Imitation of Life.

This lightning storm
This tidal wave
This avalanche, I'm not afraid.
C'mon, c'mon no one can see me cry.

We're back on the stone patio in the freezing cold morning. I can see my breath. Today I wish I didn't have to see him. The further we get from Wednesday the more angry and guilty I feel. Shameful. Filthy and corrupted.

You're an adult. You make your own decisions.

Since when, Lochlan? I'm not even allowed to dress myself.

Case in point, another cold day, another hood pulled up and tied in a bow under my chin. Something you do when someone is four and hasn't learned their knots yet. I know my knots and I know some they don't even know. I can tie a bow but I choose to leave everything unraveled and pooled across my shoulders instead. If we're going to continue to repeat history in every different dynamic and incarnation we have at our disposal than I will revert and just stay young and leave it all in his lap. Only he keeps pushing it off and I can't get through to that hard head of his.

What do you want me to say?

What did Ben say?

He said to leave it be. We're not going to talk about it.

Well then why don't we just-

Because you are not Ben. I thought you were different now! I thought you were going to be there. When I went into the water-

Your life wasn't at stake this time, Bridget. Fuck. Do you know how crazy this makes me? I don't even want to think about it. When it comes to that I just shut down. I don't know what to say.

Say you're sorry.

You first.

We are facing each other, his face is set in stone. Expressionless except for that disapproving perfection. That expression that only I get and I hate it.

For what?

For doing what you do best, Bridget. Hellbent on ruining one more good thing to come into your life in a long time.

You say sorry, Lochlan!

I wasn't even there, Bridget!

Exactly! Maybe if you stuck around I wouldn't be like this.

So you're saying if I had asked you to leave, you would have come with me?

Yes.

He walks three paces the other way and then abruptly puts his arms up around his head and turns around, flinging them back down.

WHAT THE FUCK, BRIDGET. I can't fix what happened. And I don't think you care anymore, really. You run to the first person who puts their arms out for you. If you want to pin that on me you're going to have to look in a fucking mirror, baby, because I DIDN'T DO THIS TO YOU!

Stop it. Ben steps through the door and we both defuse instantly. You fucking ever yell like that at her again and I'll throw you off the fucking cliff, Loch.

Oh well. As long as we're doing death threats, happy Friday. It's like I'm not even there.

Oh, now that you've had your fun you're going to grow some balls, brother?

She's an adult.

No she isn't! He stopped suddenly, staring at me. Why can't you both stay away from him? Jesus Christ, just stay away from him. He backed away from me, shaking his head. He's in tears and he wants one thing in his life and he'll never have it. Ever.

I didn't answer him. I watch him go indoors. SLAM! I'm surprised all the glass hasn't shattered to the bottom of the door by now. After a fashion, Ben's voice from behind me. He is still staring up at the house while I have turned to watch the waves.

He needs help, Bridget.

He needs me. Admitting that makes me feel small and hopeless and guilty as sin. And I know Ben's about to measure out a little more length so I can roam just a little further away from him.

So go to him. I turned around. His face wasn't kind or generous. It was a test to see how close to the edges I would venture.

I passed with flying colors.

He'll come back to us when he's ready, Benny. He'll be fine.

I turned away again to provide Benjamin with the dignity of not having his relief recognized. I'm not a monster, it serves no purpose to capitalize on the doubts he won't admit to out loud.

Ricochet (Do anything, Bridget, but just don't you go looking for Cole.)

Little supernovas in my head
Little soft pulses in my dead
Little souvenirs and secrets shared
Little off guard and unprepared

I was never good enough to find
I was never bad enough to mind
In the middle I will do my best
Take me in your arms and leave the rest

(I'm trying to keep my cool but Jacob is standing behind me screaming and I can't concentrate. I can't think. I can't hear anything. I can't block his voice out no matter what I do so I do the things I'm not supposed to do, simply to cope. His efforts are backfiring all over the place. I duck every time one lights off. It's a reflex. I can't help myself.)

I can't help myself when it comes to a lot of things.

