The food wasn't that good anyway.

Brunch.

Family meeting.

Kicked out of another restaurant.

Blame Ben. He started the food fight when the voices were raised, when things began to escalate. He doesn't give a fuck. He just thumbs his nose at all of them and plays with his wedding ring.

More later. I'm really not in the mood. Unless you have more pineapple ammunition. We're incorrigible. Which is exactly what everyone seemed to be complaining about.

Monsters, Inc.

Caleb doesn't like it when I write about Cole. I can talk about him all I want, in a positive light. I cannot, however, relay any memories to the page because all of them, even the good ones, are singed around the edges, sealed with fire, black with night and God forbid I disrespect someone who isn't around to defend themselves any more.

I can tell you that was the first thing out of his mouth yesterday when the elevator doors opened into his penthouse and instead of having to go look for him, I found him standing there at ease in his perfectly-pressed Hugo Boss pants and shirt, with his perfectly messed up hair and his completely affected stubble, phone in hand, anxiously awaiting my arrival but choosing to begin our day as adversaries instead of cordials.

Bad idea, Caleb. I haven't had any coffee yet.

Little monster and big monster proceed to have a ninety-second staredown and then little monster breaks it off and stalks away to the kitchen to make coffee. Screw this. I'm here to work, not be told what I can and can't write about, think about, tell.

Cole was many things to me, and I tell his life from my perspective. Caleb is free to start a blog, if he likes. Then perhaps he can talk about the kind of brother he was to Cole.

I am slamming things around and it occurs to me after fifteen minutes of looking (slam!) for the (slam!) goddamn coffee (slam!) that he hasn't said anything at all since that one sentence.

(slam!)

WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE NICE TO ME!

I stop. I'm not sure I meant to be that loud. Maybe I did. Little monsters sometimes get really, really out of sorts. And then they blow up. My hands go up to my mouth in horror. I'm a statue. Maybe he can't see me any more. Maybe he didn't hear me. Maybe I just thought about saying it but I didn't, really.

I'm hyperventilating but my hands stay where they are. No, I said it out loud. His face. His face wouldn't look like that if I hadn't. That much I know. I am close enough that I see the bottom of his eyes begin to fill up with tears and then I watch his self-control kick in and slowly they drain again. He sets his strong jaw and checks his own expression. He's like a well-oiled composure machine and I wish I had an ounce of it to work with but I have none.

I am nice to you. I don't know very many assistants who work three months out of the year and make six figures.

He turns around and heads toward his office. My office. Our office? I can never go in there again. I'm sure the whole thing is on fire. He works comfortably in that sort of disaster arrangement. I would burn, my dress melting to my legs, shoes turning blacker still, hair breaking off in light sticks that glow before turning black as well.

Thank heavens black is my favorite color.

I pour two big mugs of steaming Mexican roast and head toward the smoke. It's billowing out under the door. I kick the door with my foot and in a beat Caleb opens it, framed in columns of crackling flames, his horns visible, sweat on his brow, tail flicking behind him. I wonder if Hugo Boss allows for a tail pocket the way they neatly sew the cuffs as to not have any fray, in a sort of pocket seam.

I swallow down my fear and enter the room, walking purposeful and slow, making sure I don't spill anything. I set one mug down on his desk and then continue on to the window and set the second mug down on my desk. Then I meet his eyes again.

I have tried to be nice to you, Bridget.

It is a soft statement. Defeated. Disappointed.

I do not buy it.

And suddenly my nerve returns. His soft unberbelly is exposed. Strike now. Do it, quick.

Bullshit, Cale.

What?

Your 'nice' is guilt that comes out when you remember what kind of man you are. So then you throw money at the problem and you feel better. When do I get to feel better? When do I get to let go of the past?

I have spent my life ensuring your comfort.

Don't even.

Do you remember when you were nine, and I was halfway through high school? I asked you what kind of job makes a lot of money. That you should tell me and then I would go and do it because I didn't know what I wanted to do and my father was pressuring me. It was almost my senior year and I had to start looking toward university and the future. Do you remember what you said?

Yes.

