Loch Pilgrim versus the world.

You know what's really awful?

No one gives Lochlan any credit at all. They should. He is underrated. Even Ben will tell you this, on a good day. Sadly this is not one of those days and so Ben has to trust me on that.

It's not an easy sell, Lochlan is three sheets to the fucking wind and belligerent as hell and I will need a lot of help to get him safely into his room because he isn't going quietly and he must, the children are already sleeping upstairs. I don't need this. Then I'm going to remove his glasses, throw a cup of cold water in his face, turn the light out and walk away.

Tomorrow I will wake him up with Ruthie's clarinet. I don't play. Maybe by then he'll have stopped rambling incoherently about having to defeat all of Bridget's evil husbands. That isn't nice and I think I have run out of patience for one evening.

He is driftwood in the water out past where you can touch bottom.

He lets me float out away from him and pulls me back gently by the hair. I am staring up at the stars, aware of the vacuum of silence brought by the saltwater in my ears. The ocean is my very own sensory deprivation tank and he is my life preserver. I close my eyes and find the dark. Triggered at will, the kind darkness, not the fearful one. The pressure in my head disappears, the pain in my lungs sets itself free and I am sleeping against the current, blinking softly in red and green. There is nothing here. Nothing at all and it is exactly what I expected to find.

His touch jolts me back into myself. The tension crawls up my skin like nerve endings on fire, bleeding me dry, weighing me down, wearing me out. I want to stay in the water until my hair breaks away and my skin slides easily off my bones, leaving a bleached white representation of what I once was, flesh, blood and heart. Nothing more, nothing less. Memories drawn in the sand to be erased by first reach of a new tide.

The night will hide my secrets and the sea will swallow them whole.

Shhhh.

To speak of morals in art is to speak of legislature in sex. Art is the sex of the imagination.
~George Jean Nathan

I think maybe Caleb did have something to do with New-Jake and Keith taking their leave just now. Just around the same time that Ben decides he has had enough of Caleb altogether and when someone threatens Caleb's interpretation of the status quo he feels is fair he tends to bite back and so while I don't have a lot of faith in lawyers and orders and plans and supervision and promises and oaths and the devil on earth I do have a lot of faith in someone who knows what I am thinking and is standing on the front porch at the exact right moment that came in the form of a warning, coming back from taking Henry and Ruth to school together (UNITED FRONT DAMMIT), and I was slow to answer a question because I didn't hear Caleb and for that my arm was twisted up behind my shoulders until I was lifted almost off my feet (because it's the arm that no longer bends properly at all). There's no way in hell Lochlan could have seen that happen but he felt it and he made it to the front steps of the verandah before Caleb could force me up them and suddenly Caleb let go, deciding to head back, busy day, lots to do, thinking he can get away with things because I don't tell them.

Except for when I do.

Be after me, be before me.

Took my chances on a big jet plane,
never let them tell you that they're all the same.
The sea was red and the sky was grey,
wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today

We're standing on the beach in the dark. I'm going for composure but the best I can come up with is emotional turbulence. He's uncomfortable, clearly and I'm not sure of the reason until he tells me he doesn't like goodbyes. He was happy here. Well, up until late last night when Lochlan ran low on mettle and shoved him into the fridge door. Now there is a Jake-memory-dent in the metal but I'm telling you this boy can hold his own, shoving right back and refusing to take it any further. Mercifully it didn't ruin his perception of his time here. He's not a leader though, he is a follower and he and Keith are heading south to warmer shores for the spring, to reconnect with Stephan (Steven? I never did find out for sure) and some others that Sam knows because that is what they do. I knew for a couple weeks but I hate change. You know me.

I really like Jake because he talks nonstop and now I sort of know how everyone feels about me when I talk a lot but there are days that I won't talk at all anymore and I can't help that but Jake listened to the story of who we are and decided he liked it here and he never wanted to be any trouble but there were days when he was nothing but, and he scared me to pieces when he turned grey that one time and then we found out he was a diabetic and that's okay, I can do this, I learned how to give needles to my best friend when I was seven and I still carry fruit in my bag for her even though she died when I was twenty-eight and really Jake just needs to take the time for himself first and not ignore his health and then he can help others.

