B-Lister.

I found Santa sitting in a plush throne at a virtually empty shopping mall. It was late, past the dinner hour and the crowds have all but vanished.

He was reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, an airport paperback concealed inside a larger, hollow book that purported to be the list of all of the children in the world who had been naughty or nice. The Book of Lists. I always wonder which one my name is on, even though I'm pretty sure it's at the top of the Naughty list, especially if the list is in alphabetical order. B is second to first. And I bet all the As are total Santa ass-kissers, leaving me to head up the line that stands slack-jawed and casual, weaving side to side, hair messed up, clothes and fingertips smoking black.

I stood and watched his irises scan the words. Back and forth, back and forth. I know it's an engrossing book, I've read it myself and so I was quiet. I didn't want to interrupt him but at the same time I had precious minutes to get this done under the guise of picking out a present without witnesses so as to save at least a few surprises for Christmas Day.

I took another step forward and he checked himself, smiling and tucking the book under his chair before pretending to be surprised, thrilled to see me.

Bridget! How are you?

I'm doing okay, Santa. Just finishing some shopping.

Come over and sit with me, then.

I smiled and walked behind the velvet rope. I put my coat and my bags on a hook and stepped up to the chair. Santa held his arms out and true to form I went into them. I sat on his knee and he laughed and asked me what I wanted this year.

Not like it matters, the naughty kids don't get presents. How do you think Santa knew my name? Yeah, the top of that stupid list.

I'd like my ghosts to come back from the dead. Sometimes I want to talk to them. Sometimes I wish they were still here.

Bridget. I'm the spirit of Christmas, not a maker of miracles. For that you're going to have to go straight to the Big Man.

Does he have a chair at the mall? I'll be first in line.

That elicited a huge belly laugh. No, my dear, I'm afraid you need to go to church to talk to him.

See, there's another fallacy right there, poking holes in Santa's red-and-white facade. You don't have to talk to God at church, he's supposed to be everywhere at once. Unless your name starts with a B and can be found at the top of that goddamned list.

So is there anything you can do? Anything at all?

Honey, most people want an iPhone, or a new car, or a raise. Do you have anything tangible that I could leave under your tree to retain enough credibility in your eyes to bring you back to see me next year? I daresay I've never seen anyone work so hard at wanting to have Christmas spirit, and I'd do anything to be able to help you out.

My eyes catch the glowing red sign of the liquor store across the promenade. I can't believe I'm going to let Santa Claus off the hook but I do because I tend to exit gracefully after I bring people to their knees with my pleas for clarity.

Sure, bring me a bottle of Crown Royal Black, and we'll call it even.

I can do that, Bridget. You've got fourteen days to get your name on that other list and you'll see your present under the tree on Christmas morning. Just do me a favour and don't drink it with that other legendary character we all seem to half-believe in, because God is a lot of things but tolerant with those who defy his good graces by cavorting with the Devil isn't one of them.

I won't, Santa. I promise. Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Bridget. Now take this candy cane and smile. The elf is going to take our picture. You can purchase it at the counter for fifteen bucks on your way out.

Waiting for Morpheus.

In this life, you're the one place I call home
In this life, you're the feeling I belong
In this life, you're the flower and the thorn
You're everything that's fair in love and war

I am consuming song lyrics in overdrive, every arrangement better than the next. I'm scrambling to hit the repeat button so I can hear them again and memorize them by heart as I lay in the feather bed under the struggling sunrise. Soon enough the sun will disappear into the clouds and it will be time to rise and glint with a dull reflection, instead of shine. No one shines when it's cloudy, we just readjust our plans and take a moment to grab an umbrella, just in case.

But I am loathe to get up. The words, the melodies are pulling me back down into the soft folds of cool cotton, stitches neat and perfect in a row, a stark contrast to the those who sleep on into the morning, the one on my right with a smooth peaceful expression and tousled black hair, sticking up straight at the crown, sheets thrown off his shoulders. His skin is so cool sometimes I still count his heartbeats before I'll believe he's mine. He dreams of all the songs he's going to write when he's finished disengaging from the corporate business and returns to working for himself. He dreams of life without lawyers, royalties, art direction and sycophancy but there are no perfect days like that.

On my left the other one sleeps fitfully, tense. Red curls fighting order, his skin flushed and feverish, stacking his mastered skills in his dreams, watching for traps and ensuring a smile on every face. I'm one hundred percent sure every dream he has involves a perfect full performance and he'll replay the same dreams every night until he gets it right. Only you can't get it right, and there are no perfect days, just great days and not-so-great days, like those with rain or tough, heartless crowds or conflict or equipment failure at a popular attraction.

I don't sleep enough to dream anymore, I just drop off while listening to a song and wake up with words that seem to be arranged in a particularly extraordinary way, or when the music ends. Nothing startles me more than dead silence anymore.

And nothing soothes like a song.

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.

Abundance.

(You've forgotten who the prodigal son is, in this case. Think hard, he's difficult to miss, at six-foot-four).

Caleb's putting his fortune to good use. Today we've had a parade of municipal inspectors, engineers and contractors down to see about putting in a removable floating dock. They have to pour concrete pilings and everything. I just can't wait.

I figured I would just be banned from going down to the water ever again. They came close to that until Caleb took one look at my face and offered a solution. One I can't afford so the look came back, elastic panic, we may as well move if I can't get to the sea ever again but the solution was followed by the means. This is nothing five figures won't solve. Pennies to Caleb. More debt to me, mortgaged once again with my soul.

I tell him this and he shakes his head sadly. Safety is a premium, it doesn't matter what it costs.

