Inverse (two months later).

(Go back and read yesterday's post. Then read this one. Now tell me which way is up. Yeah, that's what I thought you'd say.)

Fortune brings me around for a respite when Cole and Caleb decide to go together on a rare outing to an art show, leaving me home alone. I have a cold from running around in those non-waterproof thigh-high boots for weeks on end. I am run-down and feverish and thrilled to have a day to myself. I promptly change into jeans and a worn t-shirt with a warm hoodie over that and my All-Stars. I take the bus into the city and I knock on Lochlan's door precisely at two.

He is not attentive or chivalrous. He takes a drag from his cigarette, pushes his glasses back up his nose and turns away from me, walking back inside. His apartment is three rooms and not luxurious in the least but neat and clean and..useful. The door opens into a half-hallway and the couch is along that wall, desk to my immediate right, small dining room table in the open space in front of the desk, TV unused in between, then on two walls there are cupboards that mostly construct a tiny kitchen. At the end of this open area there's a door on the left that leads to another micro-hallway with doors to his bedroom and the bathroom. I follow him in, closing the door myself. He puts out his cigarette and frowns at me.

How are you? He waits exactly five-tenths of a second and then says You know what? Nevermind. I can see for myself (Only it comes out meself). He pulls my collar down and sees marks. Who's responsible?

I shake my head.

The new guy? What the fuck's his name again?

Loch! Stop it.

I can't trust you with any of them,  it seems. You have a new best friend? Just like that.  How does that even happen?

He's just a friend. And don't you think things happen for a reason?

What things? No, they don't. There's no such thing as fate. There's plans and there's coincidence, nothing more.

What about magic, Loch?

Not the same thing, peanut. Magic, well, that's what you and I had.

He pulls me forward into his arms until my face is wedged under his chin, against his throat, his hand smoothing my hair down, his breath hot on my head. He leads me over to the bed and pushes me down gently, in the middle of a kiss. He unzips my hoodie and pulls my arms out gently and smells my hair. You smell so good, Bridget. He admires his girl before he breaks her heart into so many pieces we never did find them all. We never will.

I love you for everything you ever took from me
I love the way you dominate and you violate me
I love you for every time you gave up on me
I love you for the way you look when you lie to me
I love you for never believing in what I say
I love you for never once giving me my way
I love you for never delivering me from pain
I love you for always driving me insane

Hours later I feel rejuvenated and alive. I sit up and he pulls me back down, threading my hair through his fingers, pulling it away from my face as I gaze into his eyes. Lochlan kisses me and it means everything. He reminds me that I am to watch myself around the brothers Grimm and the new guy too and he lets go gently, pushing me away. I protest but he does not notice, too busy looking through his wallet. He takes out a stack of bills and gives them to me and kisses my shoulder. Hide those away in case you ever need them and stay here and get some sleep. You have a fever, he orders, I have to work but I want to make you dinner later tonight. He slips back into his clothes, grabs his backpack and heads out the door.

I carefully fold the bills and tuck them into his night table drawer for him to find some other time. I snuggle back into the blankets, falling asleep in the light scattered across the bed in the late afternoon, the late-fall sun still persisting through the turned leaves, delirium clouding my dreams.

1998 (twenty years in.)

It's fall. Boom. Equinox. Leaves. Color. Summer's end. She left in the night without saying goodbye probably weeks ago and I got up this morning and pulled on a clingy black knit dress, black stockings with seams that have to be stick-straight or they make people dizzy and my thigh-high boots that make it hard to bend my knees. Huh. I'll have to fix that soon enough, since it seems I'm on my knees more often than not. I spent the whole day breaking in the boots before midafternoon when I arrived at his front door.

Come inside.

I obey and cross the threshold. I wait near him until he has closed and locked the door and then he takes my hand and leads me down the hall.

How is he?

He's fine. Working hard. 

Do you need anything, Bridget? 

No, I say it softly. Yes, I need something, Diabhal. I need escape. I need protection from your brother, I need you to not pretend to believe me when I tell you Cole is just too busy for me because that's not what this is at all and I wish you would set me free and I'd also like you to know I'm only here because I'm trying to double-cross you, and failing miserably besides.

Who is he?

Who is who?

The new friend you've been spending time with. Wow, someone's fast.

He's nice. Taking his masters. More of an acquaintance than a friend. I just met him and had to give him back a jacket he lent to me. He's harmless.

You don't think things happen for a reason, Bridget?

Which things? I am eager for him to note the difference. Instead he throws me down on the duvet and pulls off my boots. He admires how straight I put on my stockings before he rips them to shreds and he admires his girl before he breaks her soul in so many pieces we never did find them all. We never will.

I’m the one that you need and fear
Now that you’re hooked, it’s all becoming clear
That all your judgments that you placed on me
Was a reflection of discovery
So maybe next time when you cast your stones
From the shadows of the dark unknown
You will crawl up from your hiding place
Take a look in the mirror
See the truth in your face

So how can this be?
You’re praying to me
There’s a look in your eyes,
I know just what that means
I can be, I can be your everything
I can be your whore
I am the dirt you created
I am your sinner
I am your whore
But let me tell you something baby
You love me for everything you hate me for

Hours later when my hands are so sore I can't lace my boots properly, he pulls my hair until my head tips way back and I let my eyes take their time to land back in line with his and he kisses me once more as if it means anything and he reminds me that I am to watch myself around new people and he lets go roughly, pushing my head away. I bite my tongue when my head snaps forward hard and open my mouth in surprise. He does not notice, too busy looking through his wallet. He takes out a piece of paper and removes a pen from his breast pocket and scrawls something on it. Then he gives me the paper and kisses my shoulder. Stay and rest, he orders, I have court, but I want to take you to dinner tonight. He takes his giant, heavy briefcase with him and leaves.

I rip the note into tiny pieces and throw it up into the air, letting it fall all over the room, tiny shreds of whatever horrible little bit of information he has for me scattered on the late afternoon like the fall sun on the newly-turned leaves.

Through a Barlow lens.

When he lifted my chin up he scowled into my face, bonked my nose with his and then kissed me on the forehead when my eyes filled up with tears.

I told you not to do that without me there, peanut, he scolded. I had lifted a wallet from a man who was too inebriated to move quickly enough and crowed so in my victory that I didn't notice his friends, who were just fine, standing just to my right. I dropped the wallet and took off running and was not caught but I hurt myself something awful when I dove between two rows of barbed wire into a empty field on the perimeter of the show grounds.

I lay bleeding in the grass in the dark until I was sure it was safe to get up and move again, since Lochlan said a long time ago if you are caught, drop everything and they will usually stop chasing you pretty quick. This was an offhand remark he made, since he was not actively recruiting me to go out alone and pick pockets. If anything he HATED when I was with him and he had to resort to that to feed us.

Ow! I flinch as the warm cloth touches my abraded ear. I think I left half my hair on the fence.

I think I need iodine for this. Was it rusted? Why am I even asking? Of course it was rusted. Probably filthy. Jesus, Bridget. What have you done?

I close my eyes and he keeps working as gently as he can. Underneath all that blood I bet have no skin left. My shoulder is the worst, I imagine we'll go outside so he can pour cool water over it because if he puts the rough washcloth on it I might punch him in the face to make him stop.

He frowns. Empty your pockets. I think we'll go outside and I'll flush everything out.

I smile and turn around and pull out three twenty dollar bills. Never said I didn't take the cash before I dropped that wallet, because I watch him more closely than he realizes, sometimes.He is my hero, because I'm twelve and don't know any better yet.

His eyes light up and he grins and laughs. Well, isn't this ironic! I get to spend this on a first aid kit.

.nevigrofnU

What are you doing, Bridget?

Listening. There has to be a third song.

Hmm?

There needs to be one more song to complete this. A trilogy, if you will.

Just accept what they give you and enjoy it.

I can't. They're like drug dealers and this is crack.

Nice analogy, Princess.

That's the only way I can describe what some songs do to me, Jake.

You want to know what I'm going to do to you right now? He reaches over and pulls my shirt up over my head, careful not to snag my hair as it cascades through my collar. I'm not going to listen to bitter songs with you, if that's what you were hoping for,  Pigalet.

They did indeed put out a third song, finishing the set, almost a year after Jacob flew. I wonder if he's heard it yet?

How can I be lost?
In remembrance I relive
And how can I blame you
When it's me I can't forgive?

These days drift on inside a fog
It's thick and suffocating
This seeking life, outside it's hell
Inside intoxicating

He's run aground like his life
Water much too shallow
Slipping fast, down with the ship
Fading in the shadows

Abject and true.

It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds.

Go seek.

You can sing all you want, brother, but she's never going to be your soulmate.

That was all it took this morning for Ben to upend the whole breakfast table (which seats fourteen people) and send Lochlan to the floor. I'm not sure why Loch persists in digging his own grave every fucking goddamned day but I believe it might be deep enough by now.

I'm glad it was only the three of us who were present, since I feed the early boys early, then the kids with PJ and Danny and then the rest of them get their own, and then I can sit and enjoy my coffee and waffles with my two former favorite people, neither of whom is keeping any promises at all this morning. At least they managed to not break any dishes for once but it took a really long time to scrub the coffee off the walls.

