So much better than I expected.

I met a giraffe today.

This is probably not a big deal to those of you who are well-traveled or grew up in major centres with amazing zoos but I figured I would have to venture on an African safari to see a giraffe up close and in person.

I did not. One of the first things I read about Vancouver was that the zoo had a giraffe.

Yes, yes it did. It had a bunch of them, actually.


We just haven't had time to go until now. And I am so happy we went. We saw hippopotami and zebras and rhinoceroses (um, no idea on plural there) and the giraffes who were so lovely and accommodating as I hogged their attention for most of the afternoon.

Maybe your bucket list does not including meeting a giraffe. That makes me sad, and we can't be friends anymore, because mine does. And he was aloof and pompous as shit.

Chasing wonderment.

Going to check off a bucket list item today.

I will return with pictures.

(However, since I'm one of the few people on the planet not claiming to be a pro/am photographer, the pictures will probably be awful. It's okay. This isn't for you, it's for me.)

He is coming down. Unraveling slowly, counterclockwise still, the hypnotic vortex of nervous, excessive, giant energy dissolving into a maddening lack of routine. Pointing out I don't need to do laundry or chores or anything. It can wait. It can all wait while Ben pulls me into his arms, against his chest and keeps me there, tucked in amongst need and admiration, flush against satisfaction and comfort, fused to lust and raw desire.

I throw my arms around his neck and leave them there. I'm not budging as day becomes night and the sun dims in favor of stars, too many to count as the breeze ruffles my hair so slightly but fails to keep me awake. My eyelids are so heavy. Cement. My chin drops and I let go of consciousness, not caring as it slides down the cliff into the sea. At the last second Lochlan grabs it and pulls it back to the grass, running his hand across my hair, a familiar touch that rouses me briefly, gently.

I look up and a kiss glances off my forehead. Ben pulls my head back down and holds tighter, just for one breath and then I am released. I stand up and Lochlan takes my hand. It's dim. The outdoor lights are off. I follow him back to the door. Ben is behind me. The house is quiet, asleep. We reach our room and the door is closed, locked behind me. I am trapped within the four walls, within four arms, within two hearts. Or maybe that's five hearts, give or take two ghosts and the Devil too. Tonight there are four arms, tanned and familiar, too hard and too desperate, one historical reach and one future love paradise, a conflict lies within the muscles that keep me glued to that space in between their souls.

Ben's arms come back around me, pulling me down, forcing me out into the night. He is risk, adventure and innocent longing, a very basic want, here and now, no questions, no second-guesses, no hesitation, no regrets. His eyes hold nothing but love and want for me and an acceptance of the way things will be, ways he has engineered in absentia, in absoluteness. I am passed back, against gravity into Lochlan's arms, stability, logic and safety, history, complicated and ruined and nuanced, all regrets on deck, innocence lost, accusations hurled, scarring deep gouges into memories left unprotected to the elements, a regret that burns, manifesting itself in an almost comical inability to step away, so instead we move closer together.

Dawn breaks across the horizon line but I miss it.

Super (Charged)

Yes, I've had a few rides in the new Porsche. It's incredibly delicious. A 911. It sounds just like my car and has elicited a Pavlovian response in that every time he pulls up to the house I go and see who is taking my car, since they sound the same. Hence, he is greeted personally each time, which pleases the Devil to no end, let me tell you. I should be less proprietary over my car, but it isn't ownership, it's curiosity that moves me.

Too bad I can't say that for anyone else.

New car smell.

And baby you hurt oh I know
Things we did they just won't die
But life it goes on
Gotta live
We gotta live with how it feels
Down there inside
The feelings that you fight
The demons that you hide
Know you're not alone in how you feel

I am busy. I'm folding laundry and bouncing back and forth between the piles of clothing (stacked in piles according to wearers) and the kitchen, cleaning up and preparing for the next meal. I run the household much like the army does, if I knew anything about the army at all. I have no time for this and yet he's tearing moments apart looking for space anyway.

The ribbon is black with tiny embroidered daisies. It seemed summery so I tied it around my ponytail in a neat bow. By the end of the day it will be jammed into Ben's back pocket when he finds it unraveled on the patio or in the front hall. By then my ponytail will be low and loose, escaped waves everywhere. Disaster and nothing less than the usual.

The Devil puts his hand out to touch the ribbon but I am already on the other side of the kitchen, drying the big pots and pans to be put away.

Bridget.

Yes?

Nothing. I just wanted to be sure of you.

I stop moving and my blood begins a slow simmer, bubbling up into my veins until everything is covered in a red film.

You don't get to use those.

Use what?

