I think they switched brains.

He tried not to laugh but gave himself away. I had my head in the cupboard, trying to dig towels out of the back. I was singing along with Titanium.

You're not titanium, you're copper. You're soft, expensive and you turn green in the rain. 

Gee, thanks. Can you grab these? I hold out a stack of towels.

He takes them and gooses me. I shriek and smash my head on the inside of the cupboard.

NICE, LOCHLAN. 

Ha, I wasn't going to pass that up. You were helpless. 

Then you be helpful! 

He sticks his lip out, chagrined and then he smiles. Sorry, Midget. 

Yeah, yeah. Just wait until I get you back. 

Argh, shit. Never thought of that. 

***

Ben calls early and says exactly nothing. He won't say how he feels, aside from Meh, alright, you? He won't say when he's coming home. He won't say all the things he should be saying. We're stuck in purgatory here while I get goosed by the court jester and flayed by the sadomasochist.

Can you call back tomorrow when you can talk?

Huh? I can talk. There's no one here, Bee. 

Then talk, because you're not. 

It's hard to hear your voice. 

Want me to put on someone else? Or impressions. I can do those. So it won't be me. Who do you want?

What impressions can you do?

I can't do any, actually. 

Then I guess I'm stuck with you. 

Well you were, but then you left too. 

Too? 

Like the others. 

Bridget-

I have to go. Take care, Benny. 

I fucking hung up on him and died a thousand deaths on the spot.

Ón lá seo amach.

Before sunrise I get up, pulling on jeans and a warm sweater.  I tie my hair back quickly and follow him outside, down the path. We don't talk much, except when I confirm I hear him when he warns me of a slippery spot where the rain has left pools of water turning the boards slick at the top of the steps. It's not as if I can fall, I'm on the inside holding the railing. My left hand is held tightly in his right. His left hand carries the bottle.

When we reach the bottom he lets go. It's much more difficult to balance along the tops of the smooth wet rocks all the way across the upper beach at high tide but if anyone can manage it, we can. As long as it's not on an incline I will stay steady. Sometimes it's a blessing being an acrobat but mostly it's a curse.

When we get to the higher ground the sun brings the light forth. He tugs his top hat down a little tighter over his curls, untwists the wire holding the cork down and aims far out to sea. The cork shoots like a cannon into the waves and he lets the foam pour into the surf for a quick minute before taking a long gulp of champagne.

He turns back, giving me the bottle. I take it with both hands around the bottom and take a sip. He waits until he thinks I have had enough to make it a proper toast and then he says something I can't remember the translation for but I know it's a wish for good luck from this day forward.

I smile, passing the bottle back. He takes another sip and reaches down with one arm, pulling me in close against him, turning me so that we are forehead to chin. He looks down and I look up.

Happy forty-eighth, Locket. 

Thank you, Peanut. It is, indeed. With his bottle-hand, he indicates the sun now rising steadily into the sky, blinding us, turning the water from pewter to gold.

(I wrote this all down last night.)

Post-teenage-birthday, post-mind-implosion, post-shock at Lochlan's refusal to even discuss the issue of paying him back for his coverage of our bills through Christmas. It isn't his bill to pay, you see, we invited him to be here with us. I have great and terrible plans to verbally hash everything out with him tomorrow but for tonight there's a single tiny votive candle on the table, two untouched brandy snifters on each side and a flat refusal to accommodate any more guests, former housemates or FOJ on the point, no exceptions.

(FOJ= Friends of Jake. Funny how that never applies when Joel shows his unwelcome face around here.)

I stare down the Devil with my eyes and he returns my gaze so wearily I wonder why he even bothered to pick this fight at eleven at night when August has already crashed out and everyone else has scattered to the four corners to do that late night reading/brainstorming/unwinding thing they do. I have no plans to wake him and make him leave until he's good and ready, for in my mind he's been nothing but an absolute godsend to me in the months and years since flight. I understand Caleb's desires to not add anyone but in my mind that doesn't include ostracizing someone's who's left but then come back.

That was an awkward way to phrase it but I'm tired.

I don't want any brandy.

I just want to go stare at my sleeping daughter and marvel that she is as old and wise as she is at an age where I thought I was most certainly doomed, jaded and ruined already.

Little did I know.

And now here comes Lochlan's birthday next.

Okay, I want some brandy now.

Satan's mood lifts as he sees me drinking from the glass. Good. Confirmation that he poisoned my glass and not his since he knows sometimes I switch them if he leaves the room. He doesn't look like he's going anywhere and I'm not going to debate this so I dump the remainder of my brandy into his glass and stand up.

You know what? August isn't staying anyway. Wishful thinking and reality are two different planets and I promised to keep my orbit free of anyone who ever had a hope in hell of crawling out from under my weight. I'm just going to enjoy him while he's here and then kiss him goodbye. And then everyone will be fucking happy and right and vindicated. Goodnight.

PJ has a bunk mate tonight but at least this one isn't a) a golddigger or b) John.