Yes, I know you do. You said, 'Be a lawyer, Caleb. They wear suits and drive nice cars and everyone is afraid of them'. Well, I did that, Bridget. I did it for you. I wear a suit. I drive a nice car. I make a lot of money.

And everyone's afraid of you. Congratulations.

I managed to spend the next seven and a half hours not talking to him, and then I went home. I collected my things and found my coat in the closet and stole a banana from the bunch on the counter and walked out the door, locking it behind me.

I think we are making progress.

Listen well.

I woke up cold. Alone in the bed, blankets trailing off the frame and across the floor as if they had followed Cole out the door. I stretched my hand across his pillow and it was cool, meaning he had been up for a while.

I got up and found his discarded t-shirt on the floor and put it on. It's halfway down my legs. Good enough. I walked barefoot across the wooden floor and out into the hall, the muted rain-light shining in through the windows, filtered by the trees, now almost empty of their leaves again. The floor is cold. So cold.

I reach the sun room at the end and push the door open. Cole is there, in jeans and bare feet as well, shirtless. Holding his palette in his right hand, brush underneath, studying his canvas. His dark blue eyes rise up over the top of his canvas to greet me and he smiles.

Hello, sleepyhead. Come and see.

I come around and he leaned over and kisses my forehead, hard. I am thrown off balance and I rock back on one foot before regaining my momentum.

The picture is black. At first it seems to be a series of jagged vertical streaks. Abstract. I can't make heads or tails of it. I only feel what it wants me to feel. Despair. Fear. Rage. It isn't a nice picture. It is nothing like his nice pictures, whether they be paintings or photographs.

It's you.

Really?

He traces the line in the center and suddenly I can see my nose and my lips and the soft ridge of my brow and then oh, yes, there it is, that errant lock of hair that always flips out just beside my chin.

But it is so dark.

You don't like it.

No, I like it, it's just so...

Nevermind. I'll be finished up here in a minute. Why don't you go make some coffee?

***

It's hours later, evening now and I am sitting by the wood stove, drinking wine and listening to PJ's latest tale of snowmobiling through the outskirts of the city, complete with close calls of barbed-wire and dogs off-leash. PJ can wind quite a story and I wish I could believe half of it but I know he isn't that reckless. My friends aren't, usually. Adrenaline junkies sure, but not wishers of death or certain injury

Jacob comes in very late, having missed dinner for being stuck at the airport waiting for his bags.

Hey guys, Bridget.

Preacher. What the fuck. The pot roast was delicious. Thanks for your helping.

Don't listen to him, I saved you some. Welcome home. Come with me.

Cole watches me. His eyes are still smiling but they have turned now. Inquisitive. Baleful. I look at him and he does that beautiful move where he nods once and then tips his head to one side as if he is about to shake it, no, but then stops abruptly. I know that move so well. That move is watch yourself Bridget. Watch yourself carefully.

I ignore it like I always do. He no longer has anything. He just doesn't know it yet. My heart got on a ship and sailed far away into the open sea and he hasn't gone looking to see why it's so quiet yet. He has missed the boat. He missed the cues. He thinks he is so clever. My friends are not reckless but I am.

Once we reach the kitchen, Jacob steps to one side and I hurry to the stove, reaching in with the big mitts to collect the pan, covered with tinfoil. Everything was warming for him, just the way he likes it. I load his plate. Carrots. Potatoes. Roast beef. I ladle the broth on everything, almost gravy now anyway and then put his plate on the table. I add a smaller plate loaded with bread and butter and then I pour him a huge glass of milk and put the tea kettle on the stovetop for tea. I know it will take him around seven minutes to wolf this down and by then his tea will be perfect.

He sits down and smiles at me and then picks up his fork. There will be no talking until he is finished.

I sit down across from him and watch. Lochlan picks that moment to walk into the kitchen with his empty beer bottle. He puts it in the bin under the sink and opens the fridge, looking for another. I frown. I think he drinks too steadily. Too much. He wouldn't listen to me and so I say nothing. I don't bite the hand that feeds me.

