Performance art.

What used to be a house of cards has turned into a reservoir
Save the tears that were waterfalling
Let's go swim tonight, darling

And once outside the undertow
Just you and me, and nothing more
If not for love, I would be drowning
I've seen it work both ways

But I am up riding high amongst the waves
Where I can feel like I have a soul that has been saved
Where I can feel like I've put away my early grave

Sitting on the edge of the metal chair in the frost, I can see my breath. Good. I can't feel my heartbeat anymore through all of the scar tissue so any outward indicator that my life continues is a blessing. Or maybe it's a curse. Maybe I'm the curse. Maybe the sun only rises to sear my visage from their corneas and maybe the sun doesn't even rise, maybe it's a projection onto the wall opposite the window to make me think life continues on while I hunker down behind the barred door.

Maybe I haven't been paying attention. I am too busy always stacking letters, coloring black inside all of the lines and falling in love to see anything up to and including the hand in front of my face. I see eyes and then teeth. I see smiles and frowns and distracted expressions. I see dead people too but that's a line from a movie and I don't like the expressions that transform their faces when I say that, even when things are fine. Even when I'm only teasing. Which I hardly ever do because poor taste doesn't change with the light, there is no sunset on class and decorum is required at all times.

Call it Bridget's School of Etiquette and Good Graces, call it a freakshow, call it yours. No one cares, we are far too busy being distracted by one other.

Lochlan's standing with his hands in his pockets. Probably turning the flint wheel of his lighter until his thumb blackens into a permanent groove. He does it slowly, partly to keep the cadence with his mind and partly so he doesn't set his pocket alight. He's done that before. Four times, if one is counting, but one isn't because, as I said, we are far too busy being distracted by one another.

You have to pay attention. If you don't, this won't work.

He's wearing a corduroy suitcoat but it's grey, not green. If he wore green he would resemble a leprechaun, and that just wouldn't do. Black vest. Burgundy button-down shirt and jeans. Black fedora. Black tennis shoes. This is his busking uniform, for lack of a more succinct description, and it's perfect. Part showman, part functional. Deep pockets so he won't lose things. Comfortable arms for throwing torches and then easy to remove top pieces until he is in pants and shoes only. Hat to pass later, though he doesn't pass it so much as hold it out for bills and spare change.

The last time he held the hat out for me I emptied my pockets into it. I had a fifty-dollar bill, three fives and seven bobby pins. He brought me back the pins later but I never saw the money again. He is true to his calling, and the money disappears. The gypsy in him manifests as a thief, and I know better than to give him what I want to keep.

But then he smiles and it's hard to remember so many things. Like the day of the week and the number after eleven and my last name (changed so many times I hardly use one anymore, sort of like Enya or Sting). Only when the light changes back to bright do I realize I've been robbed again and I go looking for payback and I find it on the cold stone patio in the bleak morning sun.

The wind and the sea conspire to take his words away from me but he holds onto them, his arm stretching up to the sky, waiting to catch fire on the way down, appearing to hold on to a burning balloon swept away by a renegade gale.

And I am transfixed.

I sit with my hands pulled up into the sleeves of my black wool coat (brand new, not like the threadbare robins egg blue one they all fell in love with that finally fell apart and boy, is that a euphemism for the princess or what?) but I am not the only one. Ben stands on the top step near the door. Frozen to the bone, frozen in time, if just for that moment, having stepped into a history where he has no footprints to follow and no memories to lead the way.

He'll take over, pulling me roughly by the hand as we try to stay on the middle road, sometimes veering courageously to the high road, sometimes settling in comfortably to the low one, but whichever road we take is hard for me to manage because Ben walks fast and he won't let go. I'm at once grateful and fed up and overwhelmed and bemused by what I see here, that's for certain. I'm not the only one who admires the red curls and the lower stage charm of a different kind of showman. I'm not the only one idolizing the wrong people.

But you have to catch Ben in the right light, or you would see nothing at all.

It starts now.

Today has been a comedy of errors. Thought I was a week behind. Then I ran out of tape. Then I couldn't find a box. Then I found out ALL of the school pictures I ordered were bizarre sizes, so none of the frames fit.

I finally had the away/East coast packages ready to deploy and jumped in the car and hit the highway and.....went in the wrong direction.

Got to the post office forty minutes later (instead of fifteen) and the lineup was out the door.

Dear God.

Then the kind clerk tells me 10 business days and I panic and think..it's the fifth, so that means it won't make it by the twenty-fifth. I was never very good at math and so I chose Express Post, which meant the prices doubled and now shipping is more than the gifts and oh dear. Yes, I know. I had ALL KINDS OF TIME for the boxes to make it to their destinations, now they will just get there faster.

No peeking, Nolan.