***

He is the cat and I am the canary and I sought refuge in his company the moment I had the kitchen cleaned up, opting to practice defiance over obedience, the morning dramatics forcing a new sort of exasperated recklessness. I took my big basket of blackberries and off I went, ostensibly to use Caleb's kitchen and hide out for a bit.

True to form, the moment he comes to the door, he does two things:

1) He tells me I never have to knock. He knows I'm coming and never locks his door besides.

2) He invites me in and was just finishing something or other and has all the time in the world. This is new this year. He's definitely one of the few who reprioritizes when he says he's going to do so. No longer do I need to wait for conference calls to end, or a break between meetings if I appear. He just drops whatever he's doing and gives me all the attention I want or need until I have enough or have to go or walk out on him or whatever.

(He's actually working very hard on making our encounters positive so that I stop walking out on him so much but I imagine that will be a slow process that won't ever end.)

Caleb takes the basket and turns to go into the kitchen, setting it beside the sink.

What are we making? Pies?

Jam.

Mmm. I've never done this before.

I did one batch already but I want to make more. You don't have to stay.

No, I think this will be great. You lead the way and I will take orders. He winks at me when I look up at him, startled, and quickly changes the subject. Up at the house this morning...was anyone hurt?

How did you know?

I heard a crash.

No, they're fine.

Doesn't sound like it to me.

I don't want to talk about it.

Me neither. I want to make this jam. Let's get to work.

Two hours later we had nine more jars sealed and cooling on the counter, in addition to the fourteen jars I already made last week. Caleb hangs the towel on the oven door handle and turns back to me, rolling his shirtsleeves back down. Does the timing mean I can invite you out for lunch?

No, I should go back. I want to talk to Lochlan.

He winces just barely but understands he is caught anyway. What do you say to that sort of behavior?

Not to do it?

Does that work? Does it work like it does when they tell you to stop doing things you do that upset them? He is smiling again. He's poking holes in the way I hold my life and all the good parts pour out through the tiny jabs like an hourglass and when my time is up I know everything's going to change again.

It doesn't matter, it's not your concern.

Sure it is. Put simply, Bridget, if Lochlan was your soulmate, you would easily be able to avoid spending so much time with the one person he despises more than anyone else on earth. But here you are anyway. Maybe you should question your choice of soulmate after all. A soulmate is usually the person who is your other half, your perfect match, and I daresay neither one of them live up to your character. Not by a long shot.

But I always go for the longshots.

You should look a little closer to home. We're cut from the same cloth, Bridget. There's a reason we can't leave each other alone.

Cue the walk-out. Thanks for helping with the jam, Caleb. It wasn't until I was halfway across the driveway that I realized he even knew exactly what Lochlan had said to set Ben awry. Lochlan spoke somewhat softly, just loud enough to be heard and no more.

When all else fails, Tucker, sing.

(On days like this I wish Ben would give up metal for easy listening and I wish PJ would stop telling me these kinds of entries are too personal to post and too cheesy for others to appreciate. I've found the exact opposite to be true.)

I went down to ask Ben why he was being SUCH a fucking DICK this week so far (because we don't mince words, we like them whole), and has been all but absent after throwing rule after rule upon me, to the point where I believe I am allowed in the kitchen, one of the bathrooms and our bedroom but otherwise forget it. I was buried in his blanket orders and unable to understand his motives past trying to find some way to keep me out of trouble when trouble and I are Siamese twins, joined at the hip.

It fucking sucks. I have things to do. I don't like being pegged down but at the same time he just didn't know what else to do anymore so he made a bunch of rules and then disappeared downstairs to bury himself in work.

So it was time we talked past You can't do x, y or w, now just stay the fuck put already, bee!

I had my case ready to plead. I threw the door open and...was put in my place instantly. He was expecting me, and he was practicing. Practicing. By the time he finished the boys were lined up behind me, watching, struck silent.

He was singing Bridge Over Troubled Water and he didn't miss a note, even the difficult ones at the end. Probably a metaphor for everything else, that is.

Sail on silver girl, sail on by
Your time has come to shine
All your dreams are on their way
See how they shine
If you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind

Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind

THIS IS WHAT I'VE BEEN TELLING YOU FOR DECADES, BRIDGET!

Okay, so..Lochlan's still reading the blog.

So noted.

Bond.

Horror movies were my first true love. Not only because I love being scared, but because I liked watching everyone else be scared too.

I sat very still on the couch between Cole and Caleb and every time Jason Voorhees came onscreen I would simply close my eyes. At the end of the movie everyone said I was so brave, I didn't tell them I had missed 90% of the plot but I now knew the inside of my eyelids better than ever before. I thought that was pretty profound at ten years old, but at eighteen Caleb could not read my mind yet and said I was more hardcore than any other girl he knew.

Andrew, at eleven, just nodded. He wanted to be like Caleb but he had a hard time concealing his wide fearful eyes and the hair standing up on his forearms. He pulled Christian aside and asked him if he could walk home with him now instead of going alone through the woods behind the baseball field. I laughed. They never made me walk alone but the first one to jump out from behind a tree and scare me would get a watershed of scared-tears that would scar them with guilt for the rest of their lives, exacting a pledge that it would never ever happen again.

But it did. Over and over again. Cole was probably the worst. He would make some excuse and take off in the other direction, only to double back around and jump out at us somewhere along the path. I learned to walk directly behind Caleb. I still do.

Those were nights that Lochlan was still at the garage, stupid nights with stupid part-time jobs that left-me in the half-assed care of the others, who tended to pass me off on each other and sometimes take me home early, and sixteen-year-old Lochlan would lock up the garage and go track everyone down, unable to find me and showing up at my window at midnight, and I would sneak out the front door and sit on the steps talking to him until the sun came up. He told me about his plans to go on the road with the carnival while I watched the edges of the trees for Jason and he would repeatedly ask what I was afraid of. Sheepishly I finally told Lochlan, and he pointed out as long as he was around, nothing bad would ever happen to me.

That promise has held ever since. Now I just need to figure out how to glue myself to him and then I think I'll be all set. The minute I'm out of his sight everything falls apart.

Noes! Noes!

In other news, the NHL has begun the lockout.

What in the hell are we going to do with all this free time? Oh right, we'll watch the minor leagues for a bit and keep our fingers crossed that it all ends quickly because life without hockey is just..meh.

Good intention, incredibly poor execution.

Those loved have long since gone

I barged into his condo at eightish this morning. I didn't bring breakfast or plan on staying, I just unlocked the door, walked down the hall and entered his room, flipping on banks of light as I went. He rolled over and squinted and broke his handsome face in half with a frown before repairing it into pleasant, although surprised, delight.

Bridget. Did I miss a date?

You didn't go away-away, did you? You just stopped speaking directly to me and have continued to work with Ben?

Did you talk to Ben? Batman sits up and reaches for his pajama bottoms. He swings his legs out and slides them on, standing up. The pants slip down low over his hips and I am immune suddenly. This is good.

I'm talking to you.

He rakes his hand through his hair and smiles in the most cynical, bitter way. Are you really naive enough to think that you could tell me to go away and I just...would?

I don't th-

Right, you don't think. You just act impulsively depending on the day and we run around behind the scenes keeping you safe. Jesus. I completely understand Lochlan when he points out that you, my dear, are a full-time job.

I asked you to stop. I'm not your burden.

I can't walk away from this in good conscience.

I'm not your mess to clean up. Feel free to go if I'm so much work. I let you off the hook. I told you to leave. Don't act so noble.

And leave you to be eaten by the wolves? What kind of man does that? He stops and looks at the sky briefly. Oh, right. Jacob did that, didn't he?

I slap him.

Go, Bridget. Leave. Right now.

(Today's encounter is brought to you by my cosmic ability to repeat history. Note the reminder I am not someone's problem followed by a good hard slap. YEESH.)

I'll just catalog all of this in ten-minute increments until the end of time. Okay, I won't but still. That's what this feels like lately.

Looking for ways just to rationalize madness
What was I so mad about
All of the things that I've always avoided
Constantly keep coming out

So please teach me to breathe
Remind me how, I can't remember
Please read me the theme
You've lost the plot, the story's dismembered

Now I'd kinda like to go for a walk
Talk with myself and work it out
'Cause if I'd only just remembered to breathe
I'd understand what you see

So please teach me to breathe
Remind me how, I can't remember
Please read me the theme
You've lost the plot, the story's dismembered

You know how I feel about putting you in front of a firing squad, peanut. He actually does not like the group meetings, brainstorming sessions or anything involving a public dismantling of his favorite little line-walker/-drawer/-crosser. Nope, he would prefer to keep me squirreled away in the camper, never to see the light of day, forced to subsist on pilfered vitamin D supplements and lavish descriptions of the weather I can only view through the tiny rusted-stuck window. Hungry. Always so hungry and miserable and so stubborn besides.

It would have been nice if you would have shown your pretty face nonetheless. To back me up, Locket.

How do you know I don't side with them? He scolds but he is smiling, almost.

You just reminded me. I am drawing on a sketchbook cradled in my lap, eraser balanced on one knee, tortillon clenched between my teeth. He looks up and frowns when he sees this. If it gets wet it doesn't work and only makes a mess but I have run out of hands and I don't want to put it down on the sand.

