Forty-six and 2.

Lochlan is forty-six now.

(Finally, an age that lends a little weight to his quasi-parental method of relating to me over the years. I'm mostly kidding. He's not that bad all the time. Well, okay, sometimes he is but I'll let it go. His impish smile and ageless good looks make it easy. If you saw him walking down the street you would think a high guess might be early thirties. He doesn't age. It's rather disgusting considering he turns so golden in the sun even his hair fades from his customary bright auburn into a strawberry blonde-gold that takes my breath away. But not a line on his face because he's led a somewhat charmed gypsy life. Or has he?)

He is reading aloud from his phone.

'...Pure-hearted, barely educated red-headed unpredictably-temperamental Scotsman and ask him to compromise. I remember the fights...' Jesus, Bridget, is that what you remember? Maybe the frustration was borne out of trying to protect you and provide for you. Christ almighty. How many nights, peanut? How many nights did you ask me not to take extra shifts and then tell me you were hungry? I was twenty years old. I tried my best. When we couldn't make it work I did what I had to do and took you home and I know you hated me for it but I had to put you first. I put your needs before everything and all you cared about was that I had abandoned you when you needed me most. We were fucking starving and you weren't safe there anymore and I didn't want you to hate me for the wrong reasons, doll. It wasn't in my hands anymore.

I couldn't hate you.

Oh, but you do, you just won't admit it.

There's the lump and I swallow but it doesn't go away. It's so hard to breathe. It's impossible to think. I know this. I get it. He was forced into a hard place and he made an adult decision because he was an adult and I was still a willful child and the willful little girl inside still holds all sorts of bitterness over her perfect princess world where they lived on love and the adult understands that when you are responsible for a whole human being you make sure they are warm, fed and safe and if you can't manage to pull off all three, something changes before you blink again or you fail and everything falls apart. It won't get better, it will only get worse.

Lochlan took the fall and he took it again when the relief of me leaving Cole proved to be short lived in that I went straight into the arms of someone who was not Lochlan. He's held on and stood by and he fell back again when Caleb came back into the picture full-time because this time he wasn't in charge of the decisions and he couldn't watch anymore so he went away, twisting screws as he walked out the door. A false life created and then abandoned when he discovered he wasn't the only one looking for second-best.

He holds it all in, this one, and all it does is make his voice a little more clipped in his fair, still-perceptible accent. It make his arms hold me tighter whenever he gets the chance. It makes everything a little more important.

I swallow again but the lump in my throat is survivable. The truth serum is hops and barley and at forty-six, Lochlan can no longer handle his liquor. He is on a roll, along with the tears spilling from my eyes and I want to be angry but he hasn't been wrong about a damned thing.

The hardest part here is Benjamin, still relatively new to our universe, who sits on the steps that lead down to the walkway, drinking tea, absorbing Lochlan's words like poison, the whole story perfectly understood in terms of space and time but not in depth. Depth is where we make up ground and supersede fate and the future and the present but never ever the past.

Oh, fuck, we are so stupid sometimes. Every major holiday and event he makes his case. Every time he drinks, he pleads for my heart.

You know I would compromise for you. You know damned well I would do anything for you.

Ben's head turns and he's gazing at Lochlan now. I can't read the expression on his face, I'm not sure if it's mild pity, total acceptance or concern.

We would do anything for you too, brother.

I think it was meant as reassurance but it wasn't taken that way.

Then get a divorce and let me have her.

Lochlan kicked over his now-empty beer bottle when he stood up abruptly. He did not wait for a reply as he went inside. Ben looked at me but I was busy fighting for control of my emotions. Lochlan came outside again and pointed his finger at me and said This time don't fucking post everything I say. Bridget, you've made me out to be the enemy and I'm the only one who really loves you.

He went back inside and closed the patio door for good measure this time. Several minutes later the light came on in the window upstairs. I counted to seventy-five and it went out again. He will wait in the dark for me. I'll be a no-show.

Gage comes out and surveys our body language and the dead silence cast around us like a pall.

Is it always this intense around here?