I was on my way and realized we need milk. I stop in the drugstore to get some and wind up in another lineup. Apparently everyone does all their errands from 12-1. This time the lineup features famous faces. Like Meatloaf, or so I thought until he turned around. I think I was hungry and just projecting.

Rattled? Completely.

Why, you ask?

My daughter's going to her first school dance tonight. Our daughter is, I mean.

Because she's twelve, and twelve changes everything. Just ask her father.

A note to address a recent influx of emails from last week.

(This is not the day's post.)

If you are waiting for me to write about Ben's birthday, you will hold your breath for a while, possibly until you black out and fall over. He requested that I keep it the way it was. Private, intimate. Close. He is forty-three now and he says he doesn't feel a day over twenty-three.

I did not know Ben when he was twenty-three, but from what I hear he was a real troublemaker.

Thankfully he still is.

The designated tool.

Today I found an axe.

I was condensing a shelf full of camping supplies and jammed deep down in one of the big expedition backpacks I found it. Unsharpened, blackened and quite demure, it slid awkwardly out of the case and I laughed out loud. The last time I saw this was during one of our winter excursions to Keji for backcountry camping, long before the children were born.

I remember being afraid of that axe, though Cole was determined that I learn to chop wood for the fire. Fuck that, I'll cut my legs off below the knees, I told him. He laughed and lit another cigarette. Don't be so ridiculous, he told me, reaching out and taking back the axe. I gave it up willingly.

I'm not so good with sharp things, like knives or wit. Only with naming things and making up stories about things.

That night I drew scenes from the campsite with Lochlan while Cole chopped enough wood to last that campsite the rest of the season and the next one too. I look at this tiny, dull instrument and I don't know how he did it only that he was always freakishly strong for his size. I remember him offering it to Ben on later trips and Ben would defer. Ben wouldn't touch that thing, he wanted to save his hands. He was hellbent on becoming a famous musician and said he didn't feel like getting himself killed.

(That turns our prodigal son into the prophet, but that isn't what this about. Also, as I've said before, Ben was a terrible camper so no one expected anything from him but music.)

When I found the axe and laughed PJ walked into the back hallway to see what was going on. I showed him my find and he said it was cool. Hey, we can use this. Maybe it would be good for the Christmas tree farm but I took it back and put it up on a high shelf.

Why are you doing that, Bridge?

It's too small and dull. It's like the lady axe. It's the....the parlour hatchet.

He started to laugh and squeezed me against him. 'The parlour hatchet'. That's great. What do you think would be a better choice for getting the tree this year then?

A 50cc, twenty-inch gas-powered chainsaw works for me.

We've ruined you, haven't we?

Yes, PJ. Completely.

The mighty harmonist.

I'm gonna ask you to look away
I love my hands, but it hurts to pray
Life I have isn't what I've seen
The sky is not blue and the field's not green

Today was all Ben, all the time. He in his Hardcore Bagpiping t-shirt, and I in my military jacket. Matching jeans, matching smiles. Fingers touching, hearts woven tight.

It was freezing on the beach. Not our beach, a different one. Across the bridge and down the hill. Our beach is wicked and sinister and rough, this one is more refined. My toes were numb but my mind was soothed. My fingers were filthy with sand and slippery seaweed and crab shell but my ears were filled with the sounds of the surf crashing and seagulls calling softly. I didn't know while we were there that Ben made a long recording of the sounds while we were silent. He brought home the ocean for me and can trigger tears at will, just by holding his phone up to my ear and pressing PLAY.

The Pacific is such an amazing entity. She and I are someday going to be such good friends but for now I approach her politely and stay as long as she'll have me and then I retreat to the treeline and wait for the next invitation. I stalk her. I lust after her. I hide like a freak in the shadows and count the waves crashing as my breath hitches and rolls in time. I am the harmless thief, filling my pockets with the treasures she leaves behind, the jars and basketsful at home a revelation in deference to my singular obsession.

Ben had so much patience for my nonsense today. He waded and waited, he shot and he sought me out, he brought me shells and gave me hell and he finally suggested home when the dark arrived in a flourish and began to eat away at the edges of the horizon.

I was so reluctant. I kept wanting to suggest he simply come back for me tomorrow but I knew better and so I followed him up the hill, stumbling over rocks and roots as I watched her retreat for the night.

I'll be back soon.

"Bruce keeps Batman human." ~Kevin Conroy.

Over breakfast in a luxurious restaurant this morning Batman took a turn roasting my flesh over the coals. Drinking during a weekday. Ghosts in the garage. What was I thinking?

I played the widow card. When he had lost what I have, twice over, then and only then can he judge my behavior.

He didn't bite so I turned the tides, drowning him in his own failures for a change. His weaknesses. Hit him where it hurts. Peel back the layers until he's burned raw with no protection from sun or salt.

