Shares of one soul.

Take me to another place, she said
Take me to another time
Run with me across the oceans
Float me on a silver cloud

If I could I would, but I don’t know how
If I could I would, but I don’t know how
If I could I would and I’d take you now

Stay with me till time turns over
I want to feel my feet leave the ground
Take me where the whispering breezes
Can lift me up and spin me around

I remember the lies Cole would tell me while he took my picture. Elaborate lighting, a table full of lenses and filters. Rolls of film lined up that would soon enslave him to the darkroom that would someday be shoved to a remote location by virtue of Ruth needing a bedroom of her own.

He would tell me things to evoke responses, capturing my emotions, shooting me when I was surprised, laughing, shocked or disappointed. Vulnerable. Pushing me, goading me, tricking me. It took me forever to catch on. For many years I thought he was simply only comfortable talking from behind the camera and he was saving those times for our longest conversations.

It was only toward the bitter, violent end that I understood he was harvesting my feelings, exploiting my face for his work in the worst possible way. He was making his living selling my feelings, and they weren't his to take. I have an incredible range of expressions and very little means of control when it comes to showing what I'm feeling. The moment it occurs, you will know, whether it's surprise, dismay, protracted grief or sheer panic. It is worse if I am angry or badly surprised. I have no poker face, I am the mask. My eyebrows and my mouth work in conjunction with my eyes and I will tell you I'm fine and you'll still know something is wrong, because it will be as plain as the nose on my face.

So when Cole exploded (because I don't say died. Even though it's been four and a half years now, I say exploded because that's essentially what his heart did and it wasn't his fault, alright? So just DON'T.) I burned every picture of myself that I could find.

Everything that was negative. Everything that was horribly invasive. If I never saw my face again on one of his brochures or on a bill advertising one of his shows it would be far too soon. The boys each have some favorites that they won't let go of, even though they have been so helpful with um..wheelbarrows and lighter fluid and long warm hugs, at the end of the day they have their own memories to keep and I don't have the right to rip those away.

I keep finding these pictures everywhere. They're tucked into books and slid down backs of drawers and scanned to websites faster than you can say smile so it's become a regular occurrence and I am all but immune to it now.

Except for one thing.

Caleb's collection of his brother's photographs.

It's immense, what he has. Possibly one or more copies of just about everything his brother shot, which means Caleb has the largest collection of photographs of me in existence. And not just any photographs but the most personal ones, the expressive ones that formed the backbone of Cole's portfolio. Those pictures became his breath. My soul was his life.

Caleb, not surprisingly, refuses to part with them.

Actually, he won't let me anywhere near them. He does not keep them at his penthouse, instead they are preserved in a private gallery somewhere (not on display) and the invoices are held so I don't even think I could find out where they were even if I dug very deeply. I can't trick him into telling me and asking nicely for them elicits a bitter laugh. And I have asked. Every week for a long time since I discovered the extent of his collection because Caleb slipped and threatened Lochlan in an email that I wasn't even supposed to see but did. I subsequently found scans of everything on Caleb's laptop, because what good are photos you can't look at when you feel the urge?

Correct.

Cole's photographs were his words. They captured the moments he wanted to remember, he displayed them for all to see, he did not for one minute believe that taking someone's picture would shorten their shadow, hasten their death or force out their soul to be forever trapped within the borders of an image. He wasn't superstitious, forcing me to regularly walk under ladders, open umbrellas over my head indoors and lose my soul in his flash.

And I did, because I worshipped the ground he walked on.

He was God for so long I had a hard time believing Jacob when Jacob told me I was wrong and an even harder time believing that God even exists at all after Jacob flew and that maybe I had been right all along.

It wasn't until that Jacob was gone that I realized the gift Cole had left for me, maybe without meaning to, maybe without intending to. You see, he gave my soul to Caleb (or maybe Caleb just took it, like he's taken everything else) but in return he gave me Jacob's.