Ben shakes his head. No, usually it's worse.

And then he starts to laugh.

The Lotus Sutra versus Nietzsche.

(I'll tell you the how, and we'll save the whys for tomorrow.)

We're accustomed to losing everything, from direction to face.

So this is nothing new.

I was going to write a brief clarification, for I realize sometimes I leave everyone so in the dark they trip over everything, almost break their necks and resolve to stay put, sitting with their knees up, waiting for someone to come in and turn up the lights lest they die trying to escape.

I throw shadows though. Sometimes I throw a single weak beam but I know it's not enough.

And I have changed my mind. Stay in the dark.

Genuine honesty, assuming that this is our virtue and we cannot get rid of it, we free spirits – well then, we will want to work on it with all the love and malice at our disposal and not get tired of ‘perfecting’ ourselves in our virtue, the only one we have left: may its glory come to rest like a gilded, blue evening glow of mockery over this aging culture and its dull and dismal seriousness.
~Nietzsche

He jumped into the pool, cutting the choppy water, stretching his arms far over his head, tucked down, shoulders rigid, legs extended straight. The water took him in like a long lost lover, embracing his descent into the deep blue silence. He did not surface for days.

We waited and waited for the crown of his head to appear and finally we couldn't wait any more and they jumped in after him, and pulled him out. Only he struggled. He fought and he struck and he struggled, lashing out at the very same people who chose to help him.

He remains just out of reach for the duration. Treading water to spite them, when they thought he was drowning. Strong strokes, gaining speed, swimming laps around those who threw life rings in earnest. Thumbing his wet nose at the very same faces who sought to save his life.

Because he was fine on his own.

Because he did not need the hand offered to him. He took it anyway even though he had to learn how to navigate falling disoriented, from nothing. Black to the light overhead. Deepest quiet to the noise above, carried far along the surface. Swim to the air and then take it in.

Leave it all to chance.

In the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And an outstanding reason for choosing some sort of God or spiritual-type thing to worship--be it J.C. or Allah, be it Yahweh or the Wiccan mother-goddess or the Four Noble Truths or some infrangible set of ethical principles--is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive.
~DAVID FOSTER WALLACE

We're home a bit early. Quietly planning Ruth's birthday and Lochlan's too. Making amends. Trying to straighten out a giant tangle of feelings and people, expectations and plans. I guess sometimes I let my brain skip ahead, through the daisies and over the rocks, making plans, expecting things to happen, envisioning my future without taking into account the fact that that's what everybody else is doing too.

It makes things hard and I'll be the first one to confess, admitting guilt that I can paint a romantic picture in my brain, a storybook life with all the lovely wonderful declarations of affection firmly pushed into their places and ideas for how to spend the day or when to make plans to escape to make a memory or two and which paint colors I would like best only to discover that not only am I not on the same page and everyone else, I am reading a different book. Maybe in a different genre, even.

What the FUCK, Bridget.

A counselor once called it my Princess Complex.

Clearly it doesn't go away, it just goes into dormancy every once in a while. Everyone seems to be okay with that for the time being. I was shown a place on a page and I've turned down the corner and stuck a feather in between and I will try to keep my place as my finger follows the words vertically and my mouth sets in a curved line of concentration.

I'm trying to learn from this, really working to stay in that moment instead of existing as far into the future as my arms can reach, fingers fully extended, shoulder dislocated, holding on to that big heavy book they gave me, keeping it squeezed tightly closed, to keep the feather in place in order to pick up where I left off.

This is a full-time job for me and I am trying to remain accountable and transparent and respectful, mindful of my friends and lovers and my readers too. I will expect nothing less in return.

There, there, Bridget.

Ocean pulls me close and whispers in my ear
The destiny I've chose, all becoming clear
The currents have their say, the time is drawing near
Washes me away
Makes me disappear

Today is nice. It's cozy. It's been raining since about six this morning and I am sipping from my second coffee of the day on the covered deck off the master stateroom. Caleb calls it the Sweet. I believe he is attempting a play on words (suite) but that one is just so clumsy and awkward. He should stick to remaining crystal-clear and forthright instead of clever.