I should have stayed on the beach.

You shouldn't have to. No worries, it'll be done by spring as long as it doesn't get too cold. Until then, though, I'm not sure what they will want for your margins in the meantime. Don't expect the moon for a bit, okay?

I don't. But I do think they're blowing it out of proportion. Had Lochlan not seen me slip off the rocks I would have continued to work my way back until I could climb up. I'm not a good swimmer but I could use the rocks to stay against the shore and there are several places one can get out. Even with the coat. Even with the surprise and shock of the cold water, I would have been out in another five or ten minutes. I didn't ask to be rescued but maybe I'm in denial.

Ben pointed out that one of my lifelong wishes to see Lochlan step in and cover comfort and safety during or after a major incident is now fulfilled. And his offhand, reluctantly generous comment has set me on my ear.

It was mostly the only flaw Lochlan ever had, ducking and running whenever things went wrong.

He comes by it honestly. If you grew up in the midway and transitioned to the circus you'd be fucked up and have one foot out the door every time something went down too. I just didn't think it would extend to me. Up until two months ago, his method of operation would have been to fish me out of the drink, fling me up to dry land and then take off before anyone saw him.

Instead he stuck around and sorted everything out. He organized some changes and hashed out new rules, he found understanding, he absolved those he found to be in the wrong and he kept everyone calm, even in the face of accusations and outrage and shock. He didn't let go of me for the better part of the past twenty hours or so. This is so new I'm still admiring the shiny wrapper. I don't even know what to do with this.

He said we give him purpose. He can't run anymore. This isn't a roadshow, he can't be the nameless wanderer anymore, he has a legacy. Purpose. People who count on him, and need him to be there.

I have always needed him. It burns me that it took something so fucking stupid to make him see that. The relief that he finally sees it is worth more than that dock is going to cost.

Gratitude and Longitude.

So.

I fell into the ocean this afternoon and if it weren't for all this brandy and the fact that I'm waiting for Lochlan to stop fighting with everything that breathes I wouldn't have even told you.

Considering she said I was too small to keep she did her best, as I was in jeans, boots and a heavy wool coat. The boulders piled up where the drop off is, where the boats can moor in sailing season, proved to be more slippery than they looked today and I chose the water over the alternative of landing directly on the rocks. I didn't want any broken bones, but I've also never been so cold in my life.

Before I could work my way back around to the smaller rocks to climb up, Lochlan grabbed the hood of my coat and lifted me out of the water. Yes, with his left arm. Yes, that unhealed spiral fracture of his ulna? Radial? I can't remember is still there and he's in a brand new cast tonight because they already knew it never healed. They were slated to call him but Ben took him in.

License to hurt, Ben said later as we stood and watched while Lochlan took out his fears and frustrations on everyone in the room, beginning with me and ending with PJ and Duncan, who were supposed to be on duty and did not slip, I was merely given a little bit of leeway to extend my rigid, narrow horizons.

It took him the better part of five or six hours but I think he is running out of steam at last. The painkillers are kicking in, Sam's endless words are sinking in, the adrenaline is wearing off and the fear is wearing through. All's well that ends well. I am still alive. I was not, contrary to in-house belief, purposefully sacrificing myself to the Pacific and I was also not trying to prove a point.

My fingers and toes have warmed up at last and I know that tonight, through my dreams tangled hopelessly with my nightmares, they will be there and they won't be letting go. Maybe the only slip today wasn't on the icy rocks. Maybe we all got too cocky and too comfortable and maybe that's when I need to be the most careful.

Maybe next time Lochlan won't come home halfway through the day and come looking for me even before he disappears into his room to put his things away.

Maybe next time she won't throw me back.

Too small to keep isn't any sort of guarantee. It's more like a warning, subject to change.

Twisted, crooked, broken laces.

Come pull the sheet over my eyes so I can sleep tonight
Despite what I've seen today
I found you guilty of a crime of sleeping at a time
When you should have been wide awake

Too small to keep, he says and smiles. I like that she says that about you. It means I can have you back. Ben is sacked out on the couch. I have thrown myself into his arms and I'm never ever leaving this spot. You can't make me, I won't go.

He laughs and pulls his arms over me. I like being home. You like it when I'm home, little bee?

What a silly question, Benjamin.

It's a valid question, bee. Tell me.

I love it when you're home.

Why?

I couldn't say it out loud so I turned around and climbed up onto his legs and whispered it in his ear. He blushed and said he knew he married me for a reason.

Right. For love.

He smiled. For love. And for what you just said into my ear. You look so sweet and straight-laced and you're the dirtiest one of all.

Chemical Oceanography.

High tide: 7:08 am, 4:56 pm

Low tide: 12:27 pm

His face is soft from three weeks worth of beard growth, his hair uncut since the spring. I am blocked in against the granite of the island. The lights are off and the kitchen is grey, lit only by the skylights above as the rain pours in sheets down the glass. I can't hear it, I feel the rumble, a quavery-light undercurrent to the air, thick and heavy with a post-storm stillness.

He bends his head down until our eyes are even. Blue and green make the color of the sea. Together we are high tide, the dangerous part of the day where you cannot walk on the sand because it's been swallowed by the waves, which now lick against the rocks, seeking further nourishment. I would heave myself into the surf only she keeps throwing me back.

Too small to keep, she says.

Now I know he reads a fortnight behind.

