Home sweet fucked-up home.

We're home. I am enervated and anesthetized. I chased a malevolent whim across the continent and returned an utter failure of the highest magnitude. I may have to go back. I couldn't breathe so I came home.

Ben talked me back. He is here too. In case the rumor mill is churning into overdrive, he's been really pretty amazing. I think a lesser man would have packed up and checked out of this circus a long time ago, which leads me to believe I was spot-on when I discerned him to be a freak from the get-go.

Thank God for big freaks. That's all I can say at present. I need some sleep and tomorrow hopefully I can talk without screaming. You know? I always thought Caleb was evil and then sometimes I doubt myself, maybe I've been so harsh. Maybe he doesn't deserve it.

Then he does things like this. No holds barred. Gloves are off. Apparently it's going to be a fight to the finish. I guess I knew that already. Denial is such a lovely place to be, though, isn't it?

Made it to St. John's. The explanations have gotten so long at this point I don't think I'll ever be able to sort the words out. I am running on adrenaline, panic and I don't even know what else. I just want to get to the bottom of this. I wanted to extract Lochlan from a mess and instead it blew up in my face and I don't know if I wished for this, after all. I really don't. Can't think. Gotta go.

Hold tight.

(this is going to be the hard part. How to continue to talk without giving things away.)

She is everything to me
The unrequited dream
A song that no one sings
The unattainable
She's a myth that I have to believe in
All I need to make it real is one more reason

The gate did not keep him out and neither did the line of knights standing in front of me grimly, distilled down to their singular purpose, shields up, swords drawn. But evil is not bound by the same constraints as man. Evil can dissolve and reassemble on the other side, evil can seep in through the cracks of your psyche and eat away at your brain until a putrid, rotting mass remains only evil stopped right in front of me, James Bond in his three-piece suit and his dumbed-down, kindly patience when he is very, very angry indeed.

Bridget, what have you done?

I resumed my role as moving target on the other side of the wall, my blonde crown invisible as I paced quickly behind their backs, coming to rest directly behind Benjamin, where I could curl my hands into the back of his shirt and hold on for dear life. He broke the line long enough to reach back and squeeze me against him, but only very briefly. He patted me and let go. He is concerned. My eardrum burst, I am still not feeling well, I'm down to scraping up the last of my reserves.

Time to go, Cale. We're not going to do this here. Ben said it quietly. You don't want Ben to be quiet-angry back at you, that's when he's at his most dangerous. I took the cue and let go of his shirt, not wanting to go for a ride if he lunged, even though he has been warned to leave it. We won't solve this with his brawn or his heart. Only with his attorneys.

This isn't over.

Ben nodded. Lochlan stared at the floor. I know him so well. He is biting his tongue so hard I'm sure his mouth is filled with the taste of iron. His arms are loose, elastic. We are struggling desperately to contain an effervescent, almost comical relief that wants to burst forth but that would be premature. Preliminary thoughts are that this will go well for Lochlan, how it goes for Caleb remain shrouded in uncertainty. I am still struggling with how much damage I want to do. I know I will toss and turn and fret and weigh and balance and maybe I will wait to be told my options so I don't jump the gun, slide off the end of the barrel and wind up getting shot in the process.

So I will leave it to fate as I have done all along, holding to building up my defenses instead of seeking retribution. I will wait and see. Maybe crossing our fingers and staying quiet and true all these years won't have been for nothing.

The grapes of wrath (a fear beyond every other).

This morning I rolled out of bed and into a nightmare of coughing that followed me all the way around the block with the dog in the pre-dawn darkness. I came in and dragged myself through the motions of making honey toast and sweetened coffee for Ben. I kissed him goodbye and rested my head against the front of his jacket for as long as he would allow.

When he was gone I locked up again and headed back upstairs where I spent a good thirty minutes in the steamy shower, breathing in the warm air, unclenching my lungs and clearing my head. When I felt my skin begin to protest I got out reluctantly, slipping into my jeans and a warm hoodie and I ran a comb through my hair, gently. I returned to the main floor, poured myself a cup of coffee and holed up in the corner reading until the rest of the house awakened, one room at a time.