Don't think I don't know those quotes better than you think I do. I only forget new things. Insignificant things like 'pick up milk', or 'show me that song'.

So not a decade of trading Pooh quotes with Preacher?

Never. My limbs have become mired in quicksand. Everything is heavy. I can forget about the weight too but once reminded I can't lift it anymore, let alone carry it through the days and nights, unwelcome.

If you want to continue them I'm game. He looks uncomfortable, as if he is deigning to stoop to some level he doesn't want to be on but finds himself on anyway in an effort to jockey for Alpha designation.

I'd rather die than give you any of the honor and familiarity of Jacob's love for me.

I don't need it, princess. I have my own memories with you. I was simply offering an outlet.

Yeah, you're good at that, aren't you?

I just want you to be happy. That's all any of us want, Bridget. We want to be the one to make you happy.

Then stop making me miserable!

Achievement unlocked. Hot tears have spilled over. My nose stings, my skin turns pink, my eyes turn turquoise-blue. He is fascinated, pulling me in against his chest, his fingers locked around my arms, lifting me up to my toes, staring down into my eyes with a wonder that never changes even though he has borne witness to this strange phenomenon for most of my life. I have tried to change how it happens but I guess I should give up after all these years. It's just the way I cry.

It's the last thing I want.

Could have fooled me.

Look, I understand the disappointment. I've been there. You have to remember this way you can continue to honor Cole's memory and Ruth does not have to switch allegiance which would be difficult at her age and unfair after all this time. She took Cole's death particularly hard, you know.

You're really going to be all self-righteous about this, aren't you?

No. Look, I feel for the guy. I know he was hoping for a positive outcome.

He would have made a good father.

He does make a good father, Bridget. We all do our part. This way he doesn't get to claim ownership and then drop it later when it suits him.

Just leave.

Like he did with you.

Just GO. Please. Get out. I don't need this.

You should come with me. I'm consistent. I haven't changed, I've never made you second-guess me. I've never changed my mind. I've never denied you anything, princess.

He wouldn't do that with Ruth.

No one thought he would do that with you, Bridget.

He made a mistake. He came back.

And look what it did to you. I wouldn't give my allegiance to someone who hurt me like that. How do you trust someone who does that? How do you continue to throw yourself at them only to be continually pushed back down? What in the hell does he have that the rest of us don't, Bridget? Why can't you just let him go? Everyone blames me for brainwashing you and it wasn't me. It was never me. I tried to save you from him.

His eyes are red now. I am dumbstruck by how vulnerable he looks and now I understand. Wide open, unchecked, miserable and desperate. Naked. It is a gift to be permitted to see someone this exposed. We all wear so many layers to protect from prying eyes. Little Bridget will forever be twelve years old and completely defenseless in the eyes of the Devil.

She doesn't need to be saved from me.

Lochlan is in the doorway and Caleb lets go of my arms gently, releasing me back to the floor, resuming control of his expression, this one weary hatred tempered with a superiority that masks the relief. The smug decorum, the shot-cuffs, pressed-collar, time-is-money glance at his watch.

And with that he is off, striding out the door, stopping on the verandah to say goodbye to the children, collecting the long hugs they give him with assurances of return in a days' time, crossing the driveway to duck into his new black Porsche, roaring out onto the street, away-away. Fly away home.

What was that all about? What did he say to you?

I turned back to face Lochlan, my bloodshot eyes and overwhelmed mind refusing to censor anything. Fuck it.

He says you make a good father to Ruth, even without the paperwork to prove it.

That means he's up to new tricks.

Maybe he just envies you. Did you ever consider that?

No, he sees me as the only obstacle standing in his way.

I think he's given up.

God, that dreamworld you live in, peanut? It's positively epic. I get why you sleep at night, you fill your own head with lies.

It's better than the alternative.

What alternative?

Remembering the truth.

Super. Ficial.

(Some nights there is no heavy talk at all.)

It was sort of a spur of the moment challenge tossed across a dinner table stacked tall with Chinese takeout, spare chopsticks and puddles of soy sauce, glassware and assorted cookies still wrapped, their fortunes kept secret in sealed packages.

Hey, Benny, if you grow a set of mutton chops between now and Christmas I'll let my bangs grow out.

I wanted to eat the dare as soon as it came out of my mouth. Not only does Ben look lupine and positively wild with facial hair of any kind, but I never liked my face without the long wispy bangs in my eyes, in my mouth, wherever they end up. I never keep them trimmed (or brushed) but I never actually let them grow out either.

You're on, little bee.

