Loch, stock and barrel.

Why don't you ask him if he's going to stay?
Why don't you ask him if he's going away?

Even most of the boys have switched to jeans and flannel shirts tonight.

It's cool, cold almost. A good night for a bonfire but we're not permitted bonfires due to being in the fourth week of a summer dry spell from the rain. Everyone seems to have dressed appropriately, however. Everyone is having fun. The dinner part is winding down now, latecomers milling around the barbecue while PJ serves up steaks and grilled cobs of corn and assorted goodies, my portobello mushroom caps that were a big hit as veggie burgers for the non-meat lovers. I know Schuyler can handle dessert and refilling coffees and lemonades and Chris will look after the beer and wine crowd.

Ben has taken centre stage with his acoustic down on the lawn with some of the older neighbors, all closet guitar players, it seems. I can hear them playing Tusk through the open window. My neighbor with the hydrangea (her garden makes me green with envy) is singing, God bless her heart.

I think the neighbors are all relieved, frankly.

We are nice people.

Not goat-sacrificers nor drug peddlers. Folks who worry about their dahlias and run out of propane and make kickass blackberry coffee cake just like they do, simply with unconventional jobs. And now they can also get the tour and understand the amount of space we have, that Lochlan has his own wing, distinct and apart from ours, as does August, and that Schuy and Daniel's apartment downstairs is darling, and possibly already better decorated than most of the expensive homes that circle the bay. That we all pitch in and look after the house and the garden, the vineyard and the orchard too, that we obey the speed limits and that the house is spotless. Oh, they looked, trust me. They see that my children are coddled and loved but also given limits, and have better manners than any of us. That we are well-read and cultured and travelled and not scary or gossipy in the least.

At least I hope so. The rumblings got back to me quickly when we moved in. The people who live up here are as protective of their neighborhood, of their peace and quiet, beautiful landscape and their way of life as are we, and so it was easy for us to choose this area. Even the bikes have been well-received, considering how loud they can be. The neighbors are discreet, in other words. We keep our privacy as long as we keep our decorum. That's so easy it's dumb.

They are sympathetic as well, upon hearing of some of what we have gone through, and I am protective of my reactions and so that's why right now I'm not so much hiding out as I'm taking a moment to breathe, away from everyone, because I can't deal with an endless parade of people exclaiming in hushed whispers that I seem to be doing well when they don't know me at all, and that I'm so young to have been through so much, when they don't know the half of it.

I don't want to hear that. A little understanding is fine, a wet blanket of pity and respect is more than I can bear. I'm permitted to hide for five more minutes and then I know August will knock gently on his door, since I commandeered his den, and I'll head back out into the night to have some more wine and maybe some strawberries if there are any left. I'll watch Caleb dance with Ruth and watch Lochlan watch me watching them while he pretends to be interested in the girl he brought tonight (because just ARRRRRRRRRGHHHHH) and watch Ben watch all of us with his usual casual interest that misses nothing while he seems to miss everything.

None of this has gotten past him, I assure you, and while he's content to bring down his hammer on affection that I traded freely once for security, his patience has worn thin. He is also anxious for life to begin, we have been stuck in limbo too long thus far.

I've stayed here too long as well, there's my knock now. Time to bring out the goats and drugs and freak the fuck out of everyone, I guess.

I'm kidding.

We don't do drugs.

I still want a goat, though.

Caught between the glass and the backing board.

Car overheats
Jump out of my seat
On the side of the highway baby
Our road is long
Your hold is strong
Please don't ever let go

I couldn't pretend that I had never read his letter. And I still find it funny to this day that no one ever said a thing or rang any alarms after seeing a seventeen-year-old boy dragging around a crying twelve-year-old girl by the hand but I'm guessing we look like brother and sister thanks to our hair, even though Lochlan's blonde is strawberries and mine is ashes.

He pushes my plate toward me.

Eat, Bridget. Come on, we can't stay here forever.

I'm not hungry.

I only said those things so that you would hate me and not want to come with me when I left and then I realized if I left you there you wouldn't be safe. Jesus. I'm seventeen. I'm supposed to be studying math and playing guitar and saving for a new car, not this.

You wanted this.