He helped to build four houses in the time he was here. That is something he can be proud of and he goes where he is needed to pitch in and they are noble men, less prone to the bullshit of excess and history and jealousy that my boys are cemented in. I can only hope that they leave some of that behind. Keith and Lochlan are friends for life I believe. Same with me and Jake. I reminded him to come back and see me and he said he'd be crazy if he didn't. He threw stones into the water and said he would miss everything about this place and us and that I was lucky and he hoped things would be better soon. Half of me wants to ask him if this is Caleb's fault because Caleb didn't like Jake at all and Caleb tends to make people go away but I refuse to let my paranoia win, for the moment.

Lochlan at least had the guts to face Jake this morning and they shook hands and thumped backs and wished each other well. There are no grudges and no resentment, only bravery and adventure and humble hopes that he finds whatever he is looking for and a reflected wish back for Lochlan because all he demonstrated in their time here is that he is one conflicted, miserable individual. It isn't fair, and they know that, but it's simply what they saw. Perhaps if they had made it to the end of a year they would have seen the glorious summer-boy who blooms in the heat and seems to shed his weight like a heavy coat when the nights are warm. Perhaps another time, indeed. And Lochlan turned down Jake's attempts to repay him for the steel-toed boots Lochlan bought for him after discovering he was on building sites without them. Jake doesn't have a dime and didn't want one either but safety is paramount. So I don't think there's anything but concern between them. Really I don't.

Now it is down to this, we've wrapped up the post-mortem on the boys and really though Jake and Ben got along very well (JESUS do you know how hard it is to write in past-tense? I don't do this well, I'm sorry), Ben was pretty much absent because he's in demand and busy working, working all the time and so it was almost a treat when they could spend time together and so I was left in charge of Jake because when he wasn't on site he was here hanging out with me, talking my ears off and I didn't mind so much because I think I only heard about a quarter of what he said.

Jake knows I'm not good at goodbyes either. He knows I'll probably spend the rest of the day locked in the library and he knows Lochlan is conflicted but harmless and he knows we'll work with the collective and shift it and change it and that he is welcome if he ever comes back. I throw myself into his arms for a long hug and he says he will come back, it's a promise.

I'm not so good with promises. I am suspicious but hopeful nonetheless. It is hard to let go. He doesn't for a few more minutes and I am grateful.

Dalton and Duncan are waiting for us on the path with the big flashlight. We head back up to the house in single file and I wrap my sweater around my ribs tightly against the wind. The roar of the waves precludes conversation up here. I am still coughing, still miserable and Duncan takes my hand, pulling me safely over the slippery places where the spray has frozen on the rocks and it's easy enough to emerge at the top of the hill in relative safety and be able to excuse the tears as rain. Oh yes it is.

RIP White Stripes and other strange things about today.

The cold from hell continues. The light is too bright, the dark is too black. Everything hurts. My boots are buttoned too tightly, my collar is too high, my coat is too warm, my rings are too sharp, the end of my nose is bright pink or so they tell me, I don't know since my eyes are too watery-bloodshot to see anything. My throat hurts too much. I'd like to be cut out of my clothes at which point I will fall forward onto my face on the bed and sleep without waking until I am better.

No? What do you mean 'No'?

And frankly Nyquil comas seem to last from eleven until three a.m. sharp and then sorry, kid, you're on your own.

I was going to dip into the mailbag. If you'll recall, in this post I asked what you wanted me to write about and frankly, I'm sorely disappointed. I can actually grant very little of the words you want. Mostly you want a voyeuristic look into Ben's life. And some of the others too and this isn't acceptable, clearly because if the boys wanted you to see these things they'd have their own blogs.

I can see the blog titles now in my head and I can't even share those! And they're IMAGINARY!

But I can't do anything now because Jake is singing Africa. Suddenly I'm well aware I posted that sentence a few years ago (post now removed) which means once again, head=explode. He thinks he's harmless. I'll tell you he's harmless. It's just dumb little things like this that chip away at my soul. This and the cold from hell. Literally. I got it from Caleb because you know, little girls can't keep their hands out of the fire even after being told.

