Curiosity killed the Bridget. Over and over and over again.

Resurrected only to be stabbed again, through the heart, off with her head, hold her under until she stops struggling at last only to have her resurface in a desperate gasp for air once more. Surprise. It's become a game, a comedy of errors. A black one where the humor makes you cringe and the jokes fall flat but hit home, a train wreck with front row seats, reserved for you.

You can hold her out by the neck, twisting in the wind, clawing at your hand, fighting for purchase and you laugh as she implodes out of sheer frustration. She'll keep fighting though. She will. And she's well aware it's going to kill her in the end and as scary as that seems, she sees no other way around this.

Special days like today.

This morning I was on my knees, head down, hands clasped. This is not difficult. Not this part, anyway.

Please let me be a good mother to him. Let me raise him to be a good person, let him be kind and helpful and open and true. Help him be strong. Help him be happy. Help me to make the right decisions and above all let him know he is loved, always. No matter what.

Amen.

Today is the day! The day Henry turns ten, and the day I've had in the back of my mind since he was born, a day where I would exhale and realize that the younger years are over with and I no longer have to worry about cups with lids or cutting food or choosing clothing or holding hands because if I don't he will disappear.

He knows to wash his hands without having to be reminded and that it's pretty damned cool to get up early on Saturday morning and head downstairs to make toast and watch cartoons before the rest of the house awakens. He cries easily and laughs so loud. He is a full two inches taller than Ruth was when she turned ten and he likes anything with robots, pirates, chocolate or magic. He clears the table, cuts the grass, walks the dog, takes the garbage out and if we would only let him, start the car.

Pretty amazing, if you ask me.

I hope the next ten years are as wonderful, and I know they will be tough, since he's now in double-digit birthdays those teenage years are not far off. I can't picture him driving, or working somewhere, or starting his band, or having a girlfriend, though I have been an unintended first-hand witness to his efforts to wish a classmate a good summer while she signed his yearbook. She lives two streets away and Henry turns an absolute wicked shade of pink when I mention her name, but only on the tips of his ears. I can't imagine how it's going to feel when she breaks his heart.

I have a house full of people and his favorite foods on the birthday menu, which has not changed since he was old enough to answer when asked what he would like, somewhere around his third birthday. Spaghetti, chocolate cake with chocolate icing and chocolate sprinkles, and milk, please. Easy enough.

Happy Birthday, Henry Jacob. You are the greatest little boy in the whole entire world.

1827 days is so long, I daresay he wouldn't recognize me now.

(I would be wrong.)

I have my nose pressed against the glass, watching the evening traffic far below me on the streets of Cole Harbor as people scurry about, crossing against the lights, turning on a yellow signal or ducking into doorways. Further down I see men working on boats, couples strolling the dock, tourists pausing to take pictures and seagulls circling for crumbs.

The smell hits my nose and it wrinkles involuntarily. I pull my face away from the people-ants at street level and ask what brand of cigar it is, even though I already might know the answer.

Cohiba?

Opus X.

Ah. I return to the tilt-shift scenery as he bows smoke rings toward me, pausing every now and then to take a sip of his scotch before resuming his favorite hobby,which is sitting in a chair watching me. For the night I choose to remain expressionless. I am tired, jaded and unable to feign surprise or even cordiality with Caleb some days now. Some days I just appear and wait him out and go home again, woodenly. The doll he always wanted to play with that he can now that he has the money to stand on that places him above reproach or maybe that's below eye-level so he isn't forced to find reasons or make excuses.

(You play with dolls?)

(Just one, and if you saw her you would understand.)

This doll doesn't play back and he has already offered a drink, a dinner, a trip, a night, a cruise, a flight, a drive and a memory. Really I just wanted a drag off of his cigar so I could blow it in a curse into his face as I walked out the door but instead I am still waiting for him to sign one more thing for Ben's release and confirm what time he will be coming to the house for cake, presents and a trip to the theatre to see Harry Potter with the entire collective tomorrow, at Henry's request. Only then can I go but of course he wants to watch me for a while first. What me nervously flutter my hands against the glass. A moth trapped in the porch light. Nothing you can do.

