Parlay (but not coated in sugar this time).

(So much trouble.)

In fact you've got your hands tied behind your back when somebody chooses to take a low road in to you, there is nothing you can do about it, and so you just live with it and move on.
~Robert Redford

I'm sitting in the club watching all of the men watch the girls. Peelers thinly disguised as quasi-burlesque performers and I'm the only girl in the room who isn't onstage taking off her clothes, or waiting for a turn to do so.

This is great. Glad I flew all this way for this.

The club is a private gentleman's club. I don't even know what that means, except it probably involves under-the-table deals and escort services, or maybe that's being too generous at this point. Hookers and blow but there's a dress code. My drink is so strong my eyes are watering and my throat burns, or perhaps that's just a visceral reaction to Lochlan's facial expression right now. He hasn't taken his eyes off the girl closest to him. She looks the most like me. He looks hard, pained and disappointed. He looks so fucking angry and I know he worked his way through his first few drinks quickly to dull his reluctance to be here, or maybe to dull his rage.

I'm afraid to be drunk. I'm afraid to be out of control in this place, with these people. Our only saving grace is that Batman, Ben and Caleb all asked for coffee and then stood silently while attempts were made to talk them into something stronger, and finally another server was fetched and dispatched to brew a pot of good coffee. I'm wondering if even that is a good idea. What if they drug us? What if I wake up on the other side of the world with my passport held for safekeeping by an unnamed benefactor who tells me I will pay him back my travel expenses by selling my talents of the flesh and giving him every last penny?

What if I never see my kids again?

I deliberately spill my drink and make a huge fuss. I need to be sober. I am waved away while the mess is attended to, another drink placed on the table in front of me in seconds. Fuck it all. The men are talking, hardly paying attention to one another, watching the girls with the dead eyes while they attempt to renegotiate deals Caleb made while he was more evil, more vindictive and more depraved. I am told one of those deals involved me, and that's why I was requested as his plus-one at this party, which isn't a party at all. He was supposed to leave me here.

Merry fucking Christmas, or whatever they say in Russian. I was collateral and there was a margin call.

I had great faith in Batman being able to fix this, since the laws of planet earth say you can't give away what doesn't belong to you. Ben and Lochlan are here because neither one would stay behind (thank God). Batman only came because the deal involved me. Had it been Caleb's life on the line he would have let them kill him. Happily so.

Last I heard we were artists and we had a lovely collective in the mountains by the sea. How quickly things change. It's surreal standing in a dark smoky lounge with a locked and guarded door, fifteen hundred kilometers from home. Everywhere, men with guns. I check my watch which elicits a frown from the same man who did the tango with me last time I saw him. Or rather, he tried to teach me the tango. He is three hundred pounds and smells like roses, but he could crush any of us in seconds. He was uncharacteristically graceful.

And I called it. Almost two years ago, I said I wondered if Caleb had gotten backing from the Russians. Right here.

We were back on the plane at two a.m. No one wanted to sleep, no one wanted to stick around for breakfast either. Lochlan had one of my hands tightly in his, and Ben had the other. I could skip along three feet off the ground but it was neither the time nor the place, instead I just ran to keep up with how fast they walked across the tarmac.

Batman glowered at Caleb the whole way home. I didn't really understand the new vitriol until the plane was in the air and he pointed at Caleb and said now the Devil was going to understand precisely what it feels like to not be in control of one's own destiny. More than ever. I believe Batman bought back my life at a margin of 700 to 1, or some such inflated price over what was actually owed.

The Russians knew before we got there that the price on my head would be met, no matter what. Which either makes me a huge liability or very very very very special indeed.

Or maybe just quite a bit more happy to be home than you might realize. I drank everything I could find on the plane on the way home. When we landed I just remained in my seat, numb and worn out. Ben finally picked me up and carried me to the car. I don't think he understood how frightening this was for me. Maybe that's a good thing. I am still permitted to spend time with Caleb, but the rules are that it be here, within reach. This is one of the caveats that led him to move onto the property. Another one is no more deals.

You know, I wasn't going to write about what happened before Christmas when we flew to Tahoe, not to this extent anyhow, but I grow weary of people wondering why the tides shifted so abruptly with Caleb, and attempting to predict when they will shift back. If this is not proof that they won't be swinging back to the old ways, I don't know what is.

Fear, as it turns out, is one of the strongest motivators.

I should know.

Feeling better/Business as usual.

Hahahahaha. The boys who live here have flooded my inbox with videos of themselves singing. I am so lucky. Or cursed.

Let me wade through the submissions and see who gets to stay.

(I'm KIDDING! PJ can't even sing Happy Birthday properly. And he already left and then came back so no one's going to go through THAT again, thanks.)

They have requested something of me though. That I stop dancing around the kitchen punching the air and bleating along with the stereo to I Want it All while I bake for them. Apparently I am 'embarrassing'.

Well now.

Shit.

Busted.

The benchmark for showmen the world over.

Someone asked in an email what the criteria was for joining my 'hippie commune' as they so sweetly called it.

Easy. You have to sing this song. A cappella. Without your voice breaking at the 2:32 mark, after the bridge, naturally.

Send video submissions to my email. We're always looking for new victims entertainment.

(Snort.)

Open ticket.

I'm sorry, Bridget. I really think you're spreading yourself too thin. I worry about you. I fear for your heart and your continued improvement when you degenerate into trying to please all of them.

All of us, don't you mean?

No, the houseful you have. I am a separate entity.

It's the same thing, Cale.

I didn't invite you here to argue, I invited you down for a bite to eat and a drink. What would you like?

Scotch, bourbon. Whatever you're drinking is fine.

Bulliet.

Oh, how fitting. Pour me a big one, would you, please?

Done.

I turn and look at the water as he heads inside. A cigar rests in the tray on the table. All it needs is a brief hint of oil paint and I will be in 1995 again. Memories are a time machine and we are just too chicken to get in so we watch them like a movie through the windows of our minds. Because you can't go back. Time machines aren't real. I go back inside.

Here, baby girl, a little ice for you too.

Thank you. I take a huge gulp and stare up at him up over the rim of the glass. He's smiling at me slightly, curiosity in his features. He's so handsome my knees start to tremble lightly. I didn't ever in a million years want to acknowledge that but I may as well. Time is short and he's got a defective ticker and a death wish. Sort of an odd conundrum for Satan, but I don't see Satan around anywhere right now. Oh well, the night is young, now, isn't it?

Where is Ben tonight?

Downstairs in the studio.

Anything new?

Maybe. Yes, I think so.

Lochlan?

Why don't you find him and ask?

I see. How long can you stay?

I'd like to stay for as long as it takes me to drink this without rushing and then I'm going up to the house to go to bed. I'm still not a hundred percent but worlds better through the weekend. We settled in at the kitchen island despite his protests and chat about the children for a while. I include discussions on Ruth because it's a habit and because I'm not dividing my life or their lives down the middle just because Caleb and Lochlan stand on opposite sides of the yard most days and scowl each other down.

Eventually he sees that I am three-quarters finished and brings the subject back around to shared interests. He remarks that he's almost glad the offer on the property up North fell through. Whistler casts a magical spell around those who visit, imploring us to stay. In reality we won't get up there any more than once every few weeks.

Instead he suggests some changes to expand the boathouse and I shut him down, pointing out the permit headaches with the dock already and the fact that I like the boathouse the way it is, and can't deal with any more change. I tread carefully, his name is on the mortgage contract and I don't own this house after all. I tread confidently because he is in my good graces and I am as generous, if not more, to try to keep us equal. It's easier.

He suggests a home in the country, then. A luxurious retreat with horses, near the lake where the children like to swim, a getaway but still within a couple hours drive. I veto that, we have plenty of room, he can go and buy whatever he likes but this house makes me happy and I don't want a second, thanks.

I am trying to figure out what Caleb is up to when he abruptly changes gear again.

A trip, then. Somewhere warm, a break from this weather.

Where? (I am humoring him and curious besides).

Maldives? Montserrat? Spain? Pick somewhere and we'll go.

Who will go?

You and I. Maybe the children if you wish.

My drink is finished. I get it. He wants to score points, hell, he just wants to score and has reached the desperation stage where he would give me the moon if only I would view it in his presence, exclusively. I call him out because I can't stand it anymore.