Groundhog day eve.

(Firstly: Is If I Die Tomorrow REALLY by Motley Crue? It doesn't seem like one of their songs at all.)

Good morning.

February is Heart Month. The grass on the lawn is still green and the devil still seems to have a key to my house.

Also? I have a very bad cold.

Caleb is winning the war and sadly right this second I don't care, preferring to wish away the stabbing pain behind my left eye. It always hurts behind my left eye during flight landings and when I swim underwater too far below the surface. I'm guessing any minute now my head will explode in a big riot of confetti consisting of miserable blog paragraphs, hair metal lyrics, brightly-lit LEDs, the nutritional breakdown of Lucky Charms and still photographs of Tom Hardy.

Or something ridiculously similar.

Anyway, Caleb thinks it's exceedingly amazing that I never spent a dime of his money. I don't think he thought it would accumulate either. He yelled this at me this morning the second we returned from taking the children to school and his voice cracked to bits all through it and I looked up sharply and wondered how he got sick. Satan doesn't get sick, hell, Satan can leap through a tornado and still come out the other side looking like a young Montgomery Clift only far hotter and more contemporary.

Words? I didn't pay attention to his words. I told you I am sick.

Everyone is sick and you can't wage a war when you're reaching for kleenex and constantly checking out on Nyquil.

Or maybe you can. Ben calls it the war of motherfucking indifference in that for now it's on hiatus, and we will get back to it as soon as our energies return. Of course, lately we seem to recoup all of our energies just in time for a new round of germs to hit the house but that seems to be par for the course when you move from one city to another. At least for the first few years.

So, yeah. That's pretty much the extent of my comprehension level today. The lawyers have the day off, the stereo is silent, the children are the only healthy people in the whole house and for the stalkers who must.record. every. detail, I did spend a whole day with Ben's old iphone and sadly between iTunes still professing its hatred for me and the last iOS update that did something to his battery, I decided ringtones I can hear easily and a battery life greater than 30% when I head out the door in the morning needed to win out over playing Grimm and the possibility of a GPS that actually tells me were to turn. Until Thursday night, when I will wish madly for the GPS, that is. But then again, what good is that GPS when 4.2.1 broke the battery on the phone (conspiracy....YES) and I'm rambling.

Clearly I'm delirious and the Nyquil is finally wearing off so I think I'll just take more and go back to bed. Wake me when the fight is back on. Or when he goes home, because his son is sitting in a grade four classroom up the road coloring in a Haida killer whale, so really Caleb can go back to whatever hole he crawled out of don't you think?

I'm going to crawl back in mine.

(But not before Daniel makes me point out that YOU TOO need a designer hammer for the low low price of $38. What the fuck. Haha. Goodnight.)

Million dollar baby (Go on, take the money and run).

So this is what it feels like to be deliberately, bitterly drunk. Glorious.

Here goes.

2006.

Four beers in and Cole is the life of the party, the nucleus around which the rest of us revolve. He is jovial and psychotically thrilled to be here, home with his wife and tiny children and his friends. He's playing a song on his guitar. Phish, nothing else hardly ever, maybe some Rush sometimes. A lot of Zeppelin. But after a lot of beer he'll stick with Phish. Always.

Strings would be breaking, he'd play faster and faster. Knock over a beer with the neck of the guitar as he played. Loud and long. Some people would sing, most would just listen. He would shake his head and drop it down over the strings as if he were possessed and he'd smile that smile.

That smile that to me always said Come here, Bridget. Right now.

I would and he would kiss me and smile once more.

His dark brown curls would toss and he would flash those dark blue eyes at me. I never strayed far. I had a route. I was allowed to go to Lochlan and the kitchen and otherwise I would stick close. Very close. He would always watch me. Every move. Every glance I gave, every word I said. He loved me so. He admired me from the way the light touched my skin to the freakish grey-blonde shade of my hair.

