I miss Ben.

Twilight comes and the house quiets down and I stop coping, stop distracting. I can spend all day long telling myself he was being a creep and he lets his ego get in the way and he thinks he's invincible except when he doesn't and that I don't like him when he's like that because he's sweeter when he's not so sure of everything.

I could tell myself I'm moving on without him and will cross the bridge back to him if or when I ever see him again but let's face it. I'm not moving on, I'm standing perfectly still and a butterfly landed on the hood of my sweater and the sharp intake of breath from John when it happened told me everything I needed to know.

I passed him my phone. Take a picture, I pleaded. Hurry! 

But in his quest to get the perfect shot the butterfly flew away.

Kind of like Ben. Try too hard to get him just right and he'll take flight, the grounded inebriated cocky pilot who lost his wings but oh that's okay, he still has that career, that stupid guitar and a head full of ideas for the next great hook that will never see the light of day and oh Jesus, I miss him.

I miss him so much. No one gets it, no one appreciates it. They just see my loyalties search and fumble for the next place to land, just like that butterfly. They see my intense history and penchant for revenge-affection and they see the love my boys openly exhibit and they assume that I don't care.

I was told not to care, not to waste any more time fretting and hoping and waiting but I'm standing here looking at my watch and I'm counting that it's day one of week four and I've had enough. I miss everything about Ben but most of all I miss his now. His in-the-moment. His smile. His hands. His stupid broken heart.

And yeah, I miss his big ego too.

I miss how rude he can be with his jokes and I miss how cool his skin feels. I miss seeing his fight play out in his eyes and I miss his boots in the middle of the floor and finding guitar picks in odd places like the sugar bowl, the soap dish and on the cat.

I miss his insistence on my doing whatever I need to do to be happy no matter what. It's permission, it's liberating, it works.

I miss his weirdness, his out-there opinions and his spur-of-the-moment food fights. I miss laughing. I miss falling asleep with my back pressed against his chest, a wall of bones and flesh with that matching broken heart keeping time with mine.

I wish he would call me. I wish he would write again. I wish he would just come home. I don't care if they haven't fixed him yet. I can fix him but no one has any faith in me either.

All/most.

Lochlan's just-before-sleeping and newly-awake states are mirror images of his drunk one. The words roll out uncensored, unchecked and unvarnished. He doesn't bathe everything in logic and common sense. It's where I see who he is instead of who he wants me to think he is. I don't understand why he feels there needs to be a difference between the two, I'm pretty sure that's habit more than anything else. As long as she's okay, happy/fed/warm/safe/stimulated/learning then he could rest easy in his role as the Responsible Adult, something he mostly faked and constantly slipped from, a tenuous grasp that turned out to be non-existent and he wasn't actually holding on to the right rope after all.

He says things like:

Almost there. Last time he was gone I got you out of here and you thought you were in control. So close, Peanut brittle. So close. 

I wasn't going to turn down this chance. So you can tell me I'm being disloyal but I'm not here for him and we all know it.

I think they all think I don't matter but look at me. Where am I and where are they? 

and this:

I'm sorry about Ben's letter, Bridget. I am but I'm not but I am. You once asked me to let you go so that you and Jake could be happy and I did. I hated every second of it but I went and tried to live like a regular normal person because I knew it was the best thing for you. Why won't Ben or Diabhal, for that matter, do what's best for you?

I'm too tired to do this now so I shrug. I don't know. I close my eyes. Lochlan spans one hand across the small of my back and wraps the other hand around the back of my head, clutching me to him and we fall asleep the way we always used to on the cot in the trailer that wasn't quite thirty inches wide.

Now the bed is seventy-two inches wide but look, I can still feel his heart beating harder than my own. I feel his blood pumping through his veins across his skin against mine. I smell toothpaste and kerosene. I feel his breathing slow to match my own and I fight to stay awake so that I can watch him sleep, because it seems as if that's the one time he isn't fighting everything and everyone.

What he wants is so simple and straightforward. It's not much to ask for, as he has never been one to ask for very much at all.

Cold play.

I'm listening to the radio. The announcer speaks of a new Arcade Fire album on the way. I look at Duncan. Didn't the Arcade Fire break up?

No, that was Alexis on Fire.

Why is everything and everyone on fire all of the sudden?

They've all been burning for years. You live in your own little world, Poem.

I like my little world, Dunk. It has all of my favorite people and things in it. 

This I know, Poem. Happy to be a part of it. 

You like my dress?

Sure do. What's the occasion? 

I thought it would billow out the most when I'm floating face down in the water for hours on end before you all find my body.

So mellow-dramatic, Bridge. Too heavy for such a beautiful day. 

Let's just roll with this, Poet.

Okay, then you have to wear those big crazy boots with the buttons all the way up with your dress and you'll float about fourteen inches below the surface and that will be extra creepy. 

Oh, good point! 

Except that you'll never make it across the yard. I'm not PJ. I can run fucking fast. 

Yes that's why I haven't bothered. 

I thought things were better. Well, relatively speaking anyway. In spite of Ben being away. 

You can say it you know. He's in treatment. Not on vacation. 

Bridget, if life was a lot sunnier for you all the time maybe you'd stop living in the shade. Say he's on vacation or tour or whatever you need to say and think to make it easier and then you go and do what you're going to do. Wringing your hands and wallowing in missing Benjamin isn't going to make it easier. It'll just make you miserable. 

But miserable fits like a dress, Dunk. 

Yeah, one that looks terrible on you, frankly. 

Here, this better? I give him a big goofy smile, all teeth.

I don't know. Take your dress off. Be easier to tell.

Making sure I don't miss Ben too much by wearing his pervert hat?

Someone has to be that guy. 

Yeah I just didn't think it would be you. It should be Ben. My smile melts back into a scowl but at least my cheeks don't hurt anymore.

Ah well, it was sure pretty while it lasted. 

Littlun.

ARRGGHHHH.

What they should have done is sent me away for a few months, keeping Ben instead and then they could have finished their Lord of the Flies reenactment here without me. Once and for all.

Every day a struggle, every day a stand. Lateral moments. Same old shit.

Pffft.

I was planning to audition for the Moulin Rouge in Paris (they have auditions in Vancouver this Saturday) but the artistic manager said that dancers need to be at least 5'10". 5'8" if you're really good. Sigh.

***

I spent most of today drawing plans for a new painting. A green bottle fly or a skeleton of one. Flowers. Etc. etc. Lochlan is excited because he pushes me to step out of my comfort zone when it comes to art and I usually go quite willingly. I sat in a big holey sweater (usual wet bathing suit underneath) and I ate red pistachios and drew and listened to Metric/Nothingface/Metallica/Wye Oak and I didn't talk much and I think that sort of drives them into certain ruin because everyone was very helpful with laundry and dinner and even enthusiastic when I told them I was plotting to dye my hair baby blue just because if it's turning white anyway then why the hell not but then I decided I might be kidding because the damage would be sad after I just spent the better part of a year not touching it so that it would be shinier and it is so I can't touch it now. Still sad though. I love pastel hair.

***

Sam and Daniel are home. I wasn't going to say anything because out of desperation Lochlan took away the letter Ben sent home for me and burned it before I could open it and I'm guessing he must have listened to the message Ben left on his voicemail last week finally because he's kind of skittish and uncertain and I flipped right out.

Loch! That didn't belong to you!

But you do!

We spent the next three or four minutes in a rage-filled staring contest before James Hetfield's voice fills the space in the middle and I realize I can't win this. I'm not in charge. I'm definitely not in control and there's only one weapon I seem to have and I can't play fast and loose with that right now but maybe it's the only thing that makes him see clearly from my perspective.

Yeah, well, if you need me I'll be down at the boathouse. Got a birthday to plan for my son.

Bridge- he makes a grab for my arm but PJ says his name almost imperceptibly. Let her go.

Yeah, let me go. I wink at him and turn on my heel. I don't feel victorious, I feel like shit.

Here I am
On the road again
There I am
Up on the stage
Here I go
Playin' star again
There I go
Turn the page

Under privilege.

Lochlan still hasn't listened to Ben's voicemail.

I still have a headache but it doesn't seem as awful as yesterday and the day before that. I made rice and some delicious rosemary and pepper chicken in pitas with cherry tomatoes and spinach and the boys sort of devoured everything and now I have to have a backup dinner for Sam and Danny who are due home any minute now from the airport courtesy of Caleb who dispatched Mike to pick them up.

What a guy, hey?

I see where he's deploying his favors though, squarely on Ben's team by seeing to Daniel's safe return. I'm not sure anyone could actually blame him after Lochlan spent the morning turning Caleb's screws by asking him what he thought of the sunset last night, how glorious and spectacular it was and how it was too bad Caleb had to watch it alone.

Caleb didn't miss a beat, telling Lochlan he's been thinking of taking me to see the sunset from a new and unfamiliar vantage point, instead of the same old discount view from Loch's helicopter grip, and that all I have to do is pick a city or an island or a landmark and he can make it happen with a phone call and that he really wished with all his might that everyone had the means to offer those sorts of dreams to me, but alas he knows how hard Loch has to work in a month to get thirty dollars and that's the cost of two beach towels so at least he and I have a place to sit after we've come out of the water.

