Rainy Monday. Game 6. We could get the cup tonight so I have no time for fluff.

Oh lord. Only I could fall in love with a nine-hundred-dollar backpack. Suffice it to say, this falls into the category of still not worth the price despite being cute.

Again, just like Bridget.

My dentist can now afford the bag, however, after what I paid this morning to have my pearly whites looked after properly. My one consolation (if my teeth ever stop aching) is that my health insurance company and I are even for the year, or rather, I am ahead. I got my money's worth, in any case.

Good til Spring 2012 though they want to see me back mid-fall for another cleaning, so I have ninety days once again to change my name and dye my hair and find a rock to hide under because that was the first time I didn't come out of the dentist feeling just fine. I even had needles. I never ever get the needles, proclaiming to be tougher than the boys when it comes to pain.

Wait, maybe I'd feel a lot better had I skipped those freaking needles...

Okay, notes for next time, I guess.

Big Ben is next. Every prince needs a crown, after all.

Snort.

Distract, then rob them blind, Bridgie.

Instead of swimming? Or riding?

They know how to swim. They can ride whenever.

What does it have?

Everything. Unicycle, trapeze, juggling, acro.

We can teach them, Bridge. You and me.

We don't have trapeze equipment here, Loch.

We can get some.

You're crazy.

Just think how much fun they would have. That $700 would buy a lot of gear, peanut.

Yeah.

But?

Nothing.

You worried about living vicariously through them?

No, I just know the experience would never be the same.

Naw. Can't be, can it? That show is closed.

Yeah.

But this would give them the skills, Bridget. Think about it. It's in their blood, too, you know.

Okay but on one condition.

What is it, peanut?

I get to teach them the unicycle.

Good luck to you.

Yeah, okay, you can have that. Tightrope for me, then. And pickpocketing.

Oh here we go. I thought you were done with that.

Never. Want your phone back?

What the fuck? I didn't even feel that!

I know. I've still got mad skills, babe.

Saved for the truly contrite.

So while you sit back and wonder why
I got this fucking thorn in my side
Oh my God, it's a mirage
I'm telling y'all, it's a sabotage

My mercy brought his release in the dark once again as we squared off, seeking the upper hand and finding no handholds, nothing to gain ground with, equal without sight. Perceptions reduced to touch and hearing so, yes, just touch for me, please and thank you.

His hand slides down around my neck, pinning me down to the cool sheets without purchase or fight. I hold my breath and wait. There is no time in the dark. Minutes slide into hours, seconds into years. One life slides into another. The dark extends to the four walls, pushing into and filling up the corners, the cracks under the doors, the screen holes in the open windows. It drips down my throat and violates my soul and I don't fight the dark, I welcome it.

Morning comes and the sun erases every last trace of the opaque night in favor of a clear day. Time resumes a measured march across my flesh and I am awake, reluctantly, once more.

Freaky Friday.

A man can be destroyed but not defeated
Even when he's lying black and blue
Living on a faith above his ceiling
Never going to know if it rings true
There's a voice inside that keeps him
On the path of righteousness
You can't break his stride
Or change his mind
because he won't second guess

In the dark the feverish, haunted desperation took over. Nightmares chased sleep through the stars. He is yelling for me. He can't find me in his dreams.

It breaks my heart because I know the night that terrorizes him and it isn't the accident but we have been warned all the same that some things might be..different. We know what to watch for, we almost know what to expect save for the fact that Lochlan's never done anything by the book, ever so this won't be anything we can explain away using convention, history or common sense.

His bruises are fading from green to black and purple and he is stiff and reckless today with his thoughts and his actions and Ben is being parental and logical and I keep checking the compass only there's no up or down, only NEWS so for the better part of the weekend, I think I'll switch to the magic eight ball for navigation.

Does that sound like a good idea?

Signs point to yes.

Three times zones and Tylenol three.

He's home.

Caleb went and fetched him with the plane in the wee hours of the morning (Satan never sleeps, didn't you know that?) and Lochlan was not very impressed but he apparently didn't say much and they arrived with such little fanfare it seemed almost criminal. Very anticlimactic. Caleb saw him inside and then said he would call later and if we needed anything to let him know, as if we would have forgotten anything. I knew he would bring Lochlan home safely. Caleb has to answer to me at the end of the day when it comes to Lochlan.