Such a marked difference between one tiny light casting a quiet glow on the side of a cliff and a house with every light on, everyone talking at once, waiting for turns at the coffee maker, asking me how I am feeling while I try to focus on getting the children fed and organized and out the door in time for school. Maybe I will be April's perpetual fool, attempting to live at 33 rpm in a 78 rpm world, running in slow motion when fast-forward has become de rigueur.

I changed my clothes, jumping on the 78, skidding across the vinyl on my way to the loft to check on some business. I will stay on this song as long as I need to and no more.

Ben is back to his usual hours for the next little while and I grateful for that. When he works long hours I feel disconnected and lost. When he is home I feel whole. Lochlan will tell you that is wrong but for him it is simply sour grapes. I watched him watching me as PJ gave me a hug upon hearing that I am feeling slightly better this morning and he visibly winced when PJ's arms closed around me. As if he can't bear this existence. Well, he doesn't have to be like this. He could let go but he doesn't. He could relax but he won't. He could live but he prefers to exist in the past.

Sometimes I don't blame him. The simplicity of a hot shower or a good cup of coffee is something we don't take for granted. The luxury of being able to get better without doing it under a gun still feels like a gift from heaven. The nights when two weeks into a new set up, it had been raining for days and I was so sick I was ordered not to get out of bed unless the camper was on fire, and Lochlan was as sick as I was but he would do all of our work and then head into town for soup for me and by the time he came back I would be asleep and the soup would be tepid and he would throw it out. We both lost weight and gave up hope and then the sun would make a surprise appearance and the show would be bustling and suddenly everything was going to be okay again.

But that same bittersweet history holds all of the reasons why we are the way we are now, forever and life goes on, we are the fools, time heals nothing. Time serves to twist screws and force change. Time serves to corrupt and skew the facts and warp reality. Fuck time, time is a ticking bomb in the face of relative peace.

Time is the cadence of the devil breathing down my neck. I am outrunning time once again.

The night after Lochlan brought my things to the fair in his backpack after breaking up with me, the borrowed camper burned. I was relieved he was not inside when it went up in flames and then suspected he or Caleb burned it right up until the moment he told me his journals were gone, right up until the fire department confirmed that it was accidental. He never would have burned those books, they are his definitive soul.

Only they aren't gone. I found them this morning, here at Caleb's loft and like I promised back in 1981 when I first saw Lochlan with one, I won't look in them, Lochie and no, this isn't a fucking April Fool's joke and I just need to figure out the right way or the right time to tell him they are safe but fuck it, half the time the right time never takes place because time is wrong and I am just about to leave and bring them back to their rightful owner.*

*******************

*(I wrote that this morning while I was still at the loft looking after some paperwork and I chickened out of posting it, in the very real risk that Caleb might read it before I could be safely underway with property that, while incredibly value to Caleb, belongs to someone else. Lochlan has his books now, clutched into shaking hands, I am home safe and sound and for good measure I closed the front gate and changed the code again, which is very frustrating for everyone. It won't keep Caleb out but it might slow him down, and that's all I need for now. This was one piece of the puzzle that's been missing for a long time. I would like to see the whole picture now.)

Will return on the day of fools.

I am working today at just trying to get well, moving slowly, sitting at the edge of the dark in the soft sunlight to stay warm, walking the dim quiet hallways at the hospital (I was sent for chest x-rays, because this cold doesn't seem to be getting better ever), teaching Ruth to sew with small, even stitches and a better needle than the one she first chose and wondering if the paint all over Henry's pants from his big class project will come out in the wash or if the pants will be added to the scrap fabric pile to be used to make more of the little stuffed-heart garlands we have been working on as of late.

I have hidden myself away from drama but she does not appear to be coming around today to play hide and seek, in spite of my newfound hiding place, out here in plain sight. I am keeping my head down, mouth closed, argument off. I just want to feel better. It's been so long.

So excuse me if you came today looking to see if you could have a peek into the life of someone who overdresses but always in shocking black, throws dishes at the minister, openly adores and defies the rockstar all at the same time, courts the mafia, misses the dead and still seeks the approval of a formal career carnival man before she will make a move, well, sorry but she isn't taking visitors today.

