Lead-lined lip gloss.

This morning sees Bridget poking one little black-stockinged foot out from inside her black cloud, testing the temperature, seeing if the fabric of the sky might hold her after a week of sunshine drove her inside in all her pink-tinged, sunburnt glory. Overwhelm choked off the smile and she frowned, retreating to the curtain from where she peeks out now, unsure, hesitant.

I see you.

You don't see me.

Oh, yes I do.

Well then what do I look like?

Like a beautiful scowl with legs.

Dammit, you do see me.

I told you so.

Stop looking!

But still she smiles slightly. A little light escapes from around the curtain itself, spilling into the black, turning it shades of saturated, nuclear grey. The smile threatens from behind the facade of grumpy, bringing hope and possibilities to petulant nonsense, the stuff of invisible problems and wow, to be in her shoes proclamations. She takes it to heart. All of it. Every last thing.

Her heart is huge and fractioned now, crammed full, up to the rafters. More space needs to be rented but nothing is suitable and so they turn and press their backs up against the bulk, pushing with their legs, shoving it in and then slamming the doors tightly, the lock threatening to burst open, bending metal, straining bolts until the squeeze liquifies solids and they begin to run down her sleeves. She wipes her little hands on her cloud and pretends she can't see her heart but it's there, and boy does that ever bring relief on a dark rainy day like today.

Red for the clown.

Sweetheart, sweetheart are you fast asleep? Good.
'Cause that's the only time that I can really speak to you.
And there is something that I've locked away
A memory that is too painful
To withstand the light of day.

Sitting on the edge of the cliff, the wind roaring through my head, it occurs to me that my lipstick, bright red for a fresh change, is not grabbing the long curling tendrils that have already worked their way loose from my ponytail like the candy-pink lipgloss usually does. But the mascara is hurting my brain. Due to an incredibly busy day on Ben's part, I'm only going to get about another twenty-minutes to see him today and I want to make that event a little nicer than the twenty-minutes we had this morning, me in my dog-walking clothes from yesterday, complete with the most incredible bed head you've possibly ever seen. He might have been horrified when he left, that's how amazing my hair was, but don't ask him about it because he is too busy to tell you one way or another anyway. He will not work on Victoria's birthday and I am looking forward to that with the uncanny grasp of someone swinging a thousand feet in the air without a net but only a hand up.

I am alternating between watching the sea and watching Lochlan practice. Take away this house and we would be circa 1984 right this moment. My stomach rumbles, and I have to look away every six minutes or so when the black dots start to dance in my eyes because the sun is directly behind him.

He is working on his farmer's tan. He won't ditch his shirt until the bitter end of this afternoon and then his pale Scottish skin will reflect the light like a mirror until at least mid-June. Then he will change, almost overnight into a toasted Virgo with blonde curls instead of red. I believe he might be the only shape-shifter in the group, come to think of it, and that's okay too. He looks good in his summer form. It's what I am used to most, I think.

He is using five batons now and I can feel the heat on the back of my head but I am afraid to look up in case he drops one on me and I burn to a little crisp on contact.

But he won't drop any. The second time he ever picked them up he dropped one and then he collected the errant one, said something to the effect of, oh, that's it, then and never made a mistake ever again.

I'm sure PJ and Daniel and Duncan, Gage, August and maybe New-Jake are all standing up in the kitchen at the window swearing blue streaks and cringing at this but someday maybe they'll stop that. Someday they will be used to it like I am. There's just such a huge gap between the show days and the now that this is still an incredible treat and it never bothers me that he practices right over my head. I was never allowed to stray very far from him, always sitting in front of him and a little to the right, so he could keep an eye on me while I daydreamed off steep ledges and into forbidden places, places where Lochlan's fire did little to push back the shadows.

It works now, mind you, but now is clearly too late.

Louis Vuitton at the thrift store.

(In spite of all of the changes in the past year financially, I still have an anticonsumerist (and minimalist) streak a mile wide.)

I popped into a few vintage, antique and thrift shops on my travels today. The only thing I bought was a set of teeny-tiny feng-sheeshish (NEW WORD) wooden primitive celestial mirrors for the children's bathroom upstairs and a honey pot. No, really. It's a little ceramic pot with a matching lid and the lid has a built-in honey dripper. It's perfect for when Ben and I have our late-evening tea and then I am forever not having to deal with sticky jars of honey from the cupboard.

But that isn't the cool part.