I have so many pictures of Jacob and even though it's difficult to look at them sometimes, okay, it still remains completely impossible, since my hands begin to flutter so badly when I touch the boxes I keep them in that I can't open the lids and I've continued to take that as a sign that I'm not really ready yet. (Besides, it's easier to flick the switch on the DVD player and watch him on video. Shhhhh. ) Even though I can't look at them, it's comforting to know that his soul is still here with me. Maybe he might be horrified to learn this, or maybe he already knows.

I am guessing he knows. He bore witness to my frantic attempts to destroy all of the pictures Cole took and he would laugh when I told him why. He agreed and brought out the lighter fluid, but not before selecting several pictures to keep for himself, pictures I have not found to this day and I'm pretty sure he took some cues from Caleb and hid them somewhere so that they would be safe, maybe it was an attempt, like the boys have made, to keep enough of me in the light so that Caleb would not wind up with everything.

You hear that? Listen closely. Caleb. did. not. wind. up. with. everything.

Today I am surrounded by stacks of photographs. These are the ones that will be distributed amongst everyone here, since I have already packaged up the prints that will be sent East as part of the Christmas gifts going to extended family, the ones taken several weeks ago by the poor photographer who had planned to stop by for twenty minutes and wound up staying for hours. In these pictures I am smiling. A contentment I didn't register until last night when I was pouring over them.

Photographic proof that I'm not as ruined as I once thought I might be. You should see my face right now, on realizing this.

Someone ought to take a picture.

Things that end in -five.

Ben left to head downtown to do some work this morning and I kissed him goodbye and then ran back upstairs to have a shower and when I started it (I give it a few minutes to get nice and steamy-hot while I brush my teeth) I noticed a big number five on the shower door, drawn with soap.

5.

FIVE.

Five working days left and Ben is on holidays for the remainder of 2010. You know, the longest year of our lives. When I look at the calendar from last year we were putting plaster up on the ceiling, trying not to panic and generally NOT having any fun at all (massive understatement, but you get it).

He agrees, this Christmas will be different. He even begins his holidays three days before the children are off, which makes me laugh. It's going to be nice. We'll get a lunch date, maybe bring home a big crazy nice Christmas tree. Deliver presents. Go for a drive even. Sleep in. Read by the fire. We'll make love, make cookies, make resolutions and plans for 2011 and make up for lost time.

It's going to be great. I love having things to look forward to. Like time with Ben, all to ourselves.

The joy of painting.

This morning I ran the defroster for an extra minute or two to clear the fog off the mirrors on my car, I lamented the sweater I had on underneath my coat because I certainly didn't need it, and then I drove down the highway, marvelling at the hotel-art quality snow-capped sunbathed mountains to the north. Seriously, this is what Bob Ross saw inside his head as he spoke in soothing tones while he painted.

Every morning PJ and I exclaim with delight the difference between the temperature here and what the Prairies rest at. We're dizzy with maniacal glee, and I'm sorry, but I plan to relish it, at least for this first west coast winter. PJ it's five freaking degrees! I know, princess, the succulents in the front garden are holding. What the fuck. We're in paradise here. Total and utter paradise and I love it from one end to the other.

In other news? I have to buy two more presents and some cranberry sauce and then you can stick a fork in me, because I'll be FINISHED.

Ready for Christmas.

Easy-peasy, since I start very, very early so as not to have to spend the spring smoothing the inevitable ripple in my finances. And also to make sure I make good decisions instead of rash ones when it comes to gifts. Also? I don't think the twenty-pound turkey I wrangled into the front seat of the car is actually going to FIT in the oven but I also am dreaming of the hot turkey sandwiches with gravy in the days after the holidays.

Oh, shit, right, we need a tree. We did buy a new tree stand. Yesterday, in fact.

I want to spend this Christmas fully drunk on good wine and better love (What was that? Oh, right, Bridget just set a GOAL). A far cry from last Christmas, that consisted of panic and plaster and tears and the inability to catch my breath or unclench my entire body from the fear. Hell, no. This is going to be the best Christmas ever, and a green one, if PJ and I have anything to say about it. The boys would like white. I think I've had enough of that. Green isn't my favorite color for nothing, you know.