Why do you do this?

I'm making sure you have an escape this time. Something I didn't give you before and I should have.

An escape from what?

Men like Cole. Men like me.

I drink the last of my bourbon in one giant gulp and let it burn right down to the ends of my toes while I consider his confession.

You're right, Caleb. You should have done this years ago. Why the fuck didn't you do this years ago?

Would you have taken it? Would you have accepted rescue from someone like me?

I left the question hanging in the cold night air, letters smeared in the fresh snow, words chilled to just above freezing, almost imperceptible in the dark. It seemed like the right thing to do.

He's going to kill me for telling you this but sick people get bored eventually.

When I said he had no nickname you didn't actually believe me, did you?

aluminum, tastes like fear
adrenaline, it pulls us near
I'll take you over
it tastes like fear, there
I'll take you over

will you live to eighty-three?
will you ever welcome me?
will you show me something that nobody else has seen?
smoke it, drink
here comes the flood
anything to thin the blood
these corrosives do their magic slowly and sweet
phone, eat it, drink
just another chink
cuts and dents, they catch the light
aluminum, the weakest link

I don't want to disappoint you
I'm not here to anoint you
I would lick your feet
but is that the sickest move?
I wear my own crown and sadness and sorrow
and who'd have thought tomorrow could be so strange?
my loss, and here we go again

He's scrubbing his hands. Outside at the tap, kneeling on the grass in front of a bucket. His shirt is filthy and his skin and hair is streaked and blackened. It makes his teeth look unnaturally white. Lochlan is so focused I'm hoping the sound of my stomach growling as I sit ten feet behind him in the sun interrupts his efforts so that we can go and eat now. He's used half a bar of soap already, grinding the little brush against the surface and then pressing so hard I worry but this is part of his wind-down and it takes as long as it takes, while he replays his performance and makes mental changes or notes for the next one, on the next day.

Locket.

I say it so softly I don't know if he hears. Abruptly he reaches up and turns off the water and then rinses his hands one last time and wipes them on the hem of his shirt. I frown. He goes through five triple packages of plain white t-shirts per season. So wasteful.

What did you say, peanut?

I laugh. I said Locket. Because you need a nickname.

I don't need anything. I have a name. What does that mean anyway?

You're very important to me, and you keep everything hidden on the inside, locked up tight but once you open up you share your secrets and surprises with me.

Surprises, huh?

Yes.

Locked up tight? What do you mean?

You never tell me you're afraid or mad or worried until it's over.

Yeah. You know me too well.

So I can use it?

Only you. And not in front of anyone, okay?

They wouldn't catch it, I don't think. You don't have to worry.

You're loud. They'll catch it.

Sorry.

It's okay, peanut. I like it, I always know where you are because you're noisy. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles again. Hey, want to go in town for lunch? The diner has minestrone for the special today, and all the bread you can eat.

Maybe you should phone ahead so they can start baking more.

He laughs out loud. Run and fetch the helmets, then. And no thinking up any more nicknames along the way, okay?

No deal. You do it all the time.

He smiles and turns to inspect his fingernails to see if he is decent enough for lunch. I turn and run for the camper to collect our gear.

Masquerading as a man with a reason.

Still sick. Kind of really sick but being treated and soon to be good as new. Or better than ever. Okay, at least no worse off than before.

In other news, Lochlan's compiling the Time Life Collection of Quintessential Songs From The Past That Paralyze Bridget Like Nothing You've Ever Seen, Physically, Mentally and Emotionally.

I thought the Rock Band game had that covered, since both collections open with Carry on Wayward Son.

I'll be dead by Saturday at this rate. Or frozen in place. Meh, nevermind, it all feels the same right now anyway. Back to convalescing and looking amazing while doing it.

Oh scratch that, Ben just said I look so pale I'm green. So I match my eyes at least. Here's to color-coordination in fever dreams!

In a room with the unwell feral child at noon on a cold sunny Wednesday.

So...if you could...who would you bring back first?

Freddie Mercury.

I test Caleb's patience so. Bridget-

I was just teasing. John Bonham for sure. Or Peter Steele. You know what? I'm not sure now.

Are you going to make jokes all day?

Jokes? That's the holy triad of unrequited bucket lists right there. Three bands I will never see intact, Queen, Zeppelin and Type-O Negative. You need to get with it.

I meant Cole or Jacob.

I'm only answering that if you're prepared to invoke your evil powers right this second to pull it off. If we have a deal, I'll give you a name. If you're not playing Satan than fuck you for asking. AGAIN, I might add. I don't understand why it even matters so much when they're both gone.

They aren't gone. You conjure them up in the fucking garage on every day that ends in Y. If they weren't in our faces all day every day we wouldn't wonder so much.

No one told you you had to live here. I reached past him and pried the honey dipper out of his hand as he spiraled the golden liquid into his tea. I stuck it in my mouth, then pulled it out and held it up over my open mouth to let the remainder drip onto my tongue.

No one told me you were such an incredible pain in the ass when you're sick, Bridget.

I'm worse when I feel well.

Yes, yes you are.

Gee, thanks.

Don't mention it.

Smoke and mirrors.

She dreams in color
She dreams in red.

Ten minutes after eleven I make it back inside, slip off my shoes by the door and tiptoe upstairs. Cole is sitting in the hall on the top step in the dark.

We'll have to add some hot water, he says as he gets up and walks back into our room.

I follow him right into the bathroom where he has a million candles lit and a deep steaming bubblebath ready.

He turns to kiss me but stops just as I close my eyes.

What in the hell is all over you?

He walks back to the door and flicks on the light while I face the mirror.

Well, fucking SHIT.

Handprints. Carbon, charcoal-black sooty full handprints on both sides of my face, my neck and my hands. Cole starts to pull my clothes off and there are more. Everywhere, just everywhere.

The look on his face would have killed a lesser human but I have something to live for now. To get back at Cole for giving me to Caleb I upped the ante and started to see Lochlan behind Cole's back. Loch will never say a thing, he will look Cole in the eye and lie so convincingly it's easy to see how he can charm a crowd.

It's also easy to see how careless we can be when rushed, when desperate.

I look back at my own expression. Wild-eyed surprise. I look..happy. I look crazed and exhilarated and satisfied. I look amazing, like a living work of art, almost like when I become covered with paint when Cole paints a study of me or wants to use me for figure painting except this is in black and white so it's as if I have been molded and shaded by Lochlan's hand.

That's exactly how I became who I am. I was created by him and finished by Cole. Cole took a work in progress and tore me back a few layers to make changes and broke some unique features and I was never the same.

I am hoping to circumvent him now with Lochlan to finish myself. To complete Bridget and not have any more teardowns or revisions. I am defying him with every step I take, burning the memories in the flames, extinguishing my loyalty to him in a bucket of water that I ran and fetched at the tap behind the barn, crying the whole way, big hitching blubbering sobs because I thought Lochlan was going to burn.

It takes exactly five days for the marks to wear off my pale skin and another three for Cole to speak directly to me. I don't notice. I keep seeing my face in the mirror that night. Full of life. Loved. Wanted. Taken.

Vaguely singed.

Game of chance.

He's down on the back patio practicing with his torches. Eating fire. Slow burn tricks and human lighter stunts that make me smile. Showy stuff. His arm still hurts. They refused to cast it anymore. He refused to let them anymore. He said it will heal on its own, eventually.

I am inside, washing pots and pans, watching closely since he is out there alone. I turn and quickly scan the room for my phone in case he goes up in flames and I have to call emergency. My face hits Ben's chest squarely and I bounce back against the sink.

Ow. You really have to stop sneaking up behind me.

You really should wear those tiny things that help you hear me, bee.

When I wear those I can hear Mars sneaking up behind me, Benny. Possibly Jupiter too.

He laughs and spins me back around so I can keep washing dishes while he puts his chin on my head and leans forward to look out the window.

Fuck, I gotta learn to do that.

Why? I'm guessing you have enough talents.

Oh really. He leans down and plants a kiss directly behind my ear while squeezing me so tightly I hear popping noises in all sorts of different places.

Crushing me should not be one of them.

Depends on the circumstances. He wraps his hand around my throat and pulls my face to the right to kiss me. I struggle, pointing out that I would love to cuddle as soon as I'm finished the dishes and Lochlan comes back inside.