The envelope was brought to the door, hand-delivered by Satan himself. Copper-colored. Whereas pewter grey is for me, the copper envelopes signify Benjamin. The invitation was for all of us, however. A little impromptu, belated celebration down at the boathouse. Some king crab, oysters and pate, a little good whiskey for those who know what they like most and a little time together.

When we arrived, Caleb had low jazz playing on the stereo and candles lit everywhere, even outside on the deck. There was a birthday cake on the counter. We were touched.

And old habits die hard, unlike people, who die much too easily for my comfort. Caleb has always favored Ben. Sometimes I don't understand that, and sometimes I understand it perfectly.

Once it grew late, some of the boys drifted up the hill to the house and I took the kids back up to oversee their bedtimes, tucking them in tightly, lights out because the next day is a school day and enough is enough. They had snacked on hot chocolate and gingerbread man cookies and run around long past their bedtimes. They were worn out. I returned to the boathouse once they were settled. Then another few left.

That left four of us. The three aspects of my fate, and me.

And a big bottle of whiskey with my name written all over it in blood, not easily wiped away like my prematurely-made resolutions to do the right thing instead of the wrong thing, every last time.

Lochlan made a heroically foolish attempt to drink as much as possible, so that I wouldn't. His disadvantage became obvious early on, when he could no longer detect his own cleverness, and he promised he wouldn't but then he left me there with two ghosts and two others, but only three people in the room. A riddle. I would play the solution, the consummate lightweight, three sheets into the wind, sailing freely into the dark. I know where I'm going. I just don't know where he went.

We've been through this before. Old habits. He disappears and I pay for that.

I can rock back and come to rest against Ben, who is leaning against the corner of the railing, looking out over the water. Or with the whole world spinning I can pitch forward gently and I will come to rest against Caleb, who is standing in front of me looking as much like Cole as my little marinated brain will allow. I lean forward slightly and his jawline rests against my forehead. A kiss glances off my hair and his face comes down in front of me. Blue eyes I haven't seen for almost six years startle me. I am falling, dropping out of the wind with a resounding thud as I hit bottom. I don't feel a thing.

Just stay for a little while, please, Cole?

Cole smiles at me as his eyes turn black.

I turn away, frightened now. I'm turned back firmly. This is not my choice to make tonight, it's been made for me and that's okay because I want it anyway. I want it really, really badly. I let go of Cole once, under extreme duress. I didn't want him to disappear forever. I don't know if I can make that choice again.

The fallout of my next move is weighed and measured carefully and deemed an acceptable risk. The collateral damage rests here. On me. And I can take it. I can take pretty much anything you throw at me. I say that out loud and that's when Jacob begins to scream.

He is yelling my name, over and over. It's so loud I try and pour more whiskey in to drown him out and it works for a little while. I pull Caleb's hands up over my ears just like how Jacob used to cover my ears with his hands. Hear no evil, completing the proverb.

Caleb uses that leverage to rocket me off the ground and into the center of the earth, holding me there until Ben takes a hold of my arms and pulls me back to the surface. I try to tell him I'm sorry but he holds his fingers up to my lips. The only competition in Ben's mind has red hair and a way with flames. If anything Ben has the upper hand again because this is a different fire. It doesn't burn, it warms. It doesn't scar, it smooths the past and the present together into one colossal tangle of melted memories, softened and mixed.

Cole never put his hands over my ears, he they always cover my eyes. See no evil, Caleb whispers in a laugh.

Ben returns to the comfortable chair in the corner, a glass of nothing more than ginger ale on the table beside him and he smokes a cigar while he watches Caleb light me on fire.

When all of the whiskey has burned off and the flames go out, the sun rises over the mountains, beaming rays of new warmth in through the skylights. I trace the lines in Ben's face until they teach him a path to consciousness. Caleb is nowhere to be found. Breakfast is set at the table and a note on the counter tells us to take our time.

We already did.

We took ours and then we stole the rest from the dead, who have no means to spend it anymore. I am ashamed and burning, loathe to return to the house and face anyone. Hell, I can't even turn around. It's one thing to look at Ben when his eyes are closed but if he's looking back at me I can't do it.