If I am so afraid and awful and continue to drop the ball, as it were, according to your written thoughts, then how come wherever I go, you follow soon after, and you sit within a few feet of me and remain there until I move? You tell me what that's all about and I'll remind you to think of the reasons why I do or don't do something before you eviscerate me with your words in front of the world. Oh, and for the record, you've skipped a very important upcoming date that lies before the anniversary of Jake.

I didn't skip it, I don't have to work through it. It is a happy one.

Is it?

Of course it is. I look up with an irritated expression and the tortillon falls to the sand anyway. He walks over and fetches it for me, holding it out. I don't take it, I just sit there squinting up at him.

Is it...happy...for you?

Of course it is, Bridget. I wouldn't have it any other way.

No one takes it seriously.

I do. Do you?

Yes, Loch.

Burning building?

Don't do that.

You use it to illustrate your point all the time.

That's different! I'm dramatic and impulsive and broken.

And I'm not?

Well, you're- and I stopped. Yes, you're dramatic and impulsive and broken.

Two peas in a pod.

Actually a B and an L.

That's not what I said-

I know. But I like it better.

Oh. I get it. Ben says "two bees in a pod", doesn't he?

Yeah.

I knew that. You'd save him, wouldn't you?

Only if he couldn't save himself already, Lochlan. That's where you come in. I'd need some help there.

A bullet had found him
His blood ran as he cried
No money could save him
So he laid down and he died

Ooooh, what a lucky man he was
Ooooh, what a lucky man he was

He was so close I couldn't help myself. The rain pounded down on the glass of the skylights and I reached out to trace his face. When I made it to his top lip with my index finger he opened his mouth slightly, lifting his head until my finger slid onto his tongue. The look on his face would have made anyone burst into flames but I kept my cool in case I needed it later. I met his eyes and withdrew my hand, watching as his eyes glittered with anticipation.

He had as much self control as I didn't however. Gripping his phone tightly in his hands, he asked me to take a seat. I pulled out a stool from under the counter at the island and sat down, watching him remake his composure from scratch as he walked around the room flipping on lights to push the dark back.

It rained heavily that day, and we all opted for cozy, darkened rooms, low conversation and more fall-like activities. He hit the button on the wall, making the flames in the fireplace jump to life. Then he turned it off, seeing how instantly mesmerized I became.

He came back over to me, throwing down the folder. The one with my name on it. The one that gets thicker each week, with notes added in as he thinks he dissects the methods used to win me over. I'm so tired of this. I have headaches now too. Everyone and then some have told him to stop, just to leave me be, after he promised he would be honest and he confirms that honesty is still paramount, now he's just working out in the open instead of behind the scenes.

He tapped it with two fingers, relaxing slightly, watching me. We are two feet apart. I could smell the scent of soap and fragrance on his skin and I could see the morning shadow on his face because he did not bother to shave. He didn't comb his hair either, tousled and wavy. He was dressed somewhat comfortably in a waffle-knit long sleeved t-shirt and black chinos. Bare feet.

Please kill me, I thought to myself.

You did not get back to me on the changes I suggested.

I sat and waited, staring back at him, trying to keep my expression completely neutral. He watched me fail.

Bridget, since you won't cooperate I have no choice but to exact a little power here. This will be unfair.

Well, then. Let's not mince words. What do you mean? Power how? If you drag Henry into this-

Henry will not be dragged into this. I already gave you my word. No, creep. You gave the lawyers your word. Because you're smarter than I think you are. He drags his hand down the lower half of his face as if he can't believe I would guess that Henry would be the catalyst that's spurring such pressure from him. That or it's the fact that we now have less than six months remaining until his self-imposed time limit.

(I know. I need this right now, don't I? Like a hole in the head. Oh wait, I asked for that too.)

What is the one thing you asked me for, Princess? The one thing you have wanted from me that I refused to acknowledge or provide?

To leave me alone?

Think harder. You've asked me several times to perform a sort of magic.

What do you want from me? You've said this is all temporary anyway, what's the point?

I make you a little magic and in exchange, you take 1983 and wipe it from your memory.

What about the rest of your...proposal?

Oh, all of that still holds. This would be a show of good faith on my part.

And I require a lobotomy in the process? Hell, if you think I'll need one before, wait until after-

Bridget. I'm dead serious.

(That's not an expression anyone is permitted to use in my vicinity. Obviously it was my cue to walk out again.)

Caleb, if you go forward with any of this you'd better run while you still can because I'll kill you myself.

Not if I kill you first.

And he smiled as if we had talked about the weather and nothing more.

1770 days without you.

I think part of the problem was that I didn't tell anyone what wonderful awful things Satan has been saying to me lately.

Because, well, I'm not sure what to do with it, exactly.

And now Ben is sticking close and he called a Headcase Meeting, only he called it lunch, and we sat out on the patio in the breeze, drinking champagne and orange juice (he didn't, he had just plain juice, as did PJ, Batman, Sam and August because recovery is a bitch for some and it was only noon on a weekday and whatever, fine, yes, I drank alone) and eating roast beef sandwiches and provolone on pumpernickel bread and talking about a bunch of unrelated things and then I suddenly clued in that Ben specifically invited only my most devoted handlers and casual therapists to study me intently while I sat there and cracked jokes and deferred anything I didn't want to talk about, mainly the fact that BOOM, the wind picks up and the leaves begin to turn and Halloween merch hits the shops and suddenly I'm staring down another anniversary I wish I didn't have to remember at all.

This year it will be five whole years. Five years is a sort of milestone, only I still don't know which end is up and Jesus, look at all this help around the table.

Sam wanted to know what Caleb had said to me to make me suddenly hopeful again. Because you know when there's no closure, no actual viewing and no touching of cold, unresponsive skin then you may as well be on vacation or something, due to walk back through the door any second now.

And yet, I still don't want to talk about Caleb's caveats and his power and the things he could do, if only I say the word that puts the mechanism into action, clicking into place and traveling through time, five years back to pick up where I left off.

That's hope for you. That's faith. There's your God right there.

There's your fucking prayers answered all over my goddamned face, drawn like a map of the human heart because I am so transparent Ben could see through me before I even gave him that trite answer in the living room and he kicked into gear so fast I never saw it coming but if you knew Ben, hell, if you knew any of them, they'll only give me so much latitude and then they'll come out to the edge of the world and call me back home.

And I'll sit just on the other side of the fence where I can see the ocean and pretend I can't hear them at all.

You want me, come and get me.

Ben is well and prepared to take me up on my threats. I have finally met my match. I never thought it would be Ben. Out of absolutely everyone I did not think he would be the one to step into this.

So lunch it is, and I played dumb and they played smart and I lost every hand, obviously and PJ wants daily control again, August would like to see some meds put into play and Sam would prefer a full old-fashioned lobotomy. Batman wants back in. All of their requests met with a resounding No, there will be better days! I pleaded, as if it was me who fell in the hole, instead of giving credit to Caleb, who pushed me into the hole and then starting shoveling dirt in on top of my head.

Ben just wishes all the ghosts would go away now and give him half a chance and Loch never came around at all because I guess the bravery wasn't on the night table when he woke up because I had already eaten it and boy, lunch was only two hours ago and I'm hungry all over again but I never want to sit at the table again, having my heart torn apart when I refuse to discuss things that are clearly making me crazy, not because I don't want to discuss them, but because I can't.

Tucker finally wakes up and other tales from grocery shopping.

One thing that drives me crazy is people standing too close to me in public spaces. I could feel eyes on me, and someone making a concentrated effort to stand nearby in the grocery aisle. I preferred to remain in my own little world, the intrusion unwelcome, forcing me to pull out of my reverie in order to monitor the activity around me a little more carefully. Sort of like when you turn the music off on a long run when someone begins to run just back from you. The earphones stay in, but the music goes away in order to be aware.

It's not until I am standing at the wall of men's razorblades, trying to get everything on my half of the list and why the hell am I buying these when no one ever shaves anyway? that I smell the familiar scent of Light Blue and I know it's the Devil. I turn and ask him which razorblades he buys now and he reminds me he is still using the straight razor.

Oh yes, I'm sure in the throes of something or other I remember it being held to my throat but for now I pretend I didn't hear him and turn to finish my shopping and get the hell out of this store where no one blinks at paying $9.99 for Artisan baked bread that was stale yesterday and today should be on sale but isn't, and whoever chokes it back dry will remark on how rustic and wholesome it is while I sit in the corner eating a sandwich made with Wonderbread, full of enough preservatives to keep it fresh until I'm back in diapers.

But he follows me. Nightmares last night, Bridget?

People are staring.

Always, I shoot back over my shoulder. Especially if I've spent time with you beforehand.

He scowls and rushes to keep up with me. I put mustard in the cart. Then Tabasco sauce. I thought I was quite benign the other day, Bridget.

Raisin Bran. No, actually you weren't. You start out steadily then pick up speed as you go downhill. I stare pointedly at him over a container of coffee. You poked me full of holes and then stood back and watched me bleed out. You weren't harmless. It's almost worse that way.