I then got the softest, most unsatisfying but welcome hug of my entire life from Lochlan, who then went into his room and climbed into bed fully clothed, falling asleep in about three seconds flat.

I'm very glad he is home.

All clear.

I came home with a box of frozen pancakes instead of the waffles I stopped for, and tried to lock the front hall closet after hanging up my sweater, spending a good five minutes trying to ascertain where to put the key before realizing the hall closet has a static, benign knob, and will not lock. I am too tired to function.

I've been wearing the same clothes since Monday. I put them on Tuesday morning to run the dog out for his first walk. That was when we got the call that someone driving a car had merged into Lochlan's motorcycle on the highway, as he was making his way to Ontario for meetings. The force of the accident knocked him off the bike and he flew through the dark until he landed on the other side of a guardrail beside the highway in the tall grass. His helmet came off. The grass is what saved his (incredibly hard anyway) head, the armor he wears when he rides saved the rest of him.

His chin is black and purple from where the strap broke. His elbows and hips, coccyx and pride are bruised but he's alive. He's okay. And as soon as they are finished running tests he'll be coming home.

I was sent home this afternoon on the plane on account of not being much good to anyone. It turns out I'm not much good at home either. I would go back but PJ took all my stuff to keep me from doing that. He knows me well.

They thought Loch had brain damage. He asked for his wife. Then he asked for his wife's husband. We tried to explain and I'm sure we failed.

He remembers absolutely everything right up until they put him on the stretcher and then he blacked out from relief or exhaustion or shock. He broke three fingers of his left hand and somehow sheared off half of his right eyebrow and part of his lower lip, which is just ow-looking. His face is bruised. So bruised but the inside of his skull appears intact. He hurts all over but he's alive and he thinks I'm ridiculous for being relieved. That's a good sign, right? I've never been so happy to be scolded by him in my life.

May as well have a group dismissal here.

You folks are just amazing. Truly.

May I just stick my elbows through and step to the front, clear my throat and address all of you very kind and supportive folks to point out one tiny fact?

(Then I promise I will disappear back into the misery of missing people who aren't home today and really trying to get all my shit done because it's game day and the city is a very busy place today and really I am so far behind I actually never bothered with grocery shopping and that is truly unlike me.)

Really? Okay, then, here goes:

Lochlan doesn't play for the NHL.

None of my boys are presently in Boston. Funny how y'all went from rock band guesses to hockey teams in a matter of seconds and yes, I agree, it's really damned suspicious when the holy triad of awesome for the Canucks just happened to maybe kinda used to play for the Moose in Winnipeg for the past, oh seven years.

Aw shucks. It's amazing, isn't it?

But no. I'm sorry.

A fucking tree is not a replacement for anything.

I pulled down against the pillow and tore the case at the seam. He smiled in the dark but he did not laugh like he did once before. His tanned hands slid up along my ribcage, pulling me against him, back into the overheated guilt we live by as a curse and as a gift.

My hands were taken and brought up for a kiss and I was passed through the night into the morning back against the cool skin of the giant statue who holds no guilt, only shame. Only regret. His pale arms fold around me and his head presses against the back of my own and I sleep at last.

***

Oh father, you oughta be there
I'm gonna go to heaven when I die
(I want to go to heaven)
roll jordan, roll jordan

They are planting the memorial trees in the back garden and I am back under the watchful eye of Christian the rock climber in lieu of Jacob, the giant Newfie Viking ice-climbing Reverend who no longer exists (unless Caleb is right) save for inside of me.

Christian is too permissive and far too far away from me to do anything to save me now. I am standing on the cliff letting the wind blow the dust and the neglect from my soul. The edges uncovered reflect the light while the rest remains smudged with black soot. I smile because it feels good and it feels good to be this close to death without the net. My swing is the cloud a little to my left but I would wait for a crowd larger than this. Today is not a show day.

I look at Lochlan. He's wielding the shovel like a true worker bee. He is digging the second hole. The one for Jacob's tree. A gracious move in light of Caleb always telling him how he was equally hated by Jacob. Just as Caleb was. Everything in my memory is ordered in pairs. The children. The ghosts. The secrets. The lies. The present. The hate. The love. And now?

The trees.

These are supposed to replace the plaques down there. If I stare straight down into the sea I can make out the shapes in bronze but not the letters because the water has come in to wash away the names and the dates that are seared into my brain and will never heal.

