The world had teeth and it could bite you with them anytime it wanted.

I'm not craving gin and air anymore. I've been getting eight hours of sleep.

It's a fucking miracle. Okay, it's also gin and Robax Platinum but also possibly ten years of total exhaustion and last night it was pointed out that we are averaging eight hours a night suddenly.

Wow.

I can feel it. I remember what things are supposed to be called instead of helplessly pointing and knitting up my eyebrows and snapping my fingers, shaking my head until someone else hits on what I mean. Yeah! That. It isn't painful to pry my eyes open when the alarm rings because we are getting up at 6:30 instead of 4:30. Hell, I even have to wake the dog up now, who can usually be found spooning with Henry UNDER the covers and it's light outside. Meeting fewer bears is a plus too, I get tired of playing out Stephen King novels when I leave my house.

(Have ticked off The Stand, Dreamcatchers, Cujo, Christine, Carrie, Pet Sematary, The Shining, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, The Running Man and Lisey's Story and I'm not living any more of them out loud.

(Unless it's Misery. Oh, what I could do with Misery. Caleb, are you listening?)

So yes, less bears. And also! Energy after four in the afternoon, which is good because I've been cooking dinner in two shifts again because the downside of the boys all working for Batman's holdings now mean half the boys are home at the usual time to eat with the children and the other half are home at..quarter to eight or so.

I split my time between the two dinner shifts and try to eat with one group one night and the other the next night. Which is why for a while it was easy to forget in the push and not eat dinner at all.

But I will do better because I was proclaimed vaguely drunk last evening and that is apparently frowned upon, on a quiet Tuesday night out of the blue and so yes, less of the gin but more of the sleep and I'm reading books again and cleaning things and the whole daily grind seems less painful and more patient so far. So far. Pfft. Just over three weeks in, and one and a half weeks left to go until school starts and then I will have more time to write which is a total lie, I'll have more time to paint, since I am suddenly completely tired of the incredible white interior where everything is white, including the floors and it's ridiculously sterile and we need color. Ben would like color, personally I still get hives when I go into the hardware store but I will persevere.

And yesterday I took some children (only two of which were mine) to Wal-Mart (I know! Fuck my life) and I didn't lose anyone, and I remembered where the car was when we left. Wonders will never cease and there might be hope for me yet, with this strange thing they call sleep.

I am plotting with Moneypenny (the GPS on my phone! She's English! It's fucking AWESOME!) to go to IKEA next. You've been warned. If I go alone we're doomed.

And I am not going to talk at all about how much I miss Ben (and Lochlan) during the day. Nope. We just won't go there. As PJ keeps telling me, it serves no purpose to jack yourself out like that, Bridget. Now find something to keep you busy and they'll be home before you know it.

Promise?

I pinky-swear.

Keep you going.

Hello,
Is there anybody in there
Just nod if you can hear me
Is there anyone at home
Come on now
I hear you're feeling down
I can ease your pain
And get you on your feet again
Relax
I'll need some information first
Just the basic facts
Can you show me where it hurts

New routine is as follows. Lochlan arrives home around eight at night and I make him some dinner and I have a big fat gin and tonic instead of a meal. Everything unclenches and I can go to sleep.

Yes, it's completely stellar. So if you're looking for updates or any sort of coherent nonsense you've come to the wrong place. We're circus folk, it's not supposed to make any sense.

There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying
When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown
The dream is gone
And I have become
Comfortably numb.

"Everyone is a millionaire where promises are concerned." ~Ovid.

I am not taking over your life.

He's walking in slow circles around me as I sit at his desk in the near-darkness and rock gently in the big leather chair.

I open my hands, palms up, in a gesture of total helplessness and then let them fall back into my lap. I don't think it would matter if I had any words, at this point he knows how I feel.

They're as secure as ever. Maybe moreso because I don't run my affairs as..mercurially as you all seem to. That's a direct reference to Caleb.

There is no competition here. Again, he keeps letting these statements hit their marks and I haven't argued and he has ever last concern itemized. As usual he is one step ahead, always.

There is nothing in this for me, save for your well-being.

Oh, now, NOW I'm getting really fucking sick of everyone's new favorite tag line.