I watch a lady with a dog. She is watching the water and I wonder if she can feel me watching her. She walks slowly and I keep my eye on her until she disappears up the concourse. I look for someone new to focus my attention on and he begins to talk. Good. Let's get this over with so I can go home. I have a cake to ice, and I still need to organize the house. We moved some furniture to do the carpets in the main areas and it has to be put back. Maybe Ben already did that. Unless of course he is waiting for me in the lobby. More often than not that is where I find him when I leave the condo, for he can be more possessive than the rest combined, alive or dead.

Save for one.

Caleb, having completed his cigar and his drink, stands and crosses to where I have managed to land finger- and nose- prints all over the glass of his patio doors. Because he won't allow me outside unless he has a good grip on my hand and even then it's frowned upon. I think the boys think he might become so angry he throws me over the railing but I know him best and I don't believe he would. He's never surprised me in my entire life with his actions, perverse as they may be, he's not about to begin now. He is missing my full reactions already. The disappointment will flood in before the luxury of being alone with me ebbs for this day.

It's incredible to think our son is ten years old. Jesus, Bridget. Where has it gone? I feel like I'm standing still but time is racing past. You're an equal now, Henry's ten. Already. I have a chance to make up the time I have lost with him and with you. Thank you for giving me that.

He puts his arms out and I automatically walk into them. They close around me and I rest my head against his chest, listening for his heartbeat, reassuring myself I won't lose anyone else in this lifetime. Even the devil, because the devil makes promises and he keeps them. He keeps them clenched in his fist, white hot vows used as weapons of history. Dismantling memories, filling in the holes, making for damn sure that no one drops the ball (or the fire), knowing what we came from, knowing that our business is no one else's and time does indeed race past at a dizzying clip.

I count the number of his heartbeats that it takes for mine to slow back down and then I pull out of his embrace and he frowns. The devil is only truly alive when he touches an innocent, an angel, a dream. I'm not any of those things but I give him those precious minutes to pretend and I can take an equal measure of minutes to consider Cole, long gone exactly five years and two days now and the only way either one of us can make it go away is with each other.

Goodnight, Vancouver.

This morning at a toy store I found the battle of Mons Badonicus well underway. King Arthur paused long enough for me to take just one photograph.

When we finally made it home after a wonderful day out poking around at a whole bunch of different places, I was greeted by this:

Hi Mommy! What did you bring me?

Cool! Can we keep it?

I'm a lucky, lucky girl.

Ben is outside early this morning, finishing part of the new fence. He has decided that hand tools are the way to go, and also that his utilikilt is the best uniform for fence-building now. Just the kilt, for the shirt is usually torn off fifteen minutes in.

It's a thing of beauty to watch this brawny, fledgling renaissance man fortifying his kingdom against the beasts of the wild.

It's even better watching him do it in this endless pouring rain.

Sigh.

Back to the future, blue smock edition.

A productive day. We found all the gifts we wanted to get for Henry for his upcoming birthday, we found a new shopping center that is closer and nicer than the one we've been trekking to since we moved here, and I took apart the entire time machine (dishwasher) and managed to put it back together with only one hint. Tomorrow when I run it it could still leak all over the floor but for now I'll call it a job well done. I can always turn it back to the past, where I don't run it and my kitchen is saved, right?

And sadly, after a nineteen month hiatus, Bridget walked the fuck back into Wal-Mart today.

God, I hate Wal-Mart but this was the first one I ever visited that wasn't a nosedive straight into purgatory. It was well-lit, neat, clean, the staff were helpful and the other customers weren't straight out of a bad dream. I might go back. We'll see.

Trust me when I tell you Wal-Mart gives me the heebie-jeebies. Sadly it was the best place for housewares and kids clothing and maybe it will have to be again as we weather the challenge of both children being in half adult/half children sizing still.

(It's rough. I keep a list and I keep their wardrobes pretty spare for now. I never know when I'm going to wake up and hear that wail that means they outgrew all their outfits overnight. It happens. It happens often.)

So thank you Wal-mart for always going to bat for me, even though I am superungrateful and snobbish and shit. And do you sell dishwashers? Twenty dollars says my kitchen is going to become a lake in the morning when I fire up the time machine tomorrow and dial it back to 1999, the year before Wal-Mart even existed for this two-bit, small-town girl.