Why? Do you have plans?

I always watch him to make sure he's safe.

Too bad he couldn't do the same. It's out before he can censor himself.

Low blow, Benjamin.

True story, Wee-Bee.

We engage in a thousand-yard staring contest. I'm not going to continue to defend Lochlan, my position on that is well-documented. I'm allowed to point out Lochlan's epic failures and he's allowed to point out mine, as they pertain to each other. No one else will get that privilege. Ben changes tactics, because he doesn't think it's worth continuing either.

How about we rendezvous at eleven then? A hot bath with some rose petals, just for my beautiful bride.

I nod but my eyes flick toward the window again, checking the patio. Ben misses nothing.

Eleven then, he frowns and shoves me toward the back door. He points at me. Why the hell is everyone doing that lately? Don't get too close to the fire, okay? You'll get burned. He does the Kurgan impression again, winks and turns away, walking out of the room.

I stop long enough to pull on my shoes and then I run out the back door and across the deck toward the steps. If there's a show starting I don't want to be late.

I didn't mind the wait. I was watching the sunlight kiss the waves. All the way out past the sandbars where the whitecaps threatened even the best of swimmers. I swam out there once and only once. It was exhilarating, terrifying and life-changing. I'd like to do it again only that sort of courage is hard to muster and harder to maintain.

I can feel my skin starting to burn. I frown and pull out my sunscreen. SPF 15. I don't think it's working so I slip my sundress back on over my bathing suit. I don't own any sunglasses. I pull off the ribbon from my braid and let the wind comb my hair. That will protect my shoulders, ears and neck at least.

And then I see him, hurrying down the boardwalk, arms tight with the weight of the canvas bags he is carrying. He jumps off the high end of the step and slogs through the deep sand between the dunes to where I sit waiting, my bag full of sketchbooks abandoned beside me.

He drops down and scrutinizes me.

Sorry for the delay. The lineups are incredible with the tourists here. He frowns slightly. You're burning. Let's go back.

Can we eat first and then go right home? Always hungry. My stomach growls for effect and Lochlan laughs.

Look what I found for you. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a small bottle of Orange Crush, and then a second. It's like a scavenger hunt in every little town for us now. And this, he pulls out two bags of chips and then two sandwiches. I am busy spreading out the quilt that was in the other bag and then I check to see if there is anything else to be unpacked. At the bottom of the bag I find a folded up piece of notebook paper. Not so much folded, but crumpled.

I take it out and begin to open it up when Lochlan reaches out and takes it from me. He is abrupt and rough.

That's a list I made for my birthday plans, I should keep that. No worries.

But he's lying and we both know it.

He stands up and shoves it deep into the pocket of his cargo shorts. When he sits back down everything has changed. The sun runs to hide behind the clouds. The seagulls cease their cries along the cliffs. The waves smooth themselves and lurk under the surface.

He opens my pop and hands me the bottle. Eat, Bridget. We have a busy evening ahead. I think we can manage a quick swim though. He smiles gently now.

I nod and tilt the bottle up to take a sip. He is unwrapping the sandwiches. Egg for me, Montreal smoked meat for himself. They are from the deli beside the corner store. In exchange for the free lunch Lochlan will allow the owner's children to ride the Ferris wheel all damn weekend long, whenever they please. It's a small risk with a big reward: food. Something that is always too scarce on the road. No matter what we do we're always vaguely hungry. When I see deer at the edge of clearing behind the campers I don't want to feed them, I want someone to shoot them so we can barbecue them and then sleep deeply instead of fitfully, woken by pangs of hunger.

I have become a tiny carny, savage and with bloodlust in my eyes. At least that's what Lochlan describes me as in the stories he tells me late at night while we watch the stars through the little window above our bed.

I should have asked about that piece of paper again. I know what's on it now but it would have made all the difference back then.

A year of living dangerously.

(Oh, hello, she says as she turns around to acknowledge your presence. I don't know why you jumped. After all you were the one who went looking for her. And you always find what you're looking for.)

I was going to come in here and distract you with flighty, nonsense words. I was going to show you my resolutions for the new year. I was going to share my hopes with you, and my plans to become a better, new and improved princess, starting the year off right but then two things happened.

Thing one was that Lochlan and PJ got into it. I mean, really got into it. They took us all by surprise and since the dust is still settling I can't say too much yet. This is one of the hazards of an intentional family, in reality. In fantasy, this was a terrible, horrible no-good fight.

Thing two was that I looked at the list of resolutions I have typed up and I noticed that there are only two things still on the list that I haven't already broken.

So fuck that, I guess.

And no, one of them wasn't to swear less. Jesus, people. The rest of the world can mind their mouths, I like mine the way it is, thanks. Filthy as a Sailor, twenty-four seven.

And now since we've done nothing but watch four entire seasons of The Wizards of Waverly Place in the past two days while sick with the second round of the holiday flu, I need to go. The final movie starts in an hour, and I need to see who the family wizard will be.

I know who it is in this house.

Me.

Snort.

I really need to be wearing this right now.

Residuals.

It's seven in the morning and Ben and I are sitting on the cliff, legs swinging.

What do we do now?

Live in the moment, baby.

I don't think I like this particular set of moments.

Okay then, let's drink some coffee and watch the sun come up.

And then what after that?

You plan too much. What about just taking things as they come?

What about actively seeking your dreams?

Tell me your dreams.

I don't know what they are anymore. Things have changed so much. I used to know. I used to have a plan.

And what happened?

Life happened and my plans fell apart.

Right, so maybe plan less and watch more sunrises and maybe a new plan will come about.

How much time did you spend with Jacob again? You sound just like him.

More than you might realize. I kind of liked the guy.

Shut the fuck up.

I cross my heart, pig-a-let.

Hey Ben?

Yeah, Bridget?

You're totally ruining this moment, imitating him.

But you're in it now, at least. And that's what I was aiming for.

Well you got it. Straight through the heart.

Yeah....

Yeah what?

Oh nothing, I was waiting for you to break into that Bryan Adams song.

I said straight through.

Close enough.

Not even.

If we keep bickering we're going to miss the part where the colors fade.

You need to stop reading my blog.

I can't help it. It's fascinating. It's like the junk drawer of your brain.

Really? How so?

A scrap of REM lyrics, some love letters, a paperclip bent into the shape of a heart, some dead birds, a thousand seashells, some faulty, unlit stars and a Slipknot CD you didn't tell anyone you still had. It's a shadowy drawer though, hard to see everything in it. I bet it keeps going forever, you can just keep pulling it out and you never reach the end.

Sounds perfect.

Kinda like you.

My eyes filled up and I shook my head. Not even close. But I know what's in your junk drawer, Benny.

He wagged his tongue at me, Kurgan-style. Yeah baby.

No, not that junk drawer.

Okay, what's in it? Serious now.

It's empty save for a guitar pick and a pair of rose-colored glasses.

Exactly. Now tell me, Bridget. What the fuck is cerulean?

Hush, now.

Bury all your secrets in my skin
Come away with innocence, and leave me with my sins
The air around me still feels like a cage
And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again

So if you love me, let me go.
And run away before I know.
My heart is just too dark to care.
I can't destroy what isn't there.
Deliver me into my fate
If I'm alone I cannot hate
I don't deserve to have you
My smile was taken long ago
If I can change I hope I never know

I still press your letters to my lips
And cherish them in parts of me that savor every kiss
I couldn't face a life without your light
But all of that was ripped apart
when you refused to fight

So save your breath, I will not hear.
I think I made it very clear.
You couldn't hate enough to love.
Is that supposed to be enough?
I only wish you weren't my friend.
Then I could hurt you in the end.
I never claimed to be a saint
My own was banished long ago
It took the death of hope to let you go

So break yourself against my stones
And spit your pity in my soul
You never needed any help
You sold me out to save yourself
And I won't listen to your shame
You ran away - you're all the same
Angels lie to keep control
My love was punished long ago
If you still care, don't ever let me know

A wild night and a new road.

Every whisper
Of every waking hour
I'm choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool
Oh no, I've said too much
I set it up

Consider this
Consider this the hint of the century
Consider this
The slip that brought me to my knees failed
What if all these fantasies
Come flailing around
I've said too much

Ben confronts me late last evening in the upstairs hall.