Little variations on my page
Little doors open on my cage
Little time has come and gone so far
Little by little who you are

I can see the patterns on your face
I can see the miracles I trace
Symmetry in shadows I can't hide
I just wanna be right by your side

He pulls my face up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes.

When did he stop screaming, Bee?

When I was back in your arms.

He nods, slower than slow-motion and pulls me into his arms once more. It was a mistake, that's all. A habit we broke that sometimes drifts back and we'll fight it again, starting today. A moment of weakness, giving in, hearing the screams I threw away when he should have only heard me trying to catch my breath.

Speak no evil, Bridget, Ben warns me. Save face. Leave it alone.

It's too late for that. Fuck you too.

I will give you everything to
Say you want to stay you want me too
Say you'll never die, you'll always haunt me
I want to know I belong to you
Say you'll haunt me
Together, we'll be together, together forever
I belong to you

Easy to see.

Today I got lost in the Bay store in Coquitlam. Then I got lost in the mall, proper. Then Zellers because I had to get a Hero Factory dude for Henry and do you think they could put toys at the front of the store to..lure people in? Nope. At the back. And the aisles are the tallest I've ever seen. It was horrible. It was dark. It sucked. I can't wait for Target to move in.

Notice both stores I was lost in are owned by Hudson's Bay Company? That should tell you all you need to know. Coquitlam Center is not Holt Renfrew. But you can't buy Hero Factory at Holt because Hero Factory is made by Lego, not Louis Vuitton. And you can't take the small town out of the girl, no matter how hard you try. When I walk through Holt someone will inevitably roll my tongue up on a stick from the floor and hand it back to me. Designer...stuff. Everywhere. But I don't buy anything. Sometimes the boys do. I do all my shopping at the regular shopping centers, thanks. Because you can find things you need. Like toys for my not-so-little-anymore boy.

But it was on the way home that I discovered something amazing.

My car seats have a height adjustment. (One that is not called The Yellow Pages).

Up until now the routine was simple. If the boys had to drive my car for any reason they will ratchet the seat back as far as it will go, and when I drive I ratchet it all the way to the front. I didn't know it also goes up or down. (I knew about the reclining-back part. No one needs that here.)

Huzzah. Thank you, Santa. That is the best present ever. I knew I could freaking parallel park. Oh yes I did. It's so much easier when you can see out of the goddamned car, though.

Performance art.

What used to be a house of cards has turned into a reservoir
Save the tears that were waterfalling
Let's go swim tonight, darling

And once outside the undertow
Just you and me, and nothing more
If not for love, I would be drowning
I've seen it work both ways

But I am up riding high amongst the waves
Where I can feel like I have a soul that has been saved
Where I can feel like I've put away my early grave

Sitting on the edge of the metal chair in the frost, I can see my breath. Good. I can't feel my heartbeat anymore through all of the scar tissue so any outward indicator that my life continues is a blessing. Or maybe it's a curse. Maybe I'm the curse. Maybe the sun only rises to sear my visage from their corneas and maybe the sun doesn't even rise, maybe it's a projection onto the wall opposite the window to make me think life continues on while I hunker down behind the barred door.

Maybe I haven't been paying attention. I am too busy always stacking letters, coloring black inside all of the lines and falling in love to see anything up to and including the hand in front of my face. I see eyes and then teeth. I see smiles and frowns and distracted expressions. I see dead people too but that's a line from a movie and I don't like the expressions that transform their faces when I say that, even when things are fine. Even when I'm only teasing. Which I hardly ever do because poor taste doesn't change with the light, there is no sunset on class and decorum is required at all times.

Call it Bridget's School of Etiquette and Good Graces, call it a freakshow, call it yours. No one cares, we are far too busy being distracted by one other.

Lochlan's standing with his hands in his pockets. Probably turning the flint wheel of his lighter until his thumb blackens into a permanent groove. He does it slowly, partly to keep the cadence with his mind and partly so he doesn't set his pocket alight. He's done that before. Four times, if one is counting, but one isn't because, as I said, we are far too busy being distracted by one another.

