Safely home. Kissed my babies and boys, got the hockey scores, going to shower and go to bed. Forgot how much I hate the smell of plane fuel on bare skin. More tomorrow. Oh, and Christian sent me this earlier this morning and I love it. Really I do.

XO

Pretty Boy Floyd.

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

When I said hello he started singing and he sang the whole thing before hanging up. I was in the vestibule of an expensive restaurant and there was no free place to sit down and I wanted to go and stand behind the curtains and hide but it would have been weird so I walked outside and people fell all over themselves getting the doors open for me or I probably would have walked right into them.

I continued down the sidewalk in my too-cold dress for the weather and too-high shoes for a stroll until Ben caught up with me and tucked my arm through his and held it with his right hand and turned me, walking me back down the street until we reached the restaurant where everyone was still seated inside, oblivious to my escape. He turned me to face him and bent his head down, kissing my philtrum and scraping my nose with his fledgling stubble. He looked into my eyes and smiled a little. Only a little. His eyes weren't in it. It wasn't real.

He doesn't really want to be here either but at the same time as it's necessary, as is a private little break for the two of us right now, just two or so weeks shy of our fourth anniversary, which is some sort of record, since I am such a bad wife but most of the time he doesn't seem to mind.

Until he does.

Back Forty/Salt in the wound.

(I'll be back before you miss me.)

Throw me line if you will
My trembling hands can't hold the truth you tell

Go home, Bridget. His voice startled me from the dark. He was sitting on the stump just up from the water, tucked into the edge of the woods proper.

Why are you hiding, Lochlan?

I bet you don't listen at all, do you? He laughed but it was a harsh sound. He stood up and walked over to where I stood on the grass right beside the lake. He planted a kiss on my cheek. Sloppy. Now I smell like beer too. Yuck.

He points at me. You really should go home.

Why are you drinking beer? You're not allowed yet. You have to be like twenty. I think. I don't know what I'm talking about but I know he is fourteen and too young.

Bridget, you're too uptight for an eight year old. Most kids wouldn't even notice.

You're sitting in the dark alone. Where is Caleb?

On a date or something.

Why don't you have a date? It's Saturday.

So I should be out with some girl?

Isn't that how it's done? Do you like someone?

Maybe.

Then you should ask her out.

She doesn't know I like her.

Why don't you just tell her?

Bridget, have you ever thought that you were in the wrong time and space? That something that should be easy can't be because of circumstance?

I don't know what you mean.

Nevermind. Now why don't you tell me why you're at the lake by yourself after dark. You know you can't swim alone, right?

I wasn't going to go in. Bailey is up the path at the swing and I didn't want to be there. They're smoking. It's gross.

So you decided to wander in the woods?

I'm not in the woods, I stayed on the path and came straight back to the beach.

What is the plan, then?

I have to go back and ask Bailey to take me home.

How about we go together and let her know that I can take you home.

You can't drive. You've been drinking.

We'll walk. It's nice enough. Are you warm enough?

Not actually.

Here, take my sweater. He took off his hoodie and zipped me into it, pulling the drawstrings of the hood tightly. Then he smiled at me. You look like a pixie. You look cute. Let's go.

****

And sadly, just as I start to write about last night (which wasn't all that different than that moment in 1979), Ben comes upstairs with my carpet bag and tells me I should go pack, because we have a two a.m. flight to New York to catch, a long weekend in the biggest city I have been to, unless you count Paris but that might be area rather than density and I was only there for a day anyway so it might not count if I did know what I was talking about.

But I don't. What else is new?

Lochlan does not want me to go, and so he's taken a turn from my bookmark in the big book of immaturity and gotten himself onto a good bender. A mild one, but one nonetheless and he can hang out here with New Jake and PJ and lament the sorry state of his (amazing) life all he wants while he sips all of the good (Irish) whiskey and I play Pepper Potts for another day or two and steal all of the attention from Ben, who is all business these days anyway, and then visit some of the restaurants I have read about lately, so I can make butternauts with freshly churned goat butter siphoned from a thousand cashmere pearl mountain lambs born under a waxing crescent or whatever the hell ridiculous things are written on menus now to sway the one percent.