Geneviève Bergeron, aged 21
Hélène Colgan, 23
Nathalie Croteau, 23
Barbara Daigneault, 22
Anne-Marie Edward, 21
Maud Haviernick, 29
Barbara Klucznik, 23
Maryse Leclair, 23
Annie St. Arneault, 23
Michèle Richard, 21
Maryse Laganière, 25
Anne-Marie Lemay, 22
Sonia Pelletier, 28
Annie Turcotte, 21.

I can't believe this happened twenty one years ago. Time has flown and dragged and fumbled and sped past. I am not going to tell you you should wear a white ribbon or donate to a cause or even take a moment to reflect. This is just something I remember without fail, every year.

Fly-by, the Seattle edition.

The next time I leave the country for six hours I will be sure to ask Lochlan's permission first, rather than not at all.

Last time I checked Bridget was an adult and also when I checked, Caleb was the one who kept ordering the drinks for me. Foolishly I accepted (most of) them. Lochlan is vaguely pissed off anyway, because inside his thick skull, I'm the farthest thing from an adult that there is and a precious commodity to be protected, not flown across the border to attend some horribly socially-stunted cocktail party and fed vodka until I boarded the plane again, shoes in hand and somewhat unsteadily buckled in by Benjamin to come back home.

On the upside, it was probably the only chance I'll have to enjoy the strapless pearl-grey dress and the silver shoes I love so much and never get to wear because they are far too glitzy for most functions. Ben wore a pewter tie and a dark grey suit with a black shirt and we looked amazing together. He avoided the bar all night, holding a bottled water and chatting in the corner with the same group for most of the evening. Watching me watch him. Watching me struggle.

I wasn't exactly smashed, I was simply too tired for a plane ride, we somehow missed dinner completely, and then the boredom of being surrounded by boorish executives and sycophantic, disgusting, bottom-feeder industry-types left me entertaining the bottom of any glass I could get my hands on, standing beside Caleb as he repeatedly tried and failed to engage me in conversation. I played with my phone, I admired my shoes. I was impossible. I was sexually harassed within moments, within earshot of Caleb, who ignored the faux pas completely, pissing me off. Perhaps I brought the party down. I do know the pseudo-pop music was annoying me before the bad behavior, setting a tone that smacked of post-college forced sophistication. We endured. It happens. Not every party can be a smashing success, not every event is going to be Vegas in a snowglobe, not every stranger will behave with decorum, not every song will be of my choosing.

Sadly. It should be. I have earned that much, haven't I?

Not every drink will be a candy-apple martini either. The first one was amazingly good, the next two were bearable, the fourth one sickly-sweet, the last one declined. However, we've already sent our regrets for the next function. Apparently we weren't as joy-killing as we felt we were and garnered another invite before take-off. I guess that's a good thing. It is a pretty spectacular dress, even if it is wrapped around a scowl.

I chose not to tell Ben about the lewd comments I received until we were home, partly because he spent a fair amount of time resisting the idea of attending at all, and secondly because Ben acts first and thinks later when someone oversteps his boundaries. He seems like he doesn't have any at all, but the limits of his good graces are very clearly defined and God help you if you overestimate them.

I chose wisely to tell him afterward, he said. Caleb wasn't going to tell him at all.

Exclusively yours (okay not so much, really).

Don't misunderstand me. Lochlan did not take Ben's birthday dinner as a public opportunity to set up his soapbox, he only spoke to Ben's character in being passionate and generous and forgiving in the face of what is nothing less than an intricate operation, a complicated situation that finds everyone confused sometimes. If we keep the big picture in mind it's easier to exist day by day. Please don't ask me what this 'big picture' is of, I don't think I've ever laid eyes on it. I suspect it might be a portrait of me, probably one that Cole shot.