He shook his head and smiled out to sea. He changed the subject. Boring me with industry talk for the remainder of the morning. I surrendered, smiling politely and listening while I sipped coffee. They continued to refill it until close to lunchtime and finally Batman drove me home, staying for a moment to check up on Satan and talk hockey with PJ. Trying to fit in and failing as I watched. Eventually a kiss landed on my forehead, excuses beginning to roll out of his mouth as he walked into the front hall to pull on his coat. He was heading out the door when he stopped abruptly and turned to smile at me.

I'm not the enemy, Bridget. Or maybe I am. Maybe I always have been. One more difficult facet of your life to wrestle with. One more ball to juggle, if I may use one of your circus metaphors. Analogies. Whichever.

Metaphor. That's a metaphor.

Right. Maybe we can do this again? I'll check my schedule. I'd like to check in with you on a regular basis.

Or you could just come here.

Come here? To the house?

Come for breakfast. With everyone.

I'd really like that. Don't feel as if you have to. I understand if you want to do things that way. I apologize if anything seemed untoward when I asked you to come to me.

I know. I am lying through my teeth. I am aghast. He and Caleb are playing Freaky Friday on me today and I can see it so clearly, why can't they?

But he smiles instead. The first genuine, unchecked, natural one in a while. Maybe twenty years if I were to be specific. The last time he smiled like that at me I didn't know a goddamned thing about him. But I knew I could trust him. Now when I look at that smile I wonder if I'm any good at reading people at all.

Bruce Wayne is Batman. He became Batman the instant his parents were murdered. Batman needs Bruce, however hollow that identity feels to him from time to time. Bruce keeps Batman human.

Deficiency.

(GO AWAY. This is not for you.)

Too small to keep. That was beautiful, princess.

You think? Fuck you, they don't have wi-fi in heaven. Who reads to you?

Sam reads out loud and I hear him sometimes.

Do you miss it?

No, I hated being able to see what's on your mind. We all did but at the same time it's incredibly useful. Your brain is a trainwreck. No one can look away.

No, you know what's useful? I am drunk and sitting on the filthy floor in the garage again. My dress is ruined, possibly my knees too. My hair is dark in the back from resting against the blackened concrete.

What's useful, princess?

You being not dead. Could you engineer that for me like you do for these visits? I do believe you have an in with the important people.

Bridget, I-

I know. I know! 'Don't be so pathetic, Bridget'. I laugh and tip forward and my nose almost touches the floor. I put my hands out to steady myself and abruptly I change my mind about my decision to move out here to live. The boys already reclaimed the garage anyhow, and Jacob found a new venue from which to preach his afterlife into my mind and my heart. I can wade into a memory at low tide or in the bathtub if I choose. I don't need to be here anymore but it seems like it's the best place and I don't know why. I don't even care why right now. Only my liver does. I bet it's in overdrive. It's always been competitive when it sees my heart winning all the awards for doing all the work.

Jesus, they let you get shitfaced every day now or what?

Only when they want to know what's on my mind, oddly enough. Just, well, just like you did, Pooh bear. I am poking thin air, since I can't touch him, my fingertips hammering the wind instead of poking him in the chest. He is sitting in front of me, only he doesn't get dirty because there is absolutely nothing bad in heaven and he is halfway there now. He would be all the way but I won't let him go.

I'm supposed to feel guilty about that but I don't.

You're a wreck.

Yeah, I know. It's been a long week. I start to laugh and he joins me. Then I feel ridiculous and insane and I start to cry. He reaches out and touches my face and holds his hand there. I can feel it, his hands feel like Ben's. Cool. Hard. Strong. He can touch me, I can't touch him. Okay, God. Gotcha.

Bridget, you're doing so much better. I can see it. Living here is good for you. Ben is good for you. It's going to be okay. Stop falling into the sea. Stop falling for Lochlan. Stop falling and stand up straight. What happened to Little Miss Hardcore?

I stand up unsteadily and weave my way to the door. When I open it the sun beams into the room, highlighting emptiness save for a couple of motorcycles in the corner. The garage is neatly swept and Jacob isn't here.

You killed her. That's what happened. She's dead too.

Abundance.

(You've forgotten who the prodigal son is, in this case. Think hard, he's difficult to miss, at six-foot-four).

Caleb's putting his fortune to good use. Today we've had a parade of municipal inspectors, engineers and contractors down to see about putting in a removable floating dock. They have to pour concrete pilings and everything. I just can't wait.

I figured I would just be banned from going down to the water ever again. They came close to that until Caleb took one look at my face and offered a solution. One I can't afford so the look came back, elastic panic, we may as well move if I can't get to the sea ever again but the solution was followed by the means. This is nothing five figures won't solve. Pennies to Caleb. More debt to me, mortgaged once again with my soul.

