And I know I sound hideously ungrateful. I'm not. There's a million things to be so thankful for and I have noted every last one. I promise. If you knew me outside of this page, you would understand that. If you don't, then I'm sorry. I'm really a nice person underneath the princess part.

I promise.

Man in a box.

Won't you come and save me.

I wish tonight for a white linen-covered table overlooking the water, a damned good bottle of wine and even better coffee, and a meal of pasta with greens and exotic cheese, and a basket of very freshly baked bread. I'll let the server place the napkin on my lap for me and I'll sit and contemplate the waves and the breeze while I savor every delicious bite. Then a long walk to look at boats and then I'd like to watch a movie that makes me laugh and be glad I saw it.

Reality (which I have come to resent) dictates that instead I'll cook a quick dinner for the children and then a second dinner for Benjamin when he comes home and then in the blink of an eye we'll eat and go to bed and be asleep before the sun goes down.

I. hate. this. schedule. It's been three days (a lie. It's been six months.).

Hate is too mild of a word but I know. I understand the point of the work and the way it flows and I am so incredibly grateful that he is appreciated, in demand and still loves it but after the way this year started I just have this overwhelming urge to grab him by the front of his shirt and push, pull and stuff him into a box and wrap the box in chains and padlock it shut and maybe learn a little bit of welding too, and then I would hold it carefully behind my back in both hands and shake my head innocently, ignorantly while people walked all around me wondering where he could be.

Yes, that's what I would like to do.

And in a perfect world, I would.

Thankfully nothing is perfect. Ben wouldn't like it. He needs to be tinkering if he is awake, there is simply no other way. He likes to be busy, he likes to just put his head down and ride out the difficult parts and he likes to focus on the present.

He likes burgers and fries and napkins with well-known brands printed on them. Quick and easy. He doesn't drink wine. He doesn't know what the hell to do with the side of me that hates reality except to say that it doesn't matter if I don't like it, I'm stuck with it.

Begrudged acceptance isn't quite what I had in mind this evening. The move is finished, we're just about through the last of the paperwork concerning address changes and becoming full-fledged west-coasters, we have new furniture and everything is put away and hung up and cleaned six times over and I have sought out every last amenity we need, where the best place is to buy guitar strings and lactose-free milk and good bread and the skincare I like to use. I have found neat places to take the children and we've explored the woods and the creeks and the rivers and the pacific and the road and the parks.

What I need, badly, is a vacation.

But I don't want to see my suitcase ever again and I'm still weirdly thrilled that I can leave my hairbrush, my perfume, seventeen lip glosses and my jar of cocoa butter just sitting out all over the place across the giant counter in the bathroom and all of it is still there next time I walk into the bathroom. I still haven't decided if I want the window in the walk-in closet to have the blinds open or closed. Am I going to flip the light on and walk in naked and someone outside might see? And really, who is going to be right outside my window at that hour? (Shhh, we know that answer haha).

So I need a home-cation or a stay-cation or whatever the hell it's called when you just take time off and have fun instead of just working your way through list after list and hoping to nurture and fulfill everyone while scrubbing toilets, shopping and cooking and maybe spending three minutes a day writing a journal entry or downloading a new theme for the ever humming BlackBerry.

I need a fucking white-linen table and a good dinner. Really that's it. Not the moon tonight, not a flight overseas or thousands of dollars worth of luxuries, just some pasta and wine.

And Ben in my hands, chained inside a box. Just so I could enjoy him for once instead of continuing to say goodbye all the time.

Small world.

The rain has closed off the world to me today. I haven't seen the water or the mountains yet. It sort of feels as if this is an island and I am alone forever and no one will ever know who I am. The fog brought with it a steady downpour and fresh air that I have opened every window wide to collect inside and get rid of the stale overnight warmth.

I have rainboots now. They are black (of course) with pastel polkadots and they look cute with my long black coat and my Edward Gorey umbrella, or so I call it. It's very tall with a spiral handle and it opens in a bell-shape with a little lace fringe and it looks as if it belongs to one of Gorey's Tinies.

Oh, wait. It does.

Garden tools can't be fenced. Can they?

Humanity and I are having a difference of opinion today as my faith has been tested this morning and the week has grown long with overtime, illness, theft and exhaustion. Add in all of the drama and PJ alternately being fed up with me and sad that I have faced such derision over my memorials. I'm done. Is it Saturday yet? Is it Sunday? Can I go back to bed? Can I just cry now?

No, I think I'll laugh. We've reached those levels of ridiculousness here.

Some guard dog Bonham is too, by the way. Snoring away on the floor at the foot of our bed, failing to alert us to the two stupid teenage boys breaking into my yard. Well, guess what, boys? That expensive jacket you dropped as you took off with my stuff? I have it and fuck you, hell no, you can't ever have it back. And it's worth more than the things you took so perhaps the joke is on you.

And when you grow up and some kid steals your stuff, consider it full circle. And it will happen. Ask me how I know. Good luck to you.