I am hoping we can get in and out before the Russians find out I am in town. Batman assures me I am safe but I'm not in the mafia so I have no idea what their clubhouse rules are or what sort of revenge they enact past breaking knees and scaring women. And since I don't know what I'm talking about that's one of those side-worries, kind of like what if I die when my will isn't up to date? and Jesus H. Fucking Christ, Schuyler, please don't let Henry drink chocolate milk morning, noon and night for the next three days.

And PJ, please look after my Lochlan so he doesn't miss me too much. Because as I took the bag and headed upstairs to pack, Lochlan pointed at me from across the room.

Wrong time and space, peanut. That's what this is. I am the outsider. You were right.

Gold Stars (It's never going to work so here, laugh at my expense).

You land so awkwardly and never seem to learn
Still I follow you at every single turn
And I picture darker nights and longer sunny days
And hope that you will stay the same all year round

A message in the air that caught you by surprise
I sent it many years ago when I was wise
And I see you've built an army now while I have built a home
And I hope you haven't come to burn it to the ground

Just on the verge of my wanting to tear a strip from Caleb for his non-admissions of late, discovered on accident by a frustrated Lochlan (who would have rather kept silent for the rest of his life, truth be known, if only to protect me from the weirdness), the children decide to stage a coup d'état, demanding that their fathers start doing things together.

Or what? I asked. Or they start resisting everything, they tell me. Oh, and it's for your own good, Mom.

Every event features one man or the other but never both. The exception to this rule is (was?) family dinners, in which there are enough places and spaces in the house that they could both be here but never come across one another in the course of the evening. Opposite ends of the table and everything.

They both like it that way, frankly. But the kids do not and I'm sure the counselors/mediator/teachers/judge/Sam/God had something to do with this but they want us to do things as a family now. All six of us! Sorry, PJ, they mean (as) nuclear (as we can get), so step-dad, both dads, mom and both kids.

Six.

But we can't just jump into these things, because it would be weird and no fun and awkward so it's far better to warm up by having Lochlan and Caleb hang out together (Oh my God). Do things together (Jesus Murphy Christ). Ruth helpfully suggested if they could become friends maybe they wouldn't punch each other so much anymore.

So friends they will be.

(Children aren't stupid and they aren't completely unaware, but life has been softened for them in varying degrees with regard to our memories because that's the way it has to be.)

This morning I decided to get started, and take both of them (Caleb and Lochlan, not Henry and Ruth) grocery shopping. I played my insanity card, clearly. I failed to remember Caleb has his groceries delivered and has no clue about things like lists and budgets and comparison shopping, or better, waiting in line. He doesn't do pedestrian errands. Why would he? He doesn't have the need to blend in with the working class. I function as his personal assistant when I'm not busy being his torture victim/sugar baby or whatever he demands depending on the day.

(Hush, you.)

We started out on the wrong foot, too. First there was a dust-up over the fact that we were taking Lochlan's truck. Duh, Caleb. Three people and enough groceries for ten don't fit in his car or mine.

Then he expected us to go to one of the high-end markets downtown. I'm like, DUDE. We're going to Superstore. Oh, yeah. Yellow labels all the way. No-Name everything. I thought he might die from the bourgeoisie of it all, actually.

Thirdly it was cold and windy and I was looking at my car before we left (thought there was a ding but it's just dirty) and he pulled all of my hair up out of my collar and put my hood down. Lochlan counted to at least six before he came over and stuffed it all back in and pulled my hood back up. Because my ears plus a cold wind equal hurt. Not sure why. Lochlan knows that but Caleb doesn't.

And with that we're off. Once in the truck the devil frowned again because I'm wearing jeans and red Chuck Taylors and a green hoodie. He at least thought I should match. I sweetly pointed out that I do. I match Lochlan, I told him in my best elementary school voice.