They think the trees will make things better. They are false comfort and not for me. No one wants me out here on the cliff and Chris still isn't watching me. I am watching him while he texts. Probably with Dylan or Rob. They are away.

Just out of curiosity I take a step. The shovel stops.

I step back and the movements resume. I turn my back on the sea. The deep fickle comfort would be shortlived and mired in a brief resentment and I hate that feeling. I need to see how this story ends.

****

(We are only blessed with that faint Scottish accent when he's yelling).

A shoving match erupts.

Bad job, brother.

She was safe.

What kind of dreamworld are you living in?

I can hear you Lochlan. I admit it, thinking he will back off from berating Christian for imaginary dangers. Lochlan's demons run so deep they choke off his nerve endings and hum a steady drone through his very being. He doesn't use alcohol to dull them because he said it doesn't work anyway. He uses the alcohol for the way it allows him to admit his feelings to my face. Because I am an adult now and he can't reconcile that.

Stay out of it, Bridge.

No. Leave him be.

I got it, Bridge. Loch, I was there when you were gone, man. When she was with Jake. I think I know her well enough that-

I've been responsible for her since she was eight years old! Don't you think I know her better than anyone?

As an adult. Lochlan-

Don't even. I don't fucking believe this. I know her heart. I know all of her like my own face in a mirror. And if something happened to her because you assume she won't do something than think again. You ever notice when she's out there with Ben (His voice broke. Oh my God, here we go) he doesn't even let go of her? You can't trust her with her own life. It isn't her job to be responsible for it anymore. She lost that privilege and it's never coming back.

She does just fine.

Then you can take the fall for it when she disappears over the side of that fucking cliff. Okay? And you can take the brunt of my rage. It won't be pretty, Chris. And you're done. I'll ask someone who cares enough to keep her on this earth and not make fucking assumptions.

Chris is nodding. His ears have turned pink. You do that, man. You fucking do that. I've got things to do. He walked over to me and gave me a quick hug and wouldn't stop long enough for me to talk.

Christian, he's just-

I know, Bridget. He's afraid of losing you. Wish he would figure out that he did that years ago and just get on with his life already.

But he didn't-

Jesus, Bridget. Cut him loose already. You're giving him false hope.

I'm not giving him anything.

EXACTLY!

The horror of Chris raising his voice to me shocked me to the point of hot tears and I turned and headed back toward the kitchen. Chris grabbed my shoulders and steered me back around to face him but he couldn't find his words fast enough. I found mine.

He knew the deal. And he took it anyway. How is this my fault? My voice is so small. I can't hear it.

Did you really think he would refuse? Bridget, do you really think people can think or act rationally when you're around?

They can try.

Yes, sweetheart, they can try but it very rarely works. He wants you so badly he isn't rational or fair. Ever.

It's the way things are, Christian. Can you just leave it? Please?

He shook his head and left, grabbing his helmet on the way out. There's a row of helmets on the bench. Everyone was here today to get the garden done, since the week ahead is supposed to be nice.

***

I'm standing in the driveway. Another helmet. Another motorcycle, only this time it's the very seriously lethal black Ducati and Lochlan has it loaded to the hilt. He should just take the truck. He's distracted and frustrated and exhausted and I don't know why he doesn't just take the truck.

Lochlan.

I'll be back in a few days.

Which day?

Next Tuesday. Maybe the Wednesday. Thursday. I don't know. It depends on a lot more than me.

Yeah.

You'll be fine.

Yup.

Bridge, don't.

Okay.

Seriously. I will stay.

Someone has to go.

Schuyler can do it.

He's already there and no, he can't.

Someone else then.

There is no one else. I know that, Lochlan.

Right. So hold tight and I'll see you in a few days. Nothing bad will happen.

I shook my head.

Just stay the fuck away from that cliff. You promise me, Bridge? Promise me you'll just hold tight and I'll be back before you miss me.

Not possible.

God I love you.

He kissed me and climbed onto the bike. He fastened his helmet and got on the Monster. Time to go. He fired it up and I can't hear him anymore. He salutes me and then he's gone. Just gone. Up the drive and out onto the highway heading East. All the way to Toronto. He was probably there before I turned finally and walked back to the house. He drives that bike like a fool.

Love you too.

I said it to the fucking wind, I guess. He never would have heard me. He never expects it back and I don't either when I say it. But we both know we say it back. No one ever lets it drop. It's like a three-decade game of Hot Potato.

