That Lochlan. Such a charmer.

Blows my mind sometimes.

Youngest child syndrome.

We've designated this week Parent Week at Camp Bridget. My parents are flying into the city this afternoon. My mom has never seen the Pacific. I don't think she has, anyway. She's been to Spain and Morocco and a lot of the Caribbean and Paris too but the Pacific Northwest? This will be new, and terrific for her to see.

My father has been here on business before but not for a long time. They have a long day traveling across the country, I don't envy that. It will take an awful lot to get me back to Nova Scotia when the time comes. Much as I love my seabound coast I actually despise flying. Maybe we'll drive. Lots of time to plan anyway.

The rules for the boys are pretty simple for the week. No one is allowed to do a shot, throw a punch or cut the head off a goat.

What? I thought they would be easy rules to follow, except that the boys are impulsive and eventually they'll break one or all three.

Since I already get up before five every morning and my folks will be running a four-hour time deficit I can imagine I will be able to post all week but on the off chance I am sporadic with it, this is why.

So excited I could burst.

Go here.

Listen.

Now watch as I die happy.

PS. We go see Tool this weekend!! If you see us, come say hello. As I always say, Bridget doesn't bite but Ben might. How will you know it's us? I never worry about that part. Ever.

Killing two thirds with one throne.

Keith is here for breakfast, along with um...let's see now. Stephen. Maybe it's Steven. Sam is back. Dylan. Andrew. Daniel, Schuyler, Ben. Lochlan. Also, quiet man in the back. The one who hasn't really said a word yet. His name is Jake and I'm sure that the way I visibly paled when I was introduced made him want to run for the hills.

Keith and Jake are longtime friends of Sam from school. They brought Stev/phen. They want all the dirt on how Sam and I know each other too so, hey, here's some bacon. Everyone likes bacon. Have some. No, have more. No one goes away hungry in Bridget's house.

They are curious about how this works. Who does what? What about the money? How are chores divided? Do we share the trucks? Exactly what's the deal with Lochlan again? He seems like the odd man out. What do the kids think of having all of their hunkles within reach all the time?

Inevitable curiosities when we open ourselves to discussions about the commune (only we don't call it that). Too many questions and I've managed to leave that to the boys to explain while I hide in the kitchen, looking up recipes for something baked for lunch. Like a pie with crow. Maybe some humble-dish. Maybe some pride, too, just for flavor. I feel all over the place.

I am listening to the descriptions and explanations and it sounds perfect.

But in a perfect world the boys would never argue, no one would ever have to leave the property to work, and we would have a huge garden too. Also since it's my fantasy we would have all of Coney Island on site. Amusement is a necessity, vegetables are a luxury, Lochlan always says.

And cake would fall from the sky like rain but only when Bridget is hungry.

Speaking of hungry, I'm wondering if I have room for three more boys around my table on a regular basis. Add in the missing ones and the house will burst, testosterone raining down on us like confetti. I'm also wondering if I can really give this poor guy a chance at friendship, when the biggest strike against him lies in a choice made by his parents who named him. People I don't even know. I'm sure I can, save for the fact that anytime someone addresses him, everyone gives me the side-eye, and I'm convinced they can see my battered heart lurch around in my chest. It hits a little too close to home and I'm surprised by how unfair I feel towards him. He's adorable. For a mute.

Ah, I have found what to make for lunch. Blackbird pie. See, the princess can do this one of two ways. I can draw him in or I can shove him away. Since it's Tuesday and Tuesdays are hardly ever bad days, I may possibly do both. Just to see if he is worthy of his name.

I have the hiccups. Like, very very badly. So no post. I'm just trying to hang on to the darned chair.

Sunday review.

Ben pointed out this morning that the only competition he considers real is the ghost in the copper box.

And then he laughed in Lochlan's face.

He tells me I will give up secrets when I'm good and ready and not because the boys demand to know. He tells me everything is okay and if the rest of them don't understand how my head works than it is their problem and nothing more. He tells me I should just delete the emails that scold me and that I don't actually have to answer to anyone other than the girl in the mirror.

As usual, I'm not sharing anything with her. She looks like she carries her own burden. Besides, she's never even told me her name.

Ben puts out his arms and pulls me in close to his heart, squeezing me against his shirt. Kissing the top of my head. My ear. He'll drop one hand down to my face and he'll pull my chin up until it's resting on his chest and I'm staring up at him while he stares down. He smiles at me. Only at me. Then he bends down, gives me a kiss and he's gone again, off to the studio to work his fingers to the bone. I cry out in protest and he tells me not to worry about a thing. Soon. Soon he'll have more time off and we can catch a little bit of a break and spend some more time together.

