Commitment to purpose.

(We're here. Back on Nolan's farm.)

Just for added effect this morning, Ben drove past the castle and my breath caught in my throat. He looked at me but I pretended to regard it somewhat nonchalantly, pointing out the fact that they still haven't done anything about the windows or the hedge, for that matter and that the whole street looks broken down and tired now, in comparison to the fresh view of a modern Pacific neighborhood where hope lies in every wave on the ocean and in every ray of sun that makes it through the fog to hit land.

I hate it here. Those final three months living here alone did something to me, something on a level with angels and violence and history that permanently altered my psyche.

We hit the highway and drive far outside of town, continuing long past where any sane person would have already turned and gone back, loathe to be out in a rural area at dark. We have a rented truck, and it smells like cigarettes and loneliness, like low-grade depression and contented discontent.

Ben absently tells me to stop writing descriptives in my head and I smile in spite of myself. He is smiling but it's one of those anticipatory, nervous sort of adrenalized almost-hopeful smiles that make me want to scream simply for knowing exactly how he feels.

It wasn't until we pulled into the driveway that I allowed myself even the same smile. There's the woodpile. There's the tire swing. There are the horse trailers.  A little farther down the drive and the grove of trees thins out just a little and then the garage looms and then to the left, the house, a modest, open post-and beam constructed oasis in the deep woods.

Beyond the house is my beloved picnic rock and the creek and the trails and more woods. I jump out of the truck and take a deep breathe and the cold air rushes into my lungs and Ben gets out and pulls our things from behind the seats. We packed light. We have seven nights to fix what is broken. Seven nights to try and reaffirm whatever it is we have that we can't quantify but it's there, it's there like a concrete wall bursting out of the ground and blocking out the sun.

He turns to me and tells me we'll be okay. I nod. 

It isn't until we reach our room and he puts the bags down on the bench behind the door that I see him in that funny dim mid-afternoon, sun-beaming-in-at-knee-level light that the thud abruptly starts up in my chest, my heart hammering a million miles an hour, the tell-tale lurch of a broken organ when I look at Ben that signifies that I am still alive and I still love him in spite of my ability to sabotage everything that's good. In spite of our plans to tear everything apart.

He saw that lurch and the relief flooded into his eyes, further softening them into something beautiful, something I know so well and something I keep throwing away as I chase the past, hoping if I can somehow catch it it might save me from the future.

Miss Universe (Underdogs and overdrive).

Ben came over and rested his chin on the top of my head, standing directly behind me as I looked out the window into the dark. I leaned back against him and he put his arms around me.

Why aren't we packing?

It will only take a half hour or so.

True. Are you looking forward to it at all?

I twist around so I am facing him. Of course I am! Are you?

Yes. Though it's fucking cold there I think. Why else would Nolan leave?

He's not going on a tropical vacation, if that's what you mean.

It was a joke. A very bad one, considering.

Nolan is going to a funeral in Colorado. He needed someone to take care of the property for a week. We need a break and so we were selected to fulfill this duty. The only caveat? Only bring each other.

I was so excited until it sank in, exactly and now I'm not so sure. And he can see that without my pointing it out and we are mostly deluding ourselves here and clearly we really need this trip to sort some things out and then we'll be back for the big First Anniversary parties and whatnot.

But still.

I turn back around and stare out into the night. I count Mintaka, Alnilam and Alnitak.  Betelgeuse. Saiph. That one I never forget. It's the same as safe.

He's not coming, Bridget. You can count all the stars you want but you already had a break with him and I know it wasn't ideal but this is our time now.

I turn back around. I know. 

Maybe we shouldn't go.

We need to go, Ben.

I think we do too. But I have to wonder if I'm delaying the inevitable. Same sky, same place and all that. I've reached a point where it's finally beginning to sink in that I am the first runner up here and he's the fucking beauty queen. 

In spite of myself I burst out laughing and clap both hands over my mouth but it's too late.

You think that's funny?

No. You just never do that. 

Do what?

Make analogies. 

Sometimes the best parts about you rub off on me, Bee, but it's the worst ones that I need to learn to live with. 

Those are the ones you figure out first, not later, Benny. 

What do you mean?

I married you knowing you had issues but I can live with them. 

I have issues, do I?

Tons. 

But you married me anyway. 

Yes. 

Thank God for that, Little Bee. 

But do you? Do you thank Him or do you curse Him for the strife he has brought along with the unanimity?

