tra·di·tion: \trə-di-shən\

Definition of TRADITION: A form of relaxation in which the entire household uses the holiday as great excuse to sleep in, stay in pajamas for the entire day, play with presents endlessly, catch up on laundry, claim leftovers (cake is mine, as always) and engage in low-level, inactive past times like watching things, reading things, listening to things and seeking each other out to have low conversations in quiet spaces.

I might even find the energy to light a candle or two but I doubt it.

Maybe later.

Light bulb.

We are full of turkey, stuffing, chocolate marquise and wine and still laughing after seeing Despicable Me.

The marvel of enjoying a bright Christmas day with temperatures hovering around ten degrees is such an incredible novelty I may never live it down. As does watching Ben expertly carve turkeys like it's something he does every damn day and now listening to Lochlan as he edits the pictures he took today.

Last night I listened to the boys sing for the candlelit service. Every blessing in my life has a name. Every gift I have ever received has a different combination of eye and hair colors, a different voice and a different hug methodology. They are my gifts.

I have been kissed and hugged and spoiled thoroughly. I have been coddled, in generous amounts of help with dinner, and I have been deceitful, in that I spent much of the day with a massive raging fever, unwilling to admit defeat because dammit, it's our first Christmas here and it was going to be perfect no matter what.

It was.

Will you read us a bedtime story?

No.

Pretty please?

The physical appearance of the please makes no difference.

Merry Christmas to you. XOX

"The torture of a bad conscience is the hell of a living soul." ~John Calvin

I went outside to cool off for a moment and found him standing on my verandah, leaning up against the siding, looking out into the woods. One hand was in his coat pocket, the other was wrapped around the handle of a large paper shopping bag, stuffed with wrapped presents. I didn't wrap these ones and I was sure I looked after everything. He already dropped off the presents for the children and I. We always exchange something. Besides vitriol, remembrance and bodily fluids, I mean.

What are you doing?

Stopping in to say hello.

We're heading out in an hour, Caleb.

I know. I just thought I would pop in, I won't stay though. You're having a busy day. I just needed to see you. Just for a minute.

Ben's Superman hearing led him outside and he pulled the door behind him.

Caleb.

Benjamin.

What brings you here today?

He changed demeanor before my very eyes.

I'm headed to a few functions tonight but I wanted to drop off a few things I had set aside. I don't have much time so I'll leave these with you. He passed the bag to Ben and shook his hand. Merry Christmas, brother.

You're not coming to church this evening?

We'll see. I'll do my best.

Fair enough. Ben took the bag and retreated back inside to a raucous amount of noise.

Don't, please.

Don't what?

Don't acknowledge my shortcomings, princess.

I had no intention of doing so.

You know, Bridget, they're very lucky. You're a gift. You know that?

I'm just trying to do the best I can.

I don't make things easy for you.

No, you don't.

It can't be helped.

Sure it could. And maybe you would be happier too.

If I made things easier?

Yes.

If you did that I'd be alone. I don't want that.

You wouldn't be. You have everything to offer someone.

Except my heart.

It was never my heart you were after, you just wanted to take what Lochlan had. How does jealousy grow into this?

I didn't count on you.

He whispers the last word and I know our conversation is over. He's not going to give me the satisfaction of seeing him break. Not today. He moves in and wraps his arms around me tightly, kissing my temple, squeezing me hard against him. His coat is rough and I lift my chin up. He presses his head against mine.

Merry Christmas, Bridget. I am in awe of the beautiful woman you have become, in spite of all of us.

I shake my head. I want to fight but he won't. Instead he kisses me full on the lips.

See you tomorrow.

I nod. He is coming for the morning, because we put Henry first. Henry wants his dad there, then his dad's going to be there. Only Henry doesn't know yet. It's a surprise. I can be a grownup.

I can be generous.

I can be really freaking late for dinner. It's an hours drive. Goodnight. Merry Christmas.

Because he's incorrigible, here are Ben's jokes for the night.

How do you know when there's a snowman in your bed?

You wake up wet.

***

What do vampires put on their turkey at Christmas?

Grave-y!

***

What does Dracula write on his Christmas cards?

"Best vicious of the season."

Princess flu bug.

I sat down with toast this morning and Lochlan slipped my wedding ring back on my finger without a word. He smiled, kissed the top of my head and Ben said Good Morning to him and poured him a cup of coffee.

Civility in the face of extreme weirdness always makes me so incredibly grateful.

I am burning up. A thousand degrees and my shoulders, knees and fingers ache and I'm loathe to admit that I think I have the flu even though I know I do. Everyone has taken their turn. Even Ben had one hell of a headache and was grumpy the past couple of days and he hardly ever gets sick. Henry is feeling better after struggling all week. Hopefully it's a fast-moving one because I have plans. Lots of plans that don't include curling up in the centre of my giant bed to ride out the worst of it.