I am the crisis
I am the bitter end
I'm gonna gun this down
I am divided
I am the razor edge
there is no easy now

Sam walked in through the front door and got busy shaking the rain off of his things and carefully hanging his coat on a free hook. I waited patiently in the archway for him to get organized. He straightened his hair and then his tie, ending with his collar and then he bent down and picked up his messenger bag and his travel mug and started to walk toward me. Maybe he wasn't expecting me to be right there but he stopped about three feet away and just smiled that sort of smile reserved for greeting the very truly insane when you don't know what to expect.

Hi, Bridget. His eyes are looking for something. Heartbreak? Backslides? Seasonal Affective Disorder? Deception?

Hi, Sam. Do you want me to switch your mug to tea?

That would be good, thank you. But he didn't give me the cup, he just kept staring. I assisted by waiting with my expressions mostly blank until he was satisfied that I wasn't rejecting the living in favor of hanging out with the dead and the mug was pressed into my hand. I turned and made my way back to the kitchen while Sam started to tell me his afternoon was a little quiet so he thought he would drop in and he kept prattling on in this weird formal manner and when I finally reached the counter by the window I whirled around and asked him to just get on with it.

On with?

Whatever's wrong, Samuel.

I'm just- well, they wanted me to talk to you again.

I'm not backsliding.

I got the distinct impression you might be, and the picture of the road-

Lochlan sprayed me with perfix and I had brain damage, that's all that was.

Bridget, I-

You should talk to new Jake. He's the weirdo around here.

Jake is not my concern! You are! And why in God's name is Loch spraying you with toxic substances?

I had charcoal on my nose and he thought it was so cute he threatened to make it stay forever. And you have a whole flock of sheep to deal with, I'll be fine. I don't know if you guys noticed but certain calendar dates are kind of rough and I imploded a little late, that's all.

Bridget, you know you can come and talk to me any time.

I do come and talk to you. But for emergency's sake, how about right in the middle of your next sermon?

Okay, not during a service, but-

See?

Does Lochlan need to come and talk to me?

Oh, probably, but he doesn't believe in God.

He believes in the werewolf boy and the bearded lady but not in....Jesus Christ.

Exactly. I smile and turn to wash the mug. Sam crosses around behind the island and looks out over the water.

Caleb and Daniel trading places in your daily routine isn't all that healthy, is it, Bridget?

I don't want to talk about it, Sam.

You haven't tripped back into such tangible writing about Jacob in a while.

Sure I have. Maybe you don't have time to read enough blogs.

I put the kettle on the stove to boil and then I turn back with my Everything's Eventual smile just for him and he looks right through me to see the thin spots where I am pinned and sewn back together.

Okay, how about I just leave the door open? If you want to come and talk, just find me. Or call and I'll come get you.

My smile changes from fixed to real. Warm. Genuine. I will, Samwise. I promise.

His face morphs into reluctant joy. Okay good. How is the tea coming? I still can't feel my legs.

Stupidly cold, isn't it?

For where I'm from, you wouldn't think it would be so bad but it is. Sam's face is so young and elastic. It changes once more into a pained sort of frustration and I start to laugh. I laugh so hard I start to cry and then I can't stop. I can remember years ago hanging around the door of the study while Jacob mentored him, he was so young. He always had a pencil behind his ear and a bad haircut that left curls and waves sticking out over his ears and he was so eager and green.

Sam is weary now and older too, having buried our dead, officiated our weddings, and taken over the faith of the entire collective while his own life fell apart with equal destruction. Still he clings to his faith blindly with his eyes open wide, toothpicks shoved in them to stay wakeful, stay alert, stay above and he fights a losing battle every damn day until we admit that life is too big and we need help.

And then he gives it with a quietly outrageous, enthusiastic joy that becomes contagious and all-encompassing.

He sips his tea slowly. He watches my expressions, reading them like bestsellers, hot off the presses while I struggle to prove that the poker-face theory holds, as does the theory of time and faith.

Easily reheated, in the microwave of evil!

My soul is painted
like the wings of butterflies
Fairy tales of yesterday
will grow but never die
I can fly, my friends!

I'm not sure if my throat hurts from an entire morning singing along with Freddy Mercury while incense burned and I cleaned the entire house or if I've managed to finally catch the cold that's been knocking down everyone in this house, one after another. When one of them stands back up the cold does a quick u-turn and knocks them down again. It's terrible and I don't want it. Apparently the hourly bleach-dippings aren't going to protect me anymore. Good, because my skin was beginning to disintegrate off my bones.

Daniel is here today. Batman is American so weirdly he gave everyone a holiday. Which is good because Lochlan is just about falling down and keeps calling in sick anyway. Did I tell you I spent most of my morning with him back in the hospital while he had some more x-rays on his arm? Idiot got his camper wheel unstuck, using his recently broken hand. Because Brains: You can't win them at the circus, or so I hear. I'm not sure why he had to posture like that and hurt himself again but they tell me if I was a guy I would understand. They also said if I were a guy they would cry all the damned time which made me laugh and laugh.

I have always wanted to write my name in the snow while peeing standing up.

That will be one of those unfulfilled wishes I take to my grave, I think, along with base jumping and swimming naked in a teacup full of cookie batter. Oh, and watching Paranormal Activity 2, because I can't get ANYONE to watch it with me.

I used to be the queen of horror movies and instead I've spent the last year quoting Megamind:

All men must choose between two paths. Good is the path of honour, heroism, and nobility. Evil... well, it's just cooler.

The doctor is going to call with the results later on (I hope) and in the meantime, Lochlan's no longer allowed outdoors. I like making rules too, and if I can't go outside, he can't either. He shouldn't be out there in the freezing rain with this stupid cold anyway, instead he can curl up with me and Daniel on the couch and we can watch extravagant travel shows and they can both cough on the top of my head and then Ben will get sick and start doing that thing where he spikes a high fever and becomes downright silly, talking nonsense around the clock.