Secondary orbit.

She seems dressed in all the rings
Of past fatalities
So fragile yet so devious
She continues to see it
Climatic hands that press
Her temples and my chest
Enter the night that she came home
Forever

Oh (She's the only one that makes me sad)

She is everything and more
The solemn hypnotic
My Dahlia bathed in possession
She is home to me

I get nervous, perverse, when I see her it's worse
But the stress is astounding
It's now or never she's coming home
Forever

Oh (She's the only one that makes me sad)

Sam waits nervously at the door but I am busy throwing things that don't seem to want to break and I have no intentions of stopping until everything does. Every toss gets a name or a reason cursed upon it before I let it fly. Every word comes out in a scream. Sam adjusts his vest. Such a nerd. He's holding Jacob's well-worn, fingerprint-embossed, still achingly-warm bible against his chest as if he's considering an exorcism.

Good, I would do the same thing if I were in his shoes. Only I haven't been taken over by demons. I am just angry. Angry in a ferocious, uncharacteristic way.

In between unintentional frisbees, I ask him questions as they come to me. I'm not sure if he knows any of this stuff or not. I do. I'm only asking so he feels less weird. Because weird is the habitual state of affairs in this family, like days that end in y and the heart-shaped ice cubes in the freezer. Next to the little blocky little tombstone ones.

Do you know what color vermillion actually is, Samwise?

Yes, it's an orangey-re-

It's the color of my blood. I laugh, so inappropriately.

He looks at the floor. It's going to be a long day. He tries again. Bridge-

How many letters has Jacob left for me, all told?

He counted briefly in silence and then shouted his answer. I don't know.

How many times did Queen play at Wembley, Sam?

Oh, Bridget, I have no idea.

Success. The plate hit the wall just over the door, shattering into a million fragments and Jake's bible is now muted-black with dust. Sam squeezed his eyes shut but to his credit he didn't duck or freak out.

Next. If you get it wrong you have to go. Why can't we ever act like normal human beings?

Sam just rolled his eyes and turned and walked out as Lochlan was walking in. They don't exchange words, just looks. We've come too far to need any more words.

I sit down on the floor in the midst of a room full of would-be ruin that I didn't have enough strength to break and I realize I don't recognize myself anymore.

I'm a slave, and I am a master
No restraints and, unchecked collectors
I exist through my need, to self oblige
She is something in me, that I despise

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

(All the stops have now been pulled and the train resumes the slow journey around the water to where I am resting, bound and gagged, stretched over the tracks with my knees and my head resting on the rails, blonde hair tangled in the gravel, creosote and arsenic from the sleepers soaking into my skin through my dress.

My eyes watch the stars. My head will be filled with beauty when the light comes to blind me.)

Lochlan and Ben have abandoned me as muse and taken each other on as...as male furies. The most difficult dynamic of their relationship leaves me on the floor dividing my devotions with a dull butter knife, in a block of sunlight tinged a bright shade of vexation. I've been here for hours, measuring it out and it always comes out lopsided and unfair and I'm running out of ideas.

The devil has some incredibly aberrant solutions but I hold no interest in those. He is entertained by my efforts nevertheless.

You can't make this fair and just, princess. No one's going to be happy in the end.

Be quiet, will you? I'm counting.

The noise-canceling husband and a ride in the clouds.

I find comfort in strange places today. In Mason Jar lights and in the freezer section at the grocery store, where I saw rows of teeny-tiny gourmet treat containers, in a new Kleenex on a pink nose and in Ben's arms, my contagious face shoved right up under his chin hard where it burns and where I am complete in blocking everything else out. Sigh.

Yeah.

I managed to either win back some sort of bonus round with the stupid fucking cold I had two weeks ago or it's holding onto me for dear life. I guess I know how it feels. Am now on a hideous poison cocktail of ginseng, zinc, vitamin C, etc. etc. etc. and copious amounts of tea, vitamin water and very good leftover Chinese food.

In other news, the exhibition here (permanent which means ANY TIME WE WANT) is getting a Star Flyer.