I'm saying I don't know everything and maybe I screwed up and I'm not going to screw up your life too.

So what now?

We drop it and go home. We go to school. Right through college. We do summer work on the midway but otherwise whatever romantic dream you have of staying on the road with the carnival has to end. Bridget, it isn't safe. He can get to you there.

He can get to me anywhere. He told me. Will we be together? You and I, I mean?

Of course. After college we can get married.

Can we buy a camper?

Sure.

* * * *

I'm standing outside the gates, digging in my bag for my watch. He's got to be late by now. The lineup is so long already and I don't know if I'm supposed to be in it or not. I walked from my job at the shopping center and Lochlan was driving back from a shift at the restaurant where he slings wine and fancy vertical appetizers to people who tip poorly. We are starving again. I always think I can fill the void with cotton candy but it doesn't work. It doesn't expand to fill me with sugary satisfaction, it contracts into a hard rock that gives me a belly ache.

I have lengthened out a little at fourteen. Lost a lot of baby fat. I'm lightly tanned and my hair is so long it regularly gets caught in the doors of the boy's trucks and in their watches. I have developed an affinity for short skirts and halter tops and flip-flops if I have to wear shoes. Every ride I go on is in bare feet because they make you take off slip-on shoes. I do this on purpose because it feels so good. I have developed a sick affinity for lip gloss. By the bucketful. I can charm almost anyone into anything and I'm aware of that in the way that you're aware that it's raining when you step outside into a monsoon.

A kiss lands on the back of my neck.

Let's go back to the truck.

Huh?

I need to talk to you.

People are going in, can't it wait?

The fair is all week, Bridget.

And we're...here, right? We had plans to go, that's why we're both here. What's going on?

Just come with me.

We go and sit in the truck and I have a sinking feeling I won't get to ride the ferris wheel after dark.

* * * * *

I knock on the door of the apartment hesitantly. Lochlan opens it, sees me and heads back to his computer. He is finishing up some work. Twenty-four and bearded now. The apartment is a mess and I start loading dishes into the sink from all over the place. I chastise him for not keeping it clean. He would be calmer if his living space were organized.

You didn't come here to do my housekeeping.

I stare at the framed photograph on his desk. It's me at seventeen, sitting in the ferris wheel alone and smiling. Waiting for him. Two summers ago. The fair is our thing, we still go to it together in spite of the fact that I have now been dating Cole for five years. Lochlan and Cole are friends so we're together all of the time. The more things change, the more things stay the same.

No, I came here to tell you I'm getting married.

Silence descends like a fog over the room and I'm acutely aware that this hurts. I don't want to look at him but he hasn't said anything.

He stands up, grabs his keys and brushes past me, walking out his front door and slamming it hard. After a minute I hear his truck start in the parking lot and he drives away.

* * * *

I knock softly on his door, and he calls out for me to come in. I open the door carefully and walk down the hall until I reach the sunny window nook where he has his desk. He is doing freelance work today. I pass him the steaming mug of coffee and he thanks me and smiles, his beard spreading out when his mouth turns up. He has lines around his eyes, now at forty-four and I can't help but be grateful that he has kept his promises to me in spite of the fact that three times now I have sprung engagements on him and once I have turned him down.

My eyes fall on the picture of me, still on his desk forever frozen in 1988. I wonder how long his promise will hold. I can see in his eyes the things he has been through and the one attempt to go away from me and make his own life that ended in disaster and brought him back for something over nothing at all. I worry that I have ruined him in a way that only we can understand and at the same time I will forever punish him for forcing me to grow up before I was capable of being the girl he wanted me to be, and for not stepping in and being the man that he promised he would be when it mattered most.

When Jacob flew I went to Lochlan and I asked him for help and he refused. I asked him to take his place in front of me and keep my children safe and I was going to go curl up into a ball and block everything out for a very long time and he said no because he was reeling and he couldn't help me, no one could, and that's your forty-eight hour gap between when they told me Jacob was gone and when I knocked on Caleb's door in hopes that death would take me quickly. Cole and Jacob were dead and Lochlan no longer wanted what was left of me so please, here, just make it quick.

Sadly, it didn't happen. Hi, I'm still here.