I am ready with my quotes.

Yes, a very wickedly bad idea for the greater good of bad!

But I'm saying it's the kind of bad that... Okay, you might think is good from your bad perception, but from a good perception... It's just plain bad.

Oh, you don't know what's good for bad!

To the ends of the world.

(Who's the juggler now?)

I'm sitting on the quilt. It's some sort of designer Egyptian affair and cost more than my car. I love the embroidery, it should be scratchy and too beautiful to touch but instead it's soft, it's like being enveloped in a cloud. I don't know what it's filled with. He said something about Icelandic eiderdown, but I'm pretty sure this devil reached down the throats of every cherub for a thousand miles and pulled heaven out of them and used that instead. Still, I never want to move. Not even a muscle.

He brings me a tiny silver toy dart and tells me to throw it.

I laugh and my stomach growls. Time to go.

I close my eyes and throw it at the map on the opposite wall. When I open my eyes he is pulling the dart out. It landed somewhere in the vicinity of the Clyclades. Greece. He's been. Twice.

Want to go?

What?

A vacation. Maybe right after Christmas.

No.

Why not?

I have..commitments.

Remember what you told me when you were younger?

I'm thinking. Oh, right, it was 'Can't wait until you're in jail'?

Bridget-

Why don't you just tell me what I said, then? He's ruining what was a fairly successful, although truncated visit. It's lunchtime and I have things to do.

You said you were excited to travel the world when Lochlan joined the show and invited you along. You had such wanderlust. I don't think it's ever really gone away, has it?

I have to go. Thanks for the visit.

Anytime, princess. Generously, he drops the subject. He is devastatingly Cole-like today. Flannel, jeans, beard. Retired now, Caleb has no need for expensive suits here in the house on the verge of the sea. The lines around his eyes and the few silver hairs in his beard only serve to make him more appealing than he was once upon a time and I need to go now.

So I leave. I don't invite him up to the house for lunch.

When I come down the outside stairs and hit the pavement, movement stops me. Lochlan comes around the side of the camper. He's home again. Still so sick with this stupid cold that makes him cough all night long but he won't stop tinkering. He has a wrench in one hand. He's been trying to fix the seized wheel. He stops when he sees me, smilling slightly. He's glad to see me but he's mad because I am coming from the boathouse. Thankfully, curiosity trumps outrage.

Hey, peanut.

Hey, Lochlan. Do you need some help?

What? Ha, no. I'll get it. Not like I want to take it out. I like having a place to hang my hat. I can take my time and fix it properly, you know?

I smile but it tastes bad. My adventurous spirit, my potential for wayfaring was all but swallowed by his need to make something permanent for us in the midst of such a nomadic, tumultuous life. To find home on the road, to have familiarity when nothing was ever the same. A foundation that could be dragged along behind us, freaks that we were, one that we could set up house on in every new seaside town we emptied of gold and laughter before moving on to the next.

I've been busy resenting Lochlan while he's been busy trying to make things feel like home. For himself, for me too.

When he turned his back to give the tire another go I pushed up my sleeves, reached down and picked up the lifeless crow that rested at my feet. I took a huge bite, gristle, feathers and all. And I chewed and chewed until I almost choked to death while the tears streamed down my face and seasoned the meat nicely.

Without looking up, Lochlan proclaims that he will have it fixed shortly. I smile and say that he shouldn't worry, I'll go find find Duncan and send him out to help. Together they'll have it finished before dinner. I'll cook but I won't be eating.

I am too full.

Mad world.

I've never had a lecture while I was getting laid before. Ever. This is a first.

Ben's hands wrap around my hips as he drives his points home. I am crushed underneath him, locked against him and I am desperately trying not to pay attention. He's forcing me to with exquisitely sharp twinges of pain exacted as he pleases to maintain my focus.

He's incorrigible.

He's delicious.

He's maddeningly right, and I never saw it coming.

(Oh, there's a joke in there, a filthy pun. I'm not telling it).

Life isn't a fairytale, bee. It's a difficult climb up a steep hill and we're dirty and tired and demoralized but every now and then we get look at true beauty and a taste of the faith that makes us keep going.

More than once I have braved the red hot razor-burn of his three-week beard to look up into his eyes to confirm that he has not been replaced with a poet or a reverend. Maybe this is a dream. Ben's words are never so prophetic or reassuring or...logical. He writes angry music for a living. I would have been less surprised had he talked about how the devil would consume my soul as it burned on through the night, stoking the fires of hell or something.

(Oh, wait. Perhaps he is the prophetic one. After all, my soul was consumed and then spit out and returned to me. Currently it sits on a shelf behind Duncan's unworn, overpriced Oakley sunglasses and the rice cooker I bought that has to be returned because the capacity is nowhere sufficient for my kitchen.)

I wish Ben would shut the fuck up and save it for daylight. He pulls me back down and turns me over. Oh good, my ears are covered and I can't hear him.

But I can't breathe either.

(That's sometimes a fun game in itself, but only if the one in control is aware of the problem and timing a fix, otherwise you're just gunning for dead princesses and a whole lot of explaining to do.)

He pulls my head back up and I take a deep breath and I realize he's still talking. I start to laugh out loud. I don't know what else to do. Ben asks what's so funny. I point out I'm getting an attitude adjustment at the worst time ever.

He tells me he is multitasking, that while he's adjusting my internal organs into their new locations, he is also adjusting my outward attitude. Then he starts to laugh because he's got a very big ego when it comes to this department.