He should stick to being evil instead of being nice.

It would make things easier.

He is, as they say, an opportunist.

I still say he is the Devil. He will say those are just the unchecked fears of a child talking, and that everything will be just fine.

But he's smiling when he says this, and that's how you know he lies.

1. The Hydromancer.

His skin is so tanned. He is lying in the inflatable boat, oars slack in the plastic tholepins, head thrown back, eyes closed. Dark hair almost dry again. He speaks without checking to see if I am paying attention.

You ready to come in now, bee?

I watch him. He doesn't look annoyed or bored or mad. He is patient. It's just a question.

No. Not yet, Caleb. I like being out here by myself. You can leave if you want.

What do you mean, leave?

You can go somewhere else.

Like back to the car?

If you want.

And be the one who left the nine-year-old girl alone on the raft to drown? I don't think that would be good. Some day I want to go to law school, you know.

How come no one trusts me?

You can't swim so well yet, Bridget. Maybe next year, okay?

Lochlan says I'm a good swimmer.

He's trying to encourage you. You will be good but you are small and you get tired easily and the raft is just too far from shore. When you're older it will be fine. You'll be able to dive off the yacht I buy, when the time comes.

He is seventeen and he knows everything, or so it seems. He is way more level than hot-headed Lochlan (at fifteen) or quiet, moody Cole (newly thirteen). He has a driver's license and is therefore God among the lakeside set. He is cool enough to suggest, sometimes, that we skip the lake entirely and head to the beach instead. He, Lochlan and Cole sit in the front, Bailey and I and the other girls cram into the backseat with towels and beach bags pushed down under the seats in front. I am only allowed to go because well, I will raise holy hell if someone goes to the beach without me, and also because Caleb seems to have a soft spot for me.

Nevermind the fact that I was Lochlan's living shadow from the first day we met. I was the mascot. If they took me they were all allowed to go, because how much trouble can you get into if you're busy watching over a fourth-grader?

Right. Not a hell of a lot.

Today is a lake day because he has to work soon only he is stalling. Delaying. Giving me endless minutes to lie in the sun on the weathered boards in order to bake myself dry while he lies in the reflective inflatable boat and dreams about owning a yacht someday.

Will you take me for a ride on it? Really?

You could come live on it, if you want, Bridget.

Won't your wife mind?

Maybe you'll be my wife.

That's gross. I'm nine.

Someday it will seem like we're almost the same age, Bridget. It will be weird. I think it happens around forty or something.

I can't picture being that old, Caleb.

Me neither. But it's inevitable, baby. Just like my yacht.

You think?

It's all part of the plan.

Is marrying me part of your plan? my voice comes out vaguely alarmed. Secretly, in my head I marry Lochlan. He is so cute and I drive him crazy. It's inevitable. Caleb, well, maybe he'll marry Bailey. Not that I care about any of that yet. I just want to make sure he brings me back to the shore.

Maybe, Bridget. I guess we'll have to see what life holds.

But what do you really see happening, Caleb? What's your best guess?

I'm guessing someday you will run away and join the circus. And when you come home, you'll marry a prince and live in a castle and eat nothing but cotton candy, three times a day. You'll make tiny braids in your hair but never brush it and your children will look just like you. There will be a girl and a boy and you will be very very happy and content. You will dance and listen to music all the time and everyone who lays eyes on you will smile. Just like they do now.

Wow. I hope you're right.

Me too, Bridget, for your sake. Me too.

The living dead.

I did not stay home long. Caleb invited us to spend a few days with him aboard the yacht and so here we are. The children are happily ensconced in the media room watching a film. The lights are on. It's dark out now and the wind has died down. It's very cozy and quiet on the water tonight, so I'm going to put my words away and try to sleep. I always sleep well this close to the sea.

Off the record.

He twists the cold bottom of the glass against my foot briefly as he walks out on deck. I am lounging in the chair, feet up on the rail, my nose stuck in a book when he asked if I would like a cold glass of something. I nodded, loathing the disturbance but so thirsty I could have sucked the ink off the letters on the page and I finally managed to tear myself away from the words when the ice-cold glass touched my skin.