What's the point, bee? Why are you still trying to reconcile Cole and Jacob's war anymore? It doesn't matter now.

Good, they're all still reading. That makes it easier.

I'm not doing it for me, I wrote that for Caleb. Just because I give someone a cookie doesn't mean they are forgiven.

Who? Who isn't forgiven?

But I didn't answer, I just walked around him out to the balcony to say goodnight to the sea.

As if no one is watching/Disinformation.

(The pearls and cameo pinks competed with the cerulean and cyan streaks of blue for attention this morning and they had it from darkness onward. Rapt. Hypnotized by a moment and she went back for more, standing on the back steps watching the pinks dissolve and the brightest blues fade into pale representations of themselves. The culmination of warm light with such vibrant colors is a gift, albeit a fleeting one, like life itself. She spins and spins and hums to herself even though she can't hear it. She can feel the vibrations. That's enough.

Dreams are popped like balloons, words thrown around carelessly, regret and frustration remain bookmarked right where we left them, ready to pick up and carry along. These days are hard, she said, and he knew exactly what she meant in spite of the fact that she's on a different page. He has already read that one and can advise her of excitement or sorrow to come. No, don't tell me! She implores him not to give away the surprises, if only that she can discover them on her own. Otherwise there is no point.

The rain threatens to melt away her transparent facade so that all can see, voyeurs clawing at her emotions. Blatant, curious stares returned to her instead of comfort. She shakes her head in denial and she goes and does what she was going to do anyway.)

***

Dance, Bridget.

I was! Sorry you missed it.

More, then. I can wait. I want to watch you.

Suddenly I'm embarrassed but I push my chin up and tell him the moment has passed. Sort of like the sunrise.

I saw it. It was beautiful, no?

It was.

Thanks for the cookies in the kitchen.

Oh! You're welcome. How many did you have?

The plate.

You ate them all?

Yeah, they were so good...I'm sorry, was I not supposed to?

I was hoping Cole would get a chance to have at least one.

I didn't know. Look, I can say they were taken to the station and enjoyed. I've been talking to Cole anyway. Letting him know that if he has any concerns or if he needs to talk to someone I'm here. If I can help him-

It's okay. Everything's alright.

My mind is racing. He's talking to Cole? Oh, maybe this is not okay and I just try and do things the way I think they should work and then if they don't work I wait for help. But I don't know who will help with this. Andrew is always away. Lochlan? Are you kidding? Don't even ask. Christian might feel as if he is forced to pick sides. Daniel is a big monkey, he throws food and makes me laugh but he's not strong enough by half. Duncan is too busy with his rhyme-less poems and his minimalist image and Caleb could buy a fix but then his shadowy private backers would come looking for payment with interest and I can't even go there. Ben? I try not to complicate his life, he does that enough for both of us and he's never home either so here I am, knees dirty, tape in hand, trying to refasten the corners of what used to be a pretty picture to the heavens, keeping it level with the horizon.

But I didn't know that Jacob was trying to reach out to Cole. That's unexpected. Unscripted. Mindbreakingly touching to me. It leaves me almost as warm as it makes me angry. A surge of courage brings me to my feet and I am back in charge of my emotions for a precious few minutes. His words will be useless anyway. Thrown against Cole, who will swat them away unread. Unwelcome. Unnecessary and suspicious. It would be believing war strategies told to you by the enemy you are trying to defeat. Cole isn't stupid. This is only going to make it worse.

I'll make more cookies. Cole will like that.

Jacob nods but he's not buying it. The expression on his face has been upgraded from mild chagrin at not saving any dessert to overwhelming concern at my excuses. I reach up with both hands and try to form his cheeks into a smile. I pull his beard gently, tugging on his face but he only winds up looking darker and more dismayed. I turn away.

If cookies can serve as a catalyst, it's time you leave him, Bridget.

I turned around again and smile with what I hope is a light scowl. Bright and fake as anything. It's not that. I'm just still embarrassed that you almost caught me dancing in the sun.

Such a bad liar, princess. I hope you never fix that. His eyes soften now. The color matches the sky I witnessed this morning and I am humbled. I see God in his eyes. How fitting for a preacher to show this to me.

I shake my head. Would you believe me if I told you things are better?

He watches me struggle to maintain my position, perched on a slab of subterfuge so sharp it's leaving deep grooves in my skin. They begin to bleed.

No, Bridget. I wouldn't. It's far too late for that.

On a Tuesday it's an accident, on a holiday it's on purpose.

(The crush has loomed long on the beat poet too, but we mostly ignore it. I still worry about him though.)

Duncan is standing outside in the pale sun. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, sunglasses in place, he strikes a casual pose on the edge of the lower cliff on the opposite side of the backyard, where I rarely go because the view is better on the right side, away from the city, toward the open ocean. He's in his vintage swim trunks. They fail to make him look any more modern for his retro-ness, he's still as close to a real live lizard king as I will ever be again because he's one of three who eschew haircuts until the others start referring to him as a girl. It puts his appearance squarely in 1972.

He is staring at the water and shaking his head.

This is going to hurt. He doesn't seem concerned though. Maybe he isn't right for his role here. You see, Duncan is normally second in command around the house, after PJ. (Yes, it takes two full-sized men to look after one tiny princess on a regular basis. One because she's fast and two, because she's hypnotic.)

He flicks his cigarette to the ground and tells Ben Time is money, friend. Then he takes a swan dive off the edge. I yell his name with alarm, they had yet to clarify whether or not it's safe to jump off this side. It's all been theory and conjecture up until now! I jump up and go racing toward the edge and Ben puts his arm out and when I hit it full on and bounce back he catches me nicely, and then Dalton and Christian are over the edge too and I say something about waiting to see if Duncan has survived when I hear him calling to me from the water.

And then oddly, Lochlan says Ben, don't you dare.

Cue the screaming.

Too late I figure out what Lochlan means, as Ben throws me off the ledge.

I scream all the way down and when I hit the water Duncan yanks me to the surface instantly. Good thing too, since the cold water takes my breath away so I open my mouth to breath. A reflex or an instinct, I still don't know.

I look for an angel to come and envelope me in warmth to carry me to the top again so I can go inside and stand inside the fireplace until my flesh dissolves into lava but none appears. I ask Duncan if there's a fast way back and he says no, we have to swim around to the other side, to the beach.

Oh what? Really? I won't make it.

Sure you will, come on.

He tucks me under one arm and sidestrokes easily along the rock wall and I sort of feel warm suddenly. Not because he's cute but because I have hypothermia and I stop talking and sort of become distracted watching the clouds. We're at the beach now and I hear Ben hollering the whole way down and then a giant splash somewhere behind me and PJ is standing there with an armload of blankets and boots and coats. I swear at Duncan while I am wrapped up like a mummy, shivering.

He declines the offered warm clothes and shakes his head like a dog.

There. You wanted new traditions.

Not those kind. Not death-defying, dangerous, crazy ones.

What other kinds are there, Bridget?

He's grinning at me, dripping wet, shaking like a leaf, eyes wild and it suddenly dawns on me that Jacob must have been a mirage. A representation of all the pieces and quirks of the rest of the boys, all wrapped up in a pretty package. I can almost see exactly which facets of his personality and his demeanor match each of the others in turn and sometimes I am floored by the similarities, the familiarities involved.

I meant m-maybe I would m-m-make some different foods or we would s-s-switch to opening presents on Christmas Eve or s-something.

Oh. Then you'd better talk to Benny. He said you seemed sad that there wasn't more excitement lately.

That wasn't w-what I was t-t-t-t-talking about, Duncan. Besides, I already had a s-s-s-swim this w-w-winter, remember?

Ben is out of the water. He's as white as a sheet. He shakes his head too and said that was invigorating but he won't be doing it again because it will take him more than a year to pry his balls out of his throat with a dull fork.

I start laughing and shivering while the boys cringe at Ben's description. He's never been one to censor himself. We make a great pair.

We chalk the whole thing up to a bad idea with flawless execution and resolve never to try to make it a tradition again. Some things just don't fly, like Bridgets off cliffs. Something tells me I'm not the only one relieved to find this out.

(Tonight the only one who isn't still cold is the only one who didn't jump in. Go figure.)

