I've lost sight of who is safe and who isn't.

Neither Caleb nor Batman ever sleep. I truly think that while the rest of us are naked and drooling, facedown in the sheets, these two are on the phone setting up deals overseas, with those for whom the times zones vary wildly. I daresay I can count on two hands the times I have encountered one or the other actually released from a wakeful state and yes, it was as disconcerting as you would imagine. I would tell you a horrifying story about the first thought that entered my mind upon finding Caleb with his guard down. I believe it may have involved a weapon of some kind but no, I'm not going to put it on the Internet and besides, thought crimes are not crimes per se so just nevermind. You can't indict me for wishing.

But real events are real, sadly and this morning I am overseeing the replacement of an entire wall of glass in Caleb's office because in case you missed the earthquake this morning, there wasn't one, it was Satan THROWING a table at Batman, who ducked and the table went crashing into the windows which aren't actually windows but walls made of glass that aren't supposed to be breakable. The table was sticking out of the glass when I arrived, a web of cracks stretching twenty feet on either side. No worries, I am not alone and the momentary lack of control has been replaced with Satan's usual droning hum of malevolence in an undercurrent just below the surface.

He shot his cuffs and morphed back into James Bond. It's a practiced talent. Under the dress shirt is his other form. A psychopathic nightmare. As long as he's wearing a suit we're safe. This morning? Armani, I think. When Batman arrived I am guessing Caleb was still in a black t-shirt and his shorts from a cloudy early run. The operative reminder here today would be to note that you wait until he's in the suit to be confrontational. That much I have learned anew over the past five years.

Batman isn't going to wait for Caleb to be less dangerous, for Batman trumps everything, including the devil. This hierarchy, clearly it comes from comic books and my curses come in waves at high tide, the dangerous time of day when I can't read the letters under the sea and I don't take care or exercise caution, leaving caution to morph into risk on my behalf. No work for Bridget, no, Bridget's going to be difficult.

And so the allegiance shifts once more and the power moves with it and Batman becomes the one we answer to because I was sold out. SOLD OUT.

They stopped working for Caleb in order to work for Batman.

Why didn't you tell me?

I could ask you the same thing. Do you remember our conversation from December?

Sure. You told me to fish or cut bait.

Batman smiled tightly but didn't flinch. He isn't unsophisticated enough to be rattled by my bluntness. Or by my beauty, sadly. I have no aces up my sleeves. I don't even have sleeves in this dress, for crying out loud. I have nothing, not my flesh, not my soul, not my heart, I am a doll. My eyes are sewn on and my dress is stitched to my plastic frame. I will sit in the corner and stare until played with, you can call me any name you want and I will never look back at you with accusatory eyes, just my customary I-didn't-hear-you blank expressionless pretty face.

I said I would give you weeks and I gave you months and you haven't made a move to put him in his place.

Why didn't you tell me you talked the boys into working for you?

They're not working for me. What are you talking about?

You own everything they're starting in.

I catch him off guard but then his face breaks into a huge grin.

You're not easily fooled.

I must look so incredibly stupid to all of you, you don't give me credit for a damned thing.

We give you credit for your strength.

It isn't strength, you idiot, it's endurance. It's patience. It's a pain threshold beyond anything you have ever even imagined.

The grin is gone. Away to be burned off by the sun. I hit the mark. Batman's been a safe haven of a different sort. His offers of help were so final and frightening, his power a little too great. I've never really believed that he was a man, he seemed to be more of a superhero, someone who held great power, someone who would only help you when you had nowhere else left to turn and as bad as things were, I still lined the boys up in order and Batman was always last. I put space between us on purpose and so he was last.

Last. This race is a joke, I'd rather come up slow through the populated portions of this race to watch the people in the park play chess on those giant human-sized boards, schlepping their rooks about the squares on a bright sunny day, not caring for the outcome of the game, just for the sake of play.

Running without watching where I'm going never ends well, now, does it? When I don't look where I'm going I have a tendency to trip and fall and hurt myself and this time, it goes as well as expected.

You've changed the subject. The point is, I gave you a time limit, and your time is up, Bridget.

Like hell it is, I say, and I step back into the elevator, letting the doors close in his face. Caleb didn't throw the table because he was angry, he threw it because he was scared. That's when you lose control the most. When you are unequivocally afraid.

Brass tacks and rings too.

