Bread and circuses.

Too cold on the beach to be without shoes. My ears rang and I withstood it as long as I could until finally I asked Lochlan for his linty wool peacoat and then fifteen seconds after that I asked if we could go back up to the house because the wind. Sweet merciful fucking glorious wind, I should know better, I should know to bring something with a hood but I was in a hurry when he made the offer to go down to the bottom of the cliff to see how cold the water was after a night of freezing temperatures, 'freezing' being completely relative to living in a such a mild climate. Cold with wind is a different animal, always, as I have long-ago learned and so I tucked a knitted scarf by the door that I will try to remember to bring along each time I step outside until at least March now.

The skinny jeans are threadbare and far too long and wide for me with my glorious twenty-six-inch inseam, but I'm too lazy to buy custom-fitted jeans so I just go to Warehouse One and if they aren't too low cut but just low cut enough I get two pairs and wear them into the ground, yanking them up, rolling them, looking at them with dismay. I don't often wear jeans at all, actually and so this picture (like all pictures I post anyway) is a rarity. I am fond of my Converse though. They last forever, quite unlike anything else in this world, except maybe Lochlan's coat, bought in 1991 on a trip home to the Motherland (Scotland, if you're new). I think it might be a military-issue, and then worn ever since as long as it isn't as cold as it was when we all lived in the Prairies, for that brief eight-year segment of life.

There he wore Carhartt, much like everyone else, save for Ben, who wore leather, with flannel underneath and me, who wore everything I could put on and still walk in because it was SO. FUCKING. COLD.

So here in this place now, 'cold' is a relative term. A hilarious, inappropriate one as I stand on the beach. My beach, which is cultivating glass and leaving trace amounts of bronze on the line of the tide as it washes past the rocks in the dangerous part of our shore, right over to the now-completely-ridiculous private marina (A spectacle for the proles, we call it secretly, behind the Devil's back).

I frown as I inspect the progress on the final addition, a gigantic covered slip for the yacht. Because we're on a protected cove here, Caleb really has no need to move his boat anymore, but sometimes it needs to be inside for maintenance and it's not so much a roof as it is a full-service boat garage and what a monstrosity it is. It wound up being constructed precisely eight feet to the left after I complained that I would be able to see it from my balcony and that wouldn't do. I only said it to be a brat but they moved it anyway and now that I see how big it is I'm glad I pitched a fit.

Lochlan frowns at the excess. He's a closet anarcho-communist to boot, a beautiful bleeding heart. An odd belief for someone who can be so cold, and I'm sure this has more to do with Caleb than life in general. Maybe it's why he agreed to our collective, too, but Lochlan holds a huge disdain for people with too much money, only fully respecting Ben because Ben spends money like a hundred-year-old woman on a micro-pension, i.e. not at all, and Lochlan thinks that's good.

I think that's good too, because frankly Caleb's gotten a little over the top with the money he spends but I see his long term vision because he spells it out rather slowly when I ask. I am learning about his vision for this property, the means to an end it will become, the options he has left wide open for a variety of financial scenarios, pounded out on spreadsheets, his projections and risks transcribed by yours truly on a monthly basis, kept dotted and signed just in case. He is learning too. Just in case are three little words that have become a punctuation mark on everything we say or do now. Just in case is an excuse to do things that seem over the top. One hundred and fifty percent poured into everything, whether it be opening a pistachio nut, painting a wall, buying a shell company or saying I love you.

I didn't even understand the tens of thousands of dollars he spent on the fountain and the circular driveway until I realized I no longer had to find and wait for (at least) three guys to move their vehicles when I wanted to go out, or that Caleb stands in his bedroom window watching me as each morning I go outside to the fountain, make a wish and throw my penny into the water.

Ooooooh. A wishmaker conduit-fabricator-device. Not landscaping, exactly. How clever is the Devil, indeed. I think that was a simple perk, possibly for all the nights he's bitten me, tied me up or pulled my hair so hard I cried out but he needed to keep me still so he did it anyway. You think I have regrets? You should meet Caleb. I wish sometimes for him to feel feelings like regular people. Still waiting for that one to come true, sixty-seven cents spent in pennies so far, and that's only made on mornings that I hurt.