He looks spooked and chagrined that I would even recognize his methods of weakening my will. As if we need to do that sort of thing with words.

I put a box of tea in the cart and then take it out, trading it for a different one. I am losing my cool quickly now. I just want to finish and get away from his words for once when he reaches out and stops me. I flinch and drop the tea on the floor and everyone turns to stare at us once anew. I rip my arm back in close. Leave me alone!

A familiar hand slides around my neck from behind and I exhale shakily. Ben reaches around me, tossing some paper and string flesh-presents into the cart. (Meat Christmas! he always says when he's been to the butcher. Have you been a good little carnivore, Bridget? He'll say and I'll laugh til I snort water out my nose.)

What were you going to say that you couldn't wait and tell her at home? Ben is waiting for an actual answer this morning. Ben's on the warpath. Ben has just about had enough and oh, boy, they're all in for a big surprise now.

To his credit Caleb changes the subject. I was going to tell her she could leave me a list and I could have the groceries delivered. I usually do that for myself and if it would make things easier for everyone we could pool our resources and have one big delivery each week.

We'll think about it. Ben smashes a kiss against the side of my head so hard I almost fall over but I'm holding on to the cart, and he releases my neck and takes over steering. We finished? I nod and he heads for the checkouts. People politely pretended they aren't watching every move we make and I duck my head and follow him quickly, leaving Caleb standing in the breakfast aisle.

Caleb said my name once before I was too far away to hear him and I stopped moving just long enough for Ben to let go of the cart and have to come back and grab me and then I was put in the truck and we were gone.

I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song,
I just can't remember who to send it to.

When my lungs burned, I surfaced.

I swim hard against the current. The waves want to pull me back out, the water rolling swiftly west, out to sea. I keep fighting it. I kick so hard my thighs begin to ache and then suddenly I touch bottom with the tips of my toes.

It's always just as I'm about to give up that I realize I'm close enough to make it.

As the water level uncovers more of me my skin begins to itch and blister. I look down at my arms and legs and see ashes smeared over my skin, hot embers leaving angry red welts on my flesh, Cole's words burned into my limbs stating his rules.

You can't cover this. Clothing won't hide it, nor will a stiff upper lip.

My hair begins to smoke in spite of the fact that it is dripping, loaded with salt and seaweed. I turn back, looking far out where the whitecaps begin in the wind and I can see the layer of memories bouyant on the surface, a charred remorse ready to drown us all.

This was why I floated so easily. This is how I got so far.

Altar Egos.

On the mantel in the living room rests a huge set of photographs in frames, the big porcelain urn which holds Butterfield the Dog and the tiny copper box with the enamel bluebird on top which holds a tiny bit of Jake. (Cole is not here-here. His ashes are in the Atlantic.)

Every morning I go and greet them, the photographs and ashes and I touch my fingers to my lips and then I touch them lightly along all of the pictures and the box and the urn too and sometimes it takes longer and sometimes it's very fast and never do I have company until this morning when Ben stood silently in the archway leading into the living room watching me as I went about my ritual, only I didn't realize it was a ritual until I turned around and saw him and he asked what I was doing and then I realized I do it every single morning the moment I come downstairs dressed and ready for my day.

Nothing, I say.

That is not nothing. He walks into the room and surveys the mantle. He puts two and two together and makes eight. He looks down at me.

You've made an altar.

Jake doesn't believe in those.

Jake is gone, Bridget.

Not necessarily. I am cross and not ready for the third degree or any sort of discussion about what I know and what I think and what I've been told.

But Ben is smarter than your average bear and he grinds the whole discussion to a halt and changes direction just enough so that I am instantly lost and depending on him to find the way back for both of us, breadcrumbs dropped along the path that we will later follow home.

You know what's missing? Music. Your ritual should include one of his favorite songs.

I turn around and realize the crumbs are gone, eaten by the birds. Night has fallen and now we'll never get back.

I'm not permitted to listen to songs that remind me of Jake. I tell him this woodenly as if he's never heard this before. Ben does not believe in this. Jake taught me this when Cole died. That sometimes you put the songs that remind you of someone away and then you bring them back out when you are stronger.

Sure you are. You know this, bee. It doesn't make it worse. Maybe it might help.

It might hurt, too.

Yeah, it might hurt.

Then what?

What do you mean?

What happens when it hurts?

I'll hold on to you.

Oh.

So you want to try it?

No, not now.

Maybe later? Or tomorrow morning?

Maybe. My words are shaped like apologies but they bounce off Ben like coins. He won't be offended by my inability to be polite.

What did you mean by 'not necessarily?' Did Caleb say something to you?

Did he say something to you?

No, I haven't talked to him in a couple days. But if he's playing games again, I'll go talk to him now.

But right now the only thing I want is for Ben to stay put and so I pick up his hand. It's huge and warm and smooth and he has callouses on the pads of his fingers from playing and his nails are stained with blackberry juice from picking berries with me for jam and I kiss the back of his hand and ask him to have some breakfast with me. He slides his arm around my ribcage, pulling me close and asking me what I want for breakfast.

Cake, if we have any left. There were five birthday cakes paraded through the house in the past week and a half. FIVE. If heaven exists, the menu just says cake. Guaranteed.

We can bring our cake back and leave some as offering to the memory of the great Zero the Hero, if you want.

Don't be an asshole, Ben.

Yes, ma'am. Sorry ma'am. He bursts out laughing. I can't help it. I remember a cake story you told me once.

You only remember the dirty stories don't you?

Hell, yes. Those are the best ones.

33 1/2 rpm (with a big scratch down the middle.)

Yesterday was long and ended badly, starting with when I returned to the house to get my phone and Lochlan gave me a warning about going to Caleb's house, using both names, not just Bridge or Bridgie or even Peanut. No, he hauled out the whole Bridget Rebekah with ALL FOUR last names after it for full effect, beginning with my maiden name, then Cole's, Jake's and Ben's last names.

Huh.

Made me wonder how many times he has said my name with his last name tacked on the end, just to see how it feels. He'll tell you none, thanks. I admit to doing it almost weekly. It doesn't fit and I can't say it without a bad Scottish accent anyway. It's a hell of a last name and so far mine have all been short and cute and seven letters or less.

Win.

But oh yeah. What a pain.

I think he wanted me to stop and listen and put down my things and maybe tuck in bedside him for the duration of the morning, maybe even fall back to sleep and dream about fairs and rides and seventeen ways to be content with the small comforts of a simple life (Oh trust me, we've got a hard list) but I shook my head and walked out the door, with my reassuring expression firmly fixed. Glad to have that expression since it totally masks the fear.

But Caleb wasn't being all that evil. The headaches are ruining him slowly but they are working to adjust his medications so that maybe they will soon bother him less. He had cheques ready for Henry's school supplies and for clothing for both children and then he wanted to know if I had an answer for his proposal and he added some things. Caveats, bait. I don't know. I got up and left halfway through his spiel because I no longer wanted to listen.

When I returned to the house, Lochlan looked at the cheques and immediately took offense to the fact that his sworn enemy is providing his daughter's wardrobe expenses. I told him to stuff it. I had a headache by then too. He was about to escalate the argument when PJ shot a warning word across the counter, following it with an offer to make me some tea and fetch some aspirin.

I declined everything. I threw up my hands and turned and left the kitchen, leaving them all speechless and wondering. I didn't care. I said I had a headache and I said I didn't want to argue today and no one listens to me anyway.

I can see the patterns on your face
I can see the miracles I trace
Symmetry in shadows I can't hide
I just want to be right by your side

I will give you everything to
Say you want to stay, you want me too
Say you'll never die, you'll always haunt me
I want to know I belong to you

I was so surprised to see him I must have jumped forty feet. An amusing sight for Gage and Chris, who were standing out on the patio watching the activities in the driveway while they sipped the coffee I made for Ben but Ben left early again and will probably make awful coffee at the studio while he works, not even noticing that it's full of grounds and tasteless and limp. Chris said their coffeemaker blew up and I pointed out that's what happens when you buy obscurely-branded, fancy all-in-one machines and he shrugged and pointed out how much of a ass Schuyler is before he has his espresso in the mornings and how much Daniel suffers as a result.

I opened my mouth in alarm and Christian said he was kidding, that Daniel doesn't suffer, Daniel just keeps his head down until Schuyler is sufficiently caffeinated.

Kind of like we do with you, Princess. He laughs but my face doesn't change and his mirth dies away quickly. I pour the boys their coffee and herd the kids outside. They walk to school now. Different schools. Alone with their friends if they can grab them en route but otherwise the days of watching so closely over them have passed. Henry is gigantic and confident and cynical, grade six now. A big kid on campus. Ruth is still thin and delicate, in grade eight, terrified of grade twelve boys for some reason but loving the independence, the pop machines, and the newness of it all.

Okay, good, so she clearly doesn't take after her mother.

So back to the driveway, where Caleb is waiting by the pond to see the children off. Lochlan said goodbye already, from his pajamas and good coffee and tabs of infinite reading. He's a slow-riser these days.