BULLSHIT.

He stops and begins to laugh.

Sorry, I had to say that. I hear it so often. It drives me crazy.

It's my turn to be surprised now. Then truth, Batman (I don't call him Batman, except for your benefit, dear reader).

I want to know if you are satisfied.

Satisfied? With what?

The first month.

Yes.

Payroll alright?

Yes.

You organized the health plans?

Yes.

Life Insurance?

As we speak.

Any problems?

I will let you know.

Please do. If you have any questions I am here for you.

What's in it for you?

Recognizing talent when I see it, realizing that Caleb no longer had my interests at heart and it seemed like the best time to strike, with the dissolution of the company. Early bird gets the worm, Bridget.

You're trying too hard to convince me and you've come in heavy.

He's gotten too close to you and everyone is worried.

He is Henry's father, therefore we have a partnership in parenting. Nothing more.

Maybe I'm not as easy to fool.

Nothing more.

Bridget, you're lying to me.

It's none of your business.

I made a promise. And I made one to you as well.

I'm not taking your offer.

Ah, my offer. You are a singular wonder, Bridget. And I really wish you would tell me what keeps you tied to him.

I did. Henry. I say it softly. He shakes his head. He is frustrated and pacing faster.

Do they know?

Some do?

Which ones?

I need to go. I have plans.

I stand up and pull out my phone. Batman makes a sound that could pass for a note of surprise or a forced burst of laughter and then he slams his palms down on the desk in front of me and I jump out of my skin.

Are you going to summon your driver, Bridget? You've got quite the track record of walking out on every conversation you've ever had. I gave you the time limit, you failed to produce and I'm busy trying to keep an escape route open for you and those you love. His voice breaks slightly and he clears his throat forcefully to cover. This isn't easy and it's not helping that I don't have all the facts. I'm fighting blind, princess. You asked for help and I'm trying to help you but I can't because I don't know what I'm up against. All I know is that Cole didn't want you so close to Caleb and no one else seems to either. You seem afraid, but afraid of what? I can help you but you have to tell me everything.

It's late. I'm leaving now. I'm so defeated. I turn and embrace him automatically. I smell his aftershave and realize he wears Attitude. The same one that Caleb wears during the day. I want to laugh but instead I just wrap my arms around his shoulders and squeeze and then I let go and walk out. He remains in place, holding his arms out as if to beckon my return. I can see his reflection in the mirrors as I walk toward the elevator. No driver tonight, I'm not going very far. Just four blocks down, closer to the water, to the glass apartment with the piano. Caleb has been sending me text messages all afternoon and evening. His proposal is ready and he will be waiting whenever I can slip away.

Gladiators.

Dropped by the neck, stockings torn, shoes missing. A doll, discarded in high tide. Lips set in a small blank smile, eyes seeing everything, no ears required, she never needed them anyway, heart missing and nowhere to be found. Everything is black and grey, it will be quite a while before she washes up somewhere to be found by a strange face or maybe she'll be eaten by a shark.

I listened from outside his office door as he railed on the phone and I listened to the threats he made and the things he promised and I lost my nerve. I couldn't go in. I can't confront someone so unpredictable, driven by unimaginable, deceased loyalties.

Oh, how ironic, you say.

It would be different but you don't hear that because my mouth is sewn closed and I dropped my hand from the knob and backed away slowly, quietly until I could turn and run for the elevator and be away from there, where people are busy and things get done and deals are made that multiply anything the Devil has ever done by ten and it makes me nervous, you see because I am only a doll and I don't really understand this whole concept of how they can traffic the same human multiple times and why I have become the commodity and the collateral damage all at the same time and why isn't anyone else doing anything, and oh, that's right, multiply it all by ten, everyone, keep your heads down and don't rock the boat because it's new and we wouldn't want it to flip but if your favorite, beloved doll falls into the drink, well, that's sometimes what happens when you stand too close to the edge and you look over to see where you're headed instead of watching land shrink behind you.

Tabula Rasa.

Today looks better already, the sun is out, the birds are chirping, and time marches on.

Sigh.