That's important, Caleb said with a wink. I thought he was going to earn a punch square in the neck for that one but Lochlan somehow kept his shit together.

I shook my head at Caleb. No sunsets. No trips. Stop it. I said it with my mind but he still answered out loud.

Again, Neamhchiontach, he started it and really these shitty comments are the only assets this guy seems to have. Enjoy those beach towels.

It's been a very long day.

Straight to voicemail.

Undead.

That's what I am. I keep getting up and plodding along looking for brains and something whacks me in the back of the skull and down I go, like a ragdoll.

I'm trying to out-perform one hell of a migraine and I lost the battle days ago but like I said, I'm stubborn and I'm determined to give one hundred percent even though only a good fifteen percent of me is actually functioning properly.

Lochlan watches me fumble around for a little while. He's amused, trying not to intervene as I spent a good minute trying to get my lipgloss just right and then wincing through trying to make a bowl of cereal.

Argh, I say and he takes over. He fishes in his pocket and finds something shiny to give me. A Nevada quarter. 2004. It has horses galloping toward the face of the coin and I love it and for the briefest second the pain vanishes. He used to find me cool things all the time when I was little. A shiny penny. A cat's eye marble. A smooth rock shaped like a heart. A tiny whistle or a compass. A ball. A ring. A human heart, still beating, painted in circus stripes and if you hold it up to your ear you can hear the music from the Big Top.

 The only other time the pain goes away is if he presses his lips against my forehead and just holds them there, while I ache with the knowledge that I can be bought for twenty-five cents. and nothing ever changes.

***

When the sun goes down and I can stand outside without squinting in pain, he walks over to me and whispers something in my ear. No one is really paying attention anyway. PJ and John are barbecuing some hamburgers and Schuyler and Gage and Dalton are doing a little last-minute yard work. There is cold raspberry lemonade for them in the fridge and I am simply waiting at this point for tomorrow, when Daniel and Sam get home from their visit with Ben for family visiting day. I have not talked to Ben in days and I asked Daniel not to call me unless he needed something because I can't stand it. I want Ben to do well but I don't want him to do it on my time, frankly. I don't want to wait anymore for anything. I want to have fun. I want to be in love. I want to be able to ask for a hug and get one without waiting for volunteers, clean hands, empty arms or a generous spirit.

I want Ben home. I am so selfish.

But I forget it for now (have to, self-preservation and all that, if it hurts, don't think about it, Peanut) and take Lochlan's proffered hand. We go up and change into our swimsuits, grab towels and and leave the house again. Loch tells PJ we're going for a swim, so PJ turns his attention to being in charge of the children and John takes over at the grill. I am almost to the gate when I run back and give PJ my hearing aids. He pretends to put them on and I laugh and run back to the gate. We make our way down to the bottom of the steps just as the sun begins to drop low against the hard line dividing the Pacific from the sky and I stop and stare at it. My head is still sore but there's a cool breeze and the muted sunlight helps a lot.

Loch walks out into the surf and turns around. He's up to his waist in the sea, and I am still dry. He won't go a single step further away from me this close to the sea proper. I step in and walk until I reach my knees and he turns away, heading further out still until he's up to his shoulders. He turns back once more but I am still at knee-level so he comes back in and pulls me out slowly, watching for the bits of rocks half-submerged by the tides. The water is shockingly cold and we walk until he is shoulder-deep again and my feet leave the ground. He pulls my arms over his shoulders and turns us so we can watch the sun disappear. I got you, he says. Don't worry.

Baiser vole.

Moments string the day together like bunting flags in a line.

Like Lochlan, who came up behind me as I was washing pots and pans and swore as he kissed the top of my head, pointing out my roots are coming in probably 90% white now. Yes, I know. It's all downhill from here, sweetie, please toss those strawberry curls around just a little more because pretty soon I'm going to look like a seasoned witch who stole the heart of a young fire breather who NEVER SEEMS TO AGE, at least not physically, though emotionally if he is sober he is practical and stubborn and has zero time for nonsense. Crotchety, handsome bastard. I know my hair is turning white and I know time is marching on, picking up speed on the downhill but I'd be happier if he wouldn't bring it up. Besides, when he presses his chin on the top of my head my ruined knees ache now. This is why I don't run anymore. I don't know or care if it's tendonitis or arthritis, I just know that it's pain that distracts me. Physical pain is easy to deal with, however so maybe I got lucky. I get another kiss on the top of my head and he leaves.

Caleb is heading into the city proper to do some shopping and asks me for a list. What do I need? Better yet, what do I want? As if he can cross off a list like an evil, generous Santa Claus and win my loyalty with material wealth. I tell him I'll be there later in the week and he again asks if it wouldn't be easier if he just looked after it, as in financially. Because I am kept. Because he is sugar and I am the bee. Because he's rich and I actually have nothing. I tell him my list is on the calendar notes that we sync between phones and he nods and smiles and tells me he'll be back early in the afternoon and will meet me in the kitchen. My knee aches and I reach down to rub behind it and he asks what's wrong. I snap at him that I am getting old and falling apart and he says that's what stress does, it kills you just when you want to live most, and live without fighting for every moment in which you can breathe without clenching your fists. He's good at these descriptions, because that's exactly what it feels like. He tells me he can fly me to a specialist or have one come here and I tell him that if it hurts bad enough I will bite down on a stick and saw it off just below my thigh. He tells me to stop being provocative and I refuse. I get a kiss on the cheek as he leaves.

Batman calls and I hang up on him. John offers to screen my calls for me so I tuck my phone into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. He pats it and gives me a kiss on the forehead as he leaves. I love my knights, especially the ones who make an effort to help and to listen. John is functioning as my sounding board while I am presently without August, Sam or Daniel to unload on. He's pretty awesome even if he does look like a runaway Allman brother. His beard is long. It's awesome. I want to braid it or hide under it. I want to grow one just like it. I horrify him. That's okay too.

Gage and Schuyler go shopping after lunch too, not downtown but at the mall thirty minutes down the highway and come home with a present for me for hosting Gage so sweetly. A bread maker because mine fell apart a year into living at the castle and I've often said I wished I could replace it because my hands hurt when I knead bread and it never seemed as effective to use the big mixer with the dough hooks. This one is a three-pound horizontal loaf bonanza and it makes jam too! I love the bigger size, since any one of the boys could eat an entire vertical one-and-a-half or two-pound loaf in one sitting from the old machine. I'm baking bread tonight for breakfast tomorrow. It's going to be so good. Hopefully it will last a long time, as I am always looking for ways to avoid grocery shopping. I told the boys if only someone would bring home some chickens, a goat and a cow I think we could go off the grid completely in very short order. I'm not kidding. Farm wifery comes so easy to me, you actually have no idea.

Schuyler kisses me right between the eyes and Gage lands one on my temple as they leave with a promise to return when the first loaf is ready. Possibly with livestock in tow.

I'll be here, but my whole head is dirty now from all the kisses today.

Physical Graffiti.

Every time Lochlan and I disagree on a matter of discipline when it comes to Ruth I pull out the fact that he let me get away with everything and then some, and it isn't fair to deny her the same freedom.

He will stand his ground saying only that times have changed. It's a mantra at this point.

I tell him the only thing different is that we hear more about bad things thanks to the internet but children are safer than ever. We're all safer than ever.

Then today he offers up that the freedom he gave me ruined his life and mine too and he has a second chance here to get things right. 

Oh.

That makes perfect sense but he still can't project my childhood onto hers. That isn't fair to Ruth.

***

It's a Led Zeppelin kind of day and I have a date with a blisteringly toxic lemonade cocktail, the front porch and The Lost Symbol, which I'm into, finally. If I can just finish the mending pile first and the drawing of the ship I'm working on and convince the children to have some lunch. It's never hard getting the boys to come and have some food. Of course, they don't sleep until ten in the morning like the kids do.

So when I grow up I think I'd like to be a little kid again.

***

I went down to the boathouse to take Caleb the receipts for Henry's school supplies and he held up his hand to halt me in my tracks and he said She's here. He held the phone out to me and I reached up for it. I don't know who it is.

Hello? 

Hi, Sweet-Bee. 

Oh, hey Asshole. How's vacation?

Wish you were here! Fuck, Bridget. I feel turned inside-out. 

But are you going to be sober for the rest of my life?

Working on it, Bridge. 

Work harder, Benny. Why haven't you called? 

I don't want to get too attached to you in case you give up on me while I'm gone. 

Then come back soon. 

I will the moment I get this all figured out, Peanut. 

Peanut now? 

He's on my mind. He's the only person I haven't talked to. 

Besides me, you mean. 

Yes. 

Want me to go find him?

Naw. I left a message on his phone. I said what I wanted to say for now. I wanted to talk to you. 

So then why did you call Caleb?

He always knows where you are. 

You're smart. Maybe you'll kick this yet. 

God, I hope so. 

God can't do this. You have to do it yourself-

I know, Bridge. 

Sorry. I was married to a preacher once. Old habits die hard. 

Pun intended?

Ouch, Ben. 

Sorry but you earned it.

God, I hope they fix your totally inappropriate sense of humor while you're down there. 