(Big like everything else.)

I roll back over and smile. Ben is taking this well. I mean me, he's taking me well. He stops talking at last and lets the dark take us both under. This is not the time for words. Words can wait for the sun.

Part Two: Killing fairytales.

(Picking up from here.)

Once all of the doors to his rooms were locked and we were in the bedroom by the window, Lochlan held the envelope in front of him in shaking hands.

There would have been no fanfare if I wasn't, peanut.

Just open it.

I can't. He's a leaf in the wind, shaking, pale, serious. I'm not doing any better. My mind is racing, my heart is reeling. The house is so quiet. I am trying to plan for whatever happens next but I can't because I didn't expect to be in this place.

Ever.

He lets out a long quavering breath and rips the end off. He pulls out the papers. He's skimming and passing me pages as he reads. I throw them down, I only want the last one. Paper cuts and tension are making this unbearable.

Oh Jesus Christ. Bridget, she's mine.

The black pushed around my consciousness and then the light blew it all away as I fell apart. Finally. Something good.

There is no moment more bittersweet in life than when you go digging back through years of memories to understand how you missed experiencing things in the way that you were meant to, instead of from afar. I watched all of that play across his face but all I could think of is now everything makes sense to me.

Lochlan's not a religious man. Not by a long shot. He won't pray, he won't go to church unless it's Christmas, he doesn't believe in God anymore than you believe in the bearded lady (she is real, by the way) but for the second time in my life he got down on his knees and prayed for help. The last time he did that was in a ransacked, smashed-up camper on the outskirts of a carnival parking lot, holding me in his arms. This time I just stood quietly and watched. I'm trying to decide how I feel before his input skews it, like it does for everything.

(How's your pizza?

Yummy. What about you?

A little dry, isn't it, Bridgie?

Yeah, it is, actually. Now that you mention it.)

He stands up and picks up the papers again and sits down on the bed to read through everything again. There are no questions left save for the one on everyone's mind.

***

A month later and still the same question remains hanging in the air above me like a cloud with a pull-chain for a light to come on.

How do I feel?

Part of me is cartwheeling-happy, swinging from a rope, shouting from the rooftops ecstatic, and the other part of me is terrified of the thought of a little more of Cole slipping away from my psyche. I'm not ready for that. I might sell my soul to hang on to what I have left of him (I just got my soul back from Satan in an even trade and once I boil off the blackened outer shell I'm sure it will be as good as new). I know that's unforgivable and incomprehensible, but you didn't choose Cole.

I did, once upon a time.

Sometimes the death of a fairy tale is the most difficult death of all and here it is before me in glorious finality and I need to kiss it goodbye.

Aw for fucks sakes.

Eleah died. Amyrn's mother. The giraffe. Now only Jafari (dad) remains. They say she may have died of heartbreak.

I am so sad.

Part One: This still doesn't tell you how I feel but OH WELL.

About that envelope.

(Bear with me. Some things are safer coming in bits and pieces.)

On this day I learned something interesting. (I find it weird that the link doesn't point to the title of the post, but says 'Lochlan'. That's bizarre.)

And on this day, we learned something once again. (See? The link has the title of the post in it, if FATE ISN'T PLAYING A HUGE JOKE ON ME NOW THEN PLEASE FILL ME IN.)

And that was a month ago and I wasn't even going to share it. I wasn't, for once. I don't know why other than I was trying to follow his wishes and I screwed that up too. Like I screw up everything. Like I really was pretty sure maybe Jacob might be Henry's father once upon a time but Ruth's was definitely Cole's and boy, I guess I'M CLEARLY IN DENIAL even though I daresay I've never denied a damned thing.

I was wrong on both counts.

Please excuse me while I find a bag to put over my head.

Ruth belongs to Lochlan. She is his daughter. To make a long story short, if you can understand the sort of power that Caleb has, you can understand how easy it was for him to wish to keep that power on his side. There is more to this, but I can't get into right now. To make a long story even shorter, heads have rolled, beginning with his. He has liquidated everything and signed it over to me and gotten the fuck out of the people-as-pawns game. He owned up to almost every last wrong. You don't mess with a child's sense of security. He destroyed mine, I wasn't going to stand by and watch him do it to Ruth's too.

He owes me everything, and I've decided to collect.

The collateral damage turned out to be quite different from what I expected. We are all closer. Except for Cole. He is even further away from me now. I have no ties to him anymore. He was no one's father. He rocked and raised two beautiful little humans who did not belong to him. Then he left them essentially fatherless at the ages of almost-seven and soon-to-be-five and all of his friends stepped in and took over and they've done so much for us I can't begin to express my gratitude. They've given up their lives for us.

Only Ruth was always slightly to the side with a chip on her shoulder, and I thought to myself, Oh, she has Cole's temper. His legendary silent treatment punishment that is him turning inward only it wasn't that at all. It was Lochlan and his Stoic Forbearance. Head down, picking battles, waiting until he has some breathing space and then filing it away, keeping it, balancing on it while he throws his fire.

That's what Lochlan does. He files everything away. Tomorrow's a new day, a new show, new crowd, a new chance, and a change in the weather, maybe a change in our fortune too. That's his take on just about everything. That's how he takes hardship, lighting it up and swallowing it whole while we all explode outwardly. That's how he drove me to the brink of despair when I realized he would not comfort me anymore, he just wanted to get through to the new day.

And that has changed again.

With this new addition to his universe Lochlan has resumed his role as the Gypsy King, fixing everything through magic and affection and attention. He is coming around. Finally. We reinforced some bridges and burned some to the ground. We have made amends and made decisions. We have resolved to do better, try harder and be so much less selfish.