***
Caleb strolled in through the front door just before dinner.

Is that little fucker gone?

No, she's right here, I said as I stepped out of the kitchen and into the hall.

His face fell briefly before he recovered his expression into something resembling controlled evil glee.

It's going to be nice for us to have an entire week without the pyromaniac ruining every attempt I make to get close to you.

Ben will look after that.

But he doesn't, does he? That's the fun part. The good part. Ben lets you be yourself and you can have as much Cole-time as your little heart desires and Loch isn't around to ruin everything or tell you your head is messed up. I give you everything you want and what does he give you?

He gives me everything I need. Now get the fuck out of my house. It's not your night to see Henry.

Caleb is surprised and he steps back, expression clearly unchecked, venturing from surprise into quiet anger.

I'm going to go see what your neglected husband is up to while you see about changing your attitude just a little. It will make things easier for you later.

I have already tuned him out on my way back through the kitchen to the back door, where I can make my way down the steps, across the concrete patio, past the new garden and back to the cliffs where the sea will warn me away from men who don't have my best interests at heart and allow me to miss the ones who do.

I will come find you when it's time to come home.

I remember being their ages. Out until dusk playing Kick the Can and Hide and Seek. All over the neighborhood. My circle was the baseball field to the skating rink, one street below the one we lived on and not over the mountain. A normal area for a child watched over by so many.

Their circle is slightly smaller, probably the same as mine was if you stopped where Lochlan's backyard met the base of the mountain. No higher than the gravel path in the woods and not out of sight of said path while in the woods. The park at the top of the second hill and the street that runs down the other side of our street too. Everything within is fair game because this is not 1979. Because there are bears here. Because this is still fairly new to them and the only one in charge is eleven-year-old Ruth. If there were older kids who offered to help or keep an eye out maybe things would be different but for now it's lots.

They strap on their helmets and disappear on their bikes for hours. They wait until I am away from the door/window/patio and then they let go and coast down the hill no-hands. They go hunting for bears. They throw on their suits and head up to the little water park where everyone congregates on hot summer days and they slay each other with bucketfuls. Nonstop. Til they are sunburned and exhausted.

They play. That's what kids do and it's a little weird to have them vanish for a few hours at a stretch and no know what they are up to. Sometimes it's a bit nauseating but I try not to think about it too much and I just keep working or doing whatever I'm doing because that's what a parent is supposed to do:

Let them get blisters running around in the water park with new sandals on because they knew enough to protect their feet from the bark chips but not that new sandals would wreak havoc on wet tender skin.

Let them fall off their bikes and get back up, bloodied and scraped, to keep on going. When they are done I will flush the gravel out of their wounds and make them squeal when I drip iodine on and then bandage the worst wounds. Or attempt not to laugh when Henry relays an attempt to stop without brakes to 'see what it is like' and nail himself between the legs quite spectacularly. He has a bruise on the inside of his thigh the size of my hand. He proudly yanks up his pantlegs to show anyone who wants to see his battle wound.

Bite my tongue when the bully breaks a water gun that belongs to the kids after they were warned that things can happen to toys taken to a shared playground and maybe they should leave them home but consequences were weighed and they see the result for themselves.

Prevent the boys from going to check on them every fifteen minutes because we were all kids once and we remember those moments when we realized we were lucky we were still alive.

Maybe it is 1979. A neighborhood full of families and well-meant childless people who keep an eye out for everyone and can tell the difference between a hurt child crying and the three year old five houses down who shrieks a hair-curling noise just to get someone's attention (every eight seconds, on average). A host of safe places to go and a world of exploration rolled out in front of their feet, their heads full of Narniaesque adventures, Stevenson-fueled passion and Barrie imagination. Their drive to conquer this new independence so fierce they roll their eyes at me as they repeat the rules.

Keep an eye on each other.

Don't destroy anything.

(and the most important of all) Have fun.

Mason jar mugs and the Allman brothers too.

No cavities!

For the children anyway. I have two little tiny ones. I go back next week to have those filled and then I'm in the clear. Eye and Audiologist appointments next. But in the meantime we have a new development.

Gage is good at getting people to drink fancy bourbon drinks and then they don't realize they are lit until they try to move, or breathe or just, you know, sit on a damned chair on the porch and they get up to dance and then it's like oh shit.

I'm keeping him too. Because he is awesome.

Yeah.