In other news, half a bottle of Advil and a pot of coffee and I'm almost human again. The ice pack helped, as did a mini-neck massage and a magnificent, concentrated effort to distract from the pain in my head. My headache that started on Sunday is almost gone. Finally. I can uncurl my toes and roll my flesh back down over the tips of my fingers where I slid the tips along the rack of knives so that something besides my head would hurt for a change.

I didn't actually do that, but I considered it very seriously for quite a while.

If I could paint a picture for you today it would be in shades of grey, moving away from what began as total blackness, hopeful that when we reach the other side of the canvas the world will be colored in a hint of turquoise and blush and the work will evoke a sense of peace instead of one of dread and foreboding. I don't know though, we're not there yet.

All in a day's work. There's nothing remarkable about my day. The children are home sick from school getting over their colds, I am attempting to run completely out of groceries because I haven't found time to shop yet and Caleb is still singing. All week long which is new and not all that bad really. As long as he isn't picking fights he isn't horrible.

Ben is wonderful but invisible. Head down, ears closed, focused as he works his magic because that's what he does and I may wind up horribly depleted in Ben-stores for the next several weeks but I will see him at bedtime and for toast in the mornings and otherwise thank God for cell phones and dreams. At least this time he doesn't have to go to work on an airplane and only get home every month or so. He'll be home every night, but distracted and consumed and oh I really hate these parts but after twelve years or so I'm getting used to deadlines and clients with changes and how things look when you don't have any breathing room. All of the boys have shown me that side of life and I believe I could write a book on it, if I wanted to write one but maybe instead I'll just write some other things instead. I'm sending some things out early next week, it's been a long time since I even felt like dealing with submissions but I am because life is about moving forward in some strange meandering road of self-improvement and then self-reliance.

Somewhere I became lost and some days I don't think this is my road, but someone else's and they must know the turns and the landmarks to watch for while nothing looks familiar to me but I'm hoping eventually to come to an exit and I can get off and circle back and find the right road. Or doze my own. I don't even think I have a road, proper. I think my path is dirt, softened grass and mud baked into a marked footpath, wide enough for two and then one and then two and then one and it goes along like that and every now and then the bottom drops out and you fall down a steep embankment and then you climb up the next hill, scratched and dirty and look out over the valley, the sunrise blinding you until you exclaim out loud and promptly trip over a rock and land on your ass.

Oh yeah. That's Bridget's path right there.

(If you own a MEC Tango Belay, come and get your coat, you stupid punk. And bring my things back with you.)

Part two: Proof of identity.

All you are
I have made
All that I wanted
I gave to you
I have no sympathy
I show no mercy
All that I hated
I placed in you

Sunday afternoon in the rain I stood at the very edge of my cliff and I looked out over the sea, sand and grit and bits of concrete stuck to the bottoms of my bare feet, wet hair tangled from the wind, wrapped in one of Ben's big hoodies for warmth but I couldn't get warm.

Low tide.

I stepped closer and that was all it took for the house behind me to explode, doors opening, voices eaten by the roar of the wind in my ears.

The fastest runner reached me first. I could tell by the pattern of his feet and the lack of heavy breath. Caleb.

Princess.

I'm not going to jump, if that's what you think. I need to see them. This is as low as the tide is ever going to be.

Ben's voice next.

Bridget. Sweetheart. We really need to move those so you can see them safely. It's okay to make a mistake.

I've made so many, Benjamin.

No, you're doing pretty good, actually. But we can change them so it's easier.

This is fine.

Not for me.

These were for me and for the children.

And what do they have? They aren't allowed here.

I have ordered smaller plaques and a tree for each.

Isn't that good enough for you?

No.

What can I do, Bridget?

Let me come here without everyone freaking out.

I'm sorry, Bridget, I can't do that.

Traitor. You all want to forget about them.

Never, princess.

He took my hands and bent them up behind my back and held on a little too firmly and I knew that if I stepped away from him I wouldn't die. It's sad that I can't ever give these men that same kind of comfort. I have tried. I can't pull it off for stupid stunts like these.

He came around and stood beside me, still with the painful grip on both of my hands, and he leaned out over the edge.

I know why you did it.

Tell them.

I thought PJ would at least ask you not to come here alone.

He did.

So why are you here?

Because I don't listen.

Ben laughed. A short, sad laugh and he squeezed my hand.

I want to make it better. I thought this might help you, princess. Maybe I screwed up.

I could have installed her downtown in a safe location.

Caleb's voice broke in, a jarring reminder that there were eight other people watching our exchange.

Ben dropped my hands and turned to face Caleb. Caleb's face changed from contempt back into fear. I'm still standing right on the edge. One big gust of wind or rock slide and I'm at the bottom of the cliff where PJ installed the bronzed plaques engraved with the names of my dead husbands, their birth and death dates and one line I chose for each, which I won't share right now. He used concrete screws, and drove them in when the rocks were almost dry, the words facing the cliff so technically you can read them with binoculars from here but you can only see them at low tide and they are not accessible on foot, only by boat. He said it was a fool's errand and cursed me the entire time, and Chris held the ropes and didn't say a word. We don't have a boat. PJ rappelled down.

