiraled the golden liquid into his tea. I stuck it in my mouth, then pulled it out and held it up over my open mouth to let the remainder drip onto my tongue.

No one told me you were such an incredible pain in the ass when you're sick, Bridget.

I'm worse when I feel well.

Yes, yes you are.

Gee, thanks.

Don't mention it.

Smoke and mirrors.

She dreams in color
She dreams in red.

Ten minutes after eleven I make it back inside, slip off my shoes by the door and tiptoe upstairs. Cole is sitting in the hall on the top step in the dark.

We'll have to add some hot water, he says as he gets up and walks back into our room.

I follow him right into the bathroom where he has a million candles lit and a deep steaming bubblebath ready.

He turns to kiss me but stops just as I close my eyes.

What in the hell is all over you?

He walks back to the door and flicks on the light while I face the mirror.

Well, fucking SHIT.

Handprints. Carbon, charcoal-black sooty full handprints on both sides of my face, my neck and my hands. Cole starts to pull my clothes off and there are more. Everywhere, just everywhere.

The look on his face would have killed a lesser human but I have something to live for now. To get back at Cole for giving me to Caleb I upped the ante and started to see Lochlan behind Cole's back. Loch will never say a thing, he will look Cole in the eye and lie so convincingly it's easy to see how he can charm a crowd.

It's also easy to see how careless we can be when rushed, when desperate.

I look back at my own expression. Wild-eyed surprise. I look..happy. I look crazed and exhilarated and satisfied. I look amazing, like a living work of art, almost like when I become covered with paint when Cole paints a study of me or wants to use me for figure painting except this is in black and white so it's as if I have been molded and shaded by Lochlan's hand.

That's exactly how I became who I am. I was created by him and finished by Cole. Cole took a work in progress and tore me back a few layers to make changes and broke some unique features and I was never the same.

I am hoping to circumvent him now with Lochlan to finish myself. To complete Bridget and not have any more teardowns or revisions. I am defying him with every step I take, burning the memories in the flames, extinguishing my loyalty to him in a bucket of water that I ran and fetched at the tap behind the barn, crying the whole way, big hitching blubbering sobs because I thought Lochlan was going to burn.

It takes exactly five days for the marks to wear off my pale skin and another three for Cole to speak directly to me. I don't notice. I keep seeing my face in the mirror that night. Full of life. Loved. Wanted. Taken.

Vaguely singed.