We exist in an awkward space, tied together with heavy ropes and then for good measure he has jammed a ruler down between us to always keep us a foot apart. For good measure Ben jammed another one down there and it hurts but I'll get used to it, just like I've grown used to the first one, my skin fused around it in a reluctant sort of acceptance. I think at this point we've had thirty years of stubbornness that has become too thick to swim through and that somehow retains the shape of our history despite our efforts to make it into something new. Once again the chance has passed, and frankly I don't think there will be another.

Then again, I didn't expect to have this sort of history in my life so I never say never any more. I'm not yet forty years old and yet I feel as if I have already lived a hundred lives, all different and varied and unpredictable and full, all compelling and eventual and complicated to a fault.

Lochlan realized the error of his ways very quickly after that first winter without Jake and I was gifted with the best revenge ever. Lochlan finally asked me to marry him so he could fulfill the dream of the twelve-year-old Bridget who would grow up to be his unintentional anchor, his focus, his muse.

And I said no.

Partly because I wanted to pay him back for being too late for pretty much everything I've ever been through, and partly because my focus is now on Ben and I think a lot of the time Lochlan's jealousy leads him to do and say things he doesn't want to follow through with. Lochlan has led a privileged life. Hungry by choice, vagrant by design, alone by one single hesitation that lasted an exhale too long and put me in the path of someone I have tried to outrun for most of my life as a result. Forgive? Sure. Forget? Never.

* * * *

Last night Lochlan brought home a camper, and I'm not sure if he's trying to fulfill my wildest dreams or finish me off. You'll have to ask the girl in the picture. She is life before death, and I am life after it.

And you wonder why we struggle so.

Look at the ground look at the ground look at the ground.

I flick the mental metronome and start to count along.

Look at the ground look at the ground look at the all of the sudden his eyelashes flicker and he slowly raises his eyes to meet mine. Mine are glassy, dripping with hot, panicked tears. The corners of my mouth are caked with cotton candy and I still have the five dollar bill clutched in my hand that he gave me for the hot dogs we're not going to get now. The ones he asked me to get so he would have time to leave.

What did you do, Lochlan?

Nothing, Bridget. Don't worry about it. We need to go.

What did you do? Tell me.

Is there anything you need from the camper?

My sweater.

Here, take mine. And if anyone asks you, make up a name.

Make up a-what's going on?

Let's go.

He grabbed my arm and pulled me around, practically running. We make it to the truck and he opens my door and lifts me up, shoving me in at the same time and I feel my hair brush the doorframe. A hair's breadth away from being knocked out but I land safely on the seat and scramble to launch toward his door to open it. Only I don't know what the rush is for. Maybe he has seen a ghost. Maybe he's robbed someone. I just know that Lochlan is never scared of anything unless it concerns me and so I do what I am told.

One minute I am reading his letter telling me to go away, go home, go to school, be a good girl and the next minute I am his only possession worth taking in an emergency.

Well, that's kind of thrilling in itself but I'm afraid because he's afraid so it's not something I can dissect enough to feed to my ego. Not now, maybe later.

He stomps on the gas and the truck spins in the dirt, spraying gravel all over the trailer. It screams to life and suddenly we are jolting along at a hundred and thirty miles an hour on the packed dirt road, full of potholes and I scramble back over to my own side and grab my seatbelt. It's that or go through the windshield and I'm twelve so I had my whole life ahead of me up until this point or so I think because I don't know what we're running from. We turn onto the highway and drive the wrong way. Inland. I have never gone this way before.

I'm so sorry, Bridget. I thought it was you. I should have known better. Dammit! I should have KNOWN it wasn't your fault.

But it was. I didn't mean for it to happen.

It's my fault. I left you alone too long. I'll never forgive myself. I'm so sorry, baby.

So why are we leaving? That's family you're taking us away from!

Those people are not your family, Bridget.

He yanked the wheel and the truck veered dangerous across two lanes and skidded to a halt on the shoulder of the highway. He throws his arm out reflexively to block me as I lurch toward the dashboard, the seatbelt all but useless the way he is driving. We're far enough away now. It's dark out and Lochlan hates night driving. Maybe I can reason with him and we can go home, back to our cozy little camper. To sleep. Maybe get our food first. I'm hungry. I'm always so hungry. We don't get enough to eat and my stomach growls loudly and Lochlan hears it and rests his head on the steering wheel, helpless. I know he wants to cry but he's being strong because I'm not.