Besides, if I know Ben, he will simply store up his outrage and take it out on Lochlan on the ice in about thirty minutes time. I'm going to film them this time with the camcorder so they can see what I see when they go down swinging, helmets knocked off, sweat flying. It's the only time they will physically engage one another in front of the children, because of the padding. Because it's a game.

My life is not a game.

It's a penalty box with a power play for the away team.

Carefully.

Because you feed me fables from your hand
With violent words and empty threats
And it's sick that all these battles
Are what keeps me satisfied

His chin is pressed against my head. He shakes his head and mine spins in response. Ow. I try to pull away but he doesn't let me go.

If I can't have certain things, then neither can Ben.

You don't get to do that, Lochlan.

Sure I do. Last time I checked I was the adult in this relationship.

Then act like it.

As soon as you stop finding room for him in your mental circus. Or in our history.

My history is complicated.

I know, I was there.

The abrupt shock of his comment turns my skull into ice. I'm sure had he pressed down with his chin just right my head would have shattered and melted into the floor. Instead he finally loosens his hold enough to pull back and look at me. I meet his gaze. It's easy for me to push Lochlan out of my past and be alone there, tapping on the glass, watching events unfold like some sort of ignorant bystander. It's more difficult to push him out of my present but there he is like a persistent itch or a beeping reminder. One missed call. Voice mail awaits.

This voicemail is an endless repetition. I should have left the decisions to the grownup and then we wouldn't have gone hungry, and we would have been safe. Everything would have been different. But I am impulsive and impossible. The i-words. I hate them. I can't help them.

Lochlan thinks with his dedicated vigilance he can turn back time and change things, fix things so that his little girl can grow up and stop fantasizing about the circus.

Only he doesn't, so why would she?

When he stood up at the birthday dinner to level his toast at Benjamin, he described in no uncertain terms exactly where he stands. In life, with me, with us. Words that were found by Benjamin and tucked away for safekeeping. Words that Ben took seriously, while I swung my legs and chewed on my hair and wished for a stronger drink than cranberry juice, knowing I would never get it. I wished for a magic carpet ride that would take me away from Lochlan and I wished for a clone so I could give him one hundred percent. I wished for clarity and for strength. I wished for peace of mind and an end to the concrete room if that's what Jacob wants. I wished for comfort for Cole and for Caleb too. I wished for a million huge wishes and then Ben blew out the candles on his cake and vetoed every last one of mine with one single wish of his own.

Happy forty-second birthday, you big fucking freak.

I am at the studio today, watching Ben work. We have plans shortly. I get the big crazy Macbook for an hour. Here you go.

Look at him now
He's paler somehow
But he's coming round
He's starting to choke
It's been so long since he spoke
Well he can have the words right from my mouth

And with these words I can see
Clear through the clouds that covered me
Just give it time then speak my name
Now we can hear ourselves again

I'm holding out for the day
When all the clouds have blown away
I'm with you now
Can speak your name
Now we can hear ourselves again

He says my name and I inhale sharply, frozen in my position on the platform. Ben stands in the center of the wire, balancing. My heart is in his hands.

Main attraction. No net.

The wire strains under his weight. The biggest of men are relegated to the ground in the show for a reason, the strongman, the giant, other circus sideshow freaks because everyone is intimidated by them, so let's single them out because they're different and take the upper hand. The builders, the ones you don't pay attention to. You should pay attention to this one.

The wire bends lower still. He begins to inch forward.

A chorus of fear erupts from below and he smiles and shakes his head, squinting. He's amused that his certain death is going to be witnessed by so many.

No, it isn't.

I use my hand signals and motion for the spotlight. I'll fix this. I'll save the night. I'll save the clown, though you would never know it. Clowns never ever wear black.

I am blinded and I let my eyes unfocus as I smile wide, holding up the lace parasol and putting it over my head daintily, the worst thing a superstitious person can do with an umbrella, and yet the crowd has already turned their attention to me. Not only is he going to fall, but she's going to raise the bar of difficulty and go out and push him off.

The smile is beginning to hurt, and they think I am evil.