I will blame Schuyler. He kisses goddamned near everybody. I'm going to start replacing his toothpaste with antibacterial hand sanitizer.

On that note, goodnight. Can't do it.

Christmas bonus (AKA pay the lady).

Ben leaves the front door and returns to the table with another envelope. This one is a pale pearl gold with a paper snowflake affixed to the flap. He puts it on the table in front of me and I don't need to see my name neatly printed on the front in Caleb's handwriting to know that it's from him. The color is new, however and so I raise my eyes from the envelope to meet Ben's face.

He nods. Ben just looks tired. Tired but beginning to relax and beginning to run out of patience and I'm not allowed out of his reach for the rest of my life, he says. I only wish he were serious.

I open it. Inside is a cheque for seven hundred and fifty dollars with a note on the memo line that says 'bonus'. A post-it note attached says 'Is this better?'

I stifle a laugh. The formality of this, what I asked for instead of the unwelcome entire legacy of our blended, dysfunctional family makes me feel vaguely silly. But the fact that Caleb wrote it out and had it delivered anyway after I asked for a fair amount based on the work I did for the company means I must be doing something right.

Small victories. Even as he surgically removes the rest of my dignity with his patented incision-free technique.

He pushed his head against mine. He's warm. I am cold on the inside, blood running over sheets of crackling thin ice, breaking with every breath. His hand drops from my head to my hand and he pulls it up between us and slides off my ring. I argue softly but he ignores me. His eyes are flashing, pupils dilated. He puts my ring in his pocket and I watch it disappear. It's a rule I don't subscribe to but I understand.

He bends his head down again and kisses my ear. I lift my chin up and rest it against his shoulder as his arms tighten around me. I whisper things under my breath and he responds with light squeezes. He can hear me. I cannot hear myself. I pull him in against me and he responds by pushing me down, his weight the only leverage he will need. His hands are feeling for the zipper on the side of my dress while his lips crush against mine, biting. Breathing me in. It's dark but our eyes are not adjusting. He gives up and reaches for the hem instead, pulling it up, shoving the fabric out of his way. The dress is between us, the beading digging into his flesh, straps pinning my arms down. He grabs the worst one with his hand and pulls until it rips away and I protest and he immediately covers my mouth. Silence is easier. I am lifted up and pulled in close against the uncanny warmth of his skin. All business now, we aren't going to give away anything here. We aren't going to bow to the whims of the shadows standing nearby, cuff links glinting in the pitch-black night.

His hand comes down from my mouth as he finds his way home and it wraps around my throat. I am helpless now, clinging to the waves of euphoria. It's an eternity. I know that he is close and he presses his head down against mine again and I am already turning blue, clawing for precious air with no strength, held captive with no means to save myself and all I can do is wait for rescue. I am three lifetimes ago and I can hear the calliope and his curls are in my mouth and his breath is hot against my shoulders and finally he lets go and he never fails to land a kiss on my shoulder as he pulls me up. I come back to life.

He whispers loudly that the shadows will fade. He takes his time. Checking to be sure he left no marks. Checking to be sure he left no feelings of afraid or of sad for Bridget to trip over or fall into. Telling himself it's all going to be okay because she can't hear him. He doesn't dare speak any louder.

While I slept on my ring was taken. When at last the shadows stopped watching I lost my mind.

Goddammit.

Don't come here. Don't come here. Don't come here.

Voted most expressive, much to her dismay.

I can hear the furnace humming quietly, probably because the cold air return is on the wall behind my desk. I can hear the ticking of the dishwasher as it warms the plates, because my desk is in a nook just off the kitchen. I hear a dog barking on a nearby street and Bonham is holding guard by the front door waiting for Ben and the children, who have gone shopping. I am supposed to be wrapping presents while they're gone but clearly I am not.

Today was a little rockier to begin. Not sure if we stayed up too late or it was just excess tension to blow off but we all started off on the wrong foot and I got very frustrated with some things that don't work and made a tearful plea for Ben to quit the mood swings and just fix everything please because I am tired of the pressure.

He is. Working away at it as we speak.

He waited a while to see what I would do but I don't have the capacity for patience anymore, I will go at it the hard way until I just can't manage it anymore and I reach that point where it's fucking stupid and pointless and no more.

There aren't enough hours in the day to fix things and yet there are enough hours to mess things up and break everything and become so frustrated I can't stop the hot tears that ruin my mascara and everyone's smiles in one go. I can't help it, it's been like this for a long time and it takes forever to come out of and really I'm laughing at the same time because it's ridiculous. I am blessed. The complaints would be welcome issues anywhere else and yet I have insurance against anything that goes wrong, so then when it does it will be the end of the world because that's precisely what I insured against, correct?

If only life worked that way, princess.

It should. I've earned it.

Sorry, baby. It isn't possible. It's called life.

Everyone makes it look easy.

They're better actors, that's all. Maybe your gift is that you give people permission to be honest and feel comfortable because you come to them with your heart on your sleeve and your guard already down.