He is still very clever, if I may continue my train of thought, because one of the things he wanted to install down at the bottom of the cliff was a grouping of outdoor heaters with a range of around twenty feet each and I told him not to be crazy, that it's too mild here. We don't need it. How excessive and spoiled and over the top. Heat the outside? What are we, lightweights?

I refused to take off Lochlan's coat for the first hour after we went back inside, so the answer to that appears to be a resounding YES.

Electroencephalographic.

I'm on the outside, I'm looking in
I can see through you, see your true colors
Cause inside you're ugly, ugly like me
I can see through you, see to the real you

The door is locked and checked twice. He pulls me down and tucks me underneath him, his lips on my eyelashes, his hands pulling my ribcage up against his chest. He holds me there with one arm while his other hand slides down behind my thigh and pulls it out hard, lifting me up further still. He smiles against the bridge of my nose.

I don't know why I spend so much time away, he mutters, not so much to me as to himself, for I still haven't managed to pull him out of his distracted focus in spite of the fact that he's been working from home instead of going downtown to the studio for more than half of this week. He's tired of the endless bickering between Caleb and Loch. He wants to be home more. He's missing me.

Gee, join the club, Benny.

I am forced back down expectedly. I cry out on the way there. He says Shhhh, his lips so soft against my skin. He finds my mouth and covers it with his own. Endless kisses. The best kind. Scuba-Benning, he calls it. If I need to breathe, I'll have to go through him. It's okay though, I can't breathe at all actually. I'm tweaked out on his crushing weight and the sweet brutality of his affections. He is ravenous, wild, stringing me out, balanced dangerously along his whims, facedown and then up again and then down. Up. I fight for traction and find nothing.

I still can't breathe so I scream, just as he pushes me right to the edge and then over. He clamps his hand over my whole face, ratcheting my limbs down even tighter, closer, harder until I buck and claw against him, unable to move an inch anyway and he loves it. He fucking loves it. Abruptly he lets go and I fall back down into the sheets and he comes down again over me, this time prepared to spend a while. He can go like this for hours until I beg him to stop and then he just goes even more slowly.

By the morning I am exhausted and shaking and completely without wits, my skin pink, raw and hot to touch, my smile goofy and endless, my hair so tangled I wonder if I should just keep cutting it until I can comb it through. I stand in the bathroom, looking at the wreck of my reflection, my hands over my mouth when he comes in and pulls me backward against him, his arms coming down around me and crossing over. I'm locked in the Ben-cage now. Such a little animal I am. He grins and tells me he isn't finished yet and if I'm never coming back to the bed then he'll make do with this, and he takes my head in his hand, bending me facedown on the counter. I go up on my tiptoes as he starts over again. By the time he is finished with me again my knees no longer lock and I can't feel anything below my shoulders. I am wimpering and laughing and he is all whispers and grins.

He pulls me into a hot shower, directing the spray against everything that hurts but it doesn't hurt in a bad way. The hot water feels so good. I'm falling asleep so I just put my head down against his chest and let the water drown me until he puts his hand up to shield my face, before turning us away, letting his back take the brunt of the spray.

When I am clean and dry he leads me back to bed and I shake my head. So sleepy. So ridiculously rubbery. No more, please God I have to sleep for an hour or I'm going to be sick and he smiles and we climb back in and he turns me away, pressing his chest against my back, sliding his left arm under my neck and his right hand down around my ribs. We are drifting toward slumber in minutes, content to spend the rest of the morning unconscious but together. Making up for the time that we thought was lost until we found it.

Connecting physically first before we seem to be able to express ourselves emotionally. It's just the way we've always done things.

Just be, he instructs. Take what you want. Take what you need. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, Bridget. I pull his arms in tighter still around me until we are fused in the moment, in my dreams. I tell myself that I won't let him spend so much time away anymore. I tell myself things will be okay now. I tell myself to stop letting my mind race and sleep already.