He has wanted me to grow them out forever. And me, well, I kind of like the seventies look on men. Aviators, bell-bottom jeans, plaid shirts and long hair with As Much Facial Hair As Possible and I'm gold. Ben does not subscribe fully to that look and that's okay too. I never asked him to change. He still asks me to grow my bangs out. We're just impossibly surfacey and shallow like that, what can I say? How dare feelings or promises get in the way?

I know. Ridiculous.

But between the new gold pirate tooth (Ben had to have a crown and they planned to make the cap white and I was all OMG pirate life for me when they mentioned gold and what do you know? He went gold) and the baseball hat that mashed his hair down all long and flat and made him look well, wow, now all of the sudden we're having a turtle race that will take months and be fun and someone is going to win eventually even though I will probably forget about it unless they remove every last pair of scissors from the house.

It's been done before.

I ate two entire plates full of Chinese food and PJ kept my glass refilled with vodka and something something strawberry and really at this point I would have pointed out I could grow back my fairy wings and pointy ears if only they would just stay still for a little while and everything would have been okay.

Instead I sat at the empty table after dinner with the takeout shrapnel strewn everywhere and I drew until I could move again.

I have everything figured out. No worries.

Bring on the Lizard King.

Staying out late (aka Moving Pictures).

(I'm going to start filing these posts under a FANGIRL or WACKY ESOTERIC CONCERT REVIEWS THAT AREN'T tag or something.)

Riding through the range of light to the wounded city
Filling my spirit with the wildest wish to fly
Taking the high road to the wounded city
Memory strumming at the heart of a moving picture

All this time I've been workin' them angels overtime
Riding and diving and flying
Just over the edge
Workin' them angels overtime

It's Canada Day, possibly the first one we've all been off for and can celebrate fully in the past decade. Every community across the country throws a party and we celebrate being uniquely different, a complete smorgasbord, undefinable as Canadians except in knowing that everyone loves us because we are helpful, fun and unfailingly polite. We're loyal. We talk funny, maple syrup is a food group, our rock music is incredibly distinctive and our country is so large some of us have missed whole provinces and territories and road trips take weeks instead of hours because each major center is isolated hours away from the next. Currently I live 6000 kilometers from where I was born and I feel right at home because I am still home.

We began our celebrations last night with a trip into town to see these guys. Everyone knows Rush is a Canadian band. Everyone.


They're our Pink Floyd, pretty much. Lochlan bought Moving Pictures with some of his money from working overtime, and I was not permitted to touch the vinyl record because my hands were always sticky from cotton candy. Or I was dirty. Or really pick something and he would turn it into a reason.

(For the record, I am still not allowed to touch the vinyl. Because I still have sticky, dirty fingers and am still a child in his eyes, but whatever. Someone hands me a record now and my mouth opens in a little awe-filled oo-sound, because they are still so forbidden to me.)

I saw Rush for the first time three years ago in Winnipeg, of all places (they have only played Halifax twice after all and both times I was too young to go) and was blown away. Blown away. So when they spooled up the Moving Pictures tour it was without question, we would be going.


(Obligatory awful concert snap. Loooooook! It's Aaaaaaaaaalex!)

And we did, last night in Vancouver and it was absolutely mind-numbingly awesome, again. Something like fourteen thousand people air-drumming in unison. Losing our shit to the opening strains of Tom Sawyer, the inevitable tears from me when Faithless was played, because that is my all-time favorite Rush song, and the ever-recognizable YYZ which we might know every single note to by heart, thanks to history, Canadian content laws for radio and television, good taste and Rock Band on the Xbox.

Three hours of music. Ben caught ONE missed note. One. We were exhausted, the band was not. Huh.

It was the perfect kick-off to Canada Day, I believe. I am sated until Clockwork Angels is released. When that happens I'm going to get a copy on vinyl just so I can smooth my fingers along the grooves, feeling the melodies underneath my skin and Lochlan won't be able to tell me I can't.

(Continuity, by request.)

I had a secret chair. I would put my writing binder in the top of the milk crate that held Lochlan's tools, and then I could sit on it and be comfortable while I waited for him. I couldn't lift the crate or pull it to put it in the shade but I sat there anyway. It wouldn't be long. The freckles were mostly melted together on my face at this point anyway.

It was the first day of July.

I could see the motorcycle. Lochlan was coming back from the big grocery store on the other side of town. Lashed behind him was a cardboard box full of provisions for our trip. He had already paid to take the camper and we were going to drive up to Cavendish and stay at one of the campgrounds on the beach for a week.

Lochlan was eighteen and he had been working every day for the past three months and he was really looking forward to a break without whistles and megaphones and hours of sunshine enough for work dictating his daily routine. We had eaten little and spent nothing since my birthday to allow for this one massive trip.