Oh no, the cool part was the Louis Vuitton handbag at the thrift store. That was freaking amazing. It was a black Multicolore Alma satchel, I believe. I don't even know what they retail for, I've never had the guts to actually go in to the store all the way. I like to loiter in the vestibule an awful lot though. In case I wind up liking something that costs more than my car, I should just stay out. Besides, I have issues with paying what things are worth, and that is why I top out at $25 for a lipgloss and $300 for a handbag. Not three thousand. Holy sweet Jesus.

I can't even believe I said that but in all honesty, I am not the one buying the handbags for myself. Ben is buying them for me, because he says I have spent enough years without anything nice. I'm sure that's a massive slight against the other boys I have dated/married/killed/maimed, but really the bags are SO PRETTY.

(The $25 gloss was a huge mistake anyway. It dried out my lips. FAIL.)

But anyways, there I am, perusing the shelves of goodies and I saw the Multicolore and I snatched it off the shelf and sort of squeeged a little but then I realized the condition of it was terrible. It was ruined, all of the piping broken, a huge hole in one corner and the inside lining was shredded. But it seemed to be real and I thought, maybe I should get it and then send it back to LV to have it repaired. Then I got with the program. Probably fake. How would *I* know? I don't know anything. I passed it to Daniel wordlessly. Daniel will know these things. He's gay! It's on the test!

Daniel's eyebrows went up to the roof and then beyond. Oh, Bridget, what do you have here?

I have no idea. Is it real?

I think it is. Just in case we should get it.

It's destroyed.

I'd carry a battered Louis Vuitton any day.

Then you buy it and it can be your manbag.

In the end we opted to leave it in the store. As far as I know it's still there, and if it's real someone gets a treat, if it's fake then someone got their money's worth! In any case, I was thrilled with my mirrors and the pot and I spent a whole $6.50.

***

A postscript to last night: I did not 'attack' my brother-in-law, I merely possibly lunged in his direction and Duncan was anticipating my every move so basically I was thwarted before I could even put together in my mind the damage I might do, which would be none at all. Caleb works out, I do not. I cannot high-five people so that they feel it. You only think I'm kidding.

I acted out of frustration. I don't get mad easily, and this was going too far. Don't think he didn't keep and then trot out that painting on purpose, oh no. Caleb is measuring out his revenge on me piecemeal. The only reason I was even there was because he invoked some clause in our custody arrangement that requires us to pre-approve the environments in which the children will be spending time in advance. I didn't think painting a room and moving some furniture qualified as a new environment but I am not the lawyer. I do have it duly written in my notes for when I do see my lawyer next so no worries.

And Ben brought the painting home with him last night. He asked Caleb very carefully if Caleb had any more pictures/paintings/surprises/bullshit to throw at me and Caleb, not surprisingly, said no. What, is he going to say yes with Ben breathing down his neck? I doubt it.

This is one piece I am happy to have. I don't have a place chosen for it to hang, however. PJ said he would like it for his bathroom. I said I was tired of being shit on. He said he would put it in the shower then. I didn't get that for just long enough to spent the entire rest of the evening at the wrong end of most of the jokes, just so you know. PJ is gross like that.

But she's back.

I'm back.

Yay.

Solution.

It was an elaborate typeface and I stood in the dark, in the wind outside of a sticking wooden door and read the label over and over and over again. Fitting, I thought. Serves me right. There was no bravery to be had here in this place, no courage to uncover, no rest for my wickedness. No pansies growing on the hill and no rain visible until I realized I was soaked right through. Just the wind, it never ever stopped and it forced me back inside my head because I couldn't hear him and that drove him into an unfathomable rage.

The door clattered open, Cole having shoved it hard from the inside. I wonder if he even realized how close I had been standing, for the edge of it grazed my nose and my toes as it flew open and smashed against the weathered clapboards. He stood in veritable darkness, a lantern in one hand.

Could you find it?

Yes, here. I passed him the bottle. He read the label and passed it back to me with a dark smile. He is exhausted and driven. He has been here at the shore house for nights and nights painting with no food and no rest.

Nice job, fidget. I'm going to finish cleaning up and then we'll celebrate. He pulled me into the dark with him and then reached back and pulled the door shut hard. My world is dark, save for the light he carries in his hands, and I follow him up the steps slowly to the second floor when he keeps the brightest room as his studio.

This painting was commissioned and constitutes the most money we have ever had and so I was instructed to go to the store and choose a nice wine from somewhere off the continent. I am anxious, the buyer was incredibly specific and demanding and Cole has been sending sketches regularly since the first of the year, now the summer is almost over and if all goes well we will be able to pay for the beach house and still have enough to get through what is generally a tight autumn. If not, then I guess Cole moves toward the shadows and I step into Caleb's focus. Either way we will manage the bill whether Cole prostitutes himself for his client or I do for his brother. Either way I somehow continue to count my own worth in dollars and cents.