One more trip around the sun.

2011.

What can I say about you?

I'm grateful for our health, for our continued independence and for our safety, relative to those times in earlier years (and mere weeks ago) when it could not be guaranteed. I'm grateful for the music, the warm house and the beautiful views, a stack of books to draw in and games to play, a reading pile as tall as myself and arms that are always open for me, not matter what. I'm grateful for the food on the table and the memories from which we have learned lessons and found resolutions from. I'm grateful for my life, let's not split hairs on that one, either.

But I'm looking ahead now, not behind. 2011 was another year of change and adjustment and learning to find comfort in new settings with new rules and fresh routines. It was a very very good year with two weddings. No one close to me died either. Hooray for the most basic grace of all.

It was a fine, fitting year and it is over. Any last attempts to pin significance on it will be met with helpless laughter, because we are simply out of time. Try again next year, about eight hours from now, Pacific time.

Happy New Year. May 2012 live up to your dreams.

Here's to beginning again.

Sláinte mhaith.

Ha. Doing shots and drawing entire Jethro Tull album covers from memory. Not sure who our social coordinator is in this house but clearly she is awesomes.

The ballad of Highway 99 (gold, guns and girl, singular).

The money from the sale of Caleb's waterfront condo was earmarked and I didn't realize it.

Caleb is still eating crow, crow that costs a fortune, crow that must taste like caviar and dreams or he would have stopped by now and reverted back. All diurnal business has ground to a halt, anyway. The nocturnal kind is not up for discussion.

When people ask he simply says he decided to retire early and get out on top. That he has most definitely done, having always made sure he had everything precisely in order, not leaving anything to chance. Well, except that one thing in Tahoe but I think or I hope or maybe I'm almost sure that's been looked after now too.

It was easy for him to close this chapter on his life, he did well enough and saved enough and invested successfully enough that he wound up with more than I thought he would.

When his heart gives out like Cole's did Henry will be taken care of. Caleb will not tell me what his will holds for me anymore. This after I told him over the summer to take me out of everything, that his legacy rests in Henry and not in me. He refused to discuss the matter. I threatened to give it all away. He laughed and asked me what made me think he hadn't already done that? I was put in my place rather quickly. I will never bring it up again.

Yesterday we all spent the day playing in the snow up at Whistler. Caleb disappeared quite early on. At one point he sent a text saying he was taking in a few open houses and would meet us at the restaurant for dinner but I didn't get my messages. It was raining so I zipped my phone into my pocket and left it there.

At seven Ben finally reached him and told him we were heading home. He declined to travel in the caravan of trucks and said he would be along in time to say goodnight to the children.

When he arrived home he had a very good bottle of wine and some news. He's put in a bid on a house up there. Maybe to use it as a base and save the ninety minute drive back and forth when we want to go enjoy some snow. I snorted when he said that, for I am still the last holdout, thanks to that isolated final winter in the Prairies. The boys have embraced the mountains in a sort of primal mutual adoration and I still stand behind Ben's arm and scowl toward anything cold, while I pull my wrap tighter around my shoulders. I can be forced to enjoy it but then I am happy to drive away from it. So making me stay there overnight would just be all sorts of punishment now.

Oh, wait. Nevermind.

He asks for a cookie and I tell him Ben and Cole ate them all. I think I leave him unsettled and uncomfortable and on edge. I smile at the thought. Payback will take place over the next twenty-eight years, and then perhaps when I am ancient, tinier still and completely frail I will call it even. He better make it to that moment or I will be vastly disappointed. This is the work Batman and the others have been doing behind the scenes. If I can't manage to leave Caleb in my past then at the very least I am being positioned to always have the upper hand.

Except that all of this hinges on Caleb's reluctance to start up again with his evil and I never know if I can count on his compliance or if it's just another game. Maybe all of this is a game and I'm playing right into their hands. Maybe Ben is still being puppeted and maybe Lochlan isn't learning his lessons the hard way. Maybe both children still belong to Cole and maybe Jacob went running back to Northeast Asia because that's where he first found God. Maybe pigs are up there blocking the sun instead of clouds but I didn't notice and maybe the joke is on me.

I've gotten into the very bad habit of putting on five or six of the same clothing items at once to be warm and standing out on the very westernmost edge of my cliff for hours. Thinking. Thinking hard, something that requires all the concentration I can gather up. Thinking alone while PJ frets and whines into the phone with Ben or follows Duncan around to do something, after being told that he can go and amuse himself and I will return to myself in an hour or two, three at the most. Ben will tell him not to worry because Ben's faith clearly comes from a place of certain and utter earlier brain damage and Duncan is usually preoccupied and not paying attention so he fails to put weight into PJ's concerns. PJ does not rat me out to Loch because Loch would shut the whole mess down, or at least try. The ghosts, well, they do nothing. Maybe they wait for me to cross over to their team. Maybe they wait to see me go back inside. Maybe they can do something but maybe they have hopes that surpass selfishness, even after life.

Maybe I'll learn to appreciate snow again and maybe I'll still wish ski hills were four minutes long and twenty bucks a day, like when Loch used to take me to Martock, instead of Caleb throwing his fortune around on the pipe dream of retaining whatever spark still lights up between the two of us when we are in close proximity. I don't intend to stop using him any time soon to get my fill of Cole-time and he wouldn't deny me that even if his life depended on it.

Sometimes I think it does and so I spend a lot of time glued to the edge of the cliff, trying to think in the wind. What in the hell is he doing? And what does it have to do with me really?

***

Update: He didn't get the house. The loss doesn't bother him at all, he's one of those people who shrugs it off. Another one will come along, he says when pressed to explain his chipper demeanor. When the agent asked him if he would like to go ahead now and put in an offer on another house, he declined and said he was going to wait for the spring to see if something else caught his eye the way that one had. He listened for a few more moments on the phone and then laughed and said, Yes, I do know what I want in life. Briefly his eyes flickered to me and then as quickly he turned away, pretending to stretch. He hung up the phone and said the ninety minute caravans, for now, will continue.

I pointed out I'd rather be surrounded by sand than snow and maybe he should be looking for an island to buy instead. He just pointed at me, jabbing the air and nodding, and walked out of the room backwards.

And then PJ whispered that I am so evil he can hardly believe it sometimes.

Last night I took two of the snowman cookies and put them on a plate. When everyone was busy I slipped out of the house undetected (no worries, the alarms only go off if I leave the relative safety of the backyard, toward the cliffs, not if I step onto the driveway) and took the plate to the garage. I unlocked the side door of the garage and went inside. It was pitch dark at ground level in spite of a small amount of ambient light from the loft windows above. I didn't turn the lights on, I don't think I ever do when I go in there. I just walked across the floor in the dark to the back wall and set the plate down gently on the counter.

I turned to leave and smacked right into Ben. I think I broke my nose and all of my toes in doing so. He's a wall.

What are you doing, little one?

Nothing. Ow. I didn't know you were behind me.

Do ghosts eat cookies?

I am so busted. Mine would, I whisper and put my hands up over my face. I'm sorry Benny.

He pulls my hands back down. Don't be sorry. I would do the same.

Really?

No. Jake can get his own fucking cookies. And I doubt Cole ever ate them. He probably stacked them up and stood on them so he would look bigger. You know, like Loch does.

I laughed. Oh my God I laughed.

And this morning when we went back for the plate the cookies were gone.

A special performance for an audience of one.

Do you remember this?

That qualified as the World's Most Amazing Christmas Present. The ocean in my arms. The beach. Everything I love in a hand-built box, personalized with my name. I still open it every single day. I have worn the paint off the lid. Some of the roses are missing. There is still sand everywhere all the time because I can't leave well enough alone.

And Ben is still listening, because on Christmas morning he brought me the circus.

The music, the lights, the dizzying spotlights, the ear-splitting, repetitive music. The Fire-thrower, the Fortune Teller, the Magician and the Ringmaster too. The tricks and traps and gasps of an appreciative audience (me) kept me from pinching myself to see if I was dreaming.

And I had no idea what he was up to. None. Not a thing until I was manhandled out of bed that morning, dressed and blindfolded and led down the steps into..heaven on earth. I still had no idea until I heard the first note of the music and my blindfold was taken off.

They put on the greatest show on earth.