This must be one of those perks they talk about with regards to getting older. You know, all twelve of them, like the discount on car insurance when you absurdly point out you've been driving for Jesus Christ, twenty-four years already and your rates finally go down. Also, you can TOTALLY afford Botox now, you're just wondering if it's too soon, ironically noting that injecting botulism spores into your face would be a rash and impulsive, immature thing to do.

Give me twenty more years to mull that one over, and then I'll probably be totally up for it, when my little face has scrunched up completely into an apple doll depiction and you can no longer see my eyes, they will resemble pale green hard beads, jammed into the soft forgiving fruit, tiny wires bent into glasses pressed over the top.

I am fully prepared for those years, since as I told you, I can afford to change.

But I won't because I'm not even allowed to cut my hair without full committee approval so plastic surgery is most likely not an option for me at any point in my life and that's fine, I think I'll wind up being the poster child for being forty and feeling seventeen forever.

Okay, at least until May 2012.

Also note, I can't seem to get from one end of a post to the other without forgetting what I was talking about. Have you noticed? Yes, so have I. It's ridiculous and I can tell I need a little more sleep but why sleep when I can stand on the balcony in the dark, watching the city move beneath my feet, bright lights, big dreams and all that delicious, amazing noise?

Caleb finds my hands, resting an ice cold glass in them. I drink the burning liquid and become very small. I realize his windows are the looking glass and I run away.

Or rather, I don't because at this point in my life I can't run, I can only execute the best plans I can come up with while flying from the trapeze, knees locked, underwear firmly jacked up beyond my middle name.

I set down the drink on the table, checking to see if he is watching and then I pull my phone out of my bag and speed dial John. John hears one sentence and hangs up and inside of fifteen minutes he is there. I meet him at sidewalk level and he jumps out, coming around to the passenger side, opening my door for me with a relieved expression. He doesn't speak, he only nods as I slip past him to curl up on the seat and rest my head, staring out the window into the dark as he closes the door firmly and disappears from my view. He gets in the driver's side and starts the car and then he just sits there. He doesn't put the car in gear or anything.

John?

Silence. He is staring straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel.

John? Talk to me. You're scaring me.

You have to stop doing this, Bridge.

Doing what? I went for a drink. Gave him my expense list for the kids. We hardly even talked tonight.

Stop excusing it.

I didn't do anything wrong.

Then have him come to the house. Or email him the papers. Whatever. You need to stay away from him. Bridget, I spent almost two years of my life, every waking moment in a room or a vehicle with him and you have to understand how driven he is.

Oh, I know. He didn't get where he is by waiting for things to come to him. That's why he's so successful. I'm prattling on when John grabs my arms and pulls me right in to his face. He looks terrified.

Say that second sentence again, Bridget. SAY IT.

I've forgotten. I go over my paragraph in my head again and there it is. He didn't get where he is by...waiting for things to come to him.

What does he want?

Power.

Wrong.

Money.

Wrong again. This isn't hard, Bridget. He relaxes his hold but my elbows are throbbing and I'm not used to this sort of outburst from a guy who usually says so precious little.

Me.

Bingo.

I am dismissive. I know that, don't worry about me, I can handle him.

Bridget, you don't understand. You are the only thing he wants. And every moment you spend with him makes him more dangerous and more committed to his cause. He's never going to stop until he has you.

I know that.

No, you don't. You have no idea how the past two years have changed him.

And then John begins to talk and the things he says make my brain shrivel up and run looking for dark shadows to hide behind and false fronts to block the words.

I come back out of the dark when he pulls away from the curb, just as he says ...thirty-two years, Bridget. That's how long he has had to be denied.

Twenty-eight. He isn't denied though.

Sure he is. He comes in fifth. Do you know what that does to him?

Fifth. Do you know how ludicrous a conversation this is? I'm not doing this. Can we just go home, please?

Fine, I was just hoping that you would take your warning from someone who has nothing in it for himself.

Everyone wants something, John. Everyone. You're no different.

Jesus, Bridget. I want to be your friend.

Now you do.

I know in the past we've all been difficult, Bridget but our end goal is the same. We want you to be happy and we want to keep you safe and Caleb isn't safe.

What's the difference.