Ben-

She's not yours, asshole. Stop acting like him. You aren't Cole. She can't get Cole back. You're fucking with her head so bad. Just stop it.

I didn't have to turn around. Thanks to history, I was well aware that Ben would charge Caleb and probably knock him down onto the wet grass and then he'd let him get up just to hit him again. Then the others would intervene because it's not a fair fight. Ben only ever had a fair fight against Jacob. They were the same size. Everyone else is just dumb to pick a fight with someone who can't control their emotions.

With someone like me.

A different voice now. Sweet Daniel.

Bridget, come here.

I turned and wavered slightly and Lochlan closed his eyes. Praying. What the fuck.

Please, Bridget.

I shook my head.

Stop fighting. All of you. Just stop it. This isn't what I wanted. Go away.

We know, baby.

Ben stopped and helped Caleb up, and then came back toward me and I put my hand up.

It isn't PJ's fault, and it's not Chris'. Cole and Jacob belong there. I put them there and I want the, to stay there. Please. Please don't take them away.

What am I supposed to do Bridget? I can't put a safety net around this place. I can't watch you twenty-four hours a day.

That's why you have help. You're all my safety net.

When the trees come, and the other plaques, will you go there instead?

Unless someone comes with me here, then yes.

Oh, Jesus, Bridge, you're killing me. Come here.

He put his arms out and I left the edge and went into them, my customary face plant into the buttons on his flannel shirt a welcome shell-dotted warmth, the percussion of his heartbeat proof that he would keep his word and leave the plaques alone. He kissed the top of my head and I wrapped my arms around his back and looked up at him. Tired in the harsh light, sober and anxious, quietly smug in the display of affection that comes so easily for him while the rest wait for me to make the first move.

Lochlan turned and walked back up to the house, shaking the rain out of his hair. Caleb examined his clothing to see if he would be forced to drive back to the city to change before doing anything else and the others just watched. Quietly. Respectfully pretending to stare out to sea but honed in peripherally, ever mindful that Ben and I are the collective instabilities and when mixed together tend toward impulsive, dangerous pursuits. Mindful that we whisper and they usually miss it.

Who speaks the words you'll listen to, Bridget?

I don't know, Ben.

He just holds on tighter. I still have no answers and he's the only one alive who understands what this feels like.

Crypt tick.

Tomorrow's baking includes banana bread, chocolate cupcakes with chocolate icing and peach cobbler. If I bake the fruit into things it tends to get eaten a lot faster.

I'll keep the pears to carry. They come in handy.

Now here's a picture of a volcano. In a different country even. This is Mount Baker in Washington state. Coy, I know.

Tomorrow I'll finish what I started on Saturday. I promise.

You know one of the strangest things about Caleb? If he's angry and he walks into the room, the temperature instantly drops by about ten degrees.

I find that freaking weird. But really, his emotions aren't my concern. I have enough of my own.

Part one of one of the hard parts.

I had my head on PJ's shoulder, face against his neck. I wasn't going to move because if I saw what was in his eyes, I might let him off the hook and I didn't intend to do that. No, I intended to make him risk his life to fulfill some strange idea I had that I would probably regret later but for right now it needed to be done this way.

Chris stood in front of us, waiting. I could see his boots but I didn't look at his face either. Just in case.

Are you sure, Bridget? Because once it's done we can't undo it. You can't touch it. You aren't allowed to get to it. You have to understand that.

I know.

So what happens when you need to see it?

I can call someone to come and help me look at it.

And maybe if we get a boat..

Yes, but only those ways.

Are you sure?

I think it will be okay like this, PJ.

Chris shook his head.

Chris. it will work. It makes sense.

None of this makes sense, princess. Put a bench in the garden. Screw the plaques on it. Done. This isn't an idea that ever should have been taken seriously.

Don't condescend to me, Chris.

I'm not, Bridge. I'm trying to keep you safe.

His eyes flashed and I was treated to the perfect vision of Chris in full armor, holding his sword. Glorious red beard flaming his moods into fruition.

I know. But please.

The plea brought PJ's arm a little tighter around my head.

Let's get this show on the road guys.

Going now to fix the plaques from the benches to their new locations. May die in the process, cross your fingers. It's pouring, and slippery and I picked a hard-to-access place.

More later, if I survive.

Oh, stop worrying. PJ is coming too. And Chris. He's the expert climber after all, well, since Jake isn't here anymore. Jake would have had NO trouble with this task. But if Jake was here I wouldn't have this heavy piece of bronze with his name on it, now, would I?

Boy, am I grumpy! PJ is in for such a treat.

Happy Endings.

She's okay!