We are getting help.

And Ruth is doing really well. She's happy. She grew up with Lochlan close by, a doting uncle, as it were. Always in her life, always trusted, always easier to talk to than most. When I look at her, acknowledging the parts that are so obviously Lochlan I must have been deluding myself to ever think otherwise, I see her smile and I don't doubt for a moment that this is better late than never. I know how to deal with that temper, now that I know for sure which one it is.

And when I see them standing side by side on the patio, both in their saggy-assed corduroy pants, long lank curls hanging down their backs, thin t-shirts, bony elbows and easy smiles it doesn't seem as if it was ever any other way. This is what happens when you take two beautiful, filthy circus runaways in danger of losing each other forever and make something better.

This made it all worthwhile.

This came just in time.

(Part two tomorrow. Possibly detailing everything I didn't say today.)

Show me a house with a window
One with a garage and five bedrooms
Form me a line so I can judge you
Call me a name if you want to

Show me a way to the exit
Look at my hands, see them shaking
Tell me apart from my shadow
Find me a life for this shadow

All of the fire has fallen and we have returned to the deepest greens of the ocean against the blues and greys of the sky. I missed color. I missed pine needles. I missed water and I missed maple leaves. Weirdly how grateful the familiar sights can make me feel, as if it makes up for everything being strange all the time, every waking moment and every sleeping one too.

This morning I am not paying attention as someone asks me about the circus as I am trying to make sure Henry has his lunch bag inside his backpack. I'm responding automatically and Lochlan abruptly points out to them that there's no difference between a sideshow and a freakshow. I stop and stare at him, because usually he's completely oblivious and today he is downright rude about it. I smooth it over and then on the way home I ask him why the outburst. Why then. Why just as people are beginning to see that I'm not such a freak and maybe we can start to fit in.

He doesn't respond until later, when he abruptly breaks out once more that he doesn't like the way that Caleb greets me every morning by putting the hood up on my coat and surreptitiously checking for my hearing aids, something almost everyone's been doing lately so they can talk as I walk in front of them or maybe not repeat everything four times.

Which part bothers you? The hood or the checking, Lochlan?

The hood. Both. Why does he have to try and pull that shit? You're an adult.

You have always put my hood up when it's windy.

You were eight fucking years old.

You never stopped.

You were mine.

Oh, Jesus, here we go.

Yeah. Oh, Jesus. Let's go, Bridget.

I don't know how much more I can give you. Is there anything left?

Sure there is. You never wrote about the envelope. I feel like I'm throwing blind here.

You hate it when I write about you.

I don't know how you feel anymore otherwise, Bridget! You never open your goddamned mouth! He gets to own everything until you put it down. Put it down. Let the world see. Tell me how you feel about it. The suspense is killing me.

It was sacred, I wasn't going to write about it.

You got pretty close.

Yeah and then I changed my mind.

Change it back.

You'd like that wouldn't you?

He stares out over my head at the bare trees and the goddamned leaves everywhere. Up to our knees. Huge sweeping drifts of them coating the walkway in fire. Yellow and red and everything in between and he frowns and he looks so annoyed and serious and handsome and direct I would agree to almost anything. He looks back at me and nods, gently at first, then more vigorously and he smiles.

Yeah. I would.

Top tens.

Sam lets me drink coffee all damn day and play the music as loud as I want to in the sanctuary.

(Same as Jake always did.)

I will be here if anyone needs me. Playing secretary for ten bucks an hour, only the phone never rings and Sam has already done everything else.

Update: Awesome news. If you've never been, you should go. It's second to none, and certainly shouldn't be seventh, but I might be more than a little biased.

Amyrn (on the right) 12/20/2007-11/14/2011

I was writing some stupid entry about nothing in particular when I stopped and looked at the news for a few minutes.

Oh, sadness.

I took this picture of Amyrn and his mother, Eleah in July and wrote about it here. Amyrn came right over to the fence when I stuck my head over the top of it. He stayed there staring at me forever and I stared right back. The first giraffe I ever saw with my own eyes and he was very gracious and patient while I took pictures and talked to him as if any second he might pick up the conversation and run with it.

I hope he had a good life, and I hope he didn't suffer.

I'm not going to debate anyone on the merits of animals living in relative captivity so stuff that for now and just enjoy the photo. There are more on the original post linked above.

Stay where you're to.

(Wait here for me, princess.)

I found him sitting on the bench on the darker side, just out of reach of the single fixture of light that swayed gently in the wind. The snow was falling steadily and still he seemed unprepared in jeans and his green corduroy jacket with the pale blue flannel shirt, white undershirt visible under his open collar, workboots unlaced and wide open. His hair is so long he's getting the seventies rockstar jokes and the admiration alike. He is beautiful inside and out, snow or sunshine, night or day.

He looks up when I walk over, snow falling against his eyelashes but he doesn't blink or shake his head. I wonder if it's actually snowing where he is or if the weather is a controlled non-issue, a parallel universe of seasonless, weatherless banality disguised as a mirror image when it is nothing of the kind. Imagine never being too warm or too cold. Imagine never seeing the leaves turn from a lush green to a crackly, frozen red overnight. Imagine a world where snow doesn't dictate how far you run and doesn't risk you running off the road for your foolishness besides.

Just imagine. That is heaven. Sometimes you are given a special pass to visit with someone on earth but not for long because then you are tethered and you are supposed to be free. Snow is a fond memory instead of a present curse and you can wear your favorite outfit every single day. It never gets dirty and the elbows and collar never wear out.