Two more lanterns are burning in the studio. The power has been out for almost an hour. Cole turns after setting down the lantern he had been carrying and smiles wide. I am staring at the flame contained within the glass instead. I don't like this place at night. Odd, since I adore this house in the mornings right up until the shadows grow long and the traffic dies down and the birds begin their evening song and then the homesickness settles over me. Coupled with the storm tonight it seems as if the dark will never end.

He touches my hand, placing a full glass in it. I am staring at the red liquid now, reflecting nothing. Wine makes me sick but Cole is a poor artist and we can't afford any more than this yet. First the painting will be delivered and then the cheque will come, with a handwritten note on very good stationery tucked into an envelope that probably costs more than our wine.

He takes his own glass and raises it against mine.

To change.

To change. I take a sip. He drinks half the glass. He puts it down and then takes mine too. Are you ready?

Yes.

He pulls me over in front of the canvas and grabs the lantern, holding it high. It will look different in natural light, he cautions.

I am stunned. This is easily his best work and now I understand how his madness complements his efforts. How he is driven. We would lie in bed and he would describe what he wanted to achieve on a canvas or in a photograph but rarely could he translate it sufficiently in practice. Rarely was he pleased. Tonight was an exception, indeed. Only it wasn't what I was expecting.

Amazing.

You like it?

I can't even believe it.

But do you like it?

I love it. But, this isn't what he asked for, is it?

No, that one is on the table. This one I did for you.

We can keep it?

You can do whatever you want with it. He laughed and finished his wine in one long swallow. Except don't give it away. The laughter drained out of his face. I made this for you, Bridget. Don't give it to anyone.

I won't.

Promise me.

I promise.

A week later we were home from the rental and still unpacking. The cheque had been delivered by courier, too large to put into the mail, and no sooner had the courier left the driveway of the beach house then we were running out the front door with our suitcases and the easel and the half-empty basket of pears we had picked from the trees in the front yard of the house. We arrived home, threw our belongings in the front door and rushed down to the bank to deposit the cheque before closing time.

The whole week I had been waiting for Cole to unpack his paintings and I figured out a nice spot on the wall for mine, somewhere between two others, since we were seriously out of wall real estate but perhaps we could relegate some less-important works to other areas. My painting would have a place of honor.

I finally went looking for it but in thumbing through the works standing up against the wall in his home studio, I realized it wasn't there. I asked him about it and he shook his head, not speaking, and I knew better than to keep bothering him when he was working. I would ask later, maybe, eventually he would volunteer the answer.

He did not.

I figured it out this morning as I stood in Caleb's library, finally finished the transformation from austere masculine office with the dark walls and expensive furniture into a lighter, more friendly place with comfy furniture placed in the center of the room conversation-style, and new custom built bookshelves across two walls. The huge monolith of a desk is gone, the filing cabinets replaced with pull-out drawers under the shelves, a huge nubby area rug for the kids to stretch out on and read his prized second editions of Treasure Island and Stuart Little when the mood strikes them. Large floor lamps and light-diffusing blinds round it out, as does new artwork on the walls.

Like my painting.

MY Painting, the one Cole made for me, of me, fifteen years ago. A painting that should have been returned when all of the photographs and other works came back to me but it wasn't.

Why did Cole give that to you?

Give what? Oh, the painting of you? I asked for it.

When?

When? Jesus, probably fifteen or thirteen years ago, I don't remember exactly. Why?

Did he say no and you talked him into it?

Bridget, what is wrong with you?

It's mine. He made it for me. It was supposed to be for me and he told me not to give it away and then he gives it to you? Why would he do that?

Caleb lets his head roll around his shoulders as if he has an ache in his neck, as if he is reasoning slowly and simply, with a child.

I don't know, Bridget. Maybe Cole had a bad habit of giving away everything that was precious to him with little persuasion. I mean, look at you.

There would be more to this story but Duncan had to pick me up and carry me out of the condo over his shoulder. I was going for Caleb's heart. It's the weakest part, after all.

Shhhh. Someone is sleeping. With a bunneh.

Me. Haha. Hahahahahaha.

Cake people.

Gage.

You have to say it real slow, like in Practical Magic when Nicole Kidman's character Jilly is describing her new boyfriend to Sandra Bullock's Sally. Jimmy. Jimmy Annnnnnngelov.