My presents were delivered by each performer in turn, each one more surprising than the next until the lights were turned up and Christmas day proper could begin. Everything was rehearsed and choreographed down to the minute. He made a full sized tent even. I begged him to leave it up but let's face it, it took over everything and it had to be dismantled. I would have lived in and around it forever, if you're asking.

I daresay I didn't pick my chin up off the floor until dinnertime. I was cooking, stirring gravy while the music of Fucik's Gladiators played on a loop through my skull. I still don't understand how he pulled it off.

I also still don't understand how Ben turned out to be such a formidable romantic. I just know that positively all of us were entranced, and a little bit in awe of how he managed to top something I thought I could never ever come close to again.

He said it was nothing, but he's wrong. It's everything.

By request.

In lieu of not actually having time to sit down and compose a proper entry, I thought I would fly by and share Ben's annual (and always different but always goofy) Vampire Christmas jokes with you:

What do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire?

Frostbite!

What does a vampire always get his lover for Christmas?

Something en-grave-d!

And the last one, which brought dinner to a brief standstill:

What do you get if you cross a vampire and a circus entertainer?

I don't know but it goes straight for the juggler!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!

My mother, on the phone this morning, reminds me I had the flu last Christmas too and sure enough, she's right. It's as if I can just flip the switch from keeping the household running smoothly to standing on the platform above it, throwing furniture into the gears until it pops and shudders and explodes into certain ruin. When I am this sick things get done in interesting ways or at interesting times. Case in point, baking and decorating snowman sugar cookies with the children after eight on a Saturday night is about as much fun as frostbite but here we are.

I've heard I need to relax, but that could just be a rumor.

In any event we have no firm plans for the next several days and I like that. I want to get better, watch the children and the boys open their gifts, do the usual cook-and-pray turkey dinner cooking method (I'm not very good at this and it's WAY MORE PRESSURE than spaghetti, especially since I was grilled at the breakfast table.

Do we have...cranberry sauce?

Yes.

Stuffing?

Yes.

Gravy?

Yes.

Real butter?

Yes, of course.

Potatoes?

Yup.

Creamed corn?

Fuck no, gross.

What time do we put the turkey in?

I don't know. It says the time per pound but the label is in kilograms. I have to find a calculator online.

Just multiply it, Bridget.

I can't. We never did kilograms. I think it's 1.5 or maybe 2 pounds is a kilo...

Christ. What did they teach you in school?

Ask me anything about Oliver Cromwell. Or ask me to recite 'Evangeline'.

What are those things?

See? I learned more than you did.

At least I can convert pounds to kilos.

Once a year. We need to do that ONCE a year, Benjamin. What a waste of American resources.

We make really good turkey dinners though.

Really? Okay, you cook tomorrow. I'm sleeping in.

You're on.

The only rule is you have to use common kitchen implements, Ben. So no chainsaws, blowtorches or lawnmowers.

Okay, how about this? We'll cook together. The Americans can do the math, and the Canadians can provide the nuance and....stuff.

Tonight everyone is home safe and sound with me. The doors are locked, the lights on the tree are lit, there's a fire in the fireplace and fucking sugar cookies everywhere. It's awesome.

Merry Christmas to you and yours, from all of us here at the home for wayward musicians and runaway freakshow performers. May your days be psychotic and blown out and may all your Christmases be dark and decadent and wonderful and loud.

And I hope Santa finds you.

xo

Happiness (Oh fuck are they calling the cops? Naw, no cell service)

Today I'm watching the Leafs, Canucks and Jets standings in the NHL and I'm watching boy movies (Conan, Rise of the Planet of the Apes) and I'm nursing a midrange fever that just won't quit and I'm watching my husband swim across a creek up in the mountains on a day when I can't even feel my fingers, it's so cold up there and I had to put his clothes on a rock because they were too heavy and I was scared he was going to drown or be swept away and he said it was 'invigorating' and gave the people watching on the bridge a lovely show of his naked butt and possibly full frontal (sorry, please don't put it on Youtube) and talked nonstop until we were home again and he could go find some dry clothes and yeah, this one is unexplainable but very very Ben-like, so nothing new around these parts.

He makes me laugh. I also aged a thousand years.

"Keep the circus going inside you, keep it going, don't take anything too seriously, it'll all work out in the end". ~David Niven

When he walked into the room I rushed over, wrist held up, bracelet out with a silent request for an extra hand to put it on. I can't fasten the catch with my left hand. It frustrates me every single day.

The Christmas whorenament needs help? No problem. He reaches for the bracelet but I snatch it back.

What the fuck.

Do you need to publicly detail your evenings?

Do you want a job as editor? Because I can't pay you and volunteers aren't given censorship authority.

Bridget, you're incorrigible.

How many times did you read it? Be honest, you filthy pervert.

Four. Now are you ready for dinner?

No. Ben is still dressing.

Did he read it?

I turn and just stare at him. He was there, he doesn't need to read it. And you know that. So drop it already.

You're going to kill him, Bridget.

It's the offhand comments using phrases involving death that derail me. I slam the closet door closed and drop my coat on the floor and I march right over until I am up in his face and I point out quietly, harshly that I'm not the conductor of this orchestra. Caleb laughs at my euphemism, coffee and whiskey breath coating me in surprise.

I know you aren't but at the same time he is still testing you and nights such as those are ultimately going to make you fail your practicum.

Oh my God. Don't run with allegories, please. They're sharp. You might hurt yourself.

Isn't that what life has become, princess? Running away with the shred of an idea and letting it get out of hand before we realize not every idea is a good idea and we're in pieces on the floor?

Such as? I'm picking fights now. May as well, no one else is ready to go yet. Our reservations are going to be missed, which becomes complicated when you book a table of seventeen. I have to call the restaurant and warn them we are running late.

Your commune.

Is a well-oiled machine.

It's an incendiary device waiting to explode.

Sour grapes, Cale.

Obvious signals, princess. I'm looking out for you because you can't juggle so many hearts.

Two. Only two. I'm trained for five, fully.

Four. Or maybe seven if you want to be specific.

What the? Oh my God. TWO. Jesus Christ. Two. You make me sound like a party favor.

I'm not blind, princess. I see things you don't think I see. I know what the others want.

Oh, do tell because now you're composing your own melodies. You're ludicrous. And you're wrong.

He opens his mouth to say something and then abruptly checks his expression as Ben comes crashing down the steps, in a black suit with a steel-grey shirt. No tie. He looks like a pro hockey player arriving for a game. A suit on him looks so amazing considering he lives in tour t-shirts and jeans 360 days of the year and the missing four days consist of nothing (if I'm lucky) but plaid flannel pajama bottoms (Damn!) that make me want to put a bucket under my tongue.

Ben refused to join the argument or listen to accusations, instead scowling at Caleb. He pointed one finger at him and said one word.

Don't.

He then took my hand, pulling me out to the front hallway to get our coats on. It's late. We've got to go. The others will have to catch up.

I call the restaurant and let them know we're going to be trickling in gradually over the next half hour to an hour and they're very gracious, appreciative of the warning. Unlike me, who takes warnings as direct challenges. Every time someone levels one I leap into my fighting stance and become ridiculously indignant. Or maybe that's defensive. Oh, wait. It's guilt. Guilt and shame and yet I hold my head high, because the show must go on. Because this is what he wants and who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth when it's presented on such a grand scale?

***

(He sat in the chair in near darkness, eyes focused sharply on the scene that played out in front of him. He missed nothing. Not a centimeter of bare skin, not a kiss, not a whisper. Not a lock of hair or a long breath exhaled over a shoulder taunt with effort. He uses the darkness to torture himself, to bathe in his proclivities and marvel at the power he holds now, the ability to give and take away, like the Jesus Christ of Bridget's universe, gifting favors that breathe and laugh in exchange for total compliance. His own private little world, engineered as a means to an end. He found a red and white tent, deceptively small, complete with a fully working circus inside. He shook out the participants and onto the dry grass fell a blonde and a redhead and he found them intriguing. It's a carnival of madness and he is the ringmaster now. Can't take your eyes off him, I know.)

Solstice (Wait for it).

(This will just be all conundrums and confusion to you. Tough.)

His good hand comes up under my chin, pushing my head up.

Look at me, he whispers.