I weigh nothing, reaching him in seconds. Don't look down, princess, just play the role you were born to play. Walk the tightrope, leave them breathless. You are braver than anyone else on this show, in this world.

To my surprise, the voice in my mind causes me to falter. Just slightly but it's enough and I hear a tight scream from below. I can't see the crowd, the lights are between the ropes and the stands. A low murmur begins to reach my ears. The Ringmaster calls for quiet, please, so the performers can remain focused!

Only the one in the center isn't supposed to be here. Will he get credit? Will he get paid? Will he be asked to stay on through the next town? When the last question marks reach my eyebrows and raise them slightly my hand makes contact and he grabs it and holds on tightly. An uncontrollable cheer goes up from the crowd that is quickly silenced and he shakes his head again. We haven't done anything yet. Don't be premature.

I begin to slide down toward him.

I balance myself against his hand and let it happen. If I fight it we'll both die. Besides, the angle is ridiculous and I am wearing tights. The rope does not bend when I do this alone. I slide right in against his feet and the wire begins to wobble horizontally and I tell him to keep going. Keep moving. Come on! If you pause we're not going to make it. If you breathe, we're not going to survive the fall. We'll make the headlines and the show will come to a grinding halt forever. We can't let down our friends, and we cannot scar the crowd for life. People avoid circuses for the clowns but secretly they live for the thrills that lie behind their fears.

They live for this.

And so do I.

You can do this. Come on. Fast, baby. Don't look down. I am sliding. Backwards now. He is pushing me, with his hands in front, still holding my heart which he hasn't dropped, no, not even once and I am grasping his sleeves and shifting my balance to barely compensate for his errors. He has the important part and he trusts me not to let go.

We reach the platform. We are safe.

The tent erupts in a roar of relief and excitement. His eyes are bright. It is contagious, this feeling. You have pleased them, now reap the reward of applause. This is nothing new to him though, he did this every night for years. I turn and wave, blowing a few precious kisses to the crowd below. I still cannot see them but the sound is deafening to me, I can't imagine what's like for him. I must be underwater, blind and mute to this incredible moment. Giving a final wave, I turn back and follow Ben down the ladder to the relative security of the hard dirt floor, swept smooth.

And then he breaks into a run, leaving the tent, leaving the show behind, taking my heart with him.

We couldn't catch him if we tried.

It's okay. He'll circle around and catch up with us on the way to the next town. Somehow he won everyone's hearts, even though he only ever wanted mine.

Slow poison.

What once was a girl
Is now just a ghost
Is now just a ghost
And everyone knows it

Seen it before
And we watched her explode
Yeah, a high and a low
But nobody shows it

Nothing hurts worse
Than a hope that's deferred
Don't let it slip away
See you shining under the shame

Acqua Di Gio. Back when I was a child it was Azzaro. Not sure why, but he likes the very clean scents for aftershave and never bit into the craze for whatever was popular.

I can still taste it.

Ben put his hands on my shoulders. He was standing behind me silently. Possession? I can feel the stare, I just can't see it. A kiss landed on top of my head, hard. Resignation. I was mistaken. He turns and leaves the room and I am lighter in weight but heavier in heart.

Caleb has come back downstairs from Henry's room from their quick goodnight tuck-in time. I watch him unbutton a button at his neck. The tie is hanging out of his pants pocket, his sleeves are rolled up. Pale grey shirt, black pants, black socks because I make everyone take their shoes off in the front hall. The endless acres of white carpet require it. I'll be damned if I'm going to clean this house more often than it needs it simply because they want to wander around it with footwear on. The exceptions are my high heels because I need those precious meters to see if I can walk or if I should return for a more reasonable pair, and Ben, who is too preoccupied most of the time to pay attention and did not make it to this age to follow rules.

Except for these ones.

I'm drowning in the fucking aftershave. I can bite it. It isn't strong. He is just close and it was applied recently. I'm thinking he showered and changed and then came over. It saves him time and time is such a precious commodity to me I left my soul where I sold it and opted for visiting hours instead.