You know something, Bridget? I have stood by and watched as you have fought to make peace with the dead and the living alike and I watch you struggle and fall down and get up again only to be knocked down and I don't know why you don't let me help you.

So you don't get hurt. 

See, I don't think you'll hurt me. I don't think you could hurt me. 

Oh, Ben, you don't even know what I'm capable of. 

See, that's where you're wrong. Because I've seen it all and I'm STILL HERE.  

Maybe that's a mistake. 

No, that's the only thing that's right. He smiled at me, and his eyes were shining so bright I thought they might explode into a million new constellations but instead they gradually softened back into the warm brown that I know so well and I tried to smile back but it's hard because I don't trust myself. I was raised to be wrong and to be nimble and fickle and old habits are so hard to break it's like they're made of stone.

This world is only going to break your heart.

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do
I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you

He's on a roll presently and I don't know what to do about it short of wait for his intensity to wane. Like it always does. He'll get distracted by bright lights and the remains of the day and forget what he was so focused on.

He was fooling around with the guitar and stole the opportunity, singing a song I haven't heard for a while and my goosebumps rose up and he laughed softly and asked me why I was invoking my no-slip grip when he hadsn't even touched me yet but the song had left me rather speechless, lobotomized and frozen stiff.

Exactly the opposite of the effect he thought it was having.

I shook my head. He further capitalized and kept on singing. And he sang it over and over again, almost five times until on the fifth time Duncan called down the hall for him to Can it already. We get it. 

He put the guitar on the floor and settled back in, pulling me in close, kissing the top of my head.

Just like old times. He whispered.

We couldn't afford a guitar back then, Lochlan. Or a couch. Or a roof that didn't leak, for that matter.

Do you have any good memories of life before obligations? 

There were always obligations, we just had fun fulfilling them so it didn't seem like a burden. 

It was so simple. Everything is so complicated now. 

Only if we let it be that way, but yes, all of my memories are good memories except for the ones that are bad. 

Thanks for clearing that up. 

Anytime. 

Boys.

I took another sip and swallowed very slowly and I watched them over the lid of my chocolate milkshake because Christian said if I went any further in I might wind up in the line of fire.

They've squared off in the center of the field and I'm watching Lochlan stand with his fists clenched, his whole face contorted into the friendliest rage ever. Because he couldn't look scary if he tried but oh, boy is he trying. I kick the toes of my All-Stars into the sides of Christian's feet and ask him to stop them but he said it wouldn't do any good, they've done this at least once a week forever and they've been best friends for such a long time now everyone just waits them out.

But why? 

It doesn't really matter, Bridget. Maybe you should go home. Your mom will be pissed at us if she finds out we let you stick around and watch a fight. 

I've seen fights before. I try to sound non-committal. I try to sound older than eight. Of course I fail. I'm eight years old.

Right, Bridget. Run home. You'll probably see everyone later on our street. Please, go before we get in shit. 

And then Lochlan throws a punch and Caleb wasn't expecting it and down he goes. I find this suddenly fascinating. Caleb is a head taller than Loch and he definitely looks scary when he's mad. I think it's his hair. It's brown and barely wavy and he's got future-movie-star looks happening. Lochlan's red-blond springy curls are going to be his downfall. That's totally what it is. That and the fact that he's the shortest of the boys means I don't expect anyone to take him seriously but for some reason he seems to run the entire neighborhood. Caleb is two years older and resents Loch for that in a way that burns but he doesn't let on to the others. I can tell though. I'm really good at figuring people out already.

Lochlan backs off and lets Caleb stand up again. There is blood on his lip and he wipes it off on the back of his hand. He says a swear word and when he looks up he sees me and points in my direction. I can't hear what he's saying but Christian whispers Thank God under his breath. Lochlan turns and looks at me and shakes his curls and then motions for Caleb to go ahead. I guess the fight is over so I take another sip of my milkshake and wait for them to come to me.

Caleb reaches me first and puts on a softer expression. Sorry you had to see that, Bridget. Everything's okay. Cole snorts from somewhere behind me and Caleb shoots him a look that only a big brother can exact. See you later, he tells me and they leave, walking home or probably anywhere where Lochlan isn't, right now.

Lochlan comes over and the others sort of fall in around him. A natural born leader who doesn't want the role but takes it anyway. He stops directly in front of me and holds out his hand for a sip of my milkshake. It's a test so I pass it to him. He takes a long sip. Then another. I hold his gaze.

You sure don't act like any girls I know, Fidget, he tells me.