I never listen. Not at all.

Forward unto dawn.

He is at the door when I finally appear down in the front entryway. I'm still in my pajamas. I still sleep far too much even though I mostly lie there with my eyes wide open, weighed down by ghosts, the tremendous pressure of The Present begging for a foothold in my life.

I have added a fever to today's ensemble. Lovely. The virals have made the rounds here lately, low-grade sorts of misery that have been causing aches, pains, headaches, and stomach upsets and I've fetched a lot of Advils and teas and hot water bottles and blankets and movies and sandwiches even and so it stands to reason I probably hold the highest risk of exposure because I'm always asking for hugs and kisses and bites of food and I forget all about germs until I wake up like this.

Lochlan is blocking Caleb's entry past the rug inside the front door. He's all flushed and angry and they're having a hushed, superheated argument. Nothing has changed except the look on Caleb's face. It's one of pure regret and he's nodding. Lochlan's talking a mile a minute, I can't understand a word and then Caleb nods again. Yes, he confirms. I know. That's why I'm here. 

I say Lochlan's name and he turns and tries to fix his expression but I catch a hint of his helpless rage against Caleb. Why doesn't he forbid contact with Caleb? Why won't they just force him to stay away?

I have asked them not to. Sometimes every single day, when necessary.

Bridget. Caleb looks right over Lochlan's head and starts right in. I did not mean to imply that you were beneath me or that you were raised in poverty. I also did not mean to make the morning about me, or my own needs and I feel terrible that I did not choose to acknowledge your grief. I know what week this is. I wasn't thinking and I want to make it up to you. 

Make it up by keeping away from her, Devil. 

Lochlan, the children wanted you to play a few levels of Halo with them, they're waiting for you. I caution him and he gives me that look, the horrible one I hate that's so helpless and he passes me, heading up the steps.

Caleb visibly relaxes. I'm going to start wearing a helmet when I see him. I never know when he's going to punch me. 

Leave him alone, Caleb. He's someone I love very much and he takes care of me.

He stares at me. I think if I held that stare I could make him cry-wait, too late. His eyes are filled with sorrow. I back down and study my wrists instead, allowing him a moment of self-repair.

I'm so sorry, Babydoll. 

You know what? It was nice not to be coddled. It's not as if it's something I ever expect from you. 

Being coddled?

Yes. 

You can't come to me for comfort?

No. I laugh my response bitterly, with so much surprise. I thought he knew this. It dawns across his face slowly, the realization that what I look for in absolutely everyone I still can't find in him, outside of simple touch. I expect nothing from him. I want nothing from him, and that will forever set him apart. Far apart from everyone else.

That's the price of your heart, isn't it, Bridget?

My voice drops to a whisper because I don't trust it. Bingo.

113.

This is what Daniel calls cold fashion, when it's freezing but sunny outside so you can dress very well indeed. He picked this outfit out for me ages ago and I've never worn it because all conditions have to be right. Today seems perfect.

It's a fine knit micro dress in soft deep silver, with a long grey coat over the top and patterned leggings. High-heeled ankle boots in grey suede. My big silver leather bag. Chain and bracelet. Hair down. Super-straight and shiny. Minimal makeup. Escada perfume and my new Dior Pink Lingerie gloss. No earrings. I feel like it's a westernish/kittenish look. Not sure I love it and I need to be confident to wear this as it's tough to pull off very much at all with my height tearing it all down.

And not only am I out of bed for the first time in two days, but I'm clearly going out and that's interesting, because Ben went to do some work and Lochlan is out at meetings and running errands and where the hell you going, Bridge? 

PJ looks cross. He's been the one making coffee all week and they all like mine better.

I smile and defer, because discretion is an art-form and they know better even though I have nothing to hide and I head out to meet Caleb, heart thumping across the butterflies, interfering with the beats, my stomach in knots because it's very difficult for me to leave the house unfed and because being nervous makes me sick.