You have to pay attention. If you don't, this won't work.

He's wearing a corduroy suitcoat but it's grey, not green. If he wore green he would resemble a leprechaun, and that just wouldn't do. Black vest. Burgundy button-down shirt and jeans. Black fedora. Black tennis shoes. This is his busking uniform, for lack of a more succinct description, and it's perfect. Part showman, part functional. Deep pockets so he won't lose things. Comfortable arms for throwing torches and then easy to remove top pieces until he is in pants and shoes only. Hat to pass later, though he doesn't pass it so much as hold it out for bills and spare change.

The last time he held the hat out for me I emptied my pockets into it. I had a fifty-dollar bill, three fives and seven bobby pins. He brought me back the pins later but I never saw the money again. He is true to his calling, and the money disappears. The gypsy in him manifests as a thief, and I know better than to give him what I want to keep.

But then he smiles and it's hard to remember so many things. Like the day of the week and the number after eleven and my last name (changed so many times I hardly use one anymore, sort of like Enya or Sting). Only when the light changes back to bright do I realize I've been robbed again and I go looking for payback and I find it on the cold stone patio in the bleak morning sun.

The wind and the sea conspire to take his words away from me but he holds onto them, his arm stretching up to the sky, waiting to catch fire on the way down, appearing to hold on to a burning balloon swept away by a renegade gale.

And I am transfixed.

I sit with my hands pulled up into the sleeves of my black wool coat (brand new, not like the threadbare robins egg blue one they all fell in love with that finally fell apart and boy, is that a euphemism for the princess or what?) but I am not the only one. Ben stands on the top step near the door. Frozen to the bone, frozen in time, if just for that moment, having stepped into a history where he has no footprints to follow and no memories to lead the way.

He'll take over, pulling me roughly by the hand as we try to stay on the middle road, sometimes veering courageously to the high road, sometimes settling in comfortably to the low one, but whichever road we take is hard for me to manage because Ben walks fast and he won't let go. I'm at once grateful and fed up and overwhelmed and bemused by what I see here, that's for certain. I'm not the only one who admires the red curls and the lower stage charm of a different kind of showman. I'm not the only one idolizing the wrong people.

But you have to catch Ben in the right light, or you would see nothing at all.

It starts now.

Today has been a comedy of errors. Thought I was a week behind. Then I ran out of tape. Then I couldn't find a box. Then I found out ALL of the school pictures I ordered were bizarre sizes, so none of the frames fit.

I finally had the away/East coast packages ready to deploy and jumped in the car and hit the highway and.....went in the wrong direction.

Got to the post office forty minutes later (instead of fifteen) and the lineup was out the door.

Dear God.

Then the kind clerk tells me 10 business days and I panic and think..it's the fifth, so that means it won't make it by the twenty-fifth. I was never very good at math and so I chose Express Post, which meant the prices doubled and now shipping is more than the gifts and oh dear. Yes, I know. I had ALL KINDS OF TIME for the boxes to make it to their destinations, now they will just get there faster.

No peeking, Nolan.

I was on my way and realized we need milk. I stop in the drugstore to get some and wind up in another lineup. Apparently everyone does all their errands from 12-1. This time the lineup features famous faces. Like Meatloaf, or so I thought until he turned around. I think I was hungry and just projecting.

Rattled? Completely.

Why, you ask?

My daughter's going to her first school dance tonight. Our daughter is, I mean.

Because she's twelve, and twelve changes everything. Just ask her father.

A note to address a recent influx of emails from last week.

(This is not the day's post.)

If you are waiting for me to write about Ben's birthday, you will hold your breath for a while, possibly until you black out and fall over. He requested that I keep it the way it was. Private, intimate. Close. He is forty-three now and he says he doesn't feel a day over twenty-three.

I did not know Ben when he was twenty-three, but from what I hear he was a real troublemaker.

Thankfully he still is.

The designated tool.

Today I found an axe.