Bridget, listen to me.

I lean in and listen very closely. Lochlan talks low, quietly and he is difficult to hear with the trucks rumbling past us, shaking our seats, rattling the windows. I listen and my eyes grow wide and suddenly I understand everything that has made him afraid and I am glad we are away from there.

But what about the letter?

Pretend you never saw it. I thought I was protecting you by leaving you behind and I was wrong.

So now what?

Now? Easy. We find a different midway. Maybe go to Ontario. And I never let you out of my sight again.

For how long though?

The rest of your life. I'm your family now, Bridget. And I will watch over you until the day I die.

Quick before the vision goes away.

You know it's summer when the boys are all hanging out in the backyard wearing their utilikilts and holding plates loaded with meat. I've always enjoyed July but this just makes it completely worthwhile.

There are no mosquitoes here either. That helps.

A lot, Ben says.

Snort.

Torpor torpedo girl.

Keith is a little bit like Ben. As fast as I can empty blueberry muffins out of the pans, he is eating them. But his hands are covered with black grease from one of the motorcycles and besides, these aren't all for him. I wave my oven mitts at him.

Stop it. Stop it right now.

You're the best cook, Bridget.

Thanks but flattery won't get you any extra muffins today, Keith.

I can pay you for them.

Your money isn't any good here. At least wait until tonight when everyone has had some and then see what's left okay?

Sorry.

Don't be. They're muffins, not feelings.

He just looked at me strangely and headed back outside. I forget that my giant kitchen window overlooks the driveway three levels below and they can smell everything I'm making.

Duncan follows soon after, grabbing a muffin. Doesn't anyone ever wash their hands around here? Better yet, doesn't anyone ever ask if something is available before they just take it?

One, poet. These are for everyone, not just for lunch for you guys.

I can wait. I just wanted to see what you were doing.

Baking. Then mopping. Then laundry, then I'll take the kids to the park. Want to come?

Sure do. Want a ride on the bike first?

Tonight instead. Please?

Sure thing.

He wanders back outside and I leave the muffins cooling and go and pull out the bucket and the mop. Put the laundry in the dryer, mop the bathrooms and kitchen floors and organize dog and children (sunscreen/keys/bathroom visits/leash) and then we head out.

We're back twenty minutes later because the children started in on each other and because it's surprisingly hot for me today. Usually I don't mind but sometimes it's almost too much and I prefer to hide in the shade, lingering in cooler shadows while outside everything transpires slightly more slowly and with less patience than before.

Tonight when things cool down a bit I will switch into jeans and a big hoodie and Ben's jean jacket and a helmet and I'll climb onto the back of Duncan's motorcycle and we'll drive up to the top of the mountain and back down and we'll marvel at the wind and the beauty of the coast and then I'll come home and clean up supper and have a hot bath with Ben again and hopefully sleep. Hopefully, I say, because I can only get so far by myself and I tend to wake up after only a handful of hours.

Don't be sad for me though, I've been this way all of my life and I'm sure that had I ever been able to learn to sleep deeply I would be a devastating intellectual or some such fabulous creature instead of a chronically sleep-deprived unfunctional little human girl, writing down every last thing she needs to remember lest she become distracted and forget something. As if organization is some sort of hallmark of competency or some equally foolish conclusion.

No, seriously, that's how it is. And I have coffee and narcolepsy at hand presently as proof. You could argue with me, but frankly I'm too tired to care. At least everything is done, which means I can sleep.

But I can't sleep, and so on it goes.

Recent Proposal.

In honor of our first official BC Day, I've decided to throw a party.

Not a big huge bash, just a barbecue for about thirty people, more or less. A midsummer soiree. Jeans and beer. Steaks, burgers, corn. Chocolate cake. Sparklers. Because we are celebrating being here together, being on the coast again at last, and because there has been some quiet good fortune and luck mixed in with the usual bullshit so that's good enough and really I'm long overdue for a cocktail party that doesn't involve ten-million-dollar yachts and/or penthouses with forays into princess-trafficking if I may be so cheeky as to call it that.