Finally he put the guitar down and grabbed me, pulling me into his lap, kissing my cheek, squeezing me gently and laughing.

Are you having fun, Bridget?

I am.

Wait five minutes. I'm going to shut it down. Tomorrow's a busy day. Besides, we're just starting the party.

He pulled my face into his and kissed my mouth. Thoroughly. A brief cheer erupted and he grinned and pulled back.

The most beautiful woman in the world, he yells and swats me on the ass.

Lochlan nods. Jacob ignores Cole and watches me. Ben laughs. Chris applauds awkwardly, his hands full with two beers, one more for Cole, one for himself. Cole takes it and stands, reminding the boys that the week ahead will be long. They're helping him get ready for a show. A big one that he is anchoring alone. He is vaguely nervous about the process but completely secure in his talent, as usual. I am proud. His work is the one thing we ever agree on and besides, I am his muse. This show is like a catalogue of me. Frighteningly so. I am veering wildly between letting it all go to my head and wishing I could hear what people say when they see that I am the only subject and that Cole had good reasons for mounting such a niche exhibition in these times.

It doesn't seem to matter. The people come. He knows everyone. I am treated to a reception line of his well-wishers. I don't know any of them unless I have seen them on television. I am fed names through his beautiful smile and they are instantly forgotten. Cole keeps appearances but he knows I hear nothing and he chooses to believe in the perfection of his work instead. In the images he produces, I am not deaf. Maybe I am not deceitful either.

I am not the traumatized, stray rain-soaked creature that he brought in from the cold after being left outside by his friend.

Once the boys begin to leave I am at the door chatting with Chris when Cole comes up behind me and nuzzles his face into the back of my neck. Chris takes the cue and turns away, heading into the night and Cole closes the door.

You have made me famous.

He is smiling again and I begin to make the rounds, picking up bottles, noting where the dishes are, though most of the boys are well-trained and bring their dishes to the sink when they are through. Cole follows me into the kitchen.

Did you have fun, honestly, Bridget?

Sure I did. These are my favorite nights.

Oh, really? He waits until I put the bottles back in a box and then pulls me into his arms. He's buzzing high along the ceiling but otherwise perfectly lucid.

My brother is stopping by in a little while.

Cole-

I haven't seen him in three months, Bridge. You could be a little more gracious. He leans over me, bending me back against the table, soaking my kiss in beer.

I think I'll go to bed and you two can catch up, perhaps.

No, you need to stay up and say hello. He likes to see you. You know that.

I'm very tired though. I am near tears and he understands precisely what he is doing.

It won't be for long. You'll be fine. He kisses my forehead and almost as if on cue, the doorbell rings. Cole frowns at me and leaves the kitchen to greet Caleb and I am left to compose myself.

In a moment I hear their jovial voices and Caleb is in the kitchen. He crosses and gives me a long hug and then a kiss on the cheek and flowers, he brought flowers. Orchids. They'll die here in the freezing kitchen with the north-facing window. I fake excitement anyway. Practice for later.

* * *
Four hours later I am kissed on the forehead once again. Probably because there is no other part of me that is safe to kiss anymore, I am a living, breathing biohazard and I want to die. Caleb is leaving. It is four in the morning and I am mutely aware that I need sleep or I'm going to vomit. Maybe dying would be better. It was not as bad as some nights but far worse than others. My head hurts from trying to wrap my brain around why I still have any loyalty to Cole at all and then I am reminded with a jolt.

Ruth and Henry. Only I think Henry might be Jake's and wouldn't that be amazing if I could cut my ties to this family by half. That and I like it, or so they tell me. Endless praise. Encouragement as I can take so much, they are astounded. I am rewarded for my efforts in affection and in promises with false bottoms holding hidden lies.

I play the game because the alternative isn't nearly as pretty as they tell me I am.