Caleb is smiling, holding out what has to be either a gin and tonic (it's all the rage these days, that damned wonderful Bombay Sapphire), or a Mojito, but I'm not hugely fond of those the way I am of so many other drinks first, and it's ironic really since I shouldn't drink and I can't hold my liquor because I'm leaky and lightweight and frail but hey, if you build it, I'll drink it, and anesthetize my life into something a little more manageable, something I can swallow.

Like this ice, when it melts into tiny shards of amazing cool against my tongue.

Caleb is enjoying a rare day off and he's invited me to spend it with him. He's relaxed for the moment, something out of a magazine ad today. Worn khaki cargo shorts and a plain white, v-necked t-shirt. Unshaven, blue eyes full of mischief. Days like this I want to hate him, but I couldn't if I tried. These are the days he truly enjoys what he has worked for and accomplished and if only I would concede defeat and choose him, he says his life would be complete. The bucket list is ninety-nine items crossed off and one far beyond his control.

Or not, if he plays his cards right. What's the difference? I am numb enough to play along and we're both old enough to pretend and smart enough to understand the risks and benefits involved and really, it's not so much of a stretch to imagine life like this on a day like today, the sun beaming down upon the water, quiet activity as the crew scrub the boat bow to stern.

I shift slightly in the chair and my shirt rakes up to reveal a neat baby-pink bow on my bikini bottoms. He stares, unabashedly and I pull the hem of my shirt down again. He looks away and reaches with both hands over his head, grabbing his shirt and pulls it over his head and down his arms with one motion. I watch, admiring the natural tan, and the cut of his chest, the way his tattoos flow with his body. He's a beautiful man, with only one flaw and it certainly isn't physical, not by any means at all. He has those effortless good looks, whereas Cole had a darker, intense sexuality that he could turn off and on at will, he would gift you with it but rarely. Caleb doesn't need a switch, he is stuck at on.

His dark brown hair mixed with my flaxen blonde is what brought about Henry's ash blonde color. His medium blue eyes mixed with my green brought about Henry's hazel blue-gold irises. His incredible rage mixed with my submissiveness brought about a child who doesn't know which end is up in his emotional map, with no compass, who has had to be taught how to act and react and how to control his feelings, lest they ruin his life forever.

Isn't that how this works?

We are getting business out of the way first today and Caleb passes me an envelope stuffed with results of his most-recent health checkup. He flies to a private clinic in the US for his stress tests and such, a top-notch facility where money can buy almost anything except dishonesty. Here we discover right away how he is doing, and how his heart is holding up, in spite of the disease that threatens to rip one more knight from my round table.

I frown, trying to recall the different medical terminology and he smiles gently and explains, line by line, crowding in beside me on the lounge chair until we are pressed together tightly between the arms of the chair. He smells like aftershave and Maker's Mark. He smells really good.

It is a positive report. Everything is positive and he is healthy. His heart is working. That's all I need to see, that he isn't going to just drop. At least not from this.

He shifts on the chair slightly and puts his arm around me, his chin resting on the top of my head. It's so warm and breezy out. I want to fall asleep, I am so relaxed. He has bigger plans.

My proposal now?

What? I break out of my reverie.

Did you have a chance to review my proposal? The new deal I made for you?

I bite my lip and shake my head. I didn't open it.

How come? He shifts again and I am in his arms, pressed against his chest, my face somewhere below his and he pulls back to look at me.

I push off and stand up, pulling myself across the deck along the railing, hypnotized by the sea. It's the same song and dance. I don't know what you want me to say.

I want you to read it and then give me feedback, princess. Am I getting close? What would you include? What would you take away? What do I need to do differently?

You want me to give you a map to show you the way to my heart, at the expense of my marriage and my other relationships?

Well...yes. He laughs, sheepishly. I want you to tell me what you want and that's what I will do.