(Okay, yes, fine. I'm digging now. My own grave. It's inevitable, I may as well get a head-start. Not even sure I need the full ten by three-and-a-half. Probably five by two will suffice. Three by two if you bury me in a fetal postion. Oh, look how dark I can be while choosing between President's Choice and Tetley teas. Just get it over with and kill me now.)

PJ sends me a text message saying that he can be there inside of fifteen minutes if they get into it in-store but really I should probably plan to call the cops because they could be there faster. I laugh and type back Will do without showing it to either of them.

And to their credit, they managed just fine once we were there and I could give them tasks (like children). They fetched things and compared notes on flavors and packed bags and then Caleb stood there and asked Who takes this outside? I told him You do and he just looked at me. So I said, Fine, I'll do it and then he kicked into gear and he kept looking back at me saying You can push this? To the truck? And I nod because I've been doing it for twenty years or more and he was sort of in awe of my sudden, magical brute strength and a little bit surprised at the amount of food I buy each week. He offered to pay for it but I told him that it was part of the household budget and we were fine, thanks and then he was quiet for a while. We loaded the bags into the bed of the truck and snapped the tailgate up, put the cover down and drove home.

I sat in the middle, listening with my eyes wide as they discussed the best restaurant meals in the city. Not sure that was exactly fair considering Caleb won't pay any less than forty-five dollars for an entree and Lochlan won't pay any more than fifteen, but they managed to talk the whole way home and Lochlan did not drive us off the cliff into the sea or anything.

They unloaded all of the groceries together and brought them in, taking several trips, continuing their discussion while PJ and August stood there in the front hall and stared, mouths open. I ignored all of them and opted to let them put everything away too.

When the last bag was empty, Caleb kissed my cheek and said he had to run. He said goodbye to Lochlan and then to the others and left and then Lochlan immediately said This is going to be a long spring and no sooner did I nod in his direction when a text message buzzed on my phone. It was from Caleb.

It's going to be a long spring, isn't it? He wrote. I didn't answer. It's a given. I just hope it works. It's probably the only thing we haven't tried but at the same time, you don't fix thirty-two years of bad memories overnight and at this point hope is in short supply.

As is patience.

And I'll be the first to admit I am not mature enough for this. By far.

Blurry but with clear intent.

It's cherry blossom time. The blooms are fat and heavy on the branches, low over my car. They're in my car. They're all over the front walkway, and pretty much everywhere else too. They're in the house, in Ruth's shoes. They pretty much take over until around Mother's Day and then they will dry up and disappear for another year. It makes up for a winter of...muted green clawed-back vegetation and slightly chilly temperatures and don't make me laugh, this isn't actually winter in Canada, who's pulling my leg?

I'll be cursing the track of petals through the house inside of a week because I've become all jaded and spoiled like that.

No, actually I won't. I secretly love them and still lament the fact that one of my neighbors decided to cut their trees down because they made a mess. Um, what? Seriously?

I can walk under the branches. Only the kids and I don't have to duck. Next year they probably will but I won't and then maybe I'll make a fort out there and not tell anyone where I've gone.

The petals are in PJ's beard, too. He has taken to double-checking his face every time he passes a mirror and the others keep fooling him, pointing to his face and saying You've got a little pink there, Paddy and he'll start combing through his facial hair while we laugh and laugh.

It's very pretty (no, not PJ's face, the wall of blossoming trees), and even though I am terrible with photographs and even if I wasn't, a picture could never do this justice, here. Enjoy.

(It would have at least been in focus, had Bonham not been pulling on the leash I was holding.)

Dress reversal.

Wouldn't it be so much better
If we could look at what we're seeing
Late gazes wore me down
Oh won't you see what you're doing

Gaze into passing places late at night
Gaze into welcome faces when you see no right
Gaze into your own eyes
When it's too late

This morning I stood in the driveway in my Sunday best and waited for the boys to get ready. I'm sorry, but I decided a long time ago that I was not going to go from room to room mashing down cowlicks with Brylcreem or standing on the bed behind someone trying to tie a perfect Windsor knot while looking over their shoulder into the mirror to get it right and I wasn't going to point out that the braces should match the shoes even if no one could see them under a suit jacket. It takes me long enough to get dressed as it is, checking in on the children all the while to make sure they get ready too and don't become distracted by toys/cats/each other.