His concern is evident. My disdain apparent. Checkmate.

We should talk.

Is there anything left to talk about?

You still talk to Lochlan, don't you? It's been longer.

That's different.

Jesus, you're something else. He has just as much blame to share in as I do.

I shake my head.

I cannot believe that you don't see that. I thought for sure as you got older...

You had no idea you would still be in my life!

Cole did a fine job keeping me away most of the time.

I should have left well enough alone.

I'm glad you didn't. He is smiling at me. Every single day I am struck by how much contact they have with each other, my boys. Calls, letters, then emails. Meetings, sometimes here, sometimes far from where we are. A bond that I love to imagine they forged in the woods, stricken with cold and honor, clinking their armor as they all put their hands to the center, gauntlets touching to seal a promise.

(Oh, well, shit. Snap back to reality, why don't you, Bridget.)

Things would be easier.

Sure, if you liked remaining in that cold city alone, with the boys traveling.

Fine. You win. You're right. Happy now?

Always, when I am with you. I'm happy that I can be an active part of the children's lives. Of your life.

(Fantasy Bridget has decided he must have had the fastest horse, or something. Maybe enchanted armor or an epic mount. Spells that he put the others under in order to be a part of our lives.)

I nod and abruptly tell him I'm not feeling well and he frowns.

Then I won't stay long.

I nod again. Sometimes I wish he would just explode into a million fragments of evil that I could sweep out the door and other times I wish he didn't look so much like Cole in near-darkness.

When he leaves I am sick to my stomach. Not because I refuse to say goodbye anymore but because the aftershave has made my head pound and twist and it's all I can do to race back upstairs in time to let out the tension.

Pandemonium.

This is pretty nice. I have a very large collection of seaglass now. Early on my plan was to divide it up, one Atlantic collection and one Pacific but in the end I combined it. I expected the glass here to look different somehow, the same way the lobsters do, the way the sand is different and the color of the sea, but the glass is the same. I think I would rather make my own wreath instead of buying an L.L. Bean-branded version, albeit with a lot of work involved. It feels sacrilegious somehow, as if something you can get for nothing save for a bit of time poking in the surf should never come with a price tag attached.

This is presently stuck in my head (dear God). The cheesy pretend-goth schtick is cute and all but she can actually sing, and she doesn't sound like an Avril Lavigne clone. Score one for the sad panda. What a great voice, even though she never lets go. Reminds me of Ann Wilson, oddly enough.

Tomorrow the children break out their pricey 2010 Advent calendars (courtesy of Caleb this year). They have been talking about them every day this week. Not sure if it's the German chocolate after breakfast aspect or the countdown to Christmas that excites them, the answer changes by the hour. Should you wish to enjoy one (without the chocolate, mind you) there is a neat one here.

I am currently obsessed with LED string lights. Fitting, since the holidays are here. The offset for the higher cost is that they last longer, use less electricity but best of all, they never heat up. You can leave them on all the time. That is pretty cool when you have a big house and you get up during the night but don't want to turn on hallway lights OR break your neck. My favorites are the fairy lights, teeny-tiny tips that are so pretty. They remind me of my Lite-Brite machine.

Boy, have those ever changed. Sorry I even looked.

This isn't bothering me yet. In spite of changing my stockings several times a day because I cannot stand the feeling of wet feet and wearing waterproof mascara every day now instead of only on days that end in -swim (which I can't ever get off completely, speaking of sad pandas), the rain is comforting somehow and FAR less claustrophobic than snow. Keep your snow and sun and I will keep the cozy, endless rain. Rain at the beach or when you are sleeping is the most romantic thing ever. I'll take it, gladly.

Besides, rain means warm. I like being warm.

More later as I can manage, since I do have an actual post to write. Don't you love my title? I wanted to write Panda-monium but I just couldn't do it. Haha.

Lastly, the children are home today for a non-instructional school day. Which means lots of noise and video games. Pretty much like when the boys are home only they eat slightly less.

Slightly, I said. They are getting so big.

*Sniff*