I tell him this and he shakes his head sadly. Safety is a premium, it doesn't matter what it costs.

I should have stayed on the beach.

You shouldn't have to. No worries, it'll be done by spring as long as it doesn't get too cold. Until then, though, I'm not sure what they will want for your margins in the meantime. Don't expect the moon for a bit, okay?

I don't. But I do think they're blowing it out of proportion. Had Lochlan not seen me slip off the rocks I would have continued to work my way back until I could climb up. I'm not a good swimmer but I could use the rocks to stay against the shore and there are several places one can get out. Even with the coat. Even with the surprise and shock of the cold water, I would have been out in another five or ten minutes. I didn't ask to be rescued but maybe I'm in denial.

Ben pointed out that one of my lifelong wishes to see Lochlan step in and cover comfort and safety during or after a major incident is now fulfilled. And his offhand, reluctantly generous comment has set me on my ear.

It was mostly the only flaw Lochlan ever had, ducking and running whenever things went wrong.

He comes by it honestly. If you grew up in the midway and transitioned to the circus you'd be fucked up and have one foot out the door every time something went down too. I just didn't think it would extend to me. Up until two months ago, his method of operation would have been to fish me out of the drink, fling me up to dry land and then take off before anyone saw him.

Instead he stuck around and sorted everything out. He organized some changes and hashed out new rules, he found understanding, he absolved those he found to be in the wrong and he kept everyone calm, even in the face of accusations and outrage and shock. He didn't let go of me for the better part of the past twenty hours or so. This is so new I'm still admiring the shiny wrapper. I don't even know what to do with this.

He said we give him purpose. He can't run anymore. This isn't a roadshow, he can't be the nameless wanderer anymore, he has a legacy. Purpose. People who count on him, and need him to be there.

I have always needed him. It burns me that it took something so fucking stupid to make him see that. The relief that he finally sees it is worth more than that dock is going to cost.

Gratitude and Longitude.

So.

I fell into the ocean this afternoon and if it weren't for all this brandy and the fact that I'm waiting for Lochlan to stop fighting with everything that breathes I wouldn't have even told you.

Considering she said I was too small to keep she did her best, as I was in jeans, boots and a heavy wool coat. The boulders piled up where the drop off is, where the boats can moor in sailing season, proved to be more slippery than they looked today and I chose the water over the alternative of landing directly on the rocks. I didn't want any broken bones, but I've also never been so cold in my life.

Before I could work my way back around to the smaller rocks to climb up, Lochlan grabbed the hood of my coat and lifted me out of the water. Yes, with his left arm. Yes, that unhealed spiral fracture of his ulna? Radial? I can't remember is still there and he's in a brand new cast tonight because they already knew it never healed. They were slated to call him but Ben took him in.

License to hurt, Ben said later as we stood and watched while Lochlan took out his fears and frustrations on everyone in the room, beginning with me and ending with PJ and Duncan, who were supposed to be on duty and did not slip, I was merely given a little bit of leeway to extend my rigid, narrow horizons.

It took him the better part of five or six hours but I think he is running out of steam at last. The painkillers are kicking in, Sam's endless words are sinking in, the adrenaline is wearing off and the fear is wearing through. All's well that ends well. I am still alive. I was not, contrary to in-house belief, purposefully sacrificing myself to the Pacific and I was also not trying to prove a point.

My fingers and toes have warmed up at last and I know that tonight, through my dreams tangled hopelessly with my nightmares, they will be there and they won't be letting go. Maybe the only slip today wasn't on the icy rocks. Maybe we all got too cocky and too comfortable and maybe that's when I need to be the most careful.

Maybe next time Lochlan won't come home halfway through the day and come looking for me even before he disappears into his room to put his things away.

Maybe next time she won't throw me back.

Too small to keep isn't any sort of guarantee. It's more like a warning, subject to change.

Twisted, crooked, broken laces.

Come pull the sheet over my eyes so I can sleep tonight
Despite what I've seen today
I found you guilty of a crime of sleeping at a time
When you should have been wide awake

Too small to keep, he says and smiles. I like that she says that about you. It means I can have you back. Ben is sacked out on the couch. I have thrown myself into his arms and I'm never ever leaving this spot. You can't make me, I won't go.

He laughs and pulls his arms over me. I like being home. You like it when I'm home, little bee?

What a silly question, Benjamin.

It's a valid question, bee. Tell me.

I love it when you're home.

Why?

I couldn't say it out loud so I turned around and climbed up onto his legs and whispered it in his ear. He blushed and said he knew he married me for a reason.

Right. For love.

He smiled. For love. And for what you just said into my ear. You look so sweet and straight-laced and you're the dirtiest one of all.