It's not until we are settled in the restaurant and he has ordered for both of us (again, without my input) that he realizes I haven't said anything, assuming I am still waiting for privacy. He compliments my appearance scathingly, miffed because I'm not wearing one of his dresses (not HIS dresses, he would look silly in a dress. Ones he has bought for me to wear when I spend time with him). I try to appear bored even though I'm close to tears. I don't actually want to be here but I seem to be a sucker for a man in need even though he isn't a man, he's a monster but sometimes he acts like a man and those times make me weak.

In lieu of a formal apology he reminds me he is prone to taking things too far and he should have exercised more restraint but he has great difficulty in controlling himself when it comes to me. Oh, I see. A non-apology. I shift my attention back to his face, blocking out his words. I've heard all this before. Nothing ever changes. He sees my eyes unfocus, the pearl green spreading into a fog and stops, realizing his repetitiveness.

And he tells me how many days he has left to live out his dreams and I zero right in on his face, lean across the table and ask him if he's going to die on day 114 or something, as if his stupid timeline is supposed to stir panic or force me into motion. He wants obedience, compliance and servitude. I offer him nothing more than company across a table so that the humiliation of him eating alone is spared. Also, this restaurant is really really cold, as I just realized I'm wearing two layers of knit and I'm still clenching my shoulders together and it's becoming difficult to hold my cup of coffee. I look around for a server but Caleb unconsciously always manages to see that they are scarce until his signal. I need to know  the signal. Then I could ask for heat or a flamethrower or a torch. I suppose I could have brought a torch but they don't fit in my handbag. It occurs to me that whenever I get a certain distance away from Lochlan I get so cold that I can hardly see in a straight line and the thought makes me laugh out loud.

I need to go. 

I shouldn't have mentioned the proposal. I'm at a loss here, Bridget. I'm getting everything wrong. I used to be so together but I'm starting to slip. 

You're starting to get desperate you mean, and that makes you sloppy. You seem to be trying to pin it on age or fatigue or distractions like me. 

Maybe it's a combination of all those things. 

No. It's desperation. I can smell it from here. 

You're cold today. How can we change that?

We leave. 

He looks at my plate, frittata (without toast on the side, whatthefuck) mostly untouched. My blood sugar has gone through the floor, my head is now pounding a rhythm that pulses pain dots behind my eyes and the caffeine has shot straight into my veins. I feel like a lunatic and I just want away. This was a bad idea. I never say that unless we're in the dark and he no longer hears my words. Out of control. That's how I feel. I want to go home.

His eyes leave mine and he looks above me just a hand lands on the back of my neck.

Give you a ride home? 

It's Sam, and Matt and three others I don't know. One has a collar. Must have been a church meeting.

Sam kisses my cheek and says they had coffee in the patio. But they can take me if I'm heading out. God granted me an escape and I nod and put my napkin on the table beside the untouched plate and Sam pulls my chair out as I stand up. Caleb's face falls and it's as if we're on elevators in the same building going to opposite floors all the time.

But he does not concede.

Actually Sam, I'm going to keep Bridget with me for a little longer. We're not quite finished our morning. But you head on out and maybe we'll see you a little later? He stands and comes around, shaking hands, introducing himself and I am clutching Sam's hand. Sam gives me a questioning look and I shrug. I don't know anymore. I need to eat. I'm not eating this pretentious crap though. I'm not this. This isn't me. God this dress is so uncomfortable and suddenly I'm thrust ahead and introduced and I nod and blush and smile and then we're heading out, the server rushing to return Caleb's credit card, the valet whisking his car up just as we step through the opened door.

Bridget, what can I do? 

The tears sting my eyes but they don't escape. Take me through the drive-through. 

McDonalds? You want to go to McDonalds? Jesus Christ almighty. You can take the girl out of the trailer park but you can't take the trailer park out of the girl. 

You can take that back later when I care. 

He heads three streets over and pulls up outside McDonalds. They don't have valets here.

Tell me what you want. 