I want to be an actor. Everyone can marvel at my perfection and the ease with which I live.

This is met with long, raucous laughter. I am annoyed.

Stop it, Jake.

I can't help it. You have the most fascinating thought-process.

I don't think it belongs to me, I must have picked it up along the way. I don't know how it works and therefore I can't control it. It's not mine.

It's the honesty, that's all. You never had a poker face.

Then that will be my resolution for the new year.

To learn to lie? That isn't a very good resolution, Bridget.

What would you suggest then?

Start writing again. Do the things that make you YOU.

Too hard.

You think learning the art of deception will be easier?

Works for everyone else.

Oh, Bridget, give up now. You'll never be anyone else.

My loss?

Your gain.

And you say my thoughts are strange.

Duck hunt.

(You always pick up the ones with the S and yet you're getting the L prize. Every fucking time. How are you doing that, exactly?)

Oh, Internet, seriously. Just stop it. You're wrong on so many levels it isn't funny. It's a freaking song. It wasn't meant for you, as I said right before I left it here.

But here, since one of my resolutions is to stop starting. Stop telling you things and then leaving you hanging with no resolution. The secret buried in the corn field? It's not a body so knock it off. The buried part is FIGURATIVE. Sheesh. I'm not very smart and I can figure out how to write about it, surely you can manage the comprehension part.

To retain my crown of intellect today I'll tell you where I spent last evening. Cruising the harbour on the yacht with Caleb. Because really, one whose life is in danger should always get on a boat with those who want to see her dead, or some such golden rule like so. He met us at the marina and began the evening with a toast, with small glasses of Stoli, neat, to finally having the chance to spend a little time together.

We had our toast, Ben drank to nothing, not even opening his vitamin water that Caleb keeps stocked for him and then they walked up to the bridge and I went out on deck to watch the open ocean, taking the bottle of Stoli with me.

Two hours later I had finished it. Sadly it was only half full when I began. Just enough to give me a lick of courage and a terribly adorable case of the hiccups and when the boys came back down I was wrapped in a blanket staring at the lights of the harbor, almost-crying and hiccuping. I'm telling you, you can't take me anywhere.

Ben told me that he made it very clear to Caleb why we didn't attend the party (right in front of him! He is learning!) and then asked me what I wanted to do now. He always asks, in case you think otherwise. Not because he's a pushover (he isn't) but for reasons that really are none of your business. You think it's easy for him? Jesus CHRIST. You know nothing.

My head is still playing the stupid song and I ask to go home. Caleb's eyes go black because he was hoping we would stay. I don't want to stay. I don't want to be here at all. I want to know what they have to talk about that takes two hours when Ben appeared twenty fucking years after most of our secrets were fixed into place. Don't be friends. Don't get along. Jesus Christ, don't ever align yourself with this man because all he's ever wanted to do is ruin my fucking life, Ben.

Truth serum, after a fashion. Why Caleb prefers other means of bringing me down.

That's not what I want, princess.

I meet Caleb's eyes.

Oh, I know what you want. And you think you have it but what you have is a fucking FRACTION of what he gets. I am poking my finger into Ben's chest. I think I've actually broken my finger against Ben's chest. It isn't the same, you know. It's like two percent out of a thousand. And it will never be any more than that. I laugh and it's cut off by another fucking hiccup.

I think maybe you'd better take her home, Caleb says to Ben. He's going to pretend the poison barbs aren't hitting him and I'm going to keep throwing them until someone stops me or I run out.

You're such a monster.

Goodnight, Bridget.

I really wanted to spit in his direction but I don't believe I know how. I settled for gracefully ignoring him. Okay, ungracefully. Stilettos + boarding ramp + dock + hiccups + disappointed ex-brother-in-law times Stoli divided by my resolve to leave before he changes his mind and keeps us for the night. It happens, sometimes. Beginning under the guise of working through my feelings and ending with me pinned to the floor and then dropping right through it into a world where he couldn't touch me if he tried.

He can't stand for being ignored. He follows us down the ramp and asks Ben for just a moment of my time, alone. Ben makes that face at him, that beautiful, angry face that pretty much answers the question, and so Caleb settles for a public exchange.

We'll talk later in the week, princess. Translation: I didn't get my revenge for you not showing up to the party I threw for you. Also: WANT.

Maybe. I love how he pretends that I have all the power when it comes to this stuff. I have now slipped out of his hands precisely twice in less than forty-eight hours. It's not going to be pretty when he blocks the next escape. Sure I hold all the power. And the moment I let go of that, I will lose someone else that I love very, very dearly (besides Ben). Caleb knows I'm not going to do that and therefore he will exploit me until the day I die. The one you should feel sorry for here is Ben, since the rest of us made our beds and he did nothing wrong. How incredibly amazing he is to put up with this in the first place. To want in when in seems to be a slow train to hell and back and we can never ever disembark.

Glad he's strong enough. I still don't think I am.