If I do that it's all over. Obediently I meet his eyes. We are squared and there's a far-away sound of everything falling into place.

His arms pull me in, pull me down into the cool cotton sheets and I break his gaze by closing my eyes. I don't want to love too much or fall too hard but there are some things far beyond my control and this isn't one of them. Oh no, this is engineered by fate and fuelled by history. His skin smells like gasoline, his hair is soft fire in the dark.

The cast is gone again only I don't ask what happened to it, I just watch for him to favor that arm but he does not. He is too busy sharping the points he wants to prove and building up his strength for next summer, the summer he always said he would return to busking full time and go back to his physical showmanship instead of designing and creating things other people will ultimately take the credit for. Twenty-twelve was always a far-away goal for someone who doesn't set goals any more than he makes resolutions. This was an exception to his rule.

Kind of like me.

All he wants is the adoration of a faceless crowd, no commitments and no rainy days on the horizon. No deadlines, no locked windows and no indoor yellow lighting when he could be outside under the fire of the sun.

His lips dance along my earlobe, across my eyelids and come to rest on the tip of my nose. I turn away, it tickles and at the same time it's the most familiar feeling in the world to me now. I hold my breath as he pulls down the zipper on my dress and then he pulls the blanket up over us before I begin to shiver. His skin is warm, so as long as I stay right here I won't get cold.

He kisses across my shoulder, my clavicle, and back up to my jaw. I put my arms around his neck and pull him closer still. I'm going to give up on breathing now, I think I can live on love instead of air. He puts his head down against my ear and begins to rock against me. He's so fierce all I can do is hold him close and hold on tight.

He has my head locked in his hands, pressed against his chest. I am tense and silent. He pulls me up and whispers a command that I breathe for him, breathe with him, breathe him in and I nod furiously. I can do that. I can manage that, even though I can't manage a grip on reality or good graciousness or loyalty. I can manage a breath. He presses his mouth against mine and I can breathe fire now too. His kisses are hard and slow, intensity burning our lips raw but I don't turn away this time.

I can ride the darkness on through to the sun on this longest night of the year and then when the flames lick across the water bringing the blinding light to warm up the morning I will slide off the bed and hit the floor, returning to spend my day with aching limbs and a fractured heart in a reality no more real than the words in some old standard about making believe.

(What did they make it out of and how did they make it hold?)

What do you see? He asks me.

My eyes fill with tears and I shake my head. Some revelations are not meant to be shared. I can't tell you, I'm sorry, I whisper. He understands, oddly enough. He knows precisely what I see in his eyes. Clear as daylight, quiet as candledark, lit by a single torch and so plainly visible to all.

Some things are never meant to be admitted out loud.

(Leave us in the dark.)

(Stay where the light is brightest.)

(In between is safest, peanut. You can still be warm but you can step into the shadows to hide, if there is a time that calls for that.)

(What? I couldn't hear you, Lochlan.)

Zen and the art of shopping.

It's 11:15 and Lochlan has poured me a honey Jack Daniels and eggnog to drink so that I sleep tonight. It's so strong I can feel my brain crackling as I take small gulps even after being warned multiple times to sip it slowly. They say the same thing about coffee. You should SEE how fast I can drink a boiling hot cup of coffee. It's just DUMB.

What a glorious day. I walked around sipping my coffee and admiring things in stores. I took my time. The only people who spoke were clerks offering to help me find things, but no thank you, I'm not buying today. I'm done. Wrapped and loaded for bear and Santa too. I leaned way over the glass on the second floor and he looked up at me and waved this morning and I waved back and took his picture before moving on. I admired the most beautiful dark green satin strapless dress and then I picked the hanger up and held the dress out and realized I don't need it, I have one almost just like it. My Christmas dress. A Valentino that Caleb had altered and sent to me, tied in a box with silver ribbons. He did this many years ago without being asked. It fit perfectly and I wear it every chance I get. I don't know how he knew my measurements. He's never asked. The story goes that he held it up when the alterations were finished and studied it and said it would work. He's spooky like that. I'm still never sure if I should be flattered or run screaming.

I looked at platform shoes and decided I really need some new things. A lot of new things. Or do I? I do but maybe not platforms. Maybe just standard heels. Maybe flats. Maybe a new pair of Angel boots. At least.

I sat and read the paper on my phone when I got tired, watching the young mother beside me feed her baby daughter lunch. I marveled at how small babies are and how glad I am that my children are tweenagers and sort of silly but how there is only one gift under the tree that is a toy, since Henry is ten years old still even though sometimes it feels as if he is much older than that.

I considered buying a new set of bobby pins since we've reached the end of the year and I don't know how many of my gold and silver pins will make it back to me. The boys have an unspoken tradition of collecting them right through the end of the year and then presenting them back to me in neat little containers and boxes, treasures found and collected the same way I collect sea glass. They learned it from Jake. I think I'll wait and see how many reappear. Besides, the stores didn't have gold or silver. I only saw brown, black or white on my travels.

I ruminated on how deliciously wrecked my goddamned knees are from so many years of running. If I sit too long or walk too much on hard floors now my knees and hips ache. And I wore sensible flats to walk in today. I thought I was being smart. I guess it doesn't make a difference, everything aches tonight. But not for long.

I vowed to pare down my belongings to what I dearly love because there's just so much STUFF out there. Stuff won't make me happy, people do. Feelings do. This freaking eggnog and Jack Daniels does. Like, in a hurry. Time for bed. Very long day after all, even though it's probably one of the more relaxing days I have spent lately.

I really like that. I could get in to this relaxing thing. Lets hope it continues.

Shooting stars.

(I don't have to remind you at this point that I don't actually call him 'Batman' to his face, do I?)

Batman has outfitted his floor to ceiling windows with those incredible lights that drop color down the line in stages, like the lights on the big tree at Kitsilano. All of the windows. I'm so hypnotized by Christmas lights, it almost isn't fair that they're going to conduct their Mine is bigger argument in this way but I have become used to the unbearable tension between Caleb and Batman.

What I have not become used to, however, is the sudden realization that Batman is wearing Tuscan Soul. I know that scent very well, and I'm proud of myself for my ability to pick out a man's signature fragrance from three yards away and have yet to be corrected when I hazard a guess to the wearer. Bergamot is a giveaway in this case, and it's worth noting that Caleb sometimes wears it too.

What do you think, Princess? He's pleased with himself, I can tell. He's smiling out of one side of his mouth, trying to suppress the grin. I make note of the use of my nickname and shake my head vaguely.

It's nice. Looks very pretty.

It really shines when the sun is rising. Maybe you should stay and see that.

I turn around. What is that? What are you doing?

Capitalizing on Satan's tricks of the trade, Bridget. Isn't this how it works? How does he have unlimited access to you no matter what and I can count on one hand the number of times-

Don't do this. Why can't I just enjoy the lights? My whole face is sad. What bullshit. I can't believe he's going to pull this six days before Christmas.

You didn't come here for the lights, Bridget.

No, I didn't. He starts to smile again but I keep talking. I came over to bring your present. I wasn't sure if you were going home for Christmas.

Too far for a few days. I have meetings.

Your family will be disappointed.

I haven't gone home for Christmas for years, Bridget. Home is where your heart is and I'm never there on the holiday.

Where is your heart?

I don't know exactly. His eyes turn darker and he walks to the kitchen to pour himself a scotch. I lost it decades ago. I guess I don't want to admit that I thought I was immune to something and it turns out I'm not.

So what do you do now?

Spend Christmas in a new place, I guess. I'm going to check out Woodward's windows and order a list of movies to watch and get some takeaway. You know. Just try and not work for a few days. Get some rest. I think I'm coming down with a bit of a cold.

He's watching me to see what I do next. I'm known for letting all the words come out before my brain is engaged. And I'm known the world over for not wanting people to be alone at Christmas, above all else. That's how we got Duncan and even Jacob, for fucks sakes.

Yeah, rest will be good for that. There's a bad cold going around. Take care of yourself. I am putting on my coat. My brain is in gear, I need to leave before I am drowning in Salvatore's dreams.

Bridget- Batman grabs my shoulders and pulls me in for a hug. Merry Christmas.

I throw my arms around his shoulders and put my head down against his shirt. I inhale deeply while I have the chance. Merry Christmas, Batman. Take care of yourself and call if you need anything.