No you don't. 

You're right, I don't. It helps make you who you are.

Who am I, Bridge?

Ben, no one knows who they are.

You seem to cope with it so much better than I do. 

You see, this is why we still call you the new guy. Because it's been almost twenty years I've known you and you seem to think I'm mostly bulletproof. 

Well, you are. 

Shoot me and find out.

And so well-adjusted. 

Aren't we? We totally are. So come home, you big freak and let's get on with the show.

Northumberland straight.

Sandbars were the best. I could walk for miles and miles before the water came up to my knees. I knew how to tell the time by where the sun was in the sky and how red my skin was. My hair turned golden-white and my nails were pitted and dull from the sand. I poured sand out of my shoes each night, I wriggled on the seat in the diner for not having..er, rinsed it all away and I crunched on grains of it in everything I ate. I was a toxic cocktail of sunblock and orange pop and aloe cream. I slept when the sun went down and rose to meet it on the shore in the morning. I ate Pixi Stix for breakfast and lunch, french fries and lobster legs for dinner. I had ice cream ten times a week and I had no use for popsicles whatsoever. I couldn't work those and would wind up with a slushy grape puddle at my feet every single time.

I ruined my mood ring, so I scraped it off my finger over wrinkled, puckered skin and I threw it far into the waves.

I went through a bathing suit a month and lost more towels than I can count, leaving them somewhere on the beach when I went into the water and having no idea where I put them when I came out. I learned I have amazing, difficult diseases like Fresh Air Syndrome and Wanderlust and Beachcombitis.

And Wanderlust remains the one we can't seem to cure.

I would walk so far toward the horizon I always expected to begin to greet people coming towards me who might speak a different language. Lochlan was forced to spend forty-five minutes to an hour in a slow-jog through ankle-deep water at low tide to tell me to turn back, chastising me for throwing my watch into the water because I had transcended time and errands and chores and home. Home? What the heck are you talking about? I am home. This is home. 

I felt lifted above the constraints of life out of the water, buoyed by the heavy salt smell and the curiosities below the surface. That's what it is, then. I thought to myself. I'm a mermaid! And he must have figured it out to because he doesn't seem all that irritated at the lengths he has to go to reel me back in, to bring me reluctantly back to dry land.

Tell me why I'm discontented
Will I die without the details in my hands?
I feel these vines surrounding my heart
I fear I'm moving at a slower pace again
Tell me how this all unfolds

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

Less than 3 (okay, no just 3 and then I'm offline for the day).

And...Happy 4th! My husband is American. Well, one of them is anyway. Half my friends are too. But we already had Canada Day on Monday so aside from strawberry shortcake there will be no holidaying indulged in today except by Schuyler, who gets a four day weekend because for some reason y'all tossed Friday in there too and he can't work if all of the offices are closed.

Lochlan got me a feel-better present.

If you haven't seen this your life might possibly be sorely incomplete.

Less than B.

Sam and Daniel are packing to go and visit Ben. I wanted to stow away in Daniel's carry-on bag but he said my toes would be sticking out and oh, Bridget, if they see the toes then you know how it goes. All downhill from there. 

Ptooey. Fuck. Balls.

I want to see Ben too.

(I would have been just as thrilled had he recited Goblin Market and he knows this.)

When I was very small (okay, not so small but slightly smaller than I am now and a lot less worldly) Lochlan would to bore me to sleep with lessons in literature, philosophy and astronomy. Astronomy was my favorite because the sky was so huge. A close second was poetry, for I was so impressed with how the romantics could make me feel so many big feelings with such shortened bites of words strung in tiny bracelets instead of endless spiderwebs of information, after devouring that Poe book translated by Baudelaire and winding up more fascinated by the man behind the man, as always. It's as if he was fated to eat at that diner, find that book and bring it back, where we would sleep in the bed of the pickup truck on hot nights and three decades later be tossing around entire poems as ammunition, deployed from our hearts as we try to live in the present, a place I'm not all that sure we belong.

To this day I mostly stick with Baudelaire but ever the showman, Lochlan knows how to bring a crowd to attention. Easily so when the crowd is one person and she wasn't expecting it as we quietly inspected the new grotto that is now finished and quite unlike anything I have ever seen. We waited until the heat of the afternoon when everyone else had disappeared for some creative endeavors or naps or catching up on books and sun. He smoothed down his curls and then his vest over his rumpled white button-down shirt and he stepped up on the wire chair and then onto the stone table and he cleared his throat and stared at me until he had my full attention. Oh, Rossetti. Sigh.

I loved you first: but afterwards your love
Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song
As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.
Which owes the other most? My love was long,
And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;
I loved and guessed at you, you construed me
And loved me for what might or might not be –
Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.
For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’
With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done,
For one is both and both are one in love:
Rich love knows naught of ‘thine that is not mine;’
Both have the strength and both the length thereof,
Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

Caleb stepped up beside me and clapped. You really do have a gift for performance, Loch. He smiled. The whole display of generosity was nothing more than an attempt to change the direction of the wind. I'm pleased I could give you a good venue from which to recite the work of other people.

I have my own works as well. Bridget knows..

Yes, I'm well aware. Not as if I haven't had the last five years to discover all there is to know about you as an adult. It didn't take that long, of course. Not much there below the surface, is there?

Stop it. I step in front of him.

Caleb simply looks over my head at Lochlan, who has stepped down off the table and changes the subject. Well, since you're both here I can detail some of the features I had installed. If you want to stop the water, just turn this lever toward the wall. This switch operates the lights. He flicks it and hundreds of tiny white fairy lights come on. It's shady enough to see them. And around the entire perimeter to the gate and then meeting the wooden fence is electrified netting. I will tell the children but I wanted you to know in case you decided to venture into the woods or something from the woods ventures down into the yard.

You put an electric fence around me?

If you belonged to me I would do a lot more than that to protect you and the children but perhaps I'm just more conscious of your safety.

You're fucked in the head, Diabhal. Lochlan tells him. He is done with the digs, jabs and barbs, and heads back to the house riddled with scratches and holes.

I'll be right in. I call after him and he turns, pointing at me. He holds up three fingers. Three minutes. I have three minutes.

(I am twelve.)

Well, what do you think? The Devil looks so pleased with himself.

I don't think we want or require an electric fence, Caleb. That's dangerous.

No, it's dangerous to have you or Ruth oblivious to the world with your headphones on all the time with the endless parade of black bears and coyotes down the lawn. Sometimes I have to take matters into my own hands.

To keep me safe.

Yes, he whispers.

Safe. I repeat louder than before. We've had this conversation already.

Bridget-

Is this for me or for you?

For you, of course. 

So you're tightening my leash, making my world smaller. Give me everything right here so I will be safe? 

No, I'm giving you a quiet, shady place to draw, Princess. Cole always talked about having a dedicated space in which to create. 

I like it. But I have to go. 

Maybe you can come down later? For some dessert? 

Maybe. I turn away and hurry into the house. I don't want any more grand gestures. They're just stirring up the sand on the bottom of what was easily a clear blue sea at one time and is now opaque and black.

Good enough.

It's cooling off a little, finally. The wind has picked up and a lovely breeze keeps us cool. I had Eisley's Currents album playing through my headphones and kept swapping it with Pallbearer for a little Heavy versus Light for my brain to play with. I was drawing caricatures of the boys on a new sketchbook that I stole from Lochlan's desk drawer. He won't mind.

I painted my nails green, though I expect it to last about two whole days because I'm terrible with polish and worse once it chips. Besides, PJ already grabbed my hand and smudged the polish and I snapped at him and he snapped right back before apologizing. He's not fond of Lochlan's methods but Lochlan has reminded him twice already today that there's nothing underhanded about the way he's going about things and he would do the same if Ben were here. PJ snorted and Lochlan said under his breath that he should shut the fuck up and mind his own business.

PJ heard that (He has giant ears) and roared back that Bridget is his business and if Lochlan wants to give half-cocked orders PJ will paint him into the floorboards with one stroke, flattening his pasty Scottish ass.

I laughed out loud and iced tea came out my nose and I started coughing so hard at least Dalton bothered to get up off his chair and pound my back gently.

Duncan briefly considered (out loud) throwing all of us off the cliff, one at a time until Lochlan shut that down too. You're not throwing my girl off a cliff but here, let's see if the fat one floats. 

So PJ charged and before Lochlan knew what had happened he was cartwheeling through the air, followed by Duncan, Dalton, Sam and PJ too. I don't exactly think it's bright of them to all jump at once in case someone lands on someone else but the shouts of sheer delight that bounced back up over the ledge gave me comfort. It will take them ten minutes to swim around and climb the steps back up. I get up to head inside for a new glass of tea when Caleb stepped onto the patio from the side yard. He's in running gear.

Are you insane? It's too hot for you to run in this weather, Cale.

He ignores that. Where is everyone?

I indicate the sea and he nods, still keyed up from his workout. He hands me his water bottle and his phone and his shirt after he pulls it over his head and tells me he'll be back before pulling off his shoes and taking a running leap off the ledge too. I run to the edge and he has already broken the surface and is beginning to swim around the point.