I daydream, instantly. Beyond his means, far beyond his capabilities. I smile and he catches on.

Not something I can't pull off, Bridget. I want to know how to win your favor. Permanently.

I roll my eyes and finish my drink. I stop talking. Talking never served any purpose anyway. I sit down beside him on the chair and tilt my drink up to drain the last drops of gin. He laughs.

I get it, no more words.

I shake my head and smile. No more words, Caleb.

Only one thing left, then. He pulls me down against his skin. He is warm from the sun and I relax my muscles and let go, closing my eyes as his arms close around my thin frame. He squeezes me and exhales.

We are interrupted by one of the crew, who is clearly new and was told to clean this deck, not seeming to understand that if the owner is using it, all bets are off. But Caleb doesn't engage him, instead apologizing and pulling me to my feet. He leads me inside, and then heads back out for the glasses and we bump down the hallway, giggling like little children, overheated and without a care in the world. I don't know what he puts in my drink but I feel like I've had three or four instead of one, and the edges of the day are fuzzy and out of focus, veering wildly. I see his grin before me and I follow it until we reach the master suite, my tiny fingers threaded through his.

The minute my head hits the pillow I want to sleep. Clearly his afternoon holds other plans. I am spun out, held tightly and turned until clothing becomes bare flesh. He is holding me down, fingers tightly wrapped around my neck, forcing my wrist back down when I bring up my hand to block him, and putting his head down to whisper in my ear, words of comfort. Reassurance. Promises made where promises have absolutely no business at all.

He kisses down my face, along my jawline, to my neck, shoulders and back and then he pulls me into his arms and rocks against me, hard. Deliberately rough. Desperate. Determined. And I let go. I don't fight him. I let him take what he wants and I give him what he needs and I don't fight anymore. I don't feel what he wants me to feel and I don't think about Cole. It's a first.

Later when the afternoon sun hits the floor he seems to be almost dozing. Eyes closed. Head jutting out over the top of my skull again, arms still locked around me. I could drift off. The stateroom is cozy and secure. Abruptly he gets up and pulls on his shorts and leaves the room. I turn over lazily and stretch, pulling the sheet up to my chin, frowning at the time on the screen of my phone.

He returns with a tray that contains toast, orange juice and the proposal.

I take a piece of toast and a sip of juice and then he takes it all back out of my hands and replaces it with the envelope.

I don't want to look at this now.

Well then, when?

Is it time-sensitive?

If it wasn't, could I still say yes?

No.

Then no. I guess not. Hell, thirty years, Bridget, what's another decade or two? He gets up again and walks out.

I find him back on deck. The crew have been released for the day and the boat is ours, save for the captain, who isn't Caleb because Caleb doesn't have any interest in navigating water, just time.

I glance a kiss off the "B" in his tattoo.

What's the rush, Cale?

I've grown old waiting for you. It's starting to kill me. Slowly.

Oh, come on.

You get whatever you want. It's an argument he dares to start and I put my finger up in front of his face. One. Shhhhh. Hush. Quiet. Don't. Whatever that finger means, it works.

My eyes spill over. The valve is turned and the tears begin to slide down my cheeks.

I don't get what I want. He isn't alive anymore.

Who? It's a challenge. Someone's in the mood to fight.

Jacob.

I see the rage and jealousy wash over his face and I am suddenly wishing for it to strike me with full force. Throw me over. Hold me under until I drown. Either way, I win.

He never had the time invested in you that we do, princess. I don't understand.

It wasn't a game to him. There were no winners or losers. He just wanted me for me.

Caleb just stares at me. He is watching me wait for him to respond. I focus on his jaw flexing. In, out. In, out. His eyes flash from angry to frustrated to worried to confused to gracious and back to angry. But still I wait.

I don't have a map or a key or a solution or an instruction manual for-

I know this. I KNOW! He yells.

Then whatever your proposal includes isn't important, is it?

I still want you to read it, Bridge. You might be surprised.

***

I did not get a chance to read it.