Where you going
What you looking for
You know those boys
Don't want to play no more with you
It's true

You're motoring
What's your price for flight
In finding mister right
You'll be alright tonight

My righteous Jacob-Doppelganger walked in during breakfast and said he didn't have his phone so he couldn't call and let us know he was coming. What a sight for sore eyes. I made him go and strip down and shower and borrow some stuff from Duncan and then he came back and asked if he could make tea.

No, I'll make it for you. 

I hear you're sick. I'll pull the tea together, you sit up here and ask me questions. 

So he did and I did and the others arrived one by one, heading straight to August for those big, slapping, painful brother-hugs they give each other. Soon it was tea for everyone and we discovered that this was the final Burning Man for our August. He won't be going back.

The stories may or may not have curled my hair to the point where I alternately felt sorry for him and became very glad he's hanging up his burner hat after all.

After tea and then lunch and then dinner too, I asked him if he maybe wanted to stay on for a few extra days, maybe change his flight, maybe never go home again and just stay here with me, that Ben is coming home soon and we can all be a family again. He wiped his face with his hands and nodded and said he was thinking about it. Really really thinking about it.

Still sick.

Today we played a rousing round of Peanut versus the Tranquilizer Dart Gun and sorry to say that Peanut lost. Then she stopped moving and you all know what happens when she stops moving..

Zzzz.

(Because stop moving? ME? NEVER.)

PS I don't have TIME for this! I have two birthdays to get ready for!

Misgrace.

I can't find the secret to survive
To grow old safe and sound
Life is sifting through like the sands in the hourglass
There's not a moment to relive my time and space
There's not a moment to undo anything

Feverish, exhausted and still I get up at dawn and shrug into one of his favorite dresses, a plum-colored raw silk halter dress that makes my skin look like marble and my hair like hard rain. I frown at my face in the mirror, and sit down to put on the shoes with the ankle bows. Jesus. What a stupid getup for a Saturday morning.

A Saturday morning should be flannel pajamas and cartoons and coffee and Lucky Charms but it's not. It's my own personal Devil, looking to collect dividends on hos ownership of my soul. I square my emotions and decide against jewelry. Not like he ever leaves it on anyway and Ben, over the years, has eaten all of my favorite earrings. I don't care to replace them.

I walk quietly downstairs, through the kitchen and out the side door. There are a few lights on in the boathouse and when I reach the door I put my hand up to knock. Caleb is already at the door. He looks tired too. Maybe he's getting sick. He doesn't say anything, he just holds out his arms. I've never refused a hug in my entire life and I'm not about to start now. I run a deficit and I'm never discriminating. A hug is a hug is a hug.

It's a good one. He holds tightly but not too tightly. He puts his head down on mine. I rest my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow to a relaxed cadence and then eventually I pull back, coughing, taking a step back to wait for instructions.

He frowns as he fetches a large white envelope from the counter, passing it to me with a look on his face I can't even describe. I open it. Inside is a small bottle of antibiotics with a handwritten label.

Бриджит

Caleb tells me to start with two and then take one each day until they're gone. That he went and picked them up after describing what everyone was suffering from in the main house, treated with the same pills I see in this bottle. 

He takes the envelope back and withdraws something else. A piece of paper from his desk with his heading on it, addressing me, confirming that he is in receipt of full monies up to and including December. 

So instead of worrying about the next few months we can breathe a little or maybe he'll find some other way to torture me to pay for this. I don't know. I kind of panic either way because I don't want this hanging over my head like it does. I'd rather just sell all my things and pay him cash because cash is easy. 

He puts his hands on my face and forces me to look up, shut up and pay attention. I didn't write it off, it was paid for you. So go home and get better. That's your job right now. 

Then he lets go and opens the door. I'm just about to leave when I remember to bring my medicine and my proof with me. 

Who paid it? 

Lochlan.

Where did he-

I don't know, Bridget. We don't have normal conversations anymore. He brought me the money, I wrote you a receipt. I gave him a receipt as well but he's probably already set it on fire like he does with everything I touch. He's got a long way to go in learning people skills, you might want to help him with that. Or better yet, cut him loose. He weighs you down, if a few payments left you both willing to settle into old habits to pay your way. 

Don't even start, you don't know-

I know you're a very sick little girl and you need to go lie down and get better. Call me if you need anything. Take the pills. Do you remember what I told you? Start with two. 

Yes. 

Good girl. 

Please stop saying that. 

He only loves me when I'm perfect.

I'm only happy when it's complicated.

I'm feeling a little better today. A little less nauseous, a little more tired and my sore throat seems to have been swallowed by a raw chest instead. Maybe that's the evolution of this illness and if so I'll probably be presenting to the Russian not-a-Doctor sooner rather than later because you-know-who is anxious for my precious time but he refuses to be needlessly saddled with unnecessary germs and unwell princesses.

The rest don't seem to mind, telling me I'm a lot more fun to be around when I don't talk so much or resist their charms since I'm now too weak to fight back.