A freaking Star Flyer!

It's like the icing on the best cake I've ever had.

There is a stack of brochures on his desk and all I have to do is pick one and bring it to him and he will make the arrangements.

There is a bowl of sliced melon in the fridge, and half a magnum of champagne, which will be thrown out rather than finished. A large container of yogurt and a basket of strawberries remain untouched on the top shelf. My stomach growls with hunger but my brain misses the cue.

Fresh flowers are everywhere. In the bathrooms. The credenza by his desk. The island in the kitchen and also in the entryway. Those had to be moved and rearranged because they were huge and the spray ended at eye level with me and I feared I might lose my vision. I didn't say anything, he noticed and had it changed.

I was given a key. I already had a key. He is clearly unprepared for the proximity and unnerved by my total compliance.

He dismisses the small neatly print-labeled bottles on his vanity with excuses I know to be lies and I accept them with distraction. This is not a comfortable place to be, in the realization that someone who held so much power is prepared to release me. The white flag flaps violent against the glass and I can only watch it because I don't know if it's real or just one of those things my imagination puts into place to help me understand things that my mind knows but my heart simply can't manage.

There is a difference and it is stark. To me at least.

He is amused by my hands. Rings sliding loosely over my knuckles, my fingers flutter a never-ending ode in air piano. Fidgeting, counting beads on the bracelet I wear, tapping on the table, pulling wayward strands of blonde out of my lip gloss, which attracts my hair like static cling, fascinating him to the point where he sits motionless in a low chair by the window, bourbon in hand, watching me move. Watching my nervous motions. Checking for the holes through which he will reveal my deception or my conviction.

I offer none of either. I am waiting him out.

I can bend him a little and he bends me back. I give up and he moves in to suggest decadence. I pretend to take it for granted and he exudes clear, silent exasperation. He talks to the walls and then his whole face drops when I ask him to repeat himself. He seeks perfection in my flaws as a singular and unfair definition. This is not who I am.

He held up his remorse, looking for a reflection and I gave him back cold detachment. In this light he is not who I want him to be either. This new revelation tore him apart.

I dropped my hands to my sides and turned, marching off only there is no place else to go and when I pointed that out from between gritted teeth, seething with pretend patience he made a call and twenty-minutes later I heard low rumblings in the hallway. He returned with this thick pile of choices for me, if I want them. He is the new mother and I am the inconsolable child and he does not know how to quiet my cries. He is becoming desperate.

Instead I take the flowers from the front hall and carry them outside to the balcony. My heart stops every time I step onto it, more than thirty-six stories high but that's the only coincidence I will acknowledge and I turn the vase upside down and let the water and the lilies fall. The wind does not take them. Someone on the sidewalk below will think that angels are throwing flowers at them. They would be correct.

I turn to come back inside and he is frowning. A misstep. The flowers should have simply been removed, not fixed and returned. You can't fix things when they don't work the first time. You can't make it better and you can't pretend you didn't lose an eye when clearly it's missing and the only thing left in your head is a few pretty glass marbles rolling around in your head.

He is eager to make this okay. Nothing is okay. And nothing he does is going to change that.

Would you like to go out for lunch?

Yes, I lie.

He goes to get our coats. I wonder if maybe I'll find my mind in one of the pockets. I hope so, but life holds no guarantees.

Acoustic pine.

We were seventeen markers to the end. I have always counted. I rolled my head back against the soft leather headrest, feeling his eyes on me briefly in between keeping watch on the road, I'm sure he thought I had fallen asleep but my eyes were wide open, tracking Orion, tracking little bear and the dipper too. The stars were fixed and we were in motion, on a ribbon of black lit by halogen, winding through trees lit by the moon, on a ball that spins so slowly you fail to notice until the sunrise.

I stick both arms up above my head to catch the wind and he laughs. We need Nick Drake to sing us home, I suggest and he shakes his head. We need the peace and the quiet, too, Bridget. I pout but I can play the songs in my head any time I want to, I think to myself and the music floods in, cutting off whatever I was planning to think about next.

The rest of the drive was in silence for him, just the way he likes it.