Eventually I wind up here, alone, loitering in the driveway freezing my butt off, but loathe to go back inside lest someone take that as a sign to slow down. Not like it matters, we're already late and I don't want to make our appearance smack-dab in the middle of Sam's announcements because it's such a spectacle as it is when we go in. Waiting outside isn't an option, there's no room and no good time to interrupt anyway once the service begins.

Sam will invariably call upon us to join in. He has Matt save space in the first two pews on the left and I will blush furiously as all eyes watch us make our way to the front of the sanctuary. It sucks, it really does. I have to pinch the children to reset their facial expressions from bored to polite and keep Ben from whacking his way down the aisle, knocking aside handbags and errant legs. I have to pull Lochlan along, he who would rather be anywhere else but here, confined indoors and I have to fight with myself to ensure that I don't spend too much time turning Sam's efforts into Jacob-memories in my head, comparing sermons, choice of hymns, you name it.

I don't like church, okay? I just don't. I'll get on my knees at home and pray. I'll say Grace. I'll talk with Sam one on one about God but I don't want to go and sit through public services because it's hard and I feel like every last word is aimed at me. Every eye is on me. Every moment is endured, cataloged and filed away as one I will never get back and one I am supposed to process and improve upon.

But I'm still in the driveway and the longer I stand here the more I have decided I hate what I have on. I fidget against the confines of my garter belt under this very proper layered dress. I stick my index finger between my teeth and pull my gloves off one finger at a time. I unbutton another button on my bodice and give my bra a mighty shrug. I stumble in my stupid stiletto ankle boots and when I recover I walk in circles watching an eagle fly the same path far above me. I hope valiantly that he shits on my head and then I'll have a funny excuse to stay home and lounge with the heathens.

I hope Caleb comes out and makes me a better offer. We have a lot of words we need to exchange, only he's made no move to do so as of yet, rolling in late Friday evening and managing to avoid me all weekend. That won't last forever. I'll give him until midnight tonight and then if he hasn't shown his face here I will march over and confront him myself. I'm not eight anymore, thought I feel like it today, plotting to scowl through the service right up until Ben reminds me of lunch out, a promise he has already made to me. Afterward we're going to see the Olympic torch, it's being lit today and I might finally see it on fire with my own eyes. That will be amazing, especially if we come home first so I can change.

I don't know why I insist on dressing up for Sunday service. Sam wears his jeans and a plaid flannel shirt every Sunday (actually every day) without fail. That makes me smile, because Jake never would dress down unless the service was outdoors. Inside he always wore khakis or his grey dress pants and a plain white dress shirt with his ragged green corduroy coat and I...

Oh it's totally post-traumatic stress.

Hey God, if I pray really hard do you think you could fix my head? It's a total fucking mess. Kind of like my morning. Kind of like my life. Oh, on second thought, don't answer. I know what you're going to say. I used to be married to a minister, after all.

Heliopause.

(It's hard to believe we can have this kind of a strife in a world currently painted in the shades of grey and teal of deep water and the pale pinks of the cherry blossom trees. But things are going to be okay, thanks for asking. I just need to spin and ramble for a few. Ignore me, please.)

Come on, come on
Put your hands into the fire

My anchor appears to be six-foot-four with brown hair that's almost black and a history so austere he might have been in the witness protection program, at some point. The only baggage he brings to the table is an epic drive for sex and a gay little brother, who has been entirely absent and honeymooning for the past five months and if I daresay I'm happy for Daniel but I'm getting bored trying to drag PJ and Andrew shopping because they. hate. shopping.

Except for food, naturally.

And I'm not trying to digress. Hey, it's been another week of misery here while we fight through time and space looking for the upper hand only to find it means you reach the sun first and get burned beyond recognition, pushed against the surface until your screams are absorbed into the broiling plasma seven times over.