Had you asked me in the other place this wouldn't even be necessary, you know. Sausage McMuffin and a hash brown. No drink. Do you need money?

Don't they take Visa?

I doubt it. I fish out a twenty and give it to him.

Eight minutes pass and he returns to the car with a huge bag. He passes me the bag and the twenty (They took Visa! he tells me.) and pulls away. We drive to the park and he finds a spot to stop the car, overlooking the ocean. I count the oil tankers with dismay. He takes the bag back and passes me a napkin, which I spread out over my lap. He takes my purse and puts it behind my seat and then passes me my breakfast. I am finished in six bites, no talking and I watch him from my peripheral vision as he similarly attacks the same meal.

When he's finished he says I forgot how good those are.

I smile. He catches me and reflects it, and I realize his evil is more of a habit than anything now, easily deconstructed, distracted or dissolved.

But habits are so hard to break and he reads my mind again. Does that change your mind then, knowing you can diffuse my evil so easily? Hey, maybe he is losing it. He got the d-words all wrong.

I shake my head.

But you love me! 

Not in the same way. 

Then CHANGE THE WAY. Give up Frankenben and the Pyromaniac and keep me company until I die. I can't give you more than everything. I don't know what you want!

I get out of the car and stand beside it, losing myself in the view of the waves. It's so windy today, just like it always is back home in Nova Scotia. And I can lose myself in the waves, numbing myself in the cold so I can't feel anything anymore.

Just like I always do because I never know exactly what to do or how to get it right.

Blender (uncommon sense).

Are you coming to do a little work for me this afternoon?

No.

Single words. Are you still in bed?

Yes.

I see. Well, Bridget, since your pay is direct-deposited into your account, if you don't actually do the work for me you'll have to earn it via other means.

You don't even mince words anymore, do you? You just puree them into filth.

At least I got more than one word out of you that time. Are you coming over or do I need to come and get you?

They won't let you near me.

My name is on the house. I can have all of them evicted if need be.

But you wouldn't because the judge says nothing changes. And you promised.

Even a judge will understand when a man has come to the end of his rope. It's called ad iud-

Ad iudicium. I know. But I'm sorry, I've decided to live out my days from the confines of my big feather bed. So you can keep your money. 

They get to see you. 

They didn't string me along hinting that my husband might still be alive. 

That was a game, one you were hellbent on playing along with. And both of your husbands are alive, Bridget. Live in the goddamned present for once. They get to see you. Every day. Several times a day. All day long for the vagrant.

Fuck off, Caleb. I growled it so quietly he was instantly chagrined. Like really, please. Please please please don't fuck with me right now or changes you will see. 

I would like a chance to comfort you. That's all, Bridget. I think Ben is in his zone and we all know Lochlan has an incredibly polarized view of the world so the more help that actually benefits you, the better. Please come down for dessert or something tonight? 

No. 

No? Not at all? He said it quietly.

Maybe breakfast tomorrow instead? Late? I'm so tired I just need to sleep, okay? 

Breakfast then. He softens considerably. Maybe I'll take you to that new place.

Somewhere quiet? 

It will fit the bill just fine. I'll collect you at nine. How would that be? 

Good. And one more thing?

Name it, Doll. 

Stop calling Lochlan names. Your frustration could be controlled far better than that. You know, since we're all hellbent on overdue self-improvement all of the sudden. 

As soon as he puts your best interests above his own desires I'll call him by his God-given name. 

How is he any different from you? Honestly?

Oh, Bridget. Don't even go there. I have means. He has nothing. 

He has Ruth. And he has me. And money doesn't buy a goddamned thing, Diabhal.  Money didn't give you Henry and money won't give you me.

Silence floods the space between us on the phone and I wait for him to acknowledge my hand, played predictably and with triumph because he got sloppy. He recovers gracefully. Nine sharp. Until tomorrow?

Nine sharp. Goodnight, Caleb. 

Goodnight, Neamhchiontach.