I can't hear you breathing
I can't hear you leading
More than just a feeling
More than just a feeling
I can't feel you reaching
Pushing through the ceiling
Till the final healing
I'm looking for you

Until the sea of glass we meet
At last completed and complete
Where tide and tear and pain subside
And laughter drinks them dry
I'll be waiting
Anticipating
All that I aim for
What I was made for
With every heartbeat
All of my blood bleeds
Running inside me
Looking for you

I am watching his hands as he sits forward, elbows on knees on the step, fingers loosely wrapped around the wine glass, curls low over his eyes, not watching the ocean but instead focused out on nothing in particular, unchecked expression staring bitterly into what remains in the bottom. In the grass. Into thin air. In the back of his own mind. Into nothing at all or maybe so deep he wouldn't be able to describe it adequately if asked, as a fault and fatal flaw in all of us, not having the words when they are needed most.

Not even remotely a flaw in one's ability to describe a moment or a feeling but a nod to how big that moment is and how inadequate the words become overall.

His hand is healing at last. Third cast is off as of yesterday and he is favoring it slightly today but you wouldn't notice if you watched him. I notice because I've known him forever, and I also was the one to drag him back each time to have a new cast put on when he would cut himself out of the previous one, sit through the lecture and promise to keep an eye on him and help him enough to not mind it so much, but if you knew Lochlan he is single-minded and low on patience as a rule. At least he looks like himself again. His lip healed, his eyebrow grew back, and he doesn't resemble a prizefighter so much as the busker that is hard to forget, quick with the charm, as always.

He has also shaved off the beard, and I am left cold against his cheek, hands up under the curls that spill across his shoulders. Summer hair. Lochlan can only be convinced once or twice a year to cut his hair and the rest of the time he lets it grow into unbelievable round bouncy curls and it's sort of funny and amazing and beautiful too. If I had hair like that I would never ever cut it. And I wouldn't listen to anyone either. I would sit on the step and drink my wine and watch the sun fall into the sea and I would swear if you came too close but wish for change and I would go to bed silent and sullen and warm.

He puts his hand out long enough to take mine and then he tucks it back up under his arm, against his chest, pulling me in tight beside him. I am shivering slightly. It's grown cold outdoors but he does not feel it yet.

Watch the skies, peanut, he instructs and dutifully I look up, following the angle of his chin so that I can see what I'm supposed to. The stars are beginning to light up, one at a time. The hues play from purple to gold to orange. He's no longer looking at the skies now, he is staring at me. I keep looking up and he presses his forehead against my hair, pushing against my head. I push back slightly. Reassurance. Stability. I am the one who makes them feel safe when it's supposed to be the other way around. My breath catches in my throat, a lump that chokes me up and I can't breathe so I sit, still as a mouse and just as quiet.

Finally I realize I am holding my breath long after I win back control of the sudden sadness and I let it all out in a shaky exhale. This is not lost on Lochlan, who releases my hand slowly and moves away with a final kiss on my hair. He stands up and pulls me up with him, into his good arm, the place one will always find a Bridget, for a final wordless squeeze and I am shoved toward the house gently, almost imperceptibly, back toward the warmth and the light inside. Back toward my own reality, tripping out of nostalgia reluctantly and with purpose. I am not his and yet he remains mine forever. Or maybe it's the other way around. I don't know. It's dark and my brain is tired and the tears still threaten and the nights are so long. In the darkness the years dissolve. In the darkness memories spread in a film over the water, diluted, dissipating easily to return perched atop the sunrise, so we won't miss them, as if we ever could.

Coffee is always bitter and must be sweetened each morning. This is why. When we meet across the island at dawn he will take my hand and tuck it back into his and Ben will do the same and at some point I have to squirm away from both or I don't get any coffee at all.

Waxing and waning.

There's a tiny hole in the wall shop I like to stop into that happens to sell these little kits, pencil boxes stuffed with Japanese character stationery things. The last one I picked up was a pink box with fifteen different Sanrio pens/mechanical pencils, a Popsicle-shaped box filled with soap flakes for hand washing on the go, a teddy bear notebook, two Miffy key chains, a stapler, Snoopy tape, Pucca stickers, Hello Kitty stickers, a Rilakkuma case with rainbow pencil leads, sparkly little gift tags for attaching to things and a huge package of origami strips.

Which we have almost finished using up in an effort to make paper lucky/wishing stars.

They're neat too but I am ridiculously bad with instructions and very impatient. I am also short on words tonight so I'll say goodnight now. I have a late walk date with a guy, a big guy who shaved off the mutton chops this morning, in a huff because hair on his face drives him nuts. He grows the beard for me and then steels himself against the inevitable flood of brief silly disappointment when he appears clean-shaven more often than I would like. I don't really mind. I mean, I love beards but I imagine all that hair on your face must get stupidly hot and itchy after a while.

Sort of like my legs. Sometimes I forget and then the boys make cheep-chirpy noises and I make a mental note to wax them. My legs, not the boys. Silly Internets. I would wax all the boys but only from the necks down. It goes without saying and so I will say no more.

Except goodnight.

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.