Caleb, on the other hand is shaved and dressed in a suit and looks incredibly well-rested for someone who has been so low the past couple of weeks. The few times I dared to text him he shot back that he was fine and didn't want to be disturbed. I think he wanted me to feel stung, but I just felt glad he answered so that I didn't have to appoint someone to go to hell to check on the Devil himself. They hate doing that. I hate having to do that.

But you know, I still lean over just about everyone in the dark of night to make sure they are still breathing. That includes both cats and the dog. I can't help it.

Caleb hugs both children and then we watch silently together as they hike up to the top of the road before disappearing from view. I hate this part. There are crosswalks and cars and the Regulators too. There are bears and grade twelve boys and bullies and nuclear bombs and earthquakes and swarms of killer bees. Tsunamis and hurt feelings and broken cookies and salsa that leaked out of the containers in their lunches and fear of fear itself.

But there is also life to be lived and that is the part I focus on, blurring out the rest in a tilt-shift emotional landscape where I draw a narrow band of focus and try to ignore everything else.

He turns after they leave and asks me if I want to join him this morning for an impromptu meeting to go over just a few things. A hour of my time, tops.

That's probably not a good idea, I scowl. I haven't had enough coffee yet. Maybe Christian is right after all.

I can make coffee. The Devil slips.

I weigh the odds and come up light. Fine, just let me go grab my mug and my phone and tell Loch where I will be.

His lips tighten but he says nothing, and turns to head back to the boathouse to start the coffeemaker. Wow, that sounds like it must be a pull-start or choke-and-flood (snort) sort of thing but really he is very meticulous since I taught him how I make such good coffee, a quick learner when it comes to such pedestrian things as small appliances.

He turns back at the bottom of the steps. Tell me again who the Regulators are?

I wish he would admit to reading my mind. Just once.

He smiles. If I did that you would be afraid of me again, so it's better if I let sleeping dogs lie.

Neat bows on messy gifts.

If I make a sound
Will you stop everything, I'm innocent
When I'm not around
Would you cover your eyes and imagine?

Can you hear it
Can you see it
Falling, falling to the ground

He wants me to tell you that was a fluke.

He's right, sort of and this is not to say that I'm now going to travel down a road that sees the fairest one of all tarnished by the darkness of my memories. No, this is just to illustrate how Perfect is relative, and how those who seem the most together are sometimes the most apart.

That was the only time and place in which I saw that darkness from Lochlan. Whatever it was, it vanished from him once we took up speaking to each other again. He wants me to point out that his engagement happened in 2006, which was almost a full DECADE after I left him sleeping in the fleabag room we rented and came home early.

The years in between saw me boomeranging back to Cole long after Lochlan's birthday, thrilled with the summer away, the better shows we found abroad, the indelible memories we made swirling my thoughts like the wind in my hair at the top of the largest Ferris wheels on earth.

We slept beside our bicycles in the grass. We ate goat cheese and bread in the sun. We busked illegally and skirted fines with charm and we made pennies on the foreign dollar, coming home with little to show for it. So much so that upon our (final) return, Lochlan went back to school at the urging of the others and now makes predictable money, something that's especially important when you're forty-seven years old (FUCK. REALLY?) and can't spend the same amount of time in the sun that you used to in a culture where people want to be entertained only up until the moment where they are supposed to pay for it and then they drift away as if they were never really there.

(I can confirm this first-hand, after putting a twenty dollar bill in the hat of another fire-thrower two summers ago because he was totally fucking entertaining and the look on his face told me everything I've ever needed to know about how much the world has changed. I don't give money out freely, for the record. Don't ask me for change. Don't hold a sign on the corner. Dance for me. Sing me a tune. Juggle some glass bottles or something that's on fire and I'll empty my purse into your pockets and smile as I turn to leave.)

But oh, was he ever mad at me yesterday. And I told him fine, if I can't get it right then walk away and no one will blame you. He would not reply to this and we remained at a stalemate for hours and I was dreading dinner. How do you cook someone's favorite dinner when you're arguing with them? Do you burn it? Poison it? Tell them to cook it themselves?

Well, no, because all of those options are kneejerkish and silly. I cooked and I tried to get it perfect. I'm not good with Scottish food but I tried and he appreciated that and lied and said it tasted perfect. Only he doesn't say perfect, he says pehrr-fikt but you have to listen carefully or you'll miss the roll and tsk. He smiled and blew out the candles we lit, after opting to not try and jam forty-seven of them on the cake. Remember when I almost burned the castle down by lighting all forty candles on a cake for Cole? Yeah. I don't forget as much as I say I do.

And Ben told me to cut him some slack and I pointed out Lochlan hasn't exactly measured any out for me in weeks and what a weird summer it has been and Ben asked if it was the strangest one on record and I laughed and said Hell, no. Ben just stood there smiling, waiting for me to clue in and then I rolled my eyes and asked him why he was helping Lochlan strip my loyalties from Ben like old wallpaper.

And Ben glossed like he always glosses. God bless my Ben. Sometimes I wonder about him.

And we sang Happy Birthday to Lochlan and toasted him well and wished him our fondest wishes and made our speeches while he sat there and tried to absorb the outpouring of love, the way we all have, a good and usually failed effort at holding one's composure and dropping it as one by one, we stand and say some wonderful things and I could see he was doing okay so far, he had hooked a finger through a loop of control. Then I stood up and instead of a speech I made an apology and I tried to look everywhere but directly at him but boy, is that hard when a glassy pair of eyes is staring right through the place where your soul is supposed to go but he accepted my apology gracefully. I sang happy birthday to him by myself, a capella, and if you know me I'll never do that because I can't hear my own voice and it comes out so strangely in my head I will only sing along if I feel really brave or the music is already too loud to make a difference.

No one clapped but there wasn't a dry eye in the house either.

And then upstairs in the hallway, one minute before his birthday was over, he found me and pressed me up against the wall, bringing both his hands up to my face, kissing me like he meant it. He kissed me like he was really glad I didn't burn his food. He kissed me like he had a good birthday after all, and he kissed me like he never doubted for a second where my loyalties lie, even though I have told him precisely where they are every time he asks and he always says that's not important anyway, what's important is that we are here now, safe and sound.

Radical, liberal, fanatical, criminal.

When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful,
a miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical.
And all the birds in the trees, well they'd be singing so happily,
joyfully, playfully watching me.
But then they send me away to teach me how to be sensible,
logical, responsible, practical.
And they showed me a world where I could be so dependable,
clinical, intellectual, cynical.

There are times when all the world's asleep,
the questions run too deep
for such a simple man.
Won't you please, please tell me what we've learned
I know it sounds absurd
but please tell me who I am.*

Our time in the circus didn't end well. It didn't end at all, actually, at least not with any measure of closure. I bounced back and forth between the high wires and the freakshow out back, Lochlan kept true to his craft, throwing fire, taking a straightforward routine and turning it into something positively magical there. He bloomed. He was positively riveting and I realized that the years on the carnival had made him complacent and content. Now he was hungry, attention-starved, always seeking limelight as a source of nourishment, always trying to find ways to be different.

He changed.

Looking back he didn't change all that much, those facets of his personality always bubbling on a slow boil just beneath his surface but at the time it seemed as if Lochlan had gone away and been replaced with a virtual stranger, someone slightly darker than Lochlan, who seemed to be under a dark cloud. His hair was darker, his eyes darker, his mood? Darker. He listened to strange music, and told jokes with no punchlines. He ceased to care if we ate or got paid.

For the first time in my life, it wasn't pretty. He wasn't pretty. He made himself ugly on purpose and he became a caricature. I packed my meager things and I called Caleb from a payphone on the boardwalk one morning at 5 a.m. and asked him to wire me some money so I could come home. I asked him not to tell Cole, that I would pay him back any way I could.

And he laughed and asked me to put Pyro on the phone and I stalled and hummed and hawed and then I cried.

And Lochlan, to his credit for stabbing him in the back, didn't talk to me until almost Christmas that year.

( *Look, a footnote! No, seriously. Loch asked me not to write about his birthday and so this is what I wrote instead. Because people always ask why he moved to Toronto and got engaged when I went home and hung up my tights and started being a Regular Human Being again. That was why, okay? That was why.

I'll write about his birthday tomorrow. No worries. If I listened to any of them I wouldn't have a blog at all, now, would I?)

I gathered my hair up into a teeny-tiny curly ponytail this morning and it has held all day, without big sections falling out or the whole thing coming undone quickly.

Take that, Devil-man.

Notes from the blast radius.

(We had moments, you know.)

I am waiting patiently as Jacob finishes getting ready for the late service. Sunday evening. The stragglers, the waners, the devout. He has decided to shave in a hurry after a day feeling too scruffy, and then a button popped off his collar and he refused to let me sew it on for him while he finished doing everything else, and now he sits perched on the edge of the bed, a needle and thread in his nimble fingers struggling to make sure the button is perfectly straight. I watch from my vantage point near the window, my shoes uncomfortable strappy six-inch stilettos and a coral-colored brushed satin swing dress with the most delicate lace overlay you've ever seen. I'm afraid to even breathe in this dress, it's so fragile, so I only wear to evening service and even then, not so often since it's gotten cold outside. Jacob loves this dress. He calls me Pumpkin when I wear it.

I think that's what I'm going to do now.

What's that?

I'm going to become a pumpkin farmer.