Outwardly Cole rules this universe. He is dark and creative and a true leader. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't question. He lives so purposefully it's sick. Driven by something even Jacob can't explain. It isn't faith, it's compulsion.

Inwardly, Lochlan still rules everything. We fly that paper airplane under the radar. So far so good. It is rare but there. Once a year, maybe less. Sometimes more. We wait until it builds and then history starts to get in the way of things like trips to the library and breathing and then we go back to the circus, just for the day and everything is okay and Lochlan has no idea what kind of monster he is up against because I don't talk about Cole.

I don't talk about Caleb either. I act cordial and familiar with Caleb because if I don't it will be worse and I am traded to him on a regular basis for bankroll and security and a different sort of preoccupation for glory, unspoken but permitted because this is how curses thrive. This is what gives evil an appetite. Because Caleb won't go away and Cole has something in him that he let out once and now he can't put it back in.

Jacob sees all of this. My eyes are a television and my soul never goes off the air at the end of the night, flickering into white noise, a steady hum and hiss on the screen. It's insatiable, broadcasting all of my secrets to him with the volume on low. I try to change the channel but the knob is stuck and broken off, glued back on and forever locked to this. I stand in front of the screen and he tilts his head around me and sees it all. The nightly news, the horror movie, the carnage filmed for our curiosities.

And Jacob has a hero complex.

My plan is to see that complex fulfilled. It will complete him and save me. Lochlan is indifferent, cold to me. He wants the part of me he always loved best but he can't deal with the insecurities and the fears and the out-loud stream of consciousness that scares grown men into total incapacitation. Caleb isn't going to save me, hell, the brothers have hung me out to dry. Once the refuge from Lochlan's avarice, just-rewards because I didn't know how else to stick it to him at the age of fourteen, they have become the regret of my young life.

Redemption is sitting across the table from me and I don't deserve it, but I'm going to go for it anyway.

Jacob pushes the plate away and takes the mug of tea that I have put on the table, perfectly steeped, a spoonful of fresh honey stirred in just to make it smooth without adding much sweet. He declines the pie but makes sure it might still be available tomorrow if he comes around.

He has watched enough television.

You done yet?

I need to check on the kids, I'll be back in a minute.

Bridget, the kids are fine. Cole is in the living room. They'll hear the kids if they need something.
Are you done yet?

I think Ben is coming home this week. Have you heard anything?

Princess. Are you done yet.

No. (It's a whisper. I'm not done. I am paralyzed because I don't actually have a steady job. I have no savings and I don't know anyone except for the boys in this flat city full of violence and dust and this endless snow-ice. Writing is a thankless low-paying piece of shit. Sure, the cheques are big. Every eighteen months. Not enough to live on and I know Jacob makes pennies. You can't feed children on pennies.)

He pushes back from the table and stands up. I rise too and we meet at one end. I smile because it's comical. I reach for the plate but he already has it and he rinses it in the sink and then puts it down and turns around.

When are you going to tell them the truth?

I shake my head. I have my own signals too, know. This is shutting down, goodnight, bye-bye.

We can protect you from him.

From THEM. My mind corrects him. My mouth says nothing. Never ever ever tell, Bridgie. Just never tell, okay? I will fix this for you, just give me time. I am listening. I listen well.

Jacob pushes past me. This is done. For tonight. He is helpless and frustrated. I have Cole and Cole is what I know and for those moments when he takes my picture and I see something beautiful framed at one of his shows and then I realize it is me, it's worth it because I don't understand how he gets these images of the girl who used to exist because she became whatever she is now. I don't understand how to unlock her from those frames under the glass where he holds her prisoner but I do know that was the girl I was supposed to be.

That's her. No question. I need to stay close to her in case there is a chance I can get her back.

We walk back into the living room and Jacob abruptly says goodbye, thanking Cole for the chance to get some supper but he's got a lot of laundry to start and he's exhausted so he's going to head up the street to his house. Jacob's house is on the other side of the next block up, a pretty little yellow house that he has owned for a year. A whole year of trying to convince me that the grass would be greener in his yard and a whole year of me pointing out that it would be suicide to try and leave Cole because standing behind Cole is someone I never ever want to be on the wrong side of.