It was a statement, not a question and John just shook his head and kept a tight grip on the wheel. Almost home. He took the exit and we wound our way down the mountain toward the sea. He didn't say any more, he just pulled up in front of the house and waited for me to reach the front door and then he drove away. When he got to the turnaround in the highway I'm sure he texted Lochlan to tell him he couldn't get through to me. Lochlan would have reassured him that they will try again.

When things look different, like today.

Only this is harder and time has a higher cost again. I am home by myself during the day now, watched over by just PJ who has a lot to do but drops it on a dime when I walk into the room, only I don't very often. I remain in my little chair typing like mad, wearing out the keyboard and futzing around with my stories and half-written novels and poetry and emails too. I try not to watch the clock and I try not to think so hard. Maybe they could inject that Botox directly into my brain and I could have a beautiful, youthful lobotomy.

Except that I would like to forget only the bad things. And that isn't possible.

***

When Caleb called this morning I started to talk the moment I pressed the answer button, not giving him a chance. Sorry, I said, I realized I was too tired to spend much time so I slipped out early and I was rude and didn't say goodbye and I should have called because I'm sure you were worried-

He laughed. I don't worry about you, I have you followed to make sure you arrive safely at home. I just wanted to know if you were going to admit you were afraid and called in your knights. Apparently not. Call me when you want to end this pretense, Bridget. I have a revised deal for you.

My brain was still racing as he hung up so I had to wait and process the words to the tune of the silence and then I realized that he wasn't playing games anymore and I dropped my phone on the floor.

Deepest greys.

Maybe not such a good day. Not bad by any means, just not great.

These are bound to happen and I am optimistic that maybe this one will be it for a little while. I am close to tears all day and completely overwhelmed and buried under questions and inquiries and instructions and waiting for updates and I made an amazing lemon bundt cake this morning and forget to not follow the directions and tried to pry it out of the pan after ten minutes, when if you've been baking for as long as I have you know better and you wait until it's room temperature because otherwise it will break apart and it did so we chopped it up and put the glaze on and now it's a sort of a crumble-dessert. It's very good only I was hoping for slices as a treat for the boys who don't live here but visit every day. Home baking is a treat any time, if you have a penis, apparently. It's sort of a pain in a ass to me, when I can buy cookies for $5, why in the hell would I want to mix and stir and bake and then I guess...hope they come off the pan intact?

But I still make a lot of things, mostly things that end in cake because cake is supposed to make Bridget feel better, only this time the cake was just the icing on my..cake of a day, I guess.

Ben took me for chicken fingers when he got home and I feel a little better but now I have a stabbing hot poker of a pain in my chest and if I don't find a way soon to not be completely overthrown every time life hands me a curve ball or that big list of things to be done, I think I will implode. Or maybe I'll learn to relax the hard way, like I already do, breathing through panic attacks, wishing I had all my shit together like everyone else seems to, even though I know that's a fallacy on both counts.

I am reading One Day by David Nicholls. In it, the male lead remarks about not having cried for eight years prior to a massive breakdown after visiting his dying mother. Notable to me was not the fact that hey, he has baggage and Christ, what an asshole, but eight years without a tear? Is he a robot?

I don't think I've ever gone eight days. Maybe I'll start keeping track. I mean, I have nothing to prove and I'm not saddled with gender bias when it pertains to visible emotions (hell, if they are visible, I CAN SHOW YOU EVERY LAST ONE) but I could take a stab at not crying for a bit and see what happens, even though I have a tendency to drop big fat blubbery tears in place of any definable emotion. I've always been this way. When I think about Cole or Jacob and how they could talk me down until I had dry eyes and even breaths, I believe it was a gift that the others are learning about as slowly as I adapt to change.

In other words, I'll let you know how that goes too.

So what am I doing tonight? Killing time while I wait for Caleb to arrive. Seeing the new paperwork, payroll and benefits falling into place for the boys, who depend on me when they CLEARLY SHOULDN'T for very important Life Decisions I'm not qualified to make, realizing it's just about mid-week, and the upcoming weekend will be necessary and restorative, and assuring you that you are completely pulled together and awesome, because thank God you're not a little mess too.

Tomorrow will be better, this too shall pass, as they say. Also Caleb is here now, and the first words out of his mouth were How are your tales of woe tonight, princess?