What would I need, Bridget? I step back and he holds the door. We're just staring at each other. The lines we don't cross hold nicely most of the time. Like tonight. Actually, you know what I need? The name of something I can take that will let me sleep. I can't breathe when I lie down. What should I take?

Nyquil. Get some Nyquil. The green liquid. It's the best.

You've tried it?

Yes, It's the only thing I buy for us.

They're really lucky to have you. We're, all of us, you know? Really lucky. You're a gift. You're like the best Christmas present of all.

I walk to the elevator and turn and when the doors begin to close I say goodbye. I blow a kiss. I feel thankless and flighty after everything he has done for me. For all of us. I resolve to call tomorrow and see if he feels better. Or maybe I'll just bring him some breakfast and coffee before the sun rises, so I can see the way the silver lights look bathed in the orangy-pinks and purples of the early dawn. And check on him. People shouldn't be alone. Not this time of year. Hard to believe Christmas is less than a week away.

Waiting for the angels of Avalon.

Oh war is the common cry,
Pick up you swords and fly.
The sky is filled with good and bad
that mortals never know.
Oh, well, the night is long
the beads of time pass slow,
Tired eyes on the sunrise,
waiting for the eastern glow.

The pain of war cannot exceed
the woe of aftermath,
The drums will shake the castle wall,
the ring wraiths ride in black, Ride on.
Sing as you raise your bow,
shoot straighter than before.
No comfort has the fire at night
that lights the face so cold.

We have a tree! It's up even. It's in the corner of the living room and it's a Grand fir, which was far nicer a tree than I expected we would get, but when I saw the sad soft Douglases and remembered trying to keep my heavy heirloom porcelain and glass ornaments from bending to touch the floor I set about picking something much sturdier and since it's so fucking close to Christmas, the tree man gave it to me for a song.

He remembered us from last year too. Huh.

But I have no energy anymore. I supervised some wrapping tonight, watching Henry struggle with neat folds and the terrible little tape dispenser, and I offered to cook a big dinner but Ben took one look at me and dialed the Chinese restaurant. I am asleep on my feet, approaching that weird stasis where I have let go of worrying about whether or not Christmas will be a success and instead reassured myself that working doggedly at it for the past six weeks straight means I really did try my best and it's okay to relax and begin to enjoy the holiday now. Hard to believe it's still a week away, maybe we're doing better than I thought we were.

I want to sleep more than I am but it still feels as if I'm breaking the surface when I wake up, gasping for air. I'm sure I hold my breath in my sleep and that frightens me but I don't know what to do about it and once my eyes open they remain open for the day. I'll take the dog up the street, walking slowly in the quiet early morning and marvelling at how warm it is and then we come back and I start the coffee and draw a picture or read the newspaper. Then the exhaustion creeps back in around the edges of me and it gains more purchase over the course of the day until it is resting on my head and shoulders, a weight pushing my heels into the ground, compressing my spine, dulling my eyes against the light.

Maybe that will change this week. I have to be careful not to let the night owls keep me up so late, I have to remember it's just fine to sit down and read a book or watch a movie without it being only after it's too late to do anything fun and everything not-fun is done, like chores.

I have to remember to have some coffee in the middle of the day again. That really works, only the boys don't want me to have any bad habits at all. Good luck with that one, I say.

Oh and in other news, Caleb put lights on the boat. Well, he had them put on. Seventeen sets in all. It's a floating carnival. He pronounced it tacky. I said it was perfect.

Through glass.

Standing on the grass sipping a hot coffee, I am smiling at the lights. Many of the boats have Christmas lights up. I am gleeful about it. Everything looks so beautiful. The lights are stunning, doubled in the reflection of the water, punctuating the night with LED sparkles. Mentally I will my whole body to turn to stone so I can stay here, and be a slight, regal version of an Easter Island statue, gazing out over the beloved blue-green sea toward the future or the past or some semblance of life in between.

Caleb's boat has no lights on it. I'm not sure if I should request it or not.

***

The clerk at Tiffany & Co. informs us that, due to a busy afternoon, there is a waiting list to see a salesperson. If we'd like to add our name, she can see that we are taken care of. Ben defers, and invites me to look around first. I head off to do the diamond loop, beginning with the signature pieces and the bridal counters and ending with the leather goods and the Elsa Peretti collections.

He says all I have to do is point to something and he'll have it wrapped.

I walk straight out the door and turn right. In the window with the yellow diamonds they have a tiny snowy pink and blue carousel that spins around and around and around. I want that. I would never stop watching it.

But it isn't for sale.

***

I'm trying to emulate the girl on the other side of the ramen shop. She's using her spoon and her chopsticks in conjunction to eat the noodles. I'm good with chopsticks but every time I pick up the spoon with my left hand my right hand fails to work properly. I put the spoon down and I'm fine. It's so messy but so delicious. Ben is finished so I need to worry less about soup winding up on my dress and more about eating my spicy akaoni miso so we can go home. I'm tempted to ask for some gyoza to take away, just to eat in the truck on the way home. They are so delicious. It's like I haven't eaten in days. I can't remember if I have or not but for tonight the soup will suffice.

***

It's beginning to rain and we have returned to the house empty-handed, having set out seven hours ago with firm plans to go to the Christmas tree lot and bring home a tree. We have driven past ten different tree lots but somehow we needed to just lose a day, give it away, not become slaves to the hours, minutes and schedules of others.

PJ and Ruth present matching facial expressions, rife with disappointment but they are not bound by the same constraints of desperate timekeeping. We vow to rise early tomorrow and head straight to the lot. Ben will again tell me to pick out whatever I like best. Easily done, since these are not designer trees, unless you walk to the center of the lot where the Noble firs are. I will stick to the edges, where the misfit spiny Fraser and Douglas firs rest against wooden saw horses.

I want one that is perfectly imperfect, a tree for a home that is also perfectly imperfect.

I will give the man a handful of twenties and he will make a fresh cut and offer to help Ben get it safely into the truck bed. We will make small talk about Halifax, and compare readiness for what has become a dizzying carousel of holiday madness. We will promise to come back next year.

Next year seems like a million miles away but I know I will wake up in a week and it will be here already and Christmas trees will be the last thing on my mind as I fight to honor the resolutions I've been working on so diligently.

Ultimately I will fail, but I always try my hardest. And that's what counts, isn't it?

Apple. Tree. Far. Blah blah blah.

I knew for sure last night when I asked Ruth to return her scissors, markers and tape to the basket on her desk. This morning when I went into her room to put her folded laundry on her bed, the scissors, markers and tape were sitting on the desk right in front of the basket.

Who does that? Goes all the way to a different floor only to be too indifferent to put the supplies back where they belong, to the point of leaving them directly in front of where they belong?

Lochlan does, that's who.

Drives me nuts.

Now times two.

Let's just cover shock, awe and Tahoe all in one go. I don't have much time.

Thank you for your concerned emails, I realize posting an entry Sunday and then nothing since would throw the Internet into a tizzy, I just didn't realize how large. So in order to put your minds at ease, I didn't do any of the following, in case you heard otherwise:

1. Die.
2. Eat so much rice from the new rice cooker that I explode like a wren at a spring church wedding.
3. Run off with Robert Redford to live out my dream of lap dancing on Sundance while he pulls his gloves off one finger at a time. With his teeth.
4. Join the circus.
5. Get killed in a sex game where Caleb cheats anyway and then pretends not to hear my safe word (which almost happened in what..85? 95? 05?, oh, just pick a year and we'll go with that.)
6. See the new Rock of Ages trailer and turn Amish, eschewing all media forever and ever amen because it looks that bad.

So all of those rumors are false, save for the ones I hope for. (Mostly #3 or #4).

Nope, in this case I was buried in presents, parties and pageants and lost track of the week, mostly because I've found lots of alcohol, wrapping paper and carols but very little hot food, sleep or cuddles.

That last one, well, that's a doozy. I am off to empty the contents of our traveling bags into the washing machine, cook something wonderful, and then turn and lock myself into Ben's arms for the night so I can dream of pine trees covered with snow and men in red coats with white beards. Or maybe that was men in white coats with red beards. Or maybe it's black coats and brown beards.

Yes, that sounds just about right. Goodnight, before my face hits the keyboard (again).