A repost, in full. Today would have been his 42nd birthday and I've very recently decided I'm never getting out of bed again.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Bottle Green

Or maybe I should call this entry bottle empty, for that's what it was when Jacob was finished celebrating Birthday 2006.

Jacob is thirty-six today!

And this time I got to play designated driver. Which held way more peril for me than it seems to for him, most likely because if I'm unsteady on my feet, he can simply carry me home. If he's unsteady on his feet I have to enlist at least two of the boys to keep him upright. He's a big man, and it's been a very long while since he's had a drink. Let's just say that he was long overdue and gee, did he ever make up for it tonight.

(The funniest part about Jacob having one too many that embarrasses him half to death is that he'll reach a point where he starts to talk rather strangely, adding a whole round of extra words to everything he says, alot like the Winnie-the pooh-speak and it is the best thing ever.)

We went out to dinner with four other couples to celebrate his birthday, with a sitter at home to keep the kids happy-they don't like Thai food and it is a school night. There was less food and more alcohol than usual. Jacob listened as each of us stood up and said a few words about the past year of his life. Mostly everyone reiterated that he was moving in the right directions all the way around and we were so very proud of him.

He stood up and raised his glass, drinking it down and then he started talking. His Newfie accent is so prevalent when he's had a few, what a riot. It was touching as he went around the table and told each person what they had meant to him and how they had specifically supported him over the past year, and then when he got to me he stopped talking and just smiled broadly for a minute. His eyes were glassy. I smiled back at him. Everyone started to tell him to just get on with it so we could all have dessert (the cake) and so he did.

To my Bridget. My bottle-green-eyed bride of ninety-four whole days, the past year has been impossible with you as usual. You make me so crazy. You make me worry. You frustrate me and sometimes I'm rocked dumbstruck at what it is about you that keeps bringing me back for more. But now that I've held you in my arms and you've become my wife at long last I know the answer and I wouldn't want it any other way. I love you, thank you for being with me. I hope I do you proud. Thank you for this day. For this year.

(He was easy to understand until this point, then it was all downhill.)

He bent down and kissed me and told me he loved me again, while some noisy awwww's rose up from the table. They brought out the cake and we sang and ate and drank some more.

Too much more for Jacob.

Which...well, argh. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or give in.

Finally the simple fact that it was a weeknight brought our dinner to an early close. Jacob seemed okay to walk out and I drove us toward home, perched on the edge of the truck seat because it's difficult to reach the pedals.

I need to stop in my office for a minute, Bridge. Something important must be done and so I have to be there for it.

Okay, I'll wait out here.

No, come in with me because you're out here and I'd much rather see you without seeing you, and it's dark right about now. I think.

Alright.

He unlocked the side door of the empty church and we went in, he grabbed my hand and I followed him down the darkened hallway to his office door. We giggled and whispered the whole way as if we might get caught. He stopped when we got inside his office and I bumped right into him. He closed the door and locked it.

Jacob, why don't you turn on the lights?

Lights? We need those? I see everything I need that was here right behind me and always in front of my eyes. Like magic. Let's keep the dark going. Because then I can do...this.

He bent his head down and kissed me so hard I swear he bruised my lips. His hands searched inside my coat and he didn't stop until he hit bare skin. He tasted like whiskey. He was trying to unbutton my dress but he couldn't manage the buttons and so he went for hiking it right up instead. His hands lifted me up onto his desk and he was pushing me flat onto my back. I'm sorry, God. I tried to take him home. I think his patience rode the whiskey right out of his mind.

Oh, no, Jacob. Not here. This is your office.

Right. It is and my God, it's so messy and I think I want you right now, princess. Right and completely this minute.

Jacob, your office is IN THE CHURCH. We're in the church!

It's not like we're under the pulpit, Bridget. Just let me worry about that and take your damned dress off because I just noticed I think I hate some buttons like these ones here.

Jacob, we're going to get struck by lightning

Then our hair will stand on end forever and make us laugh. We'll finally have black eyelashes and smoke will come out of our noses. Now come here, beautiful girl.