I was condensing a shelf full of camping supplies and jammed deep down in one of the big expedition backpacks I found it. Unsharpened, blackened and quite demure, it slid awkwardly out of the case and I laughed out loud. The last time I saw this was during one of our winter excursions to Keji for backcountry camping, long before the children were born.

I remember being afraid of that axe, though Cole was determined that I learn to chop wood for the fire. Fuck that, I'll cut my legs off below the knees, I told him. He laughed and lit another cigarette. Don't be so ridiculous, he told me, reaching out and taking back the axe. I gave it up willingly.

I'm not so good with sharp things, like knives or wit. Only with naming things and making up stories about things.

That night I drew scenes from the campsite with Lochlan while Cole chopped enough wood to last that campsite the rest of the season and the next one too. I look at this tiny, dull instrument and I don't know how he did it only that he was always freakishly strong for his size. I remember him offering it to Ben on later trips and Ben would defer. Ben wouldn't touch that thing, he wanted to save his hands. He was hellbent on becoming a famous musician and said he didn't feel like getting himself killed.

(That turns our prodigal son into the prophet, but that isn't what this about. Also, as I've said before, Ben was a terrible camper so no one expected anything from him but music.)

When I found the axe and laughed PJ walked into the back hallway to see what was going on. I showed him my find and he said it was cool. Hey, we can use this. Maybe it would be good for the Christmas tree farm but I took it back and put it up on a high shelf.

Why are you doing that, Bridge?

It's too small and dull. It's like the lady axe. It's the....the parlour hatchet.

He started to laugh and squeezed me against him. 'The parlour hatchet'. That's great. What do you think would be a better choice for getting the tree this year then?

A 50cc, twenty-inch gas-powered chainsaw works for me.

We've ruined you, haven't we?

Yes, PJ. Completely.

The mighty harmonist.

I'm gonna ask you to look away
I love my hands, but it hurts to pray
Life I have isn't what I've seen
The sky is not blue and the field's not green

Today was all Ben, all the time. He in his Hardcore Bagpiping t-shirt, and I in my military jacket. Matching jeans, matching smiles. Fingers touching, hearts woven tight.

It was freezing on the beach. Not our beach, a different one. Across the bridge and down the hill. Our beach is wicked and sinister and rough, this one is more refined. My toes were numb but my mind was soothed. My fingers were filthy with sand and slippery seaweed and crab shell but my ears were filled with the sounds of the surf crashing and seagulls calling softly. I didn't know while we were there that Ben made a long recording of the sounds while we were silent. He brought home the ocean for me and can trigger tears at will, just by holding his phone up to my ear and pressing PLAY.

The Pacific is such an amazing entity. She and I are someday going to be such good friends but for now I approach her politely and stay as long as she'll have me and then I retreat to the treeline and wait for the next invitation. I stalk her. I lust after her. I hide like a freak in the shadows and count the waves crashing as my breath hitches and rolls in time. I am the harmless thief, filling my pockets with the treasures she leaves behind, the jars and basketsful at home a revelation in deference to my singular obsession.

Ben had so much patience for my nonsense today. He waded and waited, he shot and he sought me out, he brought me shells and gave me hell and he finally suggested home when the dark arrived in a flourish and began to eat away at the edges of the horizon.

I was so reluctant. I kept wanting to suggest he simply come back for me tomorrow but I knew better and so I followed him up the hill, stumbling over rocks and roots as I watched her retreat for the night.

I'll be back soon.

"Bruce keeps Batman human." ~Kevin Conroy.

Over breakfast in a luxurious restaurant this morning Batman took a turn roasting my flesh over the coals. Drinking during a weekday. Ghosts in the garage. What was I thinking?

I played the widow card. When he had lost what I have, twice over, then and only then can he judge my behavior.

He didn't bite so I turned the tides, drowning him in his own failures for a change. His weaknesses. Hit him where it hurts. Peel back the layers until he's burned raw with no protection from sun or salt.