Massive. I couldn't even fathom going that far without the show. And this trip was going to fix everything that he broke, or so he told me. All I knew is that I loved adventure and I loved Lochlan and the camper too but I was afraid of the dark. I was afraid of being an island away from help. I didn't have any money. I didn't have any identification save for a library card. Lochlan carried my papers in his back pocket every single day, the ones that said he had temporary legal guardianship of me. Those were the only papers that were important.

He smiled when he saw me and pulled the bike right up to the door of the camper. He opened the door and then motioned me inside and started handing things to me. Bread. A bag of apples. A few six-packs of juice bottles. Pop. Chips. Peanut butter and jam. A box of spaghetti and a jar of sauce. Special K. When he passed me the cereal he said we would buy cartons of milk at the store when we got there and fresh vegetables and meat too.

I wrinkled my nose.

Okay, hot dogs, then, miss picky.

You can eat whatever you want.

He smiled and kept passing me things. Toilet paper. Bug spray.

I held up the bug spray.

The mosquito count is high up there, peanut.

Did you get honey?

Honey? Yes. Here.

Okay, I'm good. What about licorice?

Licorice? No, Bridget. We're not buying candy.

Yeah, I know. But boo.

I am holding out my hand for the next item but he shakes his head. That's it.

We don't eat this well usually. My stomach rumbles at the sight of all these groceries. I look at Lochlan and he tells me we're going to have a week where we don't worry about anything.

You promise?

I promise. He holds out his pinky and I lock mine around it. Swear.

You ready?

Yeah. I run and grab my binder and he puts the tools in under the table. Then he gives me a quick kiss on the forehead and starts the bike again. He'll take it to Chris and Chris will run him back. Meanwhile I start storing the food anywhere I can find space. A tight fit. There's one little cupboard. By the time I'm finished it's tucked everywhere. We'll never find anything because I'll forget and now every day will be a scavenger hunt of sorts.

I slide the last box of pasta in beside his drawing books when I hear the bike outside and he is home. My stomach flutters. I'm excited. I wish I had a new sundress or something to look pretty for him but we don't spend our money on things like that.

I hear him call out a See you later man, and the bike roars off again. Lochlan comes inside and hands another bag to me. A small white one this time. I peek in and I don't know what it is.

Ribbons. So you have some variety. He smiles sheepishly. I dump the contents of the bag into my lap and squeal. Hair ribbons. All velvet. Every color of the rainbow. Pastels and brights. Some are embroidered too. One had sequins sewn onto it. He fishes out a thin, plain pink one and says here, this one would be pretty right now. He pulled my braid out of my hoodie and tied the ribbon around the end of it.

These are beautiful.

Bring them up into the truck, then. A huge smile remained on his face.

Are we leaving?

Yes. Let's get this show on the road.

Tie it tightly or it will slip off.

That's as small as it goes, peanut.

I'll just push it up my arm then.

I trace the carving of the bird and smooth my fingers down the leather band. It's dark brown and it serves to highlight my golden arms, toasted by the rare sun. If the sun is out I am out too, turning lightly, soaking it up for the next round of endless heavy summer rains. The weather here is strange and shockingly, mildly unpredictable. The bracelet is more unpredictable. It's a talisman, a very personal one and I'm wearing it for protection from their hearts, maybe. It does not belong to me, it's his. Lochlan put it on me yesterday morning and it's been there ever since.

Late last evening we sat at the island while he patiently evaluated the latest round of figure drawings I was working on. Proportions. Measuring out limbs and height in faint straight lines, constructive criticisms that left me frustrated but eager to try harder and by midnight I had completed several decent forms. It's a slow road but by the end of the month I will have filled this sketchbook and be on the next.

And a meeting. There was a full-complement family meeting yesterday, Caleb included but instead of continuing this stream of consciousness, I need to go collect my children now. It's their final day of school. Next year Ruth enters Junior high as a freshly minted grade 7 student and Henry begins grade 5. I don't know how THAT all happened but here it is and it feels weird and I may talk about it more or we may just head straight for the movies. It's Transformers day and that's a big deal too. We have bets on whether Rosie Huntington-Whiteley can fill Megan Fox's shoes, er...shorts.

****
The verdict? She can.

Noon on third.

Low tide is when you catch all the treasures the sea can hold so close to shore. Clams. Mussels by the thousands. Beautifully tumbled colored glass. Pretty shells. Ripples so deep and perfect you trip over them as the beach grows exponentially, stretching out in front of you. Your blank canvas, your home. Your own personal exhalation, distilled down to tiny grains of glass, seaweed and salt air so thick you can cut it with a knife.


It's not like you'll be alone when you get there, but it's always worth a shot. For the record he said the water was warm. I stuck my hands in and he was right. He's always right.