I sit down beside him and he smiles and stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets, hunching his shoulders with glee. He loved the snow. He thought it was hilarious. I always wanted to throttle him. I find it inconveniencing and dangerous and cold. Sinister snow, I called it and he would say, No, pig-a-let, it's silly snow. Just like string except you can't spray it from a-oh, wait yes you can, nevermind. And he would laugh and laugh and I got so frustrated.

It'll stop soon, princess. And it'll be gone by tomorrow.

Will you be?

Naw, I'm always around when you need me.

Tethered, I whisper under my breath.

Yes, for now, Bridget. But it's okay. When you stop needing me, I'll be gone. I'll watch you walk away down that road and never look back.

I made a sound halfway between an incredulous snort and a sob. What road?

That road, they say. I guess we'll know it when the time comes.

Am I on a time limit again?

No, no. Nothing of the sort. Just making conversation while it snows. I know you don't like to listen to it fall.

I smiled in the dark. He's right. I don't want to hear it, I just want to hear it stop.

Tonight.

Tonight when the clouds came down to touch the earth, I was there.

The bondage opera gloves.

(For the record, they were too large and therefore never used.)

He's standing on the patio having another cigar. Slay me with a feather, for I still love the smell so much it hurts. But I can feel the spectre of Cole eroding a little more each day and I have to work so hard to remember dumb things. His voice. The mannerisms I only witness now through Caleb, and the memories I fight my way out of without the need for padlocks and straps, though he'll use them anyway. A figurative landscape of denial is painted and framed and people will file past it, quiet murmurs of appreciation filling the airwaves and still we deny that the only way I will go to him now is under duress.

Duress, well it weighs a ton but I skid into the room and stand accounted for, all the same. Bad habits don't die. Not like people do. It should be the other way around but it isn't.

And forced compliance is sometimes good for everyone. It teaches us our limitations and it teaches us our thresholds for danger and for pain. It teaches us how to be humble and how to endure. We learn the true meaning of love and gratitude.

We learn all kinds of things.

Right now I am teaching THEM something, and they are very good students. The first thing is you don't need to lock Bridget into your fantasies, she'll just show up anyway, and the second thing is that forgiveness goes a really really really really long way.

The Angel of the Odd.

There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
~Edgar Allan Poe

These random late-night vodka-fueled discourses usually put me in hot water anyway, what difference does it make?

Every afternoon I see Caleb and automatically invite him to the main house for dinner. Desperate for a normal family existence (HAR), he accepts. Every evening Lochlan appears to count the places set at the table, mentally assigning each one until he sees the leftover one. He swears under his breath and tells me he'll eat in his (former? present?) wing, maybe while he works. Every night I steadfastly refuse to allow him to take his plate anywhere but straight to the table and Ben cracks a joke about oil and water, without fail.

I wonder if Caleb is the oil or the water? I wonder if they''ll ever get along? I wonder when Ben's going to stop baiting the pair of them because he is thrilled not to be the one on the outside. He wasn't there through the worst of it. He has no concept of the degree to which we discovered hell. He's the odd man out and he doesn't like that any more than Lochlan likes eating his dinner with the devil. Still we shield Ben because he would break for the weight of our memories, combined.

I hope he never does. Sometimes he asks about them. Lochlan defers and I refuse. What a pair indeed. We sit and draw in the evenings sometimes while Ben and Henry and Andrew and PJ shoot things and we talk in staccato bursts, making sure in our shorthand, telepathic way that we are still centered, still moving forward, a slow pilgrimage to reality in which sometimes you're carrying on a conversation and you stop and wonder abruptly why you haven't had a reply and you look back and see your companion face-down on the dirt road.

Yes, it's like that. (Maybe next time don't ask.)

I draw figures. He draws mountains and the faces of people we met on the road, people with fistfuls of money and the love of temporary, artificial danger.

We trade and critique. I protest, he defuses, in favor of making me better at what I want to do. And I will forever be eight years old under his critical thirteen-year-old know-it-all eye. And Ben will forever watch these exchanges from the safety of his peripheral vision and wonder how to wedge himself more effectively between us.

But if he asked Lochlan, Lochlan could assure him he already has, and that the only one face down in the dust these days from a lack of information or acceptance is Satan himself, hellbent for redemption even if it means trading it for his own worth readily, pretension gone, humility raw and new.

It's a strange place to be, alright.

Firewall.

I'll keep it short and mean. (Typically, you say). There never was anything sweet about our mutual blame game.

Note to self: Never piss off the one who controls the internet.

Because he can see that it's down and 'not have time' to fix it until he gets home, long after supper, long after Bridget's spent her online time sporadically squinting at the four-inch display on her phone, which retreated into an Edge connection in fright and really, that was the state of things for most of the day, sadly. I briefly, sweetly hijacked Duncan's iphone and then was discovered and suitably turned out for the sneak that I am. But when Lochlan returned he gave me back my wi-fi connection anyway, mostly because everyone sort of needed it.

In his defense, we switched plans at the house a month ago and it hasn't worked right since, so today's abrupt removal was to fix something major. It works now. So far so good anyway.

We are speaking again too. That's always nice. He got a little crazy when I finally pointed out his inability to comfort or console me VANISHED exactly at the same time that we had our world blown apart. So I had four years to soak up and fall in love with this guy who could soothe away the worst nightmares and fears, and make me feel safe always. After the explosions died down it was as if a door closed, and the subsequent twenty-eight years have been a sort of semi-hurtful, confused void where he does not seem to possess the capability for any comfort whatsoever.