Only Gage is no vampire cowboy, and yes, this is a fine time to point out there don't seem to be any Steves, Bills or Eds in my collective.

Hello no. We are children of the seventies, and our parents were determined to be different. It could be worse, I went to school with a lot of flowers, but instead my gypsy parents rebelled and named me after a French movie star and an Irish Saint (equally says mom), (hell no, it was the french starlet only, says dad).

Gage is Schuyler's brother (okay half-brother but good enough for me).

It all makes sense now, doesn't it?

Gage is here and I don't seem to have space for him, which is um, a new issue. Updates to follow as I think of something.

Update as promised: Gage gets the CAMPER. What a lucky duck. I would live in the camper but then everyone would complain and accuse me of living in the past blahblahblah. Snort. We actually had decided on him staying on the futon in Daniel and Schuy's living room but then Gage asked why there was a perfectly good house in the driveway and Lochlan said it was his to enjoy if he wanted it. Everyone is settled at last, just in time for sunset.

***

Yesterday while driving to get Thai food, we passed a cupcake shop. One of many we have seen and tried, which led to an interesting discussion on just how viable all of these cupcake shops are, considering we had no interest in returning to any of them, honestly. We're used to very good full-on cake or very bad cake sometimes too. Trendy designer cupcakes are interesting but the storebought (or boutique-bought ones, as it were) are generally too rich for my blood sugar and my wallet, sadly. They aren't worth the toothache for the price, in other words and in pointing out my curiosity at how they stay in business, Ben pointed out that someone is always having a birthday.

But what if they aren't?

What do you mean? It's always somebody's birthday.

But what if it isn't? What if there was one day that no one was ever born on?

There's multiple babies born every minute, Bridget.

Imagine though! The day no one was born. The darkest day that no one celebrates.

What would you do, then?

I would buy cupcakes just because and we would celebrate Happy Nobirthdays.

That's very emo of you, sweetheart.

Maybe they could make black cupcakes with black icing!

Gothcakes?

YES. Maybe with tiny white-icing filigree. Something really pretty. Because no one deserves it. And still the day needs something. Something to mark it as different.

Uh-huh.

You're just so stunned at my idea, you don't even know what to say, right?

Yeah, that's exactly right.

The room at the end of the hall.

It's a tiny room, overall. It's where Nolan stays when he visits and my parents stay there too. A room bathed in full light, looking out toward the rose bushes and the evening sunset. It has no closet but a brand new bed and there is a hutch for storage that came with the house and they offered to take it when I called to complain to the realtor that a lot of things were still here but I said I would keep the hutch, just nothing else.

(I should have gotten them to take the stupid cans of hot pink primer paint with them from where the basement was finished. Yes, full-on magenta. The walls are beige, luckily enough. The cans are full, they clearly bought too much. I'll have to ask where I can dispose of it the next time we go to the hardware store. Currently I don't like hardware stores still, they remind me of the castle and so the hot pink paint sits in a box near the tools, in the laundry room. Because the laundry room is easily as large as the living room, and it's virtually empty. I think it would make a great workshop once we replace the floor with tile and put in cupboards. Oo! Derail.)

The little room at the end of the hall is now known as New Jake's room. I'm not sure what I'm going to do when company comes next. I am officially out of space.

He drove up from God knows where on that gorgeous old motorcycle, without a map or a plan or letting anyone know where he was. He said the weather mostly sucked but the roads were good and his entire worldly possessions fit in a backpack and a couple of leather saddlebags strapped to the back of the bike.

He's going to stay on indefinitely. He said he felt like he was coming home. We are happy to have him. Or have him back, as it were. I didn't think we would ever see him again, truthfully, but he kept his promise and here he is.

Talking up a storm already.

Oh, sweet magnificent surprise.

Eighteen weeks of absolutely hardly anything and guess who just pulled into my driveway on a schweet vintage Sunbeam?

The talker, that's who.

(I was given legs and I ran and ran until I become tired of that, and I stopped to consider the line in the sand, frosted glass mixed with seaweed, left behind from high tide, a trail of glass breadcrumbs to show me the way home.

I tried to hide my scales with pretty dresses. I tried to keep my long hair tied up so it would be so much less obvious. I deferred at pearls and chose diamonds to fit in. I exhaled in long hot bubble baths where I could lock the door and return to my true form.

I ate cod with a straight face and refused calamari with a laugh. I flung starfish into the air to simulate the sky above and only I could hear their squeals of glee from the ride.