I'm not like any girls you know. I'm like no one you've ever met before or will ever meet again. 

Lochlan laughs as he considers my words. I'm going to hold you to that. 

Fine by me. You could have left me some of my own milkshake though. 

We turn and start walking back to our street. How about I buy you another one?

Not right now, I'll puke. 

No, not right now. How about on Saturday afternoon? 

It's a deal. Do you have any money?

Yes, I have money. I help out at the plant. It's not allowed so they pay me in cash. 

Why is it not allowed?

You have to be fifteen to work there. I have another year left to go. 

Where are you going to get a job once you're old enough?

I don't know. 

Well, what do you want to be when you grow up?

I don't care, I just want to make enough money to live a simple life. But it won't be around here. I don't want to be near Caleb.

I thought he was your best friend. 

Well, he is. Lochlan shrugs, I just don't like him and he doesn't like me either. 

That's weird, Lochlan. 

Yeah, I know. 

Planning a perfect day.

A breakfast of eggs Benedict and Vietnamese coffee and then lunch of a toffee mocha and red velvet cupcakes and then dinner consisting of Monte Cristos-the sandwich and the coffee.

And then a horror movie marathon for two.

Hopefully it will be raining, for the added cozy factor and it would be wonderful if I could venture into the movies knowing I would still be awake halfway into the first film and it would be lovely to not have any repercussions to staying up very late, the next day being easy instead of painful from lack of rest.

It would just be amazing.

Don't you think? 

Four.

(Looking at her is like waking up.)

He pauses and then takes a deep breath. Here we go. The memories about Jacob remain so close to your surface and yet nothing about Cole. Still. This summer it will be going on seven years, Bridget.

I know. I say it softly as if that excuses my behavior.

I would like to make a...separate proposal, if you will. I'd like to commission you to write some of the better memories down for me so I can make it into a book with some of his works. 

Is seven years the magic amount of time within which one passes from villain back to hero? I stare at him in sudden total chagrin. Scorn is not permitted.

He looks up sharply. No, I simply want some good memories to help offset everything I know. 

Paint him in the prettiest light possible? 

No, Bridget. Make a record of the times that things were good. The times your love grew instead of the times it was tested. 

I don't know. 

There's a ridiculous advance involved. 

Money doesn't buy me, Caleb. 

I'll do it piecemeal then. He winks and goes back to scrubbing food off the plates in the sink. He spoils me sometimes. He cannot cook and yet today he invites me down to the boat for scotch and bruschetta and we had a little sunshiny picnic, our legs dangling over the side of the wharf. I took off my shoes and then he did too and for all of fifteen seconds we were children again. Well, I was. When I first met Caleb he was sixteen, not a child anymore but barely a man. And now he's on the verge of fifty and just figured out how to chop up a few tomatoes to put on toast, sprinkled with a little bit of basil and a whole lot of absolution.

I drank my scotch in one gulp and waited while it burned the whole way down. At least I was not cold anymore. He frowned and we finished our lunch in silence and then we walked up the path together, I in my bare feet, kicking up dust every time I slid backwards, Caleb's patience tested as he repeatedly put out his arm to stop me from passing him on my way back down.

I offered to help clean up and then I'm out of here.

This amount of money and a guarantee to spend a certain amount of hours doing what you love best will serve to undermine us both, Princess, he winks at me and I pretend I don't see it. The water gushing out of the tap is loud and I unconsciously reach up and turn down my hearing aids until they're almost off. I've promised to wear them until it gets easier.

I don't know why I lie.

If I have memories I'll write about them on my own time, without a deadline. 

Okay, Bridget. I give. You're going to keep refusing all offers of help no matter how well I disguise them, I'll just go back to a cash allowance on a regular basis or direct deposit or something. 

For what? I don't do anything for you. Presently. 

That changes on a dime. Literally. He smiles to himself. I shrug. He is leaving me speechless often these days.

And yes, Bridget, seven years seems like the perfect amount of time for one to turn back into a hero. Especially when it's multiplied by four.

Why aren't you in the garage? 

I like it better out here in the sun.

What if someone sees you? 

Then you'll have all sorts of explaining to do but I think you've been doing it anyway. And they aren't listening anymore because it's growing dark. 

What are you talking about? It's only four o'clock.

I was being analogous.