How indeed.

I smiled darkly for him, before telling him I would be just a few more minutes, because he's one of the few who simply embraces me as I am, weird panicky uptight competence and everything. Like a little ball of nervous energy, I'll do just fine. Just don't ask me how I'm doing. Caleb won't ask, he'll just decide.

On my behalf.

Which is fine with me and probably better anyway. Let him pick. Let him choose everything and then maybe someday I won't have to answer for it. Call the shots and hit those targets, and bag yourself a kill girl.

Known for.

Tonight I'm sitting between Ben's knees on the second step down, drinking tea with honey and watching Lochlan fire juggling while he keeps up a steady stream of banter. I am in stitches even though I know all the lines, all the openings he will use to slide seamlessly from one conversation to another, to keep our interest, to keep the hopes for tips alive when the show grows long in the heat, in this day and age of fleeting spans of attention.

But no one ever looks away from him, there's just something about Loch that makes you wish he would pay his attention to you in the form of his lopsided confident grins and his messy, curly red-blonde hair. Even Ben is hanging on every word, for I think Ben finds Lochlan far cuter than he will admit most nights, if at all. But I don't know for sure, they talk in low voices and I miss half of what they say. So I just mostly watch and never listen. Never, ever listen.

When we were very young (the annual event addition).

When we were teenagers (with trucks, gotta have trucks and then you have it MADE), every September we drove out to CFB Shearwater in a caravan for the air show. Mostly it was a day of walking around bored watching the boys check out the static displays and dehydrating myself into a chapped lather because there would be exactly four portable toilets that would feature lineups so long you might still be there the next fall, if you weren't careful. It was $20 a truckload to get in, and it was an endurance day. But I was always so uncharacteristically excited by the noise and aerobatics, and waited patiently for the planes to take to the skies.

Then the children were born, Shearwater stopped putting on the air shows and well, we found other things to do. We also moved and the Prairies never seemed to know if they wanted to do air shows or not. It was the decade that saw us boarding a lot of planes but rarely watching them fly.

Fast forward to 2010, and we see the listing for an Abbotsford air show.

(Now to begin, no one really knew much about Abbotsford, only that on the map it was out at the other end of the Fraser Valley and that's fine, we're always on the road because this whole lower mainland is spread out like peanut butter on toast and I have doubled the miles on my car since we moved here.)

2010 came and went in a blur and I regretted not investigating this air show until I saw the ad in the paper last Wednesday and realized it was back! We didn't miss it! Come hell or high water, this is what we're doing on Sunday. Which is today!

So we loaded up the children and off we went.

Firstly, $100 a carload means we have hit the classy air show, or something. Times sure do change. Also, pilots don't speak down to me anymore because I am not a surly, giggly teenager, I am someone's mother now, and someone (times two) is climbing through their cockpit/helicopter/parachute so the pilots answer all my questions very patiently. This also might be due to my husband's sometimes-pilot status (recreational only) and the guy that actually owns a whole airplane (Satan) standing nearby, but I prefer to assume that my cute blonde good looks bring all the pilots to the yard (like a milkshake only without the milk. Or the shake. Or anything...okay, moving on.)

I finally got to meet Julie Clark, who has flown in every air show I have ever been to. I declined the funnel cakes near the stands because they were larger than my head, and also completely flat and really...weird looking and it just looked like 4000 calories I would be trying to pawn off on the boys later. I did have a Lemon Heaven lemonade and I caught on quickly. The first cup featured an ENTIRE lemon in it, with hardly any lemonade. The second time Ben went and he came back without the lemon, but with a lovely large thingie of lemonade that was gone in ten seconds. Who puts a whole lemon in a glass? The Lemon Heaven people, that's who.

I also mistakenly visited a (will remain nameless) booth serving poutine. Mistakenly, because yuck. Ben was thrilled with his but Ben never has any standards when it comes to poutine. In fact, give him a raw potato, a packet of fake gravy and a block of cheese and he'll pantomime the whole tequila routine, sucking the cheese, lick the gravy and then swallow the potato whole and declare it to be the Best Thing Ever, but he also eats lip gloss and steering wheels so really, he isn't one to go to for food recommendations. Next time I'll pack a picnic, since the whole "No Coolers" sign by the parking field turned out to be a total and utter lie.