When Caleb leaves he presses a wad of bills into my fist, when Cole isn't paying attention. He's done this every time. When Cole leaves for the gallery early tomorrow I'll count the bills and then stop at the bank on my way to meet him at his show. It's always the same amount. Technically I make more than Cole ever will but I've never spent a dime of that money. It just goes into an account and it sits and it makes all kinds of interest and I just got a call from my former accountant letting me know that I could roll it into some seriously high-yield products and live off the return but I told him I wasn't interested in living and hung up the phone while I downed the last of a glass of merlot and wondered if it was time I tell the boys precisely how much money their boss has given me over the years for services rendered because I've always chosen to keep a conservative number on hand in fear of all hell breaking loose once more but fuck it, it's a quiet night, and those are the best nights for telling the truth, aren't they?

I drop my empty wine glass on the carpet beside my high-heeled shoes and go to find the boys. I'm tired of secrets. I'm done with protecting people who don't deserve it and I'm done protecting people who are dead.

Sharing the parts that aren't rated NC17. Snort.

Last evening I watched a dog owner share an ice cream with her giant Saint Bernard. Ben and I were sitting in a Dairy Queen, sharing a peanut buster parfait.

Last night in my dreams Jeffrey Dean Morgan saved me from the Resident Evil dogs by shooting them as they leapt toward us, taking the kill shot that others were trained for but he took because I was in danger.

No more peanut buster parfaits for Bridget (but more for Benjamin because sugar after six p.m. gives him all KINDS of energy).

Fame (What you like is in the limo).

I had a photo shoot this morning, the one I was supposed to do yesterday and flaked out on, and then after lunch I took Ruth and Henry to buy shoes, because we walk a lot and they wore out the ones we bought at the beginning of the school year, or so I thought until we got there.

Everything I asked for was too small and that was the problem. The clerk suggested bigger sizes. Ruth's feet are the same size as mine now! And Henry's feet are bigger than mine now. Which means that not only is it nurture over nature, but I am completely doomed.

Totally and utterly doomed for all eternity, left to fester on German metalcore album covers, looking ten feet tall instead of five in the pouring rain in my tattoos-that-aren't-mine because they covered mine up and drew new ones over that, and a dress made of dead roses. Which is totally me, don't you think?

Don't worry, I'm really hoping the list of Ben's friends in bands who are too cheap to pay for a real model gracious enough to ask me to model for their album artwork is dwindling now. Doesn't anyone ever retire anymore?

Darker curls.

I could slide down, my shirt soaked to my skin, back pressed against the rough weathered grey boards that separate safety from danger. But Danger is my middle name. If I sit down they can't see me, only if I sit down my legs will be dangling free over the cliff, nothing between my striped tights and the white water below, crashing against the rocks at the bottom of the hill that holds my house tightly hugged against the tree line further up, past the yard that exists only due to a sympathetic gravity and time.

Time.

Ha, I laugh to myself and smile in the rain, drops hitting my teeth and splashing against my skin. Time is a prank that pulls us along, getting our hopes up, making us crazy, no happy medium between rushing and waiting.

I hear my name. They're calling me. They know exactly where I am and they're rushing to get here, sure that I would be bright enough to respond and to follow their instructions because I always follow instructions.

Except for when I don't and sometimes there are too many words, too much time and only these two tiny hands and I can't hold all of it and sometimes I let it fall, spilling over my shoes, onto the floor, burying my little heart like an avalanche no one saw coming and then I wait. I trigger rescue and I wait. My absence is the key, if I'm not clinging to the front of your shirt or tucking myself under one of your arms, if you're not warm and I'm talking your ear off and checking your pockets and playing with your hair and setting your watch to a different time zone then something is very wrong indeed.

I settle for a crouch, hunched over, sitting on my heels, shoes sinking into the mud, knees under my chin, clutching the copper box against my heart as if maybe it could be healed or I could take back my promises to let him go from his purgatory in my mind. Another mistake. So many mistakes. Run me through the rest intact. That's all I want. That's all I ask.

The gate flies wide open and bangs against the fence. The wind picks up. I'm so afraid that maybe God's just going to slide his invisible hand down my back and give me one simple push and I will either catch up with Jacob after all or cement my place beside the unintentional, unwelcome protector.

Cole. I wrote about him yesterday. Or has everyone forgotten him already?