Oh hell, I tell myself and I put Caleb's things down on the concrete path and I jump too. I know they will wait for me, alerted to my impending presence by the volume of my scream as I fall.

Fire in the hole.

I am a child in need watch me bleed
How can I live if I can not feel
I am a animal no one knows
I limp around on broken toes

Blood sinks down to the canvas
I'm going down, down, down
My blood sinks down to the canvas
I'm going down, down, down, down, down

The girl who loved the monsters
Traces black streaks in the sky
The girl who loved the monsters
Is the girl who wants to fly

No sleep. No phone call today and a surprisingly eventful day yesterday so yeah, you didn't get to hear the end of the story about Friday night and no, I don't know what kind of owls make those sounds we heard last night but they were very close and I was freaked out and excited to and so I just lay there all night long amazed and awake but mostly just freaking amazed.

Now I'm a small coffee-making zombie. Just picture a mini blonde version of the one in the lab coat on the other side of the door when Brad Pitt is trapped in the room in World War Z. I'm even making the funny chomping, clicking sounds with my teeth.

(That's going on to the list of Best Movie Moments for me of all time. No kidding.)

Lochlan is still doggedly working on his act which now involves feats of strength and testing limits.

Last night he pulled me up by my ankles and I fought to be released and he asked me very quietly why I liked to fight it. What was I looking for? Is it a habit now, with him, with them? Too many hard questions so I latched on to the final one. I nodded carefully, eyes wide. One thing he always taught me is that I can lie to anyone else and should, regularly but to him I should always tell the truth.

So he pulled harder on my ankles still and called me mo taibheoir beag (which means something like my tiny little clown and is a far more cumbersome nickname than Circus Peanut and so never lasted long anyway and true to form he stripped back the years and peeled back my flesh and wrapped his heart around all of the pieces of my heart that we could find in the dark and he brought me back to life, but just for a little while. All the way, baby, see the lights? We're almost there, safe and sound.

His plan is transparent and yet fireproof. Fill in the gaps and I will no longer need anyone else. They saw it in shadow before but he didn't give it his all. His all is a force to be reckoned with. He just couldn't be bothered. He's too busy. He's too focused. He's too jacked out on his own preservation, trying to weather the past, present and future without self-destructing and he'll do it the way he's done everything. With magic. Controlling fire. Controlling our tiny camper-walled-limit universe, a hard worker nailing down our hopes and dreams while I'm spun off on sugar and lights and loud music and daydreams. He's focused now, but on me instead of everything else. His timing is maddening and incredible and perfect.

Nothing changes when everything changes, he always told me. We do our jobs, eat at the same time every day, swim in the sea at least eight times a week, say our prayers to the stars when we go to sleep at night, do our laundry every second Saturday and everything else will fall into place. It's all in finding a rhythm, a routine on the road. A plan within the chaos, Peanut. Come over closer so you won't get cold. Did you have fun today?

I fear the rest of them are doomed, knowing what I know. It's as if they're locked in the room and I'm the zombie standing on the other side of the glass, smiling and chomping at the bit. Come out and I'll destroy you. Stay inside and die anyway.

We're planning a trip to Tofino in a few weeks time and I was nailing down some details when I see this.

"Please note that portions of the Wickaninnish Sand Dunes are temporarily closed as a result of the possible presence of unexploded explosive ordinance (UXO)."

It looks so beautiful and harmless in the photo I took, doesn't it? Wickaninnish Beach easily took the title of Bridget's Favorite West Coast Beach. From the moment I saw it. I hope they find all the bombs because I'm going anyway and I'd rather wear a bathing suit than something from the Hurt Locker wardrobe department.

He said it was a cotton candy.

Came back to get my pashmina. It's cooling off finally. So far so good. No roofies (the night is young). Just PJ and Duncan, our own personal bodyguards and we're on the patio because PJ wants to be a big thug tonight. Boy, is Satan mad that they're here.

Also JESUS. Butterscotch Schnapps. I could lick the glass.

A utilikilt and four torches.

That's pretty much how every sunny Saturday morning should begin, no? Unless you're the Devil, who breaks out a short-sleeved polo shirt (black) and then still picks up his cufflinks before remembering that he doesn't have cuffs.

It's like Crazy versus Sane, and I'll tell you which side I'm on but I doubt you would even ask, at this point, you would stand and watch as the show begins.

The Sane one looks crazy and the Crazy one looks sane. The Crazy one told me his personal goal for Ben's time spent away will be to make me fall in love with him. No, not with Ben, with Caleb because you can't just tell him no. That isn't good enough and he can buy the change required to make things turn out in his favor.

On the other hand the sane one (who looks crazy in his strawberry curls, freckles and red skin in a skirt and nothing else) uses luck and skill and things will turn out as they turn out and we'll deal with it as it happens. Also, Peanut, you look hungry. I'm taking you out for supper tonight because you need to eat.

Duncan and PJ got me smashed last night on two whole glasses of homemade something or other (strawberry cordial) and I'm still in my pajamas and it's almost lunchtime and I got sidetracked watching Lochlan practice and talking to Ben on the phone who needed me to relay some work notes to Caleb for eventual transmission to Batman because God Forbid I have to talk to Batman at this point. Or worse, Jasper. So I was fine to go over and get more coffee and the Devil frowned and asked why I smelled like bed and kerosene and I laughed and said none of his business but he makes it his business anyway.

He came outside with me and dropped a fifty dollar bill in Lochlan's hat that he only puts out for luck and he smiled tightly and said Lochlan could use the money to buy dinner for the lady so the lady doesn't have to pay and Lochlan didn't miss a beat, telling him he's about to take me up and have a shower with me so we can get going just as soon as he cleans up his mess. And then Lochlan winked at me and the flames got too close and I melted in the heat of the sun.

And then I got drunk on his fingers in the shower again and when we came out there was a pewter envelope on the table in the front hall.

After our dinner we've been invited down to have a nightcap on the boat. Hopefully it won't be more strawberry cordial. It will probably be roofie cocktails instead. Because Crazy doesn't play fair either.

This is the best.

There are FLAMES. It's like someone took Ben and Loch and mashed them right together in the wickedest way yet.

Contact.

Ben sent me this. Apparently they don't even take away phones anymore in five-star rehab:

So I sent him back this:

Yes, I know I'm awful but it's fucking funny.

How it's done.

Sam is playing Would You Rather with wedding details. It's six-fifteen in the morning and I'm not sure I've had enough coffee to do this right now only it's best, we have learned, to cram in as much wedding planning as possible when he is in the mood because then he falls apart again and throws himself headfirst into everyone else's problems and while he's an incredibly skilled counselor (thank you for Sam, Jacob, have I ever said that to you before?) he's a crying shame in his own right, terrified and watching Schuyler and Daniel with curiosity and longing. He wants a happy life, that's all, he wants a sign that he's making the right choice.

Matt walks in and Sam accosts him with two different plate designs, both in brown. Which one should we use?

Matt studies both of them for a minute and says I like them both, actually, so you pick whichever one you like most. 

My brain says, oh, a compliment followed by a complete abdication of responsibility but Sam just beams.

Matt winks at me and throws his curveball. Pretty sure he does that on purpose. I remember you saying something about the green plates though? Those would be nice. 

Then he leaves and Sam's cheerfulness strangles itself once again with doubt. I turn and throw my toast overhand at the back of Matt's head. It nails him and he laughs. It's a plate, Sam. I don't care if we eat directly off the goddamned table as long as you are with me forever.

Birdgirl.

I will only stop you drifting so far

Before the storm moved in last evening it was so warm and sunny and broiling that we decided to go for a swim, just me and Daniel, in our undies in the sea. The tide was going out so we could cross the beach to the little cleared area where we sometimes find the courage to venture into the water if we get hot enough, which rarely happens thanks to the perpetual breeze. But not last night. Last night everything was stilled before the storm.

I emerged with chattering teeth and a frustrated mindset. Nothing changes. He listens to Loch and never let me get out of arms reach. I never did become a strong swimmer and Loch remains paranoid and diligent around the water. The camper was and is a birdcage, only I can't hear myself sing.

***

Lochlan has one hand wrapped around my jaw, and the other clutching the back of my neck. We're having a staring contest in the dark. I will either win or melt but then he drives against me and my eyes close involuntarily. I can't win if he doesn't play fair. I move to turn my head so he doesn't look at me when I'm weak but he keeps it held in place. His lips find mine for a favorable response and I give it. Sharing breaths. Blocking words. Getting that confirmation where if nothing else, we're okay.

Are we okay? So many questions. So many endless changes. One minute he's oblivious and content in his ignorance, the next intense and dark with the weight of history. He's turning into Ben. Into Cole. I don't even know. Hearts blur into one big red puddle and we fight our way through, drowning in every conversation and he has begun to place time limits on my indecision and on my proclamations as if he can quietly, gently become Jacob and Caleb too.

Instead I just pulled my arms up around his neck and he tucked his face in against my jaw and we held on because that's what we do when we can't figure out where to go from here. He knows. I do not. He waits. I spend time like it's water, flowing through my hands. He suffers, I dissolve. Yes, we have this all figured out. There's only one thing we have figured out and in the dark that's where you'll always find me.