The grin spreads across his face as his eyes light up. A pumpkin farmer, hey? Let's talk about this. What are you going to do if there's a deluge?

I will give each of my pumpkin plants a tiny little umbrella so that once they have had enough rain, they can put them up and dry off.

What if there's a drought?

I will give them water guns so they can play AND stay hydrated.

He's trying so hard not to laugh. But, Bridget, what happens when all that love and attention results in pumpkins that are too big for you to lift at harvest?

Then I will turn the whole farm into a tourist attraction and also advocate for Macro Halloween, where everything is bigger, including the chocolate bars. Everyone wins, Pooh. This can't fail.

Where are you going to do this?

The backyard.

I see. What are you going to do for supplies?

Jesus, Jacob, did you even SEE the amount of seeds we scraped out of that pumpkin this morning? I think that will be lots. We're halfway there already.

Poetry as only Bridget does poetry.

My kneesocks don't match my dress and I've hardly brushed my hair today. It falls in a mass of bedheaded waves, curling underneath my chin. I did stop and put on lipstick but it turned out to be a muted red so I look like someone's fetish today. Ankle boots. I look like a doll, like a plastic doll. My teeth hurt and I'm starving too, but that has even less to do with anything so here, a bunch of stuff for all.

Lochlan's Courage At Will method of getting things done has proven to be effective only in one way, or maybe it's a complete coincidence but I have not seen Caleb all damned week. Probably a good thing as he would level judgements about my appearance and then I'd feel weird and unsophisticated and childish and we're just the opposite of that these days.

We're not?

Kidding, I knew that.

It's the final day with the kids home with me alone (or as much alone as is possible with boys coming and going). Monday everyone will be home since it's Labour Day, tomorrow is the big birthday party and I found Mexican Coca-cola at the corner story this afternoon, which is sorta neat in of itself. They say it's better. I still can't finish a whole bottle or can by myself so really I wouldn't know. Pop Shoppe I can finish. Smart/vitamin water I can finish. Pure soda spins me into a cyclone and I can't finish. Surprise.

But you know what? I feel sorry for my children today. The anticipation of a whole summer stretching out before you in which you can daydream to your heart's content is far more glorious a feeling then the last few straggler-days of August (the month, not the boy) in which school supplies and clothes start to trickle in and total strangers will ask that dreaded question, Looking forward to going back to school? and you realize that soon your mind will be too busy trying to wrap itself around textbooks, locker-combinations and bagged lunches to daydream, the weather will grow cold and the days short and you'll long for the endless summer heat and accompanying ennui, the list of things you planned to do but never got around to and the dreams you didn't even start on yet.

That's what I'm thinking about today. Also, one kneesock is really loose and keeps falling down and I'm really fucking annoyed by it.

One more time.

A whole post in italics means it's not for you.

(He stood in the kitchen doorway for a good twenty-five minutes while I fussed around cleaning up breakfast, getting progressively louder as I slammed things around and generally found ways to drag out my chores, pointedly ignoring him.

Twenty-five minutes in, he shifted his stance, putting his arm up on the doorframe, If I say I'm sorry would you notice me? He's trying to be serious but he's succeeding in being resplendent instead and I'm trying my best to not cave in.

You humiliated me in front of the others.

No, I didn't. They think way worse on a regular basis.

Lochlan!

It's true! Jesus, Bridget. Every one of 'em, an animal in disguise.

So you just walk around dripping contempt on all of us, do you? Are we beneath you?

Hell, no. It's the other way around. I don't deserve this sort of stability or luck and I buckle at the extent to which I have changed my life. For you. For us.

Did you come in here to be resentful then?

No, Bridget! I came to apolofix (long story, made up language) and you're twisting it all around.

I stop slamming because I can't hear him and stand up straight, waiting.

I think things would be a lot easier if I didn't have to put my life to a vote every time I want to take a piss, that's all, peanut. I just want to go back to having only two people to take care of, you and myself.

That doesn't fly when you have a daughter, Loch.

I don't mean it like that. I mean when it comes to you.

Jake tried to lock things do-

I don't mean like that!

Then why don't you tell me what you MEAN, then!

Can you hear us? What are we doing? We fall in love, build it all up and then tear it all apart. It's a vicious cycle, Peanut. It's fucking stupid is what it is.

Where are we now?

Tear-apart.

Then?

I withdraw. You disengage. I don't know. We aren't together and then we drift back somehow. It's agony in between and I would spare both of us that.

Maybe that's just the way we do things.

We shouldn't. Not now. Now we have to make an effort.

I'm not the one who showed up drunk!

I'm FUCKING SCARED, BRIDGET!

I dropped the towel on the floor and just stood there. He was so loud and so honest right there. Loudly honest and honestly loud and completely unconcerned with being overheard.

Of what? What are you scared of? (Oh please answer me for once. Pleasepleaseplease.)

Not getting you back. Ben. Caleb. Batman. Myself. Pick something. I'm scared of it.

You're the one who keeps giving me away.

We don't work..together. We don't seem to have-, I don't know, it seems to be short-lived and then we're fighting and I don't want it to end. I get so scared and everything gets so dark and I can't breathe.

Me neither.

Then let's keep the lights on. Please, Bridge.

He puts his hand out across the counter and I take it eagerly. He squeezes my fingers tightly and I know we're both going to kick the lightbulbs into a thousand fragments before we find a way to circumvent the past. Too much too soon. Too little, too late. Too bad, so sad.)

The Princess and the Philistines.

This morning's family meeting was a farce. Ben was absent. Not sure if he forgot or didn't care (did you notice too? Yeah, he lets a hell of a lot of things slide sometimes), Caleb sent his last-minute regrets, citing another one of his miserable headaches, and PJ opted to make the whole thing into a litany of Things Caleb is Doing that makes them worry about me. Daniel abruptly said he thinks its time he rejoin the workforce and John pointed out that since he is new to the household, should he have brought his checkbook to pay me for all the chips he ate the other night, or did I maybe take debit?

I turned around and gazed at him for a very long time before realizing he just defused the entire situation in pointing out we really never schooled him on the house rules, so everything he knows is completely skewed and anecdotal.

Lochlan made some crack about stuffing my card slot and then keying a secret number into my pin pad and losing one's shirt in the process. Oh well, WOW. Someone's still drunk this morning. Told you he couldn't hold his liquor worth three pennies. I don't know why he was drinking anyway.

Oh, right, I do.

Caleb's mid-life crisis, which has really picked up speed with incident after incident and events that we should not be having to deal with and general fucktitude that simply isn't warranted at this stage of the game and they're all sure it's just some sort of stunted maturity because he went straight from moody, driven teenage boy to millionaire lawyer and they don't know quite how one would reconcile that anyway.

At least they're debating the reasons instead of simply piling on.

I might be the lone holdout. With few startlingly vulnerable exceptions, Caleb is still pure evil and I'm pretty sure the only reason he actually didn't show this morning was because he probably saw Ben leave for the studio very early and knew he wouldn't have many fans left in the room otherwise.

PJ said he expects things to get a lot worse before they get better, since we are now counting down six months to Caleb's fiftieth birthday and I'm supposed to somehow engineer a miraculous change of heart and drop everything to be with him in exchange for his net worth.

Somehow I don't see that happening.

Lochlan isn't sure and makes a few more humiliating comments directed squarely at me. He is dismissed by Schuyler, the only true gentleman left, it seems, and one of the few not afraid to call Lochlan on his bullshit, since Lochlan still mostly rules the household and everyone in it, though if you ask him he claims to be a part of nothing solid or permanent whatsoever and leave him the fuck out of it, thankyouverymuch.

We ignore him when he gets like that. He has some issues. He gets up and leaves and it all works as planned anyway since we had a different event to discuss. The big Long Holiday Weekend Birthday Extravaganza because Ruth and Lochlan's birthdays are two days apart.

(I know. Jesus, I'm so special. I did that all by myself. Here's hoping Lochlan takes the next week and sobers up for the sake of his daughter. You don't turn thirteen (!!) and forty-seven every goddamned day. 47. FORTEE SEVENNNNN. When the fuck did that happen? No, seriously. Please tell me. I missed it. And for the record he has incredible genes and does not look a day over thirty-three.)

We hammered out plans and ideas and special things and organized the schedules a bit so everyone in both houses will be around. I will look after getting Ben there and Caleb does not need to attend, of course, but otherwise I think we're almost ready. I have a lot of baking to do. A very big whole lot. Oh God.

The meeting broke up with everyone going their separate ways. To work, back to bed, whatever the usual schedules are for Tuedays which aren't as bad as Mondays and I went to reload the coffee maker so that the late risers and still-drunks could have some when they need it.

John stopped me in the hall, his hand on my elbow.

Bridget, I didn't mean to cause any problems but that was fucking funny.

I glare at him until he disintegrates.

Sorry. I should really go tell him off for being such an ass in front of a lady and see if he need to talk or something. Get him sobered up and back to himself. I really hate it when he's like this! (By the end of his remarks, John was pretending to be me, clearly and misses absolutely nothing here.)

Oh, you're just fitting in wonderfully, John.

Heh. Thanks? I think.

Once in a while you get what you deserve.