Cole says anytime, and reminds Jacob that when he travels I am like a lost puppy. I defer and say that I love having everyone safe at home, and remind Cole that Ben will be back this week. Cole confirms, he has spoken to him already.

Before you go, did you want to see the latest? Cole throws it down like a challenge. Jacob nods and they disappear up to the studio. I hear their voices drop because the children's bedrooms are on that floor.

PJ asks if he can have preacher's slice of pie and I admonish him, placating him with cookies instead. The pie will keep one more day for Jacob. If not, PJ can have it tomorrow. PJ's arms go up in a mock victory celebration.

Cole and Jake are coming back down the stairs. Cole is explaining the new blackest Bridget-painting to Jacob and Jacob is cautiously congratulating him on getting his latest inspiration out, astutely skirting the subject matter entirely. Cole is famous for having huge, painful artistic blocks in which he will stand there holding the brush while the black clouds roil into view all around him and he won't be able to put the brush to the canvas. For months. Those times are dark indeed.

Cole is thrilled that Jacob understands him, and sees him out. I call a goodbye and Jake returns it.

He is gone.

I know the painting will give him nightmares. I'll be having them too. And then maybe I will sleep.

Goofnight indeed.

Okay, so the wine had a bit more of an effect than I would have liked. Though I think they liked it. Hard to fight back when you can't recall your argument.

And in any case, I slept. All night. God love me, I didn't wake up even once, though apparently it wasn't for lack of trying.

This morning I am formatting the media card on my Blackberry because I KEEP PULLING IT OFF THE USB CORD WITHOUT EJECTING. (This never happened with a Windows laptop. Also, Bridget really needs to learn to remember things.)

And I have cleaned all the carpets. With the big carpet steamer-thingie. It is amazing. Everything smells good! Like flowers. Mondays find the princess efficient. Seriously dull even.

Oh, but I have news!

The movie theater inside my house appears to be shaping up quickly now that Ben is back into a regular routine (almost! almost.) They have taken down the paintings I had up. The entire north wall now appears to be a 200-inch screen. I've never seen a movie on a screen that large without paying eight dollars a person and having to sacrifice my shoes when I stick to the floor.

My theater is fully carpeted and plush. It seats enough people to put most theaters to shame and last night we watched Clash of the Titans (again because! so good!) and made pasta and opened a little bit of wine and had the most relaxing evening ever. Ben has a list of things to pick up (like a new receiver and other assorted technological things that I didn't understand a word of) so that, as he explained it, the kids can play the Xbox on it too, Bridget. Because I was all like "It's done? we're ready to roll? Cool." and they all said "Hell, no, we're just getting started."

We're going to get silver screen paint, and velvet curtains, plus blackout curtains for the window. We're going to get a big old-fashioned popcorn popper and build a snack bar. The Tiki/African theme will remain, everything in browns, wooden masks on the walls, etc. etc. I'm pretty sure I blathered on about this room when we moved in. I just never expected it to be THIS awesome.

I'll post pictures when it's done but presently it looks like Best Buy threw up a bunch of hardware and cables in the middle of the floor. Oh and nothing is actually hooked up anymore because Ben took it all apart again to attempt to explain to me why it wasn't ready.

I'm just. Well, I'm a simple girl and really the first VCR arrived in my life at the age of what, fourteen? and I've been charming people to make my movies play ever since.

Snort.

And yes, it's a movie theater. Not a room with a TV. Full projection. The entire wall. I said the house was big. It's bigger than that even. Oh my God, the rumors are true. I sold my soul for square footage.

And after seeing Clash that big, I'm not sorry.

(The BlackBerry is fixed! All hail copy & paste. Thank you Lochlan.)

alrtightpresent. I am!

Oh hello. I'm sorry, I can't type right now. It's rainign and the power keeps going out and the wine keeps going and they're setting u the home theater which is pretyy cool ineven though I don't like spending money all that much really. It's okay though. It rains ALOT.

BEnw as home all weekend and he never let go of me. That I like and it's worth more than meony. Hes awesome. :) goofnight?