Until that happens the inappropriate protocol is to molest Daniel beyond belief, to the point where I piss off Schuyler for my impositions, cry when no one is looking because I miss Ben so much and to yell at the girl in the mirror to grow the fuck up because she has it good. I can play with the little bird on the copper box and consider opening the lid with a screwdriver or a blowtorch or something but I don't because Sam had it welded shut and I don't mess with Sam's temper or Sam's rules.

I miss Sam. He's away on some sort of men's retreat for the weekend with his new church group. He figured it was safe to go, figured I was telling the truth when I lied and promised him I wouldn't go to Satan for anything, figured it was a good break from the endless questions I always pose to him. The heartbreaking, unanswerable ones I throw out like birdseed at a public park. Catch, Sam. Tell me why. Tell me how this happens. Tell me God's address so I can go give him a piece of my mind. Tell me what Jake was thinking when he set me up for this fall. Tell me that Ben will live forever so I never have to add to this pain.

Tell me why I'm still here when I begged to leave them behind and go in their places. Tell me what's so special about me.

Sam looks a little bit like that girl in the mirror. A little like Ben. A little like Lochlan. Tired. Haunted. Worn through to the point where the light shines through the cracks now and just about blinds you, as if you were driving into the sun. You can still put your hand up to shield your eyes but soon even that isn't going to work.

August patiently follows me around listening to me ramble when Ben is busy. Holding out his arms and trying to minimize his accent so it hurts less when I ask to be held and not so quietly diagnosing me repeatedly against my will. I defer. I protest. I rail at him to cull up the boys and make a row and I will duck behind it, the ribbons on my dress trailing out behind me as I run. I will duck down behind Ben's back and slip out the other end of the row and head straight for the mirror. One foot over the edge and then the other and for a split-second I will balance on the lip before jumping down into the reflection.

Oh, that's who you are. You're me.

Jesus Christ. You look awful, Bridget.

The heat merchant.

Let go it's harder holding on
One more trip and I'll be gone
So keep your head up
Keep it on, just a whisper I'll be gone
Take a breath and make it big
It's the last you'll ever get
Break your neck with a diamond noose
It's the last you'll ever choose

I am I am I said I'm not myself, but I'm not dead and I'm not for sale
Hold me closer, closer let me go let me be just let me be

I'm lying in bed fighting to stay awake while Jacob fusses with his post-it notes, the ones he uses to mark his bible because he's prone to going off on tangents in the middle of his sermons, which would always be written out longhand, agonized over and then discarded in favor of a village talk, an informal version of his pulpit-pounding shouting matches, where he would rivet everyone silent, still, fixed on every movement. He would instead stroll around the sanctuary talking to people as if they were the only one present. It was incredibly intimate.

It was staged, proof positive that Jacob could handle Bridget-duty, circus duty, carnival life. That he was a better man than Lochlan because he had God on his side and through God he could protect me from Caleb, and from the ghost of husbands past and from everything that could possibly go wrong. He thought he could steal kisses and then hearts and he thought he could make everything better with his super Jesus powers.

He thought wrong.

The boomerang effect was earth shattering and I have done nothing but fly in the face of everything he ever wanted and why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I defy him until he's on fire under God because he broke the promises. He lifted them up over his head and smashed them at his feet. He left and I stuck it out even though it's been frightening and at times impossible.

I keep finding post-it notes everywhere. In with my taxes from 2006. Tucked into my Good Housekeeping recipe book where I go for notes on times for pies. In Lochlan's sketchbooks.

When I have enough they will be word-feathers and I will glue them together to make huge 3M wings and then I fly down and visit Jacob again.

You're falling asleep, Bridget.

I'm awake.

Right. Who won the Stanley Cup?

Blue. Seventeen. Chocolate-chip.

Goodnight, beautiful.

Goodnight pooh.

A lot of the notes I have found lately have little quotes on them. Things I said that made him laugh or things that he wanted to never forget.

Things like:

Find out what Lochlan is hiding.

Yeah. Ones like that.

I need to ask God if it's okay sometimes to be relieved that someone is dead in order to keep secrets. I need to ask God what happens next.

I need to ask God why he lied.

Oh, Lochlan. What did you do?

Everything but this girl.

When the doorbell rang I went and opened it because no one else had jumped, and there was John. In black dress pants, black leather shoes and a rumpled white dress shirt. A far cry from the lumberjack I used to live down the street from.