Upon returning home, Lochlan took it from my bag, read it through and then took it out to the fire bowl on the patio and tore it to ribbons, stirring it into the flames until it was nothing more than melted letters on charred scraps of paper. I asked Lochlan what it said and he swore at me and he forbade me to ever go near Caleb again. Ever. That he's finally gone too far.

I had to promise Lochlan until we were both shaking. In return I exacted promises that he would protect me from this. From Caleb and his plans and his needs and his desires. We know these promises won't hold past sunrise but we still crossed our hearts anyway, hoping to die, pretty sure at this point that all of this is going to ultimately kill us anyway.

The final days of eleven.

Today we drove and drove and drove and memorized street names and turned and turned until we reached a point where the pavement was far behind us and we bumped through potholes and under dense forest canopy and then we drove and drove and drove some more, until we came out into the sun. I put the car in park, and the children took off, running through the trees and straight down the dock and off the end, into the lake. Into a sea of lilies and endless blue mountain water, smiling ear to ear.

Henry has been brave for years, jumping off everything and anything. Snow-forts, bunkbeds, diving platforms, you name it, he'll jump first and decide it was a good idea (or not) later. Ruth, well, let's just say today was a first.

She's been smiling ever since. Briefly I wondered if I should put sunblock on her teeth.

There's a Doolittle in that story, too.

Lochlan is sitting out front on the bottom step in the blazing sun pounding back beer. Boots still on but untied, lethal. Jeans and t-shirt filthy, hair tangled in loose ringlets, endless red waves. He's an ocean of fire and if you asked him, depending on the day he would tell you he plays with fire. Ask him tomorrow and he'll tell you he works on the midway or the circus, depending on the year. Ask him the day before yesterday and he'll tell you he makes art but not every day and ask him next week and he'll tell you what he does is not as important as who he is.

You won't get a straight answer because there isn't one and he'll lecture you for being curious about what he considers the dumbest line of questioning in the universe, after the ones that require subterfuge, of course. Those questions have no answers and he'll just burn them down anyway. Problem solved. Harness fire, the one thing the Devil can conjure and you will begin to fight on even terms, and equal ground.

Only he won't fight with the Devil now. They've reached an impasse after thirty years. They can almost tolerate each other. They can get through a meal together. They stand in the same place, as equals in the amount of mistakes they have made, crimes they have committed, hearts they have broken and time they have spent. Their promises rest at the same numbers, their hopes for the future are mirror images of one another, so when I tell you Lochlan is no less guilty and no more innocent than Caleb, I'm not lying, I'm simply stating the facts as they are written, plain as the nose on my face.

The only reason I call Caleb Satan is because of his epic tattoo, the Gaelic word for devil, Diabhal, stretching from shoulder to shoulder across his back. He's had it for a very long time and now you can sleep at night.

(I did mention it before, years ago. Dear reader, you are skimming. Don't do that. It's not fair.)

So the redhead sits in the sun and waits for the dark and then he becomes who he wants to be, the Commander of Flames, Stirrer of Embers, Keeper of Heat and Light. The guy who will call out to you with the slightest hint of a Scottish accent and a wicked dare to come and try your luck.

He is all talk to you and all heart to me. When I take a step backward, he is there to catch me when I stumble over those dumb boots, left in the way, no matter where I am. When I need him he empties his arms from whatever he was doing and holds me. When he wants to cause problems all he has to do is flash that smile and my knees weaken and it ruins life for just about everyone else.

I can't explain it but I know what's around the corner next. A scarlet sea of risk and inherent comfort. A warmth that can't be found anywhere else and a lifetime supply of simple pleasures, like sitting in the sun, getting drunk off his face and proclaiming he would be a great busker, if only he were still young enough to take the financial hit with as much enthusiasm as he had before he knew what it was like to feel full.

He'll be forty-six in a week and a half, but you wouldn't know it if you saw him and I know it but I still can't believe we're at this unbelievable place where time can march on but we haven't moved a muscle.

He has not aged the way I have and easily passes for thirty. I'm really hoping for a Rip Van Winkle moment one of these mornings but when I point that out, Lochlan just laughs until he cries.