***

The Devil has a small army outside in the front yard just after sunrise and I'd like to murder him because my room is the closest to the front of the house and how freaking unfair to wake a light sleeper with unannounced machinery.

And then as the backhoe begins to cut in to the edge of the property he pulls my elbow so that I follow him back to the boathouse and he passes me what I think is a watercolor painting of a small Victorian stone patio with a high semicircular wall around it, built-in benches and a round table made of stone with a hole in the center for an umbrella. There's a tiny chiminea incorporated into the wall for heat. There are flowers all around the entire patio and on the wall above the table too. The trees form a sort of natural shade canopy and smaller stones are set into a path leading away from the space.I tell him it's pretty and he takes the rendering back.

I'm building this for you. Right now, today. A place just for you so you can write or draw or just read without interruption.

Why?

Because I know how much you miss your turret.

I nod and narrow my eyes. I'm not sure how he would know that other than I am predictable too. The turret was a glass and iron atrium at the very top of the castle. It had copper panels on the roof and stained glass below that and clear glass panels all the way around. It was unheated and frigid. And I destroyed it with my bare hands and they had to remove the frame because it would have cost too much to fix.

I've regretted that every second of every day since but I was angry and scared and alone and I just snapped and I wanted to bring pain with a capital P. I got it. The house would have sold for a lot more had I left it alone and I understand that now. Money is the bottom line. Caleb doesn't let me forget that. He says it's not important but it is or he wouldn't have so much of it to fill the hole from where I am not.

Where are the bars?

Pardon?

Nevermind.

Lochlan comes out front to see what the fuss is and I meet him to tell him about the patio, describing all of the little features from Caleb's picture. He nods and looks pained as he watches the men work and then he shakes his head.

This will cost him a fortune. 

But you and I can draw here. 

He nods and watches me watching the little backhoe climbing into the trees at the side of the house. Bridget, you know he's not doing this because he wants to make you happy. 

I know. He wants to up the property value. 

Loch just keeps watching me. His eyes squinch down into slits and he shakes his head as if he has water in his ear.  You don't really think that's why-

No, I don't think I'm that naive anymore. But he thinks I am and that's all that matters.

Saltwater fixes everything.

I'm looking forward to this fall. Another tour, a movie to go along with it this time (link added because for some reason the embedded video doesn't show up on devices) and a chance to immerse myself in something I love to pieces that is uniquely mine and no simply an extension of something the boys love. Kind of like writing. Christian is a tech journalist, Jacob was a sermonist and lecturer but I traveled fiction as my road and it seems as if when I can just bury myself in words on a screen and music in my headphones, things seem a little bigger than me, and my problems seem a little smaller, a little less terrible, everything gets a little more hopeful even as we stare down what is turning out to be a downright frightening, white-knuckle bend in the road.

When they come here this fall it will be my sixth show and I can't wait. I wonder if things will be better by then. I wonder if things will be the same.

Thanks for your sweet words and generous prayers for Ben. He needs them very badly and I will relay every last one to him as soon as I can. As for me? Don't pray for me. I don't deserve your faith.

I want to save that light.

How long will he be gone?

I don't know.

How do I feel?

I don't know.

Why is Caleb part of the good-guy brigade suddenly?

Jesus Christ! I don't fucking know. The only thing I know is that today, Ruth brought me a song. First one ever. She is thirteen. I was never what she is at thirteen. I'm in awe.

When the curtain’s call
Is the last of all
When the lights fade out
All the sinners crawl

So they dug your grave
And the masquerade
Will come calling out
At the mess you've made

Don’t want to let you down
But I am hell bound
Though this is all for you
Don’t want to hide the truth

No matter what we breed
We still are made of greed
This is my kingdom come
This is my kingdom come

Ten-second delay.

Batman flew in to the Cape to explain why he failed to mention he was the owner of the house that Ben borrows a couple of times a year.

I told him fifty times I didn't care. That he has nothing to do with me and that I would like Ben to explain this but Ben drowned his words instead and I never got to dry them out to hear, and Loch washed his hands of Ben and that made Ben feel worse and this cycle is now so vicious it has grueling, unchecked freaking rabies.

I stood with my arms crossed in the doorway and said Batman could give his excuses and then leave. He said Aren't you the little spitfire and I nodded because yes, yes, I am, goddammit and I'm tired of this.

It's my house, Bridget. He said it so gently I almost cried. But I didn't because like I told you, I'm tired.

Instead I grabbed my bag and DFW and we walked up the lane and into town and I sat down on a bench outside a tiny general store and I took out my phone and took the case off it and looked at the Visa Infinite (that I stole from the Devil) and I called him to ask if I could use it because I'm only a halfling-thief so here, we'll play tag across the planet once again but I need to move really fast to get my head clear.

I couldn't do it though because we need to be home. With the kids and boys. I want to be there, not here with ice cold Batman and Lochlan with his clenched fists and frustrated, breaking voice, who, you know, followed me down to the store and was standing on the other side of the entryway with his hands in his pockets, flicking his lighter, pretty much ready to shadow me as I run. His hair is tied back with a cord and he's in a white t-shirt and a pair of jeans and he looks like home only I don't know where that is and then Ben comes out of the store with a bottle of booze and bag of souvenirs, looks to the left at Lochlan and then he looks down to the right at me and he says,

We need to be home, guys. I'm fucked and she's going to bolt.

I nodded and hung up the phone before Caleb answered.

***

Caleb hands me a bourbon and lemonade and then strokes the bottom of my foot with his knuckles. He's sitting one step below me on the patio stairs. He and Henry had cleanup duty in the kitchen and that's why he's still here. I didn't even cook tonight, Duncan did. It was awful.

Where were you headed? He says after a minute. He's growing a beard. He's wearing jeans and a worn-out navy blue t-shirt and he looks nothing like he should.

The beach house. Then to August, if I could get in touch with him. Internet on their piece of the rock is ridiculously non-existent at best.

And what would you have done?

Pretended he was Jacob for the rest of my days. I down the drink in one gulp and let out a shaky, watery breath.

Wow. He says.

Tell me about it. I can't...I mean, I don't seem to be having any luck accepting that he's gone. It's like there's a black hole and he's in it, I just have to find him but when I go in, there's no light, no sound, no nothing. No Jake.

And August will change that?

No, but maybe he's as close as I can get to what I used to have. 

I think your mind is messing with your heart. 

It's the other way around, I swear. 

All of it served to be just more distraction. Caleb got me, Lochlan took the children out for ice cream and while we were being rewarded for good behavior with treats, the rest of them were forcing Ben onto a different plane so that he can go back and finish the program he apparently walked away from earlier this spring.

Walk.

Home safe and sound. I'll update my own life as soon as I stop holding my breath, living vicariously through my all-time favorite circus family. Hoping for no wind and steady cables.

http://skywire.discovery.com/

Update: if you weren't watching, then you've missed out. It was heart-stoppingly amazing to watch. Twenty-two minutes!! Praise Jesus indeed.

I'm sorry. I ran.

POW.

Can you see my white flag from here? I mean, really. Can't you fucking SEE it?

(Turn off the stereo. We have to talk, and besides you're blindsiding me with my entire emotional map laid out in song. That isn't fucking fair of either of you.)

Batman owns this house, here in Cape Cod. I found a stack of paintings at the end of the hallway upstairs and I couldn't resist looking at them. Some of them were by Cole and I looked at Ben and asked him what he hadn't told me over the past five years. He just stared at me as he weighed which answers would provoke which results. Not sure he ever figured it out since he turned and walked back down the hall, away from me.

Ben is still under the wagon and Loch is still singlemindedly determined to take me apart piece by piece and then he can put back together his perfect summer girl as he remembers me instead of how I am.

Flawed. Surrendered. Surprised. Disappointed, demoralized and exhausted. This was not a good idea. This was not a good idea at all.

Wave that fucking flag high, girl, and maybe they'll come and get this over with.

DFW for breakfast.

Bishop and Clerks for three (bring them to the light).

Bring me home in a blinding dream,
Through the secrets that I have seen
Wash the sorrow from off my skin
And show me how to be whole again

Long before I finally asked him to revert back to his habitual self so that my lobotomy could still be successfully reversed, Lochlan dropped through a hole into a place he doesn't belong. The nightmares were back, the rabbit hole wide open, the mind behind a familiar face unrecognizable.

I don't care if you get it, I get it. He isn't like that with me. He can't be. He's just not wired this way so his attempts to make a strategic move only served to illuminate his completely selfish plan to edge Ben right off the playing field. It served to prove that the dark magician is still in there and oh, Jesus, no. Anything but that. You don't understand.

 As if we don't know Lochlan has been plotting this all along, right up until he gets everything all lined up in front of him and he's home free and then he gets scared, turns and disappears, like magic.

Like magic. I think I'll stick with the coins behind my ears and the fire routines because we can't survive anything greater than that.

So it's better if he just continues to be himself and not let himself go to places neither one of us are comfortable together. It's better if he does things his way and I will exist around him, doing what I need to do, and Ben will do whatever it takes to stay clean and sober and alert and present because he knows that's what he needs to do. Never mind the fact that I've tied an imaginary chain around his neck and am forcing him to be present because I refuse to commit to his absence any more. I refuse to watch him drink and self-destruct and I refuse to give up.