He looked pained, hands behind his back and so I spoke first.

Formal visit, then, is it?

He passed me a pewter-colored envelope. Caleb color codes everything. Financial is manila, travel is blue, invitations requesting my company come in a rich dark silver, the color of the envelope John is trying to give to me and I don't take it.

When?

As soon as you can get away.

I nod and my brain starts spooling up. What do I wear? What does he want? I know but I ask nevertheless.

Is it work, John?

No, Bridge, it's not.

He turns, defeated, and walks back down the path to the driveway.

I close the door and turn to go see what everyone is up to, see if it's safe to slip out and go into the city for a while. I run straight into Ben, who takes the envelope from me and walks away. He stops halfway across the room and I can see the muscles in his shoulders freeze up.

No, Bridget.

What? What is that? Taking a page from Jake?

He was smart.

Not as smart as Cole.

Oh that's rich, princess.

It's true though. Jacob ran on heart.

And what would you have me do?

Not change anything.

Not change anything? What the fuck, princess, I can't deal with this. I can't deal with you being gone, I can't deal with percentages and jealousy and the pressure I see you caving under.

I'm fine, Ben.

Where is normal, Bridget? We promised each other normal. I could stay healthy and you would be happy.

As soon as I find the sign for it, we'll turn off.

We've passed SEVEN FUCKING EXITS, Bridget, and you pretend you don't see them.

I can't take any more change.

I can't take him touching you.

You don't seem to mind when you're getting something out of it.

Yeah, well, maybe those days are done.

Come with me. We can talk about this later.

The invitation came as a bit of a surprise. We had just arrived home after spending most of the day downtown with Caleb. We took the children to the sad parade and then walked around watching people decked out in red and white while we painted the picture of a perfect family. I guess it wasn't enough, only this time Caleb wasn't interested in the 'family' picture of his dreams, just the Bridget part. He never really cares if Ben joins me. He doesn't get the choice.

By eight we were having dinner at a restaurant. I picked at the lobster and gulped my champagne. Oh, look, they put courage in my glass. Need that. Please give it to me and then get some more.

By nine we were strolling along the boardwalk. I had my wrap around my shoulders over my dress and Ben's suit jacket on and I didn't want to say I was cold but oh hell, I was so freezing I couldn't speak, I figured it would all come out in chattery, fogged breaths.

By ten we switched to wine and music and light conversation in the warm penthouse which is how Caleb unwinds from his workday. He sits back and tries on various expressions and extends his finer curiosities.

By eleven the wine was being poured slightly higher in my glass and the familiar hungers had begun to appear in their eyes. Ben had relaxed slightly, no wine for him, just water. He had a guitar out and was quietly playing along, watching me. Waiting.

By twelve I was slammed up against the door to Caleb's bedroom, my dress yanked up over my hips and Caleb's face in the crook of my neck, leaving a burn as he drove into me while my husband watched. Cole, don't hurt me, please. I can't take it anymore.

By one I was just falling asleep when Ben came for what he needed at last and it was such a relief to be safe again. I was sure Caleb stood just back from the doorway in the shadows and watched. I didn't care. I just said I love you, over and over again to Ben in an effort to make the distinction so that Caleb could hear it and know that he has won exactly nothing.

By three we were in the back of the car, being driven home, not talking to each other or to John. Staring out the window, at the lights. My skin is still red and raw, my life in someone else's hands, my history being spent in a genre I won't even look at without wine and darkness and want.

Lochlan opened the door when we got home and I walked past him and I felt his eyes burning into the top of my head all the while and Ben's tired eyes burning a hole into my back and I turned around to finally meet Lochlan's eyes and he shook his head, tears in his eyes. Aghast at my bravery, or maybe at my recklessness.

This isn't what you meant for it to be, is it, princess?

No.

Then why?

I just pointed at Ben. Ben will pretend up and down that this is all about me, but rarely will he admit that he needs this as much as I want it. He needs it to feel dangerous, he needs it to get high. Chasing this has become somewhat of an albatross to him, and he's loathe to admit it. But it's there, right between us, an obstacle I keep tripping on as I try to juggle in front of an audience. The harlequin. The whore.

It leaves me with a question this morning, since Ben and I are going to spend the day talking. Which is stronger? A man's appetites or his convictions? Jacob would have had an easy answer for this one.

Ben? Caleb? Lochlan, even?

Not so much.

Ben is working so we are downtown not doing anything Canada Day-related with Satan.

I forgot to bring my words with me. A quiet, rainy day anyway. Looked at android phones. Ate an almond. You know. Thrilling shit.