Don't forget to greet me at the door. I really love that part. It's like you already know me. Maybe you have time machines after all, and you've been using them all along, seeing into my future, knowing I would be called back to the fold.

You're really creepy, Wal-Mart. But that's okay. Bridget LOVES creepy.

Benjamin battened.

Fuck retro anything.
Fuck your tattoos.
Fuck all you junkies and
Fuck your short memory.

Learn to swim.
Fuck smiley glad-hands with hidden agendas.
Fuck these dysfunctional, insecure actresses.
Learn to swim.

Because I'm praying for rain
And I'm praying for tidal waves
I want to see the ground give way.
I want to watch it all go down.
Mom, please flush it all away.
I want to watch it go right in and down.
I want to watch it go right in.
Watch you flush it all away.

Time to bring it down again.
Don't just call me a pessimist.
Try and read between the lines.
I can't imagine why you wouldn't
Welcome any change, my friend.

Just listening to music and watching the skies tonight. A storm is coming, better close all the windows and curl up next to someone safe.

The swindle.

I don't have the discipline to breathe the open air
No one has to listen when all they do is stare

People can't be counterfeited. Not like cosmetics and Louis Vuitton handbags and questionable watches. People are real and unique and stamped with invisible serial numbers that lie behind their eyes and in their voices. The patterns of their fingerprints and the beat of their hearts. Their style, whether it be designer or thrift store, conservative or flamboyant. Stereotypical but still unique.

People I know are not fake or shallow or knocked off. People are not manufactured on the sly to be as close as possible to the real thing. They are the real thing from the first moment, without a doubt, without a question, without wondering if the deal will be too good to pass up or better left unsold just in case, obtained from a more reputable source as money well spent without the forced gamble.

At the bottom of the whiskey glass we talked about fake versus genuine. At the bottom of the bottle we talked about promises to always be real. At the bottom of my eyelids I was sure I was real but I haven't checked yet and maybe when I wasn't looking they made a cheap replica somewhere and shoved it out into the limelight when everyone turned their backs and she's not going to last as long as her paint is already scraped off and her voice won't hold and she seems sort of brittle when you pick her up and she can't hold her liquor or her heart at all.

Forty-five degree angels.

It was a small job, finishing a curiously uncapped half wall in the master bathroom but it's done. Ben and a miter box and a sharp new saw and me, passing the pencil to him and holding out nails and finally holding the new crisp white trim in place as he hammered it into place.

He said to move my hand a little and then he said Hold still.

I closed my eyes, feeling the hammer falling millimeters from my fingertips. One wrong move and I would be the one with the broken hand instead of Lochlan, one distraction and my fingers would be smashed by Benjamin, large and strong, wielding steel with determination, with effort.

And I was not afraid.

It was liberating.

This is how most of our conversations go.

If you want to go on an African safari just say the word, princess. You know the world is your oyster, after all.

No, it isn't. In fact, I think it's yours.

Give me your bucket list and I'll see to it that everything is checked off by Saturday.

Fuck off.

This is why you don't get anywhere, princess. You're so combative.

Ha. I thought you liked that.

I am trying to be nice. I'm trying to show you I can do these things.

So can any of the others.

But have they?

I'm not asking them to. I'm not asking you to either.

It's a fucking giraffe and you acted as though someone had given you a hearing transplant.

Okay, that, if you can make it happen, would be lovely.

I can see that you get devices that actually work so you don't get frustrated.

They don't exist.

Sure they do. Good technology costs money.

That why you bought the car?

Partly, yes. I have always loved the design of the 911s though.

My car could still take yours.

Not off the line.

No, overall. That's how you win a race.

By stopping to look at the giraffes and wishing you had the time/money/means to indulge yourself just a little more for once?

Yeah, that's how. And I won. Kiss my dirt.

Fine, Miss Doolittle. See you tomorrow.

Ta-ta, Mister Higgins. Better get a head start in that slow car of yours.

Jesus, Bridget, so nasty today. I hope tomorrow sees you a little more cheerful.

There's an easy way to ensure that, Caleb.

And how is that? Tell me. I'll do anything.

Don't come over.

Nice.

I warned you.

Yes. Yes, you did.