He is sprawled in the Adirondack chair on the right. The one on the left is empty, waiting for me so I sit in it, falling all the way to the bottom, feet off the concrete. I look at him. He's in his fraying so-pale-blue-they-match-his-eyes jeans and a threadbare rust-colored t-shirt because that's what my brain put him in today. Then I realize what's missing and add a worn plaid flannel shirt in shades of dark blue and grey and now he looks like Jacob should.

I can't give this up. I'm not the crazy one.

He has a flask and he's drinking and the words are pouring out like fire. What's the definition of Adapt, Princess? Changing yourself to suit the conditions. Ben is right, you know. I'm sorry, I listen in. He isn't as dumb as he looks and he seems to only be the one who ever has your best interests at heart. 

Which weighs more, my best interests or my needs?

Are they different? They shouldn't be different, Pigalet, unless you are mistaking your wants for your needs. God will show you the difference. 

God isn't here, Jake. 

Sure he is. But he's a ninja. So you just can't see him. He takes another drink and laughs. I take the flask and erase it and Jake looks disappointed briefly and then sits up and leans forward, elbows on knees, all serious and attentive like he used to do when he was going to talk to me for a long time and a little thrill would run down each of my ears and converge on the back of my neck, lighting up my mind.

God is a Ninja. There's my next book title, Jake. 

Awesome. 

You can ghostwrite it with me.

He frowns. Did you just make a pun at my expense?

I grin ridiculously. Yes. Suddenly I wish he was still here. So badly. When he looks out to sea I re-tie all the knots on the ropes that hold him down to earth, making them even more complicated and tighter than before.

Bridget, that's a waste of effort. It's almost time. 

NO IT ISN'T! I am so fast I'm the ninja now, running up the steps as he makes a grab for me, his hands closing on air.

Ghost protocol.

Of all the nightmares that ever came true,
I think that gravity is you

There's a moment two minutes and thirty-five seconds into Type O negative's live performance of Gravity in which Peter Steele yells "I can see God!"

It remains one of my favorite moments in music, giving me chills.

***

Ben stands by the door and I am all the way across the yard on the other side of the wind. He is not nervous, he likes to play out a lot of rope and I will take my end and run with it until I reach the end and get yanked right off my feet. It is taut between us but I keep pulling. It's low tide and I want to blow kisses to my ghosts while he says it's now time the ghosts went away because we're not going to get anywhere now until we lighten the load enough to actually let the wheels turn.

I love his analogies. They're always about mechanics and physics (Fuck me, I wrote psychic about fifteen times until my brain kicked in right there) and things I know very little about. Last night he launched into this incredibly complex description of how Eddie Van Halen gets his sound and I likened it to when I try to explain to him why I need an eighty-seventh lip gloss (because it's matte, non-sticky and an eighty-first shade of rose red that I don't already have) and while it makes perfect sense to me, I may as well be speaking French to him.

Likewise when he talks about soldering guitar pickups and I have no clue what he means but I figure they are matte, non-sticky pickups in different sounds and it's sort of like lipgloss except he creates music and I create distractions from the wrinkles around my eyes and whatever other flaws are there.

Like the fact that if any more color leaks out of my eyes I'm going to have freaky white irises. They assure me this cannot happen, and I'm all LOOK AT ALL THE RECORDS I CAN BREAK WITH THAT STATEMENT and everyone drifts away again to watch from the edges while I stand in the wind, my hair sticking to my lipgloss, because this one is too sticky.

Maybe Ben can solder pickups over my mouth and I can make music instead of just filling in colors.

May you rot in heaven.

When cold water's on her skin
I can feel how long it's been

New World is on repeat in my ears and the wind finally died down. I stand at the top edge of my world. To my right I hear sirens but there's no road there so I know it's my ears playing tricks on me as they always have.

The sun is so bright. So bright I have squinted my eyes up into tiny half-moons, peering out under my bangs, blinded by the rays. I'm almost wishing for rain at this point. That's cracked but so is the ground beneath my feet. I'm out in the grass at sunup watering the carnations and roses (still going strong) and I'm looking at the faded green grass wondering if it really will come back or if somewhere we went very wrong in letting it go with less watering than we should have done. You can't water a lawn this size, you just can't. On the other hand, it would look better green. So I don't know where I'm going with this.

The raccoons took all the grapes save for a bowlful and that was a disaster. The roses had a blight of some kind and the lilacs are so long over I almost forgot about them. The orchard is a shell game, and no one knows where the prize is. It's a relic, a tree ghost-town, a bark army failing to advance against the salt wind.