Could I could blame the whole thing on not being able to understand what he was saying half the time?

No?

Well, I never said we were saints. And I never said it was proper. And I will definitely never look at that desk the same way ever again.

Jacob maintains he has had the Best Birthday Ever. We are so going to hell.

In dreams awake.

I wish I were brave but I'm not. I'm a little fuzzy blonde chicken standing just behind the doorway to one side. You can see one green eye and one wavy wisp of my hair and my fingertips and that's it. That's how I greeted this day. Timidly. Hesitantly.

But the day said HEY BRIDGET. YOU LIKE RAIN? I GOT SOME RAIN FOR YOU. HERE YOU GO. HAVE SOME BECAUSE THERE'S MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM.

I swore at the black sky and then reminded myself winters have been so much worse and we're lucky here. It hardly ever goes below zero. The grass is still green. Snow will be scarce, right where we are and it's sort of odd because my snow tires are on the car and the car has no traction at all now.

It will when I need it to though, on the hills in those two or three days of snow that we will have this winter and I won't like it one bit but I'll be safe and sound.

..or just safe, since we all know I'll probably never be sound again.

Jacob was sitting on the wall when I went out to see him. He didn't look happy. He looked expectant and irritated and then surprised. I wasn't wearing black. I didn't have my velvet ribbon or his ring and I didn't have the box with the bird on it. I just had me, in my jeans with huge dots of rain coloring them from faded blue denim to dark navy blue and I had wet Converse all-stars and my green hoodie and nothing underneath so I was shivering before I made it to the end of the patio.

Go back in, Pigalet. You're shivering. 

I need to talk to you. 

So what's different about that? We'll talk later when you come back with a coat on. 

I put up my hood and it sticks up in a point. I look like the illustrations of Swedish children in one of Henry's Christmas around the world books. We need to talk now. 

Aw, Bridget. You gotta go in, hon. 

Can I just..can you forget about the stupid rain for a minute, Jake? 

He waits, softening. I can always tell he is coming around from being terse by the way his eyes will smile without the rest of his face being in on the joke. Then it follows like the last kid to hear the punchline.

You know what today is, Princess?

Five years without you.

Five years and you've come along nicely. 

I laugh but say nothing. He's going the counselor route. Lovely.

It's true. And while you don't believe a time limit can be put on grief you reach a point where you have to shift the percentage of attention you devote to it. 

That's why I'm here, Jake. I interrupt him and he stops so suddenly his words stack up and then crumble to a heap at the bottom of his thoughts, a sudden tangle that needs attention and until he gives it readily he'll have no free words to use.

I take a deep breath. Does letting you go mean I can't have conversations with you anymore? 

He looks up sharply from his pile of words and his mouth falls open and then lifts itself into a bittersweet smile. You can still have them, they'll just be one-sided, okay? I will hear you, I just can't respond. His eyes well up and I'm wanting to claw the question back down my throat so it never sees the light of day ever again but it's too late.

What if that doesn't work for me, Jacob?

This is one-way trip, Bridget. No undo. 

But what if I need you? My voice comes out in such a high-pitched squeak I don't even hear it. Whatever grand plan I had to set him free is turning into a painful panic and I'm having trouble breathing.

If you feel as if you need comfort then you'll go to Ben. Anything I could ever give you, Bridget, you can get from him. And you can keep every memory, every moment of me safe in your heart forever. No one can take those away from you, and that's how I'll continue to be a part of you for the rest of your life. Do you understand? 

Yes. I mean no! No. I'm not ready. Forget it. I changed my mind. 

Naw, see, once you try it out, the whole idea of letting go, it sets a process in motion. It can't be undone, Pigalet. 

So this is it?

This is it.

Oh. God. His eyes match mine, glass for glass and between the rain and the tears and the terror squeezing my heart I think I'll drown and then I won't have to do this.

I'm sorry, Jake. I tried to protect you. I failed. And I'm sorry. 