Because we have baggage. And for all the armchair and local psychiatrists pointing out that Ben is not different (because he did indeed provide swift rescue and there was no time in between and I barely waited three months and if I had any brains at all wouldn't I have not done that and I always answer something resembling Fuck off because I can't explain it) please step up now and kiss my little tiny ass.

He is not anyone else and something clicks here that makes me happy. He played his cards with great personal risk. So maybe you should admire him for his restraint with me. After all, he's the unpredictable one. A drinking problem and a temper and a life out of a suitcase brought him to me in ruins and now he is happy. Happier, anyway. By far.

He is my project boy and my savior rolled into one. He has let out so much line to watch me stray that I don't know how I find the way back but then I do: muscle memory, because the heart is a muscle and he is the way home.

But this isn't about Ben. Again, it's a digression.

You see, this house is our solar system and Lochlan is the sun. And everything revolves around him. He exudes heat and flame and serves as the anchor point around which the boys revolve. They are the planets. I am the dwarf planet, Pluto, running to catch up and keep up, catching a ride on Neptune, coasting through the milky way, slow to count orbits in terms of years because I keep falling off. I'm only eight. I can't keep up with them, they're all thirteen, fourteen or older. Come to think of it, I have no business being here at all, but here I am.

Saving them all.

Ben is Jupiter. Sometimes I can leapfrog over the other planets to spin in beside him and then I am dropped out once again. He can't help it, Jupiter is locked in place and too big to move quickly. Pluto has no business here. This is grownup space.

And the sun is so fickle, but without it we would die. The hierarchy in this house is such that we are bound to revolve around each other and the dynamics are such that sometimes we travel smoothly for ever and then there will be upheaval and change. And the boys are somewhat like me in that they will be easygoing and take so much and then suddenly the tipping points are everywhere and we are getting stabbed, arrows through the crust of my not-quite-a-planet-after-all, spinning me away on a different axis. Personalities are different and our situation is unique after all.

I don't know of any other commune that revolves around a singular female. I don't know of any other plural relationships that have a lifelong history behind them. And I don't know if we're doing it right, frankly. If you ask the experts they will wonder aloud why we haven't simply disintegrated years ago, ending in a brutal double-murder-suicide that would make a brief horrific read in the paper only to be followed by a scramble for the ticket to check the lottery numbers underneath.

What can I say? I suppose it works because it's not a gimmick or an experiment, it's our lives, and we take those very seriously.

Lochlan has made a couple of really good and terrible attempts to seek exclusivity and I hesitated to even confess that I heard him properly. Sometimes he relaxes enough to allow things to be as they are and sometimes he develops a sharp angle, gunning for his own leapfrog, all the way down the line of planets until he drops out of the system to where Pluto floats in the Kuiper belt just outside the range of normal consciousness.

He wanted me to come and live with him. Again. In an airstream by the sea. We would fish and busk and watch the stars and pick up from 1985, where we last left off (if you don't count those summers on the freakshow in my twenties but we're not going to go there tonight). This plan was further cemented this week as he revealed the remainder of the manifesto explaining why he is the way he is. If you knew him you would understand the reasoning he can dispense in his sleep. The stupid bulletproof prudence that has always left me with his hand on top of my head while I made such mad efforts to jump up and down and see the world. By Tuesday he was cocksure my misery was simply based on the fact that I would have to let Ben down. Boomerang, back to the show for the little freak planet and her tightrope, wound on a spool, too heavy to carry a planet on by far.

Instead my tears were for Lochlan's preemptive disappointment, and hell, even Caleb felt safe enough to return because perhaps nothing will change except that even more of my dreamlike, fantastical childhood can be explained in better detail now. Mostly to me, for I was the youngest and the things children remember are not always what transpires. Sometimes it is better than what we recall and sometimes it is worse.