Yes, you heard me right.

And to that end Ben has planned a getaway (when the going gets tough the tough book planes) and as usual I'm not packing, I'm writing. I've got my hearing aids and my string bikini (one will not be worn with the other) and my big holey sweater, jeans and a windbreaker, my SPF25000 sunscreen and new sunglasses and we're taking our magician and going to Massachusetts, where it isn't warm enough for a string bikini, nor is it bright enough yet for that SPF when a 60 will do just fine.

We're going to have a bonfire and talk things out and figure out our future plans and apologize to each others' faces instead of ripping them off and spend a little time, which is easier to do without things like opinionated friends, overbearing millionaires and wi-fi,  though there's a bookstore in town that hooks me up for the price of a cup of tea so you might see me yet.

Otherwise you'll have to wait until the weekend and I will catch you up. Cross you fingers for us. As usual we seem to need prayers even though we are heathens and hopeless and bereft.

Unsealed on a porch a letter sat
Then you said, "I wanna leave it again"
Once I saw her on a beach of weathered sand
And on the sand I wanna leave it again
On a weekend I wanna wish it all away
And they called and I said that "I want what I said" and then I call out again

New hearing aids. Really really good ones. If you need me I'll be wrapped around the stereo listening to Eddie Vedder breathe.

Father's Day.

Today I put on my happy face and honored six fathers, one stepfather and ten full-time surrogate dads/hunkles here today because the boys work so hard to see that the children have more than enough help, support and discipline to go around. They all always make time for the kids, no matter what else is going on and I am grateful and humbled by all of them for their efforts in helping me raise these amazing human beings.

I watch it and I am awed. I participate and I hold my breath as I realize the depth of the bonds they all share with my two greatest accomplishments. It's more important than anything else, as always.

So many times I wanted to open my mouth and continue the war but I looked at Ben as he taught the kids how to grill cheese sandwiches and saw the look on his face as they watched and listened carefully and I remembered that I picked him, not only for myself but for them too.

12404.

That was my lobotomy moment. He was above me, and he had one hand around my thigh and the other was wrapped around the back of my head, pulling it up. I'm barely touching the bed and he's on his knees and oh, Jesus, I can't reconcile what he's doing and I'm still not sure why he's suddenly given up his perfect record of self-control but I like it and that's bad and he's ruining everything but also it's better and now what?

Now what?

Is the trauma past and he can let go finally? Is there a limit on how long one can be the way one is before you're reset only to have to figure life out all over again? Is this what midlife really is? My baby-faced carnival man is going to be forty-nine this summer. He looks maybe thirty-two, thirty-five tops.

Maybe he has started a countdown of his own. Maybe forming in his head right now as he winds me out and holds me down is a proposal of sorts. Maybe this time he'll get everything right.

What about me though? I don't have a reset button. I don't get to let go of anything. I can't shake the past, it follows me around like a six-foot-two Devil in a bespoke suit and it speaks to an evil I can't seem to escape.

And there's Ben. I'm not sure I want to escape from him, though he's all but shoved me so far into the corner right now I've stopped trying to fight my way back out. Yesterday I gave up. I fucking gave up on him and now is not the time for this. Now is not the time to take that leap, Lochlan, just hold the goddamn line and please don't try and stand on what's left of my heart because you'll fucking finish me off here.

Sadly Lochlan refuses to hear the words inside my skull and I'm not sure I want to say them out loud. I don't know how to tell him not to be selfish when I'm still chasing after Ben because I was pretty sure I could maybe fix someone in my lifetime. If it couldn't be me, anyway.

We just took the long way home, that's all, Bridgie. 

Intervals.

(Twenty-nine years, eleven months, and thirteen days.)

That's how long he waited before pulling the Ace down out of his sleeve, a sleight of hand trick you missed before you even realized you were concentrating so hard you weren't actually concentrating on the right things.

He's good and you don't put any faith in that. You can't be fooled. You can't be had. There are no surprises, you cry. It's all just smoke and mirrors. Anyone can do it.

A challenge, quickly dispensed with, and you'll walk away with a new appreciation for magic, because magic is real and now you know, he always says.

Except I've never seen a trick that took that long ever and I've seen them all, watching from the temporary, rickety steps with the bag of red licorice that he put into my hands to stave off the dinner-time hunger pangs. These steps are the emergency-door steps behind the Funhouse and this is where he practices his tricks in the mid-afternoon. When he grows up he's going to be a magician and I will be his assistant, because we needed a backup plan for the downtimes between school, the midway (which is so unpredictable) and the circus. I think we almost have it.

And I'm going to barf. I've eaten half the bag. It's so hot out here in the blazing sun but Lochlan likes to torture himself. He says if he can do the tricks under 'dress', he can easily do them in better circumstances.

(Later he would correct me and tell me it's duress, and it means someone doing something that might even be bad because they have been threatened by someone and will be hurt if they don't. Oh, I think I get it. Yes, I definitely get it.)

He brings me a bag of licorice from the store where he stopped and filled the bike up with gas because he's hardly been off it and it's not even his and I fret every time he guns it up the driveway, waiting to see him smoke the gate at a thousand kilometres an hour but so far so good and now it goes back to New Jake, who I think is getting anxious to ride.

Licorice still makes me want to barf after a certain amount, because I can never stop eating it. Once I ate the entire bag in one sitting and had to spend the rest of the afternoon hallucinating on the kitchen floor from the sugar sloshing through my veins.

Lochlan tells me four sticks only and sits down beside me with Jake's helmet in his lap.

How is Benji?

He's pissed and unruly and...I don't know, he's everything today, Loch. 

Want me to go talk to him? (I've been mostly keeping them apart. All of them.)

No. Not really. 

This doesn't work, Bridget. Any issues he has with me need to be fixed. I can't be responsible for how he reacts to stuff. 

I know this. But still. Why now?

You don't like it? I got the feeling you were pretty thrilled with me.

Why now, Lochlan?

Because I was trying so hard to make your life magical, Bridget. I wanted everything to be bright lights and magic and make believe. I wanted it to be so beautiful and Caleb and Cole took that all away and taught you that life is painful and violent and frightening. I just want to bring things back around. I won't let him win this. I just..I just want to show you that you don't need anyone else.

All for one, is it then?

I don't know, Bridget. This isn't sustainable. 

That's what Ben said this morning. 

He's right! Jesus, he's so right.

I take another stick of licorice and he pulls the bag out of my hand and stuffs it into his backpack. He picks up the deck again in the blazing sun and asks me to choose a card. Any card.

But I can't because my stomach hurts. He fishes the Queen of Hearts out of the collar of my shirt and tells me to come on, we'll go back to the camper now and he'll put the ice in front of the fan for me, and that next time to listen when he tells me how much licorice to eat.

(I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back, til things are brighter.)

(That would be Mr. Cash, if you're inclined. And we're okay right now).

I'm lighting torches and laying them down on the patio. One after another after another. Ben sits scowling directly behind me on the steps. I have him on a proverbial leash and he must follow me around as I scowl, dragging my dark cloud along over our heads. Head to toe black for each of us and I'm not sure who is pulling off the fiercer look. I would say him. I'm too small to make anyone nervous except in this way. I'm mad. I'm really, really mad and the only way I can keep everyone at bay, away from us is with fire.

Again, how fitting.

I'm so mad I haven't actually spoken to Ben since Monday night, except to order him around. I haven't acknowledged his threats, given in to his pleas or given up on his dismissals. I wish he would stop talking some times. I wish he'd stop being silent too. I wish he'd stop being funny and sweet in between moments of failure and despair. I wish he could turn his ego off with a flick of a switch. I wish he wouldn't say one thing and do something else. I wish sometimes that I didn't love him so I could just walk away.

He's said more than once that I should. Just go already, walk out. Don't come back, cause he won't miss me. Don't look back cause he won't watch me leave. Don't cry because he's not going to shed any tears.

I put my head down in my hands and let the words bounce off my skull. I hear that's the thickest part of me, according to sources who know these things. I could still feel it though and it hurt.

I finally looked up again and I leaned back against my heels and I told him to shut up and he laughed and said I was amazing.

Yes, I am. So if you want to be with me you'd better work hard to be amazing too.

He laughed until he cried. No, literally.

Caleb picked that moment to come up the steps from the driveway and he saw the imaginary leash and the heavy black clothing and the ring of fire and our expressions, hung right out to dry and he rolled his eyes and said For fucks sake, can you two be normal for five minutes? 

Afraid to fall.

(People seem to like the sound I make, screaming the whole way down, so here. Take it and just fuck off, please.)

I tried not to seem bitter. I tried to be nice. I tried to stand behind the door and watch as they've carted him off and made excuses and put up a wall and then I tried to make do. I tried patience and understanding too. I tried on acceptance but that doesn't even fit, it's huge and I would just fall right out the bottom and then I tried the last two things on the list and I think maybe they might be presentable.

Enough so that no one stares, at least.

Bravery, of course, and fear.

Oh, Jesus, golly, that's such a big one, that fear. I don't like that one at all but sometimes it works for me in ways nothing else does. I mean it works for us, for him.