Trust me.

Still, I invited the devil. I invited everyone and everyone can bring someone fun if they have someone. PJ has been sort of maybe seeing someone. Duncan likes a girl. Caleb is not permitted to bring anyone he has paid for or coerced, nor is Sophie invited so I'm betting he'll either fly away somewhere or show up alone. Children, dogs, neighbors and guitars have been summoned. Dalton will be home on Friday so it's perfect. I will charm Daniel and Benjamin into helping me make some potato salad and a million garlic rolls and sliced vegetables and fruits and assorted yummy things for a burger bar. We'll get some ice cream. BYOB for those who drink, Lemonade for those who don't. Lochlan will most likely stay in his wing and not show his face. That's fine. I've been sworn at all week long, I don't want to see him, frankly.

The boys can take turns at the grill. They're all good at things with meat and/or fire.

Har.

Last time I threw a party of this size I got married so it's been a little over two years and I don't really remember much about the day other than the looks of veiled shock on the faces of my family as I actually went through with something they never expected.

New-Jake and Keith will eat everything in sight. I am learning that about them. But they will also pitch in and carry things and clean up and get ready. One can mow the grass tomorrow and the other can set up the tables down by the vineyard gate. It's going to be beautiful here this weekend, so why not short notice? Why not come as you are?

Why not celebrate something instead of waiting for everything?

Of course, this will all be contingent on whether or not I murder Lochlan in his sleep tonight. We'll see how the next three days go, shall we?

How dare you say that my behavior is unacceptable
So condescending, unnecessarily critical
I have the tendency of getting very physical
So watch your step cause if I do you'll need a miracle

You drain me dry and make me wonder why I'm even here
This double vision I was seeing is finally clear
You want to stay but you know very well I want you gone
Not fit to fucking tread the ground that I'm walking on

When it gets cold outside and you got nobody to love
You'll understand what I mean when I say
There's no way we're gonna give up
And like a little girl cries in the face of a monster that lives in her dreams
Is there anyone out there cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe

Trailer park notes.

Look what's out a little early. I cannot WAIT to see this.

Suckerpunch.

Enjoy and goodnight.

Four a.m. shadow.

Jacob smiles ruefully, tossing his head back to keep his waves out of his eyes. His hair is getting long again and I'm struck by the fact that I didn't realize this was possible in heaven. That his hair would grow. I say as much and he laughs bitterly.

This isn't heaven, pigalet.

I ignore that, because I know, and we don't talk about how I fail to release him, ever, because here he is closer. Here, I might get him back with a lick and a miracle.

What was the tequila for?

I hate it when they fight.

And the tequila helped end the fight?

Of course not.

Then you don't need it, Bridget.

Maybe I wanted it, Jake.

Don't use that stuff, princess.

Then come back and I won't have to.

I would if I could.

(hear that? That was the sound of my broken heart clattered down out of the cords and into the bottom of my soul again. THANKS A LOT, JAKE.)

How is Ben?

I'm fine, preacher.

Took you long enough to carry this through.

I had to do it my own way. I thought it would work but you were right.

Jake smiles, not in a superior way, just in a glad-it-all-worked-out way.

And Lochlan?

Angry.

I don't doubt it. Caleb?

You gotta ask, preacherman?

Bridget? How are you with all of this?

I don't know, Jake. Why don't you all ask each other how I am? Isn't that the way this works?

You're full of it this morning, princess.

It's temporary, Jake. Ben, not to be difficult but you make decisions and stick with them until the wind blows.

I stuck with you, didn't I?

That wasn't a choice, Benjamin, it was an inevitability.

Ben grins and sticks his tongue out at me to dissipate my sudden, unwarranted attitude. I melt and I can feel pieces of my heart climbing back up my insides and tack-welding themselves back together. It hurts and I wrap my arms around myself just in case I pass out. I hate it when he's disarmingly smug. It usually means it's followed by some wonderfully sweet moment that invariably finishes me where I stand.

I am not disappointed.

We stand there and smile at each other.

What a goof.

The angel of Patrick Wilson.

The fair was so much fun. I wanted to pet the baby goats and ride a few rides and eat cotton candy and not fry in the sun and I managed to cover all of my bases save for the part in my hair, which is pink and slightly tender, especially where Ben held the top of my head this morning as we woke up slowly.