Restoration.

It was a lovely rainy day to wake up slow, walk the dog while I was still in pajamas and then climb back into my warm bed with the big sleepy guy still wedged firmly in the middle and drift off again in his arms, only to wake a few hours later to my surprise. I made coffee, croissants, and hugs for breakfast and we lingered forever before deciding to go for a drive. Sometimes it's nice to just get away for the day.

So we did and now we are home early and winding down from a day that involved having no commitments at all save for the one we made to each other. I'm off now to make tea with honey and probably fall asleep on Ben's shoulder while we watch a movie.

Tomorrow I am hoping for more of the same.

Is it Friday yet?

Here's a ramble. People seem to get concerned when I don't really post much.

I am drinking reheated eleven-hour-old coffee (I passed a coffee shop no less than nine times today), listening to Seventh Void cut with High Holy Days and Bif Naked and thinking to make spaghetti for dinner, possibly pizza if no one wants a heavy meal. I'd like a large glass of wine and a deep breath, for today brought the most energy I have had in four weeks.

Routine is a fickle sort of relief. We're barely back into the school year and I find myself thoroughly annoyed by everything from lunches that come back uneaten to last minute party invitations and Other Parents, in general.

Sigh. I am working furiously on being less judgmental. I am losing the battle.

In other news, the grapes are gone. Yes, all of them. There's a black squirrel who was here all last week treating the vineyard as his own personal farm market. We did get to try the grapes and they were wonderful and next year step number one will be installing netting over the top of the arbor to keep out the critters.

I still have the tomatoes to look forward to. And the oranges too. And the dahlias are coming back, the roses never stop blooming and all I have to do is look out the windows and I am smiling because everything is so beautiful.

We were caught in a monsoon today and I'm getting smarter. When I left the house I grabbed the children's umbrellas because the sky looked...well, it looked heavy somehow.

I was right.

My weather-telling skills are so rusty after eight years of tornadoes and blizzards and no coasts but they're coming back nonetheless, slowly and with feeling.

Last week sometime Proud usurped Breath as my favorite song ever. It was inevitable, really. Just like I can pretend to like tea but I'd rather have coffee any day, even if it's ancient. Actually I think I'd prefer a steady diet of Jack Daniels but those days are long over so coffee it is.

I need to have some serious fun. We are overdue.

I need fresher coffee.

Ha! I have found a new way to distract Ben while he plays Warcraft.

I'm playing King Diamond Christmas tunes.

At full volume.

Let me be your monster.

Articulate, humanesque nightmares are the worst ones.

(Stop and take that breath and relax, loosening your grip on life for just a second. Taste that. Freedom from anxiety seasoned with a hint of rest. Now go away. This is not yours. This will be served to someone already character-free, someone who doesn't even realize they don't deserve this unencumbered existence. That fucker isn't aware of how good they have it, they only know life as a bubble of sunshine and ignorance, breezy winds and plans best made. Did I just catch you trying to take another deep breath? Give it back. You're flammable.

Look, here's a leak. Put out your flames here. Yes, I understand you hate them. Familiar is the tension, the low-level hysteria put aside only long enough to concentrate on something specific and then you pull your finger out of the hole and the stream begins anew. You're up to your waist and you can't swim. The water is thick with indecision and cloudy with hope and fear. It's undrinkable, unswimmable and unstoppable too. It covered your freedom easily and now it's working on your courage. With enough time, erosion will begin and there will be no turning back. Run, Bridget, run!

I can't. I'm still unable to take a very deep breath. My knees are positively shot and I don't know which way is safe. I can run straight to the sea but then I am trapped because I am not a strong swimmer. I am trapped because I am not a strong person. Take the fear. I DON'T WANT IT. Take my indecision too. Leave me the fuck alone already. I have been through enough.)

Sitting with his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, hair perfectly tousled, six o'clock shadows playing across his face, Caleb frowned at me and rested his head on one hand, balanced against his temple in a painful display of exhaustion. He is slouched way down in the low library chair with his eyes closed and his left hand balancing a brandy glass in mid-air. It has been empty for almost thirty minutes but he's still cupping it between his fingers, warming invisible liquid gold. Maybe he wants me to refill it but I make no move to do so.