I can't touch you but you feel so fucking fine
Let's just stay like this and waste some more time

Once in a while, you get in my way
Once in a while, you know I've got to say
I love you ninety-nine percent of the time
Ninety-nine percent of the time
Ninety-nine percent of the time
Ninety-nine percent of the time

With the darkness comes the doubt. Back in 1983 the moment the beauty of the sunset faded I was scared, homesick and weirded out by everything from the day. Lochlan called it Sensory Overload and would give me small sips of whatever he had to drink until I was sufficiently distracted or unwound and then he would breathe a sigh of relief, his arm locked around my head, breathing fire into my hair, keeping me close or I would fall asleep hyperventilating.

Now it's not so easy. (It's also EXACTLY THE FUCKING SAME.)

We should have shot the fucker. Lochlan's own doubts rise with the moon as we snuggle down in the Adirondack chairs on the patio to watch the stars from home. He has something in his cup. It's not tea or coffee or pop, I'm guessing it has a proof number and a warning label. He holds it out to me. I take a sip and burst into flames.

Lochlan should have a warning label. I can't reconcile his actions.

How would you feel if he said the same thing about you?

He has.

I mean now. Today. Maybe you're just coming down from all the excitement. Maybe it's all just total bullshit. He's killing time and so are you, waiting for Ben to implode or me or whatever and you all feel like you're gaining ground with every nod of agreement from me or every side I pick in every argument and then you lose ground when I side with someone else and I don't actually play favorites nearly as often as everything thinks I do, you know that?

He takes a long drink from his mug. You done?

Maybe. I take a big breath and let it out. He's still as pragmatic as ever, as he was when I was just as afraid and all I want to do is feel his arms close around me as I close my eyes and put my head down against his shoulder but tonight he is just out of reach, on the other side of that label, up to his neck in regret and self-doubt and maybe fear of his own.

Why do you do this?

What?

Fall apart in the bottom of a bottle when you're so together every other time.

He winks. Everybody cracks, peanut.

You don't crack. You're in charge!

I don't think I ever was. Didn't feel like it. I just kept to the manifest which was to make you happy.

Uh-huh. You wanted to make me miserable.

How did I do that?

I had to go to bed at eleven. And you made me eat vegetables.

You were ten fucking years old, and for the record, you didn't eat your vegetables. That's why you're only three feet tall now.

I was twelve! And I'm five feet tall, thanks.

Again, you done, Bridgie?

I grab the cup and take a big drink, choking on the flames. Yes.

Because we're going in circles tonight and I'd rather not if it's all the same. Even though it's your specialty. He winks as he says it, to soften his dismissal.

Leave the mug if you're going in. My stubbornness reveals itself. Alas it's no match for him.

I'll neither leave the drink nor the girl. He stands and holds out his free hand. I raise my hand for the mug and we have a standoff, of sorts. I lose after three minutes. I knew I would lose so I take his hand as offered and he pulls me up out of the chair, hooking his arm around my waist. Bingo. I get my hug by default.

And for the record, you play favorites whenever the mood strikes you. Don't deny something as plain as the eyes on your face.

Now you're saying my eyes are plain? Oh, and by the way, drinking to solve your problems is a bad idea.

I'm not drinking to solve anyth-...Jesus Christ, Bridget. This is why you're not allowed to stay up past eleven.

Value calculations.

Sober Duncan is doing great after an eighty-minute bubble bath (Twilight Woods has another convert over here) and a good nights sleep. He asked for roast potatoes and tea, which was a very Jacob-like maneuver. (I made it for him and watched as he picked up his plate and took it to his room to eat while he caught up on emails and reading. Jacob wouldn't have done that.) Duncan also expressed surprise that the kids grew so much in the month he was gone and he was glad to see Ben doing better since he left tour early.

He was not, however, very impressed with the way Caleb ambushed Loch and I out in the middle of nowhere but he was proud of the way we handled it.

Yeah, me too, Dunk, but I'm really glad you're back.

Certain people just serve to make the whole mood of the house a little more laid-back and even-keel. Duncan is one of them.

***

Who was that? I saw a tall blonde with a briefcase leaving the boathouse just before noon today. My curiosity spills over so I call Caleb and ask him.

A counselor. She comes highly recommended.

A what?

A counselor, Bridget. To help me get over you.

How did it go?

It's going to take a while. Years. She was astounded when she took my history, to say the least.

I don't doubt it.

She might want to meet with you at some point.

Leave me out of this.

I think it would be beneficial to her to have the whole picture, instead of just my side.

We'll see.

That's all I can ask.

What will we spend our days doing when you're all fixed up and perfect again?

I don't know how to answer that, Bridget.

I'm...well, I'm proud of you for getting help.

I shock him so much he doesn't know what to say, and after a strangled silence, he says he'll let me go now. I fail to realize he means from the phone call and tell him he should have done it years ago. Why every single word has to be weighed down so heavily, I don't know. He gracefully avoids correcting me and says goodbye. When I hang up I instantly want to place a bet on how long this lasts and what end this is a means to, but instead I go and ask Duncan if he's hungry again yet.

Because Duncan is never ever evil and usually always hungry.

Slam Dunk.

Gage is over, we are standing by the patio door discussing boots, as he broke a boot lace and I just happen to keep laces for Docs in the utility cupboard in the hallway, along with things like emergency glow sticks, hockey sticks, fishing rods and camping supplies. Gage is surprised and I tell him I like to be prepared because Ben never is. He points out my tendencies toward minimalism and I laugh and explain the difference between having what one needs and total excess.

(Excess is Ruth, who on a recent trip to Bath & Bodyworks, bought one of every fragrance in body mist and hand sanitizer and now has a stockroom instead of a bedroom and uhhh..I blame PJ. He can't say no to her. He also likes the Twilight Woods shower gel, but I didn't tell you that.)

So I found some laces for Gage and just as he is trying finagle a lunch invitation on top of the boot supplies, we hear a massive commotion in the front hall. I go running. I never know if two of the boys are fighting or if someone's breaking in or if Henry has slipped on the stairs or what. I book through the kitchen, down the hall and into the front hall.

And there is Duncan. Back from the dead. Or at least from tour, which is a fate worse than death, if you can believe me when I tell you it's true. I hardly recognize him after a four-week absence, even though I talked to him just about every day up until a week ago when he dropped off the radar just to white-knuckle it through the hard part, which is when everyone is tired, hungover, fed-up and overly-anxious to get home.

So he crashed into the front foyer and threw his bags on the floor and sprawled out face-down, arms outstretched, prostrating to the cat who sat inside the window beside the door, licking her paws and waiting for him for the whole month long. I heard him say Hiya kittycat and then he laughed in relief that he made it back in one piece, but barely.

I run in and he looks up at me and says Bridget, Jesus, thank you God, as he rolls over. His eyes are bloodshoot, pupils dilated, he has a full beard, and he smells like he just...I don't want to know and I think I'll be burning the luggage, sort of like I wanted to do with Ben's before PJ had the great idea to pressure-wash it out in the driveway.

Gage leans right over Duncan and smiles. Rough day? Duncan rolls his eyes closed and asks me to remind him of this moment the next time he feels like hitting the road. I tried already, I tell him sweetly. You just didn't listen.

I'll listen, Mom, he says sagely. I frown. I hate it when he calls me Mom. He's drunk. He stands finally and I get a huge, breath-stealing hug, not like the kind you would give your mom at all. When he lets go there is his little brother Dalton, and five or six of the others waiting to greet him and I stand back to get out of the way and realize I have to burn my outfit now too.

Safe and sound is my favorite place for everyone to be. He'll sleep well tonight, and probably most of tomorrow too.

Candy from strangers (Buttered up and squeezed in).

(Sorry for the distractedness as of late. A)Things are still kind of weird. B)Daniel has discovered Radiohead. I think we're going to need an intervention because I'll kill him if he plays How to Disappear Completely one. more. time. C)Ruth starts HIGH SCHOOL in a week. *head implodes*. We need a little more good news for a bit. Are you up for it? Good, because I am.)

PJ has lovingly divided his living space, giving up his 'office' in order to give John a bedroom.

They will share the bathroom, it's not fully ensuite so it won't be any problem (except for John, because as I said before, PJ flatly DENIES that he is nearsighted and blames the pee drops on the floor on me. Um. Ick. I'll get back to him when I first learn how to pee standing up). They both snore, so really it's serendipitous at this point to contain them both downstairs, the filthy animals that they are.

I'm kidding.

How awesome it will be to have John back close by all the time. John used to be our second-closest neighbor after Jacob when we lived in the castle and wow, writing that made me feel as if possibly a few million words have flowed through my fingertips since those times. I would look out the window and call him on the phone, telling him he should park closer to the curb and also nice ticket and then I would watch as he ran outside in his bare feet in the snow only to see there was no ticket on his car.

Because I'm a terrible, horrible, no-good friend.

Then we had some rough times after Jake left and John deferred to Lochlan a little more than me and then he worked for Caleb for a time and then I got him back and deprogrammed him and basically we're back where we started.

And yes, ladies, this handsome lumberjack is still single. Line forms to the left.