They lie. If I don't talk they get nervous and hell, I don't fight back. Never have.

Oh my God, I'm kidding. Relax.

The only thing I did today was finish Matt's juice when he stood up to prepare to leave for work, apologize when he turned and looked very surprised and then I faceplanted into the couch, where Lochlan sat with a guitar because work? What is this work-thing you speak of? I think he's holding out on Batman because we're not all that sure Batman is all that sane right now but I'd like to keep the peace until Ben's bill is settled.

Ever the stoic and observant Sugar Baby I am, until the bitter end.

But I'm not the baby in this case and I'm not sure how Ben intends to settle up when he's promised me and everyone else within a hundred mile radius that he's not going back to work when he comes home. So basically, at this rate everyone's going to be unemployed and yet the bills keep coming. Rent is due on Sunday and uh...um...

I text the Devil that I'll see the stupid doctor tomorrow and then we can maybe have a movie or lunch or something as long as I'm not still contagious, if I feel well and good enough.

He texts me back immediately. Good girl.

Right here at home.

WHOA.

It just dawned on me. Sam sounds just like Steve Miller when he sings.

I can't wait to tell the others. But the singalong is getting loud and late at this point and I've already been sent to bed. :(

Filthy Thursday Circus.

After a few false starts my body chose to give out spectacularly last night as I sparked through what was left of the evening, setting the sheets on fire. I woke up in flames and smoldered through breakfast and now I've decided it's time to pack my (non-flammable) things and head back to the sideshow, where circus people go when they have enough talent left to fake something interesting as long as it doesn't involve the real world.

I'll be the Incredible Self-Immolating Girl. Watch her burn! Step back now, don't stand too close, folks.

The rest of them are on antibiotics. I'm pretty sure a liberal helping of bourbon and then the one of brandy last week somehow insulated me from the bacteria on the point or maybe my physiology instinctively doesn't get sick because I am the primary caregiver. I just know that I fight to exist normally even though clearly today I'm out of my league.

Everyone else is back to work today. We finished the Walking Dead. We considered some other shows as well and haven't settled on the next one yet. We ordered pizza and we lazed about but it was as if it never happened this morning in the rush to get going and now I sit alone in the kitchen wishing I could go back to sleep.

But I won't. Too busy planning my act. I've decided I'm going to be famous.

Cruciferous maximus.

Caleb invited me down for dinner the other night. Mostly because he said he wanted to go over the receipts for Henry's school clothes and supplies, haircut, shoes, sports fees, student fees, etc, etc. (Actually Henry said no haircut this year because haircuts are dumb. Hahahahahaha. Also kid with no interest in clothing suddenly wants Adidas! DONE.).

But mostly he wanted me to just be there, with him, instead of anywhere else so he handed me a cheque for the right amount before he finished cooking and there, business is out of the way, now how about a nice romantic dinner?

Sure, I offered. You didn't tell me you invited Loch too. Or is Ben home already? Is he a surprise?

But the look on Caleb's face said with those comments I clearly stepped over a line and was being difficult.

I'll have dinner and then I need to go home. I promised the kids a movie.

He demurs. Fine. Let's get to the food.

Lobsterrrrrrrr. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.  Wine. Melted butter. Bread so good I missed it when we ate it all. Scallops and collard greens. Fresh lemons. Fried potatoes.

I think I died and went to a restaurant in heaven because wow.

Then over dessert (brandy and warm chocolate cake) he starts right in. I'm getting sick because I hang out with a filthy carny. Dirt doesn't come off those kinds. It becomes part of their genetic makeup. They just aren't right, or worthy or sanitary or clean.

What the..

FUCK.

Then he asks me to think really hard. Had nothing ever happened, would I have married Lochlan and lived in a trailer forever on appropriated land, churning out babies and tricks, singing old gypsy folksongs to a screaming ginger brood forever? How long would we have stuck it out once we were saddled with children and debts and hardship and routine, not the good circus kinds that take place four times a day, six on the weekends, either?

I sat there, thinking. In silence. For a good long time before I realized I had no answer for this. Or did I?

I laughed. I laughed until I cried and I dabbed at my eyes with the corner of what had to be a Porthault napkin and then I got up and left without a word.

Because I'm learning ever so slowly and over many decades indeed that his judgements and litanies, his lectures and namecalling don't necessarily deserve an audience or a reply for that matter, and if he continues to slam what would have been an exceptionally amazing, dirty carny life with every facet of every dream I've ever had about it firmly fixed in place then he'll get no more time with me.

I don't need that. There's little out there that's worse than someone torching your unrealized dreams of a filthy brood and a happy home and a whole lot of tricks and singing and abject poverty and love. Maybe it's romantic but it's a hell of a lot more warming to me than the thought of Caleb's perfect, sterile life in which everything is cold and grey and quiet and dignified and carried out only because people love people with money and latch on to that lifestyle like lemmings, bloodsuckers who see nothing but dollarsigns in the blood they draw.

I don't fit in to that. I think it's finally dawned on me precisely how obvious that is.