You look beautiful.

It will grow. I put my hand up to my neck, self-conscious.

Don't do that. He frowns. Don't even be uncomfortable with the way you look. Jesus, Bridget. You're beautiful. Uncannily so. You always have been.

His words are sweet poison to me. I'm not willing to listen to him extol my virtues when he didn't leave me with any at all. I'm not willing to listen to him editorialize my life from his perspective of obsession.

What does Henry need?

We don't co-parent in any sort of organized fashion. Caleb provides for the children in any way that I request. It's that simple. He also provides a pure representation of Cole, because it's not as if I can take the children to the concrete room where I keep the Cole-angel. They would be frightened. Caleb offers a Cole that they remember well. Kind. Fun. Permissive but consistent. His only request is access to them. Time with them. Time with me. Play nice, Bridget and it will all be okay.

It's okay, that isn't sinister or anything. Cole said it to me every night. Now it just sounds funny. I stopped playing nice years ago, as you can see.

I take my brandy up and swallow the contents of my glass in one gulp. It burns and I grab the windowsill. I gasp and choke and Caleb is there rubbing my back as if you can dislodge certain death with massage and I want to tell him not to touch me anymore but I can't breathe. I cough hard and then I wave my hands at him and thrust the glass toward him and leave the room.

Water. I need water.

I get a glass at the sink and stand there, drinking it slowly. Staring at my reflection in the kitchen windows because no one closed the blinds and I can't reach them but it's okay because the only person who watches me from that one place on the road is the one sitting in my library now drinking all of Jacob's ancient, valuable brandy that I didn't know what to do with so I packed it and it came with me.

I hear voices.

August and Ben are sitting out on the patio with forbidden cigarettes and herbal tea. I can hear the tones but not the words proper. They had a splendid argument when I returned from the airport with August because no one else gets a vacation but somehow August is able to disappear for ten days even though presently is a high stress time for the company. How is this possible? The world doesn't stop for hippie festivals and desert-worshipping but somehow he did it anyway because August puts life ahead of living. Lucky for us. He keeps his head on straight and his universe relaxed and then he can be a good friend and confidant and in-house social miracle worker here because Ben won't let anyone else do it and here Ben is strung out on overtime and his eyes are bleary and he has just enough strength at night to come home, eat a big dinner, play an hour of warcraft and ravage me completely before falling asleep and waking up again too soon and it's heartbreaking and maybe, just maybe he doesn't need to know that August came back renewed and reborn, smiling from ear to ear.

They made up just as fast. August is made from a patience we have never encountered before. He had Ben placated quickly and they retreated for some stream of consciousness that will see Ben psychologically propped up for another little just to get him through the end of this workload and then we get to breathe for a minute or two, watched by the others for any hairline cracks in the facade. Never mind that we have repeatedly presented ourselves to be examined with staples holding big ragged segments together, duct-taped limbs and reinforced organs, fibreglass spray and plaster dust in our hair. We hold hands and stand there grinning like stupid fools.

Hairline cracks, Ben? Do you see any hairline cracks?

Nope, princess, can't say that I do.

Guess we're good for now.

Yup. Guess we are. Can we go now?

Eleven is standing still.

This morning I was summarily dismissed at the door to the school. It's the first day back today.

Uh, mom, you can go now.

I can walk you to your class, make sure everything is cool.

It's okay. We'll see you later. Bye.

The door closed in my face and I was left out in the rain. It's okay. I ran home, hopped in the car and went shopping, only being pulled back out of the reverie (of not having the mopey twins taking forever to get down an aisle because they have to pick everything up) by a call from the school.

Mrs. Reilly? Ruth said you didn't know that it was only a half-day today. Pickup is at 11:30.

Well, damn. I thought I had hours left. I thought I had a lifetime left.

I was greeted with big hugs and almost knocked down outside the front doors.

We missed you, mom! Mom, can you carry my backpack? It's heavy. (it was empty).

Ha. They're only half-grown! So there. I still have time left.