So happy he is here now. He brought me a candy bouquet to thank me for having him. I pointed out this was all PJ's doing and John looked PJ up and down and told him not to expect any gifts. PJ shot back that he'd better use the fan when he shits or all bets are off and he's out on the street.

Ahhh. Brothers by choice. Isn't it beautiful?

Soon we'll all be wearing name tags and holding nightly Meet Your housemates cocktail parties just to keep things more familiar. We're all so formal and reserved these days. Snort.

(Yes, Ben ate the candy already. Wrappers too.)

Part 2: Coup de grace (the part I'll probably be sued for).

From the hotel satellite
Don't look like you're living right
Here's a deal you can't refuse
You ain't got as much to lose

Can you tell your troubles to
Someone who won't laugh at you
It's all right
And as I watch you walk away
Hope a part of you would stay
It's all right

He passed it to me carefully. I snatched it out of his hands and he put them up.

Be careful. It's loaded.

Don't play games with me. Not like this.

Bridget, this isn't a game.

Why are you here?

So you can follow through. He takes my hands and carefully wraps them around the gun and then he pulls my hands up until my elbows lock with the gun resting against the center of his forehead.

Tell my son I love him and know that I love you. Slay your demon, Bridget. I try to let go of the gun but he won't let me. Instead he roars at me. JUST DO IT!

I scream back. I don't want to! I am suddenly terrified beyond belief that the gun is going to go off and he'll be dead.

Caleb drops his hands from mine and presses forward, whispering. Just do it, Bridget. Do it for what I did to you. Get your payback. End your nightmares.

My hands begin to shake. I don't like this gun. I don't like this moment. The twelve-year-old me is screaming to DO IIIIIIIIIIIITTTTT PLEEEEEEEEAAASE and then I see Loch walk into the light. He drops the bags with dinner on the ground and I can see the confusion in his eyes but he's here. He's here on time. Help me. I tell him. He swears and lunges forward, removing the gun from my hands and his rage explodes as he ejects the clip.

NO MORE FUCKING GAMES, CALEB! Do you really think bringing a loaded weapon here would fucking fix ANYTHING? You know what? You should get the fuck out of here before I kill you you myself.

Caleb considers this for a whole three seconds and then lunges for Lochlan. Lochlan says my name so quietly I feel rather than hear him. He throws the gun to me and suddenly the tables turn and I am afraid for all three of us.

And so I do what I do best. I take off running, clutching the gun to my chest. Bad idea bad idea bad idea.

I run and I run and I run. Caleb is behind me but I'm small and fast and when I reach the edge of the clearing I throw the gun as hard as I can into the woods. Caleb cries out, smashing into me and we go down into the grass. Lochlan is right there, shoving him away. Jesus FUCK, just LEAVE US ALONE!

If you can't kill me, can you forgive me, Bridget? Caleb's voice is faint.

THIS ISN'T ABOUT YOU! Lochlan's volume is fixed on thirteen and I flinch.

Lochlan throws his arms around me, pushing his forehead down against the side of my head. I lean against him hard. If you want me to end this, just say the word. Even with my bare hands, Bridget, just give me the word and I can-

He can screw up but he's still here. I'll take that over anyone else being d-d-de-. I can't say the word dead though and it comes out like a consonant wrapped around the blade of a knife. Cut in half. I push away from Lochlan and walk to where Caleb sits waiting for his execution. He stands.

I don't want you to die. I say it loud and clear. I didn't know that until now. So maybe instead of all the dramatic stunts we can all just go home and live quietly and be nice to each other. There's nothing else for you. Or me. Or anyone. So stop. Please. You get another gun and we're gone. I'm gone, Henry's gone. Everyone's gone. You need to stop playing with our lives. Including your own. Enough. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

I'm not sure where I found the bravery to yell at him in the woods in the dark but Lochlan said it looked pretty magnificent to see me standing on my tiptoes, fists balled up at my sides, face right in Caleb's face and then to watch him disintegrate in response.

I don't think I was magnificent. I'm ashamed that it happened at all and I have no confidence that anything will actually change.

What did that night accomplish? We got rid of the gun (which was subsequently retrieved and Caleb has since relinquished it through the proper channels) and Lochlan finally found his Courage switch. Even if I realize now that I can never avenge my twelve-year-old self, all I'll ever have to do is say the word and he will.

Part 1: Coup de main (Angels in a cage).

(Back to the present for a wee spell. And don't worry, everything's okay.)

Every night while we were away Lochlan would head down the road to a take-out restaurant and come back with dinner. We don't go out. All he wanted to do was talk. All he wanted to do is be alone together. All he wanted to do was sort out why I dissolve so easily into mush when I profess to understand that I am stronger than I feel.

He moralized, evangelized, and taught. I sat and nodded, taking small bites of whatever dinner that was chosen for me each evening, swallowing his teachings with no salt for flavor. He reminded me to take a drink, passing me the glass. He forgot that some nights mirror the past, reflecting overinflated, frightening moments as only a child understands. We fell so easily into old routines, the worn wrinkles of time spread smooth with our fingers, the same frays and tears fussed over with promises to fix now, and if not now, soon.

So one night when the knock came on the door of the camper ten minutes after Lochlan set off foraging for our late supper my heart fell out the bottom, cleaved in half, black and rotten to the core. Twelve-year-old Bridget shrank back against the cupboard, frozen in fear. Adult-Bridget talked her out of such silly, unfounded fears. It's probably the campground operator needing something, or maybe a remote and unprepared neighbor needing a bottle opener. Maybe Lochlan forgot his wallet. It's been known to happen.

Adult-Bridget took five steps and opened the door, outward, into the night. Twelve-year-old Bridget screamed and hid under the table. She knows better. Always has, always will.

Because there stood the Devil, just as he stood in 1983. Only now he needs to shave every day and he has dark circles under his eyes matched only by the years of evil under his belt.

Forgive me, Bridget, but I'm going to fix this once and for all.

And he pulled out a gun.

My fierce, inebriated sea.

Streets are filled with broken glass
You get buried by the past
Give me just a little taste
Lay this mess to waste
Take me home

My mind is racing take me home
My body's aching so alone
I'll make you want to stay with me
Befriended by the enemy
One more time

Every little thing about this tells me
Nothing out there is ever gonna help me
All these words that I hear spoken
Just promises broken

Looking outside from a window sill
Throw another coin in my wishing well
Never find what you're looking for
Fifteen miles
Your dim light shines from so far away
Your sad smile is all I see when I say-

A year and a half into being married to Cole, Lochlan sent a letter, registered mail from Atlantic City.

Renew your passport and come do this with me. Leave one madness for another.

L.

That was it. Two sentences and his initial along with a hundred dollar bill to get me there. I started packing instead of eating the lunch I had just made for myself. I got on a bus and I went. I was twenty-four years old and I knew enough to pack everything I would need to stay for a while.

I should have packed that lunch. When I arrived Lochlan was busking for cash on the street. He was pulling in three or four hundred dollars a day as long as he began by nine, moved around a lot and kept it up until midnight with very few breaks. The day he started after lunch and finished up early he made forty-two dollars. Eight hundred dollars in he realized how unsustainable it was, and add in the fact that I did not want to pass his hat for fifteen hours a day in the sun, having walked away from a perfectly good job in air-conditioning where I made ten dollars an hour guaranteed. You ain't got nothin' if it isn't guaranteed.

Nights we would have a late dinner in the same dive bar each time and slow dance to the music over the PA. Soul Asylum was big back then, or maybe they just put them on when they saw Loch. His strawberry blonde hair was so long now it was almost straight. He looked like Dave Pirner, but shorter. (Loch is much, much shorter than Dave, as I found out later in life.)

Promises Broken was a favorite song for keeping us in line with each other at this point. I was married, he'd moved on (whatever that means) and we liked to slow dance and talk and daydream to pass the time while we waited to hear about the actual opportunity I had been summoned for, this one in New York with the show. This was not small time carnival anymore, it was full-on freak- and sideshow, be your performance, breathe in a madness of a different sort indeed, day in and day out.

Off we went up the coast. We thought it was legit. It was, in a way. In one way it was a dream life. Nomads. On the road again together. Best life. No rules. In another way it was a muted, corrupted nightmare and we never should have gone back down the road we did. We need rules. We need anchors. We need the security that doesn't exist out there. It isn't safe. It isn't fair. It isn't the same.

We were propositioned regularly. We were offered other jobs, far outside of what we knew, in the seedy underworld of unspoken entertainment and beyond. We saw things small town people shouldn't see, and at night we split a pint of whiskey so as to keep our wits while we slow-danced to that same damned song.

Loch was playing that song this morning and lamenting just a few more poor decisions we (Or I, to be fair) have made since then. Took me two days to find him down on the beach with a guitar, a pick and an untouched sketchbook, no pencils in sight and an empty whiskey bottle bigger than a pint, though I couldn't smell it on his breath when he kissed me. When I checked his body language for cues he caught me and explained that he poured it into the water, that he found what he was looking for and it wasn't in the bottle or the water. It showed up two days late and then heard the song and stood with her arms crossed, fighting off memories that he had no business bringing back to her now.

It's a zero-sum game now, Peanut, he said, and smiled and he tipped the very last drop onto his tongue. And you're not very good at those.