I made a mistake and said it out loud, though. That was the problem.

He looked at me as if I couldn't possibly understand that bad things change people.

I don't know who understands that better of the two of us, or who had it harder, the one who endured such horror or the one who had to stand by and watch, and know he wasn't there when he promised he would be.

If we're still throwing poison-tipped arrows, that is. If not, then disregard all of the above. Water under the bridge and I'm still drowning in history to this day.

The girl at the edge of heaven.

This morning I was again outside in the rain, this time restricted to the patio, for PJ was busy and couldn't come out. I always listen when he tells me I'm not allowed to set foot on the grass. I'm considering having a trapeze erected so that I can make my way to the cliff and still heed his instructions. Each time I threaten that he counters with the suggestion of charging people money to come and see the little freak again.

I point out money was easy to extract in exchange for my attention. He replies harshly that this house is not going to be my circus.

Oh, baby, it already is. Don't you see it?

This morning I slid down into the Adirondack chair, my legs dangling over the hump and I poured myself five fingers of the best Irish whiskey Caleb can import.

I sipped two and poured the other three into the dirt. Jacob always had three, even though he couldn't hold his liquor any better than I ever could, and would begin to add words to his conversations to the point where I would wonder if I were drunker than I realized, when I could no longer understand a word he said.

And he would just keep on talking. It was priceless and it was cherished too and now I am reduced to swinging my legs from a wet lawn chair on a patio in Lotusland, not allowed to touch the sea today because I am not in charge of my own life anymore because I haven't treated it with the respect it deserves.

Nope.

But I am not cold! That's one good thing about the drink. Or it could be the fact that I am still in three of yesterday's four dresses, mascara smudged below my eyes, hair damp, wavy straw, mind cracked in half and heart not far behind.

Happy birthday, Jacob. I whisper it to no one in particular, and as expected, no one replies.

Four years of figuring out how I'm supposed to be doing this. Still no luck.

Aw, Jakey. Why did you do it?

I'll stand out on the cliff as long as they allow it. I have black four dresses on. Two cotton, two wool. Thick black wool tights wrinkle around my knees and ankles and I've chosen my doc boots simply because the tights don't work with much else. My black shawl rounds out this fantastic ensemble and I have pinned up my hair but the wind had other plans so I'll just pull the ends of the shawl tightly around my shoulders and allow the locks of palest blond to escape until it all falls out and the pins crash into the sea below. I will stand here until I am frozen solid and then I'll take a step back.

Ben stands five feet behind me, hands jammed in his pockets, a look of utter misery and borderline panic on his face. He hasn't taken his eyes off me, I know. I can feel them, they weigh a ton. But he is determined to allow me to do this however I need to and if I can't be in Newfoundland or Nova Scotia to be surrounded by memories then I will stand on the highest point and show myself to heaven. I may still wear my mourning clothes and surprise people with how damaging, how fierce my sadness can be but I am here trying. I close my eyes and lift my face up to the night. The wind caresses my face. Rain begins to lick at my hair.

PJ yells something from the doorway. The house is warm, I know. Inviting. Comfortable. Dry. Softly-lit and welcoming. He repeats himself and I turn my head to look at him, curious now. He abruptly goes back inside and closes the door and I look at Benjamin. He is still staring at me but his left arm is out straight to one side, index finger raised.

Wait, PJ, is what that means.

Wait for my Bridget to sort through her dark little brain and toss memories around and kick things, denting them in and when she's made enough of a fuss and a big enough mess inside her head I'll take over. No worries, brother. That's the expanded, translated version of that one finger. I know because he's put the words with the gesture before.

I wouldn't trade Ben for the world or for heaven. Think about that very hard. I know I have. It takes one hell of a man to stand up and allow for this. I have yet to meet anyone else who could pull it off and remain intact. Ben may have a few cracks of his own from the strain but he's holding.

He's holding me.

Saving daylight.

Our bed we live, our bed we sleep
Making love and I become you
Flesh is warm with naked feet
Stabbing thorns and you become me
Oh, I'd beg for you.
Oh, you know I'll beg for you.

I didn't run. Well, I tried but then Ben was there and he reverse-engineered my itinerary and paced with me at the airport until my knees gave out and my phone died and I asked him if we could just go home and for one of the first times home wasn't on the other coast.

Huh. What the fuck is THAT about?

We played Scrabble on his phone and watched bad conspiracy television and stayed up late and then slept late this morning.

This afternoon Ben took me to Jericho beach and we walked along the water's edge, freezing to bits and we talked and we compared panoramic photographs as we took them and we counted oil tankers in the bay and watched people have their wedding pictures taken. When we got too cold we ducked into a tiny ramen shop and I ate every last bite, something I can never manage. Gyoza too. We drove home in the pitch dark and proclaimed it a perfect day, which it was. In spades forever and ever and I want to do it next Saturday again except that I will return to my favorite beach of the city because none of the other ones we have explored have any glass at all and that just won't do.

I have already gone around to set the clocks back, and I'm soon to collect all of the whiskey and weapons and I'll retire to the library, where I will push the heavy table across the doors to keep the world away and then I will sprawl out on the couch and drink Jack Daniels and sing Stone Temple Pilots lyrics to myself while I load and reload, blowing daylight holes in the night, shooting dreams like skeet, busting caps into my nightmares, slurring out encouragement to myself while the boys crouch outside the door in defensive positions.

Ben will probably suggest Scrabble instead. I wonder if I can play with one hand while balancing the bottle in the other, guns cocked across my knees?

With any luck I will let you know tomorrow.