He shook his head and smiled out to sea. He changed the subject. Boring me with industry talk for the remainder of the morning. I surrendered, smiling politely and listening while I sipped coffee. They continued to refill it until close to lunchtime and finally Batman drove me home, staying for a moment to check up on Satan and talk hockey with PJ. Trying to fit in and failing as I watched. Eventually a kiss landed on my forehead, excuses beginning to roll out of his mouth as he walked into the front hall to pull on his coat. He was heading out the door when he stopped abruptly and turned to smile at me.

I'm not the enemy, Bridget. Or maybe I am. Maybe I always have been. One more difficult facet of your life to wrestle with. One more ball to juggle, if I may use one of your circus metaphors. Analogies. Whichever.

Metaphor. That's a metaphor.

Right. Maybe we can do this again? I'll check my schedule. I'd like to check in with you on a regular basis.

Or you could just come here.

Come here? To the house?

Come for breakfast. With everyone.

I'd really like that. Don't feel as if you have to. I understand if you want to do things that way. I apologize if anything seemed untoward when I asked you to come to me.

I know. I am lying through my teeth. I am aghast. He and Caleb are playing Freaky Friday on me today and I can see it so clearly, why can't they?

But he smiles instead. The first genuine, unchecked, natural one in a while. Maybe twenty years if I were to be specific. The last time he smiled like that at me I didn't know a goddamned thing about him. But I knew I could trust him. Now when I look at that smile I wonder if I'm any good at reading people at all.

Bruce Wayne is Batman. He became Batman the instant his parents were murdered. Batman needs Bruce, however hollow that identity feels to him from time to time. Bruce keeps Batman human.

Deficiency.

(GO AWAY. This is not for you.)

Too small to keep. That was beautiful, princess.

You think? Fuck you, they don't have wi-fi in heaven. Who reads to you?

Sam reads out loud and I hear him sometimes.

Do you miss it?

No, I hated being able to see what's on your mind. We all did but at the same time it's incredibly useful. Your brain is a trainwreck. No one can look away.

No, you know what's useful? I am drunk and sitting on the filthy floor in the garage again. My dress is ruined, possibly my knees too. My hair is dark in the back from resting against the blackened concrete.

What's useful, princess?

You being not dead. Could you engineer that for me like you do for these visits? I do believe you have an in with the important people.

Bridget, I-

I know. I know! 'Don't be so pathetic, Bridget'. I laugh and tip forward and my nose almost touches the floor. I put my hands out to steady myself and abruptly I change my mind about my decision to move out here to live. The boys already reclaimed the garage anyhow, and Jacob found a new venue from which to preach his afterlife into my mind and my heart. I can wade into a memory at low tide or in the bathtub if I choose. I don't need to be here anymore but it seems like it's the best place and I don't know why. I don't even care why right now. Only my liver does. I bet it's in overdrive. It's always been competitive when it sees my heart winning all the awards for doing all the work.

Jesus, they let you get shitfaced every day now or what?

Only when they want to know what's on my mind, oddly enough. Just, well, just like you did, Pooh bear. I am poking thin air, since I can't touch him, my fingertips hammering the wind instead of poking him in the chest. He is sitting in front of me, only he doesn't get dirty because there is absolutely nothing bad in heaven and he is halfway there now. He would be all the way but I won't let him go.

I'm supposed to feel guilty about that but I don't.

You're a wreck.

Yeah, I know. It's been a long week. I start to laugh and he joins me. Then I feel ridiculous and insane and I start to cry. He reaches out and touches my face and holds his hand there. I can feel it, his hands feel like Ben's. Cool. Hard. Strong. He can touch me, I can't touch him. Okay, God. Gotcha.

Bridget, you're doing so much better. I can see it. Living here is good for you. Ben is good for you. It's going to be okay. Stop falling into the sea. Stop falling for Lochlan. Stop falling and stand up straight. What happened to Little Miss Hardcore?

I stand up unsteadily and weave my way to the door. When I open it the sun beams into the room, highlighting emptiness save for a couple of motorcycles in the corner. The garage is neatly swept and Jacob isn't here.

You killed her. That's what happened. She's dead too.