The show was amazing, however, and there were loads of washrooms available (very important when spending eight+ hours at an event) and everything cost an arm, leg or a child so I am completely out of cash and also! burnt to a little crisp again because the sun came out but I was having far too much fun and so I never pay attention to my skin until I am pink and sore all over and Lochlan starts making that face that warns of future painful to the touch lobster princesses but he is also really red tonight so what the heck does he know? Also? Bastard ate a funnel cake.

And I am still jealous.

We learned all our lessons for next year as well. Leave earlier to get there earlier to get a good spot and bring chairs. Bring the cooler. Chips would be good. Sunscreen, sunglasses and hats are necessities and always, always ask questions.

Suspend adulthood, cheer, clap and wave, you uptight fuckwads, and whatever you do, dream about flying.
(Ben took a picture of me taking a picture of the Harvard. What a cute little plane)

And funnel cakes. Dream about the funnel cakes. Next year, I'm getting one. 2012. Be there or be horribly, sadly deprived.

Go and tell the King.

(Lady luck, be on my side.)

Today has been a series of three steps forward and two back. Just when I get all caught up the sky begins to sag dangerously around the edges and I adopt my Chicken Little voice, uptight, choked-off, hope we can hold it together just a little longer, no-flights-must-fight stance.

It's rather painful and I am the absolute mistress of Blowing Shit Out of Proportion.

But never mind, it will work out because no one is out to get me and the worst case scenarios can be overcome and I'm hopefully a little panicky over nothing. Hopefully, said in a whisper, fingers crossed behind my back, though I have a headache and a bottle of gin at the ready because I refuse to worry about things anymore and I think part of the fun of life is supposed to involve having a running agenda of Things That Must Be Dealt With but really? That's fucking stupid. I'm more in the camp that does everything that has to be done and then schedules downtime. I guess you can imagine how well that works out, most of the time, right?

Exactly.

I have to admit I've been a little (okay, a lot) nervous about the changes, about the boys working for Batman instead of Caleb. I know Caleb so much better. I can handle him. Batman is still mostly an unknown entity to me. I mean, he knows ME through and through but as far as he goes, well, I am in the dark, mostly by choice, because it made life easier to conduct it without strings, obligations or expectations when it came to him.

So that leaves me a little unsure. A lot hopeful, yes, but once again I find myself leaping carelessly across the chasm, eyes welded shut, teeth gritted in anticipation of what could be a soft landing, if luck is on my side.

And I have never asked her if she is. On my side, that is. Sometimes I'm one hundred percent sure we are a pair, matched forever and sometimes she just up and disappears and returns much later. After the shrapnel has rocked to a stop in a wide radius, she stands looking around innocently, maddeningly saying There was nothing I could have done so how could you have missed me in the first place, Bridget? Those days I swear I'm disowning her and I throw things and cry toward her direction but she stands firm. Other times I turn around to run away and she's right there with such a confident expression and she'll reach forward and pinch me very hard and smile and say stupid, amazing things like See? There was nothing to worry about, was there? I nod, sure she can't stand up to the sort of luck I require now, as I rub my arm where she twisted my thin skin in her strong fingers.

So I give myself a little pep talk and I vow I won't worry so much but then I do and it's pretty much my standard operating procedure and boy, it sure drives everyone crazy but then in a few weeks I can hopefully come back and read these words and have that reassurance that yeah, it all pretty much worked out and really I devote way too much energy to my fear of the inevitable, the uncontrollable and the eventually unimportant.

I'm going to teach myself how to stop that. I'm just not sure how yet. I'll figure it out eventually and you all will be so proud.

Last night, he explained to someone else as I watched the water intently, that I was something of a Sea Witch and that no one knew or loved the ocean more.

I should have been insulted, maybe, it seems like such an odd turn of phrase. I don't believe I've ever used it, nor have I read of it past a fleeting reference in The Little Mermaid when Ruth was a baby, but instead it left me somewhat gratified in knowing that sometimes when I feel like I might get left behind and will have to fight to catch up, he really does know me very well indeed.