I made a valiant attempt to be human, and yet it's clearly obvious I am not, distracted by the shoreline and the waves on a whim, measuring days in terms of tides instead of hours. Breathing the deep cool water beneath the waves. Enduring the silence of a thousand sunken ships. Being whole.)

To you.

When he arrived back at the camper he had a large cardboard box in his arms. I was already stressed. It was dark. I didn't know how to light the lantern, he never let me touch it and I wasn't allowed to remain outside if he wasn't handy. It wasn't often that we were apart so late in the evening but Lochlan had been recruited reluctantly to help break down a temperamental, rusty structure. The rain had finally let up after four days and we were pulling up stakes tomorrow. An unholy mess at this point. Everyone was demoralized and exhausted.

Um..okay, just turn around and close your eyes.

I can't see, it's okay.

Just do it, Bridge.

I put my hands over my eyes and began to sing. He laughed and asked me if I was peeking so I turned away and put my back to him to prove I wasn't looking.

He crashed around for a good seven, eight minutes and boy, did I ever get tired standing there listening to my stomach growl. It was my thirteenth birthday, well, for another three hours at least.

It's ready. You can look now.

I turned around slowly and opened my eyes. Lochlan had lit a candle. A single white taper but we didn't have any candle holders so he jammed it down into the center of the potted ivy plant I set outside the camper every morning in the sun and brought in every evening at dusk. Lochlan regularly emptied the last drops of his beer into it and still it persisted, sort of like we did.

He had found a small white tablecloth to cover the drop leaf table and real plates! Real china plates were on the table. On the counter was a bag that I could smell before he told me to open my eyes. Chinese take out. And a big cold bottle of Dr. Pepper and something else. A bundle wrapped in a cloth that I couldn't identify at all. Maybe his laundry. Sometimes he took it and hung it on the line behind the poker game tents to dry.

He grinned.

Happy birthday, little lady.

I smiled back. Huge. I counted four boxes of take-out. My stomach groaned at the delay.

Thank you.

A speech before we eat?

No, after. Starved.

He laughed again and pulled my chair out. I sat down and he brought over the bag and took everything out. Sweet and sour chicken. Fried rice. Chow mein. Two egg rolls. Two fortune cookies. A feast! He poured us each a tall glass of Dr. Pepper and began to dish up the food. We ate and drank and laughed until all of the food was gone as he described the men's jokes as they fought to pry the bolts loose earlier to dismantle the ride and failed at so many the torches were brought in. The jokes were crass and nasty. Carnival humor. There is no room for delicate sensibilities or offense in a place such as this. There's very little room for newly-thirteen year old girls either. But out of two different sorts of desperation I had been accepted into the fold, into the gypsy family and mostly I felt at home.

I laughed when Lochlan laughed and acted outraged when he did. And then I burped really loud and he laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair.

That was beautiful. Here, birthday girl. What's your fortune?

"You create your own stage and your audience is waiting."

Uncanny. Mine: "Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence." (He would later have this Mencken quote tattooed from shoulder to wrist.)

That's beautiful. And true.

And how. And I have another surprise for you, Bridget.

I am too stuffed for surprises now.

Not this one.

He went back to the counter and took the bundle and brought it carefully to the table. He unwrapped it slowly and then I realized why as he removed the last sheets of plastic only to be confronted with a final toothpick defense which he quickly removed, using a plastic spoon to smooth away the tiny holes. One that he licked clean first.

A cake. Chocolate cake with chocolate icing. That he made.

For me.

For my birthday. Still warm, which meant that he hadn't been tearing down machinery in the dwindling rain and light. He had been baking. Baking! My eyes filled up. He pointed out he did help tear down the machinery and then they let him off early so he could get the cake done. And then he went back out in the rain while it baked but kept such a close eye on his watch that they began to tease him for it. He sang Happy Birthday to me quite seriously. It would be the first time.

Later on, after I was so full I moved slower than usual, I sacked out on the bed, the sugar high taking over, fatigue not far behind. Best night of my life.

There's more.

I can't eat anymore. I might die.

It's not food.

I'm surprised. We must have had a better week than I realized. I am slurring sleep into our conversation. What is it?

A trip.

A trip? Different show or new one?

Not a show, a trip. Just you and me. We'll get away from it all. He laughed at the cheesiness of his own words. We were perpetually away from it all. The circus was an imaginary landscape, life in costume distilled into a freakshow and a high-wire act, punctuated with his batons, lighting the night on fire, outshining the stars.

Where will we go?

That's the best part, Bridget. It doesn't matter. The whole world is ours.