For him.

Idiot-Benjamin.

Lochlan tried to steamroll me right out of the proceedings. Sam tried to jump in with both feet, this is his specialty and since he's in house, why not? But no. Go plan your fucking wedding, already, Sam, you're hammering Matt right into the ground. And Jesus Christ, Loch, you know I love you but you know I promised to be here for Ben in ways that trump just about everything else and hell, I never said 'forsaking all others' but right now come to think of it, he does need me a little more than anyone else does. Right now.

So I'll fix him, because nothing else is working.

I already forced him to get the fuck out of bed and go for a walk and then I made him eat and then shower and shave and wish the children luck. Ruth has exams today, Henry has a street hockey tournament and fucking Christ just stay busy.

Fix the shelf in the bathroom, help Daniel with the painting. Fucking take this book and read it. Make your wife a cup of coffee because Lord knows she hasn't slept and make a phone call and talk to August for a little while and then I will and we'll keep the pressure off Sam and we'll keep the children in the dark and we'll fight off the Devil and the superheroes too and we'll just stay here together and get you better. 

Yeah.

We're in the double-digit hours already. 

It was a division of the night, into two distinct parts. His was all that mattered as he pulled my hands up over my head and caught them with one hand firmly wrapped around my wrists. I remain still and breathe. This is not how this one works. This one doesn't stray so far from straight-up missionary fucking and this one doesn't restrain me unless I'm determined to hurt him and this one never goes to dark places, preferring to light a match, flick a lighter or lick a torch until the dark is pushed back into the edges, retreating smoothly and without hesitation.

This one doesn't like to hurt me, not even to pretend.

And I know he won't but then his teeth catch on my bottom lip and the unholy sound that erupts from deep within his throat give me such a little thrill I mentally chastise myself for being so goddamned predictable, depraved.

Tell me what you want, he pleads. No, wait, it's not a plea, it's an order and Little Miss Depraved kicks into high gear with her endless list while Little Miss Fragile lies there and smiles.

***

Trust has become a four-letter-word, spit in any random direction hoping to land a blow, traveling on the wind. Ben sent me a series of messages from downstairs and I knew what he was up to before I saw him, finally, when I went downstairs to see him. I can tell by the subjects he brings up.

Ben, you promised us. 

He's doing what he's always done, sitting slouched way down in the armchair, all knees and elbows and cheekbones and big brown eyes and he's not wrecked but I know he wishes to be. He takes a sip and then slams the glass back down on the arm of the chair. Some of it leaps out and coats his forearm and some of the chair arm but he makes no move to wipe it off or apologize for the mess. He points in my direction with his free hand.

I promised you, he says. He's lucid. The glass is full. I look around for the rest of the bottle so I can see where he's at and he reaches over the other arm of the chair and pulls the bottle up by the neck. It's full too.

This is the first drink, Bridget. Why don't you go get someone for me, okay, Bumblebee? This is not for you to handle. 

But maybe it is. Maybe things have to be different. Maybe we can't keep going in circles. Maybe we can't keep building up the towers to knock them down. Maybe I'd like to use my instincts for once.

I walk over to him as he covers his face with his hand and I take the glass away from him. He watches as I drink it, the whole thing at once. I gulp it down until it's empty. It burns. Oh, Jesus it hurts so bad I think it might have dissolved my knees. I start choking and coughing but I still grab the bottle and I turn it upside down, pouring it all over Ben's expensive soundproof carpeting.

He watches. He doesn't even try to stop me.

It's the first drink and the last drink, Ben. I want you to keep your promises just like I keep the ones I've made to you. If you do this again, next time I'll light the carpet on fire after I soak it in fuel and I'll burn down your whole fucking life. 

I think someone already beat you to it, Bee. 

You want to know the funny thing? I know better than that. He didn't make you pour a drink. You did that all by yourself.

I posted this a little while ago:

But then Ben sent me this:

He wins.

Six Pine Trees.

The preacher uniform seems to be a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and ancient jeans. Brown leather shoes, but at the last minute because we hate shoes, you see.

 I know this because both the preachers in my life sport the same outfit most days.

Well, they used to, I suppose.

Sam shovels cereal into his mouth at a pace that might cause me to look away if not for his own expression, which is not at all relaxed like usual. He chews noisily and swallows, takes a sip of coffee and then one of juice. Then he holds out a spoonful in offering and I take it. He shovels another into his own mouth. Now we're both staring at each other and chewing noisily.

He finishes his bite before I do and tells me he's getting more terrified and overwhelmed with each passing moment in planning this wedding and he's no longer pretending it's cold feet.

What is it, then?

Maybe it's a sign.

If I told you it's normal and then it's a relief once the ceremony is over would that make a difference?

What if it doesn't?

They have annulments for that but I don't think you're going to find a greater man than Matt.

What if I don't really want a man?

T-Rexs' arms are far too short for this to work. And alpacas are so filthy, Sam. 

Bridget-

If you fuck up the best thing that's happened to you in a long time, Sam, I'll never speak to you again. 

His eyebrows go up and he says, The most fascinating thing about what you just said isn't that you can make idle threats so easily but that the thought of you carrying this out would be a literal death sentence and I would cease to breathe, never being the same again.

You're one of the few finding a life in this mess of what Jacob and Cole left behind, Sam. 

I made a mess, too, Bridge, the first time around. And Matt is too good of a man to risk ruining. 

So don't ruin him. Make him happy. 

I see the light leak back into his eyes, which crinkle up quite beautifully as my words soak into his brain. We've had this conversation before, Bridget. 

I know we have. You have to go or else you'll miss your own service.

Coming today? 

No, you can give me a synopsis later. 

I can give you one now. Leave it all in His hands, and let Him carry the weight sometimes. 

I tried but I couldn't find Him.

Then you didn't look hard enough. 

 Great. I can be the little deaf and blind heathen. Now go take your own advice.

You're something alright. I will see you this afternoon, unless I don't.

Bye. Did I mention I love having you here? 

Did I tell you I will never be anywhere else again?

No! You didn't, but you totally should because I would like to hear that. 

Then I will tell you later, because I'm going to be late if I tell you now.

Sam gathers up his messenger bag and his blazer and phone and kisses my head before rushing out of the kitchen. Church starts in eight minutes. It takes twelve to get there.

Caleb looks up from the newspaper. He is sitting at the table waiting for the children to take them out to brunch. He folds the paper closed with a practiced snap and smiles thinly. I see that the legacy Jacob left for Samuel is in the way he speaks to you. 

What do you mean?

With each passing day, he talks more and more like Winnie the Pooh. I'm surprised you didn't notice this before.

We settled on cheese and bread and whiskey for breakfast and pretended to paint the sunrise as it appeared on the horizon but really we were liars and fakers and thieves, until that whiskey dissolved the lies and uncovered the truth, set against a cool morning tide, wind roaring in our faces as we split the last piece of smoked gouda.

Lochlan ate the heel of the loaf of bread too, even though I wanted it. He took my glass away after two drinks and told me I still need my bangs cut and I dissolved into barely-inebriated frustration.

What's wrong? He asked and I lied some more to see if I can craft a poker face out of fake smiles and thin skin.

I'm cold.

He pulled his sweater over his head and stuck me right through it. It smells like turpentine, kerosene and Old Spice. It smells like Cole but then my brain reminds me that Cole smelled like Loch, save for the kerosene.

His eyes smile at me and it's hard to be mad. Really hard, as it always is when he switches those gears from parent to first love.

Simple tasseography.

He's sipping on a coffee on the patio, just out of the sun, where the shade begins from the overhang. The backyard is a blown-out, nuclearly-bright point that crumbles to dust in dry weather and sharpens in the rain. The orchard has no shade either. The boathouse is in a lovely stand of hemlocks and cedars and there's virtual wooden darkness out front except for very early in the morning but that backyard, man, it's just overly warm now.

I suppose that's why he's not wearing a shirt. He's warm. Lochlan does not sweat, he just turns red-hot from the inside. He glows like an iron in a fire. I only wish for that strange talent as I scrap my bangs off my forehead from where they are plastered and vow to burn these flannel pajamas just as soon as it's cool enough for actual fire.

I only put them on when I got up because they were hung on the hook on the back of the bedroom door and I had to wear something presentable. I'm sure I wouldn't get objections if I didn't put them on but that's neither here nor there, now, is it?

In a similar train of thought, I guess that's why Loch is wearing his navy blue board shorts and nothing else. They were probably within reach. The color just highlights his hair as the curls on top have changed to honey and strawberries and the ones underneath remain the color of the darkest orange maple leaves for now.

He looks delicious and I'm hungry because I was busy and I eat breakfast at nine but there was no bread left and I didn't feel like having Shreddies or fruit for that matter. I could have dispatched someone to fetch an egg mcmuffin but just as likely they would have told me to get it myself. That's a useful, bitter order when one is pretty much bound within these property lines as it is.

I could have called Mike to take me to the McDonalds in the city but God, what a waste of gas for one person's breakfast.

I have just decided I'll maybe gnaw on Lochlan for a while when he tells me New-Jake has lent him the Sunbeam for the weekend.

Oh, that's a great idea.