I left my hair down yesterday and at one point wished I had put it up as I was whipped around over and over and my hair was flying out everywhere. Usually I put it up (okay, daily), not only for the heat but because it could become tangled and God forbid my untimely death occurs at a carnival because well, that would just be serendipity, wouldn't it?

Speaking of death,

Okay, maybe not yet.

Also good to make note for the larger carnival next month would be that cotton candy made on-site is better than bagged, imported cotton candy and that texting teenagers who fail to acknowledge you at the counter can ruin the entire experience. I believe I much prefer the leering pizza-on-a-stick man from the Red River Exhibition because at least he gave a shit. This intensely distracted seventeen-year-old (who was so busy on her blackberry she had it plugged into a charger) made me feel vaguely annoyed.

But again, I'm sure the big one will be better. They always are, with a contagious, kinetic energy that runs through me like a current. I am saving my dollars and my energy and will probably not ride the scrambler again. Oh and the best part? The kids are 52" tall (and then some!) each finally. So I'm not forced to accompany them on the screamingly terrifying ones like the endless slide or the tilt-a-whirl. And they are not forced to join me on my favorite, the ferris wheel. Not the big parasol one that stops a billion feet up, I prefer the rickety little metal ones, and only backwards, if you please. Leave me there all damn day and go have fun, I will still be smiling when you return.

Maybe it's the only place that suspends time that isn't the seaside.

That's okay too. More options are better though I think I'll need a winter choice now as well. Carnivals in the winter are incredibly sad places to me, and frankly so is the beach, though less so. I do love a beach without people on it. It's one of the reasons I live here now. It's almost offensive to see someone else strolling along what I have come to consider my beach, and anyone who brings me down to it is summarily dismissed. Walk ten feet behind me and disappear if I turn around, because I'd like to be alone now, please.

There is no 'alone' at a carnival but it's interesting to be surrounded with crowds, line-ups and people and not know any of them, save for my boys. When we left, we fulfilled our usual tradition of bestowing all of our remaining tickets on a family who was running dry. They hopefully spent another hour there on the rides. Tickets are expensive. All-day bracelets are cheaper but I usually figure that out halfway through.

Last night the late-night plan was to watch a few movies. I was awake (for a change) and was blessed with watching Losers, which was incredibly fun and Passengers, which ripped the rug out from under me and left me sobbing long after the credits rolled. Not just a few tears but sobbing and I think I'm afraid of death again, which is good news if you are not Bridget but bad news if you are.

I can't explain it. We thought it was going to be a profoundly creepy movie about people who develop ESP after a plane crash.

Well, it's not.

Not even close.

I wanted to check afterward and see if it was written by M. Night Shyamalan, in a good mood for once, since I have grown to despise his movies but it was written by someone else. I wish I had had some warning. Maybe it was better this way, but honestly I ignore most movie reviews and buzz and prefer to come to my own conclusions. Which is also the way I view music and pretty much everything else in my life. Let me make my own mistakes and then I will learn from them. It was incredibly good and quietly profound, just like me. So go see it if you missed it, and take the tissues with you. You will need them. You're welcome.

Tonight we have The Hurt Locker because we're trying to catch up on movies because the end of Ben's project is finally in sight and vacation has appeared in a faint glow on an imaginary horizon. We are making plans to go to the beach and to picnic on the top of a mountain overlooking the city and hit the big fair and watch a million movies and sleep until noon (which Bonham will NEVER go for, unfortunately) and have a few of those romantic dinners at new restaurants (I staked out before I even got here) but will keep quiet or Caleb will trick me into going to them with him and that's finished for now. Bridget's going to do the famous Grouse Grind as well. I am excited. I'm going to get a t-shirt.

And I need to write. I'm just barely beginning to get back into writing and pulling out old projects and waking the fuck up from bad dreams and finding my cadence that disappears so easily and comes back so painfully, with so much effort.

2010 is now half over and we've spent enough time starting over and re-arranging life. My life is half over and I've spent enough time starting over and re-arranging time.

Far too profound a conclusion from a day that was constructed around mindless entertainment, wasn't it? Some days are like that, I guess.