Lochlan looked at me this morning and I grimaced and finally returned his gaze and he gave me a small tight smile, telling me See, peanut? I told you it would change nothing. Only his voice cracked on the you part and then he had to catch his breath and he tried to cover it with a cough but that didn't really work and I pretended I missed it anyway. I threw my arms around him and pressed my head underneath his chin, where you have been able to find me pretty much anytime since 1979, and I nodded because I didn't know what else to do.

Juggling is hard. Saving is too.

Five feet tall and freakishly intimidating, apparently.

My next tattoo will say something like Breaking hearts since 1979 or something fuckingly similar to that. I swear.

Close the door before it's late
We were born to love and hate
Turn it down for our own sake
We do no wrong
You fill your ears with every note
Direction seems the only hope
Its crowded, let's create now
We do no wrong

Common sense protects us
Everything affects us
To the outside light it's paradise
To the outside light it's paradise

In the dark there is no jury.

I put my arms up around his neck as he pulls me in close. Ben lifts me up for a kiss but it doesn't have an ending and I do not have purchase anymore. I slide back down and he laughs briefly but his eyes are serious. He lets go of me and pulls my shirt up instead. Over my head, my hair trailing out of it slowly until I have a pale halo of static spilling over my shoulders. I frown and he smiles again and goes to work on the button on my jeans. He reaches back up and shoves me down and pulls the jeans off my legs inside out, dropping everything on the floor. He follows by reaching over his head and grabbing his shirt between the shoulder blades, pulling it over his head in one motion. He's standing in the candlelight in just his jeans staring at me. I'm not even wearing the good lingerie today, instead stuck in what I threw on this morning so I could get to my day. Plain white underwear. No bra. He smiles. No giftwrap, just real, he says.

I laugh but it comes out tired and forced. Ben-

He leans down and puts his hand over my mouth and puts his own mouth against my ear. We're not going to talk. Not tonight. He pushes me down and hooks his fingers under the sides of my underwear and pulls them down. I stretch my neck to see out the window from here as he finishes taking everything off both of us and then there are no excuses anymore.

He pulls me up into his arms and I cry out. There is no tenderness either. I latch on to his neck and am rewarded with razor burn and teeth. I push at him and he says sorry breathlessly as he unlocks his mouth from my bottom lip. I can't breathe. He pauses in the dark and then lets go, dropping me onto my stomach on the duvet. He puts one hand on my hip and the other wraps into my hair, his forearm locked against the back of my head. I am helpless now and he is rewarded with total compliance, total silence. He's rewarded with whatever he wants and that is simple:

Me.

In the morning the sun comes up and blinds me, searing my closed eyelids as I remain in the dark a while longer feeling his hands slide all over, feeling muscle ache compete with muscle memory, lifting one shaking arm to run my fingers through his hair as he turns me back over finally, his brown eyes six inches from my green ones as I open them finally.

He smiles. Good? It's our thing. We do reviews.

Better than good. I grin and melt his face with my morning breath. I don't know where that came from, it's not like we slept at any time during the night.

I love your sweet little cries. He kisses me again. I wonder if he's going to take me for another round and I don't think I could take him when he stops abruptly and stares at me. This is a whole different look and I put my hands up to hold his face.

What?

You're going to go to him, aren't you? Now that you understand what happened and why he was so frozen.

Ben, I-

Could I ask for just a yes or no? It's kind of killing me inside, Bridget, and I need to know. A man should be told when he's about to lose everything.

Tears sting my eyes suddenly at the thought of Ben equating me with everything and I shake my head. No. I'm not leaving you.

He bursts forth with a shaky sigh. Okay then.

You thought I would leave you?

Everyone thinks you're headed that way.

Since when do you care what everyone thinks?

Since robot boy unleashed his excuses.

Excuses?

Reasons, whatever. Since he played his trump card. What do I have to counter with?

You don't have to bring anything to the table. I'm not leaving you, Ben.

He looked into my eyes and I stared right back and he reached out and pulled me in close until there was no space in between. This is where I will remain. If you were the one person hoping differently then I'm sorry but I'm a chickenshit and I can't say it to your face.