I got a lot I gotta do
Just to get through the end of the day
It hardly ever happens
But I go to sleep the same anyway

And you can't believe in yourself
You can't believe in anyone else
So why sit and wait
For the new world to begin

We need to get the snow tires out, I think to myself. Jake would have done it by now. They would already be on my car if he were here, just in case. He would have the shovels out and be ready, even though he would stand here every day and remark how mild the day is, every day like clockwork only his clock is broken now and in the process it fucked up my sense of time. I can't tell anymore whether it's nighttime or daytime or dinnertime or time for sleep until I drop. I can't tell if an hour has passed or a minute.

I can't tell you anything but that's okay today because it's beautiful out. So beautiful I can't even see.

The more they stay the same.

Can I buy a mechanical pencil when we go to town? I am down to a stub, one that Lochlan painstakingly sharpens for me each night with his knife. If it gets dull before he's done his shift I have to wait. Sometimes I forget to ask when I see him and then I can't write or draw at all when I wait for him to come back to the camper. He was late and so tonight was endless.

Sure. It's a good week so far. Unless you blow it all on candy apples. 

I won't do that. 

Yes, you will. 

I promise I won't. I make my eyes very big and I shake my head slowly side to side.

He bursts out laughing. You'd be more convincing without the ring of red sugar on your face, Bridget. He turns stern again. I told you to get a hamburger. You can't live on candy. You're still growing. Do you want to be this tiny when you're older?

The apple was cheaper. Plus it's fruit! Fruit is healthy. I'll grow. At least I hope I will.

Fruit doesn't fill you up. Now your growling belly is going to keep me awake all night. He thinks for a minute. I think I'll run out and get us something now, and I'll get you some pencils at the same time. 

No! It's too late now. Don't go out. 

Growing peanuts have to eat. He says it softly. Just lock the door and don't let anyone in and you don't go out, okay? Besides, it's good practice learning to love the dark. 

I only love it if you're here. 

He thinks for another minute. Okay, let's try this instead. He pulls me over to the bed and we look out the tiny window. See that star there? In Orion's belt?

Mintaka...right?

Good girl! Okay, you keep watch on that star, and so will I and it will be as if we're together. Same sky, same place. And I'll be back in an hour. 

What are we going to eat? Not hamburgers. They're all drippy and greasy and then we'll smell like mustard in our dreams.

Ham sandwiches then? With mayo?

Okay. The good ham with the black edges?

I'll see what I can do. He smiles and crushes a kiss against my hair and then leaves, coming back three times in thirty seconds to make sure the door is locked.

*** 

Purgatory is a track and Jacob is running, running, running circles around me as I stand in the center, whistle around my neck, clipboard in my arms.

You always finish with the same time, I tell him with a frustrated smile as he crosses the finish line for the eight-millionth time.

I'll never get faster or slower. I'll just remain the same. Forever, Bridget. No amount of encouragement or training is going to change this. You KNOW this, Pigalet. But still you make me run. I'd like to go home to the Lord now. 

Not gonna happen. You don't belong there. Go back and do one more lap. Let's see if the headwind will make a difference. I take a bite of my ham sandwich and shake my head at the page of results. The same number on every single line.

Pigalet, you're going to run out of room on that page soon. Then what will you do?

***

You're different with everyone. Don't you see it?

Apparently Wednesdays are for open wounds and gaping holes.

No, I don't see it. If you have something to share then just get it over with. I shovel a grilled black forest ham sandwich onto Lochlan's plate. PJ looks at the plate and then looks at Loch. If Loch decides to pick a fight and then leaves without eating lunch PJ would probably like to reap the benefits while the benefits are still warm.

Oh, now I get why they fight over me. I'm usually still warm.

(I'm kidding. Fuck, cut a girl a little slack. Like I said, it's Wednesday and Wednesdays have become strange days indeed.)

Yeah, well, with me lately you're a fucking goddamned little bratty child who won't listen to a fucking thing.

Except in bed. Then I am the same with all of you, so no one's missing out.

Bridget! Lochlan growls it across the counter at me but if he wants bratty he'll get bratty.

PJ stands up. He's really gunning for that sandwich so he tells Lochlan to watch himself. Lochlan ignores him just like he ignores the plate.

Are you going to eat that? I ask him. Because if you aren't then I think PJ is still hungry

Lochlan frisbees the plate gently down the island to PJ, who puts his hands up in a football-dance sort of victory celebration.

You should eat. You're still growing. I tell Loch.

I'd like to think I was, he says, but like you, I'm stuck in 1983. And gets up and leaves.