Have one better? He asks, smiling. Not like you won't be invited. 

I grin. In that case, be careful? 

Always am. 

Liar liar pants on fire. 

I don't tell anything but the truth. 

Oh my God, you even lie about lying, Locket! I poke him and grin. This give and take used to be normal. It's a nice change from our usual strung out declarations and emotional undertakings. This is levity.

It feels so good he feels guilty and ruins it instantly, lest I take the wrong things seriously. So many years and he still doesn't trust me to know how to react properly since I have grown from a little kid with a little instant-gratification brain to an adult with...okay nevermind. The point is he stops smiling and tells me he's not leaving this earth without me.

Oh. This earth grinds to a halt and almost throws me off in the process. Gravity intervenes at the last second, channeled by his eyes, which have leaked all of their mirth down over his skin and all that remains is sadness and devotion.

You just...had to do that, didn't you?

I learned from the best and now I can't help it, he says and his eyes continue to project their heat shimmer as I try and breathe through my choked-up throat.

Rock- or Metal-tarts would have been so much cooler.

Old mister fun is back
Wonder where he's been hiding at
Hanging round the edge
Walls unfortified, inside
No different, patchwork hack
Toil away on an unlaid track
Falls closing in, got nowhere to hide
This time
Finding ceilings low
I'm too big or this room's too small
Why's my ceiling another's floor

Christian is writing, writing, editing, working and I've done nothing but distract him for a good ninety minutes, chattering about damned near everything, showing him different boats and what I think are whales but are probably waves because I'm not good at this, I find the binoculars big and heavy and even propping them on the table isn't a great solution but Christian is impatient and frustrated and finally he says,

Bridget. Get a chair. You look ridiculous.

Oh, well, why didn't you say so?! I don't think like the rest of you!

I see that. Need a Pop-tart?

I stare at him. I can't think of a comeback.

***

Christian used to babysit me when I was eight. Mostly because Lochlan was above that and Christian was happy to make some money for what he considered an easy gig. Except the first time he did he put a movie that his family had rented into their VCR. He figured he could keep me busy that way.

Ah, the brilliant ideas of teenage boys. The movie was Halloween.

By the end of the movie I was behind him on the couch, covered with pillows, shaking like a leaf. He turned the television off, turned and stared at me with wide eyes before putting on his adolescent bravery and he said,

Need a Pop-tart? (As if Pop-tarts could solve everything.)

I chose strawberry and then asked if he had the second movie, so we could find out what happens next, because it didn't actually end, just hanging like that. Look who's brave now!

That's called a cliffhanger, Bridget. You want the other Pop-tart? He holds out the wrapper.

Yes. I take it but I can't finish it and he takes my offered remaining piece and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth.


***

I shake my head. It's too early for pop tarts and besides, they make me feel sick now. Probably because they are cardboard with sugar frosting and I'm getting too old to be fooled by those kinds of things.

But now Gage won't get his chin off the ground. He points at Christian and then at me.

He used to...babysit you?

Sometimes, yes. 

Isn't that weird?

Would have been weirder if it had been Lochlan, Christian laughs and takes a bite of his Pop-tart. They don't make him sick. Lucky guy.

Out Shine.

Ben met me halfway up the basement stairs after a cryptic SMS sent me flying down the steps. It was eleven at night and he had come home, shown his face at the table, wolfed down a plate of food and disappeared to the basement to finish something up. He said he'd be an hour, ninety minutes tops. This was at six-thirty.

Right. 

When he meets me, he says, Oh, what's that, bumblebee? Your phone's dead? What a shame! And he throws it over his shoulder. I hear it hit something and bounce to the floor and he tilts his head in that weird intense gotcha way that makes my knees kind of buckle and he scoops me up and carries me down to the studio.

Which isn't a studio anymore, it's a campsite.

With a tent. Our six-person tent set up in the middle. No lights but three battery-powered lanterns are on. The portable electric fireplace plugged in and flickering nicely (lights, no heat). He's projected stars onto the ceiling and set a soundtrack of loons, crickets and lapping water.

And an ice bucket with champagne because as I have said many times before, Benjamin has no idea what to bring on a camping trip. He had called for pizza too, it was sitting on a blanket in front of the open tent. He shivers and laughs and tells me (pretending) that the lake was really cold (yes, it was) and that we need to start over (yes, we do) and boy is he hungry (so am I!) and just like that he resorts back to the quavery-earnest hilariously non-serious Ben that I fell in love with.

This..is....

Something Jake would do. I know. I was witness to some of his outstanding romantic gestures. It's okay, I can take it. But he squeezes his eyes shut and ducks his head down as if he's about to be lambasted. But he's not.

...incredible. I love this. Ben. I freaking love it.

He opens one eye doubtfully and grins. Then he passes me the whole pizza box and I take a slice and fold it New-York style, like he's taught me.

Ghosts don't go camping, Benny. 

Sure they do. Especially when you wear them on your shoulders like a backpack. 

Ben-

I dropped the ball, Bee. 

Yes. Kind of. 

I'll make it right. Is it too late? Do I have a shot? Can I...crawl back into your heart with some bubbly? He pops the top and pours two flutes and passes me one, clinking his glass against mine before drinking all of it. He puts it down and I look at it. Then I look at him and wait for him to detail his promises in full.

It's non-alcoholic, Bee. 

I know. 

How did you know?

I trust you. 

It's also Christmas. Thank you, Santa, he breathes. You gave me exactly what I wanted. She's beautiful. And a perfect fit. 

What it's like to still be twelve years old.

(It's not your eyes.)

Lochlan buried all of his own bravery and determination in the cornfield when I was a child and can't stick to his own beliefs anymore. Push him just a little and he wavers and gives up. He hates that about himself but he's learning to find the will to push through, to put his foot down, to risk anything at all. I think sometimes I got off rather easy, and Caleb scared him more than he scared me. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's what happened, because I've been mowing him down ever since. He won't put up a fight with me very often. He's mostly paralyzed. Injured. Wounded. Scarred. He used to make all the decisions, he controlled the sun and the moon and now I'm learning celestial mechanics on the fly to try and keep the universe going while he lives in his own world in which he knows things are wrong but not what to do about it. He struggles to put aside his doubt  in order to be a good father. Every moment he fights to not show Ruth his flaws. She accepts them anyway, same as I do.

 Cole used to have three brushes on the go at once. One behind his ear, leaving paint on his chestnut curls, one in his right hand, creating magic on the canvas and one wedged tightly between his teeth to bite down on when it hurt too much. Painting was catharsis for him, therapy, release. He would come to bed at four in the morning, turning on all the lights so that he could find me and I would open my eyes long enough to make note of the placement of catastrophic smears of paint that he didn't bother to clean off before sleep. I woke up in the most violent hues. My skin was always raw from showering in turpentine. We threw away a lot of sheets.

Jake had a thing about hot food. Everything had to be broiling. I don't think he ever ate a salad or an ice cream cone in his entire life. He sort of spoiled me rotten in that respect, as he would disappear each morning and come home with fresh warm bagels for breakfast, or McDonalds (!), then we always had soup for lunch and at night I spoiled him right back with hearty stews and casseroles and barbecued goodness. Later still in the nights he would heat up cake in the microwave. I still do that to this day. Not sure what it was but seeing as how I visited the tiny hamlet where he grew up in Newfoundland I'm guessing he was always cold and this was a comfort mechanism. It worked wonders, in that regard.

Caleb had some sort of grand plan for himself from the day he was born and he has steamrolled his way through life to get there. He's isolated himself from everything and everyone, depending on Cole and on me when he wanted company, now paying for those choices dearly when his brother died and I refused to give him the same loyalty I afford to Lochlan. It's the one thing he can't buy and it's driven him mad enough that he's now getting sloppy, making business decisions with his heart instead of his mind. He's slipping at last and I like him better fallible. I like him when he tries to be human. It's refreshing and strange. And I must refrain from vilifying him so much now, since I gave him a son. He can't be that bad, if he gave me a child like Henry. Henry is love and for it, Caleb has changed. He's finally human.

Ben is trying. His hands shake, his mind isn't clear but he sometimes wakes up sober, at the bottom of the well, ready to climb out for another day and work towards staying above ground. He's too big to be so unsure, too heavy to be as graceful as he is, too nimble to be so physically strong and so emotionally wrecked. My sun rises and sets by his rare smiles, and when I take his hands in mine and squeeze them he is grateful for the lull in trembling. I'll be strong for him. We take turns. Right now I've got everything going sort of okay so I can be the one to take the bullets and he can be the one to take cover. At some point we'll trade. He's the strongest and the most fragile person I know. They say that about me too, so it stands to reason we would work best together. I can't lift him but I can hold him up, I say. And he says that he can't fix things but he can hold me while I try.

 I look at this table and I don't get why no one walks away. I pushed and I threatened and I did every single thing I knew of to test them and no one budged. I have fought, tempted, struggled and failed. I have loved. I have tried so hard to sort this out.

Five massive personalities with strength beyond belief. Giants. Tyrants. Legends. Heroes. Villains. Magicians. Gods.

Now three are left.

I'm amazed they all share the same single weakness. Amazed, but not surprised.