Mechanical.

I could kneel against him, and take his face in my hands. His pale blue eyes were always washed out and tired, crinkled into a big smile for me, always for me, attention rapt as long as I needed him.

Don't, okay?

There's something not right about him. He's a robot. I mean, come on, princess, there's practical, there's efficient, indomitable, but he goes above and beyond. What is he doing?

Trying to take care of me, of everything.

He doesn't need to take care of you. Jacob's face is guarded now, defensive.

He still tries.

Why, Bridget? Just tell me why.

Maybe he's atoning for the past. I press my hands against his cheeks and he covers my hands with his and pulls them back down. He pulls me down into his arms. But he's not a robot. He's just...pragmatic. I didn't give him such an easy time when we were on the road.

But if he wasn't always that way then what changed?

Everything. My mood darkens. I don't want to talk about it.

I can't help you help him, if that's what you want to do, princess, if you don't tell me why he's this way.

I don't know why he acts the way he does. I think he's just still trying to provide stability and be my guardian even though I'm an adult now.

Not to him, you're not.

I know.

It irks the shit right out of me.

Jake, don't.

And you always cut the conversation off without telling me anything. I'm just supposed to accept that he's going to come into my house and lavish affection on my wife and it's not supposed to bother me because he's a robot in every other facet of his existence? Does that sound right to you?

Yes.

Then I would venture a guess that you're remembering history as a child would and maybe there is more to it because adults always see things differently.

Maybe you're right. I don't know how else I can remember it.

That's just it, Bridge. You can't. And you don't have to keep secrets for him or for anyone else.

I'm going to go up and draw I think. I stand up and he wraps his arms around my legs and presses the side of his head against my belly. It gurgles. Always hungry.

Jacob laughs. How about we make some food instead? He is easy, jovial, but all through the construction of our midnight deli sandwiches he kept looking at me, waiting to give him all the answers that would help him to understand what makes Lochlan tick. And I was helpless in my ignorance. Had I said anything it would have been all wrong anyway.

I took a bite of the sandwich instead, and let a mouthful of food be what kept me from blowing everything wide open.

And the edge of the world has forgot
Every second inside has been lost
For a moment a lesson was learned
When the eyes of the people were shut

The wind is freezing. When I take off my helmet it floods into my ears and eyes, cutting off all sound and making it hard to see. My eyes are already burning and red. My nose is running and red. My hair is uncombed, tangled, remnants of a ruined braid still evident and my legs shake like jello after what was a marathon ride on the Sunbeam, borrowed from New-Jake who took one look at me and ran after Lochlan asking him if it was such a good idea and maybe I should stay in but Lochlan shot him one of those looks and he fell silent.

It was sort of the theme of the day, for I haven't said more than a few words in days, mostly content to speak to the children and otherwise punish everyone else in sight.

I've been coughing. I haven't slept. Lochlan put his hand up to my face and he said things that made me want to cry that much harder for their tenderness. He said things that were encouraging and he said things would be different and I believe him because we're at the bottom again. There's nowhere to go but up. Onward and upward, as Jake would say, only Jake saw Lochlan as a threat and he saw things I didn't want to acknowledge and everything sometimes makes so much sense it makes you miss the fugue in which you were content to admit you didn't know what was going on at all, because it's so much easier to live without confirmation, without proof.

Caleb saw me coming a mile away and booked a flight out. Needed a break. He was just about to head home and he got a heads up from someone and never came back. I had an email from him late last night. He was going to visit some colleagues who have a place in CA that he can use. Might be back next week or the week after. Good time now that the March break travel has lightened up considerably and he was free to go. Nothing else.

He's running from me because he knows how angry I am. And he knows damn well I can wait him out. He has to come back sometime, sometime being within the range of his legal obligations to Henry, spelled out clearly in our custody arrangements.

It's just a matter of time.

And I can wait him out. I have a lot of things to think about in the meantime. A lot of things that keep me up at night now. Things I'm not going to itemize today, since every time I stop and start to think about things my eyes fill up and I drown.