It isn't your fault, Bridget. It's mine. I wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry. But you're strong. You're safe and that's all I ever wanted for you. But you deserve better than me. I love you so much it's unbelievable and that's never ever going to change. Any time you think of me I want you to remember that. Promise me. 

I promise. I love you, Jake. 

I love you, Princess. 

Lochlan and Ben's alarmed shouts from the back door made me turn away briefly and when I turned back Jacob was gone.

And he's not coming back.

(Not so) afraid.

Still floating soft
I am dreaming and I'm glad I lost
And still with my fingers
I'm drawing circles in the water
In the water
And still, still you're always there

Congratulations
Cause we've made it
All the way home
All the way home
And you know that
Until the stars fall
I will always love you
I will always love you

We are lying in the warmth of the cozy dark morning. Ben left hours ago (Finish the project, and then you can start another and we'll cut you a big fat cheque that totally makes up for your infinite absence from your own life. No worries, Dude, they say, and Ben nods because he's gloriously creative, overworked, beautiful and completely unable to tell the difference between too much and not enough).

Lochlan has my hands outstretched toward the ceiling. He's writing words in the air with my fingers, trying to make me read them. I can't make out the letters and he's frustrated but he's laughing softly, his head pressed tightly against mine while I sing Lost at Sea to him. We're flat on our backs wasting precious daylight and struggling to divide our common ground right down the middle. He is afraid that Caleb's banter back and forth will draw me in and leave him out in the cold. He's afraid tomorrow has me with one foot out the door. Ready to run headlong to the edge of the cliff where I will stop short (if I'm lucky) and wonder how the hell I got away from them again. I get away because I'm fast and terrible and unpredictable and a very bad singer besides.

I will be over to see Caleb later but only to make sure he isn't really drinking anything more than lots of water and juice. He shouldn't drink with his medications. He shouldn't do a lot of things but Caleb rules his own underworld and no number of experts could ever be brought in to make him see differently. Sometimes, though, he listens to me and maybe if I remind him that I am afraid of drunken rages, uncontrollable ideals and certain death, then just maybe he might hear me.

Cross your fingers.

Loch will stand outside in the rain at the bottom of the stairs and seethe with hatred and at the same time he'll heed my request to let me do the things I need to do to keep my shit together while the countdown gets narrower by the hour here.

Tomorrow is a day I wish I never have to wake up for. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll hide with my head under the blankets, headphones jammed in to block out the world and wait the whole thing out. But they don't call that progress, they call that denial.

(It wasn't, it won't be and I never! I insist but they don't listen.)

So for now, I'm just going to hold tight and guess wrong as he continues to write love notes in thin air while I begin the song again. This is a game we used to play years ago, albeit with different songs that I change as my mood dictate, snuggled down into the darkness when I would wake up afraid of the noise or the isolation or just the usual terrors of that age. Lochlan would take my hands and write stories across the night until I could follow them back to sleep, singing to both of us until I would just stop. It still works better than expected. My eyes are so heavy and I fail to lock my elbows to make his work easy. My arms sag against his hold and he turns and lifts his head up to look at me.

Tired girl this morning. 

Mmm hmmm.

Go back to sleep, Bridget.

Takotsubo cardiomyopathy.

Jafari died this morning.

He was Dad to Amyrn, husband to Eleah and the last surviving giraffe at the Greater Vancouver Zoo.

Here's a picture of the family for posterity. I couldn't wait until they came closer so I just started snapping photos the minute I walked out onto the platform. I had never seen such magnificent animals before in my whole life and here was a whole family, just hanging out in the sun like they had all the time in the world. 

If you follow the link back to Amyrn's passing and then the link there to when I first met them, you'll see some much better pictures of some truly incredible animals. 

And I'd like to say I hope he didn't suffer, but I think he did. I think he died of a broken heart.

More SMS fun with Satan.

You want to rule the world? Accept my proposal.

I don't recall seeing that on the list. 

I can put anything you want on the list. It's one of the perks of being the Dark Overlord. 

Are you drunk?

Do you want me to be?

Goodnight Caleb. 

Hey! Want some cheese?